Garden of Lies by Amanda Quick

of cabs waiting in the street. He did not select the first in line. Instead he chose a hansom seemingly at random and went up the narrow steps. He disappeared into the deep shadows of the small cab.
    â€œBloody hell,” Griffith grumbled. He shook the reins, rousing the horse into a light trot. “I wasn’t expecting that. Most take the cab at the front of the line.”
    â€œMost men of Fulbrook’s station prefer their own carriages.”
    â€œA hansom is faster.”
    â€œAnd so much more anonymous,” Slater said. “Interesting.”
    They followed Fulbrook’s cab into the thickening fog. As they progressed through the streets the neighborhood changed. The houses and parks grew larger and more imposing.
    â€œIf he’s got a mistress in this neighborhood he’s keeping her in fine style,” Griffith remarked.
    â€œI doubt very much that he’s got a woman stashed in one of these big houses,” Slater said. “More likely he’s headed to the home of a friend.”
    â€œDamned late and a far way to travel just to have a brandy with a friend,” Griffith said.
    â€œDepends on the friend.”
    Fulbrook’s hansom came to a halt in front of a grand mansion. It was impossible to see much of the big house or the gardens because of the high brick wall that enclosed the grounds. Iron gates barred the drive.
    A man with a shielded lantern appeared from the shadows of a small shelter adjacent to the gate. He angled the light into the close confines of the Fulbrook cab. A few words were exchanged. Evidently satisfied, the guard opened the gates and waved the hansom through.
    â€œThis is close enough, Griffith,” Slater said. “I do not think the guard will pay any attention to us if we remain where we are and keep the lamps turned down. I’d prefer not to attract his attention.”
    Griffith brought the vehicle to a halt.
    Fulbrook’s hansom disappeared through the gate. The guard allowed another carriage to depart and then he closed the gates. He had to open them again when a new vehicle arrived.
    â€œThere is a great deal of coming and going,” Slater said. “Fulbrook’s friend appears to be entertaining tonight.” He jumped down from the cab. “I’m going to take a look around.”
    â€œD’ye think that’s wise?” Griffith asked uneasily.
    â€œI believe it’s what detectives do,” Slater said.
    â€œIt’s also the sort of thing that burglars do and they tend to get arrested.”
    â€œIt’s only incompetent housebreakers who get arrested, Griffith.”
    Slater removed his spectacles and folded them neatly into the pocket of his coat. His eyesight was excellent. The eyeglasses were nothing more than a veil—not unlike the one that Ursula wore. People saw the spectacles—they did not see the eyes. In the years since Fever Island he had found the small disguise very useful in his work. For some strange reason people tended to discount the possibility that a man wearing spectacles might prove dangerous.
    He faded into the shadows, simultaneously chagrined and amused to discover that he felt the old dark thrill of the hunt heating his blood. He had Ursula to thank for this, he thought.
    He made his way along the narrow lane that bordered one side of the towering garden wall, turned the corner and found the rear gate. It was locked but there was no guard and no streetlamp.
    He studied the view of the gardens through the wrought-iron bars of the gate. Most of the thick foliage lay shrouded in deep shadows and fog but the entrance to a hedge maze was lit with brightly colored lanterns. As Slater watched, an elegantly dressed couple disappeared into the green puzzle. The man’s drunken laughter was hoarse with anticipation.
    The ground floor of the big house was brightly illuminated. There were lights at the edges of the windows of the upper floors but the drapes were