by D. M. Quincy
Atlas fell in step beside the much shorter, rotund man. “Who did Samuel Brown shoot?”
“The manager at Covent Garden.”
“Simon Cooke?” Shock rippled through Atlas. “Is he dead?”
“No. Fortunately for Mr. Cooke, the clergyman is a poor shot, which is ironic when one considers the man used to be a solider.”
They turned into a narrow lane that led to Long Acre, treading with care over the slick cobblestones. “Brown’s bullet missed Cooke?”
“Oh, he hit him all right. But just grazed the man’s shoulder. Cooke had the flesh wound bandaged and returned to work, preparing for this evening’s performance.”
“He is nothing if not devoted.”
“The man has significant debts to consider, the cost of rebuilding after the fire.”
“Why did Brown shoot him?”
“That is what I should like to know and why I sent you that note. Mr. Brown demanded to see you. He insists you are the only person he will speak with.”
Atlas’s curiosity piqued. “And Mr. Cooke? Did he say what transpired between the two men that could have provoked Mr. Brown to violence?”
“He claims to have no idea why Brown would want to shoot him.” The two men paused when they reached Long Acre, a busy thoroughfare cluttered with carriages, riders on horseback, and carts, all of which looked like they were moving among the clouds.
“When can I see Mr. Brown?”
“I should return within the hour, and you can see him then.”
“Very good. Perhaps I will call upon Mr. Cooke in the meantime.”
* * *
After parting ways with Endicott, Atlas retraced his steps back to the Covent Garden theater.
He found Simon Cooke sitting behind a tattered desk, pouring whiskey down his throat in a cramped, poorly lit room.
“Catesby.” Cooke released an exhausted sigh once he registered his visitor’s identity. “I have already had the day from Hades and am in no mood to be tormented any further.”
“Rest assured that I am not here to harass you.” Atlas stepped carefully among the fabric samples, opulent costumes, and wigs cluttering the tight space. He saw no physical evidence of the man’s injury, but the strain showed plainly on Cooke’s drawn and haggard face. “Should you not be at home resting? I understand you were shot today.”
“What concern is it of yours?” Cooke scowled. “The last time I checked, you were not my keeper.”
This foul-tempered man was a far cry from the brusque but generally agreeable man Atlas had met shortly after Wendy’s murder. Not that Atlas could blame Cooke for his lack of courtesy given what the man had just endured. “Perhaps I should return another day, once you have recuperated.” He turned to go.
“Brown killed Mrs. Pike, you know,” Cooke muttered from behind him.
Atlas turned around. “Did he tell you that?”
The man rolled his bloodshot eyes. “No, but it is bloody obvious to anyone who has ever had the misfortune to encounter that bedlamite.”
“Why did he shoot you?”
Cooke poured himself more whiskey. “He apparently learned fairly recently that I had convinced Wendy to take to the stage.”
Atlas stilled. He’d been the one to inform Brown that Wendela Pike had intended to perform at Covent Garden. “He said that?”
“Said many other choice words as well.” He tossed the entire glass of whiskey down his throat. “The man does not talk like any other clergyman I have ever met.”
“He used to be a soldier.”
“Ah yes, that makes much more sense.” Cooke set his glass down with a clank. Atlas noticed the man kept his left hand completely immobile. “He accused me of ruining Wendy’s reputation, with her being a respectable woman and all.”
A demi-rep hardly had a reputation to lose. But Atlas was beginning to comprehend that Brown saw things as he wanted them to be, rather than how they truly were. “Brown claims he was betrothed to Mrs. Pike and that it was her intention to go away with him.”
“Bollocks.” Cooke glared at Atlas. “The man’s brain is flawed. He became obsessed with Wendy simply because she was kind to him, as she was to everyone.”
The manner in which Cooke spoke about Wendy suggested the man had been a bit more familiar with her than Atlas had initially believed. “How well did you know Mrs. Pike?”
Cooke shrugged his left shoulder and froze midway, wincing. “The devil! That’s my injured side.” He paused as if waiting for the pain to subside before continuing. “Mrs. Pike came by every now and again, whenever she could, and often watched the performances from backstage. She admired the theater greatly and was anxious to join our ranks.”
“Why do you think Brown would react so violently to Mrs. Pike’s taking to the stage if they were not betrothed? If he had no claim on her, it would be none of his concern.”
“Because the man’s head is full of delusions,” Cooke spat out. “He truly believed Mrs. Pike belonged to him when the truth of the matter is that she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him.”
“She told you that herself?”
He nodded. “Ask anyone who was even remotely associated with Wendy, and they will tell you the same.”
“I have heard from others that the clergyman was a source of unease,” Atlas acknowledged, “but that does not prove that he killed Mrs. Pike.”
“I have proof.” Cooke’s words had begun to slur together due to the copious amounts of whiskey he’d consumed. “One of our fruit sellers recognized Brown when he came here today. She says he was there the night Wendy was killed. She saw him bending over Mrs. Pike directly after she’d been shot.”
If true, this was news indeed. Brown had certainly never mentioned being at the theater the evening Wendy Pike died. “What is this fruit woman’s name?”
“Mary White.”
The same woman who had found the murder weapon and testified at the inquest. “Do you know where I can find this Mary White?”
“She is probably out on the piazza somewhere, staking her claim before the theater crush descends upon us for this evening’s show.”
“What are you doing here?” An indignant smoky female voice called out from behind Atlas.
Atlas turned to find Juliet Jennings glaring at him. “Hello, Juliet.”
“Simon is in no condition to receive callers.”
Cooke smiled goofily. “You are such a dear, dear, girl to look after me so.” The warbled words made Cooke sound as if his mouth was filled with loose marbles. “Esther has come to rescue me.”
“Who is Esther? I am Juliet.” She removed the whiskey and set it beyond the theater manager’s reach. “And you are foxed.”
“Indeed. I am at that.” Cooke leaned back in his chair, his body so loose that he seemed in danger of sliding out of the seat.
Juliet wore a deep blue dressing gown that complimented her eyes and other womanly assets. Most men would find her incredibly alluring, but Cooke seemed to take little notice of his star.
She turned to Atlas with flashing eyes. “You should go. Can you not see that the man is not himself? He is recovering from the shock of being shot.”
“You certainly are protective of Mr. Cooke,” Atlas noted as he watched Juliet fuss over the man who employed her.
“As would you be were you in my position, if your livelihood depended upon it.” She ushered Atlas out of Cooke’s tiny office. “If Simon were to die, where would that leave me?”
“Are you suggesting this show of concern is motivated purely by self-interest?”
“Everything I do is in the interest of my own survival.” She gave him the kind of stare one might bestow upon a simpleton. “You of all people should comprehend that.”
CHAPTER 15
After leaving Simon Cooke in Juliet’s protective hands, Atlas wandered the piazza in search of Mary White.
If the fruit vendor confirmed that she had seen the clergyman near Wendy’s body on the evening of the murder, so
me of the more disparate pieces of Atlas’s investigation would finally fall into place. Brown as a rejected suitor rather than a clandestine lover struck Atlas as a far more likely situation than the desperately romantic picture the clergyman had painted. But why then would Brown insist that Atlas investigate the murder?
The mist from earlier had developed into a light drizzle, and the late afternoon was headed toward the gloaming, making it more difficult to locate his quarry. Atlas finally spotted the fruit vendor near the portico of St. Paul’s Church, the house of worship frequented by performers from Covent Garden and nearby Drury Lane.
“Mary White,” he called out to her.
The older woman focused on Atlas as if trying to place him. She adjusted the load of oranges she carried in a generous fabric sling around her neck. “Yer the cove from the other night, from when the marquess’s ladybird was killed.”
“Yes, I am Atlas Catesby. How are you, Mary?”
“Fine enough to know ye ain’t ’ere to ask me ’ow I fare.” She shifted her burden, which seemed much too heavy for her slight frame. “Yer ’ere cuz ye be wantin’ ta know about the shootin’ that happened this very mornin’.”
“True enough.” Mary White was no one’s fool. “Mr. Cooke says you recognized his attacker. I would like to ask you about that.”
“I am a busy woman.” She grinned and he saw that most of her teeth were missing. “Ain’t me time worth a shillin’ or two?”
“It certainly is.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a few shillings.
“The cove ’oo shot the Covent Garden manager is the same one that done it ta Mrs. Pike,” she said immediately.
“Are you certain?” He dropped the money into her open palm. “Did you see him shoot her?”
“No, I ain’t seen nothin’ like that. But I did see the preacher kneelin’ next ta Mrs. Pike’s body after ’e shot ’er. Then ’e jumped up like a scared rabbit and ran away. That was the last I seen of ’im ’til today, when the same cove tried to crash that cull.”
Atlas had been among sailors often enough to understand her meaning. “You are saying that the same man you saw kneeling by Mrs. Pike tried to shoot the theater manager today?”
“’Tis wut I said, ain’t it?”
“Indeed. Could you tell me exactly what you saw today?”
“The Covent Garden manager come in late this mornin’ and ’e was going in ta the theater when the preacher popped ’im.”
“And you are certain Mr. Brown, the clergyman, is the same person you saw kneeling next to Mrs. Pike that night?”
“I never forget a face.” She cradled her sling of oranges like a baby, lifting the weight to relieve the pressure on her shoulder.
“Did you see the clergyman holding a gun the night Mrs. Pike died? Or dropping it, perhaps, as he ran away?”
She guffawed. “It ain’t like I could see ’is hands when it was so crowded.”
The vendor had a point. There were few crushes worse than the one that occurred once the theaters released a mass of humanity after a performance.
“Now, guv,” she said, “is there anything else I can do for ye?”
“Yes, there is.” He reached into his pocket again. “How much are the oranges?”
Brightening, she grinned, baring the formidable gap between her teeth. “How many would you like, guv?”
“I will take them all.”
* * *
Samuel Brown was locked up in the gaol yard, which is where Atlas spoke with him after meeting Endicott at the Bow Street offices, as they’d arranged. Surrounded by a high brick wall, the yard formed a neat square measuring about thirty feet across.
“Mr. Catesby!” In shirtsleeves, with his hair wildly disheveled, the clergyman’s face lit up when Atlas stepped into the yard. “I knew you would come.”
“Did you kill Mrs. Pike?” Atlas dispensed with any sort of greeting. He held nothing but contempt for a man who had shot and injured one person and likely murdered another.
“No! I swear it on our Lord.” He pressed his hand flat against his chest. “I could never do such a thing.”
“You are obviously capable of shooting Mr. Cooke.”
“He deserved it.” Brown showed no remorse. “As he is well aware.”
“And why is that?” Atlas raised his voice to make himself heard amid the shouts, jeers, and protestations of innocence from the other prisoners in the surrounding yard cells.
“He knows why. He tempted a goodly woman into disgrace. He encouraged her to take to the stage.”
“Mr. Cooke offered Mrs. Pike a means to support herself and her children that did not require whoring herself out.”
Brown’s hands clutched the bars to his cell. “I did not ask you to come in order to discuss Mr. Cooke.”
“Then why am I here? I presumed it was to hear your confession.”
“I shot Mr. Cooke. I can only regret that I did not kill him. I will happily go to the gallows because without Mrs. Pike my life is not worth living.”
“Please spare me the dramatics.” Atlas was fast losing his limited patience. “I am not interested in hearing your overwrought declarations of devotion. I cannot help but wonder whether you were ever truly betrothed to Mrs. Pike.”
“Of course I was. I swear it.”
“People who were well acquainted with Mrs. Pike say you were an unwelcome admirer who made Mrs. Pike uncomfortable.”
Brown’s mouth fell open. “Is that what she told them? It must have been so that they would not suspect the truth about us. I am not a man given to subterfuge. I fear my deep regard for Mrs. Pike was obvious for all to see.” He looked pleadingly at Atlas. “I did not shoot Mrs. Pike. You must believe me.”
“No, I really mustn’t,” Atlas replied in an acid tone. “As a matter of fact, I believe now more than ever that you did kill the poor lady. A Covent Garden fruit vendor saw you there the night Mrs. Pike was murdered.”
“I was there. I do confess that much. But I went to admire her from afar, not to harm her. I could never hurt her. Killing Mrs. Pike would be like killing myself.”
“You admit you were the tall man in black who knelt beside Mrs. Pike after she fell.”
“I was.” His eyes filled with tears. “I lost sight of her for just a moment—there was such a crush that night—and then I realized I could not see my beloved because she had fallen. I rushed to her side, and when I saw the pistol I reached for it.”
“Why would you reach for the weapon?”
“I was not in my right mind. I thought maybe the killer was still there and that he might pick up the gun and shoot her again.”
“But then you ran away.” Atlas crossed his arms over his chest. “That is hardly the reaction of an innocent man.”
“I panicked.” Brown hung his head. “I am not proud of it. I did run away, and when I realized that the pistol was still in my hand, I dropped it as I made my escape.”
“Made your escape? That is an interesting choice of words. An innocent man would feel no need to escape.”
“I feared people would presume that I had accompanied Mrs. Pike to the theater. Gossip can be most unkind. I did not want to besmirch my beloved’s reputation. Even in death. You must believe me.”
“No, I mustn’t believe you,” Atlas said cuttingly.
“You are a man of reason. Why would I prevail upon you to investigate Wendela’s murder if I had been the one to kill her?’
“Why indeed?” The man might be completely unhinged. But another possibility also occurred to Atlas. “Maybe you knew that my late sister was once married to Vessey and that my family holds Vessey responsible for her untimely death. Perhaps you believed you would find a natural ally in me—that I would be very pleased to see Vessey accused of murder.”
“No, that is not true! If you take me for a liar then Mrs. Pike’s true killer will escape punishment.” Brown reached through the bars to grab Atlas’s arm. “What if Vessey is responsible? Will you stand aside and let hi
m go free? Do you wish for that to be on your conscience?”
Atlas jerked away. “Perhaps you should leave it to me to worry about my conscience while you take what time you have left on this earth to examine yours.”
* * *
“Do you credit Mr. Brown’s claims of innocence?” Lilliana handed Atlas a plate laden with the Somerville cook’s latest culinary masterpieces. “Or do you think he killed Mrs. Pike?”
“It is difficult to say.” His attention went to the sponge cake, an unassuming plain little square that gave no hint of its feather-like consistency and divine buttery sweetness.
He had immediately accepted Lilliana’s invitation to tea the day after his encounters with both Nicholas and the clergyman, and was now contently settled into the new, larger chair Lilliana had recently added to her sunny sitting room.
However, Lilliana’s manner was more slightly constrained, which troubled him. He could not help but wonder if her current aloofness related to the intimacy they’d shared in his apartments.
“Can the pistol be linked back to Mr. Brown?” she was asking. “Was he known to carry a weapon?”
“We are fairly certain the pistol came from Grierson’s gun shop on Bond Street.” He bit into the sponge cake, the rich, full flavors of almonds and vanilla bursting on his tongue. “Your cook is going to kill me. I am liable to die of pleasure from consuming her food.”
“Death by cake.” She smirked as she nibbled on a biscuit. “Imagine what people might say.”
“That I died happy.” He drank some tea. “I will never understand how you, or anyone, can possibly dislike sweets.”
She made a moue of distaste. “Sugar hurts my teeth.”
“Perhaps you need to see a dentist.” He chewed the final bite of cake slowly, rolling it over his tongue to make it last longer in order to fully appreciate how close it brought him to heaven.
“I have already visited one, and my teeth are perfectly fine,” she retorted. “He has seen other patients with healthy teeth who also cannot tolerate sweets.”
He reached for another cake. “How dull their lives must be.”