Garden of Lies(79)

“Well, this answers one question,” Slater said.

“Who—?” Ursula asked.

“The former owner of the walking stick stiletto.”

Ursula remained where she was. She had no desire to go any closer. She watched Slater lean over the crate and methodically rummage through the dead man’s clothes.

“How was he killed?” she asked.

“Shot. Twice. All very professional-looking.”

“Professional?”

“It’s safe to say that whoever murdered this man has had some experience in the business.” Slater paused, reaching deeper into the crate. “But he was somewhat out of practice.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He did not do a thorough job of stripping the body.”

Slater straightened and turned around. She saw a small white business card in his gloved hand.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The address of the Stokely Hotel. I found it tucked safely inside his shoe. I have the impression that our visitor from out of town was terrified of getting lost in our fair city. He kept the address of his hotel in a place where he could be certain he would not lose it.”

“What is our next step?”

“We’ve got a professional killer who has now become a murder victim,” Slater said. “We do what any concerned citizen would do. We contact Scotland Yard.”





FORTY-FIVE




Lilly picked up the teapot and poured tea into the two delicate porcelain cups that sat on the tray. “I must say, I have not seen Slater this interested in life since he returned to London.”

“He does seem to have become quite fixed on the problem of Anne Clifton’s murder,” Ursula said.

She was acutely aware of the quiet tick-tick-tick of the tall clock in the corner of the library. Every time she glanced at the face it seemed that the hands had not moved.

Immediately after the discovery of the body in the warehouse, Slater had brought her back to his house and left her there with Lilly, the Websters and Griffith. He had then gone off to talk to someone at Scotland Yard. Upon returning from that venture, he had announced that he needed to spend some time in the labyrinth chamber. He was presently in his basement retreat. He had been downstairs for nearly an hour.

“I’m quite certain that it is not the murder of poor Miss Clifton that has brought him out of the shadows,” Lilly said. “You are the reason he is showing more enthusiasm for life.”

“Well, I am the one who brought the case to his notice,” Ursula said.

“No, my dear, you had his full attention before you told him of the murder.”

“How on earth could you tell?”

Lilly smiled serenely. “A mother knows.”

“He certainly had me fooled.”

“Now, dear, there’s no need for sarcasm. I’m quite sure that Slater took a strong, personal interest in you the day I introduced the two of you.”

“May I remind you that, before he returned to London, your son spent a year in a monastery of some sort. Following that, he passed the next several years knocking around the world pursuing lost and stolen artifacts. All in all, one can see that he has probably not had much opportunity to form a romantic attachment with anyone.” Ursula cleared her throat. “And he is endowed with a healthy, vigorous temperament.”

Lilly looked pleased. “You noticed his healthy, vigorous temperament, did you?”

“My point is that I’m quite certain that he would have taken a strong, personal interest in any unattached female who intruded into his life at the time I did.”

“Trust me, my dear, Slater is more than capable of finding female companionship when he chooses to do so.”

That was no doubt true, Ursula thought. The notion was dispiriting.

“The press noted that a young lady in whom he had a romantic interest got engaged and married to another man while he was stranded on Fever Island,” she said in a subdued tone.

“The facts are correct but I can assure you that Slater’s association with Isabella was a mild flirtation, at best. She used him to attract the attention of the gentleman who eventually offered for her. Slater was well aware that she had set her sights on someone else. He did not mind because he was focused on the Fever Island expedition. Marriage was the last thing on his mind in those days.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive. Slater’s heart was not broken at the time. But in the years since he left Fever Island I have become increasingly concerned about him. I had begun to wonder if he had no heart left to break.”

Ursula looked up from her tea. “Why do you say that?”

“I feared those strange monks at that monastery had destroyed the part of him that was capable of passion.”

“No,” Ursula said quickly. “I’m sure that’s not the case. Only consider that he is quite passionate—there is no other word for it—about solving the murder of my secretary.”

“There are murders every week in London. I have not seen Slater take an interest in any of them. It is you who intrigues my son, Ursula, and for that I am more grateful than I can say. It is as if you have flung open a cell door and allowed him to emerge back into the daylight.”

“Nonsense,” Ursula said. She gripped the saucer very tightly. “You are overdramatizing the situation. The reality is that Slater simply needed some time to readjust to life here in London.”