Garden of Lies(67)

“Don’t worry,” Slater said, “I’ll wait. Oh, and you needn’t concern yourself with the proprieties.”

She stopped halfway up the stairs. “And why is that?”

“Webster has been dispatched to collect my mother. She will act as a chaperone.”

“Lilly Lafontaine. Playing the role of chaperone. Something tells me she will find that endlessly amusing.”





THIRTY-EIGHT




It was nearly one-thirty in the morning when they finally gathered in Slater’s library.

Ursula sat on the sofa with Lilly. Brice was sprawled in a wingback chair, brandy glass in hand. Slater was the only one on his feet. He was clearly energized by the events of the night. He gripped the mantel and contemplated the fire with a fierceness that sent little frissons of electricity through the room.

She, on the other hand, was dealing with an entirely different kind of tension. Slater had very nearly been murdered tonight—because of her.

“Do you really think the police will find that man who tried to kill you?” she asked.

“Eventually.” Slater looked up from the leaping flames. “I think that they will certainly look very hard because the assault occurred right in front of one of the most exclusive clubs in London and because Brice and I both have some notoriety attached to our names. Between the two of us we were able to give the constable a fairly decent description.”

“Our old archaeological training came in handy,” Brice said. He spoke from the depths of the wingback chair, where he drank brandy in a very methodical manner. “Between the two of us, Slater and I noticed a number of small details. But Slater is right, even without a decent description it would be impossible for a well-dressed killer who speaks with an American accent and who is sporting a broken wrist to conceal himself on the streets for long.”

Lilly brightened. “I see what you mean. In the end, his accent will give him away. He won’t be able to go to ground. He will have no colleagues who will feel an obligation to protect him. In fact, I expect there will be any number of members of the criminal class who will be only too happy to do the police a favor.”

“What was that about?” Brice demanded. He swallowed another dose of brandy, loosened his tie and glared uncertainly at Slater. “Why did the American try to murder you?”

“It all goes back to the Olympus Club,” Slater said. “That is why I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

“But I am not a member. I don’t see how I can help you.”

“You may not be a member but your social world is a small one. You no doubt know some men who do belong to the club. I’ve been away from London too long. I don’t have the connections I need to get answers.”

Brice reflected. “I’ve heard one or two mentions of the Olympus. Very secretive.”

“We believe that the management of the club makes a certain drug called ambrosia available to the members,” Slater said. “The killings appear to be linked to the trade in the drug. Lady Fulbrook is evidently growing the plant from which the stuff is derived.”

“Lady Fulbrook?” Brice shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

“It does if one considers that the ambrosia business is apparently quite lucrative—so much so, in fact, that we believe Fulbrook may be in business with an American businessman named Damian Cobb. Thus far three people are dead—a courier, a drug maker and a certain Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor of a brothel named the Pavilion of Pleasure.”

Brice’s expression tightened in a troubled frown. “I’ve heard talk of that house. Supposed to be very exclusive.”

“When you’re talking about brothels the word exclusive can have a great many different meanings,” Slater said.

“True,” Brice agreed. “But I seem to recall overhearing someone say that the Pavilion accepts clients by referral only.”

“Whatever the case, Mrs. Wyatt and the other two murdered people all had one thing in common,” Ursula said. “All three were involved in the ambrosia trade.”

Understanding settled on Brice. He switched his attention to Slater. “You believe that little man who attacked you tonight killed those three people?”

“I’m quite certain he murdered Wyatt and Rosemont,” Slater said. “I’m not entirely sure that he killed Anne Clifton. It’s possible she died accidentally from an overdose of the drug.”

Ursula clasped her hands very tightly together. “I am certain Anne was murdered.”

Slater let that go without argument.

“Why would anyone commit murder because of a drug?” Brice asked. “It’s not as if drugs are illegal.”

“Opium is legal but for centuries wars have been fought over it and fortunes founded on the trade,” Slater said.

Brice grimaced. “I take your point. The opium business has a very violent history. A damned pity, given the great medical benefits of the drug.”

“There’s another factor involved here that may explain the violence we are seeing,” Slater continued. “In the past few years the attempts to regulate opium and the products derived from it have started to gain momentum on both sides of the Atlantic. There is talk now of making such drugs illegal altogether. If that happens, the business will be driven underground.”