Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

“If you’re certain—” Atlas began to say.

  “I am.” Challenge sparked in her eyes. “Don’t you dare object.”

  Atlas swallowed the last of his sandwich. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The sound of Fletcher clearing his throat sounded from the corridor just before the butler himself appeared. “Mr. Endicott is calling, madam.”

  The runner’s portly frame appeared behind the butler’s slim form. “Thank you, Eddie. Don’t trouble yourself anymore. I can show myself out when we’re through here.”

  When the butler stiffened, Atlas mouthed, “Eddie?” as a silent question to his sister. Amusement stamped Thea’s face as her brows rose in response.

  The butler turned to the runner, his neck flushed a bright red. “It is Edward, Edward Fletcher,” he said loudly. “Just Mr. Fletcher or Fletcher to you, sir.”

  “As you say.” Endicott clapped the man’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Very good, Mr. Fletcher, very good, indeed.”

  Fletcher stared at the beefy hand clamped on his shoulder, as if unsure of how to react to the runner’s casual amiability.

  Thea came to his rescue. “That will be all, Fletcher.” Closing the book in front of her, she turned her attention to the new arrival. “To what do we owe this visit, Mr. Endicott? Dare we hope you have news?” A grateful-looking Fletcher discreetly melted away while the runner stepped farther into the room.

  “Yes, indeed.” He smiled blithely. “We have found William.”

  Lilliana came up out of her chair. “The footman who locked me in the icehouse?”

  “Who put him up to it?” Atlas also surged to his feet, a renewed upwelling of anger churning inside him at the whoreson who’d tried to hurt Lilliana. “Did he say?”

  “He professes not to know.” The runner pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped through it until he reached the page he’d been searching for. “Says he was approached by a—as he put it—swell who paid him very handsomely to lock Mrs. Warwick in the icehouse.”

  Charlton leaned forward, his face alight with interest. “The culprit behind the attempt on Mrs. Warwick’s life is a gentleman?”

  The runner dipped his chin. “So it would appear. William described him as a well-dressed gentleman. Unfortunately, it was dark, and William says he didn’t get a good look at the man.”

  Lilliana put a hand to her chest. “And I was definitely this man’s intended target?”

  “Most definitely.” Endicott nodded. “According to William, the gentleman identified you by name and also described your physical characteristics.”

  Thea crossed her arms over her chest. “Did this man say why he wanted to harm Mrs. Warwick?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s it?” Atlas struggled to contain his temper. “What else did William tell you about the man?”

  “He could not describe him except to say he is of average height. However, he did say the man was wearing a large gold-and-ruby ring.”

  The breath left Atlas’s chest. “A ruby ring, you say?”

  “Yes.” The runner studied him. “Why? Are you acquainted with a man who wears a large ruby ring?”

  “The man Warwick had a physical altercation with at the shop shortly before he was killed, the well-dressed gentleman, wore a ruby-and-gold ring.”

  “He did?” Lilliana stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “The clerk at the haberdashery, Stillwell, told me about it.”

  Endicott scribbled in his notebook. “But the clerk could not describe this man.”

  Atlas cursed silently to himself. “Unfortunately, no. He claims he never got a good look at him.”

  “Just so.” The runner stuffed his notebook in his pocket. “I think I will go and have another chat with young Mr. Stillwell.”

  Atlas saw him out. “What do you make of all this?”

  The runner placed his rumpled hat on his head. “It seems there is more to Mr. Warwick’s death than a dispute over his wife.”

  Atlas regarded him with surprise. “Are you saying I am no longer your primary suspect?”

  Amusement wrinkled Endicott’s forehead. “Do not look so shocked, Mr. Catesby. I go where the evidence takes me. And at the moment, it leads away from you.”

  Atlas stared after the man as he took his leave. Endicott’s about-face did take him aback. He’d have thought the investigator would be too proud to admit he’d been mistaken in his certainty that Atlas had killed Warwick in a fit of anger. Still pondering this latest development, he returned to the others.

  Lilliana sank back into her chair when she spotted him. “Why would someone want to harm me?”

  Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since this man was seen at the haberdashery before your husband was killed, it would appear the two cases are connected.”

  Charlton cocked his head. “You believe Warwick’s killer is behind the attempt on Lilliana?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but Endicott now seems to believe it could be so,” Atlas said. “It stands to reason that if we identify Warwick’s killer, we are likely to find the man who attempted to harm Mrs. Warwick.”

  And he was going to run the bastard to ground before he came after Lilliana again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They set out for Slough the following day, arriving in the early afternoon. The door to Benedict Dixon’s house was answered on the first knock by a housekeeper who promptly invited them inside. A gray-bearded man in his late sixties rushed forward over rough hemlock floors to greet them.

  “My dear lady,” he said to Lilliana. “To what do I owe this delightful visit?” Dixon was surprisingly tall, full-bodied, and bald on top with longish, unkempt hair around the sides in a style reminiscent of the one worn by the American Benjamin Franklin.

  “Mr. Dixon, may I present Mr. Catesby?” Her smile was gracious. “He is investigating Mr. Warwick’s death and would like to ask you a few questions.”

  Dixon’s brow knit. “But how can I be of service? I didn’t perform the postmortem on your late husband.”

  Atlas removed his hat. “No, but you did examine Mrs. Verity Warwick.”

  Dixon crossed large arms over his chest. “How does that signify?”

  “In all probability, it doesn’t.” Lilliana laid a gentle hand on Dixon’s arm. “However, if Verity was murdered, it might have a bearing on the case.”

  “She was not murdered, I can assure you,” he said decisively. “Beyond that, the matter is a private one. Her husband has suffered greatly.”

  Lilliana nodded. “Of course he has.” Her voice was rich with sympathy. “And whatever you share with us will be kept in the strictest confidence.” When Dixon cast a gimlet eye at Atlas, she continued, “Please. Someone has made an attempt on my life as well, but Mr. Catesby came to my rescue. We must explore every avenue to find the person behind Godfrey’s death and the attempt on my life.”

  Dixon exhaled. “Very well. I cannot see how the two can possibly be related, but do come into the parlor, where we can talk privately.” He led them to a small room dominated by a large hearth. A basket of fruit and a cup of tea sat on the lone small round table next to a straw-backed chair before the fire.

  “Oh, no,” Lilliana said with some dismay. “We’ve interrupted your teatime.”

  Dixon brushed aside her concern, and once they were settled, he said, “As I stated, Mrs. Verity Warwick was not murdered.”

  “Why conduct a postmortem then?” Atlas asked. “I thought she died of scarlet fever.”

  “She had some of the symptoms of that disease—chills and abdominal pain—but she did not die of scarlet fever.”

  “What did kill her?” Lilliana asked.

  “Are you certain she wasn’t murdered?” Dread washed over Atlas. What if some bedlamite was out killing Warwicks?

  “Not deliberately, but I believe one could make a case for murder.”

  Lilliana blanched. “How so?”

  “The reason I conducted th
e postmortem was at John Warwick’s request.” Dixon cleared his throat. “Something his wife told him shortly before she died prompted him to charge me with examining the body.”

  Atlas leaned forward. “And what did you find?”

  Dixon’s expression was grave. “I found her womb to be in a very disorganized state.”

  “Her womb?” Lilliana asked.

  He nodded. “The inflammation and gangrene made it difficult to detect the severity of the violence done to the poor lady.”

  “Violence?” Atlas was confused. “Was she stabbed?”

  “No, she was given a potion to bring on a miscarriage.”

  “A miscarriage?” Lilliana exclaimed. “Verity was with child?”

  “Yes, and she went to see a midwife who gave her a potion and then subjected her to a barbaric procedure involving a feather quill and a piece of wire.” He shook his head with obvious disgust. “It was butchery, pure and simple.”

  Surprise reverberated through Atlas. “You’re saying Verity Warwick was the victim of a—” He paused, hesitant to mention an indelicate matter in Lilliana’s presence.

  The medical examiner had no such reservations. “A botched abortion. Yes.”

  Shock stamped Lilliana’s fine-boned features. “Verity would never do such a terrible thing.” Her voice shook with indignation. “She was desperate for a baby. She would never have agreed to something so awful.”

  “Perhaps she was too old to have a child?” Atlas asked. “Was there a risk to her health?”

  “She was nearing forty,” Dixon answered. “An advanced age for childbirth, to be sure, but there are many women who successfully bear children at that age.”

  Several thoughts shuffled through Atlas’s mind. Why had Verity Warwick chosen to abort a much-longed-for child? Had she done it to spite her husband, to deny him an heir, for some unknown reason? He recalled John saying he would have forgiven his wife anything. Had he been talking about the abortion or something else?

  “How did Warwick react when he heard the results of your examination?” he asked the medical examiner.

  “Is it possible you could be mistaken about what ailed Verity?” Lilliana inquired.

  “No, and indeed my finding seemed to confirm what John already suspected. He was torn up with grief about it. I’ve never seen a man more devastated.”

  “But how could John think that of Verity?” Lilliana was obviously shaken.

  “Who was the midwife Verity went to see?” Atlas wanted to know.

  Dixon shrugged. “I have no notion. None at all.”

  After a few more questions, they thanked Dixon and made their good-byes. By the time they reached the carriage, Lilliana seemed to have recovered herself. “There is only one midwife in Slough,” she said, “and that’s Maud Honeywell, so we may as well start with her.”

  He helped her up. “Then we must go and see her, but unfortunately, it will not be today because we have an engagement to keep.”

  She looked frustrated. “Charlton’s dinner party.”

  “If we mean to attend, we have to leave Slough now.”

  He could see she wanted to protest, but he also knew she was too well mannered to miss the earl’s gathering after having promised to attend. “Very well. But we must return to talk with Maud tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely.” He climbed into the curricle and set a fast pace for London in order to avoid being late for Charlton’s dinner party.

  * * *

  The earl lived in a palatial town house on Curzon Street built in the neoclassical style. Atlas was shown through large mahogany double doors to an opulent drawing room dominated by large Greek columns.

  He was surprised to find the Duke of Somerville and his former guardian, Cyril Eggleston, among the guests in attendance. Somerville acknowledged him with a formal courtesy that revealed nothing of their previous uncomfortable encounter in Nash’s private back room.

  “I thought you said this was an intimate affair,” Atlas said to Charlton once they retreated to a corner of the massive chamber.

  “It is.” Charlton adjusted the cuffs of his snowy shirt. He was dressed once again in somber colors, all black except for his stark white cravat and cuffs. “I count Somerville a friend, as you well know, and Eggleston, well, he manages to insert himself when he can. As you know, he is loath to relinquish his hold on the duke.”

  “I doubt Lilliana will want to be seen in company.” He remembered the way the duke had stared at Lilliana at the park. It was obvious now that Somerville wasn’t her lover, given that Atlas had learned the duke’s tastes ran in an entirely different direction. So what was the connection? She shared a surname with the duke’s butler, but he couldn’t imagine her emerging from the servant class. She appeared too refined for that. “She is in mourning.”

  “This is a small, private supper. It will be to Mrs. Warwick’s advantage for it to be known she was the guest of an earl and in company with the Duke of Somerville.”

  Atlas studied his friend. “You’re attempting to make her acceptable in society.”

  Charlton’s smile was smug. “In the event you do decide to wed her, which I suspect you would like to do the moment she is out of mourning, her path toward respectability will have already been established.”

  “Society can hang, for all I care.” He helped himself to brandy from a footman circulating the room with refreshments on a silver tray. “Also, you presume far too much.”

  “Do I?” Charlton’s blue gaze flickered over him. “I suspect not. Can you tell me you have not seriously considered wedding the lovely Mrs. Warwick?”

  “I have considered it,” he admitted, taking a healthy gulp of his drink. “But the lady is not amenable.”

  Charlton’s forehead lifted. “Why ever not? It would be an excellent match for her, the widow of a tradesman, to marry the brother and son of a baron, especially one with such old and distinguished family lines.”

  “Perhaps noble bloodlines do not hold the same degree of importance for her as they do for you.”

  “I cannot imagine it. Especially as such a connection would clearly be advantageous for her children.” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Although they are tainted by their unfortunate father’s involvement in trade, the Warwicks are landed gentry, and as such, the children’s future status in society is not completely without hope.”

  Atlas stared into his glass. “Be that as it may, she means to leave London once Warwick’s killer is found.”

  “And go where?”

  “Far away.” A weight settled in his chest. He would miss her when she was gone. But he’d also be well into his next voyage by then, and hopefully the maudlin sentiments that seemed to have him in their grips these days would be all but forgotten. “She intends to go to a place where no one has heard of how that degenerate husband of hers sold her on the street like a common whore.”

  A frown marred the earl’s perfect features. “What an unfortunate twist. Mrs. Palmer will be most disappointed. I expect she’s already taken it upon herself to book the wedding at St. George’s.”

  Atlas was silent for a moment. Mention of Thea made him recall her words about his lacking aim or direction. He’d initially disregarded her comments, but as much as he’d like to forget them, they’d made an impression. “Charlton?”

  “Yes.”

  “What Thea said the other day, about my being adrift, do you agree with her?”

  An awkward beat followed. “My dear fellow, far be it from me to tell anyone how to live their life. We all muddle along as best we can.”

  Atlas shifted. “That’s not an answer,” he pressed.

  Charlton pursed his lips as if debating what to say. “You do seem restless,” he finally responded. “You always have done, ever since Cambridge. It is as if you are searching for something but aren’t quite certain what that something is. Perhaps you expect to find it somewhere along on your travels.”

  Atlas blinked. Charlton had obviously given the m
atter some thought before now. “When did you become such a philosopher?”

  Charlton looked toward the massive double doors. “Ah, here are Mrs. Warwick and Thea now.”

  Atlas followed the direction of his friend’s gaze, and his breath caught. Lilliana was resplendent in a black lace evening gown layered over white silk. The round neckline showed her ivory skin and the long, graceful column of her neck to excellent advantage. She made him forget all about Thea and Charlton’s dubious analysis of him. Charlton went toward the two women.

  “Welcome to my home, Mrs. Palmer, Mrs. Warwick.”

  “My goodness.” Thea ran an approving look over Charlton’s muted clothing as Atlas came up beside him. “I almost didn’t spot you among your guests.”

  Charlton smiled broadly. “I’ve decided to relegate orange and red to the back of my dressing room, for the moment at least. I must say, you two ladies look ravishing this evening.”

  “You certainly do.” Atlas’s attention was fully focused on Lilliana.

  A delicate blush washed over her angled cheekbones. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sarcastic amusement tinged Thea’s voice. “I doubt you could tell me what color my gown is.”

  Atlas tore his attention away from Lilliana to look at his sister’s gown. “Blue, of course.”

  “Yes, of course.” She shook her head before scanning the room. “Goodness, what’s Somerville doing here?”

  A sound of distress erupted from Lilliana’s throat. She’d gone pale as parchment, her mouth open in distress as she stared at across the room. Atlas followed her gaze, with a very good idea of who he would find at the other end of it.

  The duke, still standing next to Eggleston, seemed moved as well, but it was happiness, and not distress, that showed on his face. He took a step toward her. “Roslyn?” Astonishment, followed by a look of pure joy, illuminated his face. “Rosie, it is you. I feared I was conjuring images in my mind when I saw you in the park.”

  Shaking her head in jerky movements, she took a quick backward step and almost tripped over her gown. Atlas caught her elbow to steady her. “No,” she exhaled the word. She was shaking, and it took Atlas a moment to recognize her reaction as pure, icy fear.