by D. M. Quincy
“If you are done expounding upon the virtues of sweetmeats, perhaps we could discuss the case?”
He smiled. “As I was saying, we believe the pistol came from Grierson’s.”
“I presume you visited Grierson to see who purchased it. Or does he not keep a list of such transactions?”
“Oh, he keeps a list.” He bit into a savory biscuit—flat, round, crisp, and perfectly symmetrical—that paired beautifully with a square of Somerset cheddar. “He just refuses to share it with me.”
“But why? Surely he cannot like the idea of a murderer running loose through the metropolis.”
“He said something about not being able to do anything for Mrs. Pike, given that she is already deceased.”
“How heartwarming.”
“Indeed. Any perceived lack of discretion on his part could anger his patrons. I imagine they would be none too happy to find me on their doorstep inquiring as to whether the murder weapon belongs to them.” He reached for a slice of plum cake. “I will have to pursue other avenues in regards to the ownership of the pistol.”
She made a skeptical humming sound in her throat as she sipped her tea. “We shall see about that. Now, what of young Beaumont?” she asked carefully. “Or is your nephew a subject you prefer to keep private?”
“Not at all.” He set down his plate. “Truth be told, the subject of Nicholas has been weighing on me.” He relayed the particulars of his conversation with his nephew. She listened attentively, her eyes fixed on his face.
“It is not as though you intend to blame his father for a crime he did not commit,” she said when he was done. “But if Vessey is guilty, you can hardly allow him to escape unscathed.”
“I told the boy as much.”
“And now you fear losing Nicholas should you prove his father guilty of this crime.”
“I do.” The thought of it made Atlas feel as though someone had dropped an enormous rock on his chest.
“How then will you proceed?”
“As I always do. I will seek the truth, no matter where it leads me.” And in both of his previous investigations, it had led to the darkest chambers of the human soul, baring truths he’d rather have no knowledge of, that even the best of mankind could be driven to violent murder. That a drowning man might cling to the nearest person, not for succor, but to use his dying breath to drag an innocent into hell with him.
“I suspect you could not live with yourself if you were to do otherwise,” she remarked.
“Even if he is guilty, Vessey could very well escape justice. It is not as though he will face a trial. His peers in the House of Lords are unlikely to condemn him for the death of an unrespectable woman.”
“But Mrs. Pike was very well liked.” She nibbled on a piece of Stilton cheese. “And it is widely accepted that she was intimately acquainted with no man other than Vessey. She was virtuous in that way.”
Atlas picked up the direction of her thoughts and gave voice to them. “Mrs. Pike was also kind and well liked. She charmed people at Vessey’s oratorios. Even Roxbury came to her defense, as you know.”
“And he could very well be inclined to do so again if Vessey were to be tried in the House of Lords.”
“Which would not be a positive outcome where my nephew is concerned.”
“The possibility remains that Vessey is not at all involved in Mrs. Pike’s demise.”
Atlas stilled, trying to grasp a memory just out of reach. And then, like a piano player who has forgotten a song that suddenly comes back to him, he remembered. “I feel certain Vessey knows more about Mrs. Pike’s death than he is sharing with me or with Bow Street.”
“Are you certain that is not wishful thinking on your part?” she asked, her voice gentle.
He thought back, trying to recall Vessey’s exact words. “When he first saw the body laid out in the tavern, the first thing Vessey said was, ‘Oh, Wendy. What has he done to you?’”
“What has he done to you.” Lilliana repeated the words. Looking past him, she gazed unseeing into the distance, slightly narrowing one eye as was her habit when she concentrated. “He could have been referring to Brown. After all, he has told you that he believes the clergyman killed Mrs. Pike.”
“That makes perfect sense, of course. However, it was something about the way he said it that struck me as odd. It was with complete anguish, perhaps even horror.”
“That seems like a natural reaction.”
“Yes, but the words were completely absent of any sort of anger or fury. There was something more there. It was almost as if he was not surprised.”
“What do you make of that?”
“I am not certain yet. But I will put all of the pieces together eventually.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Now do finish indulging yourself.” Her gaze fell to his plate. “We have an errand to run.”
“Do we?”
“Yes, we are going to Grierson’s.”
“Why? Are you in need of a weapon?”
“I might be.” Her mouth curved into a coy smile. “You will just have to wait and see.”
CHAPTER 16
When Atlas escorted Lilliana into Grierson’s on Bond Street, the proprietor rushed forward to greet them. However, his demeanor changed when he recognized Atlas.
“Mr. Catesby,” he said, “unless you are here to make a purchase, we have no business between us. I have nothing further to say on the”—his glance darted to Lilliana—“matter we discussed earlier.”
Lilliana lifted her chin. “I presume you are Mr. Grierson?” She was at her imperial best, her voice condescending, her glacial manner threatening to freeze the man where he stood. If her countenance did not do enough to convey her high societal status, her apparel surely would. Her burgundy silk gown, exquisitely designed and tailored, easily cost a year’s worth of Atlas’s living expenses. And the elaborate high-standing plumage of her matching bonnet tempted even Atlas to cower in her charismatic presence.
It all had the desired effect. Grierson immediately became conciliatory. “At your service, my lady,” he said while executing possibly the deepest bow Atlas had ever witnessed.
Atlas suppressed a smile. Only a fool would be unable to discern Lilliana’s superior birth and breeding, and the prosperous gunmaker was clearly no idiot.
Rather than acknowledging the gunmaker’s abrupt volte-face, Lilliana glided past him toward the red velvet–lined dark cabinetry that showcased Grierson’s handiwork. She paused and then turned to peruse the pistols and rifles laid out on mahogany tables.
Grierson hurried to her side. “How may I be of service, my lady?”
“I am considering purchasing a gift for my brother, the Duke of Somerville.”
Grierson’s face lit up at the mention of one of England’s most prosperous and powerful peers, clearly a highly coveted prospective patron. “It would be my greatest pleasure to provide a pistol for His Grace.”
“Perhaps you could recommend a design worthy of his superior status,” she said. “I know little about guns.”
Grierson immediately selected a pistol from a nearby shelf. It was made of walnut and beautifully crafted with finials, silver fittings, and intricate silver inlays. Atlas would wager his mount, had he owned one, that the pistol was among the most expensive in the shop.
Lilliana studied the gun. “What is your opinion, Mr. Catesby?”
Atlas suppressed the urge to inquire about the cost. “It is a fine piece.”
“Then I shall take it,” Lilliana said to Grierson. “Please have it delivered to Somerville House.”
“Yes, my lady.” Grierson brimmed with barely restrained delight. “I shall see to it immediately.”
“Please do.” She paused. “I also hope you will grant me a small favor.”
Atlas observed quietly, marveling at Lilliana’s wily methods. She was certainly a woman to be reckoned with.
“Anything at all, my lady.” Grierson could not seem to stop bowing. “I am always happy to be of assistance to p
ersonages as exalted as the Duke of Somerville and his relations.”
“I understand Mr. Catesby has inquired about a certain flintlock pistol. One with a barrel that is quite distinctive because it is sheathed in silver. I should like to know who purchased it.”
Grierson blanched at the dilemma facing him; to deny Lilliana’s request was to risk the wrath of the Duke of Somerville. To acquiesce could anger long-standing patrons. “My lady, if word were to spread that I have behaved indiscreetly, most of my patrons would take their custom elsewhere. Surely you can appreciate my predicament.”
Her wintry, close-mouthed smile sent a chill down Atlas’s back. He almost pitied Grierson. “And surely you can understand that one of your patrons possibly cut down an innocent woman in the street with a weapon that you yourself might well have crafted.” Each word cut the air with the precision of a scalpel.
Grierson swallowed, appearing pained, his Adam’s apple visibly moving in his throat.
“Surely the custom of the Duke of Somerville will protect your business,” she prodded.
Grierson considered for a moment and then exhaled. “Unfortunately, discretion prevents me from sharing a list of the gun shop’s patrons.” He spoke in measured tones. “However, it is curious that Mr. Jasper Balfour called recently, inquiring about the same exact pistol.”
Atlas’s pulse quickened at the mention of Jasper Balfour, but he forced himself to remain outwardly dispassionate.
“Did he now?” Lilliana asked. “And when did Mr. Balfour make this inquiry?”
“Two days after Mrs. Pike’s unfortunate demise.”
She exchanged a look with Atlas before addressing Grierson again. “Did he mention why he was looking for that particular style of pistol?”
“He wanted to replace one that belonged to his father that had been lost.”
“I see.” She dimpled, and this time her delightfully crooked smile held some warmth. “My thanks, Mr. Grierson. You have been most helpful.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, my lady.” The obviously relieved gunmaker performed yet another deep bow.
Atlas and Lilliana took their leave, stepping out onto the stone pavement along Bond Street. “Have you heard of this Mr. Balfour?” she inquired when they reached her waiting carriage.
“Indeed, I have. He is a particular friend of Francis Pike’s.”
A footman clad in smart black and gold livery hastened forward to pull down the carriage step. Atlas waved the young man away and saw to it himself.
Lilliana paused before the open carriage door. “I suppose you will now go and speak with Mr. Balfour.”
“Yes, that is what I intend.” He looked at her, all admiration, as he assisted her into the carriage. This was an important step forward in his inquiry. And he had Lilliana’s cleverness to thank for it.
“We shall drop you at your apartments, if you would like.”
“There is no need. My lodgings are just down the street. A walk will do me good.”
“As you like.” She studied him. “You were awfully quiet in the gun shop.”
“You had matters well in hand.”
“I thought you might at least attempt to assist.”
“You did not require any help.” He propped a booted foot on the carriage step, leaning into the chaise. “You were masterful in your handling of that man. You are a marvel.”
Lilliana’s radiant, off-kilter smile momentarily caused him to forget to breathe. “It is far past time that you noticed.” He sensed no discomfort on her part. Perhaps he’d misread the unease he thought he’d discerned earlier.
He took the liberty of reaching for her gloved hand, which seemed too delicate in his clumsy paw. “A man would have to be dead or blind not to.” He pressed his lips against the delicate bare skin on the inside of her wrist. “And I assure you that I am neither.”
* * *
The following day, after making a few inquiries, Atlas ran Jasper Balfour to ground at Manton’s shooting gallery on Davies Street in Berkeley Square.
He stood in the shadows, watching Jasper practice with a renowned Manton, a pistol produced by London’s premier gunmaker. Manton’s pistols were objects of beauty, admired for being trim, light, and impeccably finished. Even Grierson had once been in Joseph Manton’s employ.
Jasper took careful aim at the row of paper wafers hanging from a circular iron frame at the opposite end of the shooting gallery. He squeezed the trigger and hit his mark. The bullet shredded the paper target, coating the air with the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder.
“Excellent shot,” Atlas said from behind him. “I would certainly consider carefully before challenging you to a duel.”
Jasper turned, narrowing his eyes in Atlas’s direction.
“My name is Atlas Catesby,” he said. “We met at the Lottery Club when you were accompanied by Francis Pike.”
“Yes, I know who you are.” The young man tossed some sort of confection into his mouth and then opened his palm to offer one to Atlas. “Care for a comfit? It is almond.”
Atlas glanced down at the almonds wrapped in a sugary paste. “No, but it is kind of you to offer.”
Jasper sucked on his sweet confection. “Are you here to practice your shot?”
“No, I came looking for you.”
“Did you?” The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Whatever for?”
“I am interested to know why you would want to purchase a certain a flintlock pistol with a barrel sheathed in silver.”
Jasper crossed one ankle behind the other. “My father has one like it that was either lost or stolen. He would like to replace it.”
“When did you, or your father, notice that the pistol was missing?”
He sucked on his sweet as he appeared to consider the question. “I would say about a fortnight ago.”
“That would be shortly after Francis Pike’s mother was killed.”
Jasper uncrossed his ankles. “How does that signify?”
“I believe your father’s pistol was used to shoot Mrs. Pike.”
Jasper’s mouth fell open, revealing the half-eaten comfit on his tongue. He snapped his lips shut. “The devil you say!”
“If I were to ask your father, Lord Balfour, would he confirm what you have just told me? That the pistol was stolen?”
Jasper looked beyond Atlas. “Why do you not ask him?”
Atlas turned to find himself looking at an older, plumper version of Jasper Balfour.
“This is my father, Lord Balfour,” Jasper said. “Father, this is Atlas Catesby.”
The older man scrutinized Atlas. “Silas Catesby’s son?”
Here then, was another of his late father’s many fans. “One of them, yes.”
“I knew your father quite well. He was a good man.”
This was an unexpected development. “You were acquainted with my father?”
“Yes, and I remain a great admirer of his work. Whenever the baron visited the metropolis, he would call on me, and we would share a drink.”
“I had no idea.” His father’s acquaintance with the elder Balfour, the younger son of a viscount, came as something of a jolt to Atlas. Despite being awarded a title, Baron Catesby had had little use for the peerage. If he had taken to calling on Lord Balfour, it would have been solely because Silas Catesby had enjoyed their meetings. Atlas’s father had rarely done anything that did not please him.
“I remember he anguished over whether to send you to Eton or Harrow,” Lord Balfour continued. “Silas said you were having some troubles. I seem to recall that he decided on Harrow. Was it the right choice?”
Atlas was momentarily stunned into silence. It shocked him to discover that Silas had discussed a matter as personal as his unruly fourth son with this nobleman.
“It was as good a choice as any,” Atlas replied after a lengthy pause, “given my state of mind at the time.”
He preferred not to recall the dark period following Phoebe’s death, when he’
d spiraled into a sort of madness. His bewildered parents, uncertain of how to manage him and submerged in their own grief, had packed him off to boarding school at the age of eleven, three years earlier than his brothers.
“Mr. Catesby wants to know about your missing pistol,” Jasper informed his father. “He says it may have been used to kill Vessey’s lightskirt.”
Atlas noted with distaste the disparaging manner in which Jasper referred to his friend’s mother. It also prompted him to wonder just how close a friendship existed between Jasper Balfour and the dead woman’s son.
Lord Balfour jerked his head from his son to Atlas. “Is that true? Was my pistol used to kill that poor woman?”
“Unfortunately,” Atlas responded. “Jasper tells me the gun went missing and was possibly stolen.”
“Yes.” The older man nodded. “That is the truth of it.”
“When did you notice the pistol was gone?”
“November fifth.”
Three days after Wendy’s murder. “You recall the precise date?”
“Yes, because we had hosted a salon at my home off Grosvenor Square on the previous evening, on the fourth. Lady Balfour and I enjoy entertaining in that manner. We hold salons on the second and last Wednesday of each month when we are in town. We much prefer to facilitate diverting discussions about the arts and politics. We have decided we are too old to be hosting balls, which we do not enjoy.”
“I see. Would you mind telling me where you kept the pistol in question?”
“Not at all. That piece is a particular favorite of mine. I purchased it from Grierson a few years ago. I keep it—kept it, rather—in my bottom desk drawer in my study. The day following the salon, I wanted to show the pistol to a friend, but when I went to retrieve the piece, it was nowhere to be found.”
“Are you certain it vanished during your salon? Could it have been taken before then?”
“Possibly. I cannot be certain when exactly the pistol went missing. I had not checked on it in weeks. The last time I can recall seeing the pistol in the drawer was probably in late September, when we returned from our summer in the country.”
Lord Balfour’s recollection meant that the pistol could have been taken anytime in the month leading up to Wendy’s murder. “You say that you and Lady Balfour host your salons twice a month?”