Garden of Lies(59)

Ursula swallowed hard. “Because you would no doubt demand—and get—a full-scale police investigation.”

“Which is the last thing Fulbrook wants,” Slater concluded.

Otford perked up again. “I say, do you think Lord Fulbrook is the one who put the message about Mrs. Grant—Mrs. Kern—under my door?”

“More likely he sent a servant to perform the task but, yes, I think it is a distinct possibility that Fulbrook alerted you to Mrs. Kern’s identity.”

Ursula’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “But that means that Anne must have told him my real identity. Why would she do that? I trusted her.”

Slater wanted to comfort her but he knew that it was not the time. “What Fulbrook could not know was that Otford would try to blackmail you instead of exposing you in the sensation press.”

Otford smiled benignly at Ursula. “There now, I did you a favor, Mrs. Kern. It all worked out well in the end, did it not?”

Ursula did not bother to respond. She grabbed a hankie from her satchel and blotted her eyes.

Slater looked at her. “Today when Griffith came to pick me up at the botanist’s house he told me that Lady Fulbrook had sent you away immediately after she received a message about a houseguest who is due to arrive from America the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s right.” Ursula had herself back under control. She swallowed some tea and lowered the cup. “Lady Fulbrook was visibly cheered by the news. She was excited—said something about not having expected Mr. Cobb until next month. She made it clear that her husband did not think highly of the American but that he was forced to treat Cobb politely because they were business associates. Evidently Cobb is a wealthy, powerful man in New York. Several months ago he entertained Lord and Lady Fulbrook when they visited there.”

“Interesting,” Slater said. Absently he removed his spectacles, took out a handkerchief and began to polish the lenses. “Let us consider what we have here. Two people who have a connection to the ambrosia drug trade are now dead—Anne Clifton and Rosemont. And a wealthy American business associate of Fulbrook’s is on his way to London.”

“There’s something else, as well,” Ursula said. “I saw the ambrosia plants today.”

Slater went still. “Did you?”

“Lady Fulbrook has a hothouse dedicated to cultivating them.”

A sense of knowing whispered through Slater. “That is even more interesting. Another step on the path. The pattern is finally becoming more visible.”

He realized the others had fallen silent and were gazing at him with curious expressions. He put on the spectacles.

“The botanist I consulted this morning informed me that what we are calling the ambrosia plant—it has a rather long and complicated Latin name—is something of a legend in the botanical community,” he said. “All the references to it come from the Far East and most of those are mere hearsay. He knew of no specimens that had been successfully cultivated in Great Britain. According to the few notes he found, the plant can produce a powerful euphoria and induce visions.”

Otford had been scribbling madly. He paused and looked up, face scrunched into a frown. “What makes this particular drug so special? It is not as though there is not a wide variety of opium-based drugs available for sale everywhere. Most housewives have their own family recipes for laudanum.”

“At the moment ambrosia has the distinction of being unique because, as far as we can tell, it is only available from one source,” Slater said. “The Olympus Club appears to have a monopoly. Monopolies can be quite profitable.”

“Huh.” Otford tapped his pencil against his notebook. “The name of that club rings a bell. Can’t quite remember why.”

“In that case I would like you to see what you can find out about the Olympus,” Slater said. “Talk to some of the people who work there but I advise you to be discreet. People are getting killed in this affair.”

Otford brightened. “Right. Murdered. Assassin running around.”

“So it seems,” Slater said. “I think we need to find out whatever we can about Cobb.”

“But he isn’t even in London yet,” Ursula said.

She was not challenging him, Slater realized, merely curious about his reasoning.

“The fact that Cobb’s ship has not yet docked doesn’t mean he is not involved in this affair,” he explained. He went behind his desk, sat down and reached for a sheet of paper. “Griffith, I am going to give you a telegram addressed to a former client of mine in New York. I want you to take it to the nearest telegraph office immediately.”

Griffith polished off one last tart and dusted his hands. “Aye, sir.”

Slater wrote out the message. Griffith took it and glanced at the address. “Your client is a director of a museum?”

“I occasionally tracked down stolen artifacts for him and I helped him avoid some of the frauds that were offered to him. One case, in particular, had the potential to ruin the museum’s reputation. But as it happens, things worked out well and now the director owes me a favor. He may not know anything about Cobb, personally, but he will have connections among the city’s wealthy elite. If Cobb has money, which seems to be the case, people will know about him.”

“Right, then.” Griffith folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll be off.”