Garden of Lies (28 page)

T
he bastard was lying. Roxton had to be lying. Everyone said that his experiences on Fever Island had affected his mental balance.

But that did not explain how he had come to learn about the journal and the photographs and the business association with Cobb. There was only one explanation—Roxton had, indeed, gotten into the safe. The high walls, the fierce dog, the modern locks—all for naught.

Fulbrook was still shivering with rage when he climbed out of the cab and went up the steps of his house. He banged on the door several times and swore when no one responded. It was nearly three in the morning. The servants were in their beds but that was no excuse. Bloody hell. Someone should have come to the door. Lazy bastards. He would fire them all in the morning.

He fumbled with his key and finally got the door open. He moved into the dark, empty hall. He tossed the hat onto the polished table but he was in too much of a hurry to bother with his coat.

He rushed down the corridor to his study. At the door of the study he paused again to take out another key. He stabbed the damned lock three times before he finally gained access to the room.

He turned up the lamp. A flicker of relief went through him when he saw that the safe was still locked. Perhaps Roxton had been bluffing. Still, how could he have known about the photographs and the journal?

He crouched in front of the safe and spun the combination lock. Whatever small hope still flickered within him was snuffed out when he got the door open. The journal and the photographs were gone. In a subtle but exquisitely cruel taunt, the bastard had left the several thousand pounds' worth of banknotes behind.

He went to the desk and collapsed into the chair. He buried his face in his hands and tried to think. It was difficult to imagine that Cobb would dare attempt to murder him. The American needed him. But he had to get away from London before the blackmail victims discovered that he was the one who had extorted certain financial and social favors from them during the past year. Roxton was right about one thing—some of the men he had blackmailed were dangerous.

He had to think. He had to escape. He had to protect himself.

He raised his head and unlocked the top desk drawer. The pistol was still inside. At least the bastard had not taken it. Another insult, no doubt.

He checked to be certain the gun was loaded and then he slipped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

Lurching to his feet, he went back to the safe and scooped out handfuls of banknotes. He stuffed the money into his pockets.

He considered waking a member of the staff to pack his clothes and then concluded that he did not want to waste even that much time.

He left the study and went upstairs to his room. Halfway down the hall he stopped in front of Valerie's door. It was closed.

An acidic rush of rage flooded through him. This was all her fault. She was the one who had explained the properties of the ambrosia plant and painted a beguiling vision of how it could be used to make a fortune and control powerful people. He wanted nothing more than to strangle her.

Rage briefly overcame his panic. He tried the doorknob. When he discovered that the door was locked he hammered the wooden panels with one fist.

“Valerie, you stupid bitch.”

There was no response.

Sanity returned in a searing flash of urgency. He did not have time to break down the door. He would deal with Valerie later.

He hurried down the hall to his own bedroom. It took some time to find a suitcase. Packing was servants' work. How was he to know where the travel necessities were stored?

He stuffed a few essentials into the case and slammed the lid shut. Hefting the bag, he went out into the hall and made his way down the stairs. Belatedly it occurred to him that he should have instructed the cab to wait. No matter. He would find another one soon.

He let himself outside and started walking quickly toward the far end of the street. He listened fearfully but the steady rain muffled the sounds of the night.

A man in a greatcoat and carrying an umbrella appeared in the glow of a streetlamp. The figure came toward him. Each step appeared chillingly deliberate.

Terror ripped through him. He fumbled with his pistol.

A moment later the figure in the greatcoat went up the steps of a large town house and disappeared through the front door.

The relief that swept over Fulbrook was so intense that he was not aware of the presence behind him until a gloved hand slapped across his mouth. The knife slashed open his throat before he could understand what had happened.

He crumpled slowly onto his back. Through glazing eyes he looked up at the face of the figure bending over him. He tried to speak but he could not get the words out.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Cobb said. “But a better financial opportunity has presented itself. I'm sure you understand.”

T
he following morning Ursula was in the library with Slater going over their notes on the case in an effort to construct a proper timeline, when the door opened.

“The biggest unknown here is the exact timing of Cobb's arrival in London,” Slater said.

He broke off as Gilbert Otford rushed into the room. The journalist was flushed with excitement.

“Fulbrook's body was discovered early this morning by a constable,” he announced. “Throat cut by a footpad.
The Flying Intelligencer
is printing a special edition as we speak. My editor is going with the headline
Murder in Mapstone Square
.
Rumors of a Great Scandal.
”

An eerie shock lanced through Ursula. Her palms tingled and the back of her neck felt as if it had been touched by fingers from a grave. It was not the news of Fulbrook's death that provoked the disturbing sensation—it was the realization that Slater had anticipated the report of the murder.

She looked at him. He sat quietly behind his desk, pages of notes arranged in a neat row in front of him, and looked at Otford with an unreadable expression.

It was one thing to use logic to deduce that a man might be the next target of a killer, she thought. It was another matter altogether to have that reasoning proved accurate. The fact that Fulbrook deserved his fate was not important. It was the realization that one had predicted the outcome—and that the outcome was death—that chilled the spirit.

“Where was the body discovered?” Slater asked quietly.

Otford consulted his notes. “Not far from his front door. It's believed that Fulbrook was attacked either after he got out of a cab or while trying to summon one. None of the neighbors heard or saw anything.”

“Of course not,” Ursula said.

“Not that the lack of witnesses will stifle the scandal.” Otford snapped his notebook shut. “The murder of a gentleman on his own doorstep in an exclusive neighborhood is always a sensation. Every reporter in town is covering the story but thanks to you, Mr. Roxton, I'm the only one with knowledge of Fulbrook's connection to the Olympus Club, where men of rank enjoy a strange drug and the services of the women of the Pavilion. Mrs. Wyatt's murder will now also become a sensation because I can link her business to the club and the club to Fulbrook.”

“I take it you are once again working for
The Flying Intelligencer
?” Slater said.

“My editor rehired me this morning when he realized I had a close connection to the story. Meanwhile, I will prepare the first edition of my new magazine. I'm going to call it
The Illustrated News of Crime and Scandal
.”

“That should appeal to a wide readership,” Ursula said with a small sniff.

“Yes, indeed,” Otford said, unfazed.

Slater leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. “What did you tell your editor about Cobb and the drug business?”

“Don't worry,” Otford said. “I've kept mum about the American crime lord and the ambrosia drug.”

“You're certain you did not mention Cobb to your editor?” Slater said.

Otford looked sly. “Never said a word to him. Between you and me, the Cobb connection is my ace in the hole, as the Americans say. I'm saving it for the first edition of my magazine, which will be ready to go to press the moment this affair is concluded.”

“We are assuming that Cobb will make a wrong move and manage to implicate himself,” Ursula said.

“He will make one more mistake,” Slater said.

Otford and Ursula looked at him.

“How can you be so certain of that?” Otford demanded, fascinated.

Slater shrugged. “He is responsible for the murder of a number of people, including a high-ranking gentleman, and at this point he thinks that no one suspects him because his ship does not dock until today. He will very soon be sailing to New York with a beautiful woman who sees him as a knight in shining armor. He's a crime lord and he's in the process of building an empire. Trust me, at this moment, he believes he is invincible. That is why he will make his last mistake.”

“If you say so.” Otford slipped his notebook back into his pocket. “I'll take your word for it. You haven't been wrong so far. Now I must be off. The police have promised that they will have an announcement for the press at one o'clock at the Yard. There'll be the usual idle chatter about how much progress they're making in the search for Fulbrook's killer, et cetera, et cetera. Nonsense, of course, but my editor will want it for the paper.”

Otford hurried away and disappeared down the hall. Ursula waited until she heard Webster usher him out of the house.

She rose, crossed the room and very quietly shut the door. Turning, she looked at Slater.

“You knew what was going to happen to Fulbrook, even though you warned him,” she said.

Slater got to his feet and went to look out the window at the rain-dampened garden. “It was not a certainty that Fulbrook would end up dead but there was a very high probability that would be the outcome. The pattern was almost entirely clear.”

“Almost?”

“The pattern of the labyrinth is never completely clear until one reaches the center and sees the answer. It's impossible to factor in every single element of an equation. Logic can be warped or deflected by unpredictable emotions.”

“But in this instance, your logic held.”

Slater turned around to face her. “Because I assumed that Fulbrook would not behave rationally. I knew he would probably panic. I was almost positive that he would go straight home to grab the money that I told him I had left inside the safe.”

“And you knew that Cobb would be watching from the shadows.”

“Cobb does not know his way around London and he is on his own now that his assassin is dead. I very much doubt that he could follow Fulbrook through our busy, occasionally dangerous streets. But he was certain to have Fulbrook's address. All he had to do was hire a cab to take him to Mapstone Square and wait for Fulbrook to appear.”

Ursula walked across the room and stopped directly in front of him. She raised her hands to his shoulders, stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth across his.

“Fulbrook does not deserve our pity,” she said. “But I am very sorry that you had to walk the labyrinth so far into the darkness to deal with him.”

Slater framed her face with his hands. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

He folded his arms around her and held her close for a long time.

I
'll wait for ye here, sir.” The driver looked down from the box. “My boy, Tom, will give ye a hand with the crate. I'll stay with the carriage. This neighborhood looks to be on the shady side.”

Cobb glanced around uneasily. It was nearly midnight. The darkened warehouse loomed in the foggy moonlight. There was no one else in sight and no reason to suspect that anyone had gotten to the drugs. His business in London had been successful, he reminded himself. There had been only the one problem with Hubbard but in the end that had proven manageable. Everything else had gone according to plan.

“We'll need a lantern,” Cobb said.

“Got one right 'ere, sir,” Tom said.

He grabbed the lantern and vaulted down from the box. A wiry lad of about thirteen or fourteen, he looked strong enough to handle one end of the crate. He was eager to claim the extra tip that Cobb had promised to pay.

“This won't take long,” Cobb said.

With Tom beside him, he started toward the warehouse entrance. Logic told him that everything was under control but he could not escape the uneasy sensation that had gripped him all day. But it would all be over soon. The
Atlantic
sailed for New York tomorrow. He and Valerie and the crates of drugs would be on board. One thing was certain, he was never going to pay another visit to London. He detested the damned place.

Tom stopped at the door. “All locked up nice and tight, I see. Reckon whatever you've got stored inside must be valuable.”

The curiosity in the boy's voice sent another shiver of unease through Cobb. What if the boy and his father conspired to murder him and steal the drugs? It was something he would certainly consider if he were in their shoes.

He reminded himself that he had chosen the carriage at random from the long row of cabs waiting in front of the hotel. There was no possibility that Tom and his father knew who he was or what he intended.

“The crates we're picking up tonight contain some fabric samples that I'm taking back to New York,” he said.

“Fabric, eh?” Tom's enthusiasm faded. “Probably just as well ye locked up the goods. There's people who'll steal anything, even fabric samples. My pa says the world is a dangerous place for an honest man.”

“Your father is right.”

Cobb took the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Darkness and the scent of the drug spilled out of the interior. He stood back.

“You go first,” he said to Tom. “You've got the lantern.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom held the lantern high and moved through the doorway. “It's bloody damned dark in here, ain't it? Do ye suppose there's ghosts?”

Cobb reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the gun. He glanced warily at the crate that held Hubbard's remains. Had he been careful when he checked the body to make certain there was nothing that could tie the dead man to him? He had been in a hurry that night.

“No such thing as ghosts, boy,” he said aloud.

“That's not what my ma says. She went to one of those séances the other night and talked to the spirit of her sister, Meg. Aunt Meg died a year ago. Never told anyone where she hid her teapot. My ma looked all over for it. But Meg's ghost couldn't remember where she put it.”

“I told you, there are no ghosts,” Cobb snarled.

Tom flinched.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. He looked around. “Smells bad, don't it? I'll wager there's a dead rat around here somewhere.”

And suddenly Cobb was very certain that he ought to take a look inside the crate that held Hubbard's body. He needed to be sure that he had not made any mistakes. But he could not allow Tom to see the corpse.

“Give me the lantern,” he ordered.

Tom handed him the lantern.

“Wait over there by that stack of empty crates,” Cobb said.

“Yes, sir.” Tom wrinkled his nose and hurried across the room. “Must have been a real big rat.”

Cobb went to the crate that held Hubbard. He would just take a quick look, he assured himself. Make sure the body hadn't been disturbed.

He set the lantern on top of a nearby crate. He could feel the boy watching him.
Probably thinks I'm crazy.
But there was no help for it. He had to be sure.

He got the lid of the crate open. The odor of death abruptly got stronger but Cobb barely noticed. It was not the first time he had encountered it.

He stared down at Hubbard's body. It was just as he had left it, he concluded. Relief pulsed through him. He started to go through Hubbard's clothing. He heard the boy moving about behind him.

“I'll just be a moment,” he said, not bothering to turn around. “Then we'll take the crates and leave.”

“Your hired killer had a card from your hotel tucked into his shoe.”

The voice came out of the shadows, startling Cobb so badly he dropped the lid of the crate. He yanked the gun out of his pocket and whirled around.

At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The boy had vanished. Then he heard harsh, frightened breathing coming from behind a stack of crates. Tom was hiding. Not that the boy mattered now. It was the voice in the shadows on the far side of the warehouse that rattled Cobb's nerves.

“Who are you?” he grated. “Where are you? Show yourself.”

“I trust you are not going to panic.” The figure moved out of the darkness, pausing at the very edge of the glary light cast by the lantern. “I came here to discuss a business venture with you. Now that Fulbrook is no longer involved, I am hoping that you will be interested in a new partner.”

Cobb struggled to make sense of what was happening. “Who are you?”

“Roxton.”

“So you're the bastard Valerie told me about—the one who took an interest in the stenographer's death. What do you want?”

“Yours is a simple, straightforward business plan. You intend to build a monopoly based on the ambrosia plant drug. You came here to close down the British end of the business. You will return to New York with everything you need to cultivate, harvest and concoct the drug in all its various forms. All you required are some specimens or seeds and an expert gardener who knew how to obtain the drug from the plant. Lady Fulbrook.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my business affairs.”

“I did my research.”

“How did you discover Hubbard's body?” Cobb demanded. “There were no witnesses that night. I'm certain of that.”

“London is my city. I know my way around.”

Cobb gave that some thought. “I notice that you did not go to the police with your discovery.”

“Why would I risk losing what promises to be a golden business opportunity? I will admit that I'm curious about why you got rid of Hubbard. He was, after all, the only person you could trust in London.”

“Hubbard became a liability after he failed to get rid of you,” Cobb said.

“I thought that might have been the case. He was useful, though, at least for a time. He took care of the people who knew about Fulbrook's connection to you. But with Hubbard gone, you had to take care of Fulbrook, yourself, last night.”

“You know far too much about my private affairs,” Cobb said. “Are you one of Fulbrook's associates from the club?”

“Fulbrook and I were not friends and we did not do business together. But, yes, I know a great deal about your affairs.”

“And now you want to take his place as my British business partner.”

“I don't see why we can't double our profits with greenhouses and distribution routes in both countries. I can handle the Continent and the Far East. You will have all of America under your control.”

“Where are your enforcers?” Cobb asked. “I saw no sign of them outside and you seem to be alone in here. Except for the boy, of course.”

“You're here on your own, are you not? You murdered the one enforcer who could have covered your back.”

“So you came here alone.” Cobb snorted softly. “You bloody English. So damned arrogant.”

“You're the stranger in town, Cobb, not me. We both know that from this distance and in this poor light, there is very little chance that you could even nick me, let alone get off a killing shot.”

Cobb tightened his grip on the gun. If only the bastard would step into the circle of light.

“Let's discuss this bargain you're suggesting,” he said. “You do realize that you lack what you will need to cultivate the plants successfully?”

“A few packets of seeds and the horticultural knowledge of how to grow the plants and process them into drugs? You're wrong, Cobb. You see, Lady Fulbrook was not the only person who possessed that knowledge.”

“Yes, I know. The Clifton woman contacted me, or should I say, Mr. Paladin. Told me that she had observed Valerie for months and acquired the skills needed to cultivate the plants. She claimed to have packets of ambrosia seeds. Wanted to establish a partnership of sorts. But she is dead and the information died with her.”

“That is not true. Miss Clifton was a very fine stenographer. Do you know what that means?”

Cobb felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. “She was just a secretary.”

“Anne Clifton recorded every detail of how to grow and process the plants in her stenographer's notebook. You may be interested to know that notebook is now in my possession.”

“Even if you're telling the truth, you'd need the seeds or several specimens to grow a large quantity of the herb.”

“Ah, yes, the seeds. Presently they are in safekeeping along with the notebook.”

Cobb thought of Valerie naïvely allowing her secretary to observe her in the greenhouse and the stillroom. He wanted to crush someone—preferably Valerie. But if he got out of this situation he would need her, at least until he had established the plant in his New York greenhouse and set up the laboratory.

“The stupid woman,” he said. “I should have known better than to get involved in a business arrangement with a female.”

“Your hotel kindly informed me that the American businessman staying with them intends to leave tomorrow. I knew that you would not be able to resist returning here tonight to check on the body and pick up the crates.”

Cobb got a cold feeling in his stomach. “How could you know that?”

“You're a crime lord operating on unfamiliar territory. That makes your actions astonishingly simple to predict.”

“You son of a bitch. You can't prove any of it.”

“I don't have to prove a thing, remember? I'm not from Scotland Yard. I'm just a businessman.”

The situation had deteriorated into a disaster, Cobb thought. He should have cut his losses yesterday. Coming here tonight for the crates of processed drugs had been a mistake. Roxton was right—he was operating on unfamiliar territory and that was dangerous. He had to get out of London. If he could just get on board the ship he would be safe.

He glanced toward the door. The carriage was waiting outside. He started making plans. The boy knew too much now. He would have to die. But meanwhile he would serve as a hostage long enough to force the father to drive him to a safe neighborhood.

Yes, that strategy would work. But first he had to get rid of Slater Roxton.

“You're serious about a partnership?” he said.

“Why else would I be here? I could have taken the crates of drugs. You would never have known the identity of the thief.”

“Yet here you are, offering a partnership. I'm starting to believe that what Fulbrook said about you is true—you are a little mad. Something to do with having spent a year stranded on an island, they say.”

“I've heard those rumors about me, as well. Might be something to them. After all, how does one know if one is mad? But when it comes to arrogance, you take the prize, Cobb.”

“What are you talking about?”

Slater walked out of the shadows, moving a short way into the light. His hands were empty. Cobb breathed a sigh of relief.

Very casually Slater reached out to grip one of the hoist ropes that dangled from the loft.

“Some would claim that murdering a high-ranking gentleman like Fulbrook requires a breathtaking degree of arrogance,” he said.

Cobb smiled. “Killing Fulbrook was very easy.”

“Was it?”

“I waited for him outside his house in Mapstone Square. When he came down the front steps I followed him and cut his throat.”

“I see. Can I ask why you are telling me this now?”

“Because I am not looking for a business partner.”

Cobb raised the gun and prepared to pull the trigger.

But Slater was already tugging hard on the length of rope that dangled from the loft.

Cobb was focused on the kill. He never saw the heavy rope net fall out of the loft until it landed on top of him. The weight of it took him off balance and off his feet.

He yelled, reflexively pulling the trigger. The revolver roared but the shot went wild. Cobb struggled in the snare. He succeeded only in becoming more entangled in the web of thick rope.