Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

  “Then you will be interested in speaking with our friend here.” Charlton flashed a look at Atlas before returning his attention to the young man. “Mr. Catesby is an adventurer who has traveled the world.”

  “How fascinating.” Interest lit the young man’s gaze. “Where have you visited?” Then it seemed to hit him. He frowned. “Catesby, did you say?”

  Atlas’s heartbeat was chaotic. “Atlas Catesby.” He waited for a reaction.

  All agreeability drained from Nicholas’s face. “Are you by chance related to the poet?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Yes.” Atlas heard the strain in his own voice. “Silas Catesby was my father.” And your grandfather.

  Nicholas’s face paled. “I see.” He stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Good day.” He spun on his heel and was swiftly lost in the crowd. Atlas and Charlton stared after Nicholas as he made his escape into the throng.

  “Well,” Atlas said grimly, his heart a burdensome weight in his chest. “That went well.”

  * * *

  Atlas arrived home to find the front door ajar and Jamie running a finger over the fireplace mantle in the front hall.

  Bess, the middle-aged woman who came in twice weekly to clean Atlas’s bachelor’s quarters, stood by the door with her wrap on, apparently ready to depart. She glared at Jamie’s back. “I cleaned it as I always do.”

  “Hmm.” Jamie held his finger up to the light to examine it. “This surface could be dusted a bit more thoroughly.”

  Outrage stamped the cleaning woman’s face. “There is nothing wrong with my dusting. I’ve been scrubbing floors since before you were even a glimmer in your da’s eye.”

  “I must see to my master’s every comfort.” Jamie looked down his nose at her. “It is my duty as valet to ensure that you sweep and dust properly.”

  Bess flushed. “And it just might be my duty to take you over my knee like the insolent boy you are and teach you some manners,” she snapped.

  Jamie lost his assumed air of superiority. “I should like to see you try!” he exclaimed, looking genuinely affronted.

  Atlas closed the door behind him with a decisive click. Jamie and Bess both turned in his direction with a startled look.

  Bess recovered first. “Good afternoon, sir. I was just leaving.”

  “Thank you, Bess. I’ll see you later this week as usual?”

  “Indeed, sir.” She tossed a malevolent look in Jamie’s direction as she sailed out the door. “Good day to you,” she said pointedly to Atlas.

  Jamie stomped over to slam the door behind her. “Wretched old woman doesn’t know her place.”

  Atlas suppressed a sigh. “Someone doesn’t. That’s for certain,” he murmured mostly to himself.

  “Clearly Bess doesn’t understand that a valet is at the highest rung of the servant chain.”

  “And because we have no servants for you to lord it over, you decided to exert yourself on poor Bess?”

  Jamie’s full cheeks flushed. “I was just making certain she did her duty.”

  “I appreciate that.” Atlas handed Jamie his hat and shrugged off his coat. “But please leave Bess alone to do her job. I have seen no fault with her cleaning.” He paused. “And, Jamie.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You would do well to remember that respect is earned. You cannot force it. Conduct yourself in the manner of a man who deserves respect, and it will come to you.”

  While a still-disgruntled Jamie tramped into the bedchamber to put away the coat and hat, Atlas settled before his puzzle and tried to push Nicholas Lennox from his mind. Pondering a puzzle piece depicting half a face, he called out to the boy, “How are you coming along with the poison books? Did you find any familiar names?”

  Jamie reappeared from the bedchamber. “There is no sign of Gordon Davis buying poison at any of the apothecaries near his work or business. No Henry Buller either.”

  Not looking up from the puzzle, Atlas slid a piece into place, uniting two sides of the same face. “What about the Mayfair apothecaries?”

  “No sign of Lord Merton or his daughter, Lady Lavinia, purchasing arsenic. Nor any of their house servants.”

  Atlas looked up. “How can you know whether their servants purchased anything?”

  “I stopped by the Earl of Charlton’s to take tea with the staff. They still consider me part of the staff over there, seeing as how I’ll go back there when you go traveling again—”

  Atlas interrupted. “Perhaps you could favor me with the abridged version of the story.”

  Jamie’s face scrunched up. “Abridged? I didn’t mention a bridge.”

  “A shorter version of the story,” he clarified.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Jamie continued eagerly. “As I was saying, while I was at the earl’s, I managed to get the names of Lady Lavinia’s lady’s maid, Lord Merton’s valet, and their footmen. You see, all the downstairs folk know each other in Mayfair. For example, when the Duke of Caraway’s butler made improper advances to his grace’s housekeeper—”

  “Jamie,” Atlas interrupted before the boy could share all of Mayfair’s belowstairs scandals. “Let us not digress. You were saying that you learned the names of Merton’s servants and . . . ?”

  “Yes, sir. And none of those servants’ names appear in any of the poison books I checked.”

  Atlas considered. “That was very enterprising of you, thinking of checking the servants’ names.” He’d known before that moment that the boy was eager to learn and better himself, but he hadn’t credited Jamie with cleverness as well. “I must tell you that I am very impressed.”

  Jamie grinned, tilting his head in a jaunty fashion. “Thank you, sir.”

  “What of Clapham? Have you checked those poison books yet?”

  “Yes, sir. But there is no sign of either a Noel or a Trevor Archer purchasing any arsenic.”

  Atlas pushed another puzzle piece into place. “I suppose this avenue of investigation has led us to a dead end.”

  Jamie paused. “Not exactly.”

  Atlas tapped a finger on a puzzle piece while trying to make out where it belonged. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t find the elder nor the younger Archer gentlemen’s names, but I did find another name. I don’t know if it signifies.”

  Atlas glanced up. “Which name is that?”

  “Elizabeth Archer.”

  “Elizabeth Archer?” Recalling the proper young woman who’d served him tea when he’d gone to call on her father, Atlas lost all interest in the half-assembled Hogarth painting on the table before him. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir. Is she related to Noel and Trevor Archer?”

  “She’s a daughter of the house. Noel is her father, and Trevor is her brother. When did she purchase the arsenic?”

  “March sixteenth.”

  Atlas did a quick calculation. “That’s three weeks before Davis died.”

  “But the name ‘Elizabeth’ doesn’t start with an L.”

  “True, but it might be a term of endearment known only between the two of them.” In truth, Atlas did find it difficult to envision the prim Miss Archer as the libidinous Lady L.

  But he’d been surprised before. If his first investigation had taught him anything, it was that—when pushed to the limit—almost anyone was capable of murder.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Calling hours were long over in polite society, but Atlas was so enthused about his first genuine lead that he disregarded the late hour and immediately walked over to see Lilliana.

  Before leaving for Somerville House, he dashed off a quick note to Charlton, informing him that he was meeting with Lilliana about the investigation and thus had to regretfully decline the earl’s invitation to dine at his club.

  Striding at a brisk pace, he pulled his greatcoat tight around him to ward off the damp early evening chill. The streets were muddy, and the wind howled past his ears during the short walk. Winter still held London firmly in its g
rip, even though May was almost upon them. Ahead, despite the darkening skies and relentless fog, Somerville House still managed to loom large over Piccadilly, dwarfing anything around it. Atlas bounded up the front stairs, eager to share his news with Lilliana.

  A footman opened the massive carved door straightaway. If Hastings, the butler, who appeared immediately, was surprised to find a guest—who was neither invited nor expected—standing on the ducal doorstep, he was far too well trained to show any sign of displeasure.

  “Good evening, sir.” Hastings ushered him in out of the cold. Atlas stepped into the welcoming warmth of the mammoth front hall, where a huge marble statue greeted all who entered Somerville House. “If you will wait here, I will see if my lady is at home to visitors.”

  The butler returned quickly and led Atlas up the stairs. Behind them in the front hall, a footman appeared with a pristine cloth and briskly wiped away any mud and dirt Atlas had tracked in from outside.

  Atlas adjusted his cravat as he was shown to Lilliana’s private sitting room. She was standing by the window and turned to face him when he entered. She wore a white lace dressing gown beneath a sheer robe of the same color. Almost immediately, Atlas regretted his impulsiveness. The ton lived by certain rules, and he had most certainly violated one of those strictures by calling upon Lilliana at this hour. That she received him in a state of undress confirmed his misstep.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said immediately. “If you are indisposed, I shall be happy to call upon you on the morrow when you are receiving.”

  “Nonsense.” She came toward him, a welcoming expression on her face. “If I were indisposed, I would not have received you.” She turned to Hastings. “Do bring in a cheese and fruit tray.”

  Hastings nodded. “Very well, my lady.” He bowed out of the chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “There is no need to feed me,” Atlas protested.

  “Whyever not?” Lilliana arched a brow in that imperious way of hers. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes,” he lied, not wanting to impose himself any more than he already had.

  “Well, I have not.” She lowered herself on the peach stuffed silk sofa in a graceful motion. “And as long as you are here, you might as well keep me company.” She gestured with a sweep of her delicate hand. “Do sit.”

  He eyed the cream silk bergère he’d wedged himself into the last time she’d received him here in her private sanctuary, uncertain of whether the delicate tapered legs could bear his strapping form.

  Lilliana chuckled. “Come to the sofa. You will be more comfortable.” He did as she bade, settling himself at the opposite end from where she sat. “Now tell me why you have come.”

  “I have news. I believe I may have discovered the identity of Lady L.”

  “And?” She regarded him expectantly. “Who is she?”

  “Elizabeth Archer. She purchased arsenic three weeks before Davis died.”

  Lilliana’s autumn-hued eyes widened. “The factory owner’s daughter?”

  “The very one.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s thanks to Jamie, really. I had him check the poison books.”

  She flashed that enchanting, crooked smile that was so uniquely hers. “One hopes young Jamie is more adept at reading poison registers than he is at tying cravats for evening entertainments.”

  “Indeed,” Atlas said wryly. But she was barely listening. He could see her mind working. “What is it?”

  “You must talk to Miss Archer again. How will you manage it?”

  He’d wondered that himself on the walk over. “I doubt her father will welcome another visit from me, particularly if my purpose is to accuse his daughter of murder.”

  “And is that your purpose? Do you think she killed Davis?”

  “I cannot say. But I need to know why she purchased the arsenic.”

  “We also need to know what the letter L stands for, if it is not the given name of the letter writer.”

  He tried to think of words that began with L. “It could be Lady Love or Lady Lovely.”

  Wickedness flashed in Lilliana’s eyes. “Or Lady Libidinous, if her letters are anything to go by.”

  He cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

  “Even if she did purchase the arsenic, her brother or father could have taken it and found a way to slip it into Davis’s food or drink.”

  Atlas nodded. “That is entirely possible.”

  A tap at the door was followed by a footman, who brought in the food tray—cheese, grapes, bread, and wine. He set it on the table before Lilliana and Atlas and departed.

  Lilliana handed Atlas a glass of wine and then took a sip from her own. “There is no way to know what to think of Miss Archer until we speak with her.”

  “We?” he inquired before bringing the crystal to his lips to taste the wine. He was not at all surprised to find that it was excellent—probably a much finer vintage than he’d ever had before that evening.

  “Yes, given my position, I might have more luck persuading Miss Archer to call on me.”

  “But you are not acquainted with Miss Archer. What reason will you give for reaching out to her?”

  “I shall have to find one.” She plucked a grape off the stem from the tray before them. “Tell me everything you know about the young lady.”

  “In truth, I know very little.” He searched his memory, recounting for Lilliana everything he remembered of Elizabeth Archer. “And she is betrothed,” he said in conclusion.

  “Hmmm.” Lilliana rested her chin in her hand as she pondered what he’d told her. “That is not much to work with.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed, but then something else came to him. “Also, Miss Archer volunteers once a week at a charity.”

  Interest lit Lilliana’s gaze. “Which one?”

  “One that helps tradespersons who have fallen on hard times.” He tried to remember the exact name. “Ah, yes. ‘The General Society for Tradespersons Formerly Better Off,’ or some such thing.”

  “Very good,” Lilliana said. “I shall have Somerville’s secretary look into it for me.”

  Atlas drank more wine, savoring its full fruity taste. “For what purpose?”

  “I am in a particularly charitable mood.” She reached for a piece of cheese. “I feel the need to be generous.”

  He smiled knowingly. “And I suppose indigent tradesmen are your latest interest?”

  “However did you guess?” She bit into the cheese. “At least you have made progress, while I have learned nothing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I have tried to encourage gossip about the married lady of quality who took up with a footman but have come up with nothing about the lady Davis was seeing.”

  “Perhaps I shall enlist Charlton’s assistance in the matter. Gentlemen might be more inclined to discuss such things.” Concerned about overstaying his welcome, Atlas was about to bid Lilliana good evening when Hastings appeared.

  “My lady has another gentleman caller.”

  Atlas flushed. He should have surmised the moment he’d caught sight of Lilliana in an alluring dressing gown that she was expecting someone—most likely Roxbury. Instead, Atlas had charged into her inner sanctum without giving any thought whatsoever to Lilliana’s privacy.

  “Really?” Lilliana appeared as surprised as Atlas. “Who is it?”

  “The Earl of Charlton, my lady.”

  “Charlton?” Atlas echoed the butler. What the devil was the earl doing calling on Lilliana at this late hour?

  “Shall I show him up?” Hastings asked.

  “By all means,” Lilliana said. She turned to Atlas. “Do you know what this is about?”

  Atlas shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  Charlton rushed in wearing evening clothes, looking as harried as Atlas had ever seen him. “Is Mrs. Palmer here?” he asked urgently after greeting them both.

  “No,” Lilliana answered. “And I do not exp
ect her.”

  Charlton’s attention shifted to Atlas. “I’m sorry, old boy, I had no idea.”

  “Sorry about what?” Atlas asked. “Is something amiss?”

  Before Charlton could elaborate, Hastings reappeared, followed closely by Thea. “It’s quite all right,” an obviously irritated Thea was saying to the butler. “I’m certain Lady Roslyn is at home to me.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Lilliana waved the butler away. “Thank you, Hastings. You may leave us.”

  Thea too wore evening clothes. She scanned the room before her furious gaze landed firmly on her brother. The anger radiating off her almost prompted Atlas to take a step back. “How dare you!” she exclaimed.

  “Am I to know to what you are referring?” Atlas shot a confused look at Charlton, who studiously avoided his gaze. “What has upset you so?”

  Thea advanced on him, her hands planted on her hips, her face flushed. She looked like a fishwife about to take her cheating husband to task. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “About?”

  “Nicholas. How could you keep something like that from me?”

  A sickened feeling slid through Atlas’s gut. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss his sister’s lost son with anyone. “I saw no point in telling you.”

  Her eyes widened. “No point? No point?” Her agitation notched up. “He is our sister’s son. I should think the point would be obvious. We’ve neither seen nor heard anything about the boy for twenty years. And Charlton here tells me you’ve seen him twice. Twice! And you never mentioned it.”

  Charlton interjected, his tone apologetic. “I should never have said anything. I naturally assumed you’d told Thea.”

  “Yes.” Thea glared at Atlas. “Charlton assumed that precisely because telling me would be the natural thing to do. Instead, Atlas prefers to run away from things he’d rather not face. Have you booked your next passage yet?” she added sarcastically.

  “I’m running away?” Anger and frustration boiled up inside of Atlas. “Me? You are the one who escapes her perfectly nice husband every chance she gets. I’m hardly the person in this family who runs away from things. I pity Charles Palmer for having to put up with you.”