by Amanda Quick
She took the envelope out of her satchel and set it on the bench.
The task accomplished, she moved out of the crypt and walked steadily toward the front gates. She listened closely and thought she heard the soft thud of footsteps in the fog. They seemed to be moving toward the burial vault but she could not be certain.
She hurried out of the cemetery trusting that, with her gray cloak, she would soon vanish into the mist. She made certain her footsteps echoed on the pavement for a time, hoping to give the impression that she had left the scene. Then, walking as quietly as possible, she ducked into the arched doorway of the church.
From where she stood, she could just barely make out the posts of the iron gates at the entrance to the fogbound graveyard. As far as she had been able to discern, it was the only exit from the cemetery.
She waited, her heart pounding at the prospect of what she intended to do.
For a time nothing moved in the mist. She began to fear that her plan had gone awry, that the blackmailer had eluded her. Perhaps she had been wrong about the footsteps in the cemetery. But surely he had been waiting and watching for her, she thought. He would want to seize his payment quickly before some vagrant searching for shelter happened upon it by accident.
She was in the middle of trying to concoct a new plan in the event the first one failed when she saw a shadowy figure moving in the dense fog that pooled inside the cemetery. She stilled, hardly daring to hope that her scheme had worked and not wanting to consider too closely what she intended to do next. She had made up her mind. She must not lose her nerve.
The figure in the mist proved to be a man in a shabby greatcoat. The collar was pulled up around his neck and a low-crowned hat concealed his features. He paused at the gate, searching the vicinity. Ursula knew he could see very little in the fog.
The time had come to implement her plan. The goal was to trap him inside the cemetery. If she waited until he exited, he might take off running. It was highly unlikely that she would be able to outrun him—not burdened as she was with several pounds of clothing—and the small pistol was not accurate at any great distance. It was meant for the close confines of a gaming hell or a carriage or a bedroom.
She gripped both her nerve and the handle of the gun very tightly, steeling herself, and then she stepped out of the vestibule and went swiftly toward the cemetery gates. The blackmailer did not see her at first.
When he heard her light, rapid footsteps he swung around, alarmed. But by then she was only steps away.
“Stop or I will shoot,” she said.
Her fierce anger and determination must have been evident in her tone because the blackmailer let out a startled squeak of fear and retreated deeper into the cemetery. He ducked behind a nearby stone marker.
“Don’t shoot,” he yelled in a voice freighted with panic.
It was not the response she had anticipated. She had just assumed that when confronted by a dangerous weapon, the blackmailer would freeze and obey her every command. It was certainly what she had done when Rosemont had held her at gunpoint. Evidently not everyone behaved the same in a crisis.
It dawned on her that her only option was to stalk the blackmailer through the fogbound cemetery. She moved uneasily through the entrance, heading toward the gravestone that shielded the villain.
“Come out,” she ordered. “I won’t shoot unless you make it necessary.”
“No, please, it’s all a terrible mistake.”
The blackmailer leaped to his feet like a startled rabbit and dashed deeper into the cemetery.
“Bloody hell,” Ursula whispered.
Monuments and grave markers loomed everywhere. She began a methodical search. There was more scurrying and harsh breathing. She knew her target had changed positions yet again.
It occurred to her that the mad game of hide-and-seek could go on indefinitely.
The plan was not working as intended. Perhaps the best option was to retreat to the entrance and outwait the extortionist. He could not remain inside the cemetery grounds indefinitely.
She was edging cautiously toward the gates when she heard pounding footsteps in the fog—not hers and not the blackmailer’s, she realized. At least two more people had arrived on the scene.
“Damn,” Slater said. He came up behind Ursula and seized her forearm, yanking her to a halt. “What the devil?” He broke off, glancing down at the pistol. “You’ve got a gun?”
He snapped the weapon out of her fingers before she realized his intent.
“Give that back to me,” she said. A fierce desperation surged through her. “He’ll get away.”
“No,” Slater said. He raised his voice a little to call out into the fog. “Griffith?”
“I’ve got him,” Griffith shouted.
He appeared from behind a crypt holding the blackmailer by the collar of the greatcoat. The extortionist’s feet kicked wildly a few inches above the ground.
“Among his many tasks with the traveling theatrical group, Griffith was the one who guarded the day’s receipts and made certain no one got in to see the performance without paying the price of admission,” Slater explained.
“Put me down,” the blackmailer yelped. “I’m an innocent citizen. The crazy woman pulled a gun on me. What else could I do but run?”
Griffith looked at Slater. “What do you want me to do with him, Mr. Roxton?”
“Bring him here, Griffith. We’re all going to have a short chat and sort this out.”
Griffith plopped the extortionist down on both feet.
“Who are you?” Slater asked.
But for the first time Ursula got a good look at the blackmailer. Fresh outrage slammed through her.
“His name is Otford,” she announced. “Gilbert Otford. He works for that gutter rag, The Flying Intelligencer.”
TWENTY-NINE
This dreadful creature is trying to blackmail me,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a disgusted look. “I came here today to stop him.”
“You were going to shoot me.” Otford stared at her in shocked disbelief. “In cold blood. How could you do such a thing?”
Otford was in his late thirties. He had pale blue eyes, lank, reddish-blond hair and a ruddy complexion. His clothes had seen better days. The sleeves of his coat and the cuffs of his trousers were frayed. His shirt had once been white but it was now a dingy shade of yellow. Threads dangled from his limp tie.
Otford was not a career criminal, Slater concluded, rather, a desperate man. Such individuals might be inept but that did not make them any less dangerous.
“I wasn’t going to shoot you—well, not unless I was left with no alternative,” Ursula said. “I merely wished to discover your identity.”
Otford eyed her with grim suspicion. “Why did you want to learn my name unless you intended to kill me?”
“So that I could go to the police, of course,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a steely smile. “I’m quite certain that a man who would stoop so low as to blackmail a lady would have a few secrets of his own he’d want to keep hidden.”
Slater looked at Griffith, who was watching Ursula with undisguised admiration. Slater was not entirely certain how he, himself, felt about the situation. He was still trying to cope with the knowledge that Ursula had found it necessary to own a gun. He had never met a lady who carried one. Granted, it was a very small handgun but at close range it was a potentially deadly weapon. And to think that he had begun to believe that he knew Ursula well enough not to be surprised by anything she did. He had been very much mistaken.
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Mrs. Kern, I don’t have any secrets to conceal.” Otford straightened his thin shoulders. “I’m a journalist.”
Ursula ignored that. “You recognized me from the trial, didn’t you? I remember your face in the crowd. You sat right in front every single day like a vulture waitin
g to tear apart dead meat.”
“I covered the Picton divorce trial, yes.” Otford raised his chin. “It was my duty as a journalist.”
“Rubbish. You were one of the so-called gentlemen of the press who ruined my good name and made it necessary for me to adopt a new identity. I very nearly ended up in the workhouse or on the street because of you, Mr. Otford. And now you have the nerve to try to blackmail me?”
“I asked for only a couple of pounds,” Otford shot back. He waved a hand at her gown and hat. “It looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself, madam. Whereas I am the one in danger of starving. I’m going to be thrown out of my lodgings at the end of the week if I don’t come up with the rent. I’ve been eating at a charity kitchen for the past month.”
“But you’ve got a job.” Ursula narrowed her eyes. “Have you become a gambler, sir? Is that why you are going hungry?”
Otford exhaled deeply. His shoulders collapsed. “No, I haven’t fallen prey to the vice of gambling. My editor let me go. He said I hadn’t brought in anything the public actually wanted to read in months. Not earning my keep, he told me. I’m working on a plan to publish a weekly magazine that covers the news of the criminal class and the police but setting up in that business takes money.”
“So you decided to try to extort money from me,” Ursula said. “Who else are you blackmailing, Mr. Otford?”
Otford was clearly offended. “I don’t intend to make a career out of extortion, madam. It was just a little something to tide me over.”
“It’s been two years since the Picton trial,” Ursula said. “I took great pains to disappear. How did you find me?”
A flash of intuition crackled through Slater.
“That,” he said, “is a very good question.” He took Ursula’s arm and nodded to Griffith, who clamped a hand around Otford’s shoulder. “I suggest we retire to another location to discuss the answer. There’s no reason to stand out here in the street.”
THIRTY
Slater took them all back to his house, sat them down in the library and then asked Mrs. Webster to bring in a tea tray. She had sized up the situation immediately. A tray piled high with sandwiches and small cakes sat on a table in the center of the room.
Otford had very nearly come to tears when he saw the sandwiches. He had fallen upon them with the appetite of a man who had not eaten well in days. Griffith had not been shy, either. He had loaded up a small plate with several sandwiches and a couple of lemon tarts.
Slater leaned back against his desk, folded his arms and watched Ursula. He was starting to worry about her. She showed no interest in the food and very little in the strong, fortifying tea. She had been in a fine fury a short time ago but now she sat tensely in her chair. He got the feeling that she was bracing herself for complete disaster.
“Ursula,” he said gently, “it’s going to be all right.”
She looked up with a slightly dazed expression. Her thoughts had clearly been elsewhere. But abruptly she focused on him.
“How did you know where I was this afternoon?” she asked, clearly suspicious.
“I went to your house to see you. I had some news to share with you. Mrs. Dunstan told me that you had gone haring off to Wickford Lane to see a new client. She seemed to think it was unlikely that anyone in that neighborhood would be in the market for a fashionable stenographer.”
“I see.”
“Ursula, she was worried about you.”
Ursula ignored that. “What was this news you had for me?”
“They found Rosemont’s body in an alley near the docks this morning.”
“What?” Ursula had been about to take another sip of tea. She set the cup down so quickly that some of the contents splashed into the saucer. “He’s dead?”
“And not by accident,” Slater said. “He was murdered.”
“Good heavens,” Ursula said.
“Murder?” Otford asked around a mouthful of sandwich. His eyes widened. “What’s this? Who is Rosemont?”
“A recently deceased purveyor of perfumes,” Slater said.
“Oh.” Otford lost interest and selected another sandwich. “No one of note then.”
Slater turned back to Ursula. “I talked to the police. The detective in charge of the case was kind enough to give me some information.”
“Well, of course the police would pay attention to you,” Ursula said grimly. “You’re Slater Roxton.”
Slater pretended not to hear that. “I’m told Rosemont’s death looks like the work of a professional assassin. Stiletto in the back of the neck.”
She blinked and then a speculative look appeared in her eyes. She was not the only one paying attention. Otford actually stopped munching again.
“What’s this about a professional assassin?” Otford gulped down a bite of sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He whipped out a small notebook and a pencil. “Stiletto, you say? Makes all the difference if there’s a professional villain involved, you see, not your average run-of-the-mill member of the criminal class. My editor might be interested. I can see the headline now, Assassin Stalks London Streets.”
Slater held up a hand. “You are not going to your editor, Otford, not yet at any rate. There is an even bigger story here and you can have an exclusive report if you do what I tell you.”
Otford stopped writing. “A bigger story? Any chance of a whiff of scandal? Readers prefer thrilling news, you see.”
“You cater to such a discerning audience, Mr. Otford.” Ursula gave him a chilly smile. “You must be very proud.”
Otford glared. “I have a responsibility to the public, madam.”
“What about a responsibility to the truth, Mr. Otford?”
“Now, see here, that little incident in the cemetery does not make me a villain, madam.”
“I disagree,” Ursula snapped.
Slater decided to step in before the situation deteriorated further.
“Let’s try to stay on topic,” he said. “I think there is a strong probability that the assassin will attempt to murder someone else and quite soon.”
“Indeed?” Otford brightened.
“Mr. Otford, I think I can safely promise you a story that will help you launch a career as a publisher of one of the most popular weekly crime-reporting magazines in London.” Slater paused a beat before adding softly, “What is more, if you assist us in this investigation, I will help you finance your project.”
Otford looked dazzled. “You would back me financially, sir?”
“Yes, because I think you can be helpful to us.”
“I will do my best, sir. Count on me, Mr. Roxton.”
Ursula raised her eyes to the ceiling and drank some tea.
“In exchange for your assistance in the investigation that Mrs. Kern and I are conducting,” Slater continued, “I will pay your rent this week and provide you with some visible means of support until you are ready to publish your first penny dreadful. But I must have your solemn promise that you will keep your mouth shut until I give you permission to print the story.”
“Absolutely, sir. You have my word as a man of honor.”
Ursula sniffed. “You’re an extortionist, Mr. Otford. That rather undercuts your claim to being a man of honor, don’t you think?”
He contrived to look hurt. “My life has become quite complicated lately, Mrs. Grant.”
“The name is now Mrs. Kern, thanks in large measure to you and your nasty reporting of the Picton divorce trial. And for your information, my life has become complicated, as well.”
Slater held up one hand. “Enough. I think it is time that we all agree to set some priorities and move forward in an effective, efficient manner. First things first. Otford, how did you discover Mrs. Kern’s identity?”
Otford cast an uneasy glance at Ursula and cleared his t
hroat. “As to that, sir, I’m afraid I cannot say.”
“I understand that your journalistic ethics may be of more importance to you than your desire to cooperate in this investigation,” Slater said. “However, if that is the case, I’m afraid our financial arrangements must be canceled.”
Otford was panic-stricken. He waved both hands wildly. “No, no, you misunderstood, sir. I didn’t mean I won’t tell you who informed me—I meant that I can’t tell you. I don’t know the identity of the person who gave me the information.”
Ursula pinned him with a dangerous look. “Then kindly explain how you discovered me.”
“An envelope was pushed under my door earlier this week.” Otford sighed. “Monday afternoon, quite late in the day, to be exact. Someone evidently knew that I had covered the Picton trial and that I would likely recognize you if I saw you again. The note supplied your home address and the address of your secretarial agency. I went around to your office immediately and got a look at you through the window as you were closing up for the day. I knew at once that you were the woman who had testified at the trial. You’ve changed the style of your hair and you wear mourning now, nevertheless, there is something singularly peculiar about you, Mrs. Grant—I mean, Mrs. Kern.”
“Peculiar?” Ursula sounded as if she had her teeth clenched.
“It’s not your looks,” Otford assured her hastily. “They are not particularly memorable but there is something about your character that leaves what I can only describe as a lasting impression.”
Slater thought it wise to distract Ursula before she could counterattack.
“You said you received the message concerning Mrs. Kern on Monday?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Otford said.
Slater looked at Ursula. “That was the same day that you met with Lady Fulbrook for the first time.”
“You did say that someone watched me leave in your carriage that first day,” Ursula said.