Murder at the Opera

by D. M. Quincy

  “Not her lover,” Simon burst out, his eyes glistening. “Her husband. I was wed to Wendela Pike. She was my wife.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Atlas gaped at the theater manager. “You were married to Wendela Pike?”

  “Her name was Esther Wendela Cooke, and she was my wife.”

  “Do you have proof of this?”

  Cooke went behind his desk and used a key to unlock the center drawer. He drew out a piece of paper and handed it to Atlas.

  He stared down at the document, a common license that could be acquired for a few shillings. “This proves nothing. There are no names on it.”

  “We wed a week after I obtained that license. Our marriage is recorded in the church register.”

  “Where did you marry?”

  “At St. Paul’s.” Atlas knew the place. It was the church just across the way, frequented by performers from Covent Garden and nearby Drury Lane.

  “Did Vessey know?”

  Cooke shook his head. “We wed in secret. Wendy worried the marquess would try to stop us.”

  “What was the plan? For your new bride to go on living with another man?”

  Cooke flushed. “She intended to tell Vessey the truth once our marriage could not be undone. She feared what Vessey might do.”

  “She thought him capable of violence?”

  “Possibly. Vessey seemed all powerful to Wendy. She had been under his control practically since girlhood and had never truly stepped out on her own.”

  “You elected to keep the marriage a secret after Wendy died.” Atlas had a fairly good idea of why.

  “I lied to you about our association because there was no reason to reveal the truth. I wanted to protect Wendy’s reputation. Imagine the scandal if word of our marriage had come to light.”

  “And why incur Vessey’s wrath?”

  “Precisely. At least if I had Wendy by my side, challenging a powerful peer would have been worth the risk. But without her, there was no point.”

  Atlas saw the theater owner in a new light. Cooke must have loved Wendy very much to risk antagonizing someone like Vessey, a powerful noble with the capacity to ruin him. Cooke was already deeply in debt with rebuilding costs. Making an enemy out of Vessey could only have worsened matters.

  “Does Juliet know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you and Wendy were wed.”

  He shook his head. “No one knew except the clergyman who married us. And his wife, who witnessed our wedding.”

  “If it is in the public register, how ever did you keep your marriage a secret? Wendy was a well-known woman.”

  “Because it is the name Esther Gillray that appears in the church register. Not Wendela Pike.”

  “Did you not worry the church rector would tell someone?”

  “Rector Gilmore is a man of honor and discretion. We have been well acquainted for many years. St. Paul’s is known as the actors’ church for good reason. We here in the theater community are the rector’s parishioners. I knew he could be entrusted with our secret.”

  “I have taken up enough of your time.” Atlas rose to go. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Cooke stopped him from leaving by placing a hand on Atlas’s arm. “You should know that Wendy was a good woman, a virtuous woman. If that father of hers had not practically sold her to Vessey, she would have lived a respectable life. We did not even share a bed until after we wed.”

  As Atlas went out, he reflected on Wendy’s daring secret marriage. Although he had never met her, he did feel as if he’d become acquainted with her during the course of his investigation. It heartened him to know that before she’d died, Esther Gillray had found a way to escape the man who’d violated her as a child and disrespected her as a woman. At least in Cooke she’d found a worthy man who had been willing to risk everything he owned to be with the woman he loved.

  * * *

  After leaving the theater, Atlas went over to St. Paul’s to check the register. Although Cooke’s claim that he’d wedded Wendy shortly before her death struck him as the truth, Atlas was keen to independently confirm the story.

  He entered the stone-faced church by its main entrance, his boots clicking against the stone floor. Despite a stately exterior with grand columns and a soaring slanted roof, the inside of St. Paul’s was a rather simple affair—just a large undivided room. Atlas bade a boy who was sweeping the floor to go and fetch the rector.

  The rector, a bald, full-bodied man named Gilmore, appeared shortly afterward. “Yes, it is true. I did perform the service,” he said in response to Atlas’s question. “But it is not widely known.”

  “May I see the register?”

  “Certainly.” The rector excused himself and returned with a weighty leather-bound book he carried with both hands. Setting it on the lectern, he leafed through the register until he came to the relevant page. “Ah, here it is.”

  Atlas moved closer to study the entry. There it was, proof that Simon Cooke had married Esther Gillray on the fourteenth of October, just over two weeks before Wendy was killed. Both had signed their names, and the rector’s signature appeared below theirs.

  “Do you recall performing the ceremony?” Atlas asked.

  “Of course. It was not so long ago, and Mr. Cooke is a friend. I do not believe I have ever seen two happier people.” The rector’s eyes crinkled at the memory. “Neither could refrain from smiling throughout the entirety of the ceremony. The bride was beautiful, and she fairly radiated happiness.”

  “You thought it to be a love match then.”

  “They certainly seemed smitten with each other. I was saddened to hear of Mrs. Cooke’s demise such a short time later. Mr. Cooke sought my counsel after his bride’s death. He was inconsolable. It was a very difficult time for him.”

  Atlas thanked the rector for his time and turned to depart. As he neared the exit, the rector called out to him.

  “Mr. Catesby.”

  “Yes?” he turned toward the man.

  “I was summoned to the tavern after Mrs. Cooke was shot. I went immediately, of course, to provide ministry at the time of death. I did not realize it was Mrs. Cooke until much later. Her face was … beyond recognition. It was a terrible thing.”

  “Yes, it certainly was.” Atlas remembered his own shock at seeing what had been left of Wendy’s face.

  “Mrs. Cooke was full of hope at her wedding. I do hope you find her killer.”

  “I will certainly do my best.”

  * * *

  Nicholas picked up the chalk. “I think it can be done if you …” He scribbled some numbers on the chalkboard Thea used to solve her equations. “And then add this to this.” He tapped the tip of the chalk against the board with a clink as he indicated the separate sets of numbers.

  It might as well have been Arabic for all Atlas could understand of it, but Thea appeared completely engrossed.

  “That is an intriguing possibility. May I?” She held out her hand, and Nicholas promptly deposited the chalk into his aunt’s open palm. She added a few scribbles to his. “And then you can carry this and put these here.”

  “Lord, it is as if she has found her tribe,” Charlton murmured to Atlas. “Do you suppose we will ever actually get our supper?”

  Atlas lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “When my sister is in this state, engrossed in whatever it is she is doing at the moment, she most certainly will not remember to feed us. And given that her butler is a thousand years old, he is likely to forget as well.”

  “We are destined to starve then?”

  They stood near the threshold of Thea’s breakfast room, both men with their hands crossed over their chests as they observed Thea with Phoebe’s son, Charlton leaning his shoulders against the wall and Atlas propping one shoulder against the door jamb.

  Thea had long ago turned this chamber into her workroom. The round breakfast table was littered with books and papers, and a long black chalkboard covered in white equations dominated the
compact circular room.

  Thea handed the chalk back to Nicholas and propped one hand on her hip as she watched him work. She’d actually taken the time to arrange her hair and change out of her customary simple black gown in anticipation of this first meeting with her nephew. Nicholas had barely gotten past the front door before the two of them had discovered their shared love of mathematics.

  Somehow Thea’s hair had already returned to its usual state, an unruly mass of dark curls, and chalk marks smudged not only her hands and fingers but also her pale peach evening gown.

  Atlas shook his head as he watched the two of them together. “I assumed my sister’s confounding love of math was an aberration, but this eccentricity must run in the Catesby bloodline.”

  Charlton gave a theatrical shudder. “What a chilling thought.”

  “It appears as if we are on our own.” Atlas straightened up. “Let us see about finding some nourishment before we starve.”

  Charlton peeled his shoulders off the wall. “Lead on.”

  Several minutes later, after pressing one of Thea’s footmen into service, the two men were happily ensconced in Thea’s upstairs sitting room, each with a plate of lamb sweetbreads and a glass of wine to tide them over until Thea and Nicholas emerged from their mathematical reverie.

  Charlton washed down a bite with a long draught of wine. “Do you think they will even notice that we have deserted them?”

  “Doubtful,” Atlas responded between savory bites of lamb stomach. Thea’s cook was nowhere near as talented as Somerville’s, but Atlas was hungry, and the food was passably good. “So much for a getting-acquainted-with-you dinner.”

  “Oh, I think Thea is becoming very well acquainted with young Nicholas in the language that she knows best.”

  “You make a good point.” Atlas gestured at Charlton with his fork. “And so few people speak Thea’s language.”

  “Speaking of getting to know your nephew better … what is your impression of him?”

  “He seems to be a great deal like his mother, sensitive and thoughtful. But given his obsession with numbers, he clearly possess some of his aunt’s peculiarities as well.”

  “Do you find him to be truthful?”

  “I have no cause not to.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “Did Nicholas not say he knew nothing of his elder half brother’s existence until recently?’

  “That is correct.” Atlas bottomed out his wine.

  Charlton’s expression grew somber. “There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, but …”

  “But?” Atlas prompted.

  “I saw the two of them together well before Mrs. Pike’s death. I saw Nicholas speaking with Francis Pike.”

  Atlas set down his fork. “Where was this?”

  “At Manton’s. They were target shooting, as was I. I did not think anything of it until recently, after you told me that Nicholas claimed to have no knowledge of his illegitimate half brother’s existence.”

  “Are you certain it was Nicholas and Francis Pike that you saw together?”

  “Quite certain. I recognized Nicholas and even paused to say hello. They appeared to be speaking quite amiably when I approached them. They were saying something about Pike’s pistol and how well he shot it.”

  The lamb settled heavily in Atlas’s belly. “Why would Nicholas lie about such a thing?”

  Charlton waited a few beats before speaking. “Does he have an alibi for the evening of Mrs. Pike’s death?”

  “I have no idea,” Atlas answered truthfully. “I never thought to ask.”

  “Do you suppose discovering that he was not his father’s only son could have angered Nicholas enough to kill Mrs. Pike?”

  Atlas suppressed an immediate urge to defend his nephew. “Why not kill Vessey then? That whoreson is the one who deserves to take a bullet, not the woman he debauched as a young girl who had little say in the matter.”

  Charlton sipped his wine. “Will you ask Nicholas about the discrepancy?”

  “I suppose I shall have to.” Atlas exhaled long and loud through his nostrils. “If he lied to me, it was an elaborate mistruth.” He remembered how pale and shaken Nicholas had looked when he’d come to Atlas after supposedly learning of Francis Pike’s existence for the first time. “People seldom lie for no reason.”

  “He could have a reasonable explanation.”

  “He could. But the truth is that I have been so busy viewing Nicholas as Phoebe’s son and attributing all of her most admirable traits to him that I have not observed the boy in an impartial manner.”

  “I would think that is natural.”

  “But what if I have been blinding myself to the truth?” A sense of dread, dark and unwanted, slithered into his gut. “I have been ignoring an obvious possibility. One I prefer not to face.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That Nicholas is also Vessey’s son. And we know firsthand that the Marquess of Vessey is capable of murder.” He looked into Charlton’s eyes. “Who is to say the son has not taken after his father?”

  CHAPTER 20

  “My uncles are named Atlas, Apollo, Hermes, and Jason?” Nicholas asked. “Truly?”

  “Who would lie about something so odd?” Charlton asked.

  They were just finishing supper. Atlas and Charlton had dutifully consumed the lamb sweetbreads served at the dining table as though their appetites hadn’t been satisfied hours ago.

  “Our father, your grandfather, was a great admirer of Greek mythology,” Thea explained. Her eyes lingered on Nicholas as though she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

  “And the names Thea and Phoebe,” Nicholas said with amusement. “It all makes perfect sense.”

  Atlas had stared at his nephew throughout the meal as well. But unlike Thea, he could not stop seeing the similarities to Vessey. The first time he’d laid eyes on Nicholas as a young man, Atlas had been struck by his physical resemblance to Vessey. In truth, the only things Nicholas had of his mother’s were her eyes and seemingly gentle demeanor.

  Nicholas fairly oozed goodness. But was it genuine? Many men were adept at hiding their true nature behind a pleasant facade. Atlas’s nephew could be one of them. He knew little about Nicholas’s upbringing. Perhaps being raised by a monster had made him into one.

  “You will meet your uncles soon enough,” Thea was saying to Nicholas. “I do have a painting of the entire family upstairs in my sitting room.”

  “May I see it?” Nicholas asked.

  “Certainly.” Thea rose to her feet, and the men all stood at the same time.

  “I will show it to you,” Atlas said abruptly with a quick glance at the earl.

  Charlton took his cue and offered his arm to Thea. “And I will escort the lovely Mrs. Palmer to the drawing room.”

  After flashing a curious look at Atlas, Thea took the earl’s arm and allowed Charlton to usher her away. “Join us for tea afterwards,” she instructed over her shoulder.

  Atlas led Nicholas up to Thea’s sitting room to see the painting, which Nicholas quietly studied for several minutes.

  The painting showed Silas Catesby seated next to his adoring wife and surrounded by all six of their children in an outdoor setting. The rustic backdrop made it appear as if the family had been caught on canvas in the midst of picnicking in the country.

  “When was this painted?” Nicholas asked in a quiet, almost reverential tone.

  “Just after my father was awarded his title, when he became a baron. A few months before your mother’s marriage.”

  Nicholas examined his mother’s face on the canvas. “I have never seen her likeness before. I do not think I resemble her at all.”

  “You have her eyes,” Atlas said. “And your mannerisms, the way you speak, are much the same as Phoebe’s.”

  Nicholas pointed to the smiling young boy seated in the grass next to Phoebe. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.” He lapsed into silence, allowing the boy to take in the paintin
g’s details, to become acquainted in this small removed way with the family he’d never known.

  “Thank you for showing this to me,” Nicholas said after several minutes. “Perhaps Mrs. Palmer … Aunt Thea … will allow me to engage an artist to copy this rendering of my mother. I should very much like to have one.”

  “I am certain that can be arranged.” Atlas paused, reluctant to broach the subject Charlton had raised earlier. “Nicholas, before we go down and join the others, I have a question I must ask.”

  Nicholas turned to him expectantly. “Yes?”

  “You said you had never heard of Francis Pike until recently, five days ago to be specific, when you came to visit me and we spoke at length about your mother.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas smiled at the memory. “I shall never forget learning about my mother for the first time from someone who loved her as deeply as you did.”

  “Are you certain you had never met your half brother before that day?”

  “I still have not been introduced to Francis. I suppose I will want to at some point. It is no fault of his that his mother was a dishonorable woman.”

  “Your father was no innocent either,” Atlas could not resist injecting.

  “Naturally I do not excuse his behavior.”

  Atlas took a deep breath. “Why are you lying about meeting Francis Pike?”

  Nicholas blinked. “I am not lying. Why would you think that?”

  “Because Charlton saw you with your brother. He says the two of you were at Manton’s together.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “His lordship is mistaken,” he said firmly. “I have never met Francis Pike. Why would I lie about something like that?”

  That was precisely what Atlas was keen to know. “Charlton says he even greeted you when you were in Pike’s company. That you were discussing Pike’s pistol and what an excellent shot Pike is.”

  Nicholas flushed. “That is not true—” And then he halted abruptly, his eyes wild. “Good lord.”

  “What is it?”

  “That man is my brother?”

  “Are you now saying that you do know him?”

  “Not exactly. I was at Manton’s with friends, and this man was also there and I admired his skills with a weapon. We spoke briefly. But I had no idea.” He paused, and when he spoke again, there was wonderment in his voice. “So that is Francis Pike. That is my brother.”