Garden of Lies (9 page)

T
hat's an amazing machine,” Griffith said.

The expression on his face was one of intense fascination, perhaps even awe. Slater understood the reaction. He was impressed, himself. Although he had seen typewriters—in recent years they had begun to appear in offices around the world—he had never come across one as advanced in design as the machine Matty Bingham was demonstrating.

“It's my latest model,” Harold Fenton said. He beamed with pride. “It has a great many new and improved features. But it requires an operator of Miss Bingham's exceptional talents in order to obtain the best results.”

“She's certainly very skillful,” Griffith said. He gazed at Matty's flying fingers, clearly entranced. “It's like watching a lady play the piano.”

Matty appeared to be unaware of his interest. She maintained her professional air but her cheeks were flushed a deep pink. Griffith was right, Slater thought. Matty's fingers moved on the keys for all the world as though she were playing a musical instrument. Her hands were elegant and graceful.

Slater took out his pocket watch to check the time. He and Griffith had arrived at the offices of the Kern Secretarial Agency a short while ago and found only Matty Bingham and Fenton.

Fenton was a little gnome of a man. Judging by his rumpled, ink-and-oil-stained coat he had come straight from his workshop. He was going bald. What scraggly gray hair he had left had not been touched by a barber in a very long time. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his gray eyes glittered with passion for his creation.

“Mrs. Kern and I have established a professional association,” Fenton said. “I advertise that my typewriters are tested here at the Kern agency. That information attracts the very best class of buyer, you see, because of the reputation of Mrs. Kern's business. My goal is to put a Fenton Modern in every office in the country.”

He whipped out a card. Slater took it and glanced at the wording.

FENTON MODERN TYPEWRITING MACHINES.

Tested by the expert typists at the Kern Secretarial Agency.

Matty stopped typing and smiled. “Every time Mr. Fenton makes an improvement in his machines, he brings one around for us to test.” She patted the new Fenton Modern on her desk in an affectionate manner. “This is the finest one yet, Mr. Fenton. I do believe you have outdone yourself. None of the keys or type bars jammed. I did not have to slow down or pause at any point.”

Griffith leaned over Matty's shoulder to get a closer look at the keyboard. His brows scrunched together. “Why are the keys arranged in such an odd fashion? Q, W, E, R, T, Y come first. Shouldn't it be A, B, C, D, E?”

Fenton snorted. “Sadly, after the success of the Remington typewriting machines, everyone has grown accustomed to this keyboard design. Damned shame but that's what you get when a manufacturer of firearms turns its attention to other products.”

Slater looked at him. “A trigger?”

“No, mass production.” Fenton looked deeply pained. “So many Remingtons out there now with the QWERTY keyboard that it's become the standard, as far as the public is concerned. I've given up trying to persuade people to change over to another arrangement of the keys. None of my competitors have been successful with new designs, either. But that's not to say that there isn't room for improvement in the machines.”

“Mr. Fenton is constantly increasing the efficiency and striking speed,” Matty explained. “So many typewriters jam when one works too quickly. I've even heard that's the real reason the keyboard is designed in this odd manner—to slow down the typist so that the keys and type bars won't get tangled up with each other.”

Fenton brightened. “I'm actually working on a device that will get rid of the basket arrangement for the type bars altogether. All the letters and numbers will be on a ball that rotates, you see. It is quite revolutionary—”

He broke off as the office door opened. Slater turned and saw Ursula. He knew at once, even before she removed her hat and veil, that something had happened. Her shoulders were rigid. Her eyes were cold and grim. It was obvious that she had not slept well.

When she saw him, he could have sworn he caught a flash of near panic on her face. But it disappeared almost instantly behind an aura of cool reserve.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said. She stripped off her gloves and set them aside. “We don't usually have so many visitors at this hour of the day. I see you have brought us a new model, Mr. Fenton.”

“Much improved,” Fenton assured her.

“The action is extremely smooth,” Matty said.

Fenton glowed.

Ursula nodded at Griffith and then looked at Slater with an air of challenge.

“What brings you here today, Mr. Roxton?” she asked.

They were back to Mr. Roxton. Something had most certainly happened during the night, he thought. He wondered how long it would take her to get around to telling him what had upset her.

“I am hoping I can persuade you to accompany me to an exhibition of some antiquities at a museum this morning,” he said. “I wish to do some research in preparation for our cataloging project.”

She looked first startled and then wary. “I'm afraid I have work to do today.”

“I believe your other client, Lady Fulbrook, will not be requiring your services until tomorrow. You may consider the visit to the museum a professional outing. I plan to make some notes which I will dictate to you. You'll need your stenography notebook.”

She stared at him for a couple of seconds as if she was about to argue but when he slanted a meaningful glance at Matty, understanding dawned in her eyes. Matty knew nothing about the investigation.

“Very well.” Ursula took a breath, as though marshaling her forces. “In that case, let us be off. I'm sure Matty can deal with whatever comes up in the office today.”

“Yes, of course,” Matty said eagerly. “There's nothing unusual on the calendar today. I'll be fine. Oh, and by the way, I hired Miss Taylor. She will start training tomorrow.”

Ursula nodded once, a crisp little acknowledgment of the new hire.

“Excellent.”

Slater glanced at Griffith, who was still hovering very close to Matty.

“Griffith,” he said. “If you don't mind?”

Griffith straightened quickly. “Right, then. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bingham. Thank you so much for the demonstration.”

Matty smiled. Her cheeks turned a little more pink and her eyes were very bright.

“You're very welcome, Mr. Griffith.”

It was, Slater reflected, very likely the first time that Griffith had been addressed as
Mr.
Griffith. He appeared dazzled by the honor. He stood in the middle of the room, gazing at Matty, evidently struck dumb.

Amused, Slater cleared his throat. “
Mr.
Griffith, if you don't mind—”

Griffith pulled himself together. “Right, sir, the carriage.”

He tipped his cap to Matty and headed toward the door. Matty's gaze lingered on him until he disappeared into the hall.

Ursula retrieved her hat and gloves. Slater took her arm. She stiffened briefly but she did not pull away. He had been right about the tension radiating from her. He could feel it now that he was touching her, a small electrical current shivering throughout her body.

He started to steer her toward the door.

“Ursula, wait,” Matty said. Her chair scraped as she got to her feet. “You forgot your satchel. You'll need your notebook and pencils if you are to assist Mr. Roxton today.”

Ursula stopped. “Yes, of course, thank you, Matty.”

Smiling, Matty collected the satchel from Ursula's desk. She winked when she handed it to Ursula.

“Enjoy the museum,” she said with a knowing look at Slater. “I'm sure the antiquities will be fascinating.”

Ursula looked quite blank. Slater steered her out into the hall. He waited until they were seated in the carriage and headed toward the museum before he spoke.

“Am I mistaken, or were Miss Bingham and Griffith looking at each other as if they were both interested in something a good deal more personal than the new typewriter?” he asked.

Ursula was momentarily bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” he said. He searched for another neutral topic and abandoned the effort. He had never been much good at idle conversation. The experience on Fever Island and the career that he had pursued afterward had not improved his social skills. “What the devil is wrong with you, Ursula?”

“People keep asking me that. I am perfectly fit.” She gripped the handle of her satchel very tightly. “Why don't you tell me the real reason you asked me to accompany you to the museum?”

“As a matter of fact, there are two reasons,” he said. “The first is that I wished to talk to you in private. I have some news.”

That got her attention. She watched him intently through her veil. “You have discovered something about Anne's death?”

“I cannot say, not yet. But I have learned something about Fulbrook which may or may not prove useful.”

“As it happens, I started transcribing some of Anne's notes last night and I, too, discovered something but it is rather baffling. Before we exchange details, you had better tell me the second reason we are off to visit a museum at such an early hour.”

“I thought touring the new exhibition of antiquities together would enhance the impression that our association is personal, not just professional.”

She absorbed that. “I see. Why do you think that is wise?”

“Because based on what I learned last night it's possible this investigation may take a dangerous turn. If anyone is watching you, I want that person to be well aware that you have a friend who would be in a position to cause a great deal of trouble should anything happen to you.”

She stared at him. “You're serious.”

“Very. Damn it, Ursula, what the devil did you discover last night that has rattled your nerves? I did not think there was anything that could do that.”

She tightened her gloved hands on the satchel positioned on her lap. “I came across a reference to a perfume shop in Anne's notebook. There was an address. It struck me as odd.”

He waited. It was the truth, he concluded. But not all of it. When she did not add anything else, he tried another question.

“Was Anne Clifton fond of perfumes?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. That is not the point. It was just strange to find the address written down in the same notebook as Lady Fulbrook's poems. Tell me, what is your news?”

She was changing the subject a little too quickly, he decided. But this was not the time to press her. The carriage clattered to a halt in front of the museum. Slater reached for the door handle.

“I'm afraid my news falls into the same category as yours—odd and unusual but perhaps no more enlightening,” he said. “I will explain once we are inside.”

I
t's a fake, you know,” Slater said.

Ursula contemplated the statue of Venus. The nude goddess was portrayed in a graceful crouch, her head turned to look back over her right shoulder. There was a suggestion of surprise on her face, as though she had been startled by an intruder just as she was about to bathe. The sculptor had certainly gone out of his way to emphasize the lush, ripe contours of the female form. The sensuality of the figure was unmistakable, bordering on the erotic.

It was still early in the day. The gallery featuring the Pyne Collection of antiquities was only lightly crowded. Ursula was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was viewing the nude Venus in the company of the most fascinating man she had ever met. She was grateful for the veil that concealed her flushed cheeks.

“No,” she said. She made an effort to sound as if her interest was purely academic in nature. She was not about to let him see that she was flustered. “I did not know it was a fake. How can you tell?”

“The modeling of the hair is clumsy and the expression on the face is insipid,” Slater said, clearly impatient with spelling out the details of his analysis. He sounded very academic. “The proportions of the breasts and hips are exaggerated. It's the sort of figure one would expect to see decorating the hallway of an exclusive bordello.”

“I see.” Ursula turned away from the Venus. “Well, I expect the Romans had their own houses of prostitution to furnish.”

“Certainly. But they usually installed a better grade of statuary. I can tell you that under no circumstances would they have decorated one of their establishments with this particular figure.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Because it has all the hallmarks of one of Peacock's statues.”

Ursula blinked. “Who is Peacock?”

“Belvedere Peacock. He's been producing what he is pleased to call
faithful artistic reproductions
for years. He has managed to pass his pieces off to some of the most noted collectors in the country. I shall have to drop by his workshop and congratulate him on having one of his statues on exhibit in this museum. Quite an accomplishment.”

Ursula moved a few steps away to inspect a handsome brass and wood chariot. The little card declared the piece to be Etruscan.

“Will you say anything to the museum staff about the Venus?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Slater said. He came to stand beside her. “I only deliver an opinion on such things when I am asked to consult. In this case, no one has requested my opinion of the Venus.” He studied the chariot for a moment and shook his head. “In any event, the task of identifying all the fakes and fraudulent pieces currently residing in museums and private collections would consume far too much of my time. The mania for collecting antiquities has produced a brisk trade in
faithful artistic reproductions
.”

Ursula raised her brows. “Are you going to tell me that this chariot is not Etruscan?”

Slater glanced dismissively at the chariot. “Looks like Albani's work. He has a shop in Rome.”

Ursula smiled, briefly amused.

“I do believe that there is something to be said for keeping one's opinions to oneself,” she said. “I would have taken considerably more enjoyment from this exhibition if you had not informed me that most of the pieces are fakes.”

Slater gave her a sharp, impatient look. “I didn't bring you here to study the artifacts.”

“Right.” She moved on to a large urn painted with a number of male and female figures engaged in what appeared to be complicated gymnastic poses. “You said you had matters to discuss.”

Slater joined her in front of the urn. “The first is that I followed Fulbrook to a private club last night. The Olympus.”

“What of it? Most high-ranking men belong to a number of clubs.”

“This one is rather unusual in that there were several women present.”

“Good heavens.” Ursula turned quickly. “How very modern. I have never heard of a gentlemen's club that admits ladies.”

“I don't think the Olympus deserves any credit for advancing the cause of women's rights. The females looked as fashionable and as expensively dressed as ladies at a Society ball but they were all employees of an exclusive brothel known as the Pavilion of Pleasure. The proprietor is a certain Mrs. Wyatt.”

“Oh, I see.” She hesitated, well aware that she should not follow up with the first question that came to mind. But she was unable to resist. “You are acquainted with this brothel and the madam in charge?”

“No. But I intend to make further inquiries.”

“Why?”

She had not intended to put an edge on the question but it came out in a singularly demanding manner. As if she had any right to ask him why he wanted to make further inquiries into an exclusive brothel, she thought. Really, it was none of her concern. Many men patronized brothels. It should come as no surprise to discover that Slater was among that number.

“Because we are investigating Fulbrook,” he said, as if she was not terribly bright. “His membership in the Olympus Club may be important.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“While I was on the grounds of the club last night I had occasion to speak to one of the women who works for the brothel. She calls herself Evangeline.”

Ursula glanced at him very quickly. “What do you mean she
calls
herself Evangeline?”

“I doubt that's her real name. She's a professional courtesan, Ursula. By definition, she is playing a role.”

“Yes, of course, I see what you mean.”

Just as I am playing a role,
she thought.
I am not the woman you believe me to be.
Would Slater care if he knew the truth about her? There was no way to be certain how he would take the news of her past. Most gentlemen would be scandalized, of course. But Slater was different. Nevertheless, to tell him the full story would be to risk the total destruction of their fragile relationship.

She reminded herself that she had a plan to take care of the problem that had arisen during the night.

“Evangeline told me that the club dispenses a drug they call ambrosia to its members. It affects different people in different ways,” Slater continued. “It induces pleasurable fantasies and visions in most of the men but some turn violent under the influence. She said that the newest version of the drug seems to be more powerful. She is convinced that recently one of the women from the Pavilion was murdered by a club man who was using the ambrosia.”

“Good heavens.”

“The women of the Pavilion were told that their colleague—Nicole—jumped off a bridge but they don't believe it.”

Ursula considered that for a moment. “That is interesting but what does it have to do with Anne's death?”

“Perhaps nothing. But Fulbrook is a member of the Olympus Club. Presumably he uses the drug. At least one woman who earned her living providing sexual favors for the members of the club is dead in recent weeks. Anne worked in the Fulbrook household and now she is dead. Those facts may be links in a pattern.”

“Anne certainly was not beaten to death. There were no marks on her body. I checked. If she was murdered it was most likely by poison. Perhaps the drug can kill in large doses?”

“It's possible. Do you think that Fulbrook might have lured her into working as one of the courtesans at the club?”

“No,” Ursula said. “Absolutely not.”

“I mean no disrespect to your friend, but you did say that she possessed a rather adventurous temperament. You indicated that she might have been involved in a romantic liaison.”

“Exactly—a liaison,” Ursula said. “She was not working as a prostitute.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Ursula moved one hand to sweep the issue aside. “Among other things, she lacked the wardrobe for that sort of career.”

That stopped Slater cold.

“Huh,” he said. “Never considered that aspect of the situation.”

“No doubt because you are a man. You said the woman you met last night—Evangeline—and the other prostitutes on the grounds of the club were dressed as fashionable ladies at a ball.”

“Right. I'm no judge of fashion but it was obvious that Evangeline's gown was expensive. She also had some long gold earrings set with crystals.”

“I can assure you that Anne did not own any ball gowns, expensive or otherwise. She possessed some jewelry but it wasn't the sort a woman would wear to a soiree. Her pieces were of a more practical nature—the kind of items a woman can wear to go out shopping or to tea with friends. There is a pretty little watch that could be pinned to a coat. A cameo. A locket. Her most expensive piece was a lovely chatelaine with a little silver notebook and pencil attached. A former client gave it to her. She loved that piece. But none of her jewelry was suited to a ballroom and neither were any of her gowns. Trust me when I tell you that if she had owned any items that fashionable or expensive she would have been unable to resist showing them to the rest of us at the office.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive,” Ursula said.

“Nevertheless, it strikes me as more than a coincidence that two women who are at least remotely linked to either Fulbrook or his club are dead. I think we should arrange to speak with Mrs. Wyatt, the proprietor of the brothel.”

“If she is making a great deal of money supplying prostitutes to the men who belong to the Olympus Club it is unlikely she will discuss her business affairs with us.”

“I'm hoping Lilly can persuade Mrs. Wyatt to talk to us.”

“Your mother is acquainted with her?”

“My mother's connections reach far and wide,” Slater said.

Ursula smiled at the wry twist on his words.

“Yes, I did get that impression when I took dictation from her,” she said. “She was certainly one of the most interesting clients I've had.”

Slater started to make another comment but he stopped abruptly. Ursula realized that he had gone quietly alert, his attention snagged by something or someone at the far end of the hall.

When she turned to follow his gaze she saw a well-dressed, distinguished-looking gentleman and an attractive lady in a yellow and blue gown. The man was tall, blond and athletically built. He carried himself with the sort of languid self-possession that came naturally to one who descended from several generations of wealth and status. The lady appeared to come from the same world. The two were examining the sensually rendered Venus.

“Time for us to leave,” Slater said.

It was a command, not a suggestion. Nor did he wait for a response. Instead, he gripped Ursula's elbow and headed toward the rear entrance of the gallery. She did not resist.

“Something amiss?” she asked softly.

“Someone, not something.”

“I take it we are fleeing the exhibition because of the gentleman and the lady who just arrived?” she asked.

“We are not fleeing, damn it.”

But Slater immediately slowed his pace. She knew he had not liked the implication that he was running away from the newcomers.

“Well, then?” she prompted. “Why are we rushing off? Do we have a pressing appointment?”

“Take it from me, it's best that Torrence and I do not find ourselves in the same room together,” Slater growled.

“So that is Lord Torrence, your partner on the Fever Island expedition?”

“And his wife, Lady Torrence.”

“I understand now why you wish to leave,” Ursula said. “If the gossipmongers and the press discover that you and Torrence were both seen in the same gallery together there would no doubt be some wild speculation.”

“Precisely.”

“But what is the point of trying to avoid Lord Torrence? There are bound to be future encounters between the two of you. The Polite World is a very small town in most respects. I suggest that you simply act as if there is nothing out of the ordinary occurring.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Slater said. He sounded as if his jaw was clenched tight. “But as it happens I don't give a damn about Torrence or the gossips. It is you I am attempting to protect.”

“Me?” She was dumbfounded. “But I am not involved in your dispute with Torrence.”

“That may not prevent Torrence from attempting to find a way to use you to strike at me.”

This time she was genuinely shocked. “Surely that nonsense about the bad blood between the two of you is just so much fodder for the press and the penny dreadfuls.”

“Not all of it. For what it's worth, it's a one-sided feud. He is the one who has avoided me since my return, Ursula.”

“Hmm.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. Just a fleeting thought. None of my concern, really.”

“Let's get out of here.”

Slater whisked her along the gallery, past urns, statues and assorted bits and pieces of Roman armor. They very nearly made good their escape. But just as they were about to go through the door a very large, very rotund figure appeared directly in their path.