Murder at the Opera

by D. M. Quincy

  “How can you afford to retire?” Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. “Someone has paid you handsomely to abandon the stage. And if I hazard a guess, you will also be leaving town, will you not?”

  She avoided his gaze. “Yes, some fresh air away from the metropolis will serve me well.”

  “I suppose that is part of the agreement. That you disappear.”

  “You really must excuse me.” She kept her focus on her packing. “I am quite busy.”

  “Who paid you to leave London?”

  “If you are wise, you will do the same.” Her voice, usually so strong and confident, trembled. “I beg of you, stop your inquiry and quit town before anything happens to you.”

  A chill prickled the back of his neck. “So this is to do with Wendy’s murder.”

  “Just leave town posthaste.” She was practically pleading now. “Go to the country with your brother and his horses.”

  “You know I cannot allow a murderer to go free.”

  She shook her head, frustrated and upset. “You are so damned obstinate.”

  “It is obvious that you are frightened. Tell me the truth, Juliet,” he gently urged. “We are old friends. I promise I will protect you.”

  She huffed a skeptical laugh. “We both know that is not true. There is no protection for women like Wendy and me. We are disposable.”

  “Leave her be,” an angry male voice warned from behind Atlas.

  He turned to find the theater manager scowling at him. “Mr. Cooke—just the man I was coming to see.”

  “Juliet does not know anything about Wendy’s death, and neither do I.” Cooke gestured toward the exit with a sweep of his hand. “Now please leave us. We have a show to prepare for.”

  “Do you?” Atlas asked. “I marvel that you are still working.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that there is no need to work so hard now that you have miraculously paid off all of the debt you incurred rebuilding this theater.”

  Cooke’s face stiffened. “I cannot imagine where you might have heard such a thing.”

  “I thought you would be the last man on earth to allow your wife’s killer to escape punishment.” Contempt soaked Atlas’s words. “But I suppose every man has his price. It appears that paying off the theater debts was yours.”

  “Atlas, stop,” Juliet interjected. “You have no idea what Simon has been through.”

  Ignoring her, Atlas kept his focus on Cooke. “You are not an honorable man in any sense of the word. Any person who would take money in exchange for justice for his wife is no man at all.”

  Cooke flushed a deep florid red and stepped toward Atlas with his fists clenched, his entire body trembling. “I would advise you to leave while you still can.”

  Atlas planted his feet. “If only you had directed all of this considerable anger at your wife’s killer.”

  “Stop this at once!” Juliet leapt between them just as Cooke lunged for Atlas. She practically hugged the theater manager to keep the two men apart. “Do not allow him to provoke you,” she implored Cooke. “You know in your heart that you have done what is right.”

  “Have I?” Cooke stared down at her, his face a mask of misery. “Or am I trying to convince myself that it is so? I am not certain I can live with myself.”

  “Done what is right?” Incredulous anger flushed Atlas’s body as he repeated Juliet’s words. “Do you honestly believe Wendy would think what you have done is right?

  All of the vigor seemed to drain from Cooke. His shoulders slumped as if the burden of pulling them upright was too much for him. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was anguished. “Yes. I do believe I am doing what Wendy would have wanted. She’d have hated for her children’s names to be touched by scandal.”

  * * *

  Setting out for home, Atlas grew contemplative, and when he reached his apartments, he settled in with coffee and his puzzle, which was nearing completion.

  As he worked, he wondered how his judgment of Simon Cooke could have been so flawed. He’d believed the man cared deeply for Wendy. Did the theater owner truly believe Wendy would prefer to spare her children from further scandal rather than see her killer brought to justice?

  Charlton’s voice interrupted Atlas’s thoughts. “Working on one of those damnable puzzles again?”

  Atlas came to his feet, regarding his friend with delight. “This is a welcome surprise.” Charlton had lost weight. His face was far narrower than it had been just a few weeks ago. “I did not realize you were out and about.”

  “This is my first outing since that most unfortunate incident at Lord Balfour’s residence.”

  “Are you feeling much improved?”

  “My side is still tender, but if I stay abed any longer, I shall expire of boredom.”

  “Did you see Olivia in the tobacco shop before you came up? She has asked after you practically every day. She’s been terribly worried.”

  “Yes.” Charlton hesitated. “I did speak with Mrs. Disher before I came up.”

  “She must have been most relieved to see you in the flesh.”

  “Not exactly.” Charlton grimaced. “I have ended things with Mrs. Disher.”

  “Have you?” Charlton had been seeing Atlas’s landlady exclusively for several months.

  The earl nodded. “There is only one lady who holds my heart.”

  “My sister is wed.”

  “Try telling that to my heart, which, as it turns out, is not nearly as fickle as I would have thought.” Charlton propped his hands on his hips and twisted, as if to stretch out his back, and immediately winced, freezing in place. “Ouch.”

  “Are you certain you are well enough to be going about the town?”

  Charlton came over to study Atlas’s puzzle. “I am still frightfully weak. It was all I could do to keep from collapsing when I hauled myself up the stairs to your apartments.”

  “Perhaps it is too early to tax your body in this way. You must give it time to heal.”

  Charlton’s attention remained on the almost-completed puzzle. “Good lord, as if trying to put these tiny pieces together is not enough to drive a man to bedlam. Must you also use the most depressing painting in the metropolis?”

  “It is a recreation of a Danse Macabre.”

  “Dance of Death?” Charlton translated. “How cheery.”

  “It is a sort of art that speaks to the universality of death.”

  “As if any of us needs to be reminded of that.” He gave a dramatic shiver. “Speaking of death, have you discovered who killed the fair Mrs. Pike?”

  “Vessey has confessed to the crime.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Shock stamped Charlton’s face. “Did you just say that the Marquess of Vessey has confessed to killing Wendela Pike?”

  Atlas indicated their usual chairs. “Let us sit and I will catch you up.”

  After listening attentively to the details of Vessey’s confession, Charlton exhaled a long breath. “You do not believe he did it.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is too neat. Why come here specifically to confess to me?”

  Charlton studied his friend’s serious expression. “I gather you have a theory.”

  “I do.” He resolved to put all emotion and personal feelings aside. “But I don’t want to speak out of turn before I know for certain. There is one piece of this that does not add up.”

  “Which piece is that?”

  “Who killed Jasper Balfour? There was only one way in and one way out of the gallery where he died. No one went in or out, yet somehow Jasper consumed enough laudanum to kill him.”

  Charlton contemplated Atlas’s words. “Maybe he did himself in. Maybe the shame and guilt of keeping the killer’s secret was too much for him.”

  “That does not explain who shot you and why.”

  “You still believe someone shot me as a diversionary tactic.”

  Atlas nodded. “
If I can solve that part of the puzzle, we will have our killer.” He paused. “When you were out in the Balfour garden smoking your cheroot, did you happen to see Francis Pike in the garden? He claims he was there when Jasper was killed.”

  Charlton shook his head. “No, I did not see anyone.”

  Atlas thought about the events surrounding Jasper’s death. What was the connection with Wendy’s death? It came to him like the final piece of a complicated puzzle finally pressing into place, allowing Atlas to get a clear look at the entire picture. One that led him straight to the killer.

  Now all he had to do was prove that he was right. No matter who might be hurt, the truth had to be told. Atlas would not allow his own desires to get in the way of justice.

  He abruptly stood. “I must go.”

  Charlton looked up with surprise. “Where?”

  “Covent Garden. I need to speak with Juliet.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Atlas entered Juliet Jennings’s bare dressing room to find her seated at the dressing table, a few cosmetics lined up on its scarred surface. Simon Cooke was sprawled on the tattered red velvet settee.

  “Atlas.” Her wary gaze met his in the mirror. “What brings you here?”

  “I thought you would both be interested to know that the Marquess of Vessey has confessed to the murder of Wendela Pike.”

  For an instant, before the performer in her could mask her true reaction, Atlas registered Juliet’s genuine shock. She quickly arranged her features into a placid expression. “I see.”

  He watched as she exchanged an unreadable look with Cooke, who remained expressionless.

  “Is Vessey the man who paid both of you to remain quiet?” Atlas asked.

  “Yes,” Cooke said.

  The theater manager was a far better liar than Juliet so Atlas kept his eyes trained on the opera singer as he asked the next question. “I gather that means both of you saw the marquess here backstage on the evening Wendy was slain.”

  He saw Juliet’s throat convulse slightly as she swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Any more questions?” Impatience tinged Cooke’s words. “Juliet does have a performance to prepare for.”

  “Just one last question that I doubt you will answer,” Atlas said. “Why are you both lying?” He spun on his heels and left them before they could provide an answer, not that he expected one.

  Juliet’s voice called out after him. “Atlas, wait!”

  He rounded on her. “Wait for what? More subterfuge and lies? You have been lying to me since the beginning.”

  She hurried to him, her open dressing gown fluttering behind her. “I beg of you to let this be. You could be in danger if you insist upon pursuing this line of inquiry.”

  “You know I cannot.” He saw she was very afraid. He bent to kiss her forehead. “Be well, Juliet. I hope he deserves you.”

  “Who?”

  “Cooke. You must love him very much. You and Wendy fought over him. I cannot imagine you behaving in that manner if you did not care for the man.”

  “Our disagreement seems so long ago.” Her smile was wistful. “It was well before I realized what those two meant to each other.”

  “I have noted the way you have cared for and protected Cooke since Wendy died. And now he is alone again.”

  Hope glimmered in Juliet’s jewel-toned eyes. “We shall see what the future brings.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Atlas was at his game table, putting the final stray pieces into the puzzle.

  Jamie had gone out to pick up their coffee, leaving Atlas totally engrossed in his task. With just over a dozen pieces left, these were the moments when everything came together.

  By this time, he knew the puzzle and its various colors so thoroughly that it practically finished itself. Atlas methodically picked up each remaining piece and pressed it into place, his adrenaline running high. The satisfaction of taking hundreds of tiny pieces that made no sense at all and forging them into a breathtaking image with a thousand little details exhilarated him.

  He heard the front door open and close before Jamie appeared bearing coffee, a basket, and a large grin. “It seems that Lady Lilliana has sent over breakfast.”

  Atlas’s mouth watered. “That was very kind of her.”

  Jamie held out a note. “And this was set atop the basket.”

  Atlas read the missive and then sighed as he set the note down.

  Jamie froze while sipping his own coffee. “Is it bad news from Lady Lilliana?”

  “No.” Atlas tilted a look at Jamie. “Why would you think that?”

  Jamie flushed. “For no particular reason.”

  “What kind of bad news would you expect me to receive from the lady?”

  “I do not know.” The boy looked everywhere but at Atlas. “How would I know?”

  “Exactly. How would you know? But clearly you think you know something. And what is that?”

  “There are certain rumors,” Jamie mumbled as he examined his coffee far more closely than was necessary.

  “What sorts of rumors?”

  “About you and Lady Lilliana.” The words burst out of Jamie as if he could not bear to keep the secret inside his lanky form for even a moment longer. “That you intend to wed her.”

  “That development just occurred!” Atlas exclaimed. He hadn’t even spoken to the duke yet. “How could you already be aware of it?”

  “It is true then?” Jamie’s eyes widened. “When will you wed? Will I still be your valet?”

  Atlas held up a staying hand to stem the onslaught of questions. “It is far too early in the morning for me to even begin to contemplate the answers to any of those questions.”

  “But I will remain your valet, will I not?”

  “Yes.” He had grown accustomed to having the boy around. “You shall still be my valet.”

  “Where will we live?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Atlas had not even begun to consider where his new family might take up residence. He would need to take a house spacious enough to accommodate Lilliana and the boys. Of course, any property he purchased would be nowhere near as grand as Somerville’s palatial townhome on the edge of Hyde Park in fashionable Mayfair.

  The tidy sum he’d inherited from a favored bachelor uncle would allow him to purchase a perfectly adequate home for his new family. And his limited annual income, primarily derived from a piece of property bequeathed to him by his father, would allow them to live comfortably enough.

  He gazed up at Jamie. “Where did you hear that I had offered for Lady Lilliana?”

  Jamie shrugged. “The servants in great houses know everything.”

  “As I am beginning to learn. I suppose I shall have to speak with Somerville posthaste.”

  Jamie’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates. “His Grace is not aware that you plan to wed his sister?”

  “Not as of yet. We had hoped to keep our betrothal quiet until after we find out who killed Mrs. Pike. But I suppose that shall not be possible now.”

  Atlas reached for the note Jamie had brought in and scanned its contents again. “This is from Lord Balfour. He asks that I call on him at my earliest convenience.”

  It was a meeting he dreaded. Lord Balfour would no doubt still be grief-stricken. Atlas had not seen Jasper’s father since the evening the man had wept over his youngest son’s lifeless body.

  “Will you go?” Jamie asked.

  “Of course. He was a particular friend of my father’s, and perhaps he can shed some light on who would have wanted to kill his son.” Atlas reached into the basket Jamie had set on the table. “But first, let us see what my future wife has sent for breakfast.”

  An insistent knock rattled the front door. Jamie went to see who it was and returned with a very ebullient Thea.

  “Good morning,” she chirped.

  Rising to greet his sister, Atlas eyed her with suspicion. “Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?” His pragmatic sister was
hardly the merry type. “Have you discovered a heretofore unknown branch of mathematics that will change the world?”

  “No,” she said cheerily, “but I do understand that your world is about to change.”

  “Good lord. Not you too? Was it in the broadsheets?”

  “Not exactly, but secrets do not stay secret for long in Mayfair.” She looked earnestly into her brother’s eyes. “Do tell me the truth. Are you content?”

  “Yes.” A joyous feeling bubbled up in his chest. “I can honestly say that I have never been happier.”

  “At last!” Thea’s answering smile was possibly wider than he’d ever seen. But before he had time to contemplate her emotive reaction, his sister behaved even more alarmingly by throwing herself into his arms and embracing him tightly.

  Returning her hug, Atlas closed his arms around his sister and lifted her off the ground. By the time he returned Thea to her feet, they were both laughing.

  * * *

  Given that everyone seemed to have heard about his betrothal to Lilliana, Atlas judged it prudent to call upon Somerville before continuing on to Lord Balfour’s residence.

  Since the weather was fine, the duke received him in his expansive gardens. He was seated at a cloth-covered table set with expensive crystal and fine china, the luncheon foods laid out as elegantly as Atlas imagined one would find in the Prince Regent’s dining room at Carlton House.

  “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes. Lilliana and I had hoped to inform you ourselves.”

  “That certainly would have been nice. My tailor mentioned having heard rumors of a match between you and my sister.”

  “I realize it might have come as a surprise.”

  “Not at all,” the duke returned. “However, you did take a bit longer than I anticipated to at last come up to scratch.”

  “But you approve?”

  “Would it stop you from going forward if I did not?”

  “No,” Atlas answered truthfully.

  “As I expected.” A small smile curved the duke’s lips. “I want my sister to be happy. I will naturally settle a very generous amount on her on the day of her marriage.”

  Atlas sat up straighter. “I am not a wealthy man, as you well know, but I can provide for my future wife and her children.”