Garden of Lies by Amanda Quick Page B

“Why don’t you tell me the real reason you asked me to accompany you to the museum?”
    â€œAs 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?”
    â€œI cannot say, not yet. But I have learned something about Fulbrook which may or may not prove useful.”
    â€œAs 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.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œVery. 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.
    â€œWas Anne Clifton fond of perfumes?” he asked.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œI’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.”

THIRTEEN

    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.
    â€œNo,” 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?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œI see.” Ursula turned away from the Venus. “Well, I expect the Romans had their own houses of prostitution