Garden of Lies(42)

Ursula whisked up her skirts. Satchel in hand, she hurried around the end of the counter.

“Did she come to your shop so frequently because she was in the habit of meeting someone here, Mr. Rosemont?” she asked. “If that is the case it is very important that you tell me the name of the individual. Perhaps you were bribed to remain silent or perhaps you simply feel you owe her some loyalty. But as her employer and her friend, I can assure you that there is no longer any reason to protect Anne.”

She stopped short just inside the doorway. The front of the shop was steeped in gloom but the back room was drenched in even deeper shadows. The chemical odors were stronger in that room.

There were none of the things one expected to see in the back of a perfume shop. No bundles of dried herbs and flowers dangling from the ceiling. No jars of fragrant oils. No containers of orange peels or bottles of cinnamon and vanilla beans.

Instead, there was a shipping crate.

The lid was open, revealing a number of neatly packaged bags inside. Beneath the thick chemical fumes she detected a dark, slightly acrid, strongly herbal note. The odor was coming from the wooden crate.

When her eyes adjusted to the low light she noticed two bookcases against one wall. They were crammed with leather-bound volumes. Herbals and other books of botanical lore, she concluded.

She looked around, searching for Rosemont. He had vanished through a door set between the bookcases. Alarmed that he was trying to escape, she hurried to follow him.

“Mr. Rosemont?”

“In here,” he called from the next room. “Come along, I’ve got my journal ready for you to examine. Kindly be quick about it. The sooner you vacate the premises, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

She went to the doorway between the bookcases and found herself looking into a shuttered room lit by gas lamps. The windows were covered with thick boards that had been nailed to the walls. She could see two workbenches littered with chemistry apparatus—glass beakers, flasks, scales and a burner. An exceptionally well-equipped stillroom, she thought. Rosemont evidently took a very modern, very scientific approach to the ancient art of perfume making.

“Welcome to my laboratory, madam,” Rosemont said. He stood near a small writing desk where a large notebook was open. He still sounded nervous but his voice was steadier now—the tone of a man who has made a decision and is determined to see it through. “This journal contains a record of the transactions that interest you.”

She walked across the room and looked down at the book. The pages were covered with dates, amounts and quantities. She leaned over a little, trying to decipher the cramped handwriting.

“Can you please point out the entry that shows Miss Clifton’s most recent visit to your shop?” she asked. “I don’t have time to read through all of your notes.”

“You’re wrong, madam. I don’t know who you are but rest assured you have all the time in the world to read that journal.”

She straightened and turned quickly, intending to bolt toward the door. She stopped when she saw the gun in Rosemont’s hand.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she said. “Have you gone mad?”

“Stay where you are.” Rosemont edged back toward the door. “Don’t move. I swear I will kill you where you stand. You very likely noticed that I do not have many neighbors, certainly none that will pay any attention to a gunshot. A guarantee of privacy was the reason I established my business here.”

The gun was shaking in his hand. That was probably not a good sign. Rosemont was a desperate, unnerved man. He was so jittery now that it was possible he would pull the trigger accidentally.

“Very well,” she said, trying for a calm tone. “I will do as you say.” The only practical strategy that came to mind was to keep Rosemont talking. “Are you aware that Anne Clifton is dead?”

“I assumed that was quite likely when you said you wanted to know about her visits to this shop.”

“Did you kill her?”

“What? No. Why would I murder her? Things were going quite well. But I feared the arrangement would not last forever. Bargains with devils and all that. That is why I made plans for an eventuality such as this.”

“What plans would those be, Mr. Rosemont?” she asked.

He ignored the question. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mrs. Kern. I was Anne’s employer.”

“I see. Well, you were a fool to get involved in this affair, madam.”

“What affair? What is going on, Mr. Rosemont? I think you owe me some explanation.”

“I owe you nothing but I will tell you this much—I rue the day I agreed to make that damned ambrosia drug. The money was excellent but it did not compensate me for the risks I have taken.”

Rosemont stepped quickly back into the adjoining room and slammed the door shut. She heard the clank of a heavy, old-fashioned iron key in the lock.

“Scream for help if you like,” Rosemont called through the door. His muffled voice was barely audible. “No one will hear you. Not that you’ll be screaming for long. This will all be over quite soon, I assure you.”





TWENTY-ONE




For a moment she stood very still, her heart pounding in a drumbeat of near panic. The squeak and groan of the floorboards told her that Rosemont was moving around in the shop. There was no way to know what he planned to do next. Perhaps he meant to starve her to death. That didn’t make sense, though. He had told her that it would all be over quite soon.