Rosemont had known all along that Cobb was an American and that he lived in New York so the accent did not come as a surprise. But the harsh, whispery quality was unnerving. One could dress a villain in fine clothes and polish his manners but that did not make him any less dangerous. Quite the opposite, Rosemont thought.
“I’m Rosemont,” he said, making a fierce effort to sound confident and assured.
“Please join us. This is my valet, Hubbard. We will complete our business and set you down wherever you wish.”
For the first time Rosemont saw that there was another man sitting in the shadows across from Cobb. Slight of build, with thinning hair and possessed of a face so gaunt one could almost see the skull beneath the skin, he appeared a mere shadow of a man. Hubbard was the perfect valet, Rosemont concluded, remarkably unremarkable in every aspect except for the subtle perfection of his sartorial style. From his elegantly knotted four-in-hand tie and turnover collar to the cut of his coat and his elegant walking stick, Hubbard was a model of refined fashion. Not that anyone would ever take much notice of him, Rosemont thought. He could almost bring himself to have some sympathy for the valet. He knew what it was like to be easily overlooked.
Hubbard inclined his head a fraction of an inch, acknowledging the introduction, and examined Rosemont with eyes so lacking in warmth they appeared reptilian.
“Allow me to take your bags, sir,” Hubbard said. There was an oddly strained quality to the words, as though he was endeavoring to put a dignified polish on an accent that had obviously come from the American streets.
Rosemont handed both suitcases up into the carriage and climbed in after them. He sat down next to Hubbard, putting as much distance as possible between them.
“You may convey me to the railway station,” Rosemont said. “I’m leaving London tonight.”
“I understand,” Cobb said. He raised his walking stick and tapped the roof of the cab twice. The vehicle rolled forward. “I think we had best close the curtains while we complete our business. I have been assured that London is a far more civilized city than New York, nevertheless, I have always found it best to err on the side of caution. Hubbard?”
Without a word Hubbard responded. Deftly he closed the curtains with a minimum of quick, efficient movements. Rosemont found himself mesmerized by the valet’s leather-gloved hands.
“Thank you, Hubbard.” Cobb looked at Rosemont. “I got your message. Why the sudden panic?”
Rosemont tore his eyes away from Hubbard’s hands, which were now folded quietly on top of his walking stick. The valet was as motionless as a spider waiting in a web.
Compose yourself, man,Rosemont thought.This will soon be over and you will be safely away from this dreadful business.He drew a shaky breath.
“A very fashionable widow c-came to see me today,” he said. He tried to steady his voice. “She was asking after Miss Clifton.”
Cobb inclined his head in a sorrowful manner. “Who, I understand, recently took her own life.”
Rosemont knew a small measure of relief.
“So it was a suicide?” he said. “Mrs. Kern seemed to suspect that the death was a case of murder.”
“Or an accidental overdose,” Cobb said. “The newer version of the drug has unpredictable effects on some people. I understand Miss Clifton used the ambrosia.”
“Yes, yes, she did. I tried to warn her but... Well. A suicide or an accident. I suppose that explains things. For a time I wondered... Never mind.”
“What concerns you, Mr. Rosemont?” Cobb asked. “Were you fond of Miss Clifton?”
“She was a very attractive woman and always quite pleasant to me.” Rosemont sighed. “I was just startled to learn that she was dead. I had not heard the news until the widow showed up at my shop today.”
“Such a small death in such a large city is hardly the sort of tragedy that finds its way into the press.” Cobb tapped one gloved finger against the top of his walking stick. “And now you tell me that you wish to conduct one more transaction and then retire from the business?”
“That is correct.” Rosemont straightened his shoulders. He had committed murder that afternoon and set fire to his own shop. He was made of sterner stuff than he had ever imagined. “There is a large quantity of the drug crated and ready for shipment sitting in the warehouse. It should be enough to satisfy your customers in New York until you can find a new chemist to replace me.”
“I see. You really do wish to get out of the business.”
“Very much so. I could not endure another day like today.” Rosemont leaned down and opened one of the suitcases. He took out the notebook that sat atop the neatly folded clothes. “I have written down the instructions required to prepare the formula from the raw leaves and flowers of the plant straight through the various preparations—powder, liquid or gas. Any good chemist can produce whatever you wish provided he has a supply of the plant and access to certain chemicals.”
“I see.” Cobb took the notebook. He flipped it open and glanced casually at the formulas and instructions inside. He nodded, satisfied, and closed the notebook. He set it on the cushion. “Who was this woman—this widow—who came around to your shop inquiring about Anne Clifton?”
“She called herself Mrs. Kern. She said she was Miss Clifton’s employer. At first she tried to tell me that Miss Clifton had recommended my perfumes. I knew at once that was a lie, of course. As soon as she showed me the perfume bottle that I had given to Miss Clifton, I realized something terrible had happened. I only use those bottles for the liquid form of the drug.”
“Why do you suppose this widow was making inquiries into Miss Clifton’s death?”
“I have no idea. But I soon realized she was in possession of some rather dangerous information.”
The beast came and went in Cobb’s eyes. “What sort of information?”
