Garden of Lies

by Amanda Quick

  “Quite right,” she said coolly. “Nasty habit, thinking too much.”

  “I agree.”

  “I must say, you are in a rather sour mood this morning, Slater.”

  “The odd thing is that I awoke in a very fine mood. Don’t know what happened to change the situation.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “The weather, perhaps. It does appear as if we’re in for a storm.”

  “Right. The weather.”

  He leaned once more on the pry bar. The lock groaned and then gave way with a protesting shriek of metal and wood. The door popped open. The musty smell of old, slowly rotting timber and damp air wafted out. There were other odors, as well; a whiff of an acrid, herbal scent caught Ursula’s attention.

  She stood beside Slater and looked into the shadowy gloom. There was just enough light slanting through the grimy windows to reveal the crates and barrels that littered the floor. Frayed ropes and hoists dangled from the loft.

  “We have come to the right place,” Slater said. He studied the trail of footprints on the floor. “There have been visitors here quite recently.”

  He followed the path toward a closed crate. Ursula fell into step beside him. She sniffed delicately and wrinkled her nose.

  “I smelled that same odor inside Rosemont’s shop,” she said. “There is a large quantity of the drug stored in this place. But there is something else here, as well. A dead rat, perhaps.”

  Slater stopped in front of the first of three crates. “These are locked and ready for shipment.”

  He applied the pry bar to the lid of one of the wooden crates. When it popped open Ursula saw a number of canvas sacks stacked neatly inside. The smell of the drug grew stronger.

  “Don’t move,” Slater said quietly.

  She froze at the soft command. When she followed his glance she saw the dark stains on the floor. A chill swept through her.

  “Blood?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Slater said. “And not very old.”

  He followed the trail to a nearby crate. It was not locked. He raised the lid and looked inside.

  “Well, this answers one question,” Slater said.

  “Who—?” Ursula asked.

  “The former owner of the walking stick stiletto.”

  Ursula remained where she was. She had no desire to go any closer. She watched Slater lean over the crate and methodically rummage through the dead man’s clothes.

  “How was he killed?” she asked.

  “Shot. Twice. All very professional-looking.”

  “Professional?”

  “It’s safe to say that whoever murdered this man has had some experience in the business.” Slater paused, reaching deeper into the crate. “But he was somewhat out of practice.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He did not do a thorough job of stripping the body.”

  Slater straightened and turned around. She saw a small white business card in his gloved hand.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The address of the Stokely Hotel. I found it tucked safely inside his shoe. I have the impression that our visitor from out of town was terrified of getting lost in our fair city. He kept the address of his hotel in a place where he could be certain he would not lose it.”

  “What is our next step?”

  “We’ve got a professional killer who has now become a murder victim,” Slater said. “We do what any concerned citizen would do. We contact Scotland Yard.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Lilly picked up the teapot and poured tea into the two delicate porcelain cups that sat on the tray. “I must say, I have not seen Slater this interested in life since he returned to London.”

  “He does seem to have become quite fixed on the problem of Anne Clifton’s murder,” Ursula said.

  She was acutely aware of the quiet tick-tick-tick of the tall clock in the corner of the library. Every time she glanced at the face it seemed that the hands had not moved.

  Immediately after the discovery of the body in the warehouse, Slater had brought her back to his house and left her there with Lilly, the Websters and Griffith. He had then gone off to talk to someone at Scotland Yard. Upon returning from that venture, he had announced that he needed to spend some time in the labyrinth chamber. He was presently in his basement retreat. He had been downstairs for nearly an hour.

  “I’m quite certain that it is not the murder of poor Miss Clifton that has brought him out of the shadows,” Lilly said. “You are the reason he is showing more enthusiasm for life.”

  “Well, I am the one who brought the case to his notice,” Ursula said.

  “No, my dear, you had his full attention before you told him of the murder.”

  “How on earth could you tell?”

  Lilly smiled serenely. “A mother knows.”

  “He certainly had me fooled.”

  “Now, dear, there’s no need for sarcasm. I’m quite sure that Slater took a strong, personal interest in you the day I introduced the two of you.”

  “May I remind you that, before he returned to London, your son spent a year in a monastery of some sort. Following that, he passed the next several years knocking around the world pursuing lost and stolen artifacts. All in all, one can see that he has probably not had much opportunity to form a romantic attachment with anyone.” Ursula cleared her throat. “And he is endowed with a healthy, vigorous temperament.”

  Lilly looked pleased. “You noticed his healthy, vigorous temperament, did you?”

  “My point is that I’m quite certain that he would have taken a strong, personal interest in any unattached female who intruded into his life at the time I did.”

  “Trust me, my dear, Slater is more than capable of finding female companionship when he chooses to do so.”

  That was no doubt true, Ursula thought. The notion was dispiriting.

  “The press noted that a young lady in whom he had a romantic interest got engaged and married to another man while he was stranded on Fever Island,” she said in a subdued tone.

  “The facts are correct but I can assure you that Slater’s association with Isabella was a mild flirtation, at best. She used him to attract the attention of the gentleman who eventually offered for her. Slater was well aware that she had set her sights on someone else. He did not mind because he was focused on the Fever Island expedition. Marriage was the last thing on his mind in those days.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive. Slater’s heart was not broken at the time. But in the years since he left Fever Island I have become increasingly concerned about him. I had begun to wonder if he had no heart left to break.”

  Ursula looked up from her tea. “Why do you say that?”

  “I feared those strange monks at that monastery had destroyed the part of him that was capable of passion.”

  “No,” Ursula said quickly. “I’m sure that’s not the case. Only consider that he is quite passionate—there is no other word for it—about solving the murder of my secretary.”

  “There are murders every week in London. I have not seen Slater take an interest in any of them. It is you who intrigues my son, Ursula, and for that I am more grateful than I can say. It is as if you have flung open a cell door and allowed him to emerge back into the daylight.”

  “Nonsense,” Ursula said. She gripped the saucer very tightly. “You are overdramatizing the situation. The reality is that Slater simply needed some time to readjust to life here in London.”

  The door opened before Lilly could respond. Slater entered the room, icy determination electrifying the atmosphere.

  “I have devised a plan,” he said.

  He explained quickly.

  Ursula was horrified.

  “You mustn’t,” Lilly said.

  “Are you mad?” Ursula dema
nded.

  “I understand that theory has been put forward in the press from time to time,” Slater allowed.

  FORTY-SIX

  The vast gardens at the rear of the Fulbrook mansion were choked with moonlit fog. Slater paused for a moment on the top of the wall. A low growl emanated from somewhere in the shadows.

  “Ah, there you are,” he whispered. “Good dog.”

  He unwrapped the large chunk of beef that he had brought with him and dropped it. There was a soft thud when it hit the ground. A moment later a large, furry body rushed through the mist. The mastiff pounced on the meat.

  Slater tied off the rope and repelled lightly down the brick wall. The dog stood, front legs braced over the beef, and growled a warning.

  “The meal is all yours, my friend. Take your time.”

  The dog went to work on the large snack. Slater turned his attention to the job at hand.

  The thick foliage combined with heavy mist provided ample cover. In fact, Slater concluded, it would have been all too easy to get lost. Fortunately, he had a decent sense of direction.

  He also had Ursula’s detailed description of what she had seen of the ground floor and the gardens. She had been alarmed upon hearing that he intended to let himself into the mansion and had tried to dissuade him. But eventually logic had won out. She had conceded that the information they needed was most likely concealed inside the house. There was no other way to search for it.

  It took some time and a couple of close encounters with assorted garden statues but he managed to make his way to the back wall of the house. He found the French doors that marked the garden entrance to the library exactly where Ursula had said they would be.

  Turning, he paced along the wall, counting the casement windows until he came to the third set. If Ursula was right, he had located Fulbrook’s study.

  There was only a crack and a ping when he used the pry bar to snap the lock and open the windows. He was inside within seconds. A surge of energy spiked with amusement heated his blood. Now that he was back in London he had not expected to find himself using the skills he had perfected recovering lost, strayed and stolen artifacts.

  He paused in the darkened room, listening intently. There were no shouts of alarm, no pounding footsteps on the stairs. No rumblings from the servants’ quarters.

  He definitely had a talent for this sort of thing. And there was no denying that he got a bit of a thrill out of it. It occurred to him that he had missed the work.

  The gas lamps had been turned down very low but there was enough light for him to make out the big desk and the heavy floor safe. He decided that if there was anything of great interest to be found, the odds were excellent that it would be in the safe.

  He crossed the room to the door and was reassured to discover that it was locked. He would have at least a few seconds’ warning in the event someone heard him and came to investigate.

  He went to the safe, crouched and took the stethoscope out of his pocket. He fixed the earpieces in place and planted the other end of the device near the combination lock. He listened to the tumblers click into place as he turned the dial.

  He got the safe open and reached inside. His fingers brushed against a large envelope and a leather-bound volume. There was also a thickly stuffed packet.

  He withdrew the book, the envelope and the packet, rose and went to the desk. He opened the packet first and found a large supply of banknotes. He stuck the money back into the safe and returned to the desk to open the envelope. Several photographs and the negatives fell onto the blotter. It was too dark to make out the images.

  He waited a few seconds, listening carefully to the sleeping house. When he was satisfied that no one had been awakened he turned up the lamp suspended over the desk. He studied the photographs for a moment and then he opened the journal. It did not take long to understand what he had found.

  He turned down the lamp, closed and locked the safe and went back through the window.

  The dog trotted up to him with a hopeful air. He scratched the mastiff’s ears and then he climbed the rope to the top of the garden wall and descended to the ground on the other side. He paused to retrieve the climbing equipment and then he faded into the night.

  It was gratifying to be back in business. He had missed the exercise.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Blackmail,” Slater said. “That answers one question about Fulbrook. We knew he was supplying the drug to the members of the club. Now we know why.”

  Ursula looked at the photographs spread across Slater’s desk. Outrage swept through her. The images were of naked lovers entwined and asleep in bed. What made them so potentially damaging was that both people in the erotically themed photographs were male.

  “Fulbrook is despicable,” she said. “No wonder Valerie will go to such lengths to escape him.”

  Lilly picked up one of the photographs. “I recognize the bald man in this picture—Lord Mayhew.”

  “He was one of the members of the Olympus Club who was reputed to have taken his own life in recent months, according to Brice,” Slater said.

  “The men in these photographs all appear to be asleep,” Ursula said.

  “More likely unconscious,” Slater said. “I think it’s obvious that the men engaged in a sexual encounter and then were exposed to a dose of ambrosia that was strong enough to induce unconsciousness long enough for the photographs to be taken.”

  “Society’s attitudes toward women are harsh enough,” Lilly remarked. “But they are just as cruel when it comes to liaisons conducted between two male lovers. Furthermore, as far as the law is concerned such relationships are illegal. Mind you, the reality is that most people turn a blind eye to this sort of thing but if those photographs were made public, they would destroy the gentlemen involved.”

  Ursula glanced at the journal and then looked at Slater. “What else did you find in that book?”

  “More detailed blackmail material. Rumors of relationships that could jeopardize the marriage prospects of the daughters of certain highly placed men. Notes about the financial distress of other members that could ruin them socially.”

  “Blackmail is a risky undertaking,” Lilly said.

  “Only if the victims know the identity of the extortionist,” Ursula pointed out. “I have had some experience in that regard if you will recall.”

  “I do believe that Mr. Otford is well aware that he is fortunate to be alive,” Slater said.

  Ursula sighed. “At least he had a reason to blackmail me. He was hungry and on the verge of becoming homeless. Fulbrook does not have any such excuse. He is a wealthy man. Why would he stoop to something so terrible?”

  “I doubt very much that this is about money,” Slater said, “although there was a good deal of it in the safe. But there is one commodity that is even more attractive to some men. Power. If you know a man’s secrets you can control him.”

  Ursula took a breath. “Yes, of course. But surely these men—the victims—would know the identity of the blackmailer. They would take action.”

  “I agree that if even one of those highly placed men knew who was behind the blackmail scheme, Fulbrook’s life would not be worth a penny,” Slater said. He turned away from the desk and went to stand at the window. “Which is why I’m sure none of them know the truth. We must assume that Fulbrook is very careful about what he is doing. I’m sure that none of the men in those photographs has any clear memory of the events.”

  “I have certainly seen men suffer blackouts after drinking too much,” Lilly said. “And the effects of opium can be so intoxicating that users can become quite . . . careless.”

  Ursula looked at Slater. “What do you intend to do with the information that you have discovered?”

  Slater glanced at her. “I’m going to talk to Fulbrook.”

  “You plan to tell him that you know tha
t he is blackmailing people?” Lilly asked sharply.

  “I am going to give him a chance,” Slater said. “That is more than Anne Clifton, Rosemont and Mrs. Wyatt got.”

  “A chance to do what?” Ursula asked.

  “To survive,” Slater said.

  “I don’t understand,” Lilly said.

  But Ursula did. She searched Slater’s face. “You believe that Fulbrook is next on Damian Cobb’s list, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Then why warn him?” Ursula said. She waved a hand at the photographs and the journal. “He’s a blackmailer who has been responsible for the suicides of at least two men. His threats have no doubt made life a living hell for the other people in that journal. And what about that woman—Nicole—who worked for the Pavilion of Pleasure? Fulbrook is directly responsible for her death because he introduced the drug to the Olympus Club.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Slater said. He took off his spectacles and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  “Slater, he doesn’t deserve to be warned,” Ursula said. “I say let Cobb get rid of him.”

  Slater polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “You are very fierce tonight. I find the quality admirable in a lady.”

  She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. “Fulbrook may have a title and a fine pedigree but he is, in truth, a crime lord who has gotten away with his crimes because of his rank in Society. You know very well that it is unlikely we will ever be able to find the proof we would need to have him arrested. Even if we did, it’s even less likely that he would be convicted and sent to prison.”

  Slater put his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked at the tall clock. “I know.”

  She unfolded her arms and spread her hands wide, exasperated. “Then why warn him that Cobb may be about to kill him?”

  Slater put on his glasses and gathered up the photographs. “I’m going to warn him because it will make no difference in the end.”