by Amanda Quick
“Damian loved me.” The gun trembled in Valerie’s hand. “I know he did. We had an affair in New York right beneath my husband’s nose. He never guessed. It was such an exhilarating sensation. Fulbrook despised having to treat Damian as an equal. It never even occurred to him that I might find Damian attractive. It was all quite delicious.”
“When you returned to London you hired a professional secretary and dictated your love letters to her. Anne sent the poems to Cobb, who posed as Paladin.”
Valerie smiled a wistful smile. “When Damian wrote back to me, he was very careful to pretend that he was an editor who was enthusiastic about my poems.”
“When did Anne realize that you were carrying on a secret correspondence with a lover?”
“Very early on, actually. Our Anne was quite bright and vivacious and I was so lonely. I made the mistake of trusting her. She was my only friend and she was so eager to bring me the latest letter from New York—so excited to be part of the secret. I’m the one who suggested to Fulbrook that she would make a useful courier, by the way. I thought she would be loyal to me. But I was wrong. She betrayed me, just as Damian betrayed me.”
“You saw Damian Cobb as heroic but in truth he was manipulating you.”
“I was a fool but I will never play that role again,” Valerie said.
“It was the chatelaine, wasn’t it? When Anne started wearing it you realized somehow that Cobb had sent it to her.”
“She wore the chatelaine to my house.” Valerie’s voice rose. “She pretended that a grateful client had given it to her but I knew the truth.”
“How?”
“I recognized the maker’s mark.” Tears of rage glittered in Valerie’s eyes. The gun in her hand shook violently. “Damian bought it at the same New York jewelry store where he purchased the brooch that he gave me.”
“Cobb gave you a gift of jewelry?”
Valerie reached into the pocket of her cloak and took out a small blue velvet pouch. She hurled it onto the desk.
“He told me to think of him whenever I wore it beneath my gowns,” she hissed. “I pinned it to my petticoats every day. Look at the mark on the back. Look at it.”
Ursula took the opportunity to move behind her desk, putting it between herself and Valerie. It wasn’t much in the way of a fortress but it was all that was available.
She picked up the velvet bag and turned it upside down. An exquisite little brooch tumbled out. She remembered the day that Valerie had come running toward her in the conservatory, skirts raised to her knees. There had been something small and glittery pinned to her petticoats.
Ursula examined the markings on the back of the brooch.
“You are correct,” she said. “It appears both items came from the same store. However, if it’s any consolation, I think we can safely say that your brooch cost considerably more than Anne’s chatelaine. But, then, Cobb would have known that if Anne showed up at the office wearing a fabulously expensive piece of jewelry, her colleagues as well as her clients would have asked a great many awkward questions.”
“I did not need to ask any questions,” Valerie spit out. “She flaunted that damned chatelaine in front of me. When I asked to take a closer look, she was only too happy to allow me to examine it. She gave me the same story she gave you—told me it was a gift from a grateful client. But when I saw the markings I knew for certain that she had betrayed me.”
“Did she know about your brooch?”
“No. I did not dare to wear it openly for fear that one of the servants would tell Fulbrook. He would know that he had not given me the brooch. But I wore it every day in secret.”
“How did you murder Anne?” Ursula asked. “You were never allowed to leave the house. You said the servants were always watching.”
“During the past few months I have become very expert with the drug. In some formulations, it can kill. I spent hours testing the poisonous version on mice and rats. I knew that Anne enjoyed the ambrosia and that she kept her supply in a perfume bottle that Rosemont gave her. She was a bit of an addict, I’m afraid. I instructed her to bring the bottle to me so that I could give her a sample of the latest version of the drug. I knew she would not be able to resist trying it.”
“You told yourself that with Anne dead, things would go back to the way they had been between you and Cobb.”
“He would realize that he needed me,” Valerie wailed. “I was the only one left who could give him the secrets of the ambrosia. And then you showed up, insisting on taking Anne’s place as my secretary.”
“Why did you let me do that?”
“Because I realized that you might have ulterior motives. Anne had often talked about how smart you were, how you had reinvented yourself after a great scandal. She said she had left everything to you. I started to wonder if she had left the secrets of the ambrosia to you, as well.”
“I made you nervous so you decided to contact the reporter who ruined my reputation two years ago.”
“Anne told me about him and his newspaper. I explained to Fulbrook that you might be dangerous. He agreed we had to be cautious when it came to getting rid of you because if you turned up dead, Slater Roxton was bound to cause trouble. I gave my husband the idea of exposing you to the journalist, Otford. I was certain that he would smear your name in the gutter press. I thought that would be the end of you—that Roxton would not want anything to do with you after he found out that you were involved in a great scandal. Then you could quietly drown yourself in the river.”
“Why did you come here to kill me? I had nothing to do with Anne’s connection to Damian Cobb.”
“You had everything to do with it.” Valerie used both hands to grip the gun. “You are the one who sent that whore into my home.”
“Anne and Cobb did not have a romantic connection. Anne wanted to become his business partner.”
“I don’t believe that, not for a moment. And even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter. They betrayed me. If it had not been for you, things would have ended the way they were supposed to end. I would be on my way to New York with Damian.”
“Cobb wanted you, not Anne,” Ursula said. “And I can prove it.”
The lie came with astonishing ease. Perhaps that was because she had gotten rather good at the business in the wake of the Picton divorce scandal, she thought. Or perhaps the words came quickly because she was desperate to distract Valerie.
Whatever the case, it worked. Valerie was visibly stunned.
“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.
“What of the ambrosia plants?” Ursula asked.
Slater stirred and pushed himself away from the wall. He wandered across the room to contemplate the items on the tea tray.
“As it happens, there was a fire in the Fulbrook conservatory last night. It started in the stillroom, where a number of chemicals were stored. Evidently everything, including the plants in the special chamber reserved for the ambrosia, was destroyed.”
“Huh.” Otford stopped eating and pulled out his notebook.
Ursula watched Slater. “There may be other ambrosia plants out there, somewhere. And packets of seeds, as well.”
Slater shrugged and selected a sandwich. “Perhaps someone will discover something useful to do with the plant. It is not as if we do not need better medicines.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose,” Ursula said. “Now, then, no doubt you are all wondering why I asked you to tea today.”
Everyone looked at her.
Lilly frowned. “There is a reason? Besides tea, that is?”
“Yes, there is a reason.” Ursula picked up the silver card case on the coffee table. “I called you together to announce that Slater is about to embark on a new career.”
Slater coughed and sputtered around a bite of sandwich. “What?”
“This tea is a celebration of his new profession, and I am delighted to make him a present of his first business cards.” She selected one of the crisp white cards and held it up so that everyone could admire the elegant engraving.
“Let me see that.” Slater crossed the room in two long strides and snapped the card out of Ursula’s fingers. “Slater Roxton, Private Inquiries. Discretion Assured.” He looked up. “What the devil?”
There were startled gasps from everyone else in the room. The gasps were followed by murmurs of approval.
“Yes, of course,” Lilly said. She was suddenly radiant with enthusiasm. “It’s the perfect career for you, Slater. I should have thought of it, myself.”
Slater stared at Ursula with the expression of a man who had been shaken to the core. “Business cards?”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you in your new line,” Otford suggested eagerly. “You’ll need a man who knows how to dig up information. In exchange for exclusive stories like the Fulbrook murder, I offer my investigative services.”
“People got killed,” Slater said.
Otford cleared his throat. “Right. Murdered. Very unfortunate.”
“The important thing to remember,” Ursula said, “is that additional people would very likely have been murdered and others would have been forced to submit to the misery of blackmail if it had not been for Slater’s inquiries.”
Slater rounded the coffee table, leaned down, wrapped his hands around Ursula’s waist and lifted her off the sofa. He held her so that her satin slippers did not touch the carpet.
“What in blazes do you think you’re doing, woman?” His voice reverberated dangerously around the room. “I’m not going into the private inquiry business.”
“You need a career, Slater,” she said. She braced her hands on his shoulders and looked down at him. “Your days of wandering the world chasing lost artifacts are concluded. You are home now and you must find something new to do with your life. It is time you put your skills to work.”
“What skills?”
“You know how to look for answers. That is a surprisingly uncommon talent. Searching for answers is what private inquiry agents do. Really, it’s what you’ve been doing for years. Now you’ve got the business cards to go with the business, so to speak.”
He set her slowly on her feet. “Never thought of it as a profession.”
“Furthermore, I may be able to assist you from time to time,” she continued. “As a secretary, I can go into a great many places without arousing curi
osity or suspicion—business establishments, private homes, almost anywhere, really. Who doesn’t need a secretary from time to time?”
“No.” Slater eyed her with steely determination. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
“We can discuss the details later,” she assured him.
“There will be nothing to discuss,” he said.
She sat down quickly and picked up the pot. “More coffee?”
“Damn it, Ursula—”
“Perhaps another sandwich.” She nudged the silver tray across the coffee table.
“Damn it, Ursula—”
“I believe you are repeating yourself. Try the chicken salad sandwiches. They’re excellent. Oh, I do apologize. You’re a vegetarian. The cucumber, perhaps? And by the way, I do love you, you know.”
He looked at her as if he had never seen anything like her in his entire life, as if he was afraid to believe she was real.
“What did you say?” he got out.
“About the chicken salad sandwiches?”
They might as well have been alone in the room, she thought. No one else moved. No one spoke a word.
“About loving me,” Slater said.
“You obviously heard me. You seem surprised. I would have thought that you would have learned that much from your labyrinth.”
“I have been afraid to ask the question. Terrified, as a matter of fact. I was afraid the answer might not be the one I wanted to hear.”
Ursula looked at Lilly and Otford. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone while we clear up some rather personal matters?”
Lilly shot to her feet. “Not at all, dear. Take your time.”
She swept across the room to the door. Otford hurried after her.
Ursula faced Slater across the low coffee table.
“You, sir?” she said. “Afraid of answers? Forgive me, but I find that difficult to believe.”
“Believe it.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well you did not seek the answer in your labyrinth,” she said. “Some things must be done face-to-face.”