Murder at the Opera
Page 7
The sounds of the door opening were followed by faint feminine tones. So it was Thea. He walked into his sitting room, calling out to her only half in jest. “What must I do to entice you to stop badgering me?”
“You might try responding to my notes.” Lilliana’s acerbic voice reached him a moment before she appeared in his sitting room, looking like a duchess in a sea-green ensemble ornamented with gold buttons and tassels. A matching hat and ethereal veil shrouded her aristocratic profile in a touch of mystery.
Her unexpected appearance brought a smile to his face. “Lady Lilliana.”
“I thought perhaps you had finally made your escape to India.”
“No, indeed,” he responded with a bow.
She did not seem impressed. “So courtly and yet you could not find the courtesy to respond to my note.”
His smile broadened. He’d missed her sharp tongue. “Do forgive me. I have been unaccountably rude.”
“So true.” She lifted her veil to reveal flushed cheekbones. “A lady should not have to come to a gentleman.”
He acknowledged her well-taken point with an incline of his chin. “How can I be of service, my lady?”
“It is I who can be of service to you.” Her eyes gleamed. “I have learned something intriguing about the case.”
He offered her a seat before directing his attention to Jamie, who hovered in the entranceway. “Run and fetch some refreshment for Lady Lilliana.”
“That shall not be necessary,” Lilliana interjected. “Somerville’s cook has sent you a basket.”
“Has he?” Atlas’s mouth watered. He couldn’t recall when he’d last eaten. “You are both spoiling me terribly.”
“Somerville’s cook is a she. It seems Mrs. Pitt has learned how much you appreciate her efforts and now seems determined to keep you well fed.”
“How amiable of her. I can see no disadvantage to being in Mrs. Pitt’s good graces.”
Jamie came in with the straw basket. “Where shall I lay it out, sir?”
The considerable size of the basket suggested the need for a generous surface area. “The game table should do.”
The boy didn’t hide his surprise. “But your puzzle, sir.”
“I have not yet begun the puzzle. You may gather up the pieces and set them aside for now.”
Jamie did as he was asked. Atlas watched with great interest as the boy revealed the basket’s culinary treasures—buttered apple tarts, ratafia cakes, and other assorted cakes and puddings. The scent of the freshly baked sweet foods made his mouth water. Jamie arranged foods on the rosewood table’s square leather surface, the bounty reaching the table’s gold trim edging. Somerville’s cook had even sent lemonade.
Lilliana came to stand beside Atlas. “I can see there will be no discussing the case with you until you have had your fill. When did you last eat?”
“I honestly cannot remember.” Once they took their seats, he immediately helped himself to a ratafia cake. “Now, what is it that you have learned?”
“I heard something of great interest about Mrs. Juliet Jennings. You will recall she is the singer whose performance we attended the evening of Mrs. Pike’s murder.”
“Yes, of course. Go on.” He washed the cake down with a gulp of delicious lemonade, prepared with just the right balance of sweet and tart.
“It seems that the theater manager was considering engaging Mrs. Pike to perform at Covent Garden.”
“I have heard that. The manager informed me as much when I visited him at the theater to inquire about Mrs. Pike.”
“Did he also tell you that Mrs. Jennings attended one of Mrs. Pike’s private performances?”
“No. However, Vessey had previously engaged Mrs. Jennings to give his mistress voice lessons.” He reached for an apple tart. “It would be natural for Mrs. Jennings to attend a performance given by one of her students.”
“The two women engaged in a very nasty row after the performance.”
“Is that so?” Atlas paused. “Now that is something I had not heard.”
Lilliana’s satisfied expression lifted his spirits. She had a crooked smile that seemed rather like a smirk, and he had grown to appreciate how worthwhile it was to elicit one from her. “I suppose that means I have learned something of interest that you had not discovered yet,” she said.
“Yes, you certainly have. No one I have interviewed mentioned anything about an altercation between the two women.” Least of all Juliet herself. “Did someone witness this row?”
She sipped her lemonade. “The melee occurred in the ladies’ retiring room at Stonebrook, with only a single maid in attendance. The girl had been assigned to the retiring room for the evening.”
He bit down on a biscuit, enjoying its distinctive, nutty taste. “What occurred exactly?”
“It was apparently a very physical encounter. Mrs. Jennings tore Mrs. Pike’s dress beyond repair, so much so that Mrs. Pike was required to change into another gown before rejoining Vessey’s guests.”
Atlas found it hard to envision a woman as contained as Juliet losing all self-control. But if she had, it did not surprise him that she’d neglected to mention the encounter. Juliet would be reluctant to share a less than flattering story about herself. Especially after her fellow combatant turned up dead. “I suppose few people have heard of this encounter because neither woman cared for it to be known.”
“Imagine how angry Mrs. Jennings must have been to physically attack another woman,” Lilliana said. “Perhaps even furious enough to engage someone to kill Mrs. Pike. It makes perfect sense, does it not?”
He shook his head. “Juliet has a temper, but I cannot imagine her actually killing anyone.”
“How can you possibly reach that kind of conclusion solely by seeing someone on the stage?” Lilliana stilled. “Oh. You called her Juliet.”
Heat scorched his cheeks. “She is a friend.”
“I see.” She looked at him as if waiting for him to elaborate. Which he had no intention of doing. When it became clear he wasn’t going to speak further on the subject, she added, “I suppose you are very well acquainted with Mrs. Jennings.”
He knew what she asked and, again, had no intention of sharing any details of his past liaison with Juliet. “We are not well acquainted … at present.”
“At present. I see.” A pause. The icy disdain coating each word made him want to reach for his greatcoat. “Are you currently well enough acquainted with Mrs. Jennings to assess whether she is capable of killing another woman?”
“That would surprise me very much.”
“Even if her livelihood depended upon it?”
“Anything is possible. People will do almost anything if their very survival is at stake. And Juliet is definitely a survivor.”
“As you are undoubtedly in a position to know.” She came to her feet, as did he. “I shan’t intrude upon you any longer.”
He followed her out of the sitting room, sorry to have chased her away with his indelicate revelation about Juliet. “You could never intrude.”
“Hmm.” She paused in the foyer. Jamie had made himself scarce, so they were alone. “Intruding can become quite tedious. One eventually tires of it.” She reached for the doorknob to let herself out.
“Lily.” She’d once asked him to call her that when they were in private. He rarely had. “I have no interest in Juliet.”
She paused with her back to him, and he could feel the warmth from her body. His eyes were drawn to the sliver of pale skin where the nape of her neck, and the soft wisps of hair there, disappeared into the green fabric of her spencer. After a moment, she opened the door and went out.
He watched from the landing as she descended the stairs, elegant and straight spined, without once looking back.
* * *
While Jamie went to Southwark in search of Wendela Pike’s sister, Atlas made his way to Covent Garden to speak with Juliet Jennings about the violent disagreement she’d had with the dead woman.
He found the performers rehearsing when he arrived. Slipping into a chair in the pit, he waited until they paused for a break, and managed to catch Juliet’s attention.
She came over immediately. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” Juliet had not yet dressed for the evening’s performance and wore a silk dressing gown belted at the waist. The violet color somehow managed to bring out streaks of lavender in her vibrant blue eyes.
“It is always good to see you, Juliet.”
She took a chair next to him, shifting her body so that she faced him. She laid a hand over the back of his chair. “Is this a social call?”
“Regrettably not.”
“I thought as much. What can I do for you? Is this about Wendy?”
“It is.”
She waited expectantly. “And?”
“You said the two of you were friends.”
She nodded, her posture remained relaxed. “We were.”
“Two friends who engaged in a physical fight that was so violent that you ripped Mrs. Pike’s gown, forcing her to change before rejoining Vessey’s guests?”
“My goodness.” Her magnificent eyes twinkled. Not the reaction he expected. “Surely you know me well enough to comprehend that I have no need to resort to murder in order to vanquish my enemies.”
“And was Mrs. Pike your enemy? You neglected to mention your disagreement with her the last time we spoke.”
“Because it is an embarrassment. I paid that little snitch of a maid very handsomely to hold her tongue about what she witnessed in the ladies’ retiring room at Stonebrook. But I obviously wasted my money.”
“What did you argue about?”
Juliet’s cheeks reddened. He’d never seen her embarrassed. Flushed with passion, yes, but he’d never seen her blush purely due to chagrin. “I would rather not say.”
“Juliet. This is an important matter.”
“It was beneath us both. I do not care to remember that unfortunate event. And it has nothing to do with how she died.”
“You cannot know that for certain.”
“I most certainly can. I know I had nothing to do with my friend’s death. And you know me well enough to know when I speak the truth.”
Atlas did find it difficult to imagine Juliet killing anyone. At her core, she was a pure-hearted person. “I do not believe you murdered Mrs. Pike. But the reason you argued could have some bearing on her death in a way that you are unaware of.”
She huffed an exasperated breath. It sent one of the loose tendrils of her hair blowing like streamers in the wind. “Oh very well! But you must give me your word that you will not share the regrettable details with anyone.”
“Very well. I give you my word.”
“It was a fight over a man. I felt Wendy was being too forward with him.”
“A man you were interested in?”
“A man I felt I had a claim to. Wendy denied having any interest in him. She insisted she was merely being hospitable as mistress of Stonebrook.”
“Who was this man?”
“An acquaintance of Vessey’s who was just passing through. The man is no longer in England.”
“You believe Mrs. Pike was unfaithful to Vessey?”
“I acted foolishly,” she admitted. “It was folly to believe Wendy would look at any other man. As far as I knew, she had never been with anyone but Vessey.”
“When did this man you fought over leave the country?”
“Months before Wendy was killed.”
“I need his name.”
She looked heavenward. “Aleksey Witte. He was a diplomat from the royal Russian court and has long since returned home.”
“And I presume you had a flirtation with Witte?”
“A liaison, yes.” Juliet had a tendency to speak plainly. “But I do not believe that Wendy did. Believe me when I tell you that it was a silly fight fueled by too much drink on my part.”
Atlas couldn’t help smiling. “I am in a position to know that imbibing brings out your belligerent side.” He recalled that was the reason Juliet rarely took a drink. “You are a woman who likes to remain in control of herself at all times.”
“That is correct.” She reached over and pressed her lips firmly against his. Pulling back, she said, “Now go away before I climb into your lap and have my way with you.”
CHAPTER 8
The following day, nearly a week after Mrs. Pike’s murder, Atlas hailed a hackney to Southwark to meet the dead woman’s sister.
Jamie had proven to be as resourceful as Atlas had hoped. The boy traced Mrs. Rose Booth to a hat shop on Fish Hill Street. He’d also confirmed that Vessey’s two young daughters attended a boarding school in Berkshire and received brief monthly visits from their parents.
Once the hackney dropped Atlas in Southwark, he trod along the wet pavements in a light drizzle, umbrella in hand, but not open. The fortifying appearance of the sun the previous day now seemed like a beautiful long-ago dream.
The sloping street was lined with shops bustling with respectable middle-class shoppers, professionals, and merchants. Up ahead, as Atlas approached the Thames, the aging London Bridge rose into view like a giant emerging from the fog. The span had been damaged during the previous year’s Frost Fair, and construction on a new span was slated to begin soon.
Atlas paused outside the emerald-green, Rococo-style storefront that Jamie had described. The name “Booth & Co. Hatters,” was emblazoned in gold above the shop’s bow windows, surrounded by fanciful architectural curves and ornamentation.
He entered to find a long, narrow space with numerous men’s hats on display, the scent of clean, new fabrics and wares filling the space. A neat-looking, pleasantly plump woman in bifocals busily arranged the wares—top hats with narrow, curved brims, of varying colors and fabrics, made of both beaver and silk.
“Good afternoon.” She greeted him cheerily. “May I interest you in a hat?”
“No, thank you.” Atlas introduced himself. “Are you perchance Mrs. Rose Booth?”
“I am.”
He set his umbrella down, leaning it against the wall in the nearest shop corner. “You are the sister of the late Mrs. Wendela Pike?”
Her face darkened. “If you are from one of those scandal sheets—”
“I am not,” he hastened to reassure her. “I am looking into Mrs. Pike’s death and am determined to see to it that her killer is held to account for his crime.”
She regarded him suspiciously from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. “The Quality do not usually concern themselves with common folks like Wendy, unless they have a use for her. Like her fancy lord did.” Her gaze traveled over him. He supposed she saw a man in well-tailored clothing, albeit not of the absolute highest quality. “Is that who sent you?” she asked. “The Marquess of Vessey?”
“No, indeed,” he said. “As a matter of fact, if Vessey had anything to do with Mrs. Pike’s demise, I should like to see him face justice.”
She gave a derisive laugh, absent of any mirth, and returned to her task, moving to another display table. “No one takes the Fancy to account.” She adjusted a tricorn hat, a style made popular by the military. “I do not expect you shall be the first.”
He understood her skepticism. “My sister was wed to Vessey.”
She paused, tricorn in hand. “I do not pretend to understand the peculiar ways of the Quality, but why would you care to find the person who killed your brother-in-law’s mistress?”
“My sister is deceased,” he clarified. “And if the man who killed my sister and the person behind Mrs. Pike’s murder are one and the same, then he is going to pay for what he has done.”
Her eyes opened wider. “You believe Lord Vessey killed them both?”
“I was eleven years old when my sister fell down the stairs at Stonebrook and broke her neck. I was not in a p
osition to properly look into the matter then. I am now.”
All at once, sorrow lined Mrs. Booth’s face, as if she’d drawn back the curtain to reveal her true emotions. She suddenly seemed much older. “My sister’s name was Esther Gillray. Gillray is our family name.”
“My sister was Phoebe.”
Sympathy blossomed in her eyes. “That is a lovely name.” She set the hat down. “Mrs. Pike was a name my sister adopted after she went to live with her lord. It was not her true name.” She drew a breath and her steady gaze met his. “Her middle name was Wendela, but she preferred to be called Wendy. That is what you should call her. Wendy. “
“It would be my honor.”
“What is it you would like to know about Wendy?”
“I wondered if she was content in her life with Vessey.”
“You could say so. She lived like a grand lady, after all. She was fond of Lord Vessey, but she did not love him.”
“Did she ever tell you that she planned to leave him?”
“Heard that, did you? Yes, it is true.” She absentmindedly reached out to straighten a selection of round hats, the kind worn by sailors. “The last time I saw Wendy, she told me that she was leaving the sinful life and intended to be wed.”
This was the first confirmation that Wendy had intended to leave Vessey to wed the clergyman. “When did she tell you this?”
“About a fortnight before she died. Despite everything, Wendy still craved respectability.” Bitterness tinged the words. “Lord Vessey robbed her of that by taking her to his bed when she was but fifteen.”
Atlas didn’t know exactly what kind of woman he’d expected to find when he came looking for Wendy’s sister, but the dignified woman before him was a surprise—although perhaps that should not have been the case. She and Wendy were sisters, and everyone who’d met Wendy seemed to have been enchanted by her.
“Your parents approved of the arrangement with Vessey?”
“My mother died of fever when we were young. It was our father who forced her to accept Lord Vessey’s offer. The marquess came into my father’s hat shop one day and saw Wendy there.”