Garden of Lies(93)

“What are you talking about?” she whispered.

“Anne held back his last letters to you. She never delivered them because she was still trying to convince Cobb to take her on as his partner. She wanted to destroy your relationship. She knew that if he had you, he wouldn’t need her.”

Valerie stared, transfixed with shock.

“No,” she whispered.

“I stored his last letters in my safe. Would you care to see them? They are all addressed to you.”

“I don’t believe you. Show them to me.”

“Certainly.”

Ursula crouched in front of the safe, unlocked it with trembling fingers and reached into the dark interior for the gun. With her other hand she picked up the envelope that held the copy of the penny dreadful.

She rose slowly to her feet, holding the gun out of sight in the folds of her skirts.

“Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if we burned these letters,” she said. “It could be embarrassing if the press were to get hold of them.”

“No!” Valerie shrieked.

Ursula tossed the letters into the flames.

Valerie screamed and rushed across the room to the fireplace. In her desperation to save the letters she dropped the gun on the carpet so that she could grab a poker.

Ursula moved out from behind the desk. Very quietly she picked up the gun. Valerie seemed unaware of what was happening. She sobbed hysterically and stabbed at the flames with the poker.

A shadow moved in the doorway. Startled, Ursula turned quickly and saw Slater. He, too, had a gun in his hand.

He took in the situation in a glance and made his weapon vanish inside his greatcoat. He looked at Ursula.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

His voice was ice cold. His eyes burned.

“Yes,” she said. She tried to sound just as cool and just as controlled as he did but she could hear the shaky edge in her own voice. “She’s the one who murdered Anne.”

“I know.”

Valerie collapsed onto the carpet, distraught and hysterical.

Slater put one arm around Ursula and pulled her close. Together they watched Valerie cry herself into exhaustion.





FIFTY-EIGHT




Two days later Ursula was inspired to send an invitation to tea to the small group of investigators. Mrs. Dunstan bustled about excitedly all morning preparing the rarely used drawing room. Dust covers were swept away. Drapes were pulled back to allow the watery sunlight into the space. After the cleaning had been completed to her satisfaction, she retreated to the kitchen, where she prepared a veritable feast of small sandwiches, lemon tarts and little cakes.

The guests arrived unfashionably early. Lilly took up a position on the sofa, a formidable figure in a red gown trimmed with white lace. Otford, a hot-off-the-press copy of The Illustrated News of Crime and Scandal tucked under one arm, headed straight for the silver tray.

Slater was in his customary head-to-toe black. He lounged gracefully against one wall and munched a sandwich.

“Lady Fulbrook won’t hang, you can be sure of that,” Otford announced. He popped a cake into his mouth. “Her sort never do. Mark my words, she will quietly disappear into a private asylum and spend the rest of her days there.”

“I would not wager a great deal of money on that outcome if I were you,” Lilly said. “In my opinion, the woman is a consummate actress. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn a few months from now that Lady Fulbrook has been miraculously cured by a practitioner of the modern theory of psychology.”

“An alienist?” Ursula paused her teacup in midair while she pondered that. “Good heavens, I had not considered that possibility.”

“We will keep an eye on her,” Slater said. “But if she is set free, I do not think she will return to London. She certainly cannot go into Society. She is now a notorious woman, thanks to Mr. Otford and his colleagues.”

“That she is,” Otford said. He waved the copy of his magazine. “I must admit I am grateful to her. Nothing better than a woman on the cover to attract the attention of the public.”

“Let me see that.” Ursula got up, marched across the room and yanked the magazine out of Otford’s hands. She sat down beside Lilly and examined the penny dreadful.

The cover was a melodramatic bedroom scene that depicted a beautiful woman in a diaphanous nightgown clinging to the arm of a villainous-looking American armed with a very large revolver. The body of a gentleman was sprawled on the floor, his throat slashed. The title said it all:

THE FULBROOK MURDER

Lady Fulbrook Driven Mad by Illicit Tryst with American Crime Lord! Conspiracy! Poison! Scandal!

Ursula paged quickly through the magazine, checking for other illustrations. “If I find my name or the name of my agency in this article, Mr. Otford, I vow—”

“Calm yourself, madam.” Otford flapped a napkin in Ursula’s direction and spoke around a mouthful of cake. “I assure you that you are not referenced anywhere in the magazine. Neither is anyone else in this room. Per Mr. Roxton’s instructions, I gave full credit to Scotland Yard.”

“If Lady Fulbrook is committed to an asylum, what will happen to the Fulbrook estate?” Lilly asked.

“I suspect that heirs and potential heirs on both sides of the family are currently marshaling their forces—specifically their lawyers—to do battle over the fortune,” Slater said.