Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  Eggleston’s face paled. His position was everything to him. Even though the duke had cut him, Eggleston still seemed to harbor hope of working his way back into society. He dropped the ring he’d been fiddling with. “The devil you say!”

  Blackwood looked at Atlas. “And that will satisfy, Mr. Catesby?”

  Atlas didn’t hear him. A sharp buzzing filled his ears as he stared at Eggleston’s ring on the Axminster carpet. The swivel ring’s alternate underside design was apparent, its bright-red ruby gemstone shining against the rug’s intricate golden designs.

  “You bastard.” Fury clouded his vision. “You’re the one who tried to kill her.” He launched himself at Eggleston, the momentum toppling the man’s chair backward with a hard thud. Once on the floor, Eggleston tried to scramble away, but it was hopeless. Mindless with violent anger, Atlas was already on top of him, raining down heavy, punishing blows.

  He heard the satisfying crack of bone and Eggleston moaning beneath him. Someone behind him implored Atlas to stop before he killed the man. He registered nothing but the desire to do intense violence to the man who’d not only abused Lilliana but also tried to kill her.

  Then several hands—Charlton’s footmen—were pulling him off Eggleston and physically restraining him until he began to regain some of his composure. Eggleston’s still body and bloodied face came into focus. Blackwood stared at Atlas with a horrified expression on his ashen face. Even Charlton appeared uncharacteristically somber.

  “Get the doctor,” the earl ordered. “And send someone to Bow Street for Ambrose Endicott. Tell him we’ve found the killer he’s looking for.”

  * * *

  “Yes, that’s him.” William, Thea’s former footman, pointed at Eggleston. “He’s the gent who paid me to lock Mrs. Warwick in the icehouse.”

  Endicott nodded to the two runners flanking the footman. “That’ll be all.” They led William out of the drawing room. A couple of hours had passed since Charlton had sent for Endicott, and the doctor had attended to Eggleston, who now sported two black eyes and a broken nose in addition to a big lip.

  “It’s a damned lie!” Eggleston winced, gingerly touching the open cut on his swollen lip. “Surely you’re not going to take the word of someone of the lower classes over the word of a gentleman.”

  “I am inclined to,” Atlas said.

  “Me too,” Charlton added.

  The runner wedged his considerable girth into one of the straight-backed chairs. “Tell us, Mr. Eggleston, why you wanted Lady Roslyn dead.”

  “She’s nothing but a lying strumpet who enjoyed lifting her skirts for anything in breeches.” He spat the venomous words. “She ran away because I tried to put a stop to her lewd and indecent behavior.”

  Anger and indignation flared in Atlas’s chest, and he started to rise. Charlton, who stood behind him, laid a heavy hand on each shoulder, momentarily impeding him. “I would suggest you tell the truth,” he said to Eggleston. “Before Catesby here decides to break both of your arms in addition to your unfortunate nose.”

  “Besides”—Endicott laced his beefy fingers together and rested them atop his distended belly—“the clerk at the haberdashery has identified you as the man who argued with Mr. Warwick shortly before his death. What I don’t understand is why you wanted to kill Mr. Warwick and his wife.”

  Eggleston’s eyes widened. “I didn’t kill Warwick. You cannot attach that murder to me.”

  “We can try.” Atlas ran a light finger over his lacerated knuckles, which still throbbed from the beating he’d given the man. “And it would give me great pleasure to do so.”

  Eggleston was momentarily silent. “I wanted to frighten Lady Roslyn, not kill her.”

  Endicott gave him one of his friendly smiles. “Which is why you arranged to have her locked in the icehouse,” he prompted.

  “Precisely. If she were allowed to return to society, I knew she would make false accusations that would poison His Grace against me. I have devoted my life to the dukedom. I wasn’t going to let a hysterical, unstable woman given to mendacity blacken my name and take everything from me.”

  Atlas gripped the armrests, willing himself to be calm. Eggleston was a lying bastard, but Atlas managed to hold his tongue so that the runner could continue the interview.

  Eggleston took a deep breath. “I paid William to lock Lady Roslyn in the icehouse to scare her. I fully expected someone from the household to discover her before any real harm came to her. You cannot prove that I intended to kill His Grace’s sister any more than you can prove I killed that Warwick fellow.”

  “Why did you argue with Warwick?” the runner asked. “His clerk witnessed the altercation.”

  “He broke our deal.”

  Endicott pulled out his notebook. “What deal was that?”

  “Shortly after she ran away, I tracked Roslyn down to where she was working at the haberdashery. She didn’t see me, but Warwick did, and we struck a deal. For a price, he would marry her and move her far away to the country and never bring her back to Town.”

  “Did Warwick know he was marrying the sister of the Duke of Somerville?” Charlton asked.

  “No.” Eggleston shook his head. “He had no idea why I wanted her gone, and once he got his money, he didn’t much care.”

  “And then, ten years on, you saw her again in Hyde Park and realized Warwick had broken the deal to keep her away from Town,” Atlas said.

  “I knew she’d returned to Town well before that.”

  Atlas shifted. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve checked in on her occasionally since she married Warwick. I didn’t want any surprises from that quarter. One evening, shortly after she returned, I visited Warwick at his apartments above the haberdashery and reminded him of our bargain.”

  Endicott retrieved a pencil from his jacket pocket. “And what happened?”

  “He said he would take care of it, but then, I saw her a fortnight later in the park.” Anger gleamed in his eyes. “I went to Warwick and accused him of breaking our agreement, and he said that retrieving her was proving much more difficult than he’d expected because Catesby here and his sister were sheltering her.”

  “And then what happened?” the runner asked.

  “He demanded more money, which angered me, but I eventually agreed to pay him to get Roslyn away from London.”

  The runner scribbled in his notebook. “Are you saying you struck a new deal with Mr. Warwick?”

  “Yes. I saw the exchange as well worth it. I needed Warwick alive to stop Lady Roslyn from ruining my life.” He exhaled. “I’m the last person in the world who would have wanted Godfrey Warwick dead.”

  * * *

  “Well, now we know why Godfrey wanted me back so desperately,” Lilliana said.

  Atlas had stopped by his sister’s after leaving Charlton’s to find Somerville visiting with Lilliana. It would take getting used to, the idea that Lilliana Warwick, the widow of a tradesman, was in fact Lady Roslyn Sterling, sister of a duke, scion of two of the ton’s shiniest lights who’d been tragically lost at the height of their glory.

  “He wanted me back because he’d been paid handsomely,” she said.

  Atlas could barely conceive of it. Any man who required payment to be with Lilliana was an idiot. He’d have given his right arm to be with her. “And after Warwick was killed,” he added, “Eggleston became so desperate that he hired William to make certain you didn’t reunite with Somerville.”

  “Do you believe him?” the duke asked. “Do you believe Eggleston didn’t kill the haberdasher?”

  “I am inclined to.” Atlas suppressed a smile at His Grace’s snobbish attitude toward Godfrey Warwick, which was particularly ironic in light of the duke’s own affaire d’amour with a tradesman; he seriously doubted Somerville would ever refer to Nash as “the tailor.”

  Lilliana paced away from them. “I agree. He doesn’t appear to have a motive to kill Godfrey.” She turned back. “Which means we keep l
ooking.”

  The duke raised an imperious brow. “We?”

  A lesser woman might have cowered beneath the weight of his ducal displeasure, but Lilliana merely shrugged. “We need to speak to the midwife in Slough, and that’s not something Atlas can do without me.”

  Atlas blinked. “The situation has changed.” A duke’s sister could not very well go gallivanting across the countryside in search of a killer.

  “How so?” He read the challenge in the way she crossed her arms over her chest. “I am the same woman I was yesterday morning.”

  Perhaps, but he viewed her differently now. “I thought you might be occupied with reacquainting yourself with your brother.”

  Somerville steepled his fingers under his chin. “Not to mention Aunt Olympia. She and our cousins will be most eager to see you again.”

  Joy lit her eyes. “Aunt Olympia is our only family besides our sister Serena,” she said to Atlas. “We spent a great deal of time with her and her five daughters when my parents were alive.”

  “Perhaps Catesby here is correct,” her brother said. “Perhaps it is best to leave the investigation to the runners.”

  “No, Mattie—”

  “Call me Matthew, please.” Somerville looked pained. “We are no longer children.”

  “Exactly. I am not a child, nor an innocent miss.” Steel coated her words. “I am a widow and, as such, have more license than an unmarried young girl. I intend to enjoy my freedom.”

  It occurred to Atlas that Lilliana and Somerville were very much alike, with that regal bearing and sometimes-imperious attitude. He imagined any future disagreements between them would be epic ones.

  Somerville held up his hands in surrender. “Very well. Do as you please.”

  She smiled. “I intend to.” Turning to Atlas, she said, “I want to speak to Maud to learn more about Verity’s situation. I doubt she will tell you anything if I am not present.”

  He couldn’t disagree. They made plans to return to Slough the following day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Do you know this midwife well?”

  Lilliana nodded. “Maud Honeywell delivered both of my children, and I count her a friend.”

  Atlas directed the horses around a sizeable hole in the road. “And yet she might very well be responsible for Verity’s death.”

  “I cannot imagine it.” She paused. “I just remembered Maud said the strangest thing the last time we saw each other.”

  “About what?”

  “She implied that Verity was not as loyal to her husband as he was to her.”

  Although he had begun to suspect as much, this was the first confirmation he’d heard that Verity Warwick might not have been utterly devoted to John Warwick. “When was this?”

  “When I went to close up the house and prepare it for rental after Godfrey’s death.”

  “What prompted this midwife to question Verity’s allegiance to her husband?” Atlas asked, even though he thought he had a fairly good notion. The revelation that Verity had sought an abortion only served to reinforce his suspicions.

  “She seemed to think Verity didn’t want John’s child, but I don’t believe that. Verity wanted children desperately.”

  “Did the midwife elaborate further?”

  “No, and I did not press her. I just remember thinking how odd her comments were. They did not fit with anything I remember about Verity.”

  She was quiet for the remainder of their journey, appearing to be lost in thought, speaking only when needed to direct him to Maud Honeywell’s ivy-covered thatched cottage. They arrived to find the midwife, a petite woman with generous curves, at home and very welcoming.

  “Mrs. Warwick! How good of you to call.” Pleasure lit the woman’s round face before her curious gaze bounced to Atlas and then back to Lilliana. “How are the children? I’ll wager they’ve grown a great deal since I last saw them.”

  “Indeed. You wouldn’t believe how tall Peter has gotten.” Lilliana hugged the other woman. Atlas noted how open and relaxed she seemed with the midwife. “Maud, this is my friend Mr. Catesby. He is helping to investigate Godfrey’s death.”

  “Is he now?” The midwife pushed open her front door and led them into a tidy cottage with white plaster walls and beamed ceilings. “You may as well come in for tea. I’ve some fresh biscuits that will go down nicely with it.”

  Once they were settled at the round table before the hearth with their refreshments, Maud said, “I don’t know how I can be of help, but I am happy to try.”

  Atlas sat back, content to let Lilliana take the lead, which she immediately did. “We recently spoke with Benedict Dixon, who told us the postmortem showed Verity had a certain procedure. Were you aware of that?”

  Maud grimaced. “Yes.”

  Lilliana swallowed. “Did you perform the procedure?”

  Maud reared back. “Of course not! I do not kill babes. I help bring them into the world.”

  “I see.” Lilliana released a heavy exhale. “I didn’t think you could do such a thing.”

  Atlas learned forward in his chair. “Yet you were aware that she’d undergone the procedure.”

  Maud nodded. “She came to me afterward. She was in great pain and hoped I could offer her some relief.”

  “And could you?” Atlas asked.

  “Not really.” She shook her head sadly. “Her womb had been terribly abused, and I suspected an infection had set in. The truth is Verity was beyond help by the time she came to see me.”

  “But why would Verity want to rid herself of the baby?” Lilliana asked. “Did she tell you?” Atlas had a pretty good sense of why and wasn’t surprised when the midwife confirmed his suspicions.

  “The child wasn’t John’s.”

  Lilliana emitted a sound of utter disbelief. “No!”

  “I could scarcely believe it myself.” The midwife reached for a biscuit and broke it in two. “By then, the guilt at having been unfaithful was consuming her.”

  Lilliana still appeared stunned by the revelation. “When you said Verity was not as devoted to John as he was to her, this is what you meant.”

  “By all accounts, John Warwick wanted a child very badly,” Atlas said to the midwife. “Why not pass the child off as his? It’s not as if it hasn’t been done before.”

  “She considered it.” Maud sipped her tea. “But the true father refused to stand down. He was interested in being a part of the child’s life.”

  “Which meant John would eventually have to learn the truth,” Lilliana said.

  “Exactly.” Maud bit into a biscuit. “And Verity was determined that John never learn the truth. She was desperate not to hurt him.”

  “Who was the man?” Atlas asked. “Who was the father of Verity’s child?”

  “She never said.” She sipped her tea. “Her husband came to see me after he learned the results of the autopsy. He was stunned his wife had had an abortion. The poor man couldn’t make sense of it.”

  Atlas stood up. “Why don’t you stay and visit with Mrs. Honeywell while I attend to a quick errand?”

  “That would be grand.” Maud patted Lilliana’s hand. “It’s been far too long since we’ve been able to visit over a cup of tea.”

  “Indeed.” Lilliana came to her feet. “I’ll just walk Mr. Catesby out.” She was quiet until they stepped out of the front door. “You are going to see John.”

  “Yes. I do not think he would appreciate you being there when I ask him about his wife’s infidelity.”

  “Nor do I wish to be there. What bearing do you think this has on the investigation?”

  He didn’t want to hurt her but felt he had no choice but to share his suspicions. “If your late husband was Verity’s lover, that would have given John Warwick a strong motive for murder.”

  She showed no sign of being shocked. The possibility must have occurred to her as well. “An affair. I cannot conceive of it. Godfrey might have been capable of such duplicity, but Verity was not
.”

  “We do not always know people as well as we think.”

  “Something is missing here.” She looked out, unseeing, into the cornfields beyond the cottage. “I knew Verity quite well for ten years. She was like an older sister to me. She was not capable of that kind of disloyalty.”

  “To you or to John?”

  “To both, but mostly to John. She loved him unreservedly.” She shook her head. “We’re still missing a key part of the puzzle. I’m certain of it.”

  When he called at John Warwick’s white stucco manor house, Atlas was directed back to the garden, where the man in question closed the open book on his lap when he spotted Atlas coming down the path.

  “Mr. Catesby.” Warwick sat in a green wooden chair among the flowers—bunches of Sweet Williams in a variety of pinks and reds and sumptuous, plump peonies that lent a cheery note to an otherwise grim tableau. Warwick’s cheeks were more sunken than Atlas remembered, and his clothes hung loosely on his frame. There could be no doubt the man’s health was in decline. He seemed to be slowly wasting away.

  “I apologize for calling unexpectedly.”

  “It is no bother. I am taking advantage of one of our rare sunny days. My wife enjoyed the sun. Sitting out here makes me think of her.” He looked up at Atlas, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “What brings you here? Has there been another turn in the investigation?”

  He leaned against the stone retaining wall. “Something like that.”

  “And you’ve come to ask me about it.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you had waited, you could have saved yourself the trip out to Slough because I will be in Town tomorrow to visit the boys and arrange the sale of the haberdashery. But as long as you are here, you might as well ask your questions.”

  He hesitated. “They are of a delicate nature.”

  “Allow me to make it easier for you. I know you went to see Dixon.”

  “He told you?”

  “Yes, he told me about that first visit, when you went alone, without Lilliana.”