Garden of Lies (2 page)

I
can't believe Anne is gone.” Matty Bingham blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “She was always so spirited. So charming. So full of life.”

“Yes, she was.” Ursula Kern tightened her grip on the umbrella and watched the gravediggers dump great clods of earth on the coffin. “She was a woman of the modern age.”

“And an excellent secretary.” Matty tucked her handkerchief into her satchel. “A credit to the agency.”

Matty was in her mid-thirties, a spinster without family or connections. Like the other women who came to work at the Kern Secretarial Agency, she had abandoned any hope of marriage and a family of her own. Like Anne and the others, she had seized the promise that Ursula offered—a respectable career as a professional secretary, a field that was finally opening up to women.

The day was appropriately funereal in tone—a depressing shade of gray with a steady drizzle of rain. Ursula and Matty were the only mourners present at the graveside. Anne had died alone. No family had come forward to claim the body. Ursula had paid for the funeral. It was, she thought, not just her responsibility as Anne's employer and sole heir, but also a final act of friendship.

A great emptiness welled up inside her. Anne Clifton had been her closest friend for the past two years. They had bonded over the things they had in common—a lack of family and haunting pasts that they had very carefully buried.

Anne might have possessed a few faults—some of the other secretaries at the agency had considered her a fast woman—but Ursula knew there had always been a distinct twist of admiration in the remarks. Anne's bold determination to carve her own path in life against all odds made her the very model of the Modern Woman.

When the coffin vanished beneath the growing mound of dirt, Ursula and Matty turned and walked back across the cemetery.

“It was kind of you to pay for Anne's funeral,” Matty said.

Ursula went through the wrought-iron gates. “It was the least I could do.”

“I will miss her.”

“So will I,” Ursula said.

Who will pay for my funeral when the time comes?
she wondered.

“Anne did not seem like the type to take her own life,” Matty said.

“No, she did not.”

—

U
RSULA
DINED
IN
SOLITUDE
,
as she usually did. When the meal was concluded she went into her small, cozy study.

The housekeeper bustled into the room to light the fire.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunstan,” Ursula said.

“You're certain you're all right, then?” Mrs. Dunstan asked gently. “I know you considered Miss Clifton a friend. Hard to lose a connection of that sort. Lost a few friends, myself, over the years.”

“I'm quite all right,” Ursula said. “I'm just going to sort through Miss Clifton's things and make an inventory. Then I'll go to bed.”

“Very well, then.”

Mrs. Dunstan went quietly out into the hall and closed the door. Ursula waited a moment and then she poured herself a stiff shot of brandy. The fiery spirits took off some of the chill she had been feeling since Anne's death.

After a while she crossed the room to the trunk that held Anne's things.

One by one she removed the items that had aroused in her a deep sense of unease—an empty perfume bottle, a small velvet bag containing a few pieces of jewelry, Anne's stenography notebook and two packets of seeds. Taken individually, each was easily explained. But as a group they raised disturbing questions.

Three days earlier, when Anne's housekeeper had discovered the body of her employer, she had immediately sent for Ursula. There had been no one else to summon. Initially, Ursula had been unable to accept the notion that Anne had either died of natural causes or taken her own life. She had called in the police. They had immediately concluded that there was no sign of foul play.

But Anne had left a note. Ursula had found it crumpled on the floor beside the body. To most people the marks made in pencil would have looked like random scribbles. Anne, however, was a skilled stenographer who had been trained in the Pitman method. As was the case with many professional secretaries, she had gone on to develop her own personal version of coded writing.

The note was a message, and Ursula knew it had been intended for her. Anne had been well aware that no one else could decipher her unique stenography.

Behind water closet.

Ursula sat down at her desk and drank a little more brandy while she contemplated the items. After a while, she pushed the empty perfume bottle aside. She had found it on Anne's little writing desk, not with the other things. It was unlike Anne not to have mentioned the purchase of new perfume but aside from that there did not appear to be anything mysterious about it.

The notebook, the jewelry pouch and the seeds, however, were a very different matter. Why had Anne hidden all three items behind the water closet?

After a while she opened the stenography notebook and began to read. Transcribing Anne's cryptic shorthand was slow-going but two hours later she knew that she had been wrong about one thing that afternoon. Paying for the funeral was not to be her last act of friendship.

There was one more thing she could do for Anne—find her killer.

S
later Roxton regarded Ursula through the lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “What the devil do you mean, you won't be available for the next few weeks, Mrs. Kern? We have an arrangement.”

“My apologies, sir, but a pressing matter has come up,” Ursula said. “I must devote my full attention to it.”

A disturbing hush fell on the library. Ursula mentally fortified herself. She had been acquainted with Slater for less than a fortnight and had worked with him on only two occasions but she felt she had an intuitive understanding of the man. He was proving to be a difficult client.

He had very nearly perfected the art of not signaling his mood or his thoughts but she was increasingly alert to a few subtle cues. The deep silence and the unblinking gaze with which he was watching her did not bode well. She sat very straight in her chair, doing her best not to let him know that his unwavering regard was sending small chills down her spine.

Evidently concluding that she was not responding as he had anticipated to his stern disapproval, he escalated the level of tension by rising slowly from his chair and flattening his powerful hands on the polished surface of his mahogany desk.

There was a deceptively graceful quality about the way he moved that gave him a fascinating aura of quiet, self-contained power. The dark, unemotional manner characterized everything about him, from his calm, nearly uninflected speech to his unreadable green-and-gold eyes.

His choice of attire reinforced the impression of shadows and ice. In the short time she had known him she had never seen him in anything other than head-to-toe black—black linen shirt and black tie, black satin waistcoat, black trousers and a black coat. Even the frames of his spectacles were made of some matte black metal—not gold- or silver-plated wire.

He was not wearing the severely tailored coat at the moment. It was hanging on a hook near the door. After greeting her a short time ago, Slater had removed it in preparation for working on the artifacts.

She knew she had no right to critique the man on the basis of his wardrobe. She, too, was dressed in her customary black. In the past two years she had come to think of her mourning attire—from her widow's veil and stylish black gown to her black stacked-heel, ankle-high button boots—as both uniform and camouflage.

It flashed across her mind that she and Slater made quite a somber pair. Anyone who happened to walk into the library would think they were both sunk deep into unrelenting grief. The truth of the matter was that she was in hiding. Not for the first time, she wondered what Slater's motives were for going about in black. His father had died two months ago. It was the event that had brought Slater home to London after several years of living abroad. He was now in command of the Roxton family fortune. But she was quite certain that the black clothes were indicative of a long-standing sartorial habit—not a sign of mourning.

If even half of what the press had printed regarding Slater Roxton was true, she reflected, perhaps he had his reasons for wearing black. It was, after all, the color of mystery, and Slater was nothing if not a great mystery to Society.

She watched him with a deep wariness that was spiked with curiosity and what she knew was a reckless sense of fascination. She had anticipated that giving notice, especially in such a summary fashion, would not be met with patience and understanding. Clients frequently proved difficult to manage but she had never encountered one quite like Slater. The very concept of managing Slater Roxton staggered the mind. It had been clear to her at the start of their association that he was a force of nature and a law unto himself. That was, of course, what made him so interesting, she thought.

“I have just explained that something unforeseen has arisen,” she said. She was careful to keep her voice crisp and professional, aware that Slater would pounce on anything that hinted at uncertainty or weakness. “I regret the necessity of terminating our business relationship. However—”

“Then why are you terminating our arrangement?”

“The matter is of a personal nature,” she said.

He frowned. “Are you ill?”

“No, of course not. I enjoy excellent health. I was about to say that I hope it will be possible for me to return at a later date to finish the cataloging work.”

“Do you, indeed? And what makes you think I won't replace you? There are other secretaries in London.”

“That is your choice, of course. I must remind you that I did warn you at the outset that I have other commitments in regard to my business which might from time to time interfere with our working arrangements. You agreed to those terms.”

“I was assured that, in addition to a great many other excellent qualities, you were quite dependable, Mrs. Kern. You can't just walk in here and quit on the spot like this.”

Ursula twitched the skirts of her black gown so that they draped in neat, elegant folds around her ankles while she considered her options. The atmosphere in the library was rapidly becoming tense, as if some invisible electricity generator was charging the air. It was always like this when she found herself in close proximity to Slater. But today the disturbing, rather exciting energy had a distinctly dangerous edge.

In the short time she had known him she had never seen him lose his temper. He had never gone to the other extreme, either. She had yet to see him laugh. True, he had dredged up the occasional, very brief smile and there had been a certain warmth in his usually cold eyes from time to time. But she got the feeling that he was more surprised than she was when he allowed such emotions to surface.

“I do apologize, Mr. Roxton,” she said, not for the first time. “I assure you I have no choice. Time is of the essence.”

“I feel I deserve more of an explanation. What is this pressing matter that requires you to break our contract?”

“It regards one of my employees.”

“You feel obligated to look into the personal problems of your employees?”

“Well, yes, in a nutshell, that is more or less the situation.”

Slater came out from behind the desk, lounged against the front of it and folded his arms.

His sharply etched features had an ascetic, unforgiving quality. On occasion it was easy to envision him as an avenging angel. At other times she thought he made a very good Lucifer.

“The least you can do is explain yourself, Mrs. Kern,” he said. “You owe me that much, I think.”

She did not owe him anything, she thought. She had taken pains to make her terms of employment clear right from the start. As the proprietor of the Kern Secretarial Agency she rarely took assignments, herself, these days. Her business was growing rapidly. The result was that for the past few months she had been busy in the office, training new secretaries and interviewing potential clients. She had accepted the position with Slater as a favor to his mother, Lilly Lafontaine, a celebrated actress who had retired to write melodramas.

She had not expected to find the mysterious Mr. Roxton so riveting.

“Very well, sir,” she said, “the short version is that I have decided to take another client.”

Slater went very still.

“I see,” he said. “You are not happy in your work here with me?”

There was a grim note in his voice. She realized with a start that he was taking her departure personally. Even more shocking, she got the impression that he was not particularly surprised that she was leaving his employ, rather he seemed stoically resigned, as if it had foreseen some inevitable doom.

“On the contrary, sir,” she said quickly. “I find your cataloging project quite interesting.”

“Am I not paying you enough?” Something that might have been relief flickered in his eyes. “If so, I am open to renegotiating your fee.”

“I assure you, it is not a matter of money.”

“If you are not unhappy in your work and if the pay is satisfactory, why are you leaving me for another client?” he asked.

This time he sounded genuinely perplexed.

She caught her breath and suddenly felt oddly flushed. It was almost as if he were playing the part of a jilted lover, she thought. But of course that was not at all the case. Theirs was a client-employer relationship.

This is why you rarely accept male clients,
she reminded herself. There was a certain danger involved. But finding herself attracted to one of her customers was not the sort of risk she had envisioned when she established the policy. Her chief concern had been the knowledge that men sometimes posed a risk to the sterling reputations of her secretaries. In the case of Slater Roxton, she had made an exception and now she would pay a price.

All in all, it was probably best that the association was ended before she lost her head and, possibly, her heart.

“As to my reasons for leaving—” she began.

“Who is this new client?” Slater said, cutting her off.

“Very well, sir, I will explain the circumstances that require me to terminate my employment with you but you may have a few quibbles.”

“Try me.”

She tensed at the whisper of command in his tone.

“I really do not want to get into an extended argument, sir—especially in light of the fact that I hope to return to this position in the near future.”

“You have already made it clear that you expect me to wait upon your convenience.”

She waved one black-gloved hand to indicate the jumble of antiquities that cluttered the library. “These artifacts have been sitting here for years. Surely they can wait a bit longer to be cataloged.”

“How much longer?” he asked a little too evenly.

She cleared her throat. “Well, as to that, I'm afraid I cannot be specific, at least not yet. Perhaps in a few days I will have some notion of how long my other assignment will last.”

“I have no intention of arguing with you, Mrs. Kern, but I would like to know the identity of the client you feel is more important than me.” He broke off, looking uncharacteristically irritated. “I meant to say, what sort of secretarial work do you feel is more critical than cataloging my artifacts? Is your new client a banker? The owner of a large business, perhaps? A lawyer or a lady in Polite Society who finds herself in need of your services?”

“A few days ago I was summoned to the house of a woman named Anne Clifton. Anne worked for me for two years. She became more than an employee. I considered her a friend. We had some things in common.”

“I notice you are speaking in the past tense.”

“Anne was found dead in her study. I sent for the police but the detective who was kind enough to visit the scene declared that in his opinion Anne's death was from natural causes. He thinks her heart failed or that she suffered a stroke.”

Slater did not move. He watched her as though she had just announced that she could fly. Clearly her response was not the answer he had expected but he recovered with remarkable speed.

“I'm sorry to hear of Miss Clifton's death,” he said. He paused, eyes narrowing faintly. “What made you summon the police?”

“I believe Anne may have been murdered.”

Slater looked at her, saying nothing for a time. Eventually he removed his spectacles and began to polish them with a pristine white handkerchief.

“Huh,” he said.

Ursula debated another moment. The truth of the matter was that she wanted very much to discuss her plan with someone who would not only understand, but possibly provide some useful advice—someone who could keep a confidence. Her intuition told her that Slater Roxton was good at keeping secrets. Furthermore, in the past few days it had become blazingly clear that he possessed an extremely logical mind. Some would say he took that particular trait to the extreme.

“What I am about to tell you must be held in strictest confidence, do you understand?” she said.

His dark brows came together in a forbidding line. She knew she had offended him.

“Rest assured I am quite capable of keeping my mouth shut, Mrs. Kern.”

Each word was coated in a thin layer of ice.

She adjusted her gloves and then clasped her hands firmly together in her lap. She took an additional moment to collect her thoughts. She had not told anyone else, not even her assistant, Matty, what she intended to do.

“I have reason to suspect that Anne Clifton was murdered,” she repeated. “I intend to take her place in the household of her client to see if I can find some clues that will point to the killer.”

For the first time since she had made his acquaintance, Slater appeared to be caught off guard. For a few seconds he stared at her, clearly stunned.

“What?” he said finally.

“You heard me, sir. The police do not see fit to investigate Anne's death. As there is no one else available, I intend to take on the task.”

Slater finally managed to pull himself together.

“That's sheer madness,” he said very quietly.

So much for hoping that he would understand. She got to her feet and reached up to pull the black netting down from the brim of her little velvet hat. She started toward the door.