Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

“You could say so. He was my father.”

  “Was he now?” Saunders set the empty crate on the dusty floor. Atlas could not tell what impression, if any, his affiliation with the great English poet had on the bookseller. “What makes you think this Davis fellow patronized my shop?”

  “Davis worked as a footman, and he—”

  “Footman?” Saunders rested both elbows on the counter and leaned his weight into them. “This Davis fellow of yours was a footman?”

  “Yes.” Atlas closed the book in his hands. “Why? Do you remember him?”

  “There was a fellow in livery who came about a year ago. He escorted some young ladies.”

  “Do you recall what color he wore?” Atlas had no idea what the Merton servant uniforms looked like, but he intended to find out.

  “Brown, maybe, with gold buttons, if I recall correctly.”

  “And he came in with some young ladies, you say?”

  “Yes. He wanted to show them an assortment of low publications, which was unusual.” Saunders carried a load of books over to the window and began stacking them. “Holywell hasn’t completely lost all respectability. Even so, the highborn don’t make a habit of coming this way, especially not noble young ladies.”

  “They were gentlewomen?” The back of Atlas’s neck prickled. “Do you recall what these young ladies looked like?”

  “There were two of them, and they were wise enough to wear overlarge bonnets that kept their faces hidden. But one of them was as bold as brass, I can tell you that.”

  Atlas had an inkling who Miss Bold-as-Brass might have been. “In what way?”

  “She let me see her face. Those big blue eyes were asking for indecent things from a man, but at the same time, I doubted she comprehended what she was about.”

  That sounded about right. “Did you sell them some dirty books? Do you sell those here?” Atlas wanted to clarify because this shop was not obvious in the way of others on Holywell that brazenly displayed their illicit wares in the window.

  “To certain people.”

  “I see.”

  Saunders was unapologetic. “Lifting the curtain on the mysteries of Venus is an important form of free expression and, in some cases, can be regarded as art.” He paused to look at Atlas. “It is not for me, or my king or regent, to decide what we can and cannot read.”

  Even before Saunders’s impassioned speech, Atlas had suspected the bookseller was favorably inclined toward the dissenters. He wouldn’t be surprised to find a radical press hidden somewhere in the bowels of this musty building. However, Saunders’s candor did surprise him. Sedition was a dangerous offense. Perhaps knowledge of Atlas’s paternity had loosened Saunders’s tongue on the matter. Silas Catesby had not believed in a division of the classes.

  “So you sold them the book?” Atlas asked.

  “I never got the chance,” Saunders responded with a shake of his head. “Before I knew it, some toff storms in here, darkens the footman’s daylights, and ushers the girls out.”

  “A toff? A nobleman? You’re certain?”

  “Father to one of the fair maidens.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “One of the ewes called him ‘Papa,’ although I cannot say which girl.”

  “Did the man, this father, say anything?”

  “He told Davis he’d have his head. Thrashed him pretty good. The toff broke the footman’s nozzle. There was blood everywhere.”

  Atlas wondered if it was Merton who had broken Davis’s nose. “Was he a large man?” The viscount was on the diminutive side.

  “Not as tall as you but not short, mind you.” Saunders tilted his head back as he assessed Atlas. “And not as bulky as you. He was slender and a man of obvious stature. Carried himself like he knew his worth.”

  That definitely sounded like a titled gentleman. But if not Merton, then who? “Was there an insignia on his carriage?”

  Saunders gave him a look. “If you were fetching your daughter from the wanton clutches of Holywell Street, would you arrive in a carriage bearing the family crest? It’s hardly an outing someone of that ilk would care to advertise.”

  Atlas saw the man’s point. “So this gentleman pounded Davis before ushering the young ladies out. Is there anything else you remember about him?”

  “He apologized for the mess and gave me a couple of pounds for my trouble.” Saunders bent to pick up the now-empty crate on the dusty floor. “Now if there is nothing else, I do have work to do.”

  “One more thing.” Atlas set his father’s book on the counter. “I’ll take this.”

  * * *

  On his way home from Holywell Street, Atlas went by Thea’s in search of ice to soothe his aching foot.

  Charles Palmer, his sister’s perennially absent husband, had built an icehouse for the specific purpose of indulging his wife’s sweet tooth and love of frozen desserts. Yet Palmer’s thoughtfulness hadn’t stopped Thea from practically banishing the man to the country . . . if she had indeed exiled Palmer. In truth, Atlas had no idea why his sister’s husband spent so much time away from his wife.

  When he arrived at the house on Russell Street, Atlas was surprised to learn from Fletcher, Thea’s ancient butler, that his sister was working in the Great Room, which was most unusual. Thea could normally be found scrawling her equations in the sunny breakfast room where she’d turned the circular dining table into a desk piled high with notebooks, papers, and mathematical implements.

  Thea made little use of her Great Room, which had likely hosted many routs in its time, well before the Palmers had acquired the home. The room was spacious—long and wide, with high molded ceilings and wooden floors that had probably gleamed at one time but had long since lost their shine. A few pieces of forlorn furniture leftover from those glory days were carelessly shunted to the perimeters of the space.

  The first thing Atlas spotted when he entered the cavernous room was the Earl of Charlton standing with both arms extended from his sides, holding a rope in each hand. The ropes each had little red ribbons tied around them at what looked like foot intervals. Following the twin twines down the length of the room, Atlas caught sight of Lilliana, looking particularly fine in an elegant gown of violet silk, holding the opposite ends at the far end of the chamber. Thea moved between the cables, her face a study in concentration, her lips moving quietly as she calculated something.

  Atlas sidled up alongside the earl. “Dare I ask what is going on here?”

  Charlton shushed him. “Thea is counting,” he whispered. “We mustn’t break her concentration.”

  Atlas took a moment to study his friend, who was practically beaming. “What precisely is she counting?”

  “Damned if I know, but I’m always happy to be of use to Mrs. Palmer.”

  Thea finished whatever it was she’d been calculating, wrote something down in her notebook, and then looked up to greet her brother. “Atlas, this is a surprise.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She pointed her pencil in the direction of the earl. “Charlton is always underfoot, so I decided to put him to work.”

  “And precisely what kind of work is that?” Atlas glanced back at his friend. “Noble scarecrow?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said dismissively before resuming her counting.

  “You’re probably right,” Atlas agreed, making his way down to Lilliana.

  “How did it go?” she asked when he reached her, speaking quietly so as not to interrupt Thea’s deliberations. Lilliana allowed him to relieve her of one of the ropes she held but kept a grip on the other. “Did you learn anything of interest?”

  “You could say so.” Not wishing to incur his sister’s wrath, Atlas kept the rope taut, holding it just as Lilliana had, while they spoke. “Lady Lavinia is definitely one to court scandal. She and a friend made a visit to Holywell Street.”

  Lilliana’s eyes widened. She looked both amused and scandalized. “No!”

  “I’m afraid so. Davis esc
orted them there, but the plan went awry. They were caught by the angry papa of one of the hellions, who thrashed the footman before bundling the young ladies into his carriage and carrying them away.”

  “My goodness.” Lilliana’s hold on the rope slackened. “Who was the father, do you think?”

  “Atlas!” Thea’s shrill voice cut into their conversation. “Pray do no distract Lilliana. I am almost done here.”

  Lilliana startled and immediately pulled the twine tight again. “So sorry, Thea.”

  While Thea returned to her work down near Charlton, Atlas answered Lilliana’s question. “Not Merton. The viscount isn’t tall, and Angry Papa is. The bookseller who witnessed the interaction described the man as shorter than I am.”

  “Almost everyone is,” she put in.

  “But he also did not describe him as short. The bookseller characterized Angry Papa as a man of stature.”

  “Hmm.” She fell silent, and he could see her mind working.

  “What is it?”

  She paused. “Not Merton then. Angry Papa is the father of the other girl.”

  Her reaction the other day at the mention of one of Lavinia’s friend came back to him. “Who is this Adora that Lavinia spoke of?”

  She hesitated. “She’s Roxbury’s daughter.”

  “Adora Bradford.” This time he was the one to almost drop the rope, but he caught himself before drawing his sister’s ire. “I should have put it together myself.”

  “I didn’t think it signified before now.” Her tone was almost apologetic.

  “You thought to protect your suitor’s good name.” He kept his tone neutral, even though a distinct sense of betrayal cut through him. She’d withheld pertinent information in order to protect the man who was courting her. “It’s natural you wouldn’t care to have scandal attached to a family you might wish to join.”

  “Roxbury is a powerful peer who hardly needs me to look after his interests,” she said pointedly. “However, when it comes to young innocent girls getting in over their heads, I naturally have a great deal of empathy toward them.”

  “Roxbury fits the bookseller’s description.”

  She nodded. “He is not short, and although he is not as tall as you, he is a man of stature.”

  “If word got out that these supposedly innocent maidens were procuring low publications from a footman, it could ruin their reputations.”

  Lilliana finished the thought for him. “And their chances of marrying well.”

  “That could be a motive for murder,” Atlas pondered aloud. “Davis had information that could damage the reputations of two noble houses.”

  “Roxbury does not strike me as the murderous type.” She paused. “But then, neither did my husband’s killer.”

  “Precisely. It seems there are many people who are capable of killing another human being . . . particularly if they have a great deal to lose.”

  “You must speak with Roxbury.”

  He wondered if that worried her. “Yes, I plan to call upon him on the morrow.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The words were brisk. “He is hosting a garden party in four days’ time. Merton and his daughter are likely to be in attendance.” She gave him a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’d care to escort me?”

  “I can imagine how much Roxbury will appreciate my turning up as your escort,” he said dryly.

  “So you’ll attend?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Excellent.” She adjusted her hold on the rope. “I spoke to Tacy about her brother’s previous employers.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid I have nothing of use to report. The only other household where Davis was employed was a bachelor home on South Audley Street. The master was the grandson of a marquess. Davis was in service for several years until his employer passed. Then he moved on to work for Merton’s household.”

  “There was no young lady of the house for Davis to seduce,” Atlas said. “I suppose there is nothing more to be gained by pursuing that course of investigation.”

  “It would appear not,” she agreed.

  “That’s it,” Thea called out. “I am finished here.”

  “Which is most convenient”—Lilliana released the rope—“for I must go if I am to be home in time to have supper in the nursery with the boys.” She gathered her things and walked toward the door with Atlas following.

  “I will go out with you, Lady Roslyn.” Charlton dropped both ropes and shook out his arms. “I have an engagement this evening.” He settled his azure gaze on Thea. “Unless you have further need of me.”

  “Not at all.” Scribbling in her notebook, Thea did not bother to look up. “I have no reason to keep you.”

  “I am crestfallen,” Charlton said. “First, the lady has her way with me, and then she tosses me into the street.”

  Lilliana laughed and took his arm. “I will attempt to console you as we walk out.”

  Atlas stood looking after them until his sister’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Woolgathering?”

  He turned to face her. “How well acquainted are you with Roxbury?”

  A knowing expression settled over his sister’s face. “He is wealthy, titled, and very well regarded.”

  “I know that much,” he said impatiently. “Tell me something I do not know.”

  “He seems quite taken with Lilliana.”

  “Any idiot with eyes could discern that much. Does he have a temper?”

  “I cannot say. But one does get the distinct sense that Roxbury is not a man to be trifled with.” She put down her notebook and started rolling the rope.

  He moved to assist her before heading to her icehouse in search of relief for his aching foot. “I had the same impression.”

  Curiosity glimmered in her dark eyes. “Does your sudden interest in the Marquess of Roxbury have to do with the investigation? Or is this about Roxbury’s association with Lilliana?”

  He decided to be truthful. “Perhaps both.”

  Chapter Ten

  The following day, late in the afternoon, Atlas took a hackney to Spitalfields and stood in the driving rain across from the Gunther & Archer Dye Company until a slender young man exited the gateposts flanking the main entrance of the brick-front property. Sheets of water pouring off his black wood-frame umbrella, Atlas made his way across the mud-slogged street, drenching his boots in inky black filth.

  “Buller,” he called out loudly enough to be heard over the deluge. The skies had opened up after he’d departed Bond Street, but the dark clouds had appeared ominous enough for him to have brought an umbrella.

  The clerk paused and regarded Atlas with a guarded gaze. “Mr. Catesby.”

  “Do you have a moment?” When the young man hesitated, Atlas decided to sweeten his offer. “Time enough for a cup of ale perhaps? And a bite to eat, of course.”

  If the youth lived alone, the offer would tempt him. Hot food and ale on a rainy evening—at someone else’s expense—would be difficult for a struggling clerk to resist.

  “The Seven Crowns is around the corner,” Buller said.

  They hurried along in the downpour until they reached the tavern, which was tucked down a narrow alley. A crush of working-class people filled the tight space, the air crowded with boisterous conversation and a silvery haze of smoke. But the alehouse was also warm and dry, for which Atlas was grateful. The owner behind the wood-paneled bar spotted them and led the two men through the crowd to a corner table.

  Generous servings of beefsteak and cabbage followed, and when Buller also showed interest in pie, Atlas ordered that as well. He watched the younger man dig into his meal, his full attention on the hot food before him. Meat was a luxury for someone surviving on a clerk’s wages.

  Atlas took a long draw on his ale. “Was Davis extorting Viscount Merton or anyone else?”

  Swallowing a big lump of food, the clerk dragged his attention away from beefsteak. “How’d you know about that?”

&
nbsp; “Not from you, obviously.”

  Buller blinked, his eyes wide. “You didn’t ask.”

  Atlas swallowed down his impatience. “I’m asking now.”

  “Gordon was paid off by the Quality.” Buller gulped his ale. “But he never mentioned names.”

  “Do you know why they were paying him?”

  Buller popped another large piece of meat into his mouth. It bulged in his right cheek as he answered Atlas’s question. “To keep him quiet.”

  Anticipation pounded through Atlas’s veins. “What did they want him to keep quiet about?”

  Buller grinned, a string of beef stuck between his two front teeth. “Gordon took two chits to buy dirty books. The ‘young ladies of quality’”—sarcasm twisted his words—“had a taste for common fucking.”

  Shocked, Atlas set his ale down with a clunk. “Davis told you he bedded the young ladies?”

  “Nah.” Buller spoke around a mouthful of cabbage. “They wanted to see the drawings. Insisted Gordon take them to Holywell so they could pick out their own dirty books.”

  “Why did he agree? He risked losing his situation.”

  “He was a gambler, was Gordon. And the ladies paid him well. He insisted that each one pay him a fee.”

  “I presume you know he got caught.”

  Buller nodded. “Gordon said the nob popped his cork and threw him out of the house. But it was of no account to Gordon.” Buller took a long swig of his ale. “He said he was going to make their fathers pay to keep him quiet, or else he’d tell all Mayfair where he’d taken their precious daughters.”

  “Did they pay him?”

  “Yes, both of them did.”

  Atlas shook his head. Davis had clearly been a sharper of the lowest sort, running a game anywhere he could find one, always in search of the big score. The question was, had one of those games proved deadly for him?

  Buller bottomed out his drink and set it down. Atlas motioned for the barkeeper to bring another. A well-fed and well-hydrated Buller was apparently a fount of information. “What do you know about Trevor Archer?”

  The question made Buller stop eating for the first time since the food appeared. “Mr. Archer’s son?”