Garden of Lies(47)

Cobb inclined his head in a sorrowful manner. “Who, I understand, recently took her own life.”

Rosemont knew a small measure of relief.

“So it was a suicide?” he said. “Mrs. Kern seemed to suspect that the death was a case of murder.”

“Or an accidental overdose,” Cobb said. “The newer version of the drug has unpredictable effects on some people. I understand Miss Clifton used the ambrosia.”

“Yes, yes, she did. I tried to warn her but . . . Well. A suicide or an accident. I suppose that explains things. For a time I wondered . . . Never mind.”

“What concerns you, Mr. Rosemont?” Cobb asked. “Were you fond of Miss Clifton?”

“She was a very attractive woman and always quite pleasant to me.” Rosemont sighed. “I was just startled to learn that she was dead. I had not heard the news until the widow showed up at my shop today.”

“Such a small death in such a large city is hardly the sort of tragedy that finds its way into the press.” Cobb tapped one gloved finger against the top of his walking stick. “And now you tell me that you wish to conduct one more transaction and then retire from the business?”

“That is correct.” Rosemont straightened his shoulders. He had committed murder that afternoon and set fire to his own shop. He was made of sterner stuff than he had ever imagined. “There is a large quantity of the drug crated and ready for shipment sitting in the warehouse. It should be enough to satisfy your customers in New York until you can find a new chemist to replace me.”

“I see. You really do wish to get out of the business.”

“Very much so. I could not endure another day like today.” Rosemont leaned down and opened one of the suitcases. He took out the notebook that sat atop the neatly folded clothes. “I have written down the instructions required to prepare the formula from the raw leaves and flowers of the plant straight through the various preparations—powder, liquid or gas. Any good chemist can produce whatever you wish provided he has a supply of the plant and access to certain chemicals.”

“I see.” Cobb took the notebook. He flipped it open and glanced casually at the formulas and instructions inside. He nodded, satisfied, and closed the notebook. He set it on the cushion. “Who was this woman—this widow—who came around to your shop inquiring about Anne Clifton?”

“She called herself Mrs. Kern. She said she was Miss Clifton’s employer. At first she tried to tell me that Miss Clifton had recommended my perfumes. I knew at once that was a lie, of course. As soon as she showed me the perfume bottle that I had given to Miss Clifton, I realized something terrible had happened. I only use those bottles for the liquid form of the drug.”

“Why do you suppose this widow was making inquiries into Miss Clifton’s death?”

“I have no idea. But I soon realized she was in possession of some rather dangerous information.”

The beast came and went in Cobb’s eyes. “What sort of information?”

“She had a list of the dates on which Miss Clifton had come by the shop to deliver the dried plant material,” Rosemont said.

“I see. That is, indeed, rather disturbing. Miss Clifton must have kept a record of her appointments.”

Rosemont widened his hands. “She was a trained secretary, after all. I’m sure she kept very accurate records of a great many things.”

“An even more unsettling thought.” Cobb pondered for a moment and then fixed Rosemont with another piercing look. “I assume you did not divulge any information regarding our business arrangements to Mrs. Kern?”

“Of course not.” Rosemont paused. “Not that it matters. I had made preparations just in case I was overtaken with such a disaster. I locked her in the laboratory and set off an explosion which caused a great fire. She died in the blaze.”

“You are quite certain of that?”

“Positive.” Rosemont longed to raise the curtains to see if they were in the vicinity of the railway station. He glanced at Hubbard’s gracefully folded hands and resisted the impulse to open the shades.

The driver rapped twice on the roof of the cab. The vehicle drew to a halt.

“I believe we have arrived,” Cobb said.

“Thank goodness.” Rosemont gathered his nerve. “As I told you, the final shipment is in the warehouse. I would like my payment now, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m afraid I do mind.” Cobb reached inside his coat.

Rosemont froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He started to shiver.

Cobb smiled a faint, derisive smile. Very deliberately he removed a gold cigarette holder from an inside pocket. “Really, Mr. Rosemont. You British have such a low opinion of your former colonials. We are not all western outlaws who go about armed to the teeth. Hubbard, please see our guest to his destination.”

Hubbard unfolded his hands and opened the door. Dank fog carrying the odor of the river swirled through the opening. Rosemont had just taken a relieved breath. Now another wave of panic hit him.

“This isn’t the railway station,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Cobb shrugged. “You must forgive me. I’m new in town. I find that the streets of London are a maze. Get out, Rosemont. As we are no longer business partners I do not owe you any favors. I’m sure you will eventually find a cab.”