Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  Atlas barely had time to register the strange reaction before his stallion took off with a start, likely outraged at the idea of another animal besting him. The beast carried Atlas away, his hooves beating hard along the path, chasing after Mrs. Warwick’s mare. Atlas felt the young man’s stare burning into his back as they raced down the lane.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The deep, rich scent of tobacco followed Atlas as he climbed the stairs to his quarters. Just as he reached the landing, the door opened, and an anxious-looking Jamie poked his head out.

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Says he’s a runner, sir. He’s waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  “How long has he been waiting?”

  “Not long, sir, about twenty minutes.”

  Atlas handed his black top hat to his valet—although Jamie still required extensive training before he could seriously be considered worthy of the very top vocation for men in service. In larger households, as valet, Jamie would be above all other servants. Ironic, considering that the boy still had no idea how to tie a cravat. Atlas had even had to show him how to brush out his master’s clothes.

  He dropped some money into the youth’s open palm. “Run and get some coffee and sweet buns. Purchase enough for yourself as well.”

  “Very good, sir!” The enthusiasm gleaming in the boy’s eyes made Atlas recall the constant hunger that had dogged him at Jamie’s age. He made a mental note to ensure the youth had enough to eat in the future. Once Jamie was off on his errand, Atlas joined the Bow Street runner in the sitting room, where he found him looking down at the puzzle pieces scattered atop the walnut game table.

  “Mr. Endicott.”

  The runner looked up. “Mr. Catesby. I hope I am not intruding.”

  “Not at all.” The orange-and-red colors of the room appeared even more garish in contrast to Endicott’s somber gray coat. “If you had sent word of your impending visit, I’d have arranged to be here to receive you instead of keeping you waiting.”

  “No trouble at all. No trouble.” His attention went back to the game table. “I was looking at your puzzle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite this complicated.”

  “Probably because they do not exist.” Most puzzles were far too rudimentary for his tastes, with large pieces that provided no challenge at all. “I had that one made to my specifications.”

  Endicott pointed a beefy finger at the puzzle. “This was especially created for you?”

  Atlas nodded. “I order them from an engraver and mapmaker off Oxford Street.”

  “Fascinating.” Clasping his hands behind his back, the runner leaned forward for a closer view. “Is it a painting?”

  “Yes. A Gainsborough reproduction.”

  Endicott’s sparse brows lifted as he studied the pieces. “The only puzzles I’ve ever seen are of maps.”

  Atlas pressed his lips inward, a mix of nerves and impatience. If only the bloody runner would get on with it. “A map hardly tests one’s abilities if one knows where all the countries are located.”

  “True, very true.”

  His patience snapped. “What can I do for you, Endicott?”

  The runner straightened. “I’ll come directly to the point.”

  Finally. “Excellent.” He sat and gestured for the runner to do the same.

  Endicott moved to a blue chintz chair and wedged his portly form into it. “The postmortem shows Mr. Warwick died from a severe blow to the stomach.”

  “I see.” He crossed one knee over the other, outwardly at ease, even though his blood began to pound hard through his veins. “Do you believe he fought with someone shortly before his death?”

  “I do not. I think he was likely caught unawares.”

  “And why do you deduce that?”

  “There were no signs of a struggle in Warwick’s apartments. There was no other bruising on the body and no scrapes or scratches on his fists to indicate that the victim engaged in any kind of struggle.”

  Atlas was beginning to realize it would be a mistake to underestimate the runner. The man was no one’s fool. “And what, may I ask, has any of this to do with me?”

  “I’ve been to Slough to interview the victim’s brother, Mr. John Warwick, and learned something very interesting.”

  A knot hardened in Atlas’s stomach. “And what is that?”

  “He tells me you purchased Mrs. Warwick from her husband outside of an inn in Buckinghamshire.”

  Atlas remained silent.

  “Do you dispute that?”

  “I’ve no wish to impugn the lady’s reputation. She’s suffered enough.”

  Endicott watched him with an unwavering gaze. Behind the runner’s facile manner, Atlas detected a well-disguised but unmistakable shrewdness. “Then you don’t deny the truth of it?”

  His neck heated. “The truth is that Warwick was a blackguard who treated his wife abominably.”

  “Clearly so, clearly so.” Endicott nodded his head in grave agreement. “My own missus would serve me up my own ballocks on a platter if I tried such a thing, but murder is still frowned upon in our fair metropolis, no matter how deserving the victim.”

  “Is there a point to this conversation?”

  Endicott studied him in silence for a moment. “What is the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Warwick?”

  Tension contracted in his chest. “I don’t know the lady particularly well, considering I only became acquainted with her a few weeks ago.”

  “True.” Endicott scratched his forehead with sausage-like fingers. “Although you did meet under unusual circumstances.”

  “I would characterize them as unsavory circumstances.”

  “To be sure, to be sure. But when a man pays money for a woman, he usually does so with one very particular purpose in mind.”

  Atlas’s grip on the chair’s armrests tightened. “What are you insinuating?”

  “Only that you are obviously a healthy young man who might have acted accordingly. Not that anyone would blame you. Mrs. Warwick is a very handsome woman.”

  “Nothing improper has occurred between us.” He gritted his teeth. “The only indecency that has occurred is that Mr. Warwick saw fit to sell his wife, subjecting her to great degradation and humiliation.”

  Endicott’s gaze seemed to take in every expression, each mannerism. Atlas felt like a specimen under a microscope. “And naturally, you being a decent gentleman and all, that angered you.”

  “Warwick’s actions offended me, most certainly, but they did not make me angry enough to kill.” He held Endicott’s unflinching gaze. “That is what you are getting at, is it not?”

  Sounds of the front door opening were followed by footsteps, and then Jamie appeared bearing the coffee and sweet buns. He placed them on the table between the two men, the fragrant scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. “They’re still warm, sir. The lady at the bakeshop said they just came out of the oven.”

  “Thank you, Jamie.” Atlas reached for his coffee. “That will be all.” The youth retreated with his own coffee and sweet bun.

  Endicott made no move to reach for the refreshments. “Sir, where were you the night Mr. Warwick was killed?”

  “I visited any number of places that evening.” Atlas drank from his coffee—hot and bitter, just as he preferred it—although he barely tasted it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  The runner reached into his coat pocket. “Very well. Perhaps you could tell me when you last saw Mr. Warwick alive.”

  He kept a bland tone. “At around seven o’clock on the evening of his death.”

  “Is that so?” He pulled out a notebook. “And where was that?”

  “At the Red Rooster—it’s a coffeehouse in Covent Garden.”

  He extracted a cedarwood-encased pencil from his other pocket. “And what were you doing there?”

  “I went looking for Warwick. I was hoping to reach an agreement th
at would allow Mrs. Warwick to see her children. He was keeping them from her.”

  Endicott scribbled something on his pad. The scratch of the pencil’s graphite tip filled the silences between the volley of the runner’s questions and Atlas’s answers. “And what did he say?”

  “He was not receptive to any sort of compromise.”

  Endicott pondered this. “Yet he sent you that note the following morning, suggesting he might welcome some sort of agreement, provided it involved the exchange of funds.”

  “Precisely.” He fought the urge to shift in his seat. “Mrs. Warwick tells me her husband was very fond of money.”

  Endicott tapped the back end of his pencil against his lower lip. “And after you left the Red Rooster, where did you go?”

  “I returned to my sister’s house. She was hosting a gathering.”

  Putting his notebook aside, Endicott reached for his coffee, his girth making the movement a challenging one. “So any number of people saw you there.”

  “Actually, no. The footman and the butler did, of course, because they let me in. But I was feeling unsettled by my meeting with Warwick, so I went abovestairs to my sister’s sitting room to calm my nerves.”

  Endicott took a sip of coffee. “And later you eventually joined the party?”

  “No, I found Mrs. Warwick in the sitting room. She was also not inclined to socialize. We spoke for a few minutes, and then I left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I returned here to my apartments. I worked on the puzzle and then retired for the evening.”

  “So your servant”—Endicott gestured toward the corridor where Jamie had disappeared to—“can vouch for your whereabouts.”

  “No.” He felt the beads of perspiration coalescing on his upper lip and fought the urge to wipe them away with his kerchief. “Jamie has only recently come into my employ, and I have no other servants.”

  “I see, I see. So you were alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Is it?” Atlas spoke with care, sensing that Endicott had carefully laid a trap and was now waiting for Atlas to step into it. “Why is that?”

  “We found the street urchin who delivered Warwick’s note to you the evening of Tuesday, September second, the night the victim was killed.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Atlas impatiently corrected him. If the runner meant to solve the crime, he really ought to remember the details. “I received the note Wednesday morning, September the third, the morning after Warwick died.”

  “So you said. However, the boy says he put it under your door Tuesday evening well before midnight. And he has no reason to dissemble.”

  Atlas had to agree. He couldn’t see any reason for the urchin who left the note under his door to lie about when he’d placed it there. “If he did, I didn’t see the note until the following morning. How does when I received the note signify?”

  “If you got Warwick’s message Tuesday evening, that presents a very compelling alternate scenario.”

  Atlas sucked in a breath as the runner’s implications sank in. “You think I received the note and went to Warwick’s the evening he died.” It was a damning theory, one that put him squarely at the scene of the crime at the time of the murder.

  “It’s possible.”

  “And what happened next, according to your theory? I suppose we argued and one thing led to another.”

  “It’s entirely possible. Probable even, some might say.” Endicott gave him a considering look. “Perhaps you reacted precipitously in the heat of anger. You might not have intended to kill him.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” Although his palms were sweaty, Atlas resisted the urge to discreetly swipe them against his trouser legs. “Neither accidentally nor on purpose.” He came to his feet. “If that is all, I have an appointment.” He didn’t, but he’d had quite enough of Endicott’s theories for one afternoon.

  “Of course, of course.” Endicott leaned forward to set his coffee down before pushing heavily to his feet. He gave that perennially genial smile, which Atlas now saw for what it was—a facade that masked the man’s true cleverness. “Do you mind if I take a roll with me?”

  Atlas looked at the untouched sweet buns. He’d lost his appetite. “Help yourself,” he said without enthusiasm.

  “Why thank you. Don’t mind if I do.” He reached for the bun and took a bite. “Delicious. Excellent.” He paused, looking down at the table. Next to the buns were precisely cut flat wooden fragments in various shapes that Atlas had arranged into a perfect square. “Another of your puzzles?” he asked.

  “It’s an Archimedes’ Box that I picked up in Greece.” The words were terse. “The challenge is to put the pieces together to form a box. If one is very clever, he can also shape the pieces into various animal figures.”

  Endicott studied him with dark, unfathomable eyes. “I suspect you are a very clever man, Mr. Catesby.”

  “A clever man would have an unassailable alibi if he intended to commit murder,” he said acidly.

  Appreciation flickered across Endicott’s face. “Unless he didn’t intend to commit a crime and was overwhelmed in the heat of the moment.” When Atlas didn’t respond, he continued. “Or, say, if he was trying to protect someone.”

  Atlas scoffed. “Who would I be protecting?” His voice rose in disbelief as the runner’s insinuation sank in. “You cannot seriously believe a gentlewoman such as Mrs. Warwick is capable of killing another being.”

  “In my experience,” he calmly returned, “almost all women are capable of murder when it comes to protecting their children. And you must agree Mrs. Warwick seems to be a most devoted mother.”

  “A surplus of maternal affection makes one a murderer, does it?”

  “We shall see.” Endicott shrugged his hefty shoulders. “The investigation is ongoing.” He paused. “You mentioned visiting Greece. I understand you travel quite a bit.”

  “Yes, I am rarely in London. I’ve injured my foot, which has kept me in Town far longer than is my norm.”

  “Will you be leaving again soon?”

  “My cousin’s frigate should come into port in the next week or so. When it sails out again, I expect to be aboard.”

  “As we are in the midst of an investigation, I trust you won’t depart without speaking to Bow Street first.”

  “You may depend on it.”

  After the runner had gone, Atlas went back into the sitting room and stared down at the Archimedes’ Box. He scattered the pieces and used a few to make the shape of an elephant.

  His thoughts drifted back to the murder of Godfrey Warwick. Surely others had a motive to kill the man. But who? How difficult would it be to track the killer? Endicott struck him as clever, but was he cunning enough to catch the true murderer? Atlas had no intention of waiting until the fat bastard threw him into Newgate to find out. Scattering the pieces on the table, he quickly formed them back into a box again and then went over to sit before the unfinished Gainsborough puzzle.

  He’d completed the top third of the painting, the clouds and sky, and had turned his focus to the trees. It was here, while doing puzzle work, that he felt clearest and most focused, a state of mind needed to intelligently mull over his conversation with the runner.

  Endicott wasn’t a fool. It was only a matter time before he learned of the terrible scene that had occurred when Mrs. Warwick’s children were forcibly taken from her. Warwick had been killed just a few hours after that regrettable incident, the same evening Atlas had publicly confronted the dead man about the encounter.

  He pushed a murky piece of puzzle, part of some tree bark, into place and felt a surge of satisfaction. He found it immensely gratifying when everything fell into place; he was drawn to the order of it. His thoughts drifted back to the runner, who was closing in and making no secret of it. Atlas had both motive and opportunity to commit the murder as well as no alibi.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Warwick was in th
e same predicament. She’d retired early on the night of Warwick’s death. He supposed it was possible for her to have slipped out during Thea’s party to do away with her husband. The man had done vile things to her, and she could have acted out in a moment of passion. But he just couldn’t see Mrs. Warwick as a killer. He sensed she was hiding something, but he doubted it was murderous tendencies.

  What of other possible suspects? If neither of them had done it, who had? He exhaled and stared at the scattered puzzle pieces. He couldn’t trust Endicott to find the true killer, and he wouldn’t leave his fate—or Mrs. Warwick’s, for that matter—in someone else’s hands.

  He’d have to do it himself. It was time to begin his own investigation into the murder of Godfrey Warwick. He’d start by riding out to Slough to gather information on the people Warwick associated with.

  He needed to uncover who—besides Warwick’s widow—had hated the dead man enough to kill him.

  * * *

  “Are there affairs you must put in order, Lilliana, my dear?” Thea asked. “Regarding Mr. Warwick’s business concerns?”

  They were parked in the shade under the maple trees in Berkley Square, across from Gunter’s Tea Shop, one of Thea’s favored destinations. Atlas stood by the barouche, leaning against the square’s railing while he made quick work of his sorbet.

  The ladies ate their ices as they sat in Charlton’s shiny carriage, which Atlas had borrowed because it was a fine day for a ride in an open carriage. He thought the fresh air would do Mrs. Warwick good. She hadn’t ventured out of Thea’s house for several days and had refused all his invitations to go riding in Hyde Park again. She seemed preoccupied of late, which he assumed was due to her recent widowhood and what her abrupt change in circumstances portended for her future.

  “There is the matter of the haberdashery, but John has said he will look into finding someone to manage the shop.” Mrs. Warwick poked a spoon into her lemon ice. “He has also discussed the possibility of selling the enterprise.”

  Atlas straightened. “Can Warwick’s brother be trusted to look after the children’s best interests?”