Murder at the Opera

by D. M. Quincy

The following day, Atlas returned to the Albany; only this time there was no skulking about. He entered through the front door rather than a side window, and his arrival was announced by the porter.

  Francis Pike lived on the second floor of the exclusive bachelor enclave, a mansion that had been divided into apartments for fashionable young gentlemen. Although Pike appeared surprised to find Atlas standing outside his shiny black lacquered front door, he was his usual courteous self.

  “Mr. Catesby, please do come in.” Pike’s complexion had a sheen and was so pale that his skin almost matched his unusual white-blond hair. He had a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders over his dressing gown. Perspiration dampened his hair.

  “Are you unwell?” Atlas asked as he followed the young man inside. “Shall I summon a doctor?”

  Pike led Atlas into an overly warm, snug sitting room. Tall, paned windows and high, elaborately molded ceilings lent a gracious feel to the small space, although the air felt stale. None of the windows were open.

  “No, it is just a fever, one that will surely pass,” Pike reassured him. “I believe the shock of Jasper’s death, coming so soon after my own mother’s, is what has truly laid me low. There is only so much one can withstand.”

  “I am sorry for your losses. I gather you and Jasper were particularly close.”

  “We met as boys at Eton.” A wistful smile curved his lips. “He was the only person in our entire class who could climb a tree faster than I could.”

  Pike sat in a careful, deliberate manner, as if his physical self were as fragile as his current emotional state. “I just cannot begin to imagine what Lord Balfour is going through. He doted on Jasper.”

  “I shall not keep you long.” Pike’s sickly appearance alarmed Atlas. The man was usually impeccably turned out, his demeanor one of polished perfection.

  “I am afraid I cannot offer you anything except brandy or port,” Pike said. “My valet brings my meals from the basement kitchens, but I have given him leave to go and visit his ailing mother in Berkshire.”

  “Please do not concern yourself with my comfort. I have some questions, and then I shall leave you to your rest.”

  Pike perked up. “Is it about the investigation?” The subject of apprehending his mother’s killer appeared to energize the young man despite his current lethargic state. “Have you found the person responsible for murdering my mother?”

  “Not as of yet, but I am hoping to bring this matter to a resolution in the near future.”

  “I see.” Pike relaxed back in his chair. “If there is anything I can do to help, I am, of course, at your disposal, as always.”

  “Do you know whom Jasper owed money to?”

  His answering smile was more like a grimace. “Everyone at one time or another.”

  “And at the time of his death?”

  “I believe he was indebted to Harry Dean.”

  “I have spoken to Dean. He says Jasper cleared the debt he owed him about a fortnight ago.”

  Pike’s brows lifted. “Is that so? Then perhaps Jasper was momentarily debt-free when he perished.”

  Atlas didn’t think so but decided not to share his opinion with Pike. “May I ask where you were when Jasper died?”

  Pike’s expression was like a door closing. “I was indisposed.”

  “How so? You seemed to have exerted yourself before you came in and saw the body.”

  “I was in the garden.”

  “Charlton was shot in the garden.”

  “I was in the garden after Charlton was shot and well after he’d been attended to by the doctor.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “I was not.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “As a gentleman, I cannot say.”

  “Ah.” Pike had been engaged in a liaison with a woman in the garden. Or at least that is what he wanted Atlas to believe. “I see.”

  “Are you certain I cannot offer you some brandy?”

  “Very certain.” Atlas stood. “I will leave you now to get some rest.”

  Pike rose, with effort, to see his visitor out. Atlas paused when they reached the front door. “One more thing, if I may?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you happen to meet your half brother at Manton’s?”

  “I am afraid you have caught me. I suppose your friend Charlton told you? I confess I was curious to meet Beaumont.”

  “Why?”

  “He is my brother, and I have always longed for a brother.” He smiled ruefully. “Doesn’t every boy?”

  “I cannot say. I have rather too many of them. I have never known anything but a life of being overrun by brothers.”

  “You are fortunate.” Atlas registered the wistfulness in Francis’s voice. “I have watched Nicholas from afar in the year or so since he came down from Cambridge and began moving about in society.”

  “Did you introduce yourself to Nicholas that day at Manton’s?”

  “No, I did not. I didn’t care to anger our father.”

  Atlas exhaled, relieved that Francis’s version of the encounter aligned with Nicholas’s. This seemed to confirm that his nephew had not lied to him—at least not about Francis. He truly hadn’t known Francis’s identity when they’d met at Manton’s.

  “My father … our father … would not approve,” Francis said. “It was up to his lordship to orchestrate my official introduction to my brother, as he did last evening at the opera.”

  Atlas thought about Pike’s situation. Both Francis and Nicholas had suffered due to Vessey’s desire to keep his heir and his bastard apart during their childhood. Wendy had endured a great deal as well, given Vessey’s notions of social class and his ever-present reminders of her lowly place in his blue-blooded world.

  Naturally, the marquess had held himself to no such standard. He’d indulged in all of his children as well as his long-time mistress, while they had not been free to do the same.

  “I must thank you,” Francis broke the momentary silence, “for looking into my mother’s death. Most gentlemen would not think her worthy of the trouble.”

  Atlas held out his hand. “Everyone is worthy.”

  Pike shook Atlas’s proffered hand. “I agree.” He grimaced, pain glistening in his eyes. “My mother was a most worthy woman.”

  Atlas departed and as he went down the Albany’s grand staircase, he felt a pang of empathy for Francis Pike. Even after all of these years, the immensity of Phoebe’s loss could still take Atlas’s breath away. He could only imagine how difficult is was for Francis Pike, who’d lost both his mother and a close friend within the space of a few weeks, to cope with so much loss.

  CHAPTER 27

  As he walked home, Atlas contemplated the coming changes in his life.

  Lilliana was to be his wife. Becoming a surrogate father to her two young boys would be daunting, but Atlas found himself very much looking forward to the challenge. The idea of finally having a family to call his own was surprisingly pleasurable.

  He was so wrapped in his thoughts as he went up the steps to his apartments, that Atlas barely noticed Jamie rushing out to the landing to greet him.

  The boy peered down at him. “I thought that was you, sir.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “Er …” The boy shifted his impossibly tall and gangly form from one foot to the other. “You have a visitor, sir.”

  Atlas reached the landing to find himself looking up at Jamie. “Are you going to tell me who it is, or am I expected to guess?”

  Anxiety stretched tight across his valet’s wide face. “This visitor is most unexpected.”

  “Well?” Atlas gestured with his hand, in small circular motions. “Let’s have it. I am not keen on playing a guessing game.”

  “The Marquess of Vessey awaits you within.”

  “What the devil does he want?” Atlas resisted the urge to turn away and go right back down the stairs.

  “His lordship says he has a matter o
f grave importance to discuss with you.”

  Atlas closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, his jubilant mood extinguished. “I suppose there is no sense in delaying. I might as well get this disagreeable task over with.” He braced himself for the unpleasantness he was sure to encounter and then stepped past Jamie and into his apartment’s front hall.

  “Shall I go and get some refreshment?” Jamie asked.

  “I would rather poke my own eyes out than offer Vessey any sort of hospitality. So unless you want to be permanently relieved of your duties as my valet and sent away without a letter of reference—”

  “No, sir,” Jamie interjected. “No refreshment it is.”

  Satisfied that he and the boy understood each other, Atlas strode into his sitting room to find the marquess standing by the window, near his half-finished puzzle. “What do you want?” he asked without any sort of preamble.

  Vessey looked toward him, the light from the window emphasizing the deep lines and grooves in the older man’s face. His lip curled. “Still as coarse as always, I see.” Vessey wore his contempt for Atlas like an overcoat. “No one is ever likely to forget just how new the Catesby title is.”

  Atlas was in no mood to spar with the man who had killed his sister. “Why are you here?”

  “I have come to confess.”

  “About what?”

  “To the murder of Wendela Pike.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” Vessey lifted his chin and stared imperiously at Atlas. “I killed Wendy.”

  The words were slow to sink in. It didn’t make any sense. The man had an alibi. “Is that so?” Atlas finally responded. “How exactly did you manage that when witnesses put you at a gentleman’s club on St. James at the same time Mrs. Pike was killed in Covent Garden?”

  “I walked. It took less than twenty minutes to reach Covent Garden. I shot Wendy in a fit of jealousy.”

  “What you were jealous about?”

  “She was fucking that theater manager.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “She was a harlot. She dishonored me.”

  “I see.”

  Vessey regarded him quizzically. “Why are you reacting in this manner?”

  “What manner is that?”

  “As if you do not believe me.”

  “Because I don’t believe you are being truthful.” Atlas’s scalp prickled when he considered why Vessey might lie. Or for whom.

  “Why ever not?” The marquess’s words were angry and impatient. “Is this not what you have always wanted? To see me brought low? Think of the scandal. All of the lurid details will be in the rag sheets.”

  “I would certainly enjoy that.” For a moment Atlas briefly considered pretending to believe Vessey because the alternative—that the marquess might be covering for Nicholas—seemed too awful to contemplate.

  The marquess remained silent for a moment, appearing at a loss for words. “This is certainly not the reaction I expected from you,” he finally said.

  “I am not sorry to disappoint you.”

  Vessey drew himself up. “Well, what you think is of no account, really. I am ready to be judged by a jury of the peers.”

  “Other lords such as yourself.”

  “Naturally. A marquess cannot be expected to face charges at Old Bailey.”

  “No, indeed. True justice is solely for the lowly masses.”

  Vessey hesitated, casting a look about the chamber. “Now that you know who killed Wendy, your investigation is at an end.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course,” he snapped.

  “When will you confess your crime in the House of Lords?”

  “I must travel to the finishing academy where my young daughters are currently enrolled and explain the situation to them.

  “What will you tell them? That you killed their mama because she finally came to her senses? Will you also tell them how eager she was to rid herself of the lecherous old man who corrupted her when she was about the same age as they are now?”

  Anger flashed in Vessey’s cold eyes. “Why do you even care what happened to Wendy? She was my mistress and slept in my bed while I was wed to Phoebe.”

  “That is your disgrace, not hers.”

  “Do not be ridiculous. Most peers keep a ladybird. Wendy was nothing to you. Why search for her killer?”

  “Because if I do not, who will? I am the only person left to stand up for Wendy. Her son appears to have cared for her, but we both comprehend that Francis will always heel to you as his father.”

  “I am willing to pay for what I have done. The guilt has consumed me.”

  “Has it now?”

  “Yes, it has,” Vessey retorted. He reached for his hat, which sat atop Atlas’s unfinished puzzle. “Why else would I confess?”

  “Why else indeed? The possibilities are quite interesting.” And potentially devastating.

  “Go to the devil!” Vessey stormed out of the room. The front door slammed shut. Jamie ventured in, looking back over his shoulder. “He is gone.”

  Atlas’s legs felt weak beneath him. “I gathered as much when I heard the door slam.”

  Jamie’s forehead wrinkled. “I am confused.”

  “About?” Atlas shuffled over to sink into his chair before his legs gave out.

  “You detest the marquess. He just confessed to murder, but you do not seem pleased.”

  “Because I do not believe him.” Even though he very much wanted to.

  Jamie gaped at his employer. “Why ever not? Only a bedlamite would confess to a terrible crime he did not commit.”

  “A bedlamite”—the image of Vessey sobbing over Wendy’s lifeless body on the tavern table flashed in his mind—“or a man so keen to hide the truth that he would do anything to protect his secret, including confessing to the murder of the woman he loved.”

  * * *

  The following morning, with Vessey’s confession still fresh in his mind, and consumed by Nicholas’s possible involvement in Wendy’s death, Atlas went to Bow Street. He found Ambrose Endicott hurrying down the dimly lit corridor.

  “I am about to meet with the other runners about a new case,” the runner informed Atlas the moment he spotted him. “Perhaps we can speak later.”

  “I was wondering whether you could answer one question.”

  Endicott paused. “I suppose you want to know how Jasper Balfour died.”

  “Do you have the autopsy results?”

  Endicott nodded, the ample folds of skin at his neck rippling as he did so. “The young man died of a massive dose of laudanum, which was likely administered all at once. Death was almost instantaneous.”

  “So it was murder.”

  Endicott shrugged. “We cannot say for certain, but there is no evidence to suggest that young Balfour was an opium eater.” He stepped around Atlas to continue on his way. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

  “What of Samuel Brown, the clergyman?” Atlas asked. “Is he still locked up?”

  “I believe that is more than one question.” Endicott strode away, calling over his shoulder. “But the answer to your third question is yes, the clergyman is still here. He shot Simon Cooke and remains a suspect in Mrs. Pike’s murder.”

  “My thanks,” Atlas called after him.

  Just as Endicott was about to round the corner and disappear out of Atlas’s sight, the runner halted and reversed course, coming back to meet Atlas. “I almost forgot. There is another matter that will likely be of interest to you.”

  Atlas met the runner halfway. “What is it?”

  “It concerns the theater manager that Brown shot.”

  “Simon Cooke? What of him?”

  “Mr. Cooke has miraculously paid off all of the debt he incurred while rebuilding his theater after the fire.”

  Atlas blinked. “All of it?” Cooke had been very deep in debt. “How?”

  “Do not know how, but I do know when. Cooke paid off everything he owed jus
t a couple of days ago.” The runner gave Atlas a knowing look. “Interesting development, is it not?”

  Atlas nodded. “Very interesting indeed.”

  * * *

  After leaving Bow Street, Atlas walked over to the Covent Garden theater to ask Simon Cooke how he’d suddenly managed to pay off his enormous debts.

  This early in the day, the Covent Garden market was bustling, its ramshackle stalls packed with fruits, vegetables, and flowers brought in from the country. The air was thick with the stench of animal waste and unwashed bodies. Atlas did his best to skirt the edges of the market, sidestepping the donkeys and carts crowding the narrow passageways.

  When he reached the theater, workers cleaning the pit directed Atlas to Cooke’s office. He walked backstage, passing Juliet’s dressing room. What he glimpsed as he went by prompted him to halt and double back, retracing his steps.

  Juliet was nowhere to be seen, but her dressing room wasn’t exactly empty. Several crates filled with costumes and clothing crowded the floor. The paintings that had adorned the threadbare walls were gone, leaving pale ghostly imprints where they’d once hung.

  Where was Juliet? When he turned to leave to go and find her, he almost collided with her as she rushed in.

  “Have a care.” He placed both of his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “What is going on here?”

  “Is it not obvious?” Juliet’s tone was relaxed, but her cornflower-blue eyes were wary. “I have decided to retire from the stage.”

  He removed his hands from her shoulders. “This is sudden.”

  “It is a wonder I have managed to keep my position for this long.” She moved sideways, maneuvering between Atlas and a crate. “Even you will agree that I am a bit long in the tooth to continue on stage.”

  He scoffed. Juliet was nearing her mid-thirties, but both her beauty and talent remained undimmed. “You are as beautiful as ever, and well you know it.”

  She paused long enough to flash him a grateful smile, but it was strained at the edges. “There is always someone younger and more beautiful.”

  “But not more talented. There is no one in London whose voice equals yours.”

  She dropped some items into an open crate. “Better that I should leave while people will still pay to see me sing. This will be my last week of performances.”