Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

  Lilliana, appearing concerned about the malevolent turn in the conversation, hurried to Thea’s side. “Why don’t we all sit down and have a glass of wine and discuss this rationally?”

  Ignoring Lilliana, Thea kept her irate focus on Atlas. “Do not try to obfuscate. This has nothing to do with my marriage, which, by the way, is none of your concern.” Her voice became tremulous. “Did you not think I would want to know what Nicholas looks like, what he said, what his voice sounds like, if he resembles Phoebe? All these years I have wondered. Haven’t you?”

  “He wants nothing to do with us.” It hurt Atlas’s lungs to breathe. “I did not tell you,” he continued in a tight voice, “because there is no point. Nicholas is forever lost to us. His father has seen to that. Telling you about our late sister’s son would have been cruel because it rips open a wound that can never heal.”

  Thea’s eyes glistened with emotion. “Is he like her?” she whispered.

  “He has her smile.”

  “Oh.” Thea put a hand to her chest. “Phoebe did have a rather marvelous smile.”

  “Yes, she did,” he agreed, his voice gentle now.

  They stood for a moment, neither of them saying anything until Thea turned to Lilliana. “I do beg your pardon for intruding like this.”

  “No apology is necessary,” Lilliana reassured her. “Come and sit. Have a glass of wine.”

  “Thank you, but I do believe I have discomposed you quite enough for one evening.” She looked to Charlton. “May I trouble you to see me home?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” The earl stepped toward her and offered his arm.

  Thea took it and, for the first time, seemed grateful to have Charlton’s strength and support by her side. They said their farewells, and Charlton solicitously escorted Thea out, the expression on his face both gentle and protective.

  Atlas watched them go before turning to Lilliana. “I am sorry you had to witness that disagreeable exchange. As you might have noticed, Thea and I can be quite sharp with each other when we have words.”

  Lilliana brushed his mea culpa aside. “It is no wonder. You are both passionate people.”

  He stared at the door his sister and his friend had just departed through. “What the devil were Thea and Charlton doing together?” he wondered aloud. “Did you notice they were both in evening clothes?”

  “I have no idea what they were up to.” She paused. “Atlas, Somerville is acquainted with Vessey. I could see if he is willing to arrange a meeting. Perhaps you two could come to an understanding that would make it more comfortable for young Nicholas to call upon his mother’s family.”

  “No.” The word came out more harshly than he intended. Atlas made an effort to soften his tone. “If I see Vessey at close quarters, I’m likely to kill him.”

  Her expression softened. “I cannot say that I blame you.”

  “I’m no longer a child.” He had been only a boy when Vessey had killed Phoebe, his much-beloved elder sister, and as such, had not been in a position to make the bastard pay for what he had done.

  “If I see Vessey now, as a grown man, I will call him out. And I will kill him.” He gave her a grim look. “And that would not endear me to my nephew.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Few people would decline an invitation from the sister of the Duke of Somerville—most certainly not a merchant’s daughter, no matter how well-to-do her family might be. A young woman of Elizabeth Archer’s social status had little hope of being received by someone of Lilliana’s superior class and breeding, so it came as no surprise when she appeared at Somerville House at the precise date and time of Lilliana’s choosing.

  What might have taken Elizabeth aback more than Lilliana’s summons, based on her expression when Hastings showed the girl into the one of the duke’s gleaming formal drawing rooms, was Atlas’s presence by Lilliana’s side. He stood when she entered. Lilliana remained seated.

  “Miss Archer,” he greeted her. “A pleasure to see you again. May I present Lady Roslyn?”

  The girl dipped a careful curtsey. “My lady.”

  “Do take a seat, Miss Archer.” Lilliana was at her supercilious best—posture perfect, chin angled upward, arrogance tingeing every syllable. She’d apparently determined that a certain level of hauteur would be most effective in this particular situation. Hers was a performance to behold. At the moment, even Atlas himself was a bit daunted by the force of Lilliana’s masterful display.

  “I’ve already called for tea,” Lilliana announced.

  “Thank you, my lady.” The girl slipped self-consciously into the nearest gilded chair with carved tapered legs. “In your note, you indicated an interest in the General Society?”

  “Yes indeed. Mr. Catesby mentioned his acquaintance with a young lady who volunteered at the Society.”

  “Yes, my lady. What is it you would like to know?”

  Lilliana asked a few general questions about the charity for tradesmen until the tea tray came in. “Sugar, Miss Archer?” Lilliana perched on the edge of the sofa to serve the tea.

  “No, thank you,” Elizabeth answered. “Just cream, if you please.” Miss Archer apparently didn’t care for sweets, because she passed on the tray of cakes while making two selections from the sandwich tray.

  Once they were all settled with their tea, Lilliana said, “I do believe my brother, the duke, should very much like to contribute.”

  “His generosity will no doubt be greatly appreciated, my lady,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Then it is settled.” Lilliana sipped her tea while continuing in a conversational tone. “Elizabeth is such a lovely name. I have a cousin named Elizabeth. We call her Lillibet.”

  “How charming,” Elizabeth said. “My family calls me Libby.”

  Libby. Lady L. Triumph gleamed in Lilliana’s eyes, but she lowered her gaze before the young woman could register her reaction. “I understand you were acquainted with Gordon Davis.”

  Elizabeth’s porcelain cup landed in the saucer with a little clatter. “Yes, my lady.”

  “He was the brother of my maid. She is understandably distraught at his passing. Were you well acquainted with him?”

  “I was not, my lady.” Her expression politely bland, Elizabeth set her tea on the marble table beside her with care. “He was a particular friend of my brother.”

  “I see,” Lilliana said. “I have asked Mr. Catesby to look into Mr. Davis’s death. His sister, my maid, believes he was murdered.”

  “How ghastly,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “Indeed.” Lilliana nibbled on a dainty lemon cake. “Mr. Catesby has a talent for solving riddles and puzzles of any sort. He has kindly agreed to investigate Mr. Davis’s death as a personal favor to me.”

  Taking Lilliana’s cue, Atlas finally stepped into the conversation. “Mr. Davis died by arsenic poisoning.”

  “Did he?” Elizabeth listened politely, as if she had no idea whatsoever what any of this had to do with her.

  Atlas decided the time had come to shake her out of her complacency. “It has come to our attention that you purchased arsenic shortly before Mr. Davis perished.”

  Wariness immediately shadowed the young woman’s face. “Has it?”

  “Yes, all poison sales are registered, and your name was written in the register.”

  “My private purchases are my own affair.”

  “Yes, they are,” he allowed. “Unless, of course, the arsenic you purchased was used to kill Mr. Davis.”

  Elizabeth paled. “That’s absurd.”

  Lilliana set her tea down. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to tell us why you bought arsenic.”

  This time Elizabeth flushed. “It was for personal reasons.”

  She was clearly embarrassed, but Atlas doubted Elizabeth’s reasons for purchasing arsenic were the same as Davis’s. “We’ve no wish to cause you discomfort, Miss Archer, and please be assured that nothing you share with us will leave this room.”

  She looked fr
om Atlas to Lilliana and back again. “It was a beauty treatment. A friend suggested I try it to improve my complexion.”

  “You used it yourself?” Atlas asked.

  She nodded. “I have freckles, which some find unattractive. Arsenic washes also help with blemishes.”

  “Are you still using it?” Lilliana wanted to know.

  “No, I did not see any improvement, so I stopped washing with it after five or six times.”

  “Do you still have the unused arsenic in your possession?” Atlas said.

  “No, my mother does not approve of arsenic. I threw the remainder of it away before she could discover I had made use of it.”

  Atlas decided to take the most direct approach possible. “Did Gordon Davis ever call you Lady L?”

  Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Certainly not.”

  “Did you exchange letters with him?” he pressed. “We have letters of an intimate nature in our possession that Mr. Davis exchanged with a young woman who signed the missives with a single letter L.”

  “I know nothing about that,” she said stubbornly.

  Atlas pressed on. “Were you hoping to marry Mr. Davis?”

  “Most certainly not.” She seemed affronted. “I am betrothed to Mr. Montgomery, as you well know.”

  “Please do not take offense.” Lilliana smiled reassuringly. “Mr. Catesby does not mean to question your reputation. He is simply attempting to be thorough in his investigation.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Despite her words, Elizabeth held herself very still, tension emanating from her slender form. She rose. “My father will expect me home soon. I really must go.”

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Archer.” Lilliana rang for Hastings to escort the young woman out. “I’ll see to it that a check is sent directly to the General Society.”

  Once Elizabeth was gone, Lilliana turned to Atlas. “What do you make of it?”

  “I think she could very well be Lady L.”

  Lilliana appeared doubtful. “It is rather difficult to envision that young lady as the amorous Lady L. I don’t mean to be unkind, but she is rather”—she searched for the correct word—“colorless somehow.”

  “She is rather ordinary of face and tempered of demeanor,” he acknowledged, “but we must consider that her true private self might be at odds with the personage she shows polite society.”

  “You think there is a vixen deep down beneath all of that reserve?”

  “There is one way that I can think of to find out.”

  She regarded him with interest. “You have a plan involving Miss Archer.”

  “I do.” He couldn’t help the smugness that leaked into his words. “We will soon know for certain whether Elizabeth Archer is our Lady L.”

  * * *

  “It’s deuced cold,” Walter Perry complained. “How long have we got to wait out here?”

  “Hopefully not too much longer.” Atlas held tight to his beaver hat as the wind whipped around them. He’d brought Gordon Davis’s former neighbor to the home that temporarily housed tradespersons who had fallen on hard times, the home where Elizabeth Archer volunteered once a week on Tuesdays.

  At least, Atlas hoped she came on Tuesdays. When he’d visited the family in Clapham, Elizabeth had remarked that she volunteered at the home once a week. He could only hope she visited on the same day each week. He did not relish the idea of standing outside the society’s old-fashioned, somewhat ramshackle house on the edge of town for an entire week.

  Not that he was concerned about Perry’s continuing cooperation. He felt confident the man would continue to meet Atlas here as long as he was paid for his time. Since Atlas’s pockets were not bottomless, he certainly hoped Elizabeth would present herself soon. Although Lilliana would happily assume the investigation’s expenses, Atlas would never ask her to.

  He straightened when a coach pulled in front of the home. A young lady alighted. Elizabeth Archer. Atlas breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would know for certain whether Elizabeth was Lady L.

  “Well?” he prompted Perry.

  Perry stared so long and hard that Atlas’s stomach began to sink. It seemed Perry did not recognize Elizabeth as the young lady he’d seen with Gordon Davis near the Strand.

  “That’s her,” he finally said with total surety.

  “What?”

  “I said that’s her.” Perry’s gaze remained on Elizabeth as she walked up to the house, followed by her lady’s maid.

  Atlas watched the young lady disappear through the front door. “Are you certain?”

  “Like I told you, I never forget a face. That’s the gel I saw with that popinjay.” Perry’s disdain for the dead man didn’t appear to have diminished at all. “She made a close escape, if you ask me. It’s lucky for her that he went and cocked up his toes.”

  Atlas remained silent, considering the implications of what he’d just learned. Not only was Elizabeth Archer very likely the elusive Lady L, but the revelation pointed more directly to certain suspects—not only Elizabeth herself but also her father and brother, who might have discovered Elizabeth’s scandalous indiscretion, or possibly her jealous fiancé, who’d made no effort to hide his possessiveness of Elizabeth in Atlas’s presence. Any of them might have been angry enough, or fearful enough of scandal and ruination, to silence Gordon Davis forever.

  “Is that all?” Perry asked him. “My missus will be waiting on me.”

  “Yes, we’re done here.” Atlas dropped a few shillings into the man’s open palm. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  Perry tipped his hat and went on his way. Eager to escape the cold, Atlas crossed over to the home with his guaranteed admittance pass—the Duke of Somerville’s generous check—folded neatly in his pocket.

  Once Atlas invoked the Duke of Somerville’s name, he was shown to a private parlor with threadbare carpets and worn upholstery to await Elizabeth Archer.

  “Mr. Catesby.” She came in after keeping him waiting just a few minutes. She was expensively yet modestly dressed in an unremarkable gown. There was nothing flamboyant about Miss Archer.

  “Miss Archer. Allow me to apologize for interrupting your good works.”

  “I was reading to the children, but they are outside playing.” She closed the door behind her. He noted that she did not leave the door ajar to protect her virtuous reputation, as most young women of good family would be inclined to do. “The fresh air will do them well, but it is cold. I’ll rejoin them in a trice to continue our lesson.”

  He registered the subtle warning on her part that she did not intend to spare him much of her time. He pulled the check from his pocket. “I have brought his grace’s contribution.”

  “You needn’t have troubled yourself.” She took the proffered check and folded it away somewhere in her skirts without observing the generous sum the duke had bestowed upon her favored charity. “We could have sent someone for it.”

  “It was no trouble at all. I volunteered to bring it because I hoped to speak with you again.” If his words discomfited her, she did not show it. Folding her hands serenely in front of her, Elizabeth Archer waited for him to continue.

  “Gordon Davis had a neighbor who once saw Davis on the Strand with a well-dressed young woman of obvious good breeding.”

  She betrayed nothing. Her calm reserve remained firmly in place. “I’m afraid I fail to understand what any of this has to do with me.”

  “That neighbor, Mr. Perry, accompanied me here today and saw you arrive. He identified you as the young woman he saw accompanying Mr. Davis.”

  “He is mistaken.”

  “Mr. Perry was very certain.”

  “I do not know your Mr. Perry, and I was just barely acquainted with the late Mr. Davis.” Indignation laced her words. Atlas had succeeded in ruffling her reserve. Was it because he had come too close to the truth—that she was indeed Lady L? Or was it simply that, by accusing her of walking near the Strand with Mr. Davis, he had questioned her virtue?

  “I am be
trothed and will marry in the fall,” she said pointedly. “Now if you will excuse me, I must see to the children.”

  She did not wait for his response before departing the room without sparing him another look. After she’d gone, Atlas saw himself out. Passing through the front hall, he went by a black-clad young maid. After a moment, Atlas recognized her as the maid who’d accompanied Elizabeth Archer to the Society.

  “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly.

  Her brown eyes went wide, and she dipped a nervous curtsey. It was not customary for a gentleman to greet a servant unless he had a need to be taken care of. “Sir.”

  “Are you waiting for your mistress, Miss Archer?”

  She licked her lips. “That I am, sir.”

  “I believe she is still conducting the children’s lesson.”

  “Could be, sir. I don’t expect her for another hour or so.”

  “Is that so? I wonder if you would be so kind as to answer a question.” He paused to draw a few shillings from his pocket.

  Her eyes followed the movement. “Yes, sir?”

  “I wonder if you ever saw Miss Archer out with a particular friend of mine, a Mr. Gordon Davis.”

  A mulish look came over the girl’s thin face. “I’m sure I cannot say, sir.”

  Rather than being discouraged, Atlas took the girl’s initial reluctance as a positive sign. A servant unwilling to tell tales about her mistress would also be less likely to lie about said mistress. “I assure you, I wish her no harm.”

  “Please do not ask me to speak against my mistress, sir. I have only recently gone into service for the Archer family.”

  “You’re new? When did you begin your employment with the Archers?”

  “Just a few weeks ago. After they let Sara Lloyd go. I replaced her.”

  “What happened to this Sara you speak of?”

  “She was accused of stealing, sir. Sara agreed to leave quietly.”

  A theft accusation was ruinous for someone in service. “Do you know where she went?”

  “She still works in Clapham, sir. She’s employed by an abolitionist family now.”