Garden of Lies(63)

“I understand,” Ursula said. “But what is this pattern that you see?”

“Someone appears to be closing down the ambrosia business.”





THIRTY-THREE




Hubbard watched from the shadows of the hansom as Roxton and the woman emerged from the park. He could tell from the swift manner in which Roxton bundled the female into a closed cab that they had discovered the body. It was possible they would go to the police but that was of little concern. The death of a brothel madam might interest the gutter press but it was doubtful that the authorities would conduct a serious investigation.

Even if they bothered to look into the death it would do them little good. Back home in New York where his work had not gone unnoticed and where he enjoyed a bit of a reputation—the press had labeled him The Needle—he was still free to go about unrecognized on the streets. He prided himself on being neat and tidy in his work. He rather suspected that the reason the police did not search very hard for him was because, as a rule, he specialized in removing some of the very same people they were paid to take off the streets.

His employer’s business interests were extensive, crossing all the murky boundaries that were supposed to separate legitimate enterprises from those that operated deep in the criminal underworld.

Damian Cobb employed an army of lawyers, accountants and sharp managers to deal with the competition in the respectable side of his affairs. When it came to his less respectable businesses, he used different types of experts. It was a competitive environment, to be sure. There was ample work for a professional who carried out tasks cleanly and skillfully while avoiding detection.

Hubbard watched the closed carriage pull away into traffic. Then he spoke to the driver through the opening in the roof of the hansom.

“The Stokely Hotel,” he said.

“Aye, guv.”

The driver shook the whip over the horse’s rump. The hansom rolled forward.

Hubbard wondered if the driver intended to cheat him when it came time to pay the fare. The problem with being a visitor in town was that for the most part he had no idea of where he was at any given moment. He knew New York well. He had grown up in the city. But London was a sprawling maze that defeated his sense of direction. He hated the place. Here he was totally reliant upon the cab drivers, who all seemed remarkably well versed in the mysteries of the streets.

Fortunately, Cobb did not intend to remain in London for long. The loose ends were almost all completely snipped off. When the business was concluded they would sail home to New York.

Hubbard looked down at his gloved hands. He was impatient to return to his room at the hotel. His technique ensured that very little blood was spilled. Nevertheless, he always washed his hands afterward.





THIRTY-FOUR




Mrs. Wyatt is dead?” Evangeline glanced at Ursula’s veiled face and then turned back to Slater. “Are you certain?”

“Trust me, there is no mistake,” Slater said. “We had an appointment to meet with her a short time ago. When we arrived at the location we found her body. The police will soon be making inquiries. My associate and I would like to conduct a brief investigation of our own before the authorities descend on this house and trample over every possible clue.”

“Your associate?”

Evangeline looked at Ursula with a politely neutral expression. But her eyes said it all. Respectable women did not have dealings with the women in Evangeline’s world.

Ursula raised the net veil and crumpled the delicate web up onto the brim of her hat, revealing her face. She smiled.

“I’m Mrs. Kern,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Evangeline. Thank you for assisting us tonight.”

Evangeline hesitated and then she inclined her head. Some of her wariness faded.

Slater gave no indication that he had noticed the moment of social tension.

“Evangeline was the lady who was kind enough to answer a few questions for me the other evening when I toured the grounds of the Olympus Club,” he said.

“I did not see your face clearly that night,” Evangeline said. “But I remember your voice. You were . . . quite helpful to me. Indeed, I am in your debt.”

They were standing in the hallway outside the kitchen. The Pavilion of Pleasure was not busy yet. The customers would no doubt show up much later in the evening. Ursula occasionally heard footsteps on the stairs and muffled voices but Evangeline had explained that most of the women were in their rooms, dressing. The only place where there was significant activity was the kitchen. Through the open door a sweating cook and several assistants could be seen laboring over trays of canapés.

Ursula had not known what to expect inside a brothel. Nevertheless, she was mildly astonished by how normal it all appeared. She might as well have been in the hall outside the kitchen of any fashionable mansion preparing for a reception or a party.

A few minutes ago they had arrived at the back door of the Pavilion. Slater had handed some coins to the housekeeper and asked to see Evangeline, who had soon appeared. When she saw Slater, her expression had turned wary.

“The thing is, I’m not sure I should let you into Mrs. Wyatt’s rooms,” Evangeline said, glancing over her shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Charlotte’s in charge when Mrs. Wyatt isn’t around.”

“Then please ask Charlotte to come downstairs,” Slater said. “Make certain she knows that there will be a night’s pay in this if she manages to remain discreet.”