Page 48 of Garden of Lies

“Allow me to refresh your memory.”

Ursula reached back into her satchel and took out the paper on which she had transcribed several brief passages from Anne’s notebook. Rosemont watched in mounting panic as she unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the counter with one gloved hand.

“What is that?” he yelped.

“A record of some of her recent visits to your shop. They began about eight months ago and continued on a twice-monthly basis right up until last Wednesday. Oh, wait, I do believe that if we examine the dates more closely we see that in recent months she began stopping in more frequently.” Ursula shook her head, seemingly mystified. “It’s very odd, isn’t it?”

Rosemont glared at her. “I see nothing odd about it.”

“I do. You see, I happen to know that Anne earned a respectable living from her secretarial work. Nevertheless, I cannot imagine that she was able to purchase so much expensive perfume. And such a great quantity of it. I wonder what she did with all that fragrance. She certainly did not give any to me or her colleagues at the agency.”

Rosemont stared at the damning sheet of paper. Then he collected himself.

“Let me check my journal of receipts and transactions,” he said brusquely. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

She had won. Rosemont was backing down.

Cheered by the success, she gave him a cool, benign smile. “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want you slipping out the back door before you tell me what you and Anne were about with all those perfume sales.”

Rosemont drew himself up, momentarily projecting an air of defiance. Then his shoulders collapsed and he gave a heavy sigh.

“Very well, come with me if you must,” he said. “I will show you my records. But I must tell you that I have absolutely no idea why Miss Clifton purchased such a great quantity of perfume.”

He turned and disappeared into the back room.

Ursula whisked up her skirts. Satchel in hand, she hurried around the end of the counter.

“Did she come to your shop so frequently because she was in the habit of meeting someone here, Mr. Rosemont?” she asked. “If that is the case it is very important that you tell me the name of the individual. Perhaps you were bribed to remain silent or perhaps you simply feel you owe her some loyalty. But as her employer and her friend, I can assure you that there is no longer any reason to protect Anne.”

She stopped short just inside the doorway. The front of the shop was steeped in gloom but the back room was drenched in even deeper shadows. The chemical odors were stronger in that room.

There were none of the things one expected to see in the back of a perfume shop. No bundles of dried herbs and flowers dangling from the ceiling. No jars of fragrant oils. No containers of orange peels or bottles of cinnamon and vanilla beans.

Instead, there was a shipping crate.

The lid was open, revealing a number of neatly packaged bags inside. Beneath the thick chemical fumes she detected a dark, slightly acrid, strongly herbal note. The odor was coming from the wooden crate.

When her eyes adjusted to the low light she noticed two bookcases against one wall. They were crammed with leather-bound volumes. Herbals and other books of botanical lore, she concluded.

She looked around, searching for Rosemont. He had vanished through a door set between the bookcases. Alarmed that he was trying to escape, she hurried to follow him.

“Mr. Rosemont?”

“In here,” he called from the next room. “Come along, I’ve got my journal ready for you to examine. Kindly be quick about it. The sooner you vacate the premises, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

She went to the doorway between the bookcases and found herself looking into a shuttered room lit by gas lamps. The windows were covered with thick boards that had been nailed to the walls. She could see two workbenches littered with chemistry apparatus—glass beakers, flasks, scales and a burner. An exceptionally well-equipped stillroom, she thought. Rosemont evidently took a very modern, very scientific approach to the ancient art of perfume making.

“Welcome to my laboratory, madam,” Rosemont said. He stood near a small writing desk where a large notebook was open. He still sounded nervous but his voice was steadier now—the tone of a man who has made a decision and is determined to see it through. “This journal contains a record of the transactions that interest you.”

She walked across the room and looked down at the book. The pages were covered with dates, amounts and quantities. She leaned over a little, trying to decipher the cramped handwriting.

“Can you please point out the entry that shows Miss Clifton’s most recent visit to your shop?” she asked. “I don’t have time to read through all of your notes.”

“You’re wrong, madam. I don’t know who you are but rest assured you have all the time in the world to read that journal.”

She straightened and turned quickly, intending to bolt toward the door. She stopped when she saw the gun in Rosemont’s hand.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she said. “Have you gone mad?”

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