Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “John has always been kind to me and the children,” Mrs. Warwick said. “He has given me no cause to distrust him.”

  Thea scraped the last bit of dessert from her glass bowl. “That is something to be grateful for at least.” She glanced over at the other woman’s uneaten dessert. “You haven’t had any of your ice, Lily. At least try it.”

  “I am not much for sweets.” Mrs. Warwick scooped up a small amount and brought it to her lips. “But I must bring the boys here. They enjoy frozen treats.”

  “Young Peter rivals me in my love of icy desserts,” Thea said. “We can barely keep him away from the icehouse.”

  Concern lit Mrs. Warwick’s face. “I have told him to stay away from the icehouse because it is not safe, but he seems enthralled by the sight of all that ice when it is relatively warm outside.”

  Atlas remembered his and his brothers’ fascination with the icehouse at Langston Park, their family home in Berkshire, where they’d all grown up. It had been forbidden to them too. But in the heat of the summer, they’d sometimes sneaked inside to cool off, running through the tunnel, which was curved to keep out the warm air.

  “Did Warwick never bring the boys to Gunter’s, given Peter’s love of frozen ice?” Thea asked. “It’s not far from the haberdashery.”

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Warwick tried another spoonful. “The boys and I stayed in the country and never came to Town. And even so, Godfrey wasn’t one for family outings.”

  Atlas felt a fresh rush of anger toward Warwick for never treating his family to the simple pleasure of a visit to Gunter’s nor to any other excursion for that matter. When his own father hadn’t been holed up in his study working on his latest poem, the Catesby family had gone on numerous picnics and other jaunts—exploring ruins, attending theatrical performances, or visiting Town to take in the Tower of London and the crown jewels.

  Atlas had often grumbled about those mandatory family trips. The journeys were usually cramped and noisy, and as the youngest, he’d often been relegated to the worst seat, at least until his legs grew too long. But now he looked back upon those excursions with extreme fondness.

  He could still picture Phoebe on those occasions, her smile light and ethereal while she drew something in her sketchbook. Gentle Phoebe had been nothing like her indomitable younger sister. While Thea could easily take on the world, Phoebe had been far too naïve and trusting of people. And she’d paid the ultimate price for it.

  “Lilliana, there’s nothing to stop you from bringing the boys here now,” Thea was saying. “They might also enjoy visiting the British Museum. It’s so close to the house that you could go at any time, don’t you think so, Atlas?”

  “Most assuredly.” He inhaled deeply to ease the tightness in his chest and pushed thoughts of the sister he’d failed from his mind. “I shall be delighted to escort you and the boys to Gunter’s or elsewhere whenever you care to bring them.”

  He had yet to meet the children; he’d been waiting for their mother to introduce them, which she had declined to do so thus far for reasons she hadn’t articulated.

  Mrs. Warwick leaned forward, peering across the square. “Is that Lord Charlton?”

  Atlas and Thea both followed her gaze to the well-heeled horseman coming their way clad in buff breeches and a lemon tailcoat with shiny brass buttons glittering in the sunlight. “It certainly is,” Thea said. “He would be hard to miss in those bright colors. He looks like a peacock.”

  Atlas straightened. “I wonder what he’s doing here. When I borrowed the barouche this morning, he said he had an engagement.”

  Thea sighed. “That man is always underfoot.”

  “You are very hard on him,” Atlas observed.

  “I agree,” Mrs. Warwick put in. “I quite like the earl. He’s amusing, and it was kind of him to lend us his barouche.”

  “Yes, certainly it was.” Thea eyed the pricey vehicle’s sleek lines and plush seats. Unlike the earl, she was not a spendthrift and had little use for creature comforts. “But it’s a bit ostentatious.”

  Atlas laughed. His friendship with Charlton had helped him see past his blind animosity for every member of the peerage. He’d been at Harrow and Cambridge long enough to know there were decent sorts scattered among the knaves. Charlton, for all his foppish ways, was one of those honorable men. “Everything about the earl is ostentatious. It’s part of his unique charm.”

  Thea pressed her lips tightly together as she watched Charlton approach. “Charlton is possibly the least serious man I have ever met.”

  “Alas, we cannot all be mathematicians,” Atlas said before turning to greet his friend. “Hello, Charlton. This is unexpected.”

  “Good day.” The earl removed his hat as he drew nearer. Smiling, he inclined his head toward the carriage. “How fortunate to have come across each other.”

  “We could hardly overlook you in that jacket,” Thea said.

  “Why, Mrs. Palmer, my heart will be broken if you tell me that you do not care for my attire.”

  Atlas spooned the last bit of his icy confection into his mouth. “I thought you said you had an engagement this afternoon.”

  “I was able to conclude my affairs earlier than expected.”

  Thea snapped open her fan. “How fortuitous.”

  The earl’s blue-eyed gaze gleamed as it met hers. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Thea looked away and effectively rebuffed the earl by shifting her body to focus her complete attention on her brother. “What are you going to do about the runner who keeps dogging you at every turn?”

  Irritation tugged at him. He preferred not to bring up Endicott’s murder investigation in front of Mrs. Warwick, who had enough to worry about with the children and the fate of the haberdashery. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion.”

  “I disagree,” Mrs. Warwick interjected, her bronze eyes flashing, revealing a suggestion of temper. It was another fissure in the icy armor in which she’d encased herself. “After all, you would not be in this situation if it were not for me.”

  Thea handed her empty dish to the waiter who’d dashed across the street to collect the bowls. “You are my brother, and I know you very well—well enough to surmise you are already halfway to figuring out who killed Mr. Warwick.”

  “You give me far too much credit.” He did not care to go into detail about his decision to look into Warwick’s murder on his own.

  Unfortunately, Charlton had no such qualms about the ladies’ sensibilities. “From what I understand, Endicott has set his sights on you as his primary suspect.”

  Atlas didn’t bother to ask his friend how he knew that. He assumed a few palms had been greased. “One can hardly blame him,” he said lightly. “I had both motive and opportunity. He will likely look no further for the real killer.”

  “Which is why you must search for the killer yourself,” Thea pronounced. “Your latest investigation.”

  It really was aggravating to have a sibling who knew him so well. He and Thea were barely a year apart in age. She’d always possessed a bossy nature and had made it her business to know everything about her little brother. Even as adults, she resisted relinquishing the role of interfering elder sister.

  “This is a serious matter, and the runners are already investigating,” Atlas responded.

  “They are idiots.” She waved an impatient hand. “You’ve more brains than the lot of them put together. Besides, you’ve always liked to solve mysteries, and this one is the ultimate challenge.”

  “Has he?” Mrs. Warwick looked from Atlas to Thea. “What types of mysteries?”

  “All sorts.” Thea smiled at the memory. “There was the time Papa’s hound became enceinte by an unknown canine when Atlas was twelve. He was determined to find out who the puppies’ sire was.” She looked from Mrs. Warwick to Charlton. “He investigated all the neighboring dogs and interviewed the village veterinarian until he was able to identify the culprit.”

  “One woman
’s culprit is another man’s lucky dog,” Charlton intoned.

  Thea ignored him. “And remember just before my come-out when a secret admirer kept leaving notes for me by the servants’ entrance?”

  Charlton’s ears practically twitched. “Secret admirer?”

  “He was all of fourteen.”

  Atlas remembered how thrilled he’d been to trace the notes back to the son of the local vicar.

  Charlton leaned against the railing. “Atlas also discovered who was stealing from Disher, the tobacconist on Bond Street.”

  “But that was all a lark,” Atlas said. “This is murder. It’s a bit more serious.”

  “But you are good at murder too,” Thea said enthusiastically. “You were correct about Prudence Pratt, after all.”

  He scowled at her indelicate reference to a disagreeable subject in front of Mrs. Warwick. “I have heard as much.”

  Thea scooted forward on the barouche’s leather seat. “The young lady was apparently so overwhelmed with guilt that she confessed to the killing, even after being cleared of her half brother’s brutal murder.”

  “Yes, I saw it in today’s Times,” he said. “Miss Pratt went to Bow Street court and admitted carrying out the crime.”

  Thea’s eyes glittered. “You had the right of it all along. The sister was the killer.”

  “She’ll no doubt hang now,” Charlton mused. “I say, Atlas, why were you so certain Miss Pratt was the guilty party?”

  He shrugged. “Once one considered the evidence, it was as clear—”

  “—as a bell.” Both Thea and Charlton finished his sentence for him.

  “Yes, we know,” the earl added, flashing an amused smile at Thea in light of their shared retort.

  When she pointedly ignored him, Charlton returned his attention to Atlas. “If you don’t wish to investigate Mr. Warwick’s death yourself, you could always hire your own runner.”

  “I could, but I have no intention of doing so. I plan to see to it myself.”

  “What does that mean?” Charlton asked.

  “I knew it!” Thea exclaimed in triumph. “He is going to investigate the murder himself.”

  Mrs. Warwick looked at him with wide eyes. “Truly?”

  “Yes, I may as well take matters into my own hands. Otherwise, I might find myself in the gaol.” He did not mention Mrs. Warwick’s precarious position as a suspect. “Now, would anyone care for more lemon ice?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The following day, Atlas rode to Slough to meet with Godfrey Warwick’s brother.

  Heavy gray clouds drooped from the sky during the two-hour ride. He set the ornery stallion at a moderate pace as they made their way through the encroaching fog, which obscured the road ahead like a ghostly snowfall.

  John Warwick lived in a white stucco manor house with black-framed sashed windows on the first two floors and dormers on the third. Mist enshrouded the property, which exuded a certain sense of calm, not unlike the man Atlas remembered. He had a brief recollection of John Warwick from the morning after he’d first encountered Mrs. Warwick.

  Atlas had no idea whether the man would agree to talk to him. However, the fact that Atlas’s brother was a baron might work in his favor. It would be difficult for a member of the gentry to refuse him.

  The mourning wreath hanging over the front door appeared several weeks old; the flowers were shriveled, and the dried leaves had lost their color. Atlas realized the hatchment served a dual purpose; within the past month, John Warwick had lost both his wife and his brother. As a servant led him into the parlor, they passed a mirror draped in black, another sign of a house in mourning.

  They came to a bright space decorated in creams and red velvets. A portrait of a woman hanging over the hearth was draped in black. She had a sweet half smile and a gentle expression. Perhaps this was Verity Warwick, John’s late wife. According to Mrs. Warwick, John had cared deeply for the woman. He wondered if the brothers had been close as well and how keenly John Warwick now felt his younger brother’s loss.

  “Mr. Catesby.”

  Atlas turned from the painting to find John Warwick entering the parlor. He wore country clothes. A black band on his left arm was the only overt evidence of his grief, yet deep lines etched his face, and each leaden step seemed burdened by the weight of his sorrow.

  “My late wife,” he said of the portrait. “Although I do not think the likeness does her justice.”

  “I do beg your pardon for intruding during your time of grief.”

  A shadow crossed John’s face. “The loss has been difficult.” He bore a passing resemblance to his brother—the same coloring and similar features, although his were a bit more sharply cut.

  “Mrs. Warwick . . . Mrs. Lilliana Warwick, that is . . . has spoken very warmly of your late wife.”

  “She was a fine woman.” John contemplated the painting. “I would have forgiven her anything.”

  The choice of words struck Atlas as odd, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered whether Verity Warwick had done something that required a husband’s forgiveness. Not that it would matter now.

  John lowered himself into one of the red velvet chairs and gestured for Atlas to do the same. “What can I do for you, Mr. Catesby?”

  “I am looking into the matter of your brother’s death.”

  “Why would you do that?” Warwick placed his interlaced fingers on his chest. “A Bow Street runner—Endicott, I think his name is—came to see me about the case.”

  Atlas had decided beforehand to come straight to the point. “I do not have confidence in his ability to correctly identify the person who killed your brother.”

  “It’s a herculean task, no matter who undertakes it. My brother was a . . . difficult man to like.”

  The man’s directness took Atlas aback. “Did you like him?”

  John did not seem surprised by the question. “He was my younger brother. I always looked after him. His actions often disappointed me, none more so than his abominable behavior toward Lilliana, but he was family, after all.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would wish your brother harm?”

  “Besides you? And possibly Lilliana?” When Atlas stiffened, Warwick continued. “Be at ease, Mr. Catesby, I am not accusing you of nefarious behavior. And I know Lilliana well enough to comprehend she is not capable of that sort of violence.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Atlas allowed a distinct edge to creep into his voice.

  John shrugged. “The truth of the matter is that is there are probably more people who hated my brother than those who thought well of him.”

  “These people who did not care for your brother, are they mostly in Slough and the surrounding county?”

  “It is hard to say. Godfrey spent most of his time in Town. He only came to Slough on Saturday afternoons and would depart early Monday morning.”

  Atlas wondered if the man was deliberately trying to be unhelpful. “So you cannot direct me to anyone here in Slough who might have been involved in some sort of dispute with your brother.”

  “Nothing worth killing over.” John sighed. “But to be frank, Godfrey did not confide in me overmuch.”

  Atlas was beginning to think the journey out to Slough had been for naught. “Was there anyone your brother did confide in?”

  “Bole. He and Godfrey had been friends since boyhood.”

  “Bole.” The name sounded slightly familiar.

  “You will remember him as the magistrate who threatened to throw Lilliana in the gaol.”

  Distaste slithered through his gut. “I do remember.”

  “Bole has a house on Upton Street.” John shifted in his seat. “Now, if there is nothing else.”

  Atlas rose, taking John’s cue that the interview had come to an end. “One more thing.” He paused. “Do you mind telling me where you were the evening your brother died?”

  John did not appear to take offense to the question. “I was here at home. There was a terrible storm
that evening. It wasn’t the kind of weather that invited going out.”

  Atlas recalled the downpour. “No, it wasn’t.” He turned to go. “Thank you for your time.”

  Warwick remained seated as Atlas exited the room. “Mr. Catesby.”

  He halted and turned around. “Yes?”

  “In case you are wondering, I agreed to see you today because of your chivalrous behavior toward Lilliana. She’s not one to give easy praise, but she has spoken highly of you.”

  Warmth swirled in Atlas’s chest at the unexpected accolade from the cool Artemis, and he went out with a little more bounce in his step.

  * * *

  When Atlas called at Bole’s modest timber-framed dwelling on Upton Street, he found the magistrate rushing out the door with his black top hat in one hand. When he spotted Atlas by his front gate, he slowed and stiffened, his posture becoming rigid.

  “What would you be wanting?” he asked, his light-blue eyes like narrow slits in a square, fleshy face. He was not a tall man, and his body was almost as square shaped as his face.

  “Good day.” Atlas kept his manner easy and cordial. “Mr. John Warwick told me where to find you.”

  Bole placed his hat on his head. “As you can see, I am in a hurry.” He stepped around Atlas and continued on his way.

  Atlas followed and fell in step with him. “My condolences on the death of your friend.”

  Bole shot him a skeptical look. “I’m certain you’re pleased to have Godfrey out of the way.”

  It seemed to Atlas that Bole did not appear overset by his friend’s violent demise. “Why would you say that?”

  “Godfrey told me everything the last time he was in Slough. About how you were shagging his wife.”

  Atlas, who had clasped his hands behind his back in an amiable posture as they walked, now clenched his fists tightly but managed to reply in a calm and even voice. “Even if that were true, which it is not, I had purchased Mrs. Warwick from her husband, so I hardly needed to kill him to make her mine.”

  “She wanted the children, and he was keeping them from her.”

  They rounded a steep curve in the road. The tower of the parish church loomed ahead. “If a man kept a mistress,” Atlas said, “I imagine the last thing he would want is to have her children underfoot while he attempts to have his way with her.”