Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “Did Godfrey often entertain female visitors?”

  “Not that I ever saw. He never stayed in Slough for long when he visited. He came Saturday afternoons and would leave Monday morning.”

  Which wouldn’t leave much time for Godfrey to conduct an illicit affair with his brother’s wife. So why had Verity gone to see Godfrey, and what had he said to upset her?

  He wasn’t sure whether the encounter had any bearing on Godfrey’s death, but he thought another visit to John Warwick might be in order.

  The following day was Tuesday, and in the morning, after enjoying the sweet buns Charlton’s cook had sent over, Atlas set out for Slough to see Felix Bole and, hopefully, John Warwick. The ride to Slough would take two hours, and he expected to be back in Town well before dark.

  Although Bole, the magistrate, had returned from holiday, he was not at home when Atlas called, but he finally managed to track Godfrey Warwick’s friend down at the local church across the village green, where he was attending a committee meeting. Inside, the old stone church, which was likely built during medieval times, showed its age in the uneven slate floors and high stone bases supporting hefty oak posts. During a break in the meeting, Atlas took the opportunity to approach the man.

  “Mr. Catesby.” Bole’s unkempt sandy brows lifted. “Back in our fair county, I see. Have you made any progress in the investigation?”

  “I’ve learned a great deal, but I do not know how much any of it pertains to Mr. Warwick’s death.” He paused, carefully watching for the man’s reaction. “For example, I did learn that you and Mr. Warwick were not on speaking terms when he died.”

  Bole’s expression did not change, but he turned to walk toward the back of the chamber, separating them from the others milling about, allowing for some privacy. “Godfrey was not an easy man. He was always in a confrontation with someone.”

  “I am interested in what led to your disagreement.”

  Facing him, Bole kept his voice low. “Not too long ago, unsavory rumors began to circulate about me.”

  “What sorts of rumors?”

  “That I accepted money for corrupted services in relation to my magisterial duties,” he said indignantly. “I learned that it was Godfrey who was spreading them.”

  “Warwick accused you of bribery?”

  “Not directly. I also learned that he had made overtures to certain people, which left no doubt at all that he was attempting to sully my reputation so he could steal my situation. Naturally, I confronted him on the matter, and that led to our argument.”

  “Godfrey wanted to be a magistrate?” Such an aspiration would not be outside the norm. Traditionally, landed gentry filled the role, but of late, more and more professional-class people such as Bole were assuming the duty.

  Bole sneered. “I don’t know how he expected to fulfill the role when the haberdashery kept him from the village most days of the week.”

  “Why do you think he wanted to be magistrate?”

  “I expect it’s because John Warwick used to be a magistrate, and Godfrey never liked to be outdone by his brother.”

  Atlas couldn’t help but wonder whether that resentment had worsened when Godfrey had lost the woman he’d wanted to marry to his older, wealthier brother.

  “Were you aware that Godfrey had hoped to marry Verity Warwick before she wed John?”

  “Of course. You’d be pressed to find anyone in the village who was here at the time who didn’t know it.”

  “I imagine Godfrey didn’t take the loss too well.”

  “He resented being beaten by his brother more than anything else. Later, he said losing Verity had been a stroke of luck since she turned out to be barren.”

  “He didn’t retain any tender feelings for her at all?”

  Bole guffawed. “I don’t think Godfrey was capable of tender feelings. He didn’t miss a chance to gloat to his brother about how Lilliana had borne him two sons while John remained childless.”

  “And becoming a magistrate would be another way for Godfrey to match and possibly beat John.”

  “I suppose.”

  Atlas studied the man. Slough was about a two-hour ride from London, but the journey could be made in an hour with a strong, healthy mount. It would have been possible for Bole to slip into Town, kill Warwick, and return home well before the sun rose. “May I inquire as to where you were when he died?”

  Bole’s gaze remained strong and steady. He answered the question confidently, as if he’d been waiting to be asked. “Here with Mrs. Bole, all tucked in and asleep like decent country folk. We don’t keep those city hours you Londoners prefer. There was a steady drizzle outside, not the fairest weather.”

  “Hardly a drizzle.” Atlas frowned. “It was storming that evening.”

  Bole gave him a funny look. “Perhaps in London, but there was no storm here, just a gentle patter on the roof, as it were.” Their discussion was cut short when an older bearded man called the meeting back to order.

  “In any case, I did not kill my friend because he coveted my job.” Bole glanced over to where the men were reassembling. “I had no reason to. He would not have prevailed.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “John’s good opinion is valued in this county, and he would not have supported Godfrey’s ambitions in that direction.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Bole.” The bearded man called from the committee table. “Will you join us? We are reconvening.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He hurried to rejoin the meeting without giving Atlas another look.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After talking to Bole, Atlas sought out John Warwick, who received him in the same parlor as the last time they’d met.

  Despite its cheerful decoration of creams and red velvets, the portrait of Verity Warwick loomed over the room, the black drape over it a somber reminder that this house, and the husband she’d left behind, remained in mourning.

  “To what do I owe this return visit?” Warwick gestured for Atlas to take a seat, the strain of his recent losses evident in the deep grooves tracking across his forehead. “Lilliana and the boys are well, I trust.”

  “Only by the grace of God.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A footman led Mrs. Warwick to the icehouse and locked her inside, presumably leaving her for dead.”

  He gasped. “An accident, surely.”

  “That appears unlikely. The icehouse door was bolted from the outside.”

  “Where is this footman?” His voice trembled with anger. “I hope he has been properly dealt with.”

  “Bow Street is looking for him as we speak. Hopefully, they’ll run him to ground soon.” Atlas took the chair John had offered. “The reason I am in Slough is because I was visiting Felix Bole. I learned he had a dispute with your brother and was curious to know what it was about.”

  “I presume he told you about this magistrate business.” John leaned heavily back in his chair. Even the slightest movement seemed cumbersome for him. “It was not one of my brother’s finest hours.”

  “How serious a threat was Godfrey to Bole’s magisterial role?”

  “Our family is old and well-known. We are the largest landholder in this area. Godfrey could have presented a viable challenge.”

  “Bole intimated that you did not support your brother’s magisterial ambitions.”

  He dipped his chin. “That is true. A local magistrate needs to be present, and Godfrey was away from Slough most of the week. The community would not have been well served.”

  “Your brother could not have been pleased with your lack of support.”

  “He was angry, but my position had no bearing on the matter.” He paused to cough lightly into his fist. “Godfrey had made the right friends, and the position was as good as his.”

  “It was?” Atlas leaned forward. “Did Bole know?”

  “Yes.”

  And yet Bole had purposely led him to believe otherwis
e. “When did he find out?”

  “Shortly before Godfrey died, the Sunday before, I believe.”

  “Bole learned he was about to lose his magisterial position two days before Godfrey was killed?”

  His brow furrowed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

  “I gather Bole takes the role of magistrate very seriously.”

  “Very. I suppose he feels it lends him consequence. He would not have reacted well upon learning he’d lost the position.”

  Atlas met Warwick’s gaze. Fine lines webbed out from the man’s eyes. “Do you think he would be angry enough to turn violent?”

  “If you are asking whether I think Bole is capable of killing my brother, the answer is, I don’t know. He is not known to be a violent man, but my brother had a talent for bringing out the worst in people.”

  Had he also brought out the worst in Verity Warwick? He cleared his throat, hesitant to raise a sensitive topic. “There is another question I have regarding your late wife.”

  Confusion flickered in John’s eyes. “Yes?”

  “I understand your wife visited Godfrey at his home, and whatever was said between them upset her greatly.”

  John became more alert. He straightened, leaning slightly forward. “When was this?”

  “About one month before your wife succumbed to her illness.”

  “I see.” His expression turned thoughtful. “How do you know Verity was upset by the encounter?”

  “The staff witnessed the exchange but were too far away to hear what was said. However, Mrs. Warwick left in tears.”

  Something Atlas couldn’t quite identify flashed across John’s face but was quickly veiled. “I’m afraid I can be of no help,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea at all that Verity went to see Godfrey.”

  “They were close once.”

  His expression turned cold, distant. “Very long ago, yes. But that is an old story. Whatever Verity went to see Godfrey about, I can assure you, with complete confidence, there was nothing illicit or dishonorable about it.”

  Atlas could see he would learn no more from John Warwick. He rose and took his leave. As he departed, John Warwick’s housekeeper—a tall, buxom woman with round, dark eyes—rushed out after him. “Mr. Catesby, isn’t it?”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  She pressed a basket of food into his hand. He was just about to politely refuse it when she identified herself. “I am Mrs. Sutton, Jamie’s mum.”

  Suddenly, her face seemed more familiar to him. His baby-faced valet had his mother’s eyes. “I thank you, Mrs. Sutton. Perhaps I will share it with your son.”

  She shone with pride. “I appreciate all you’ve done for my boy. You gave him a place when he had no letters of reference.”

  “Mrs. Lilliana Warwick spoke very highly of him.”

  “I know he needs training, but you won’t find a more loyal, hardworking valet.”

  “Yes, I am beginning to see that.” He hesitated, wondering whether Mrs. Sutton might provide some insight into the goings-on in John Warwick’s household.

  “I’ve just come from seeing Mr. Warwick,” he said. “He seems to be suffering greatly from the loss of his wife.”

  “And of his brother,” she said. “He has been most aggrieved since Mr. Godfrey Warwick died. It has surprised us how hard he has taken his brother’s death.”

  “He has truly mourned him, then?”

  She nodded. “Very deeply.” Compassion settled in the lines of her face. “But it was his wife’s death he took the hardest. He closed himself up in his study for days. We worried for him.”

  “I understand he was very fond of his wife.”

  “I never saw a couple more devoted to each other.”

  “Even though she once wanted to marry Godfrey?”

  She waved her hand. “Foolish, youthful nonsense. She loved Mr. John and no other. And he her. He never reproached Miss Verity for being unable to bear him children. He loved her that much. Imagine how Mr. Godfrey would have treated a wife who couldn’t have children.”

  “Abominably, I expect.” The man had treated Lilliana despicably, despite her having given him two fine sons.

  “Mr. John was even more destroyed after the medical examiner delivered the results of his wife’s autopsy.”

  “Autopsy?” His head swung around, his attention piqued. “I thought Mrs. Warwick died of scarlet fever. Why would the medical examiner be involved?”

  “I cannot say, but Mr. Warwick was beyond despair once he heard the results of the postmortem.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He took to drink like I’d never seen before. He didn’t eat. He insisted the draperies remain closed in honor of his mourning, even the ones that don’t face out the front of the house.”

  Atlas’s mind churned. Why would a postmortem be necessary, unless someone suspected foul play in Verity Warwick’s death? He could see no other reason for one otherwise. “Where can I find this medical examiner?”

  “Old Benedict Dixon? He’s over in the village, but he’s a bit of a recluse. I don’t expect he’ll be of the mind to speak to a stranger.”

  He thanked her and took his leave. Recluse or not, he had every intention of speaking with Benedict Dixon to learn what exactly had caused Verity Warwick’s death.

  After inquiring in the village, he tracked the medical examiner down to a modest cottage with heavy timber framing located next to the butchery. He knocked repeatedly at the weathered wooden front door, but no one responded, even though he could detect the shuffle of people moving around inside. He stepped back, peering up at the mullioned windows, contemplating calling out to see if someone might be persuaded to open the door.

  “You may as well give up.” A husky man of middle age in a bloodstained apron ventured out of the butcher shop. “You could knock all day, and he still won’t open the door.”

  “Why is that?” Atlas asked. “I mean him no harm.”

  The butcher shrugged. “You’re a stranger, and old Benedict don’t care for strangers. He doesn’t think much of people in general. That one likes to keep to himself.”

  “I see.” He stared up at the house, eager to speak with Dixon. Why had Verity Warwick needed an autopsy, and what had that postmortem revealed? He suspected his questions would remain unanswered, at least for today.

  “Thank you for your time.” He tipped his hat to the butcher. “Good day.”

  * * *

  “Benedict Dixon?” Lilliana said the following morning. “He’s rather sweet.”

  “He is?” Atlas stared at her. They were in Thea’s breakfast room, where his sister was at the table scribbling her usual mathematic gibberish. Charlton had come with him to check in on Lilliana, and Atlas was pleased to find her looking well and taking tea with his sister.

  “I have heard Dixon is a recluse who doesn’t care for people,” he said to her. “He wouldn’t come to the door when I knocked.”

  Charlton adjusted his pristine white cuff. “He probably finds you considerably less charming than Mrs. Warwick.” As was his habit, the earl had immediately settled himself in the most spacious chair in the room. Atlas noticed he was wearing one of his somber new jackets, this one in a fine navy color.

  Lilliana set her saucer down. “I’ll go to Slough with you. Mr. Dixon won’t turn me away.”

  “I cannot ask that of you.” Atlas shook his head. “Discussing a postmortem will be most unpleasant.”

  “No more unpleasant than being sold at auction, the death of my husband, or being locked in an icehouse,” she said dryly. “I suspect I shall be able to survive an interview with the medical examiner.”

  “Of course you will.” Thea looked up from where she was working on her equations. “Pray don’t be a jackanapes, Atlas.”

  He stiffened. “I am merely trying to protect Mrs. Warwick from further unpleasantness. She has been through quite enough.”

  “Hmmm.” Skepticism hummed in Thea’s throat. “How goes the i
nvestigation otherwise? Have you developed any possible suspects?”

  “A few. Godfrey Warwick was not a popular man.” He reached for a bread-and-butter sandwich from a platter Miller had brought in with the tea. “For one thing, he was out to steal his closest friend’s occupation, and he’d pretty much succeeded right before he was killed.”

  Lilliana leaned forward. “Do you speak of Mr. Bole?”

  “Yes, it seems Godfrey wanted to be a magistrate, and Bole learned he’d succeeded two days before Godfrey was killed.”

  Charlton sipped his tea. “Sounds like Warwick’s death was very convenient timing for this Bole fellow.”

  “Very,” Thea agreed. “I suppose Mr. Bole gets to keep on being the magistrate now that his usurper is dead?”

  Atlas nodded. “And then there is Nash, the tailor. We know Godfrey was trying to extort quite a bit of money from him.”

  “Because the man reads books and attempts to better himself?” Thea shook her head. “That hardly seems like something that should be hidden.”

  “Agreed.” Atlas did not share the true reason for the extortion. And he neglected to mention that Somerville was also a viable suspect.

  “Anyone else?” Charlton asked.

  He reached for another sandwich. He wasn’t convinced John Warwick could be excluded as a suspect, but he did not say so aloud. “Nothing beyond pure conjecture.”

  Thea studied Charlton. “Are you attending a funeral?”

  “Me?” The earl flattened one hand against his chest. “No. Why?”

  “Because you are usually outfitted like a peacock. This”—she waved a hand toward his navy coat—“is quite a departure from your normal flamboyant state.”

  “I’m flattered you noticed.” Charlton brushed a hand over the lapel of his new tailcoat. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

  But Thea, having already lost interest in him, focused her attention on her brother. “What will you do next?”

  “Next,” Lilliana interjected, “we go to Slough and speak to Benedict Dixon.”