by D. M. Quincy
“I say, are you still looking into that Davis fellow’s death?”
“Gordon Davis? Yes, I am.”
“Have you had any luck?”
“I’m making progress. I’m off to Clapham now to speak with a maid who used to work for Noel Archer, the man who owns the factory where Davis worked.”
“I’ve heard of the man. You think Archer is involved with Davis’s death?”
“I cannot say.” The servant arrived with Atlas’s greatcoat and hat. Atlas swung the wool garment onto his shoulders. “Davis lost his situation after he was caught stealing arsenic from the factory, but Archer forced the manager to give Davis his job back.”
Interest lit the runner’s small ebony eyes, which looked like glowing currants among the fleshy folds of his face. “Now why would he do that?”
“That’s what I am attempting to ascertain.” He placed his hat on his head. “Now if you will excuse me, I do have my own investigating to accomplish this day.”
* * *
When Atlas reached Clapham in the early afternoon and inquired about the Price house, he was directed to a stately structure that fronted the commons. It wasn’t as large or obvious as the much newer Archer dwelling on the opposite side of the green, but the Price abode was a substantial home nonetheless.
Having no desire to inconvenience the Prices—and having no need to speak with them—Atlas made his way around back to the servants’ entrance to inquire after Sara Lloyd. He stepped carefully to avoid the muddy spots as an icy burst of wind swept by. The air remained uncommonly brisk for early May; Atlas was relieved he’d worn his greatcoat.
When he reached the servants’ entrance, a delivery boy departing with his empty basket stepped past Atlas. Behind the lad, a tiny, trim woman in a white apron with streaks of gray in her curly hair issued instructions.
“And we’ll be needing sugar,” she called to the boy. “Don’t forget.”
“Yes, Mrs. McNab.” The boy tipped his cap. “I’ll remember.”
“And say hello to your ma.”
As the boy departed, Mrs. McNab turned her attention to Atlas. Her eyes widened as she took in his appearance, including the beaver hat, fine wool coat, and polished boots that distinguished him as a gentleman, or at least as someone of high enough stature not to use the entrance reserved for servants and deliveries. “Good afternoon, sir. The main entrance is around front.”
“Thank you. Mrs. McNab, is it?” he asked, recalling the name the delivery boy had used.
“Yes, sir.” She stood in the aperture, a stance that effectively denied him entry.
“I am here to speak with Sara Lloyd. Is she perchance available?”
Curiosity flitted across the older woman’s face. “You want Sara?”
“Yes, I hoped for a word with her.”
“She’s in the scullery. She has much work to finish.”
“I understand.” His tone was politely sympathetic. “I won’t keep her long.”
Mrs. McNab gave him another assessing gaze. “Very well.” She moved aside. “Follow me.”
She led him through a narrow corridor, past the servants’ hall, where a couple of footmen were taking their tea, and another small room where shoes were being cleaned and shined. Curious looks followed their progress. It wasn’t every day that a gentleman traversed the servants’ domain.
Mrs. McNab stopped at the landing atop four steps that appeared to lead to the scullery. “Through there.” She pointed in the direction he was to go.
Atlas thanked her and trotted down the stairs. He found a dark-haired, broad-faced woman, who appeared to be in her midthirties, hard at work in the hot, humid room where clothes were being cleaned in a large copper pot over a fire. He stepped past an ironing board stacked with clothes to where the woman was hard at work at the wringer.
“Sara?” he inquired. “Are you Sara Lloyd?”
She looked up from her task, her face flushed from her exertions, appearing to notice him for the first time. “Yes?”
“My name is Atlas Catesby.”
She looked him over. “I recognize you. You paid a call at the Archer house a few weeks ago.”
“Yes,” he said with surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I saw you. You were talking to Miss Elizabeth and Miss Harriet out in front of the house.”
“I was indeed.” He drew off his hat and set it on the ironing board. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
“About Gordon Davis?”
Sara Lloyd was full of surprises. He wondered how much she knew about Gordon Davis. “Did you have occasion to meet Mr. Davis?”
“Aye.” She turned the crank to wring out what looked like someone’s chemise. “I did.”
“When he was with Trevor Archer?”
“No, with Miss Elizabeth.” She pulled the garment out of the wringer and set it aside. “The first time she pointed him out to me, he was in the street, and we saw him from the drawing room window.”
“And what did she say when she pointed him out?”
“That he was a friend. She did not tell me his name.”
Anticipation danced along Atlas’s nerve endings. Elizabeth had strongly denied any sort of friendship with Davis. “Did Gordon Davis ever visit Miss Elizabeth Archer?”
She nodded. “I told her it would come to no good, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She kept seeing him.”
He struggled to keep his tone neutral. “Are you saying Davis visited Miss Elizabeth more than once?”
“Yes.” Blowing a loose tendril of hair out of her perspiring face, Sara pulled another soaking garment out of the large tub by the wringer. Watching her labor, it occurred to him that she had come down in the world since leaving the Archers’ employ. To go from upstairs maid, who served the young ladies of the house, to the scullery was a precipitous fall for someone in service.
“How is it possible that Davis visited Miss Elizabeth?” He grew more skeptical. If Sara was bitter about her fallout with the Archer family, she might be inclined to slander their good name. “Davis could hardly visit her at the Archer house, given Mr. Archer’s disdain for the man. And the young ladies of the household appear to be well chaperoned whenever they venture out.”
Her half smile was cynical. “Determined young ladies know how to get what they want.”
He thought of Lavinia Fenton and her scandalous visit to Holywell Street. “Well, yes, I see what you mean. So how did Miss Elizabeth manage it?”
“Davis came to the house. Miss Elizabeth instructed me to open the back gate for him.”
“Where was the rest of the family?”
“That first time, it was a Sunday. They were all at church. Miss Elizabeth stayed behind because she pretended to be ill.”
“What happened then? She visited with Davis by the back gate?”
Sara shook her head. “He went into the laundry. She showed him in and shut the door. They were in there together for about half an hour.”
Half an hour. So Elizabeth had not only befriended Davis, she’d also been alone with him on at least one occasion. “He visited more than once?”
“He did. It was always the same. I would leave the back gate open, and she would go out to him.”
“Did they always go into the laundry?”
“I cannot say. After that first time, he only came at night, after the family had retired for the evening.” Her distaste was apparent. “I would leave the back gate open, and then I would go to my room.”
“So you cannot say whether or not he came into the house again after that first time.”
“I cannot.” The dispassionate way in which Sara spoke seemed to suggest she did not particularly care whether Atlas believed her story or not.
“I wonder how Miss Elizabeth managed to go out to the back gate and visit with Davis without anyone in her family hearing her.”
“Miss Elizabeth’s chamber was on the ground floor, while the rest of the family was abovestairs. The family wou
ld not have heard anything once they were abed.”
Atlas absently watched the maid thread a dark garment into the wringer. If Sara was to be believed, Davis and Elizabeth had enough time and privacy to engage in the types of intimacies described in Lady L’s letters.
“Do you know if Miss Elizabeth wrote letters to Davis?” he asked.
“She did.”
“And the reason you know this is . . . ?” he prompted.
“She gave me letters addressed to Davis and asked me to post them.”
“I presume he wrote her back?”
“Yes, only he would address the letters to me. When I received them, I would give them to her.”
“How many letters were there?”
“A good many. I cannot say exactly how many.”
He paused. “Forgive the intrusion, but I am interested to know why you left the Archers’ employment.”
She stopped her work to look him full in the face. “Once she became betrothed to Mr. Montgomery, I refused to send or receive any letters for her, but Davis kept walking by the house and delivering letters to her through the window.”
“Which window?”
“The window in Miss Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He would visit her there late in the evening.”
He tried to picture the windows on the ground floor of the Archer home. “Those windows are barred, are they not?”
“Yes, but Davis could still pass items through the bars.” Her lips twisted in distaste. “He could hold her hand.”
“I’m surprised Miss Elizabeth kept up the friendship with Davis even after she became betrothed to Mr. Montgomery.”
“She told me she was trying to end it, but Davis kept coming around. I threatened to tell her father.” She fairly spat the words. “Davis was up to no good. Miss Elizabeth had a respectable man who wanted to wed her, but for some reason she allowed Davis to keep visiting her. It wasn’t right.”
It dawned on him that Sara had attempted to do right by her young mistress. “You tried to protect her.”
“Yes. But she feared I would carry out my threat to tell her father everything.”
The pieces clicked into place in his mind. “That’s why she accused you of stealing from her. That way, if you told Mr. Archer anything about Davis, he would be disinclined to believe you.”
“Yes,” she said resignedly. “And who will hire a lady’s maid accused of theft? I am fortunate Mr. Price offered me a place here.”
Sara Lloyd had paid a heavy price indeed for trying to save Elizabeth Archer from Gordon Davis’s machinations. Atlas thanked her for her time and readied to take his leave. As he picked up his hat from atop the ironing board, he discreetly slipped a few shillings in its place before seeing himself out.
Chapter Sixteen
“I am astonished,” Lilliana said. “Lady Lavinia seemed a much more likely choice to be Lady L.”
Atlas did not disagree. “A person’s true private nature can certainly surprise.”
They strolled in Kensington Gardens, falling well behind Lilliana’s sons, Peter and Robin, who ran and shouted up ahead as they rolled their hoops over the damp grass. The gardens were lush and elegant, a place where people of fashion mingled with well-dressed city dwellers of various ranks. Atlas and Lilliana had not come at the fashionable hour; consequently, the crowds had yet to descend, which gave the boys plenty of room to frolic.
When Atlas had sent Lilliana a note indicating he had news, she’d asked him to join her and the children at Kensington Gardens. It was the second time she’d invited him to spend time with her children. Now that she and the boys were comfortably settled with her brother and Somerville was firmly ensconced as the boys’ guardian and paternal figure, Atlas supposed Lilliana no longer worried about her children becoming too attached to Atlas.
Lilliana righted her straw bonnet, adjusting the satin bow, which matched the blossom pink of her walking dress. The shade brought out the color in her cheeks and enhanced the luminous quality of her skin. She looked as fresh and appealing as any of the vibrant flowers lining their path.
“You believe this maid?” Lilliana asked.
“I have no reason not to. But to be certain, I’d like to compare the writing on Lady L’s letters to Elizabeth Archer’s to see if they were composed by the same hand.”
“Consider it done,” she said airily. “I shall send Miss Archer a note—one that naturally requires a reply—and then we shall be able to compare her handwriting against Lady L’s.”
“A clever plan.”
“Well, I can be rather nimble-minded at times.”
“More often than not, in my experience.”
She tapped him with her closed parasol. “Flatterer.”
It was not false praise. Lilliana was probably one of the most adroit women of his acquaintance. But he did not say so. Instead, he turned the conversation back to Elizabeth Archer. “If what the maid says it true, it is interesting that Miss Archer maintained her connection to Davis even after her betrothal.”
“Indeed. There are two possible reasons that I can think of. Either she still had feelings for him . . .”
“Or she feared he would use the letters to disgrace her,” Atlas finished the thought.
Robin came running up to them, his cheeks flushed from exertion. “Come and play with us, Mr. Catesby. I’ve been practicing.”
His older brother came up behind him. “Yes, please do.”
“Not now, my darlings,” their mother said, her tone tender. The cut-glass edges of her precise diction always softened around her children. “Mr. Catesby and I are having an important conversation.”
Peter looked expectantly at Atlas. “What about after? Will you race us after?” He shot a disdainful sidelong glance at his brother. “Robin’s too little, but I think I can best you.”
“I am not too little,” Robin said indignantly.
Peter’s only response to his younger brother was to roll his eyes before asking Atlas, “Will you play? Will you?”
“I am not too little,” Robin repeated.
“Boys,” Lilliana interjected. “You must not impose on Mr. Catesby. He is not dressed for sport.”
“It is no imposition,” Atlas reassured her before directing his next words to her children. “I will race you both if you give your mama and me a few minutes to finish our discussion.”
Seemingly satisfied with his answer, both boys ran off, using their sticks to roll their hoops along the graveled path.
Lilliana watched after them, but her thoughts were clearly on the investigation. “What if Miss Archer and Mr. Davis were truly married? She did sign some letters as Mrs. Davis.”
He considered the possibility. “If that were the case, in order to wed Montgomery, the man she is betrothed to, she would need to rid herself of her secret husband.”
A visible shiver ran through Lilliana. “How desperate a person must be to feel pushed to commit murder.”
“I doubt Miss Archer and Davis were married. As I recall, the letters seemed to indicate that she considered herself to be his wife because of the . . . erm . . . intimacies they’d shared.”
She nodded. “Yes, I agree it is unlikely she was his wife in truth. Although if she was, she’d certainly be free to marry now.”
“Davis did return at least one of her letters unopened, and she admonished him for it. Perhaps he did jilt her and she poisoned him out of spite.”
One of Lilliana’s autumn-hued eyes narrowed as she considered that scenario. He’d noticed she had a tendency to do that—squinting just the left eye, not both—when she was deep in thought. “She implored him to return the letters. We found them in his room, so obviously he never gave them back.”
“There are certainly many possibilities.”
“We have to speak with Miss Archer again.”
“I agree, but where?” He considered their options. “I suppose I could go back to where she volunteers, to the home for tradespersons.”
“We can speak
with her at the upcoming benefit.”
“What benefit?”
“Now that Somerville is an extremely generous patron of the charity, we receive information about their activities.”
“And there’s a benefit?”
“Indeed. It’s being held at the arcade.”
“A shopping area seems like an odd place for a benefit.”
“Ah, but it’s an event to raise funds for tradespersons who have fallen on hard times. Their fellow tradesmen are assisting them by organizing the benefit. A portion of the proceeds, including any shopping that is done, will go to help fund the home.”
“So it seems we are to go shopping for a good cause?”
“Yes. And it just so happens that I am in need of an escort.”
He doubted that. “I’m surprised Roxbury hasn’t already offered to accompany you.”
“I don’t believe that he is aware of the event.”
He paused. “Roxbury won’t be pleased if he learns I’ve escorted you.” He thought to warn her of her suitor’s likely negative reaction. If Lilliana had hopes in that direction, Atlas did not want to stand in her way.
Her tone was dismissive. “He has no claim on me.”
“He thinks he does.” Atlas found himself watching closely for her reaction. “Roxbury warned me off of you.”
“Did he?” She seemed both surprised and intrigued. “When was that?”
“At his garden party. It’s clear he hopes to make you his marchioness.”
“And?” Her eyes were alight with interest. “What did you say?”
There hadn’t been much to say. He admired Lilliana greatly, but given their disparate social standing, he harbored no hopes in that direction. “Very little.”
She lifted her delicate chin and favored him with a haughty look he was coming to know quite well. “You don’t strike me as a man who warns off easily.”
“I am not.”
Her mouth curved upward in that off-kilter, insolent way of hers. “I am glad.”
Her last response threw Atlas off. They seemed to have reached some sort of understanding, but he wasn’t quite certain what it was. Before he had time to fully contemplate their exchange, the boys were upon them again like a swarm of determined bees, this time pulling and tugging at Atlas, imploring him to come along.