Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  The earl’s face brightened. “There you have it. Even Mrs. Palmer will be in attendance, which means we’re likely to discuss mathematics in great depth. How can you resist?”

  Thea harrumphed. “I doubt you could discuss the subject at all, much less in great depth.”

  Mrs. Warwick smiled as her gaze bounced between Thea and Charlton. “If it is an intimate party, I suppose I could attend.” She turned to Atlas. “What brings you here so early in the day? Is all well?”

  Still disturbed by Thea’s absurd assessment of his life, it took Atlas a moment to realize Mrs. Warwick referred to the investigation. “Quite well, actually. I stopped by to inquire as to whether you will permit me to accompany the children to the park later this afternoon after they are done with their lessons. I have purchased larger rolling hoops for them.”

  Something in her aloof gaze softened. “That is good of you but unnecessary. I’m sure you are very busy.”

  “Not that busy, apparently,” Charlton piped in.

  “I should like for Peter and Robin to know I am a man of my word,” Atlas said, ignoring his friend’s impertinence. “I have promised to show them how to jump back and forth through a rolling hoop and should like to do so today, since the weather is fine.”

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Atlas caught sight of Mrs. Warwick standing at the edge of the park, watching from afar as he showed Peter how to jump back and forth through the rolling hoop. He wondered how long she’d been observing them. He and the boys had arrived more than an hour ago, accompanied by Clara, who was acting as the boys’ full-time nurse while they stayed with Thea. Atlas had presumed their mother wasn’t coming.

  The skies rumbled, and Atlas looked up see the gray clouds rolling in ominous splendor, threatening to unleash a torrent of rain. Mrs. Warwick left her observation post and came toward them.

  “We should head for home,” she said as she drew near. “It looks like a storm is coming.” When Peter and Robin protested and insisted on demonstrating their newfound skills for her, she applauded and exclaimed when they did. Peter caught a frog and brought it to her just as they were ready to leave.

  “May I take it with me?” he asked her, gingerly cradling his prize in one cupped hand and covering it with the other to prevent the creature from making a leaping escape.

  “You most certainly may not,” she admonished. “What would Mrs. Palmer think if you started bringing nasty little animals into her home?”

  Atlas smiled. “Such a circumstance would not be completely alien to her. I was known to keep a frog or two when I was not much older than Peter.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up as he shifted his admiring gaze to Atlas. “You were permitted to keep frogs in the house?”

  “Not exactly. But since I very much wanted to watch my tadpoles transform into frogs, my sister Phoebe helped me hide them in my room.” He smiled wistfully at the memory. For as long as he could remember, Phoebe had been his ally. “When they grew into frogs, however, she made me release them back into the pond near our home in the country.”

  Peter cast a hopeful look at his mother. “May I do the same, please? I will keep Froggie for a little while and then release it when we return to the country.”

  “Given that your frog is quite grown, and since we shan’t return to the country for some time,” she said to her son, “you may free the creature now so we can be on our way.”

  His shoulders slumped with disappointment, Peter knelt to release his catch and watched mournfully as it hopped away and disappeared into the nearest bush. He pushed heavily to his feet. “Mr. Catesby was very lucky to have had such a sister,” he said, his expression sullen.

  Atlas’s throat felt sore. “I certainly was.”

  “It sounds as if you had quite an ally in her,” Mrs. Warwick said gently.

  “You could say so.” He looked away momentarily. “Shall we go?”

  They began the walk back to Great Russell Street, the boys rolling their hoops up ahead with their watchful nurse nearby while Atlas and Mrs. Warwick lingered farther behind to discuss the investigation.

  “Did you know that Warwick and Bole argued before your husband died?” he asked.

  “Did they?” The notion seemed to surprise her. “Bole usually followed Godfrey without question. I cannot imagine what they would have fought about. Do you know?”

  “I do not. Bole is away, so I have not had a chance to speak with him as of yet.” He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “I have also learned something else,” he said reluctantly. “About Mrs. John Warwick and your husband.”

  “Verity and Godfrey? What of them?”

  “Are you aware that once, long before Warwick met you, he wanted to marry Verity?”

  She halted, obviously stunned. “Where did you hear that?”

  He also stopped and faced her. “From Mrs. Greene.”

  “I would never have guessed. I never saw any sign.”

  “Her parents forced the marriage to John because he was the older son and stood to inherit.”

  She shook her head, still in apparent disbelief. “Verity seemed utterly devoted to John. I truly believe she loved him deeply.”

  “Mrs. Greene says the infatuation between Godfrey and Verity was youthful folly on both of their parts. That Godfrey came to Town to make his fortune while Verity truly came to love her husband.”

  “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “That would make sense. Verity could not help but realize that John treated her with greater kindness than Godfrey ever would have.” She searched his face. “Do you think this has something to do with Godfrey’s death?”

  “If it does, I cannot yet see how.”

  The boys shouted back to Atlas, insisting he watch them run through the hoops. This time Robin would dash through the hoop first and then Peter would follow. He applauded. “That is very good,” he called out to them. “Soon you will be ready to learn more tricks.”

  She paused. “It is kind of you to offer, but I do not think it would be wise for you to take the boys out again.”

  He frowned. “Why, may I ask, do you object to my seeing the boys?”

  “I do not want them to be hurt.”

  He took offense. “You think I would do injury to them?”

  “Not purposely, no. But once Godfrey’s killer is found, I plan to take them away and start anew someplace where no one knows us. I don’t want them to become attached to anyone here.”

  He felt a stab of disappointment. “You will go off alone, just you and the children?”

  “The newspapers have already begun to make reference to how Godfrey sold me. They have not identified me by name, but they will. I do not want the boys to face that scandal.”

  “Will their guardian allow it?”

  “My husband’s brother? I have not discussed the matter with John as of yet. But he is coming to Town in a week or two to visit with the children and to deal with matters related to the haberdashery, and I will do so then.”

  “Running away is not your only option.” His words were measured. “There is another way to erase the taint.”

  She regarded him expectantly. “How so?”

  Thea’s solution to Mrs. Warwick’s problem no longer seemed quite so extreme. “We could marry.”

  Her eyes widened. “Marry?”

  “You and the boys would have the protection of my name.”

  “And you would share the taint of mine.” She was incredulous. “I could never reward your gallantry and kindness by bringing notoriety to your family name. You deserve a virtuous wife of unquestionable character.”

  “Perhaps I should decide for myself the type of wife I deserve.”

  “A gentleman does not wed the widow of a tradesman, especially one of low reputation brought on by a public sale of her person,” she said.

  “This one would.”

  “Why do you have a habit of rescuing women?”

  He frowned. “What has that got to do—?” Comprehe
nsion set in. “You think that is what I am doing by offering you marriage.”

  “We have hardly been courting. I have brought you nothing but trouble.”

  “That is not true.” Atlas took a breath. He rarely spoke of the sister he’d lost, and yet he’d mentioned her twice already that afternoon. “I am sensitive to the plight of females because my own sister, Phoebe, suffered greatly at the hands of her husband.”

  “Your offer is a noble one but—”

  “Gallantry has nothing to do with my offer.” He interrupted before she could reject his offer outright. “Surely you have realized I am far from indifferent to your charms.”

  Her cheeks colored in a most becoming manner. “But what of your travels?”

  “What about them?”

  “You have said you are often abroad and that you intend to leave England again as soon as you are able.”

  He could not imagine giving up his travels, and yet . . . “Perhaps you and the boys would care to come. Their tutor could accompany us.”

  She stared at him. “You would take us with you?”

  “If you would care to go.” He spoke carefully. “Or we could take a house, and you could remain here. You would have the protection of my name without being overly burdened with a husband.”

  “You are not a burden,” she said softly.

  “Do not give me an answer now,” he said. “But promise me you will at least carefully consider my offer.”

  “I will think on it. Under one condition.”

  At least she had not immediately rejected him. Something akin to hope stirred in Atlas’s chest. “You have only to name it.”

  “If we are contemplating marriage, perhaps you should call me Lilliana.”

  “If it pleases you.” He could not contain his smile. “And I am Atlas.”

  She mirrored his smile. “Very well, Atlas. I give you my word that I will seriously consider your offer.”

  * * *

  They arrived back at Thea’s to find Ambrose Endicott waiting for them.

  “We meet again,” Atlas said by way of greeting.

  The runner’s assessing gaze moved over their little group—from the boys and their nurse, to Lilliana and Atlas, all coming in together from an excursion. “Been out enjoying the day, have you?”

  The boys went up with Clara while Atlas and Lilliana joined Endicott in Thea’s formal parlor.

  “To what do we owe this visit?” Atlas asked, too grated by the runner’s constant intrusions to bother with the niceties.

  “In truth, I did not expect to find you here, Mr. Catesby,” Endicott said in his usual congenial manner. “It is, after all, Mrs. Warwick who lives here.”

  “As does my sister,” Atlas said sharply, resenting the runner’s unsubtle implication. “And I visit her regularly.”

  Lilliana clasped her hands in front of her. “What can I help you with, Mr. Endicott?”

  “It has come to my attention that you and your late husband had words in front of Hatchards bookshop shortly before his untimely demise.”

  “That is true.”

  Endicott withdrew his notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. “May I ask what the altercation was about?”

  “Certainly. My husband felt I was overspending. He confronted me about it that day.”

  “But the two of you had already, ah . . . parted company, had you not?”

  “I was still his wife, and a husband is responsible for all a wife’s debts.”

  “I see.” The twinkle in the runner’s eye suggested that he in fact did comprehend exactly what Lilliana had been up to. “And he would have raised a hand to you, but luckily, Mr. Catesby was on hand to prevent it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The runner scribbled something down. “Well, that clears that matter up.”

  “If that will be all,” Atlas said, ready to boot the man.

  “I have one more matter to clear up with Mrs. Warwick.” Endicott’s manner was almost apologetic now, which made Atlas’s muscles stiffen with alarm. “Did you believe you could kill your husband and not be held to account for the crime because the law regards the husband and wife as one entity?”

  She scoffed. “Of course not. That’s beyond absurd.”

  He referred to his notebook. “Did you not tell Barrister Ramsey Barrow that if you killed your husband, the law would consider it suicide?”

  “Did Barrow tell you that?” Atlas demanded, remembering their visit to the barrister to discuss Lilliana’s rights just after he and Charlton had brought her to London.

  Lilliana laughed. Although how she could find humor in anything at the moment was beyond him. “Mr. Endicott, surely you cannot believe I honestly thought that to be the case.”

  He shrugged one hefty shoulder. “One of Barrow’s clerks overhead you saying as much.”

  Atlas had a vague recollection of a pale, bespectacled young man poking his head through the door during Lilliana’s meeting with the barrister.

  Lilliana looked heavenward. “It was something said in frustration, in dark humor, nothing else. I assure you I recognize that murdering one’s husband is a crime, and I would never even contemplate such a thing.”

  Endicott closed his notebook. “Even the best of people have been known to respond in a criminal manner when pushed beyond all endurance.”

  “That’s it.” Atlas struggled to keep ahold of his temper. “I think you should leave. Mrs. Warwick has answered your questions more than adequately.”

  “Yes, yes.” Endicott slipped his notebook and pencil back into his pocket. “Oh, and one more thing, Mrs. Warwick? It’s really a most curious matter.”

  “Oh?” she inquired politely. “And what is that?”

  “No one in the village of Bewerley in Yorkshire seems to remember you. Isn’t that strange? The Hastings are known there, but no one recalls a Lilliana Hastings.”

  Atlas doubted the runner detected the slight slip in Lilliana’s composure before she recovered herself. “My parents and I left there when I was a very young girl. And they would remember me as Elizabeth. Lilliana is my middle name.”

  “I see,” the runner said brightly. “Yes, of course, that explains everything most thoroughly.” Atlas didn’t think so, and he doubted Endicott did either. He accompanied the man to the front door, mostly to ensure the runner quit the premises without lurking around. He would not put it past Endicott to eavesdrop for valuable information if the opportunity presented itself.

  “Quite a cozy picture of domesticity you present,” the runner said in that infuriatingly amiable manner of his. “You and Mrs. Warwick and the children.”

  “What are you getting at, Endicott? Speak plainly.” Atlas didn’t bother to dissemble. “Are you wondering whether Mrs. Warwick and I did away with her husband so that our cozy little tableau could continue unimpeded?”

  “Did you kill Mr. Warwick?” he asked. “You had motive, certainly, and opportunity. By all appearances, he was a hateful sort.”

  “If I had,” Atlas said with some exasperation, “why would I return to the scene of the crime the following morning?”

  They reached the entry hall, and Miller rushed to open the door. “As I said, I must consider all possibilities.” Endicott went out. “Good day.”

  Atlas resisted the urge to slam the door on the runner’s back. He was not so smitten with Lilliana that he would kill for her, but could the same be said for her supposed lover? His mind kept returning not only to the Duke of Somerville but also to the well-dressed older gentleman with the ruby ring who’d accosted Warwick at the haberdashery shortly before the man was killed. Who was he? What was his quarrel with Warwick? Did he have anything to do with Lilliana?

  He returned to Lilliana, who watched him with worry in her eyes. “He can’t possibly believe I admitted my intention to kill my husband and then carried out the crime, can he?”

  “He must consider all possibilities. And he seems to favor the theory that Godfrey’s killing was a crim
e of passion.”

  “That passion being hate, I presume?”

  “Is there a man who cares so strongly for you that he would kill for you?”

  She huffed a mirthless laugh. “If there is, I have not met him.”

  “Endicott clearly suspects me, but I fear he is also speculating about your possible involvement in your husband’s death. If there is another viable suspect, you must tell him.”

  She stared at him. “What is it that you are asking me?”

  He found it difficult to form the words. “Bole told me Godfrey suspected there had been a man before him.”

  Her face went white. She shook her head. “It isn’t true.”

  “I do not sit in judgment of you. But if you are protecting this man at the possible cost of your own freedom—”

  “Is that what you think? That I am motivated by some sort of noble love? It isn’t true, although Godfrey believed it was.”

  “Why would he believe that?”

  “I was a maiden when I wed Godfrey.” She turned away. “But a man has certain expectations about . . . what he will find once he beds his wife . . . and Godfrey did not find it.”

  It took him a moment to understand what she was trying to tell him.

  “I don’t know why he did not find it. I had never submitted to a man in that way before, and I haven’t since.”

  Comprehension settled over him. She hadn’t bled when Godfrey had taken her, which led her husband to deduce there’d been another before him. It was just as Bole, the Slough magistrate, had said. “I will take you at your word.”

  “Will you?” she asked, her demeanor cool. “That is more than my husband ever did. And he never let me forget it.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After taking his leave of Lilliana, Atlas went directly to Smithfield, not far from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where Archibald Rivers kept an office. He kept watch from across the way until he spotted the medical examiner leaving the building.

  He crossed the street, dodging a fast-moving curricle and trying to avoid the muddiest patches. Pain flared in his left foot, which felt swollen and tender, suggesting that his decision to undertake the forty-five-minute walk from Mayfair, rather than hail a hackney, had been ill-advised. He managed to get to the other side of the road in time to cross paths with Rivers.