Garden of Lies(43)

She shivered, drew a deep breath, collected her nerve and took stock of her surroundings.

There was a second door that probably opened onto an alley. Not surprisingly, it was locked. There was no key in the lock. Next she checked the window. The boards that covered the glass panes were securely attached to the walls but she thought she might be able to loosen them given time and an object that could serve as a pry bar.

She began to search the room for a useful tool. Large ceramic containers were lined up against one wall. She lifted the lid of one of the pots very carefully—and quickly replaced it when choking fumes wafted out.

She spotted a long iron rod standing in one corner and decided it would work. But Rosemont was still moving around in the outer rooms of the shop. Prying the boards off the windows would be a noisy and time-consuming process. She did not want to attract his attention. He had indicated that he would soon be leaving. She decided to wait to tackle the boarded-up windows until he left the premises.

She looked at the sacks in the corner. Judging by the odor, they contained the same herbs that were in the packages stacked in the shipping crate.

One of the sacks was open. Reaching inside, she plucked out a handful of dried plant material. She took a hankie out of her satchel, wrapped up a sample and secured it with a knot.

The floorboards groaned again. She thought she heard the faint thud of an outer door closing. A great silence descended. She was quite certain that she was now alone.

She dropped the little bundle of dried herbs into her satchel and rushed to the door that opened onto the back room. With luck Rosemont had left the key in the lock out of sheer force of habit. He had, after all, been very nervous. In her other life she had learned a thing or two about keys. A woman on her own could not be too careful.

She heard a muffled whoosh just as she knelt in front of the doorknob. The faint scent of smoke wafted under the door.

A fresh dose of fear iced her spine. She had assumed that once Rosemont left the shop she would have time to work out an escape. She was wrong. The perfume maker had set fire to the premises on his way out the door.

The shock stole her breath and threatened to paralyze her. The building was going to burn down around her.

The smoke wafting under the door was stronger now. It carried a strong herbal odor. Rosemont had ignited the fire in the crate of dried plant materials. The stuff was no doubt highly flammable. The wall and the thick door that stood between the laboratory and the back room would buy her some time but not much.

She peered into the keyhole. Relief jittered through her when she saw that the key was, indeed, still in the lock.

She rose and rushed back to where her satchel stood on the workbench. She grabbed her stenography notebook, opened it and tore out two pages. Rushing back to the door, she crouched and pushed the pages under the bottom edge. She could only hope that the fire would not reach them before she finished what she intended to do.

Stripping off one glove, she removed a stout hatpin and eased it into the lock. She manipulated the length of metal carefully, pushing the key out of the lock. She heard it clatter when it fell to the floor on the other side of the door.

She bent down to peer under the door to see if the key had landed on the paper—and got a strong dose of herb-scented smoke for her trouble.

Her head swam. It was as if she was floating in midair. A strange, terrifying excitement roared through her. The sensation was so disorienting that if she had been standing she would have lost her balance altogether.

She straightened to her knees, automatically covering her nose and mouth with one hand. When the terrible feeling eased somewhat, she raised her skirts and tore a strip off her petticoats. She tied the fabric around the lower half of her face to serve as a mask. She took a breath and leaned down again to see if she had been successful.

A relief that was even more powerful than the disorienting sensations swept through her when she saw that the iron key had landed on one of the notebook pages.

Gingerly she tugged the paper with the key on it under the edge of the door.

Her heart sank when she discovered the key was warm to the touch. If the heat was already so intense in the back room it might be too late to make it to safety.

She peered through the keyhole and saw that her worst fears were confirmed. The other room was an inferno of dark smoke. She had no idea how long the thick wooden door would hold out against the flames.

She looked across the laboratory at the locked door that opened onto the alley and then she looked down at the key she had just retrieved.

No shopkeeper would bother to install two different locks requiring different keys for doors that locked the same room.

She hurried to the alley door and inserted the key. It turned readily in the lock. The door opened and she was free. She was about to rush to safety when she remembered her satchel.

Whirling, she dashed back across the laboratory and grabbed the bag. Then she hurried through the doorway into the narrow fog-choked alley.

A man in a sweeping black greatcoat raced down the lane toward her.

“Ursula,” Slater shouted.

He wrapped one arm around her and hauled her toward the far end of the alley. Behind them the old building gave one last groan and started to collapse in on itself.

The explosion occurred a short time later, just as Slater got Ursula into the hansom. The horse bolted. Griffith swore and fought to control the animal.

Slater made it into the cab. “Get us out of here,” he ordered.