Garden of Lies(54)

“A hotel is out of the question. Mr. Cobb entertained us quite lavishly in his mansion when we visited New York a few months ago so we must repay the favor. My husband will have to take comfort in knowing that our houseguest will not be staying very long—only a few days, in fact.”

“A remarkably brief visit considering how far Mr. Cobb will have traveled.”

“Mr. Cobb is a very busy man,” Valerie said. “As I was saying, I will no longer require your stenography services, Mrs. Kern.”

“Would you like a typed copy of your latest poem sent to you?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The housekeeper hovered just outside the entrance of the glasshouse. Her middle-aged features were stamped with the impassive expression of a woman who had long ago learned that the secret to keeping her post was to keep her employers’ secrets.

“Show Mrs. Kern to the door,” Valerie instructed.





TWENTY-SEVEN




Griffith was lounging against the trunk of a tree in the small park across the street from the Fulbrook mansion. When he spotted Ursula he straightened and moved to open the door of the carriage.

He glanced at the house with a speculative expression. “You’re finished early, Mrs. Kern. Everything all right? I know Mr. Roxton was concerned about your plans to come here today.”

“Lady Fulbrook just let me go.” Ursula collected her skirts and went up the steps into the carriage. She sat down and looked at Griffith. “With no notice and without a reference, mind you.”

“Not that you need one from her.”

“No, thank goodness. But I have some news, Griffith. I persuaded Lady Fulbrook to take me into the conservatory again and I saw a great quantity of the ambrosia plant growing in a special chamber.”

Griffith’s eyes tightened. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be without a closer examination.”

“So Fulbrook is growing the plant?”

Ursula shook her head. “I don’t think so. Evidently Fulbrook cannot tolerate the atmosphere of the greenhouse. It gives him all the symptoms of a bad cold. I believe that Lady Fulbrook is the one cultivating the plant for him. I must get word to Slater immediately.”

“After I take you to your office I’ll track him down and give him the information,” Griffith said.

“Please take me home, instead. There is something I want to do there.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Griffith started to close the door.

Ursula put out a hand to stop him. “Speaking of Slater, where is he today, do you know?”

“He went to see his father’s botanist friend.”

Griffith closed the door, vaulted up onto the box and loosened the reins. Ursula watched the front of the Fulbrook mansion until it disappeared from sight.

Lady Fulbrook had been more than flustered about the prospect of the visitor from America. She had looked thrilled. Evidently she had no problem tolerating the rude American manners of her husband’s business associate.

—

MRS. DUNSTAN OPENED the door of the town house with an air of concern.

“You’re home early today, Mrs. Kern. Is everything all right? Still feeling a bit rattled by your dreadful experience yesterday? Perfectly natural, if you ask me. I told you that you ought not to go to work today.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Dunstan, but I am quite fit, thank you.” Ursula removed her hat and stripped off her gloves. “I’m home early because my client let me go. She got word that a houseguest from America is arriving the day after tomorrow. She was in quite a flap over the whole thing. I would have had Griffith take me to the office but I remembered some business that I want to take care of here.”

“I see.” Mrs. Dunstan waved farewell to Griffith and closed the door. “A note arrived for you while you were out. I set it on your desk in your study.”

“A note?” Ursula dropped the hat and gloves into Mrs. Dunstan’s capable hands and hurried down the hall to the study. “From Mr. Roxton, perhaps?”

“If it is from him, he neglected to put his name on the outside of the envelope,” Mrs. Dunstan called after her.

Ursula swept through the door of the study. She had returned to her house to take a closer look at Anne’s private correspondence with Paladin, the editor of the literary quarterly. But when she saw the note on her desk she recognized the handwriting at once. Her insides went cold. She forgot about the correspondence.

She opened the envelope slowly, dreading what she knew she would find inside. She reminded herself that she had a plan. Her hand steadied.

She scanned the contents of the note. The blackmailer had, indeed, named his price.

. . . As you can see, a trivial amount. An excellent bargain. Leave the money in the weeping angel crypt in the cemetery in Wickford Lane. Make sure the payment is there by four o’clock today or the press will be notified of your true identity.

—

IT WAS NOT THE AMOUNT of money involved that caused rage to splash through her veins. The price of the extortionist’s silence was not nearly as high as she had expected. It was the knowledge that the payment was destined to be the first of an endless string of demands that infuriated her.

She refolded the note.

She had a plan. It was time to implement it.