Murder at the Opera

by D. M. Quincy

  “I am not offering charity.” Somerville had no patience for Atlas’s protestations. “I intend to settle the same amount on Lilliana as I would have had she wed Roxbury or Northampton. I still have the marriage settlement agreements that were drawn up when it seemed certain Roxbury and Roslyn would wed. You are welcome to have a look at them.”

  “That will not be necessary.” The last thing Atlas cared to see was an agreement that evidenced how close he’d come to losing Lilliana.

  “Very well. I certainly shall not allow Lilliana to take less than she deserves. It would be a stain on my reputation if I did not settle a generous amount on her.”

  Atlas saw no point in arguing. He considered the money to be Lilliana’s to spend as she desired. “As you wish then.”

  “I have also set up trusts to see to the boys’ every need.”

  “You needn’t bother. I intend to look after the boys.”

  The duke exhaled. “As charming as your stubborn pride can be, it is also a bit tiresome.”

  “Be that as it may, Peter and Robin are orphans, and I intend to raise them as my own sons.”

  “A commendable sentiment. However, Peter and Robin are my own flesh and blood. Also, I intend to petition to have Peter recognized as my legal heir, and as such I shall have a special and unique responsibility to him.”

  “You want the boy to assume your title?”

  “Yes. As you are well aware, it is unlikely that I will ever marry.”

  “You could change your mind.”

  “I doubt that will happen.”

  “Is it even possible to have Peter declared your heir?”

  “All things are possible. I have petitioned for a special remainder to make it so.”

  “A special remainder?”

  “A royal provision that allows for a title to pass in a direction that deviates from the norm. The Crown has considerable latitude to act as it wishes in matters such as these. There are precedents. I am optimistic the Crown will confer a special remainder in favor of Peter.”

  Atlas exhaled. The thought of raising anyone’s child as his own was daunting enough, but the idea that he might have a hand in nurturing the future Duke of Somerville was dizzying. He could only hope he wouldn’t make a complete hash of things. “Is Lilliana aware of your intentions?”

  “We have discussed the matter but shall not speak of it to Peter until I have succeeded in securing the boy as my heir.”

  “I see.”

  “And then there is the matter of my wedding gift to my sister.”

  Atlas steeled himself. He would not be surprised if Somerville intended to give Lilliana the crown jewels. “Your gifts to your sister are none of my affair.”

  “I am pleased you feel that way. I will be giving her the use of one of my London homes for her lifetime.”

  “You intend to give her a house?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I am not taking a home from you.”

  “Do calm that prideful outrage of yours. It is only a loan. Mallon Place is part of the entail. Consequently, strictly speaking, Mallon Place would not be yours any more than this pile belongs to me. The ducal estate pays for the upkeep of all of my properties. Like Somerville House, Mallon Place shall pass to the next duke upon my death.”

  Atlas did not care to spend his life living off Somerville’s largesse. He had no intention of being eternally indebted to his brother-in-law. “I plan to purchase a permanent home for my new family.”

  Somerville came to his feet, signaling their meeting had come to an end. “How quaint. Perhaps you should discuss matters with Roslyn.”

  Atlas stood, his head swimming. So many changes were ahead. “You can be sure that I intend to do just that.” He bowed. “Good day.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “Mr. Catesby, thank you for coming.” Lord Balfour rose from his seat by the fireplace when Atlas entered his study.

  The older man was neatly dressed, with a black band adorning one upper arm. His eyes were bleary and his cheeks flushed. Atlas shook Lord Balfour’s proffered hand, a gesture normally reserved for closest male acquaintances.

  “You will forgive an old man for his forwardness,” Balfour said as they clasped hands. “It is just that whenever I lay my eyes upon you, I see such a strong resemblance to your father.”

  “Allow me to express my deepest condolences for your loss,” Atlas said. “If there is any way that I can be of assistance, you have only to name it.”

  “Sit, sit.” Balfour indicated the chair opposite his by the lit hearth. “There is actually something you can do for me.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I want you to find out who killed my Jasper.”

  The request was not what Atlas had expected. “You are convinced he was murdered?”

  “The coroner found that Jasper died of a massive dose of laudanum. I know my son did not knowingly take laudanum.”

  “How can you be certain? It is not unusual for children to shield their vices from their parents.”

  “Because Jasper abhorred the stuff. He had a negative experience with laudanum as a boy after our doctor administered it. Jasper absolutely refused to touch it after that.”

  Balfour’s revelations seemed to confirm Atlas’s suspicions that Jasper had indeed been murdered. “I will do whatever I can to help.”

  “Silas did always say you were the most clever of his sons. I know, of course, that you have already undertaken to look into Mrs. Pike’s death. I only hope you are not too busy to assist me in this matter.”

  “Not at all,” Atlas answered truthfully. “It is possible the two deaths are related.”

  Balfour frowned. “But my son had no real connection to Mrs. Pike.”

  “I believe your son might have witnessed her killing.”

  Lord Balfour’s mouth fell open. “Is that why you asked to speak with Jasper on the night of his death?”

  Atlas nodded. “Yes, I believe he was about to reveal the killer when Charlton was shot.”

  “The earl’s shooting was a distraction?”

  “It appears so,” Atlas said in his gentlest voice.

  Balfour’s eyes grew glassy. “My poor boy.”

  “I give you my word that I will do all I can to find Jasper’s killer,” Atlas reassured him. “Which means that there are questions I must ask you.”

  Balfour recovered himself. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  “I am not certain that you are aware of this, but Jasper had tremendous debts that he was able to settle shortly after Mrs. Pike died. Did you give him the funds to pay his debts?”

  “No, I did not.” The lines in Balfour’s forehead deepened. “Are you certain he was in debt? Several months ago I did settle Jasper’s debts, but I threatened to cast him aside should he incur any future gaming debts. My son gave me his word as a gentleman that it would not happen again. Are you most certain that Jasper was in debt again?” The question was practically a plea.

  As a rule, Atlas did not care for mendacity, but there were times when telling a lie was an act of kindness. Especially since Jasper was in no position to rehabilitate his image. “No, I cannot be certain.” Atlas stood up, hoping to put a stop to this line of questions.

  “Miller will show you out.” Balfour remained seated. The older man seemed to sink deeper into his chair, exhausted, drained of whatever energy he’d managed to muster ahead of Atlas’s visit.

  “I will keep you informed if I learn anything more.”

  The butler materialized to see Atlas out, leading him down the corridor, past the gallery where Jasper had died. As they passed, the tall windows lined up against the long wall opposite the doorway caught Atlas’s eye. Something was out of place. He stopped short and stared into the room, at the open windows that allowed the bracing briskness of the rare sunny day to permeate the long chamber. It took the butler a moment to realize his master’s visitor was no longer following.

  “Sir?” Miller halted, his voice
courteous yet firm. “This way if you please.” Ignoring the summons, Atlas walked into the gallery.

  The butler followed. “Is something amiss, Mr. Catesby?”

  Atlas strode over to one of the windows. “Where did these come from?”

  Miller followed Atlas’s gaze. “Are you inquiring about the windows, sir?”

  “Yes, these were not here the evening Jasper Balfour died.”

  The butler smiled just a little. “The mirrored shutters are a source of fascination for many of Lord Balfour’s visitors.”

  “Mirrored shutters?”

  “If I may?” The butler stepped past Atlas and drew the shutters closed, sliding them like pocket doors. “This is likely what you saw on that unfortunate evening. We always close the shutters in the evening.”

  Atlas stared at himself in the mirrored shutters. One couldn’t tell there was a window behind the gilt-framed mirrors. With the shutters closed, the room appeared windowless, almost the entire wall covered in mirrors. He stepped in front of another window and studied the tiny alcove between the closed shutter and the window leading to the outside. It was a place where a grown man could easily hide.

  He turned to the butler. “I should like to see the gardens now.”

  The butler accompanied Atlas to the garden, a well-manicured space with an abundance of foliage. But what drew Atlas’s interest were the tall, mature horsechestnut trees lined up like soldiers against the back of the house.

  “Where is the gallery?” he asked Miller. “Which window is it?”

  The butler raised his arm, pointing upward. “Those four, sir, in the middle.” Only one of the trees stood directly by a gallery window. Atlas crossed over to it, his boots crunching on the carpet of maroon and gold fall leaves.

  He ran a hand over the dark, rugged bark. The architecture of the trunk was unusual. Its double trunk looked like it had split in half after being struck by lighting. Each gnarled half rose up, providing solid anchor to the soaring tree. Atlas peered up at the myriad of thick graceful branches. Sparkles of daylight glimmered through vibrant yellow hand-shaped leaves and clusters of seedpods that were still waiting to fall so close to winter.

  “It is perfect.” Atlas shed his jacket and tossed it at the butler. “It is the final piece to the puzzle.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” A clearly startled Miller almost dropped the jacket.

  Atlas grabbed a hold of the nearest branch and hoisted himself up, gaining a foothold where the trunk had split. Reaching for a sturdy branch above him, he heaved his body up until his belly rested on the branch and he could swing a long leg over to straddle it.

  “Sir.” Miller’s words were ones of controlled alarm. “Sir, what are you doing? Surely, you would prefer to be down here on the ground where it is safe.”

  Already hoisting himself up to the next highest branch, Atlas barely heard the butler down below. Nor did he take much note of the long, loud tearing sound that followed, the rending of the fabric at the seat of his trousers. His focus remained on the gallery window and how close he was to it. When he finally reached the window, he gripped a strong branch overhead while reaching out to easily touch the frame of the open window.

  He could almost walk into it. Instead, he leapt and landed inside the little alcove between the open window and the closed mirrored shutters leading to the gallery. It was an excellent space within which a man could conceal himself. Atlas reached for the shutters and slid them open to find himself staring into the opulent gallery where Jasper Balfour had died.

  At that moment he knew without a doubt who had killed Wendela Pike. The same person had poisoned Jasper Balfour in this very chamber so that the young man would not live long enough to tell what he knew.

  CHAPTER 30

  The large hole in the seat of his trousers prevented Atlas from going directly to confront the killer, so after retrieving his tailcoat from Miller, he hailed a hackney and rushed back to his Bond Street apartments to change.

  He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his blood pumping. Although he now knew who killed Wendy and Jasper, a missing piece of the puzzle still remained.

  Atlas could not determine a motive. Why had the murderer wanted Wendy dead? The door to Atlas’s apartments opened as soon as he reached the landing.

  Jamie stepped out and pulled the door quietly closed behind him. “You have a visitor, sir.”

  “Who is it?” Atlas tried to maneuver past the boy, but Jamie mirrored the movement, preventing Atlas from going in.

  Jamie pursed his lips as though he’d eaten something sour. “It is that opera singer. She says you are very well acquainted.”

  “Juliet is here?”

  Jamie flushed, his expression indignant. “Yes, that is correct. Mrs. Jennings, an opera singer, is calling here, at the bachelor apartments of a betrothed man.”

  Atlas had no patience for Jamie’s tantrums, particularly not when he was so close to confronting the person who had killed Wendela Pike and Jasper Balfour. “Juliet is part of the investigation. Move out of my way.”

  The warning tone in Atlas’s voice caused Jamie to promptly step aside. Atlas pushed the door and entered his apartments.

  Jamie followed, whispering furiously. “Do you think Lady Lilliana would approve?”

  “Probably not.”

  Leaving his indignant valet behind in the front hall, Atlas found Juliet, wearing a long dark cape and hood, pacing the threadbare carpet in his sitting room. “Juliet?”

  She hurried to him. “I have come to say goodbye.”

  “Are you truly leaving London? Did Vessey pay you that well?”

  She winced. “He is a peer. I cannot fight him.”

  “What about Simon Cooke? I thought you had hopes in that direction.”

  “Perhaps I can return in a few months, once this is all over.”

  “Why are you really here, Juliet?” he probed gently. “I do not think it is solely to take your leave of me.”

  She drew a deep, wavering breath. “There is something I must tell you.”

  “Will you sit for a moment? It might calm your nerves.”

  She shook her head. “Being away from Town will settle my nerves. Vessey is aware that I know the truth. It is only a matter of time before he decides he is not safe so long as I am alive.”

  “What is it that you know, Juliet?”

  “I did not see Vessey at the theater the evening Wendy died.”

  “I suspected as much. Tell me everything.”

  She told him.

  And by the time Juliet took her leave a few minutes later, under Jamie’s very disapproving gaze, Atlas had the final piece to the puzzle. He knew exactly who had killed Wendela Pike and, importantly, he now understood why.

  * * *

  Atlas went by Bow Street to have a word with Ambrose Endicott before turning up at the opulent home off Cavendish Square.

  “Is his lordship expecting you?” the butler inquired.

  “No.” Atlas placed his card on the silver salver presented by the butler. “However, if you inform his lordship that Atlas Catesby is here to tell him who killed Mrs. Pike, I believe he’ll see me.”

  The butler’s eyes widened before he quickly cleared his face of all expression. “Very good, sir. If you will please wait here while I see if his lordship is at home to visitors.”

  Atlas waited, surrounded by painted scenes of various gods adorning the walls and frolicking high above on ornamented ceilings. A double-width staircase, its marble stairs covered in red carpet, bisected the front hall. It had been many years since he’d visited this house.

  Atlas tapped the tip of his boot against white and black marble floors. The design pattern resembled a chessboard, which was rather apt because, after all these years, Atlas was finally ready to make his move.

  A motion at the top of the staircase drew his attention. Francis Pike came down toward him.

  “Mr. Catesby,” he said pleasantly. “This is a surprise.”

&
nbsp; “Good afternoon, Francis. This is a fortunate coincidence. I was hoping to speak with you as well as with your father.”

  “What about?”

  Atlas ignored the question. “I called at the Albany before coming here. The porter said you were away from home for a few days. I trust you are not still feeling unwell.”

  Francis reached out to shake Atlas’s hand. “I am much improved. Having a full staff to see to my comforts can have that affect.”

  “I can imagine.” Francis’s handshake was somewhat stiff and limited.

  The butler returned. “Lord Vessey will see you now, Mr. Catesby.

  Atlas turned to Francis. “Will you not join us? I am certain you will find what I have to say to be of great interest.”

  “Certainly.” Francis came over to him. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Uncle Atlas?” Phoebe’s son entered through the front door. He wore riding clothes and smelled of exertion and the outdoors. “What are you doing here?”

  The muscles in Atlas’s shoulders tensed. “I have come to speak with your father and Francis.”

  Curiosity lit the boy’s eyes. “I will join you as well, shall I?”

  “Perhaps we can speak later. For now, it is best if I speak with your father and Francis alone.”

  Nicholas’s smile was strained. “Of course. As you like.”

  “I shall take him in,” Francis addressed the butler. And then to Atlas, “If you will follow me, Mr. Catesby?”

  Vessey received him in a formal salon where crimson velvet draped both the walls and furniture. Atlas had never seen the room before. But he’d been only a boy the last time he’d visited this place, and this chamber seemed reserved for formal occasions.

  “Father,” Francis said as Atlas followed him in, “I’ve brought Mr. Catesby in.”

  Vessey, who stood before the lit fireplace with his arms crossed over his chest, looked right past his son to address Atlas. “What is this nonsense about knowing who killed Mrs. Pike? I have already confessed. I visited my daughters just today to tell them as much.”

  “I could have saved you the trip,” Atlas said, “because you did not kill Mrs. Pike.”