Garden of Lies(7)

“Exactly my point, sir,” she said. “I do not think that she had time to use a pen. That would have required opening the ink bottle, filling the pen and laying out a sheet of paper in the proper way. A note explaining one’s suicide would be a deliberate act, don’t you think? An experienced secretary would have used pen and paper. The fact that she only scribbled a few words in pencil tells me that she was in a great rush. No, Mr. Roxton. Anne did not leave a farewell note. She tried to leave a message—for me.”

“This note was addressed to you?”

“Well, no, but it was written in her own shorthand. She knew I was probably the only person who would be able to read it.”

“What did the note tell you?”

“It was in her unique stenographer’s script. It directed me to the location of the notebook and her little collection of jewelry. Oh, and there were two packets of seeds there, as well. I can’t imagine for the life of me why she hid the seeds. It is another mystery.”

“Where, exactly, did she conceal all those items?” Slater asked.

“Behind the convenience. Didn’t I mention that? Sorry.”

Slater looked quite blank. “The convenience?”

Ursula cleared her throat. “The water closet, Mr. Roxton.”

“Right. The convenience. My apologies. I’ve spent most of the past few years out of the country. I’m a bit rusty when it comes to polite euphemisms.”

“I understand.”

“Regarding this note Miss Clifton left—it’s obvious why she would conceal her jewelry. You said you don’t know why she concealed the seeds. But what of the notebook? Any thoughts on why she would hide it?”

“An excellent question,” Ursula said, warming to her theme. “I spent most of last night trying to transcribe several pages but the process did not shed any light on the problem. It’s all poetry, you see.”

“Anne Clifton wrote poetry?”

“No, her client did. Lady Fulbrook is a wealthy but extremely reclusive woman. She employed Anne to take dictation and transcribe the poems on a typewriter. Anne said that Lady Fulbrook is recovering from a case of shattered nerves and that the doctor prescribed writing poetry as a form of therapy.”

Slater was briefly distracted. “What sort of poetry?”

Ursula felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She assumed a professional tone.

“The poems appear to be devoted to the themes of love.”

“Love.” Slater sounded as if he was unfamiliar with the word.

Ursula waved one gloved hand in a vague way. “Endless longing, the travails of lovers who are separated by fate or circumstances beyond their control. Transcendent waves of passion. The usual sort of thing.”

“Transcendent waves of passion,” Slater repeated.

Again he spoke as if the concept was utterly foreign to him.

She was quite certain she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes. She tightened her grip on her satchel and told herself that she would not allow him to draw her into an argument about the merits of love poetry.

“Although the themes are obvious, there are some odd elements in the poems—numbers and words that don’t seem to suit the meter. That’s why I’m not sure if I’m transcribing the dictation properly,” she said. “As I explained, over time a skilled secretary’s stenography becomes a very personal code.”

“But you can decipher Miss Clifton’s code?”

“I am attempting to do so. But I’m not sure what good it will do.” Ursula sighed. “It’s poetry, after all. What can it tell me about the reason for Anne’s murder?”

“The first question you must ask is, why did Miss Clifton go to the trouble of concealing her notebook?”

“I know, but I cannot imagine a reasonable answer.”

“The answer is always concealed within the question,” Slater said.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. You suspect that Anne Clifton might have become involved in a liaison with the client’s husband, don’t you?”

“With Lord Fulbrook, yes, it has crossed my mind.”

Slater was starting to take an interest in the situation, Ursula thought. A great sense of relief came over her. Perhaps she would not be alone in this inquiry.

“Any idea why Fulbrook would go to the trouble of murdering Miss Clifton? Not to be callous about such matters, but high-ranking gentlemen frequently discard mistresses. There is rarely any need for them to resort to violence.”

Ursula realized she had a death grip on the handle of the satchel.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Roxton,” she said through her teeth. “Which makes Anne’s death all the more suspicious.”

“What of Lady Fulbrook? If she was jealous of her husband’s attentions to Anne Clifton—”

Ursula shook her head. “No, I’m quite sure that is not the case. According to Anne, Lady Fulbrook is very unhappy in her marriage. I was given the impression that she is also quite timid. Evidently she goes about in fear of her husband, who has a violent temper. It is difficult to envision such a woman committing murder in a fit of jealousy.”

“Jealousy is a wildfire of an emotion. Very unpredictable.”

In that moment Ursula was certain that Slater viewed all strong emotions, in particular those associated with passion, as wildfires to be contained and controlled at all costs.