by D. M. Quincy
His mood lifted when his gaze met Lilliana’s. He hadn’t known she’d be in attendance, though he was not surprised. Thea had once provided shelter for Lilliana when the duke’s sister had had nowhere else to go. The two women had been great friends since.
Charlton was also present, as were two of Thea’s mathematician friends, a couple named Ernest and Hester Gulliver. Atlas and Thea’s elder brother, Hermes, rounded out their group.
Atlas tread over the old parquet floors to take the empty seat next to Charlton. The battered mahogany chair groaned under his full weight.
“I thought my chair would collapse when I sat in it,” Charlton murmured to him. The earl was turned out in his customary bright colors. He adjusted a snowy, frilled cravat, which was paired with a paisley waistcoat and matching solid puce tailcoat. “Your sister will likely seat us on the floor once these ancient seats finally give way.”
Thea was not a spendthrift—quite the opposite. She did not believe in unnecessary luxury and waste. As long as an item remained somewhat serviceable, Thea refused to replace it. Mr. Palmer had had his eye on a residence off fashionable Cavendish Square in Mayfair, but Thea had insisted on remaining in their mellow brick mansion on Great Russell Street. She preferred the shabby splendor of middle-class Bloomsbury, with its doctors, artists, writers, and politicians, to snobbish Mayfair.
“I trust Mr. Palmer is well,” Mrs. Gulliver said to Thea.
Thea gestured for the attending footman to fill Atlas’s wine glass. “Oh yes, busy as ever with his lands in the country.”
“Which no doubt keep Farmer Palmer hearty and hale,” Charlton remarked. “All of that country air can be so tiresomely bracing.”
It was not unusual for Mr. Palmer to be absent. Although the couple appeared devoted to each other, Charles and Thea Palmer had spent most of their long marriage apart, with Thea in the metropolis, surrounded by her mathematician friends, and Palmer tending to their vast farm in the country. Atlas had always suspected that Palmer would prefer to spend more time in his wife’s company, but Thea appeared content with the unusual arrangement.
“I hear you have undertaken a new investigation,” Thea said to her brother.
“Yes.” Atlas reached for his wine. “It is a dreadful business.”
The footmen came in and arranged a variety of dishes in a precise symmetrical arrangement on the table, bathing the dining room in the mouth-watering scents of basted pork leg, haricot mutton, and freshly cooked pastries. Since Thea did not stand on ceremony, her guests mostly served themselves from the meat and fish dishes, along with a variety of puddings, sweet pies, and tarts. The foods were laid out under the wobbly direction of Thea’s ancient butler, another old thing she refused to get rid of.
Thea leaned forward to carve the meat for her guests, serving Lilliana first. On the opposite end of the table, Herm was obliged to do the same for the guests nearest to him.
Thea placed a slice of lamb on Atlas’s plate. “Do you think Vessey did it?” she asked quietly. “Where was he when it happened?”
“At a gentleman’s club with plenty of witnesses.”
“How convenient.”
“Isn’t it? But he could easily have engaged someone to do away with Mrs. Pike.”
A roar of laughter sounded at the opposite end of the table, where Herm regaled the Gullivers with the story of an outrageous bet he’d recently won. Herm’s primary vocation in life was maintaining a fashionable appearance, including artfully unruly hair, which was painstakingly achieved by infrequent washing and the careful application of hair wax.
Atlas sipped his wine. “Perhaps we should ask Charlton if he thinks his friend is capable of killing not one, but two women.”
Charlton blinked. “My friend?”
“Vessey.” As Atlas spoke, a decided chill descended on their side of the table. “I understand you socialize with him quite frequently.”
Thea stared at Charlton. “Is that true?”
Charlton flushed. “Where did you hear that?”
Atlas took another draught of wine. “Certainly not from you,” he said, resentment edging the words.
“Somerville mentioned that you attend Vessey’s oratorios,” Lilliana explained to Charlton.
“That is true.” Charlton cleared his throat. “I have gone on occasion. The affairs are not intimate in nature. There were many others in attendance.”
Atlas’s curiosity trumped his vexation with his friend. “I presume that you met Mrs. Pike?” he could not resist asking.
“I did. In fact, she is the sole reason I attended.”
Charlton’s revelation provoked another outburst from Thea. “You were one of Mrs. Pike’s admirers?”
“Solely on the basis of her talent.” At Thea’s raised eyebrow, Charlton hastened to clarify. “She possessed the voice of an angel, the most beautiful singing voice I have ever had the pleasure to hear.”
Lilliana nodded. “I have heard that. Somerville said as much.”
“What was she like?” Thea asked.
“Very lively and engaging.” Charlton set his fork down. “But I did not envy Mrs. Pike her place in Vessey’s household.”
“Why ever not?” Atlas said coolly. “As I understand it, she presided over his table and ran his household.” As Phoebe once had and should still.
“Because he never allowed Mrs. Pike to forget her place.”
“How so?” Lilliana inquired of Charlton. “Somerville says Vessey often appeared with Mrs. Pike in public, at concerts and such.”
“Yes, but at Stonebrook he required that she behave in a much more circumspect manner. Supper invitations to Stonebrook did not extend to ladies due to Mrs. Pike’s presence. And when a lady of rank attempted to speak with Mrs. Pike at one of the oratorios, Vessey immediately cautioned the lady that there were certain lines he did not wish to see crossed in his home. That included having a lady of quality acknowledge Mrs. Pike in any way.”
“What a horrible man!” Thea exclaimed. “To flaunt his association with Mrs. Pike in public but then also to feel the need to humiliate her before his guests.”
“I confess I did feel badly for Mrs. Pike.” Charlton dabbed the corners of his mouth with his linen serviette. “She was clearly terribly embarrassed and promptly excused herself. Vessey’s cruelty greatly dampened my enjoyment of the evening.”
Atlas gestured for the footman to refill his glass. “Yet it did not keep you from continuing to avail yourself of the marquess’s hospitality.”
“Why are you all so serious?” Herm’s gay voice cut into the tension at their end of the table. “Thea, this pudding is delicious.” He helped himself to another serving.
Mr. Gulliver directed his conversation in their direction. “Mr. Catesby, did I hear that you are investigating the murder at Covent Garden?”
Atlas cut into the quickly cooling lamb on his plate. “I am making some inquiries.”
Mrs. Gulliver leaned forward. “Have you heard anything new as of yet?”
“Yes.” Atlas cut a glance in Charlton’s direction. “I have learned one or two most surprising things.”
CHAPTER 5
The following afternoon, two days after Mrs. Pike’s unfortunate demise, Atlas hoisted his black umbrella high above his head to shelter himself from the drizzling rain as he set out for Covent Garden.
If Mrs. Pike had indeed watched the performances from backstage on the evening of her death, the theater manager, a man Atlas learned was named Simon Cooke, would likely be in a position to know who had made those arrangements for her.
Atlas entered through the Bow Street entrance, purposely avoiding the Covent Garden door and its proximity to where Wendela Pike had taken her last breath. The building retained a sense of newness, having been rebuilt just a few years back after a fire had gutted the theater. Atlas passed white-veined marble walls and a wide, grand stone staircase, which led to the boxes where Atlas had watched the performance with the Duke of Somerville’s party two evenin
gs ago.
A worker in the front lobby directed him to the spacious pit, the viewing area with the least expensive seats in the venue. Simon Cooke stood near the stage, directing a boy of about twelve on the removal of stains from seats covered in light blue cloth and edged in scarlet.
As it turned out, the man was not unfamiliar to Atlas. He realized he’d seen Cooke the previous evening, although Atlas hadn’t known who he was. The Covent Garden manager had wandered the corridor outside the boxes frequented by nobles, stopping here and there to inquire if all was well. His manner had been polite, engaging, and appropriately respectful as he’d interacted with patrons who were among London’s highest born.
“Some of last evening’s patrons imbibed too much gin and cast their accounts,” Cooke explained once Atlas introduced himself. “It must be cleaned before the spots become permanent.”
Cooke, a former actor, held himself like a person who knew his worth. A man of middle years, with graying hair at the temples, Cooke possessed a distinguished air and still retained his good looks despite a slight thickness around the waist. It was not difficult to envision this man commanding the stage in his younger years.
“I have come to inquire about Mrs. Pike,” Atlas said.
“What is your interest in her?” Cooke pressed a hand against watery red eyes.
“I would like to find her killer and make certain he faces justice.”
Cooke sniffed, bringing a kerchief to his nose. “I do beg your pardon. I have been feeling poorly for more than a week now.” He blew his nose. “But the theater goes on and so must I.”
Last evening the theater manager had given every appearance of energetic good health. Atlas marveled at the man’s acting ability; he’d certainly hidden his ailment well.
Atlas propped his closed umbrella against an end seat. “I understand that on the evening of her death, Mrs. Pike watched the performance from the back of the stage rather than from her usual seat in the Marquess of Vessey’s box.” Atlas’s gaze wandered up to the cream, pink, and gold-fronted boxes supported by gold fluted columns. “Do you know who invited her to watch the show from there?”
“Yes, I do.” Cooke gave a light cough. “I invited her.”
“And why was that?”
“I was trying to convince her to come and sing for me here at the theater.”
Atlas recalled Charlton saying Mrs. Pike possessed the voice of an angel. “You are suggesting Mrs. Pike was talented enough to sing professionally?”
“Absolutely. Unlike other demi-reps, Mrs. Pike had true talent outside the bedchamber.” Cooke’s voice grew wistful. “She possessed the finest singing voice I have ever had the pleasure to hear.”
“And you were prepared to engage her.”
“Yes, indeed. I was of the opinion that her voice would do very well for the stage, and I told her so. I would have paid her more than Juliet Jennings.”
Atlas blinked. “But I was under the impression that Mrs. Jennings is the toast of London.”
“She is at the moment. However, Mrs. Pike possessed the superior voice. She had a wider range and could hit higher notes than even our fair Mrs. Jennings.”
Atlas knew enough about the stage—and Juliet Jennings, for that matter—to comprehend London’s most acclaimed performer would not appreciate being upstaged by a newly discovered talent. “Did Mrs. Jennings know you were interested in replacing her with Mrs. Pike?”
Cooke shrugged. “Very possibly. She was well aware of Mrs. Pike’s talent. Vessey employed Juliet to give Mrs. Pike singing lessons, but it was not long before the student surpassed the teacher.”
“So the two ladies were rather well acquainted? Did they get on well?”
“I have no idea. Anyhow, I was prepared to pay Mrs. Pike upwards of a thousand pounds per annum.”
Atlas resisted the urge to whistle. “She could have looked after herself quite nicely with that much money.” He studied the red-nosed man and wondered if perhaps there was another reason he’d been prepared to pay handsomely for the demi-rep’s services. “Exactly how well acquainted were you with Mrs. Pike?”
Cooke shook his head. “I know what you are implying, and you could not be more mistaken. Mrs. Pike was not free with her favors. She did not invite advances from men.”
“Maybe you were a little taken with her? It seems that many men were.”
“I admired her talents, and I was not alone. Reuben Elkins, the manager at Drury Lane, also attempted to entice her to perform at his theater.”
“Was she seriously entertaining either of the offers?”
“She was more than entertaining them. Mrs. Pike had accepted my offer. She’d decided to leave Vessey for a life on the stage.”
“She was going to leave him?” It took a moment for the revelation, and its accompanying implications, to sink in. The Vessey Atlas knew would not take kindly to being abandoned to the theater or a man of the church. “Was the marquess aware that she intended to embark on a new life without him?”
“What do you think?” Cooke’s voice trembled. He looked like a man resisting the urge to punch something. Or someone. “If you are asking me if I think Vessey might have killed Mrs. Pike in a fit of jealousy to keep her from leaving him, my answer is a resounding yes.”
Atlas studied the man’s rigid posture and flushed face. “You seem extraordinarily upset for a man who says he did not know Mrs. Pike particularly well.”
Cooke visibly took a deep breath before speaking in a calmer voice. “Mrs. Pike was a decent person who did not deserve what happened to her. Moreover, she could have made this theater a great deal of profit. Perhaps you are not aware that I am also a part owner of this theater.”
“I was not aware.”
“I thought not.” Cooke heaved a heavy sigh as he wiped his nose. “We are still paying off the costs of reconstructing this building after the fire in 1808. Putting Mrs. Pike on the stage could have assisted in that endeavor. Our debts are great, and now they shall continue to be so due to her unfortunate end.”
“I see.” So Atlas’s initial instinct had been correct in at least one way. Cooke had had a serious interest in Mrs. Pike, just not one of a romantic nature.
“Vessey may act lordly, but that whoreson is as cold as they come.” Cooke practically spat the words out. “I have no doubt in my mind that man is capable of murder.”
* * *
Atlas would have liked to speak with Juliet Jennings immediafter his conversation with Simon Cooke, but Covent Garden’s leading lady had yet to arrive at the theater. She would not be taking to the stage for several hours yet. While he waited for Juliet to make her appearance, Atlas decided to walk over to the Drury Lane theater, which was just down the block from Covent Garden. He crossed the intersection of Bow and Russell Streets and walked over to Catherine Street.
The Drury Lane theater was even newer than Covent Garden. It too had been devastated by fire a few years prior, and the new structure was just three years old. The seats in the theater formed a semi-circle in colors of gold and green, although the boxes were done up in crimson.
He found Reuben Elkins, the theater manager, in the painting room, where sets were being constructed or mended for the current production. A round-faced, slim man of average height, Elkins had a no-nonsense demeanor and struck a business-like tone when speaking of Mrs. Pike.
“I regret not being able to tempt her to perform here, but she had her heart set on Covent Garden.”
“You agreed with Mr. Cooke that Mrs. Pike was talented enough to sing professionally?”
“To be sure. Be careful with that!” he barked at two young workers edging past them, carrying a wall of painted mountain scenery. He directed his attention back to Atlas. “Not that she wasn’t talented, you understand, but Mrs. Pike’s notoriety would have also brought in the crowds.” Elkins’s eyes gleamed. “I would have paid her eleven hundred pounds per annum. Average folk would have been most curious to see the long-time mistress of one of the hig
hest lords in the land.”
“No doubt.” Atlas found it curious that two of the metropolis’s premier theaters had been anxious to engage Mrs. Pike for so high a price. “Had she performed in public before?”
Elkins shook his head. “She said his lordship wouldn’t allow it. Vessey preferred to keep Mrs. Pike all to himself, a beautiful little songbird that he allowed out of her cage to perform for his friends from time to time. But he was loath to share her with the world.”
Atlas could certainly understand why Mrs. Pike would have wanted to leave Vessey and, from what he’d learned today, she’d had the means to do so. “I wonder why Mrs. Pike chose Covent Garden rather than accept your more generous offer.”
Elkin frowned. “Cooke was going to pay her less? I naturally presumed he’d offered her more generous compensation.”
Atlas thanked the man for his time and headed back to Convent Garden, hoping to find that Juliet had arrived. As he opened his umbrella to shelter himself from the incessant rain, Atlas contemplated why Mrs. Pike would have decided to perform at Covent Garden when she could have earned one hundred pounds more per annum at Drury Lane. And if she had indeed accepted Cooke’s offer, then that meant Samuel Brown was lying about his secret betrothal to Mrs. Pike. Either that, or Mrs. Pike had lied to the clergyman about her future intentions.
* * *
“Atlas Catesby!” Juliet Jennings’s radiant blue eyes shone as she regarded him in the reflection of her dressing table mirror. “What a lovely surprise.”
The toast of London sat at a table littered with small bottles, perfumes, and pots of rouge. Scarves and necklaces hung from the edge of the mirror. A tattered red velvet settee left little room to maneuver in the cozy space. The floral scent of the singer’s perfume filled the air.
“Juliet.” He smiled. “It has been a long time.”
She swiveled in her seat to face him, her azure silk robe catching the light. Juliet always wore a shade of blue because it enhanced her stunning eyes. Her golden hair was pulled up, and her open robe revealed her stays, which showcased a generous bosom and slim waist.