Garden of Lies (8 page)

“The rules don't apply to the guests. You're a whore and what's more, you're my whore, at least for tonight. I certainly paid enough for you.”

The man's voice was thickened with drink. Rage seethed just beneath the surface.

“If you don't leave me alone, I'll scream,” the woman warned.

But she kept her tone low and something in it told Slater that she did not dare to shout for help.

“You stupid bitch,” the man snarled. “You know as well as I do that if you start yelling you'll find yourself on the street. You'll be taking your customers up against the wall in some filthy alley before you know it. Or maybe you'll end up in the river like your friend a couple of weeks back, eh?”

The observation was punctuated by a bark of harsh laughter.

“Wouldn't you care for another dance?” the woman asked, trying to sound flirtatious.

“I've had enough of dancing. Shut up. We're going to get into my carriage and you will do exactly what I tell you.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you. I can't. None of the women from the Pavilion can leave the grounds. You know that, sir. The rules—”

“Don't quote the damn rules to me. You may look and sound like a lady but we both know you're just a cheap whore.”

“I'm going back into the ballroom,” the woman declared with shaky conviction. “
No
, you can't force me to leave the . . .
mmph
.”

Slater was quite certain that the man had slapped a hand over the woman's mouth.

“I'll teach you to defy me,” the drunken man raged.

Slater moved out from behind the cover of a hedge and saw the pair. They were dark shadows in the fog. The man was struggling to control the woman. He had an arm around her throat, choking her. She fought desperately but it was clear she was overpowered.

Neither of the two noticed him until he gripped the assailant's shoulder.

“Let her go,” Slater said quietly.

The attacker was so startled he released the woman and whirled around. He stared into the glary light, trying to see Slater's face but that was not possible. Slater was careful to keep his back to the light, leaving his features in deep shadow.

“Leave us,” the attacker hissed. “She's mine. Go find yourself another whore. I've got plans for this one.”

“She's not interested in your plans,” Slater said.

“You can't have her.” The man peered at him, trying to see more clearly in the dim light. “Are you one of the bloody guards? If so, you can take yourself off immediately. This does not concern you.”

“I'm afraid you are mistaken.”

The assailant swung one fist in a wild, awkward fashion. Slater easily ducked the blow and came back with a short, hard punch to the gut. He followed it with a quick chopping blow against the side of the man's head.

The drunkard collapsed, unconscious, on the lawn.

Slater looked at the woman. She watched him warily.

“Thank you,” she said. She sounded grateful but very cautious. “He wanted me to violate the rules. He was trying to take me away in a private carriage. We are not supposed to leave the grounds with any of the guests, as I'm sure you are aware. Mrs. Wyatt is very firm on that point.”

Slater nodded and walked to look down at the unconscious man.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Hurst,” the woman said. She hesitated. “You're not one of the guests, are you?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Because I'm not dressed appropriately?”

“That and the fact that you're not acting as if you've drunk any of the ambrosia this evening. Who are you?”

“A curious spectator.”

“Curiosity can be dangerous here at the Olympus Club.”

“Is that what they call this place?” Slater asked.

“You didn't know that?”

“I do now. May I ask your name?”

The woman hesitated. “I suppose you have a right to it after what you just did for me. You may call me Evangeline.”

He smiled a little. Everyone kept secrets, he thought. A professional courtesan would almost certainly have a few.

“I assume that Evangeline is your stage name?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, silently defying him to demand more.

“It is a pretty name,” he said. “Was Hurst drunk on that ambrosia you mentioned?”

“Of course,” she said. She waved one gloved hand to indicate the vast gardens. “They all are. The guests enjoy the drug in various forms. It is added to the liquor. Sometimes they smoke it in the form of cigars. The Olympus is the only place in London where it is served, you see. For the most part the ambrosia invigorates the men to the point where all they can think about is finding a female—willing or unwilling. If they take a sufficient quantity they usually enjoy wondrous visions and a great sense of pleasure. But sometimes the hallucinations can be quite intense and frightening.” She glanced at the unmoving man on the ground. “And occasionally the drug affects men the way it did Hurst tonight.”

“The ambrosia makes some of the men violent?”

“Yes.” Evangeline peered at Slater, trying to see him against the glare of the light behind him. “You likely saved me from a beating or worse.” There was a shudder in her voice. “Hurst was behaving very oddly. He is normally a quiet little man but tonight he flew into a rage. Perhaps he took too much of the drug. Some of the other Nymphs have reported similar reactions when their guests overindulged.” She paused. “I should not be speaking with you like this. We are only allowed to talk to men who have been introduced to us by Mrs. Wyatt.”

“I understand. Thank you for answering a few of my questions.”

“Thank you for saving me from Hurst.” Evangeline made a face. “I really don't know what got into him tonight. There are rumors that the management of the club has brought in a stronger version of the ambrosia recently.”

She turned to walk back toward the ballroom.

“One more question before you go,” Slater said softly.

She paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Very well, but please be quick about it.”

“Your friend, the one who wound up in the river—”

Evangeline went very still. “Nicole. They said she took her own life.”

“But you don't believe that, do you? What do you think happened?”

“We're all quite certain that she broke the rules and left the grounds with a man who went mad after he took too much of the drug.”

“You think her guest murdered her?”

“I cannot say, sir. But as I told you, everyone knows that some of the guests can take odd turns when they're enjoying the drug. That's why there are rules and guards. But as you saw tonight, the bloody guards are never around when you need them.”

“What exactly is this ambrosia? Some version of opium?”

“I cannot say, sir. The Nymphs are forbidden to drink it.”

Once again Evangeline collected her satin skirts and turned to leave.

“Are you concerned that Hurst will make trouble for you when he awakens?” Slater asked.

Evangeline's light laughter whispered in the fog. “It's unlikely he'll remember much of what happened, sir, not given the large dose of the drug that he evidently took. But if he does, I expect that it is you who will have left an impression on him.”

She hurried away and soon disappeared behind the hedge.

T
here was another mention of a perfume shop.

Ursula contemplated the lines she had attempted to transcribe from Anne's notebook. She reminded herself that poetry could be complicated and nuanced, not to mention downright oblique. Some poems were notoriously incomprehensible. And then there was the fact that Valerie was not a professional author. She was using the medium of poetry to soothe her shattered nerves.

Nevertheless, most of the verses in the notebook made sense once they were transcribed. The lines that she had just written down on a separate sheet of paper, however, did not. They looked, instead, very much like an address.

It was possible that Anne had grown bored with the dreary poems Valerie had dictated and had jotted down some private notes—reminders of appointments, perhaps, or, in this instance, the address of a perfume shop that someone had mentioned. It would certainly not have been out of character for Anne to shop for fragrances and fancy soap.

Ursula reflected briefly on the empty perfume bottle she had found on Anne's writing desk. Curious, she flipped back and forth through the notebook. The reference to the perfume shop appeared early on in the notebook, about three weeks after Anne had begun working for Valerie. It had been slipped in between lines of poetry.

. . . The longing in my heart is that of the flower for the sun,

Rosemont's Perfumes and Soaps. No. 5 Stiggs Lane

Yet tis the night I welcome for in my dreams to you I run . . .

Anne had never mentioned the purchase of perfume to her office colleagues and that was unlike her. She had always been very eager to display any new acquisition. A week or so before her death she had received a lovely silver chatelaine from a grateful client—a delicate aide-mémoire. It featured a tiny silver notebook and pencil attached with silver chains. Anne had worn it virtually every day to the office. Everyone had admired it.

If Anne had purchased some perfume or received it as a gift, surely she would have mentioned it.

Ursula reached for her pencil. A faint, muffled thud on the front steps stopped her cold. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck stirred.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. No one would call at such an hour.

Metal clanged lightly on metal, the small noise was distinctive, though barely audible. Ursula shot to her feet, an unnerving chill splintering through her. Someone had just pushed an object through the letter box.

She went to the window and eased the curtain aside. The fogbound street was very quiet. There were no vehicles but a dark silhouette was briefly visible in the glare of the streetlamp. The figure was that of a man enveloped in a coat and a low-crowned hat. He was rushing away from her front door. As she watched he vanished quickly into the night.

There was no noise from Mrs. Dunstan's room. But, then, it would take a gunshot or the Crack of Doom to awaken her after she took her bedtime dose of her own special laudanum concoction.

You are letting your imagination
run away with reason and common sense,
Ursula thought. But she knew she would not be able to sleep if she did not go downstairs to make certain that all was secure in the front hall.

The gas lamps were turned down very low but they cast enough light to enable her to make her way. She saw the small package on the black-and-white tiles before she reached the bottom step. The icy sensation grew stronger, threatening to overwhelm her. Someone had, indeed, shoved a package through the brass letter box—at midnight.

The dread that had been gathering in the atmosphere around her struck with storm-like intensity. It took an astonishing amount of determination just to continue down the stairs.

She picked up the package. The contents felt light and flexible. Papers, she concluded, or a notebook.

She carried the package into her study, set it on her desk and turned up a lamp. Taking a pair of shears out of a drawer she cut the string that bound the parcel and slowly peeled away the brown paper.

She fully expected that whatever she found inside would come as a shock but a strange stoicism gripped her when she saw the little magazine. It was a penny dreadful. The black-and-white illustration on the cover featured a woman in a suggestively draped nightgown, her hair down around her shoulders. She was sitting in a tumbled bed, clutching the sheets to her bosom. The artist had made certain that a great deal of bare leg was visible.

The woman in the illustration was not alone in the bedroom. There was a man with her. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie and the collar of his shirt undone. His formal evening coat was draped over the back of a boudoir chair.

The woman and the man gazed in stunned shock at the bedroom door, where a well-dressed, obviously scandalized lady stood in the opening. She had a gun in one gloved hand.

The title of the small magazine proclaimed the contents:

T
HE
P
ICTON
D
IVORCE
C
ASE

An Accurate Record of the Testimony of Mrs. Euphemia Grant and Others. Adultery! Scandal! Attempted Murder!

Ursula opened the magazine with shaking fingers. A handwritten note slipped out and fluttered to the top of the desk.

You have been discovered. Silence may be purchased.
Await instructions.

Ursula sank slowly down onto the chair. She had always feared that the day would come when someone would uncover her true identity. She had known that if that happened her newly invented life would fall apart and she would once again confront disaster. She had put aside a fair amount of money to prepare for such an eventuality. She'd had some notion of purchasing a ticket to Australia or America to start over yet again, if necessary.

But as she read the note a second time, it was anger, not fear, that stormed through her. She had made plans to leave the country if her past was exposed. But she had not anticipated the possibility that someone would attempt to blackmail her.

She needed a new plan.