Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  Bole peered hard at him. “What is it that you want from me, Catesby?”

  “You were closer to Godfrey Warwick than just about anyone else. You are in a position to tell me if he had any enemies, anyone who hated him enough to kill.”

  Bole sidled a bit away from Atlas, widening the distance between them. “Godfrey told me you threatened him more than once, and I told that runner, Mr. Endicott, all about it.”

  Atlas made a concerted effort to unclench his jaw. “Warwick’s treatment of his wife was an outrage, and it certainly offended me, but if I had wanted to kill the man, I would not have done the deed in secret—I would have called him out on a field of honor.”

  Bole seemed to roll the words over in his mind and ultimately appeared to accept the truth of them. “I never could understand why any man in his right mind would fight over that harridan.”

  “Watch your tongue, Bole.”

  “Godfrey regretted marrying her. Oh, she was biddable enough at first, but that changed over the years.” He paused. “She also had a strong dislike of the marriage bed, unlike the lusty wenches we are accustomed to here in the country. Of course, that did not deter Godfrey from bedding her whenever he was down from London. He did want children, even if begetting them was a chore.”

  Atlas’s neck heated. “Are you saying Warwick forced himself upon his wife when she was unwilling?”

  “Forced himself?” Bole regarded him with surprise. “As if such a thing is possible. She was his wife, and he had certain rights. But the answer to your question is no. Godfrey said Lilliana knew her duty. She submitted as she should, but it was not a pleasant experience for either of them.”

  “It is abominable to think that any man, gentleman or not, would discuss what occurs in the privacy of his bedchamber.” Atlas struggled to keep his rising temper in check. “She was a young maiden of just sixteen when she came to him. Warwick should have treated her with more care.”

  “A virgin?” Bole scoffed. “Perhaps,” he added quickly when he registered Atlas’s negative reaction. “But Godfrey found no proof of a maidenhead when he took her.”

  Atlas didn’t believe it. He couldn’t imagine crystalline Mrs. Warwick lying with any man before marriage. “Did Warwick confront her about that? Did he question his wife about whether there’d been a man before him?”

  “She denied everything, of course. She could hardly admit to it.” He leaned closer to Atlas, his tone more secretive. “But Godfrey went through her things once and found an old letter from the cove, whoever he was. It was dated from the year before they married.”

  Mrs. Warwick would have been just fifteen when the letter was written. “What precisely was in the missive?”

  “Godfrey never said, but he was convinced it was from the man who’d taken her innocence.”

  “What was the man’s name?”

  Bole adjusted his top hat. “I don’t believe Godfrey ever said.”

  “Is that why he sold her?” If Bole’s account were true, it would explain why Warwick had been so furious with his wife.

  “No, she’d done something more recently that angered Godfrey.”

  “What was that?”

  “He wouldn’t say precisely, but I gathered she’d threatened to disclose something he preferred to keep private.” Bole came to a stop before a neat stone structure. “Now if you will excuse me, I am due in magistrates’ court.”

  Atlas had more questions, but it was clear he wouldn’t learn anything more from Bole today. “Of course. Good day.”

  Bole halted abruptly just short of the door and turned back to Atlas, his expression pensive. “Something occurs to me.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “What if Lilliana’s lover has admired her from afar? He had no hope of coming anywhere near her while Godfrey was still alive.”

  “You make many assumptions.”

  “Perhaps. But in locating Lilliana’s lover, you might also find the man who killed her husband.”

  * * *

  Once he returned to Town, Atlas decided to stop in at the haberdashery to question Godfrey Warwick’s clerk. His conversation with Bole had left a foul taste in his mouth, and he welcomed the diversion.

  It was late afternoon by the time he got to Wigmore Street. The shop showed no outward sign of its owner’s demise: the handsome bowed windows, shiny black door, and gilded Warwick & Sons sign all looked as they had when Warwick had been in charge.

  The bell over the door rang when he entered the shop. The spotless floors, shiny mahogany counter, and shelves stocked with notions were orderly and well presented, as if the proprietor had just stepped into the back for a moment rather than having been murdered upstairs a short sennight ago.

  “Good afternoon, I shall be with you presently,” someone called from the back. The bespectacled clerk with the mop of curly hair appeared. His coloring had improved since the last time they’d met, when he’d stumbled out the door and retched after discovering Warwick’s corpse.

  The solicitous smile evaporated when he saw who’d entered the shop. “Mr. Catesby.”

  “Good afternoon, Stillwell. It is good to see you still have a situation here.”

  The clerk licked dry lips. “I am grateful to still have a position, especially after Mr. Warwick . . .” The color drained from his face as if he were remembering the sight of Warwick’s corpse. He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I have a few questions that I hope you can help me with.”

  “About what, sir?”

  Atlas removed his top hat and placed it on the counter. “I am attempting to discover who killed your employer.”

  “I’m not sure how I can be of any service—” He paled again. “Unless you are accusing me of something.”

  “Not at all,” Atlas reassured him. “I thought you might be able to tell me whether your employer had any enemies that you knew of.”

  “I’m sure I cannot say.”

  “Perhaps he argued with someone? Or had a payment dispute?”

  A crisp feminine voice sounded from the stairwell. “Mr. Catesby?” Mrs. Warwick glided down carrying a bulky black ledger in her arms.

  “Mrs. Warwick,” he said with some surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” She wore a becoming black gown with white cuffs and a high-standing white collar, a sign she’d taken on mourning despite everything that bastard Warwick had done to her.

  “I hoped to ask Stillwell a few questions.”

  “And I am attempting to gain an understanding of my late husband’s assets.” She handed the ledger to Stillwell. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll take the next one, please.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Warwick.” He vanished into the back with the book of accounts in hand.

  Atlas returned his gaze to her. “You are wearing black.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at her gown. “Despite everything, Godfrey was still my legal husband at the time of his death, and I do have the boys to consider. It would hardly be appropriate for them to take up mourning while their mother does not.”

  “You look very well.”

  “It’s quite a nuisance, really. All my new gowns have been dyed black.” She caught his eye. “I know it’s terribly heartless of me to speak so when my husband is dead.”

  “Not at all. I was acquainted with the man, after all.”

  “I regret the manner in which Godfrey died, truly, but I am not sorry he is out of my life.”

  Stillwell reappeared with two hefty account books. “Here you go, ma’am.”

  “Allow me.” Atlas stepped forward to take them.

  He followed her up the stairs and into Warwick’s apartments, taking care to leave the door ajar to protect her reputation. The only other time he’d been here was when he’d found her husband’s body. He glanced in the direction of the bedchamber. The door was closed. He wondered if she knew Warwick’s body had been found on the bed.

  “How goes the
investigation?” she asked. “Thea tells me you went to Slough to see John. How did you find him?”

  He placed the ledgers on the table. “His grief appears to have taken a heavy toll on him. Was he close to Godfrey?”

  “He often took his brother to task for his objectionable behavior, which Godfrey detested, but John cared for Godfrey, even though my husband did not deserve his brother’s love.”

  “John said he didn’t see much of his brother and could think of no one who would want to do him harm. I thought perhaps Stillwell would know of someone who might have had a dispute with Warwick.”

  He was hesitant to mention his visit with Bole, especially given the man’s scurrilous allegations regarding her honor and virtue, but it couldn’t be helped. “There is something I must ask you.”

  When he paused, she said, “Well, get on with it. It can’t be all that bad.”

  “Bole says you threatened to disclose some matter Warwick preferred to keep private. A threat that made him very angry.”

  Surprise, then wariness, lit her eyes. “You saw Felix Bole today?”

  “I did. It is true?”

  She dipped her chin. “It is. I overhead Godfrey threatening a gentleman.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “A few weeks ago.” One delicate pale hand absently smoothed her skirts. “The man arrived in Slough early on a Saturday afternoon, not long after Godfrey had arrived from Town. He was extremely agitated.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No, he was a stranger.” She carried the ledgers over to the escritoire by the window. “I was in the garden with the children. There are double doors in Godfrey’s study that lead outside. It was a beautiful day, and one of the doors was ajar. I heard the arguing and ventured closer to see what the fuss was about.”

  “In what way did Warwick threaten him?”

  Setting the books down, she turned back to Atlas. “Godfrey demanded money from the man. Otherwise, he said, he would tell all of Mayfair the truth about him.”

  “What truth was that?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I have no idea. But after the man left, I confronted Godfrey and told him extorting money from the man was dishonorable.”

  He admired her fearlessness; she’d been unafraid to take her husband to task, despite his brutish behavior toward her. “Which he no doubt appreciated.”

  “Godfrey told me I would pay for my meddling.” She gave him a wry smile. “And he was certainly true to his word.”

  “You say you did not know the man Warwick was extorting?”

  “No, but I would most certainly recognize him if I saw him again.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He had very dark hair except for a streak of gray running from one temple all the way to the base of his neck.” She smiled. “The children giggled when they saw him and said he looked like a skunk.”

  “Did he appear to be a gentleman? Warwick threatened to disclose his secret to Mayfair, which suggests he might be a member of the peerage.”

  “I cannot say for certain, although his clothes were well tailored and of high quality.”

  Atlas looked toward the window and saw the day was growing short. He had taken up enough of her time. He offered to escort her home, but she declined.

  “Thea’s coachman will be along for me in an hour’s time.” She gestured toward the ledgers she’d moved to the small desk. “Until then, I have much with which to occupy myself.”

  He wondered if her presence at the shop meant she intended to take over its management. “Have you decided to take up trade?”

  She seemed amused by the question. “You think it is beneath me? I do need to look after the boys as well as myself.” She sat at the desk and began to write. “You cannot be my champion forever. I have imposed enough as it is.”

  Yet he still felt a strong urge to keep her safe. “It was no imposition. Common decency dictates that I assist in any way I can.”

  She ripped something carefully out of the notebook she’d been writing in and stood, holding it out to him. “This in no way absolves my debt to you, but it is a place to start.”

  He realized it was a bank draft written out in the amount of thirty pounds. The sum he’d paid Warwick for her that shameful afternoon at the inn. He stepped back, insulted. “I will not take your money.”

  “Technically, it is Godfrey’s.” She continued to hold the draft out to him. “Please accept it.”

  “No.” The words were sharper than he’d intended. “You insult us both by offering.”

  “Why? Because I refuse to pretend my husband did not sell me to a stranger? As if I could ever forget it.” She held herself erect, her bearing proud but her voice trembling. “I cannot bear to have this between us. Please accept the money.”

  Determination blazed in her autumn-hued eyes as she stood, pale-faced, with her arm extended, the bank draft fluttering from her tapered fingers. He suddenly understood that returning the money was the closest she could ever come to undoing the degradation her husband had subjected her to. It also became clear to him that the terrible way they’d met would always be a chasm between them. One that might prove unbreachable.

  “Very well.” With a heavy heart, he took the draft and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he bade her good evening and left her alone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Excuse me, Mr. Catesby,” the clerk said when Atlas reentered the shop.

  He was no longer in the mood to talk. It had been a long day, and his conversation with Mrs. Warwick had left him somewhat dispirited. “Yes, what is it?”

  “You asked if I might know of anyone who had a dispute with Mr. Warwick.”

  He paused, regarding the clerk across the counter. “Have you remembered something?”

  “Yes, a few days before Mr. Warwick was . . . left us . . . a gentleman came into the shop, and the two had words.”

  Could this be the same man Warwick had extorted money from? “Did you recognize this gentleman?”

  “No, sir, I’d never seen him before. He wasn’t a regular customer.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “I can’t say.” The clerk adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Warwick sent me out of the shop. He said it was to bring him coffee, but I think he wanted to speak with his visitor in complete privacy.”

  “Then how do you know they exchanged words?”

  “I saw them arguing through the window when I returned with the coffee. At one point, the gentleman pushed Mr. Warwick against one of the shelves and pointed his finger in his face.”

  “You say this man was a gentleman?”

  “Oh, yes. He was very finely dressed and carried himself like a prince. He could have been a royal duke, for all I know. I never got a good look at his face. He kept his hat on and his chin down. It was almost as though he didn’t want to be recognized.”

  “Could you tell if he had dark hair with a streak of gray growing through it, like a skunk?”

  Stillwell frowned. “No, sir. Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him, but he did wear the largest signet ring I’ve ever seen.”

  A signet ring. Which meant Warwick’s caller was indeed a peer of some sort. The clue wasn’t much to go on, but at least it narrowed the field down from London’s one million denizens to a more manageable few hundred members of the ton. “What did this ring look like?”

  “It was gold, with the largest red ruby at the center. That ring must be worth a fortune.”

  “Thank you, Stillwell.” It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start. He reached for his hat. “You’ve been most helpful. Please don’t hesitate to send word if you think of anything else of interest.”

  The bell above the door jangled as Atlas pulled it open. A rush of damp air reached him. It had started raining again.

  “Mr. Catesby.”

  He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “You mentioned someone with dark hair and a
streak of white running through it?”

  “Yes.” He faced the clerk, his posture alert. “Do you know someone who matches that description?”

  “Yes, sir. But he’s no peer. He’s a tradesman. His name’s Kirby Nash.”

  His heart sped up. Here was his first genuine lead. “Did this Mr. Nash visit Mr. Warwick here at the shop?”

  “No, not that I ever saw.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I’ve worked here a long time, and one comes to know other merchants in the area.”

  “What is Mr. Nash’s trade?”

  “He’s a tailor, sir. He has an establishment on Pall Mall in St. James.”

  “Thank you, Stillwell.” He placed his hat on his head. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  * * *

  Like the cold rain beating down on him, the thoughts that accompanied Atlas on his way home were not pleasant. He couldn’t help wondering whether Mrs. Warwick had truly had a secret lover.

  His mind kept returning to the well-heeled man in the park who’d stared after her as if he’d seen a ghost. There was something about the man that had nagged at his mind for days. Perhaps it was the obvious joy that had illuminated the man’s face when he’d beheld Mrs. Warwick, his attention riveted on her as she’d ridden away. It was a preposterous assumption, not supported by any evidence, but he couldn’t help wondering if the man could be Mrs. Warwick’s secret lover. And the lady was now free. Ice flowed in his veins at the thought of the two of them taking up with each other again.

  His jealousy was ridiculous. It wasn’t as though she was his or ever would be. But the thought of her giving herself to another man clawed at his insides. Not caring to examine what his feelings of possessiveness might mean, Atlas tugged his collar up around his neck to ward off the chilling downpour and hurried home.

  * * *

  Late the following morning, Atlas walked over to Pall Mall to visit Kirby Nash, the tailor with a dark secret Warwick had threatened to expose. The streets were damp and muddy from the previous evening’s storm, and the air remained thick with humidity, though the rain itself had ceased.