Garden of Lies(78)

Townsend was easy enough to deal with, Slater concluded, but Ursula was a complete mystery to him this morning. She was once again concealed behind her stylish widow’s veil. It was impossible to read her expression—not that he had been able to read it earlier at breakfast.

She had been in an odd mood when she descended the stairs that morning and her temper hadn’t improved with Mrs. Webster’s excellent coffee, at least not as far as he could discern. Initially he had assured himself that the problem was that she had not slept well but now he was starting to wonder—not without some dread—if she regretted last night’s passionate encounter in the labyrinth chamber. Perhaps she regretted the first one in her study, as well.

He was convinced now that the fact that she had locked her door last night was a very bad omen.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

“So, Rosemont was a regular customer?” he asked.

“That he was,” Townsend said. He shook his head in a mournful way. “Going to miss his business. He sold a great quantity of incense and the French stuff he called potpourri. But I have to say, I’m bloody damned grateful that my establishment was in the next street when his shop went up in flames. The explosion not only destroyed his building, it did a fair amount of damage to the ones on either side, as well. Luckily, they were empty. Gave us quite a scare, I can tell you. Horses went mad for a bit.”

“I can imagine,” Ursula said.

Slater heard the icy impatience that edged her words but she had the sense not to rush Townsend.

“According to the press, the authorities believe the fire was caused by a gas explosion,” Slater said.

“Aye, maybe.” Townsend’s face creased in disapproval. “But if you ask me, it was all those bags of dried leaves he kept stored in his workshop that fed the flames. And between you and me, there’s no telling what chemicals he was using to make that incense and the potpourri. The smell hung over the neighborhood for hours.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Townsend.” Slater took some money out of his pocket. “Just one more question and then we’ll leave you to your work.”

“What is it ye want to know, sir?”

“You said that Rosemont hired your son and a cart to make deliveries on a regular basis. I’d very much like to know the locations of those routine deliveries.”

“There were only two addresses. One was a mansion that housed some sort of private club. The other was a warehouse near the docks. Rosemont shipped a lot of his goods to New York, ye see.”





FORTY-FOUR




I understand now why you insisted on going back to your house to fetch a pry bar,” Ursula said. “You knew the warehouse would probably be locked. Excellent thinking, sir.”

Slater was in the process of wedging the iron bar into the narrow crack between the edge of the door and the frame. He paused long enough to shoot her an unreadable glance.

“I find it makes a pleasant change of pace.” He leaned heavily on the pry bar. “Thinking, that is.”

She blinked, not certain how to take the remark. “Change of pace?”

“Wouldn’t want to overindulge, of course. Might get in the habit.”

“Quite right,” she said coolly. “Nasty habit, thinking too much.”

“I agree.”

“I must say, you are in a rather sour mood this morning, Slater.”

“The odd thing is that I awoke in a very fine mood. Don’t know what happened to change the situation.”

She narrowed her eyes. “The weather, perhaps. It does appear as if we’re in for a storm.”

“Right. The weather.”

He leaned once more on the pry bar. The lock groaned and then gave way with a protesting shriek of metal and wood. The door popped open. The musty smell of old, slowly rotting timber and damp air wafted out. There were other odors, as well; a whiff of an acrid, herbal scent caught Ursula’s attention.

She stood beside Slater and looked into the shadowy gloom. There was just enough light slanting through the grimy windows to reveal the crates and barrels that littered the floor. Frayed ropes and hoists dangled from the loft.

“We have come to the right place,” Slater said. He studied the trail of footprints on the floor. “There have been visitors here quite recently.”

He followed the path toward a closed crate. Ursula fell into step beside him. She sniffed delicately and wrinkled her nose.

“I smelled that same odor inside Rosemont’s shop,” she said. “There is a large quantity of the drug stored in this place. But there is something else here, as well. A dead rat, perhaps.”

Slater stopped in front of the first of three crates. “These are locked and ready for shipment.”

He applied the pry bar to the lid of one of the wooden crates. When it popped open Ursula saw a number of canvas sacks stacked neatly inside. The smell of the drug grew stronger.

“Don’t move,” Slater said quietly.

She froze at the soft command. When she followed his glance she saw the dark stains on the floor. A chill swept through her.

“Blood?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Slater said. “And not very old.”

He followed the trail to a nearby crate. It was not locked. He raised the lid and looked inside.