by D. M. Quincy
Atlas looked to the duke for reinforcement. “Surely you do not approve of this madness?”
“My sister’s mind is her own.” His ducal equanimity still firmly in place, Somerville sipped his brandy. “Regrettably, it’s a remarkably stubborn one.”
Atlas released an incredulous huff. “That’s all you have to say on the matter?”
“What else is there to be said?” The duke gave an elegant shrug of his well-dressed shoulders. “My sister’s time among the plebeian masses caused her to develop an unfortunate affinity for them.”
Atlas resisted the urge to glare at the man. He had no idea how much power Somerville exerted over his sister. The siblings had been separated as children only to be reunited last year after a decade apart. Still, he suspected his grace had far greater influence over Lilliana than he let on.
Refocusing on Lilliana, Atlas said, “If the coroner thinks this clerk’s death was an accident, that could very well be the case.”
She returned a skeptical look. “If he wasn’t purposely poisoned, how would an otherwise healthy young man end up with a belly full of arsenic?”
He paused. “Arsenic?”
“Yes, a great deal of it from what I understand. And Tacy says her brother had enemies.”
That piqued his interest. “Why did he have enemies?”
“Tacy says her brother was a handsome charmer who drew his share of jealousy.”
Few people were murdered for their beauty. “Why was his death ruled an accident?”
“I’ve no idea.” She tilted her head and spoke in deliberate tones. “It’s quite a puzzle, don’t you think?”
“Quite.” He narrowed his eyes at her. She understood him far too well. His mind had already begun to filter through the pieces of the labyrinth she’d presented. A dead man who had enemies. A gut full of poison. He couldn’t help but be intrigued. “A very interesting puzzle.”
“I thought you would see it so,” she said. “Will you help us now?”
His curiosity—his need to put things in order in his mind, to solve the potential puzzle she presented—overtook his sense of caution. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to inquire a little further.”
Her triumphant smile took his breath away.
* * *
Atlas decided to start with Ambrose Endicott, the Bow Street runner who’d almost succeeded in sending him to the gallows for the murder of Lilliana’s husband. Fortunately, Atlas had managed to run the true killer to ground. Although their acquaintanceship had begun in an adversarial manner, Atlas had come to appreciate Endicott’s shrewd intelligence.
He sent word to arrange a meeting, which took place the following day at the narrow house on Bow Street that served as the runners’ headquarters. The current magistrate, the man Endicott reported to, lived abovestairs, while the boisterous court sessions took place on the ground floor.
Atlas made his way down the crowded, dim corridor, past Covent Garden prostitutes with brightly painted faces and raggedy pickpockets in tattered clothing waiting to go before the magistrate. The mingled odors of cheap perfume, perspiration, and unwashed bodies permeated the air, as did the vocal protestations of innocence from the inmates in the jail cells around back.
He was shown to a private room where Endicott sat at a scratched-up wooden table working on a report. The runner looked up, his fleshy face brightening when he spotted his visitor.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Atlas Catesby, as I live and breathe.” The runner heaved himself up from his compact chair to shake Atlas’s hand. He was a ruddy-complexioned porcine man of about forty with sagging jowls and small black eyes set deep in his meaty face. “Back from your travels, are you?”
“Yes, I am returned recently.” Atlas shook the man’s hand. “Just three weeks past.”
The runner gestured for him to take a seat at the table. “Where were you off to this time, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Atlas settled himself on a hard chair. “I went to Jamaica.”
“What is that like? Similar to the beaches in Brighton?”
Atlas shook his head. “No, quite different in fact. The sand is pure white and very smooth. The water is just about the bluest I’ve ever seen.” As he described it, Atlas could almost feel the cool ocean lapping at his knees as the bright Jamaican sun warmed him. London’s dour weather stood in sharp contrast to the island’s splendid climate. “The water is so clear you can look down while standing in it and see the bright-colored fish swimming about your legs.”
Endicott grimaced as he retook his seat. “I’m not overly fond of fish, at least not live ones, anywhere in the vicinity of my person.”
“Then you might prefer the mountainous parts of the island and their dense forests.”
“As long as there are no fish there.” Endicott crossed his arms high over his ample girth. “What can I do for you? I presume this is not a social call.”
“As I mentioned in my note, I am curious about the death of Gordon Davis. His fate is of great interest to a particular friend of mine.”
“It was an accident. At least, that’s what the coroner decided.”
“But there was arsenic in his belly?”
“After receiving your note, I pulled the report and looked it over.” Endicott reached for a file on the table and leafed through the individual report pages glued to narrow paper stubs. When he came to the relevant page, he tapped a pudgy forefinger against it. “Here it is. Arsenic, a great deal of it, was found in the man’s belly.”
“Black or white?” Chemists routinely colored the poison to prevent buyers from confusing the poison with everyday household items such as flour or sugar.
“White. It wasn’t sooty arsenic, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Why would the coroner rule the death to be an accident if there was a large amount of poison in the man’s stomach?”
“The man’s friend”—he consulted the report—“one Henry Buller, testified that Davis routinely used arsenic to treat his asthma.”
Atlas’s brows lifted. “I wasn’t aware of arsenic being used as a treatment for breathing ailments.”
The detective shrugged. “I suppose some doctors believe it to be so.”
“But what explains such a large amount of the toxic substance in his stomach?”
Endicott gave him a strange look. “You are aware of where the victim worked, are you not?”
Atlas wondered what he was missing. “I know he was a factory clerk.”
“Yes, but do you know the type of factory?”
“No.” His interest intensified. “Does it signify?”
“I’d certainly say so. Gordon Davis worked at a dye factory.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Arsenic is routinely used in dyes and wallpapers. So you see,” the runner said, “the man not only took arsenic, he was surrounded by the poison. Both at home and at work.”
* * *
Atlas went directly from Bow Street to Spitalfields to visit the dead man’s place of business.
He decided to travel on foot rather than hail a hackney. His destination wasn’t far, and the weather, although on the chilly side for a late April day, was fine enough. Atlas preferred to walk whenever he was in London. His left foot, which he’d broken in several places eighteen months before, still pained him at times but, at the moment, seemed up to the demands being placed upon it.
Atlas enjoyed the solitude of walking alone; it gave him time to think. Unfortunately, the thoughts that accompanied him on the way to Spitalfields were not pleasant ones.
As he turned down Drury Lane, guilt over the evening he’d spent with Olivia Disher plagued him. He’d used his widowed landlady grievously, mostly to alleviate the unflagging morosity that had accompanied his return to London. She had been willing, certainly, and he had enjoyed her company, but he could see no future between them. And a true gentleman did not engage in a liaison with a respectable widow such as Mrs. Disher when he had nothing further to offer
her.
He reached his destination forty-five minutes after starting out. Spitalfields was littered with tenement houses, workshops, and other small industries. Black slime slicked the malodorous streets, which were lined with once-gracious homes that had long since been divided into tiny rooms for poor laborers and their families.
Atlas paused before the building where Gordon Davis had worked. It was located not far from the Old Bengal Warehouse, a facility built about twenty years earlier to house the spices, cigars, tobacco, and tea imported by the East India Company. The Gunther & Archer Dye Company was a generously sized brick-front property that took up a good portion of the block. Atlas passed through the austere gateposts flanking the front entrance where a guard directed him to the front office, a tidy space accented with glass and wrought iron.
A young man at a standing desk looked up when Atlas entered. “May I help you, sir?”
“Good day.” Atlas drew off his hat. “I hope so. My name is Atlas Catesby.”
“How do you do, sir?” The clerk, who appeared to be in his midtwenties, was slim and small in stature with neatly combed short brown hair and even, if unremarkable, features. “I’m Henry Buller.”
“Well met.” He recalled that Buller was the name of the clerk who’d told authorities that Davis took arsenic. “Tell me, Henry, did you perchance work with Gordon Davis?”
The clerk regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “I did, sir.” He stammered, “But he . . . ah . . . no longer works here.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Atlas said gently. “Did you know him well?”
Buller set his pencil down. “We worked together for almost a year and took a pint or two together from time to time.”
“I am looking into Mr. Davis’s death at the request of his family,” Atlas said.
The boy shot a worried look at the closed door several feet behind his desk. Atlas presumed his employer sat behind it. “The coroner ruled that the death was an accident.”
“Mr. Davis’s sister does not believe that to be the case. She suspects he was killed. He did have a great deal of arsenic in his belly.”
The door to the back office opened. A stocky, grizzled-looking man in shirt sleeves appeared. “Henry,” he barked. “Have you entered my letters in the correspondence book?”
“Yes, Mr. Gunther. I’m almost done. I was just on my way to have them posted.”
“Be quick about it.” The gray-haired factory owner squinted in Atlas’s direction, seeming to take notice of him for the first time. “Who are you?”
“I am Atlas Catesby. I was inquiring after Gordon Davis.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore.”
“I’m looking into his death.”
“Nobody here knows anything about that,” the man responded in a distinctly unfriendly manner. Atlas detected a Germanic accent.
“I’m interested in learning about the arsenic you use in your dyes.”
Gunther glared at him. “Davis was a clerk. He stayed in the front office. He was never around the dyes.”
“Did he ever go out onto the floor?”
“Never. There was no need.” He turned to look at the clerk, who still stood at his desk. “Buller,” he snapped. “Get on with you!”
The younger man quickly gathered some papers. “Yes, Mr. Gunther, I’ll go and deliver these right away.”
Gunther said a few additional words to his clerk in German. The clerk nodded nervously and made his way out.
“You should go with him,” Gunther said to Atlas. “There’s nothing more to say, and I have work to do.”
Seeing that there was no arguing with the man, Atlas made his good-byes and left the building, taking care as he crossed the miry street. He walked up a block and waited for about twenty minutes until he spotted the young clerk returning from his errand.
“Mr. Buller,” Atlas called out.
A look of alarm crossed the younger man’s face. “I really must return to work.”
Atlas fell into step beside him. He towered over the clerk and, with his much longer legs, kept an easy pace beside the hurrying man. “What incident was Mr. Gunther referring to?”
Buller cut him a sidelong glance. “Pardon?”
“Before you left to deliver your letters, Mr. Gunther told you not to mention Mr. Davis or the incident to me.”
Buller came to an abrupt halt. “You speak German?”
Atlas dipped his chin. “I do. I travel extensively.” And fortunately tended to pick up languages easily. “How do you know German?”
“My mother is Mr. Gunther’s cousin. That’s how I obtained this situation. It’s a very good position, and I don’t want to lose my place at the factory by speaking out of turn.”
“I have no interest in causing trouble for you, Henry, but I intend to get to the bottom of the matter of Mr. Davis’s death. Just tell me what incident Gunther was referring to, and I’ll be on my way.”
Buller darted a nervous look around them. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“And no one will know that you have,” he said encouragingly. “You said you were Mr. Davis’s friend.”
“Very well.” Buller shot another furtive look around before taking a deep breath. “The factory floor manager caught Gordon stealing some of the arsenic used for the dyes.”
“When was this?”
“About three weeks before he died.”
“What happened after that?”
“Mr. Gunther tossed Gordon out as soon as the floor manager reported him, but then Mr. Archer hired him back.”
“Mr. Archer.” Atlas mused. “The man who co-owns the factory?”
“Aye.”
“Why would he do that? Why retain a worker who has stolen from you?”
“I’m sure I cannot say.”
“Didn’t Mr. Gunther object?”
The clerk shook his head. “He couldn’t say much. Even though Mr. Gunther runs the factory, Mr. Archer is the true owner. Gunther only has a thirty percent stake in the company. Whatever Archer wants, he gets, no matter how Gunther feels about it.”
“Did Mr. Archer know Gordon Davis well? As the owner, is he often at the factory?”
“No, Archer comes rarely, maybe two or three days a month.”
Atlas contemplated the clerk’s revelations. It was deuced odd to keep on a man who’d stolen from you. He studied the clerk. “I presume Davis stole the arsenic to treat his asthma?”
Buller flushed. “I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly truthful at the inquest.”
“How do you mean? Are you saying Davis didn’t take arsenic?”
“Oh, he took it all right. Just not for asthma.”
“For what then?”
This time even the young man’s ears turned a bright red. “To enhance his lustful activities.”
Atlas stared at the man. “He took arsenic to heighten the pleasure he took in the carnal act?” This was a use for arsenic Atlas had never heard of.
“Not exactly. It was to make certain”—clearly embarrassed, Buller stammered through his answer—“that he would be . . . erm . . . prepared to perform when called upon.”
“Did he have trouble in that area?” Atlas now felt a little uncomfortable himself. “Did his . . . er . . . equipment not work properly?”
“Gordon said everything down there worked as it should. It was just that his lady was a lustful wench, and he wanted to keep her satisfied.” Buller lowered his voice. “Said the young lady wanted it two or three times a night.”
Atlas heard the wondering tone in young man’s voice. “Who was this young woman?”
“Gordon never said, but he was eager to marry her. He said giving her a good bedding would keep her coming back for more.”
“Mr. Davis intended to wed this woman? You are certain?”
Buller nodded. “Oh, yes, he was determined. He had been jilted once before, you see, by a toff. Gordon said he had made certain that this time the betrothal would end with a wedding.”
; “Did he tell you anything else about this wealthy lady who jilted him? Her name, perhaps, or the neighborhood where she lived?”
“No, not that I recall. I had the impression she cried off in order to marry a title. It happened years ago.” He glanced nervously in the direction of the Gunther & Archer Dye Company. “If that’s all, I really must go.”
“One more thing, Henry. What kind of arsenic is used in the dyes at the factory?”
Buller appeared confused. “Is there more than one kind?”
“I’m interested to know whether it’s white or sooty.”
“Ah, I see what you mean.” Buller’s wrinkled forehead smoothed. “The sooty kind, so that the workers don’t confuse it with something else.”
“I see. And did Mr. Davis also buy his own arsenic from other places?”
“I don’t think so. Gordon said he’d taken enough arsenic from the factory to last him for several more months.” He turned to go, obviously anxious about being seen on the street corner talking to Atlas. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance.”
“You’ve been a great help, Henry,” Atlas said, his mind pulling the disparate pieces of the puzzle together in a way that made sense. He waved the clerk on his way with great satisfaction.
“Far more than you realize.”
Chapter Three
It was late afternoon by the time Atlas returned to his Bond Street apartments. The fashionable shopping area was at its most sedate at that time of day; the genteel ladies who frequented the exclusive establishments along the busy strand had long since retired to the protection of their homes.
Bond Street evenings were the provenance of young dandies who paraded along the stone walkways, visiting a gaming house or two or partaking in the feminine company offered at the discreet sporting hotels. The lack of signage advertising the carnal services offered within did little to hamper the brothels’ ability to attract well-heeled clients.
Atlas’s own apartments were located above a tobacconist on New Bond Street. Accommodations such as his were in great demand among modish young bucks, but Atlas had no interest in being fashionable. These were the first rooms he’d seen after injuring his foot in the carriage accident, when it became apparent his convalescence would take several months. At first, he’d recuperated at his sister’s house, but there was only so much of Thea’s managing nature he’d been able to bear before seeking a refuge of his own.