Garden of Lies(84)

An acidic rush of rage flooded through him. This was all her fault. She was the one who had explained the properties of the ambrosia plant and painted a beguiling vision of how it could be used to make a fortune and control powerful people. He wanted nothing more than to strangle her.

Rage briefly overcame his panic. He tried the doorknob. When he discovered that the door was locked he hammered the wooden panels with one fist.

“Valerie, you stupid bitch.”

There was no response.

Sanity returned in a searing flash of urgency. He did not have time to break down the door. He would deal with Valerie later.

He hurried down the hall to his own bedroom. It took some time to find a suitcase. Packing was servants’ work. How was he to know where the travel necessities were stored?

He stuffed a few essentials into the case and slammed the lid shut. Hefting the bag, he went out into the hall and made his way down the stairs. Belatedly it occurred to him that he should have instructed the cab to wait. No matter. He would find another one soon.

He let himself outside and started walking quickly toward the far end of the street. He listened fearfully but the steady rain muffled the sounds of the night.

A man in a greatcoat and carrying an umbrella appeared in the glow of a streetlamp. The figure came toward him. Each step appeared chillingly deliberate.

Terror ripped through him. He fumbled with his pistol.

A moment later the figure in the greatcoat went up the steps of a large town house and disappeared through the front door.

The relief that swept over Fulbrook was so intense that he was not aware of the presence behind him until a gloved hand slapped across his mouth. The knife slashed open his throat before he could understand what had happened.

He crumpled slowly onto his back. Through glazing eyes he looked up at the face of the figure bending over him. He tried to speak but he could not get the words out.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Cobb said. “But a better financial opportunity has presented itself. I’m sure you understand.”





FIFTY




The following morning Ursula was in the library with Slater going over their notes on the case in an effort to construct a proper timeline, when the door opened.

“The biggest unknown here is the exact timing of Cobb’s arrival in London,” Slater said.

He broke off as Gilbert Otford rushed into the room. The journalist was flushed with excitement.

“Fulbrook’s body was discovered early this morning by a constable,” he announced. “Throat cut by a footpad. The Flying Intelligencer is printing a special edition as we speak. My editor is going with the headline Murder in Mapstone Square. Rumors of a Great Scandal.”

An eerie shock lanced through Ursula. Her palms tingled and the back of her neck felt as if it had been touched by fingers from a grave. It was not the news of Fulbrook’s death that provoked the disturbing sensation—it was the realization that Slater had anticipated the report of the murder.

She looked at him. He sat quietly behind his desk, pages of notes arranged in a neat row in front of him, and looked at Otford with an unreadable expression.

It was one thing to use logic to deduce that a man might be the next target of a killer, she thought. It was another matter altogether to have that reasoning proved accurate. The fact that Fulbrook deserved his fate was not important. It was the realization that one had predicted the outcome—and that the outcome was death—that chilled the spirit.

“Where was the body discovered?” Slater asked quietly.

Otford consulted his notes. “Not far from his front door. It’s believed that Fulbrook was attacked either after he got out of a cab or while trying to summon one. None of the neighbors heard or saw anything.”

“Of course not,” Ursula said.

“Not that the lack of witnesses will stifle the scandal.” Otford snapped his notebook shut. “The murder of a gentleman on his own doorstep in an exclusive neighborhood is always a sensation. Every reporter in town is covering the story but thanks to you, Mr. Roxton, I’m the only one with knowledge of Fulbrook’s connection to the Olympus Club, where men of rank enjoy a strange drug and the services of the women of the Pavilion. Mrs. Wyatt’s murder will now also become a sensation because I can link her business to the club and the club to Fulbrook.”

“I take it you are once again working for The Flying Intelligencer?” Slater said.

“My editor rehired me this morning when he realized I had a close connection to the story. Meanwhile, I will prepare the first edition of my new magazine. I’m going to call it The Illustrated News of Crime and Scandal.”

“That should appeal to a wide readership,” Ursula said with a small sniff.

“Yes, indeed,” Otford said, unfazed.

Slater leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. “What did you tell your editor about Cobb and the drug business?”

“Don’t worry,” Otford said. “I’ve kept mum about the American crime lord and the ambrosia drug.”

“You’re certain you did not mention Cobb to your editor?” Slater said.

Otford looked sly. “Never said a word to him. Between you and me, the Cobb connection is my ace in the hole, as the Americans say. I’m saving it for the first edition of my magazine, which will be ready to go to press the moment this affair is concluded.”