“Come out,” she ordered. “I won’t shoot unless you make it necessary.”
“No, please, it’s all a terrible mistake.”
The blackmailer leaped to his feet like a startled rabbit and dashed deeper into the cemetery.
“Bloody hell,” Ursula whispered.
Monuments and grave markers loomed everywhere. She began a methodical search. There was more scurrying and harsh breathing. She knew her target had changed positions yet again.
It occurred to her that the mad game of hide-and-seek could go on indefinitely.
The plan was not working as intended. Perhaps the best option was to retreat to the entrance and outwait the extortionist. He could not remain inside the cemetery grounds indefinitely.
She was edging cautiously toward the gates when she heard pounding footsteps in the fog—not hers and not the blackmailer’s, she realized. At least two more people had arrived on the scene.
“Damn,” Slater said. He came up behind Ursula and seized her forearm, yanking her to a halt. “What the devil?” He broke off, glancing down at the pistol. “You’ve got a gun?”
He snapped the weapon out of her fingers before she realized his intent.
“Give that back to me,” she said. A fierce desperation surged through her. “He’ll get away.”
“No,” Slater said. He raised his voice a little to call out into the fog. “Griffith?”
“I’ve got him,” Griffith shouted.
He appeared from behind a crypt holding the blackmailer by the collar of the greatcoat. The extortionist’s feet kicked wildly a few inches above the ground.
“Among his many tasks with the traveling theatrical group, Griffith was the one who guarded the day’s receipts and made certain no one got in to see the performance without paying the price of admission,” Slater explained.
“Put me down,” the blackmailer yelped. “I’m an innocent citizen. The crazy woman pulled a gun on me. What else could I do but run?”
Griffith looked at Slater. “What do you want me to do with him, Mr. Roxton?”
“Bring him here, Griffith. We’re all going to have a short chat and sort this out.”
Griffith plopped the extortionist down on both feet.
“Who are you?” Slater asked.
But for the first time Ursula got a good look at the blackmailer. Fresh outrage slammed through her.
“His name is Otford,” she announced. “Gilbert Otford. He works for that gutter rag,The Flying Intelligencer.”
TWENTY-NINE
This dreadful creature is trying to blackmail me,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a disgusted look. “I came here today to stop him.”
“You were going to shoot me.” Otford stared at her in shocked disbelief. “In cold blood. How could you do such a thing?”
Otford was in his late thirties. He had pale blue eyes, lank, reddish-blond hair and a ruddy complexion. His clothes had seen better days. The sleeves of his coat and the cuffs of his trousers were frayed. His shirt had once been white but it was now a dingy shade of yellow. Threads dangled from his limp tie.
Otford was not a career criminal, Slater concluded, rather, a desperate man. Such individuals might be inept but that did not make them any less dangerous.
“I wasn’t going to shoot you—well, not unless I was left with no alternative,” Ursula said. “I merely wished to discover your identity.”
Otford eyed her with grim suspicion. “Why did you want to learn my name unless you intended to kill me?”
“So that I could go to the police, of course,” Ursula said. She gave Otford a steely smile. “I’m quite certain that a man who would stoop so low as to blackmail a lady would have a few secrets of his own he’d want to keep hidden.”
