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THIRTY-TWO

T he folly in Lantern Park was cloaked in the shadows of a rainy evening. The light of a nearby streetlamp illuminated the fanciful gazebo.

Ursula stood in the shelter of the umbrella that Slater held aloft. Together they surveyed the octagonal structure. There was no sign of Mrs. Wyatt or anyone else.

“Damn,” Slater said. “I was hoping she would not change her mind at the last minute. Perhaps she lost her nerve.”

“Why send the message agreeing to meet with us if she hadn’t concluded that the money you were prepared to offer was enough to make her take the risk?” Ursula asked.

Slater studied the wet landscape with close attention. His jaw was set in a grim line. He put one hand inside his greatcoat. She knew that he had just wrapped his fingers around the handle of his revolver. She had seen him take it from a locked drawer in his desk just before they set out.

“It’s possible that she was delayed by the weather or traffic,” Slater said. But he did not sound convinced. “We’ll give her a little time. Let’s wait inside the gazebo, out of the rain.”

Ursula looked at him. “You are uneasy about this meeting?”

“I’m uneasy about this entire affair. Would you mind taking the umbrella?”

“No, of course not.”

He wanted to keep his hands free, she realized. There was an air of prowling alertness about him, as if he was prepared for something—anything—to go wrong. He was definitely having qualms about the meeting with Mrs. Wyatt.

They walked around the gazebo and found the steps that led up into the sheltered sitting area. They were not the first to arrive.

Ursula stopped on the second step, her shocked mind searching for a reasonable explanation for what she was looking at.

Her first thought was that a vagrant had sought shelter from the rain and decided to take a nap.

But even as she tried to make herself believe that, she knew the truth.

The figure on the floor of the gazebo was no transient.

The quality of the cloak that covered most of the unnaturally still body was very fine.

The feathers in the fashionable hat must have cost a small fortune.

“Bloody hell,” Slater said very softly.

Ursula saw that he had taken the revolver out from beneath his coat. He crossed the gazebo floor and crouched beside the body. She watched him turn the body slightly to examine the back of the woman’s neck. Ursula shuddered at the sight of the dark ribbon of blood.

“The assassin struck before we could speak to her,” Slater said. He moved back toward the steps with long, quick strides. He did not look at Ursula. His attention was on the wooded parkland that surrounded the gazebo. “We must get away from this place. The killer may be watching us.”

Ursula collected her skirts and went quickly down the steps. “Will you notify the police?”

“Yes, although I doubt if it will do much good. I want to go to Mrs. Wyatt’s establishment immediately, before her death becomes common knowledge.

I do not have time to take you home. Do you mind stopping at a brothel?

We can enter through the alley. You have your cloak and your veil to conceal your face. ”

“I most certainly want to accompany you,” Ursula said. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“It might be useful to take a quick look around Mrs. Wyatt’s private quarters before the police become involved in this matter.”

“I see. What makes you think we will be allowed inside the establishment?”

“It’s a brothel, Ursula. Money can buy anything in such a place.”

“I take your point.” She glanced back at the gazebo. “None of this makes any sense. Why would someone murder Mrs. Wyatt?”

“I can’t say for certain yet but the path through the labyrinth is rapidly becoming clear. First, Anne Clifton, the courier, is murdered. Then Rosemont, the drug maker, is dispatched. And now a woman who supplied prostitutes to the club where the drug is dispensed is found dead.”

“I understand,” Ursula said. “But what is this pattern that you see?”

“Someone appears to be closing down the ambrosia business.”