by D. M. Quincy
Atlas masked his surprise, wondering why Archer would summon him the day after his family had been poisoned. “How may I be of service?”
Archer gestured toward the shiny new sofa where a plumper, older version of Elizabeth Archer sat with a distressed expression on her face. “This is my wife, Mrs. Archer.”
“Madam,” Atlas said with a slight bow. “Please allow me to express my sincere sympathies for the recent misfortune that has befallen your family.”
She gave him watery smile. “Thank you. I hope you will be in a position to assist us.”
“If I am able,” he said, still confused as to what the Archers wanted from him. “How is Miss Harriet faring?”
Mrs. Archer’s face crumpled, and Mr. Archer said, “There has been no change. The doctor says there is nothing further he can do. We must wait and pray for Harriet’s recovery.”
“I shall say a prayer for Miss Harriet as well. And your son, Trevor, how is he?”
“Much better,” Mr. Archer said. “He is up and walking around today.”
“And Miss Elizabeth Archer?”
“Physically she is fine, but she is most distressed about what has occurred,” her father said.
Mrs. Archer blotted another tear. “Libby is particularly distraught about Harriet.”
Archer nodded. “She spent all night nursing both Harriet and Trevor once she was assured her mama and I were just fine.”
“We are being most inhospitable, Mr. Archer,” his wife said. “We have left Mr. Catesby standing for far too long. Please take a seat.”
“How may I be of assistance?” Atlas asked once they’d all settled.
“You have been investigating Gordon Davis’s poisoning. He worked at my factory. I cannot help but wonder if the two cases are related. I thought, perhaps, during the course of your private inquiry, you might have uncovered information that could shed light on who wants to harm my family.”
He would not share what he’d learned about Davis, Elizabeth, and her purchase of arsenic. Not until he was certain she’d poisoned her own family. “Do you have any idea how all of you ingested the poison? Was it in your meal perhaps?”
Archer wiped a hand down his face. “We all took tea and supper together. It makes no sense that Elizabeth wasn’t sickened in any way. We all ate the same thing.”
The maid came in with the tea tray and set it on the table before the sofa.
“No, no.” Mrs. Archer scooted forward on the sofa to serve the tea. “Not this old sugar bowl.” The porcelain container was cracked and had clearly known better days. It did not match with the rest of the tea service. “Please take this one away and bring the new one.”
As the maid hurried away to do as she was bid, Mrs. Archer glanced apologetically at Atlas while she poured the tea. “One of the kitchen maids broke our usual sugar bowl. We had to make use of this one yesterday.”
The maid returned with the new sugar bowl, which was shiny and new, like almost everything else in the Archer household. Mrs. Archer lifted its delicate lid. “How many sugars, Mr. Catesby?”
“Just a little, please.” He noted the Archers’ sugar had been very finely shaved off the cone. Instead of lumps, the sugar was smooth and almost granular.
He accepted his tea from Elizabeth’s mother and watched as she prepared cups for herself and her husband. Neither of them took much sugar, just the slightest bit. Something nudged in Atlas’s brain. “Miss Elizabeth does not take sugar in her tea.”
“No, indeed she does not,” Mrs. Archer said. “She has no interest whatsoever in anything sweet.”
“The old sugar bowl. When did you use it?”
“Just yesterday after the bowl we normally use broke.”
“How does Miss Harriet take her tea?”
“With lots of sugar,” her father said. “My girl adores sweets.”
“Sometimes, we catch her sneaking sugar straight from the bowl,” Mrs. Archer added.
“And Trevor,” Atlas said. “I gather he too is fond of sweets.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Archer. “He is almost as bad as his sister.”
Mr. Archer studied Atlas’s face, his expression serious. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think we’ve just discovered how your family was poisoned. The arsenic is in the sugar. The question now is, who put it there?”
* * *
Atlas spent the next hour questioning the servants.
“The old sugar bowl was pressed into service when clumsy May here dropped the fine porcelain bowl the family normally uses,” said Mrs. Becher, the family cook, a stern-faced woman and undisputed ruler of the kitchen and those who worked within it.
May, a pale-faced young girl, nervously wrung the fabric of her flounced apron. “I was drying the porcelain. ’Twas an accident, it was.”
“The cost of replacing it should come from her pay.” The cook spoke in a biting tone. “But Mrs. Archer is too kindhearted and wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I’m grateful.” The girl visibly cringed under the cook’s tongue lashing. “Truly I am.”
Atlas surveyed the enormous kitchen. Everything was as pristine and new as the rest of the Archer house, with spotless flagstone floors, freshly painted shelves upon which copper pots and pans were neatly lined up, and a black cast-iron cooking range with brass accents filling the enormous hearth.
“Where do you store the sugar?” he asked.
“The sugar for the master and the family is in the confectionary,” Mrs. Becher told him.
“The confectionary?”
“The pastry larder.” Mrs. Becher directed him to a cozy shelf-lined room just off the kitchen. A marble-topped dresser stood at the center of the wooden-floored space.
“Here it is.” She pulled open a deep drawer, revealing the coarse granulated sugar within. “Powdered for the master and the family.” She pointed to the drawer beside it. “The flour is there. We store most everything needed for making pastries in here.”
“And this is where all of the sugar is kept?” he inquired.
“No, powdered sugar is far too precious. The servants use cones.” She bustled over to another door off the kitchen. “We keep sugar for the servants here in the larder with the spices.” She unwrapped a hard cone of sugar. Servants would break off chunks as needed for their tea. “At times we mix this sugar with water for baking.”
“But the sugar in the pastry larder is what the family uses for their tea?” He went back to the confectionary, with Mrs. Becher following, and examined the door. “Do you lock this door?”
“Not during the day. We lock up the kitchen at night.”
“Who has the keys?”
“I have a one, and Mrs. Archer has one.”
He pulled the sugar drawer open, wondering whether the entire supply was tainted. “Have you used the powdered sugar since the family took their tea yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, we made pastries that the family ate in the evening after supper. Everyone ate them but poor Miss Harriet, who had already begun to feel poorly. And Miss Elizabeth, of course. She is not one for sweets. And any pastry that remained was eaten this morning.”
“Did Mr. And Mrs. Archer partake?” They both had appeared hearty to him. If the entire sugar store were tainted, they’d have taken ill after eating the pastries.
“Yes, they both enjoy apple pastry, particularly Mr. Archer. He ate several of them.”
“Who filled the old sugar bowl once May broke the one the family normally uses?”
“I’m not certain,” Mrs. Becher said. “We had the hardest time locating it. The old thing wasn’t in its usual cupboard.”
“Where did you find it?”
“It was hidden away on one of these shelves.” She pointed to where she’d found it. “Someone had placed it behind the pans, and it was already filled with sugar.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Most unusual. We wouldn’t want roaches, weevils, or other varmints to get into the sugar. The bowl
s that aren’t regularly in use are usually kept empty until we have need of them.”
“Maybe one of the servants filled the bowl?”
“If they did, none of them confessed to it when I expressed my displeasure at the sugar being wasted so. But I examined it, and the sugar looked fine, so I sent it in to the family on the tea tray. Mr. Archer does not like waste.”
He thanked her and made his way back to where the Archers awaited him.
“I advise you to throw out all of the powdered sugar,” Atlas told Mr. Archer. “I doubt the entire drawer is tainted, but were I you, I would not take the chance.”
“I will instruct Mrs. Becher to do so immediately,” Mrs. Archer interjected.
“What do you make of it?” Mr. Archer asked Atlas, his expression worried and haggard. “Why would someone target my entire family? Perhaps they wished to punish me.”
Atlas wasn’t sure what to think. “Do you have enemies?”
“Not that I know of. Not to the extent that they would endanger my loved ones.” Archer seemed genuinely perplexed. “I do try to do right by people.”
“Mrs. Archer,” Atlas inquired, “may I ask where you keep the keys to the kitchen?”
“In a drawer in the chest in the front hall,” she said.
“It is common knowledge that you keep it there?”
“My children certainly know. When Trevor comes in late, he is sometimes hungry and will go to the kitchen for something to eat. Elizabeth uses it as well. She’ll be up late reading and desire refreshment before sleeping.”
Atlas did not care for the direction in which the evidence pointed. Elizabeth Archer had purchased arsenic, had ready access to the household sugar supply, and was the only person in her family to escape eating the tainted sugar.
Was it a coincidence? Or was Elizabeth Archer the most cold-blooded of murderers, capable of killing her own family?
* * *
Atlas returned home to an unexpected visitor.
He found Lilliana sitting before his game table, the window framing her aristocratic profile and lithe figure in sharp relief. He watched her for a moment, her face the picture of concentration as she contemplated his unfinished puzzle.
He broke the silence. “This is a surprise.”
She turned at the sound of his voice, concern etched on her face. “Atlas. Finally.” She rose and came toward him in a cranberry-colored gown that complemented her ivory complexion and dark hair. “How are the Archers? How is Elizabeth?”
“Miss Elizabeth Archer is well.” He’d sent Lilliana a note informing her of the Archers’ misfortune before going out to Clapham. “She is the sole member of the family to be spared.”
Lilliana studied his face. “What are you suggesting?”
“I?” He flattened a hand against the expanse of his chest. “I have suggested nothing.”
“Surely you don’t think she poisoned her own family.”
“Here are the facts.” He verbally listed what they knew thus far. “There was arsenic in the sugar. Bow Street believes the family was poisoned by arsenic. We know Elizabeth Archer purchased arsenic. Gordon Davis, who was intimately acquainted with the young lady, was poisoned with arsenic.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she paced slowly as she considered his words. “I just do not see it.”
“The circumstances do seem to suggest Elizabeth is the culprit.”
She turned to face him. “Did you see her?”
“No, she was nursing her sister. Elizabeth was apparently up all night tending to her ill siblings.”
“Which shows she’s likely a loving sister.”
“Or,” he countered, “that she is consumed with guilt.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have reached no conclusions, but I do believe Gordon Davis’s death is somehow related to the poisoning of the Archer family.”
“It does seem likely.”
He watched her pace some more. “Will you take a seat?”
She slipped into one of the stuffed chairs, and he took his usual seat opposite her. Lilliana’s gaze wandered around the sitting room, from the crimson carpets and orange wallpaper to the chairs and sofa covered in sky-blue paisley chintz. “You can certainly learn a great deal about a person by visiting his home.”
Lilliana had been there once before, late at night during a time of great distress, and had only stayed for a few minutes. He liked having her there now, sitting with him, as they discussed the case. “Is it the bright colors?” he asked. “The decoration is not my choice. The apartments came furnished.”
She smiled. “Ah, that explains it.” She turned her attention to the small table at her side, running a light finger over the flat wooden fragments Atlas had arranged into a perfect square. “And this?” She picked up one of the precisely cut shapes. “What is this?”
“Something I picked up in Greece. It’s called an Archimedes’ Box.”
She rearranged the pieces, sliding them around on the table. “And what is the challenge?”
“To put the pieces together to form a box. If one is particularly adept, you can also shape the pieces into various animal figures or other objects.”
“Another one of your puzzles,” she mused. “Will you make me an animal?”
He rose, went over, and quickly arranged the shapes.
“An elephant!” She clapped her hands together. “What else can you make?”
He smiled and moved the pieces around again and waited for her to react.
“It’s a ship,” she said. “Like the one that will soon take you away to India?”
He heard the question in her voice. “Perhaps. I have not made any definite plans.” He looked around. “Where is Jamie?”
“He was taking your laundry to Charlton’s when I arrived. I told him he did not need to stay and attend me. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He hadn’t realized Jamie still took his dirty linen over to Charlton’s to be laundered. “It’s an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”
She smiled at that. “What is the next step in the investigation?”
“I’m not certain of how to proceed where the Archer poisonings are concerned. But I do have an appointment on the morrow to go and see Huggins.”
“Who is Huggins?”
“The barrister in whom Davis confided about his liaison with Elizabeth.”
“Will you come and see me after you’ve spoken? To tell me what you learn.”
“I would be pleased to call upon you.”
“Excellent.” She stood and went over to the window overlooking the street. “I must go. Somerville’s coach is here. The boys will be done with their lessons soon.”
“What have you decided to do about sending Peter away to school?”
She exhaled wearily. “I haven’t yet. My indecision is plaguing me.”
He followed her out to the front hall and opened the door for her. “I am certain you will make the correct choice for you and your son.”
She paused. “Sometimes you have more faith in me than I have in myself.”
He accompanied her down and saw her into her coach and on her way. When he returned to his apartments, he went over to his game table. Something was different. He let out a small amused huff of surprise when he realized what it was.
Lilliana had completed the difficult section of the puzzle, the one that had plagued him for days. What he’d spent hours on, she’d apparently deciphered in a matter of minutes.
“Extraordinary,” he said aloud to himself. “Simply extraordinary.”
* * *
Gavin Huggins kept a set of chambers at Gray’s Inn, the ancient lodging quarters at the intersection of High Holborn and Gray’s Inn Road near St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was frequented by barristers, students of law, and literary-minded men.
The barrister, a small-framed man who exuded energy and intelligence, was forthcoming, particularly after learning of the Duke of Somerville’s interest
in the matter.
“Yes, I was acquainted with Mr. Davis.” Huggins settled behind his desk and invited Atlas to take the seat across from him. “I knew him for about three years. I also know Miss Archer and her family, although not terribly well. I am acquainted with Mr. Archer mostly due to various business concerns, and I have seen the Archer family on occasion at various social events.”
“Were you aware that there was an ongoing correspondence between Mr. Davis and Miss Archer?”
“Yes, Davis confided as much to me.” Huggins made a moue of distaste. “I advised him to go to Miss Archer’s family and tell them of his attachment. It was the most gentlemanly course of action.”
“And what did he say?”
“That Miss Archer was opposed to telling her father, who already held Davis in dislike because Davis had introduced Trevor, Miss Archer’s younger brother, to the gaming hells.”
“Was Trevor aware of his sister’s attachment to his friend?”
Huggins shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Davis seemed to think his association with Miss Archer was completely unknown to her family.”
Atlas pondered Huggins’s words. If neither father nor brother was aware of the liaison, that effectively eliminated them both as suspects. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Davis?”
“He came to my office several weeks before his death. By then Miss Archer was betrothed to Mr. Montgomery. When I mentioned the engagement to Mr. Davis, he became very agitated and said it wasn’t true. He informed me that he too had heard the rumor but that Miss Archer had assured him that it was false.”
“Did he believe her?”
“He seemed to suspect she was being less than honest with him. That was when Mr. Davis told me that even if the rumor was true, he had documents in his possession, evidence that would be sufficient to prevent the reading of the banns.”
“Their correspondence.”
Huggins’s expression was grim. “I believe so, yes.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Davis took arsenic?”
“Yes, I saw him take some on more than one occasion in my presence.”