Garden of Lies(57)

“Well, I’ve got news for you, Mrs. Kern, I don’t have any secrets to conceal.” Otford straightened his thin shoulders. “I’m a journalist.”

Ursula ignored that. “You recognized me from the trial, didn’t you? I remember your face in the crowd. You sat right in front every single day like a vulture waiting to tear apart dead meat.”

“I covered the Picton divorce trial, yes.” Otford raised his chin. “It was my duty as a journalist.”

“Rubbish. You were one of the so-called gentlemen of the press who ruined my good name and made it necessary for me to adopt a new identity. I very nearly ended up in the workhouse or on the street because of you, Mr. Otford. And now you have the nerve to try to blackmail me?”

“I asked for only a couple of pounds,” Otford shot back. He waved a hand at her gown and hat. “It looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself, madam. Whereas I am the one in danger of starving. I’m going to be thrown out of my lodgings at the end of the week if I don’t come up with the rent. I’ve been eating at a charity kitchen for the past month.”

“But you’ve got a job.” Ursula narrowed her eyes. “Have you become a gambler, sir? Is that why you are going hungry?”

Otford exhaled deeply. His shoulders collapsed. “No, I haven’t fallen prey to the vice of gambling. My editor let me go. He said I hadn’t brought in anything the public actually wanted to read in months. Not earning my keep, he told me. I’m working on a plan to publish a weekly magazine that covers the news of the criminal class and the police but setting up in that business takes money.”

“So you decided to try to extort money from me,” Ursula said. “Who else are you blackmailing, Mr. Otford?”

Otford was clearly offended. “I don’t intend to make a career out of extortion, madam. It was just a little something to tide me over.”

“It’s been two years since the Picton trial,” Ursula said. “I took great pains to disappear. How did you find me?”

A flash of intuition crackled through Slater.

“That,” he said, “is a very good question.” He took Ursula’s arm and nodded to Griffith, who clamped a hand around Otford’s shoulder. “I suggest we retire to another location to discuss the answer. There’s no reason to stand out here in the street.”





THIRTY




Slater took them all back to his house, sat them down in the library and then asked Mrs. Webster to bring in a tea tray. She had sized up the situation immediately. A tray piled high with sandwiches and small cakes sat on a table in the center of the room.

Otford had very nearly come to tears when he saw the sandwiches. He had fallen upon them with the appetite of a man who had not eaten well in days. Griffith had not been shy, either. He had loaded up a small plate with several sandwiches and a couple of lemon tarts.

Slater leaned back against his desk, folded his arms and watched Ursula. He was starting to worry about her. She showed no interest in the food and very little in the strong, fortifying tea. She had been in a fine fury a short time ago but now she sat tensely in her chair. He got the feeling that she was bracing herself for complete disaster.

“Ursula,” he said gently, “it’s going to be all right.”

She looked up with a slightly dazed expression. Her thoughts had clearly been elsewhere. But abruptly she focused on him.

“How did you know where I was this afternoon?” she asked, clearly suspicious.

“I went to your house to see you. I had some news to share with you. Mrs. Dunstan told me that you had gone haring off to Wickford Lane to see a new client. She seemed to think it was unlikely that anyone in that neighborhood would be in the market for a fashionable stenographer.”

“I see.”

“Ursula, she was worried about you.”

Ursula ignored that. “What was this news you had for me?”

“They found Rosemont’s body in an alley near the docks this morning.”

“What?” Ursula had been about to take another sip of tea. She set the cup down so quickly that some of the contents splashed into the saucer. “He’s dead?”

“And not by accident,” Slater said. “He was murdered.”

“Good heavens,” Ursula said.

“Murder?” Otford asked around a mouthful of sandwich. His eyes widened. “What’s this? Who is Rosemont?”

“A recently deceased purveyor of perfumes,” Slater said.

“Oh.” Otford lost interest and selected another sandwich. “No one of note then.”

Slater turned back to Ursula. “I talked to the police. The detective in charge of the case was kind enough to give me some information.”

“Well, of course the police would pay attention to you,” Ursula said grimly. “You’re Slater Roxton.”

Slater pretended not to hear that. “I’m told Rosemont’s death looks like the work of a professional assassin. Stiletto in the back of the neck.”

She blinked and then a speculative look appeared in her eyes. She was not the only one paying attention. Otford actually stopped munching again.

“What’s this about a professional assassin?” Otford gulped down a bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He whipped out a small notebook and a pencil. “Stiletto, you say? Makes all the difference if there’s a professional villain involved, you see, not your average run-of-the-mill member of the criminal class. My editor might be interested. I can see the headline now, Assassin Stalks London Streets.”