Murder in Bloomsbury

by D. M. Quincy

  Elizabeth Archer, clad in no-nonsense navy clothing, marched out, stiff-postured and trailed by her maid. Atlas strode across the muddy black road, taking care to try to avoid the worst of the filth, and reached the young lady just as she was about to climb into the waiting carriage.

  He tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Archer.”

  “Mr. Catesby.” She halted and regarded him with solemn eyes. “Is it time then?”

  “No.” He wasn’t marching her over to Bow Street just yet, if that’s what she thought. “I wonder whether you would care to walk for a moment and perhaps answer a couple of questions.”

  She nodded crisply to her maid and waiting coachman. “I’ll return presently.”

  When they were out of earshot, Atlas asked, “How is Miss Harriet?”

  “Much better. The doctor says we can expect a full recovery.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. And Trevor and your parents?”

  “They are well, thank you.” Which was more than could be said for Elizabeth. She did not look at all well to Atlas. She seemed to have lost weight, and her wan face held no color.

  “You look unwell,” he said to her. “It will not serve your family if you make yourself ill with guilt.”

  “My complexion has never been very fine. I have always been pale.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “I suppose that is why Mr. Davis encouraged me to buy arsenic.”

  He halted and faced her. “Davis wanted you to buy arsenic?”

  She nodded. “He said it would improve my complexion.”

  “Are you saying you purchased arsenic at Davis’s direction?”

  “Yes, he said arsenic had done wonders for him and that I should try it because it would make me a bit less plain.” Atlas silently cursed that reprobate Davis for his cruel treatment of the young woman. “I promised to send my maid to purchase some, but he insisted that I should go myself.”

  “Did he say why you should be the one to purchase the poison?”

  “He was very adamant about it. He said servants were known to steal arsenic and replace it with something else. I told him Sara would never do that, but when he became angry with me, I promised him that I would go and purchase the arsenic myself.”

  Atlas’s mind whirled. Why would Davis insist Elizabeth purchase the poison herself? Had he wanted her name to appear on the poison registry that all apothecaries kept?

  “Why?” She studied his face. “Does it signify?”

  “I’m not certain.” He turned to continue walking, and she quickened her step to keep up with him. “I was wondering how Davis seemed to you the last time you saw him.” At her quizzical glance, he elaborated. “Did he seem at all ill to you?”

  “He seemed highly excitable, but surely that was understandable in the situation in which we found ourselves. I was betrothed to another man, and Gordon had refused to return my letters as an honorable man should.”

  “I am interested in whether, physically, his outward appearance seemed as usual.”

  “Yes, I think so.” She paused as if she’d remembered something. “He did have a rash on his arm. It caused him some discomfort.”

  A rash. Another known symptom of the pox. “You saw this rash, I presume.”

  “Yes, Gordon kept scratching it, and when I asked what was the matter, he showed it to me. The rash was all over his arm.” She bit her lip. “He said it was my fault. That my betrayal was causing him to become ill.”

  The guilt coating her words communicated that she believed it as well. That bounder Davis had done everything he could to ruin the young girl’s life. Atlas swallowed down the acid that suddenly rose in his throat. Davis might still possess the power to deliver one last devastating blow to Elizabeth from beyond the grave.

  “I am going to ask you a very personal question,” he said carefully, “and you must answer me honestly.”

  “I will. I swear it.”

  “Do you recall the last time you were . . . erm . . . intimate with Mr. Davis?”

  She flushed, the first sign of color he’d seen in her all afternoon. “It was several weeks before he died. Once Mr. Montgomery began to court me, I ceased my intimacies with Mr. Davis.” She lowered her gaze. “At first, I was afraid to be completely truthful with Gordon. I feared what he might do if I cried off, so I pretended I wanted to wait until we were wed.”

  “And how did Davis respond to your decision to abstain?”

  “He was very unhappy and tried many times to change my mind. He said if I truly loved him, I would succumb to him.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him that a man of honor would not ask such a thing of his intended.”

  He was pleased to see she’d shown some backbone with Davis. “I gather you did not give him what he asked for.”

  “I did not. I had begun to develop a high regard for Mr. Montgomery. It meant a great deal to me that my father liked and accepted him.” She sighed. “Of course now, given what I’ve done, there will be no future of any kind with Mr. Montgomery.”

  Dread pooled in Atlas’s stomach. In so many ways, Miss Archer remained an innocent. Beyond her lost betrothal to Montgomery, Davis might very well have snatched away any future at all that Elizabeth might have. Only she did not know that yet.

  Atlas prayed she would never find out.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Atlas was at home working on the puzzle when he noticed that Jamie, who’d gone on an errand while Atlas was out, had left a note for him by the game table.

  Atlas broke the seal and unfolded the note. It was from Charlton, informing Atlas that he’d gone to Bath for a few days. Atlas suspected the earl had a traveling companion; Olivia had mentioned just yesterday that she would be away visiting family for several days.

  Charlton certainly seemed charmed by Atlas’s fair landlady. On a couple of occasions over the past several days, as Atlas had come and gone from his apartments, he’d spotted his friend at the tobacconist’s, immersed in conversation with Olivia. And two mornings ago, from his window overlooking Bond Street, he’d observed Charlton leaving quite early, before the shop opened, in a state of dishabille.

  His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. Perhaps Jamie had forgotten his key. He crossed into the front hall and was surprised to find a footman on his landing. He wore the black-and-gold livery and possessed the handsome good looks common to all of Somerville’s footmen.

  “Mr. Catesby, sir.” The man handed him a letter. “I am to await a reply.”

  Atlas took the note. “Come in then while I read it and craft a response.”

  The footman stood perfectly postured in the front hall while Atlas continued into the sitting room. He broke the seal, recognizing Lilliana’s script at once.

  If it is not too much of an inconvenience, please attend me in person at your earliest opportunity.

  She hadn’t signed the note, a clear indication of her displeasure that he had neglected to visit her for several days. He had been avoiding Lilliana, and she had noticed. He let out a long labored sigh. She deserved a visit from him, if only to set things to rights once and for all.

  He went back to where the footman awaited his reply.

  “Please inform Lady Roslyn that I will attend her within the hour.”

  Since the weather was fair enough, Atlas decided to walk to Somerville House. Stepping briskly along the busy stone pavement, he went past a group of parading dandies only to come upon Roxbury exiting a Bond Street jeweler’s shop with a small wrapped package in his possession.

  “Catesby,” the marquess greeted him with icy courtesy.

  “My Lord,” he returned, glancing at the package tucked beneath the other man’s arm.

  “I have purchased a significant trinket for Lady Roslyn,” Roxbury informed him. “One that I hope to present to her as a betrothal gift.”

  “Is it official then?” Atlas forced himself to ask.

  “Not as of yet, but I hope it will be soon.” He pa
used. “I do appreciate your deciding to stand aside.”

  Atlas’s chest heated. “I am solely interested in what is in the best interests of Lady Roslyn and the children.”

  “I do understand that.” Roxbury looked him in the eye. “And I assure you that I shall always treat her with the care and respect she deserves. I will never give you cause to regret your decision to remove yourself from the playing field.” With a parting nod, Roxbury turned toward his waiting carriage.

  Atlas stepped in his path. “Why did you search my apartments when you visited the other day?”

  Roxbury drew himself up. “I did no such thing.”

  “You did, and we both know it.” Atlas set his jaw. “I do not intend to give you a clear path to Lady Roslyn until and unless I am convinced you had nothing to do with Gordon Davis’s death.”

  “The footman?” Roxbury stared at him in obvious disbelief. “You cannot seriously believe I had anything to do with that!”

  “Why did you search my rooms?” Atlas pressed. “Do you think I have evidence against you or your daughter?”

  “No, of course not.” Roxbury flushed and even appeared a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t kill that cad. I’m not a heathen.”

  “Then why?”

  He waited a beat. “I wanted to confirm for myself that you don’t have nefarious motives where Roslyn is concerned. That you are truly a man of honor. Even Somerville suffers your constant presence at his sister’s side.” He eyed Atlas with suspicion. “Why is that?”

  As it happened, Atlas did have information that could destroy Somerville, but that had nothing to do with his relationship with Lilliana. “It is as you have said.” Atlas spoke carefully. “What occurred in Slough created a bond between Lilliana and me. There is nothing more to it.”

  “I have come to believe the sincerity of your words. Roslyn mentioned she rarely sees you these days.”

  “I have not seen her since you and I last spoke. I intend to leave for India in a matter of weeks.”

  Roxbury brightened, then tried to mask his relief. “So you are truly going away?”

  “I am.”

  “Let me assure you I had nothing to do with Davis’s death,” Roxbury said earnestly. “If I had, no one would even know his demise had been orchestrated. I would have made certain it looked like an accident.”

  That much Atlas could believe. “I envision a man such as yourself might use a bit more finesse in killing a man.”

  “I daresay that is true.” A corner of Roxbury’s mouth kicked up. “Besides, poison is a woman’s weapon of choice, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps,” Atlas said mildly, while the less noble part of him hoped Roxbury would mention as much to Lilliana. She’d been indignant when Atlas had said the same not so long ago.

  “I am a man who remembers his debts,” Roxbury said. “If there is ever a time I may do a favor for you, all you have to do is ask.”

  Atlas doubted he’d ever ask this man for anything, but he did not say as much. He murmured his farewells and went about his way.

  * * *

  “I’m relieved to find you in good health,” Lilliana greeted him coolly when he arrived at Somerville House. “I thought perhaps your old injury had flared, rendering you incapable of going out.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he assured her, ignoring the subtle censure in her tone. She looked quite regal in a royal-blue gown. “I am quite well.”

  “You certainly have made yourself scarce,” Thea agreed. He’d found his sister visiting with Lilliana. “I wondered if perhaps you and Charlton had gone off on one of your jaunts.”

  Last year, he and the earl had traveled to Bath for a few days. Charlton thought taking the healing waters at Bath might hasten the recovery of Atlas’s broken foot. It hadn’t, but the excursion had proven to be more than worthwhile anyway. It was on that trip that he’d first encountered Lilliana.

  “As a matter of fact, Charlton has gone to Bath for a few days,” he told his sister, “while I have been working on the investigation.”

  “He’s in Bath, is he?” Thea said. “With whom?”

  “He didn’t say.” Atlas avoided his sister’s sharp gaze. “Charlton might very well be alone, for all I know.”

  “Yes, no doubt,” she said briskly as she came to her feet. “I must go.” She stooped to buss Lilliana’s cheek. “And do no fret. I’m certain Peter will be fine.”

  “What’s this about Peter?” Atlas asked with concern. “I trust he is well.”

  “Peter is fine,” Lilliana said. “It is just that I have decided not to send him away to school quite yet.”

  Thea reached for her reticule. “I’ve no doubt she’s made the right decision.”

  “I agree,” Atlas said as he helped his sister put on her wrap. “Peter is very young to go away from home.”

  Thea made her farewells and bustled out, leaving Atlas and Lilliana alone.

  Lilliana gave him an icy look. “You said you’ve been investigating. Are there any new developments?”

  “Yes.” He relayed what he had learned from Dr. Young, about Davis’s refusal to accept his syphilis diagnosis, and the rash Elizabeth Archer had seen a few weeks later on Davis’s arm.

  “Whoever killed him could have waited and allowed nature to take its course,” she said dryly.

  “So it seems.”

  “Or he could have taken the poison to spare himself the horror of the effects of the disease.”

  “Yes.” Atlas had considered that possibility. He appreciated discussing the case with her; talking it out helped the many seemingly disparate pieces fall into place. “But Mrs. Norman, his landlady at the boardinghouse, says she found no arsenic at all in Davis’s rooms.”

  “Hmm.” She crossed one arm over her waist while propping her chin in the opposite hand in a contemplative stance. “And the medical examiner told you Mr. Davis consumed so much arsenic, it would have killed him almost immediately.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It seems we are no closer to discovering who administered the fatal dose.”

  “I will continue looking.” He stood. “I should go.”

  “Hastings is about to bring supper in. Will you stay and take nourishment?”

  He was sorely tempted to accept her offer. To join her at the cozy table and bask in both the warmth of her hearth and radiance of her presence. But he had come here to release her, not to further their acquaintance. As much as he would like to do so. “Thank you, but I have an engagement.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said with a reserve so frigid, he’d have required a steel pick to pierce it.

  He paused. “Have I mentioned that I shall set sail soon? I’ll be off as soon as we discover who killed Davis.”

  “Is that so?” Her eyes widened momentarily before she hid her surprise behind her bone-chilling composure. “Are you still bound for India?”

  “I am,” he said.

  “That is very far away.”

  “Yes, the voyage could take up to six months,” he affirmed. “I expect to be absent from London for well over a year.”

  “How exciting.” She gave him a closed-lip smile. “I shall look forward to hearing of your adventures from Thea.”

  “In the meantime, I will keep you apprised of any progress in the investigation.”

  “A letter will suffice when you have any updates that I may share with Tacy.”

  “You may count upon it.” He bowed and tried to ignore the rising soreness in his throat. “Good evening then.”

  “I may as well wish you bon voyage now,” she said abruptly. “It is unlikely we will meet again before your departure.”

  A profound sense of loss panged through Atlas. He had not expected this to be good-bye. But Lilliana, ever the daughter of a duke, had seized the last bit of control she had in regards to their final parting.

  “So I bid you adieu,” she said, and he did not miss the finality in her cut-glass tones. “Godspeed.”

  “Thank y
ou,” he said. “I wish you well . . . you and the boys.” He took one last look at her—with her perfect posture and upturned chin—a portrait to frame in his memory of an empress dismissing her adoring subject.

  As he departed, his heart like lead in his chest, it dawned upon him that the next time he laid eyes on her, Lilliana would be wed to Roxbury and safe from all harm. And while this was the resolution he’d intended, the thought did not cheer him in the slightest.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Atlas returned home to find Jamie bickering with Bess, the cleaning lady. They were in the sitting room where Bess was mopping the floor by the game table.

  “Do not touch the master’s puzzle or his papers,” he said imperiously.

  Bess bustled around Jamie, not even bothering to look up, mopping in long sure strokes. “Move along, boy, before I trample you with my mop.”

  Jamie jumped out of the way, his face a mottled red. “That’s Mister Sutton to you.”

  “Bollocks.” She came at him with the mop again, and Atlas suspected it was a deliberate offensive action. Jamie sidestepped out of Bess’s path before she hit him. “I’m more likely to turn you over my knee than call you Mister anything. I’ve got slippers older than you.”

  “Good afternoon,” Atlas interrupted. After his parting with Lilliana, he was in no mood for their bickering. And a slight headache had begun to throb behind his left eye.

  Jamie stiffened, while Bess paused and dipped a curtsey. “Master Atlas, sir.”

  “Hello, Bess.” He turned to Jamie. “Shall we step out of this room and allow Bess to finish her cleaning?”

  Shooting a furious look at Bess, Jamie protectively snatched up a piece of paper from the game table—it was the list of potential suspects Lilliana had drawn up—and followed Atlas with the reluctant, dragging gait one would expect of a convict facing transportation. They went down to Waters for coffee and sweet buns.