Garden of Lies(23)

“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.





ELEVEN




There 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.