Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

  “It has been my pleasure, Mrs. Disher.” Charlton caught her eye and smiled back, blatant flirtation shining in his gaze. “The truth is, this has all been a ruse to win your favor.”

  Olivia blushed and dimpled prettily. “How you do go on, my lord.”

  Thea frowned, her questioning gaze bouncing from Charlton to Olivia and then back again. “We’ve taken up enough of Mrs. Disher’s time,” Thea said abruptly. “Shall we go, Lilliana?”

  Farewells were said all around before Atlas escorted the ladies from the shop. Once they were back out on the stone walkway, Thea glanced back through the bow-fronted window, where Charlton remained within, leaning against the oak counter, engaged in conversation with Olivia.

  “There are times Charlton takes harmless flirtation too far.” Thea’s eyes were still on the earl and Olivia inside the shop. “Poor Mrs. Disher will think he is serious.”

  “Actually,” Atlas said, “I believe he might be. He seems to hold Mrs. Disher in high regard.”

  Thea swung her head around to look at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It appears the Earl of Charlton has decided to grow up, at least a little.” He gave her a look. “That is what you’ve always wanted of him, is it not?”

  Thea blinked. “Well, of course.”

  “I imagine you’ll be pleased not to have Charlton constantly underfoot.” He fell in step alongside the ladies as they began to stroll in the direction of the bookshop. “All you do is complain about the man.”

  Thea paused. “Yes.” Her tone turned brisk. “It will be a very great relief indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I cannot remember the last time I ate this well.” Atlas spooned another helping of game pie onto his plate.

  Lilliana plucked a grape from her dish. Supper had turned out to be a private affair in her sitting room, where numerous shining candelabras bathed her fine-boned features in soft amber light. “Are you suggesting that Jamie hasn’t learned to cook?”

  He gave her a look. “The boy can’t even tie a cravat, and you want me to give him access to the kitchens?”

  Lilliana smiled that haughty crooked smile of hers and, with a wave of her hand, dismissed the attending footman. “I’ve been more than patient,” she said once they were alone. “What is the shocking news about Gordon Davis?”

  Atlas reached for a strawberry. The cozy table was dressed with the finest porcelain, twinkling crystal, and gleaming silver. There were endless dishes to choose from—succulent roasted lamb and venison and pheasant smothered in a rich cream sauce, along with a colorful assortment of vegetables and fruits. A boisterous fire crackled in the hearth, cloaking the elegant chamber in toasty warmth. All in all, it was a delightful meal in very agreeable company.

  Atlas hadn’t known whether they’d be dining with the duke. He had not expected the children; he knew they took their evening meal early and that their mother made a habit of joining them. As it was well past nine o’clock in the evening, he presumed the boys were asleep.

  “Well?” Lilliana said impatiently. “Out with it.”

  He popped the strawberry—sweet, plump, and delectably perfect—into his mouth. “It’s possible he had the French disease.”

  “The pox?” she exclaimed. “Are you certain?”

  “No.” He sliced a neat bite of lamb. “Which is why I’d like to speak with your lady’s maid as soon as we are done with supper.” As they ate, he recounted his entire conversation with Dr. Corbett, sharing the details about Davis’s autopsy.

  Lilliana hung on every word. “Based on what this Dr. Corbett told you,” she remarked when he finished speaking, “it appears that Elizabeth didn’t poison Davis.”

  “She poisoned him all right, but it’s very possible she did not deliver the fatal dose.” He reached for a dessert biscuit. “Surely you are not leaving me to eat dessert alone?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to manage on your own.” She plucked another grape from her plate. “I do not have a fondness for sweets. Do you believe Elizabeth only tried to poison Mr. Davis that one time?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe. Miss Archer’s story is inconsistent with what Davis wrote in his diary.” He placed a slice of almond cake on his plate. “He also told at least two people—Mrs. Norman, his landlady, and Mr. Huggins, the barrister—that he believed his beloved was slowly poisoning him.”

  “Could he have possibly been referring to Lady Brandon?” Lilliana nibbled on a piece of cheese. “He mentioned the lady he loved was poisoning him, and it appears Lady Brandon was the only woman he truly loved.”

  “Lady Brandon claimed not to have seen Davis in the last few months of his life. He broke with her, intending to be faithful—at least for the moment—to Miss Archer.” He took a bite of the rich moist cake. “Are you certain you won’t have some of this? It’s excellent.”

  “No, I am fine,” she assured him.

  Atlas cast a skeptical look at the fruit and cheese on Lilliana’s plate, which he supposed was her idea of dessert. Being rather fond of sweets, he did not agree.

  “Do you take Lady Brandon at her word?” she asked. “About her not seeing Davis in those final months of his life.”

  “I had Jamie inquire into it, and he returned with some very helpful information.” At her look of surprise, he said, “The boy is quite enterprising when it comes to garnering intelligence from his fellow servants.”

  She half smiled. “I guess I am not terribly surprised. Jamie does have an endearing way about him.”

  “That he does.” Atlas had never thought of his valet in that way, but now that Lilliana mentioned it, Jamie’s surprising success at gathering information began to make sense. “I confess to being baffled by Jamie’s ability to uncover some rather helpful findings, but I can see now why people might feel comfortable opening up to the boy.”

  “What did Jamie learn about Lady Brandon?”

  “Her servants all but confirmed the affair. By all accounts, she did try to be discreet about sneaking Davis into her home, but servants seem to know everything.”

  “They certainly do,” she murmured.

  “According to the Brandon servants, Davis stopped visiting the house on Park Lane at least two months before his death, which confirms what Lady Brandon told me about Davis breaking things off with her. They said Lady Brandon was deeply upset when she learned Davis had met his end.”

  “And what of Lord Brandon . . . is he a jealous sort?”

  “He does not appear to be.” Atlas polished off the last bit of the cake on his plate. “The servants report that the earl and his wife maintain a cordial relationship and seem to be rather fond of one another.”

  “What a strange relationship,” she mused. “Did she not say that her husband did not mind her infidelities?”

  “She did.” Atlas could not imagine any man being indifferent to a wife’s extramarital affairs, even though he knew it was the way of the ton.

  “While we are on the subject of interesting relationships”—she favored him with a sly look—“I must say, Mrs. Disher appears to be a lovely woman.”

  “I suppose,” he answered vaguely, not wishing to discuss Olivia with Lilliana, even though his lone intimacy with his landlady was firmly in the past.

  “Is Charlton truly taken with her?” she asked.

  “So it would seem.”

  She almost seemed disappointed. “What of his infatuation with your sister?”

  “I believe meeting Mr. Palmer in the flesh—and witnessing the man’s obvious youth and vitality—had a sobering effect.”

  “Ah, that makes sense.” She sipped her wine, her eyes on his empty plate. “Are you done? Shall we call for Tacy?”

  They rose from the table, and Atlas salvaged the plate of dessert biscuits—which he brought over to the sitting area with him—before the footmen reappeared to remove the remainder of the food and dishes. Lilliana’s lady’s maid entered as the footmen were departing.

  �
�Gordon ill?” Tacy said when Lilliana inquired. “No, never. Even as a young boy, that one was always as fit as they come.”

  “And he did not speak to you of anything relating to ill health?” Atlas asked.

  She shook her head. “No, sir. He did look rather peaked the last time I saw him, but Gordy insisted he was well.” Her eyes shined with emotion. “He never liked to worry me even if he was ill; it would be like Gordy to try to spare me.”

  “Did you believe him when he told you he wasn’t ill?”

  “Oh, yes, Gordy was very particular about his health. He couldn’t abide sickness of any sort. I think he felt so strongly because of how Ma died.”

  “And how was that?” Atlas asked.

  “It is not something we are proud of.” Tacy stared at the ground. “Gordy made me promise never to speak of it to anyone.”

  “Please be frank, Tacy,” Lilliana said gently. “It could have an important bearing on the case.”

  Tacy looked from her mistress to Atlas. “Our ma died of the French pox.”

  “Your mother had syphilis?” Atlas exchanged a look with Lilliana before asking, “When, pray tell, was this?”

  “When Gordy was very young. He was ten when Ma died. I looked after him after that.”

  “He was fortunate to have you,” Lilliana said. “He must have been terribly affected by your mother’s death.”

  “It was something awful.” Tacy shuddered. “She went mad right before our eyes. She was a beauty, Ma was—Gordy got his good looks from her—until she got sick.” Tacy’s voice trailed off.

  “I understand it’s very difficult for you to speak of,” Lilliana said, “but it might help Mr. Catesby to learn who killed your brother.”

  Tacy nodded and visibly swallowed before continuing. “At first, we didn’t know she was sick. She had open sores and blemishes, but we didn’t know what was causing it. It upset her terribly because Ma depended on her looks to . . .”

  Tacy did not have to spell out what she meant. Atlas surmised that Tacy and Gordon’s mother had supported her children by entertaining men for a certain price.

  “Then she started acting strangely, and in the end, her face was so . . .” She hugged her arms around herself. “She didn’t look anything like herself, and in those final months, Gordy was so afraid of Ma that he wouldn’t go anywhere near her.”

  Atlas could only imagine how awful it must have been for a young boy to witness his mother’s horrifying decline. “Thank you, Tacy,” he said to the maid. “You have been very helpful.”

  “Well,” Lilliana said after the maid was gone. “How perfectly terrible.”

  “Indeed,” he said, deep in thought, considering what they’d just learned.

  “How does this new information impact how you view the investigation?” she wanted to know.

  “I’m not certain.” He reached for another dessert biscuit and bit into it. “The big question at the moment is whether or not Davis knew he had contracted syphilis and, if so, how that might have impacted his behavior.”

  “Didn’t you say that Mr. Huggins, the barrister, recommended a physician for Gordon Davis to go see?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Atlas straightened. He searched his memory. “Huggins said he sent Davis to see a Dr. Young. The barrister said the good doctor works at Guy’s Hospital in Southwark.”

  “I guess I know who you will be speaking with next.”

  “You have the right of it.” Realizing the evening had grown late, he came to his feet. “I’ll go and see Dr. Young tomorrow.” After he bowed and bade her good night, Hastings, the butler, showed him out. As Atlas paused in the front hall for his hat and coat, a footman appeared with a large wicker basket covered with a pale linen cloth.

  “What is this?” he asked when the footman handed it to him.

  “It is compliments of Lady Roslyn,” Hastings said. “She asked Cook to prepare a basket of food for you.”

  “That was very kind of her.” Atlas took the basket from the footman and was surprised by how heavy it was. There seemed to be enough food for several men. “But I do wish she hadn’t gone to the trouble.”

  “It was no trouble at all, sir,” Hastings said.

  The massive carved front door opened, and the Duke of Somerville swept in, his double-caped greatcoat swirling about his trim frame. He arched a regal brow when he spotted Atlas. “Catesby, we meet again.”

  Atlas bowed. “Your grace.”

  “And once again I find you in my front hall.” Somerville shrugged out of his coat, revealing an exquisite embroidered ivory silk waistcoat under a beautifully cut navy tailcoat. “Making a habit of it, are you?” The butler promptly handed off his grace’s greatcoat to the nearest footman and melted back into the shadows.

  “Lady Roslyn was kind enough to invite me to take supper with her.”

  “Was she? I see my sister is determined to test Roxbury’s patience.” The duke’s gaze slipped to the basket in Atlas’s hands. “And you’ve raided my kitchens as well.”

  Atlas felt himself flush. “Your sister had a basket prepared for me. I suspect she’s taken pity on a bachelor who finds his meals where he can.”

  “Lady Roslyn tells me the investigation is continuing apace.” The duke ran a hand over his artfully tied cravat. “And that you’ve developed some very interesting suspects.”

  Atlas wondered just how much Lilliana had shared with her brother. “We’ve certainly learned the dead man had no shortage of people who thought ill of him.”

  “One hopes you identify the culprit in all haste so that my sister can return her attention to less morbid matters.” Somerville turned to Hastings. “Has the tailor arrived?”

  “Yes, your grace. Mr. Nash awaits your pleasure in your dressing room.”

  “Very good.”

  Atlas was not surprised that Kirby Nash, the proprietor of an exclusive Pall Mall tailor shop, attended Somerville at all hours. The custom of a personage as esteemed as the duke was not to be underestimated. And there were other pertinent reasons for Nash’s house calls that were unknown to almost everyone. Atlas had discovered them himself quite by accident.

  “Well, Catesby.” Somerville regarded Atlas with an arrogant look. “As you heard, Mr. Nash awaits.”

  “I would not want to keep you.” Atlas looked the duke in the eye. “Do give Mr. Nash my regards.”

  “I shall.” The duke looked away. “Good evening then.”

  “Good evening, your grace.”

  * * *

  Atlas met Dr. Young at Guy’s Hospital in Southwark in central London, where the man worked as an assistant physician.

  The hackney let Atlas off at the hospital’s wrought-iron gates. He passed under the iron scroll overhead and crossed through the stone courtyard, which was flanked by three red brick hospital buildings. He immediately spotted the statue of the hospital’s founder, where he was to meet Young, at the center of the courtyard. He waited there for a few minutes in the brisk chilliness of the day, taking care to stand outside the shade in order to enjoy the subtle warmth of the sun, which had made a rare appearance.

  “Mr. Catesby, I presume?” The man striding across the yard was younger than Atlas expected, about his own age and clad in the formal black clothing physicians preferred. “Mr. Huggins told me to expect you.”

  Atlas greeted the doctor and thanked him for agreeing to meet.

  “I cannot stay long,” Young informed him. “I do have an appointment, but I’ll answer what questions I can.”

  Atlas came straight to the point. “I understand Gordon Davis was under your care.”

  “He was.” The long, narrow face held a somber expression. “But not for very long.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He did not care for my diagnosis.”

  Interesting. “Why did he come to see you?”

  “He was feeling extremely agitated. I gather a love affair that meant a great deal to him was ending badly. He came to see me on the advice of M
r. Huggins, who, as you know, is a mutual friend.”

  “Did you ever prescribe arsenic to Mr. Davis to help relieve his frenzy?”

  “Certainly not. I do not advocate the use of poison.” He buried his hands deep into his coat pocket. “What Mr. Davis needed was mercury, which he refused to take.”

  Atlas began to see why Davis hadn’t cared for the doctor’s diagnosis. “And the reason he needed mercury?”

  “Mr. Davis had syphilis. He was in the very early stages of the disease.”

  So Davis had known he was ill. “And you told him as much?”

  “I did. The patient refused to accept my assessment of his condition. He was very angry and departed before our appointment was completed. I never saw him again.”

  “How certain are you that Mr. Davis was afflicted with syphilis?”

  “Fairly sure, but there was no way to tell for certain when he came to see me. One diagnoses the disease by evaluating the visible symptoms. I did not observe any other signs of syphilis on Mr. Davis’s person.”

  “What other signs would one look for?”

  “Within weeks, he would have developed a rash as well as pain in his joints and muscles. The pocks would have spread all over his body. Then there are the mental changes—possible delirium, depression, and violent mood swings.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I believe it was about five weeks before his death, just a few days after Mr. Huggins recommended that he come and see me.” Young checked his fob. “If that is all, I have a consultation with another physician.”

  Atlas stepped aside. “I won’t keep you then. Thank you for your time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  After speaking with Dr. Young, Atlas hailed a hackney, which took him to the narrow lane off Great Russell Street in Bloomsbury where Davis’s lodging house was located.

  Mrs. Norman, the landlady, remembered Atlas and treated him with cordiality. “Do come in,” she said. “It is not every day that a gentleman graces us with his presence.”