Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “They were staying apart, were they?” Endicott rubbed his chin with thick fingers topped by clean, short nails. “Interesting, that. I suppose Mrs. Warwick will need to be made aware of her husband’s sad demise.”

  “It will be quite a shock for her. I’d like to tell her myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “Would you now?” Interest flickered in the man’s black eyes. “No, I don’t mind. Not at all. And after we finish up here, I’ll call on the good widow myself to extend my condolences.”

  * * *

  Atlas found Mrs. Warwick in the library, reading one of her newly acquired books on the particulars of English law.

  “Your sister is out.” Putting the book aside, she stood to greet him. “But you’ve come in time to save me from seeing for myself, in black and white, just how dire my legal situation is.”

  He bowed, his gaze sweeping over her. She wore one of her new gowns, a fashionable, dark bottle-green print that flattered her dark hair and eyes. This was the first time he’d seen her dressed in the first stare of fashion, and it suited her.

  Dreading what he must tell her, Atlas went to stand before the unlit hearth with his hands clasped behind his back. “If it were in my power, I would spare you from any further unpleasantness. Lord knows you’ve been through enough.”

  Alarm replaced the relaxed expression on her face. “What has Godfrey done now? Stealing my children and threatening to publicly brand me an adulteress isn’t enough?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have grave news.”

  “What is amiss?” She crossed over to him. “Is it something to do with the boys?”

  “No, nothing of that sort. The children are fine, as far as I am aware.” He moved closer, and he could see her surprise when he took both of her hands into his. Her palms were smooth and warm. “But something of a very distressing nature has occurred.”

  She looked at their joined hands and then back into his face. “What is it?”

  “Perhaps we should sit.”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “Just tell me. Please.”

  “Very well.” He paused. “I’ve just come from the haberdashery.”

  “Yes?” She appeared to brace herself. “What has my husband done now?”

  “It is more of what has been done, or may have been done, to Mr. Warwick.”

  “I don’t take your meaning.”

  “I regret to inform you that Mr. Warwick appears to have taken ill and is now deceased.”

  She stiffened. “Deceased?”

  “Yes, his clerk found him this morning in his apartments above the shop.”

  She withdrew her hands from his. “Godfrey is dead?”

  “Yes, and you have my deepest sympathies.”

  She stared at him, her expression dazed. “Are you certain?”

  “There can be no doubt. I saw . . . him . . . for myself, and the runners are there at the shop as we speak.”

  “The runners? What is Bow Street doing there? I thought you said Godfrey took ill.”

  “They are taking every precaution. The body will have to be examined.”

  “What about the boys?”

  “As I said, I have no reason to believe they are not well.”

  “I must go and get them.” She started for the door. “Their father is dead, and Mrs. Greene and young Jamie are no longer there to comfort Robin and Peter. Godfrey’s butler doesn’t possess a nurturing bone in his body. Once he learns about Godfrey, I wouldn’t put it past him to abscond with the silver and abandon the children.”

  “Lilliana.” Atlas closed a hand around her upper arm, gentle but firm. She halted, swinging around to look at him with large eyes. He’d never been so familiar as to call her by her given name. “Mrs. Warwick,” he corrected, “it might not be wise of you to go immediately. We must see about the status of the children’s guardianship.”

  Alarm shadowed her eyes. “From what I’ve just read, Godfrey had the right to assign a guardian to look after the children in the event of his death. Do you think he’s done such a thing?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “I’m going to them.” But before she reached the door, Fletcher appeared, effectively blocking her exit.

  “A visitor to see you, Mrs. Warwick.”

  She tried to step around him. “I am not at home to anyone.”

  “It is a Mr. Ambrose Endicott.” The old servant repeated the words slowly and distinctly, as if he’d taken pains to remember the name. “He says it is an urgent matter.”

  “Endicott?” Atlas said with some distaste. “That was rather quick.”

  She glanced back at him. “Who is he?”

  “The Bow Street runner investigating your husband’s death.”

  The heavyset man appeared behind Fletcher. “Mrs. Warwick, I presume?”

  “Yes?”

  Fletcher bristled. “Sir,” he said loudly, “you were to wait until I showed you in.”

  “No need for that,” the runner said cheerfully, maneuvering his unwieldy form around the butler. “I managed to find my own way in.”

  Fletcher drew himself up as if to protest, but Atlas headed him off with a staying hand. “It’s all right, Fletcher. You may leave us.”

  Once the butler departed, shuffling away with a restrained huff, the runner turned to Mrs. Warwick. “My condolences, madam, on the death of your husband.”

  “Thank you.” She still seemed stunned. “It hardly seems real.”

  “I assure you it is very real.”

  She nodded and took a seat, inviting him to do the same. He lowered himself into a lacquered ebony chair with graceful tapered legs that appeared too delicate to withstand his girth. She took a position across from him, while Atlas stood by the hearth with one elbow resting on the stone mantle.

  “Was your husband in poor health, Mrs. Warwick?” Endicott observed her closely with canny dark eyes.

  “No.” Her voice had a distant quality. “He seemed to be quite robust the last time I saw him.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  Atlas could well imagine the nightmarish scene Thea’s footman had described—Warwick barking at her while the boys cried and clutched at their mother, desperate to hold on as the butler and their father dragged them away.

  “I see,” the runner said. “And where exactly was that?”

  “At . . . our home in Buckinghamshire . . . with our children.”

  “Buckinghamshire. Is that where you grew up?”

  “No, I come from Bewerley, in Yorkshire.”

  “Bewerley? Lovely place.” Curiosity glimmered in his eyes. “My mother’s people hail from near there. What is your family name?”

  Atlas found himself listening intently for her answer. Perhaps this would be his first real insight into the lady’s true origins. “Hastings.”

  “Hastings. Hmmm.” The runner appeared to strain his memory. “No, I can’t say the name is familiar.”

  Atlas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand, since this is not a social call.”

  “Just so. Just so,” the runner said easily. “On the matter of your husband, Mrs. Warwick, did you notice anything amiss with his health yesterday when you saw him?”

  “No, he seemed his usual self.”

  He proceeded to ask more about Godfrey’s health and his daily routine. Mrs. Warwick answered his questions in a calm, almost distracted manner. She was still clearly in shock from the news.

  “Very well,” the runner said at length, rising heavily from his seat. “I won’t impose on you any longer for now. I perceive this is a difficult time for you.”

  Atlas stepped forward. “What happens next, Endicott?”

  “Next?” Endicott gave Atlas a thoughtful look. “We wait to hear the results of the postmortem and proceed from there.” He turned to go. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Once he’d departed, Mrs. Warwick said, “I ca
nnot believe Godfrey is gone.” She spoke more to herself than to Atlas, as if saying the words aloud might make it seem more real. “That it’s truly over.”

  Atlas had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I pray that is so.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sounds of an argument were the first thing to reach Atlas’s ears when he visited his sister’s house in Bloomsbury three days later.

  “The shop is no place for children.” Thea’s indignant voice rang out from the morning room. “For the love of God, I am childless, and I know better.”

  “I cannot continue to impose,” Mrs. Warwick’s voice returned, the words quiet and determined.

  He cleared his throat to alert them to his presence.

  Thea’s attention swung toward him. “Thank the Lord you are here.” Hands on her hips, she stood by the round breakfast table, which was cluttered with notebooks and papers. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.”

  Mrs. Warwick stood before the window with her back toward the room, her arms crossed over her chest. It was the first he’d seen her since the day she’d learned of her husband’s demise. Warwick had been buried in Buckinghamshire the previous day. Atlas had not attended.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She turned at the sound of his voice, her expression wary. “Good morning.” She had not taken on her mourning. Instead, she wore a simply cut teal gown that highlighted her elegant figure and flattered her dark hair and fair coloring.

  “Why does my sister think you’ve taken leave of your senses?”

  One side of her sensuous mouth quirked upward. “Mrs. Palmer has been very generous, but—”

  Thea interrupted in a burst of exasperation. “She wants to take the children to live above the shop.”

  “Shop?”

  “The haberdashery.”

  “I cannot take advantage of Mrs. Palmer’s generosity any further.”

  “Of course you can.” They all turned toward the sound of Charlton’s voice.

  Thea frowned. “How did you get in?”

  The earl flashed a charming smile, baring a row of bright-white teeth. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a double-breasted aubergine tailcoat with shiny brass buttons. “I assured Fletcher that, as a close friend of the family, I do not need to be announced.”

  She harrumphed. “I shall have to have a word with him.”

  “If he can hear you,” Charlton murmured as he moved to stand before Mrs. Warwick. “My dear lady, allow me to extend my deepest condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Warwick said. “It is kind of you to come.”

  His interested gaze swept over her teal gown. “I see you’ve adopted a new style of mourning.”

  She flushed, color arching high over her cheekbones. “I hadn’t expected to receive callers today.”

  Thea shook her head. “Really, Charlton. You barrel your way past my butler, invading my inner sanctum, and then you dare to censure Mrs. Warwick for not observing the proprieties?” She sat at the table, practically disappearing behind the stacked notebooks and papers. “For an earl, your manners are atrocious.”

  Charlton flattened a hand against his chest. “On my honor, I meant no insult. The late Mr. Warwick was an odious fellow, and it pleases me no end that Mrs. Warwick hasn’t turned sentimental or maudlin solely because the man had the courtesy to kick the bucket at a most opportune time.”

  “Charlton.” Atlas’s tone held a note of warning. He didn’t want to risk upsetting Mrs. Warwick any more than she already was.

  But she surprised him with a light laugh. “No, Mr. Catesby, it is quite all right. Truly. The earl provides a note of levity when we could all use it.”

  “I’m glad to be of service,” Charlton said. “Now, do tell, why can you not take further advantage of Mrs. Palmer’s hospitality?” He straightened his perfectly wrought cravat. “If she offered as much to me, I would surely take her up on it.”

  “You turn up all the time anyway,” Thea retorted without looking up as she sorted through some papers. “I cannot begin to imagine how much more you’d be underfoot if you were actually invited.”

  Atlas turned to Mrs. Warwick. “What’s this about moving over the shop, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

  A resolute expression came over her face, erasing any traces of mirth. “The boys and I cannot stay here forever.”

  “Are the children here?” he asked.

  “They remain in Slough but will join me shortly. I visited with them all day yesterday while the men attended to the burial.” So she had gone to Buckinghamshire. He’d wondered. Females, including wives, generally attended funerals but rarely went to the burial itself.

  “Perhaps it is premature to make plans until you know of the status of the children’s guardianship,” he said gently.

  She moved to take a seat at the table. “John and I met with Godfrey’s solicitor yesterday after the burial,” she said. It took him a moment to put together that the John she referred to was her late husband’s brother. “Godfrey had a will. The boys have inherited everything.”

  Atlas exhaled through his nostrils. “You have been very busy.” It pricked at him, even though it shouldn’t, that she had attended to important business without him. He felt left out, which was silly of course, but since their first meeting at the inn, he’d taken on the role of her protector. Now it seemed she no longer needed him to act in that capacity.

  Perhaps she meant for their acquaintanceship to draw to a natural close. He couldn’t blame her, especially considering the way they’d met, which was an embarrassment to her. That could explain her desire to distance herself from Thea as well.

  “The boys do have a guardian,” Mrs. Warwick continued. “John is that guardian and is happy to relinquish them into my care, although, as their uncle, he naturally hopes to continue to have a role in their upbringing.”

  “Naturally.” It appeared the head of her late husband’s family had moved into the role of Mrs. Warwick’s champion. A peevish part of Atlas wondered whether John Warwick, himself a recent widower, had designs on his late brother’s wife. They could never marry, of course—the law prohibited a man from taking his brother’s widow to wife—but even so, Mrs. Warwick and the boys offered John the family he had never managed to build with his late wife.

  “And you choose to move your children to live over the shop?” Charlton made a moue of distaste as he settled himself into his favorite overstuffed chair. “How pedestrian of you. What of the quaint country box in Buckinghamshire?”

  “I will never live there again,” she said tightly. “Those are memories best left in the past.”

  Atlas could only imagine what had occurred in the old rectory to give her such a deep aversion to the place that she preferred to install her children in small apartments above a haberdashery.

  “All the more reason for you to stay here with the boys.” Thea threw down her wooden graphite pencil. “I live alone in this huge mausoleum and would welcome the company.”

  Mrs. Warwick’s expression softened. “You’ve been very kind to me. But boys are noisy, rambunctious creatures. They will create a fuss when you are trying to work.”

  “It is a sound I had hoped to hear for many years.” Wistfulness clouded Thea’s usual no-nonsense gaze. “I would welcome the sounds of children running through the halls.”

  Surprise illuminated Mrs. Warwick’s face. An awkward silence descended. Mrs. Warwick darted an uncomfortable glance Atlas’s way while Charlton pretended to examine the cuffs of his jacket.

  Atlas was stunned by his sister’s show of emotion. He had always assumed Thea’s childless state was of her own choosing, that she preferred to immerse herself in her equations. Lord knows she complained often enough about her husband being underfoot during his occasional visits from his country estate. Atlas had long suspected Charles Palmer would prefer to be at his wife’s side even though he indulged her need for solitude and independence.

  “I s
uppose I could bring the boys here to stay for an interim period,” Mrs. Warwick said slowly. “If you are certain, Thea.”

  His sister had already picked up her pencil and was scribbling away. “I am,” she said, recovering her usual brusque manner.

  “You are very kind,” Mrs. Warwick said.

  “Nonsense.” Thea reached for one of the notebooks stacked to her side and opened it up before her. “Now all of you go away—I have work to do.”

  As they exited, Thea called out to Atlas. “Don’t forget. We dine at Jason’s this evening.”

  He resisted the urge to groan. Since he was so often abroad, he mostly managed to miss the monthly gatherings, family dinners with all his siblings in attendance—all except for Phoebe. It was not an event he looked forward to, but Thea was not one to let him escape easily.

  “I’ll pick you up in my carriage,” she said. “Be ready at seven.”

  * * *

  “Could Warwick’s death present a problem for you?” Charlton asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk after taking their leave.

  “Yes, I believe it could.” They turned down Great Russell Street, walking past a boarding house, which had once been a grand home. Bloomsbury was now solidly middle class, home to doctors, artists, writers, and politicians. Palmer had fancied a residence on George Street, off fashionable Cavendish Square in Mayfair, but Thea would have none of it, saying she preferred the intellectual vigor found in Bloomsbury. “I’d like to get ahold of the medical examiner’s report.”

  “I’ve made certain inquiries. It appears Warwick died of a harsh blow to the stomach.”

  “Did he?” He’d assumed Warwick had died of a blow to the head, but apparently someone had taken the pewter candlestick to the man’s gut rather than bashing his brains in. He looked at his friend. “Wait. Is this your way of asking me if Warwick and I came to blows?”

  “Did you?” Charlton cut him a sidelong glance. “He certainly deserved a thrashing, especially after threatening to sue you for crim-con.”

  “I did not.” Rather than take insult, Atlas found himself appreciating his friend’s directness. “Although I dearly wanted to on more than one occasion. Why did you inquire into Warwick’s death?”