Murder in Mayfair

by D. M. Quincy

  “You mentioned wanting to see the report. The runner you spoke of seems to have set his sights on you, considering the questions he put to you after the body was discovered.”

  They crossed the street to avoid the construction of new terraced homes being built on land where the Dukes of Bedford had once lived in grand style. The current duke preferred the fashionable West End, so his old mansion had recently been demolished.

  Atlas buttoned his tan overcoat against the chill of the overcast day. “Are you certain of how Warwick died?”

  “Quite certain. The physician who performed the postmortem has an excellent reputation for being an exacting man of science.”

  “I’d like to learn more about what he discovered.”

  “I thought you might.” Charlton’s smile could only be described as smug. “I happen to know that he would welcome a visit from us.”

  “He would? And why is that?”

  “I recently made a significant contribution to the good doctor’s research endeavors.” Charlton played at being the dandy, but Atlas had learned long ago that his friend wasn’t as vapid as he purported. The earl stopped and extended a graceful arm to hail his carriage, which had been trailing behind them. “You’d be surprised at what one can access when one is in possession of the proper resources.”

  * * *

  Dr. Archibald Rivers kept an office in Smithfield not far from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Out front, the breeze carried the slight stench of animals and waste from the nearby meat market. But once within, the doctor’s office resembled a gentleman’s study, with its dark wood paneling and studious air. Rivers was a careful, cordial man with a slender build and an extraordinarily high forehead where his hairline had once been.

  “You’d like to know how the victim died?” Rivers gestured for them to sit in the chairs opposite his desk. “It’s quite simple, really. He bled to death.”

  “Bled to death?” Atlas asked incredulously. “Impossible. I viewed the body, and there was no blood.”

  “That is due to the fact that the bleeding was internal. May I offer you some tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Atlas spoke for both of them without pausing to consider whether Charlton might care to wet his throat. “How could a blow to the stomach cause Warwick to bleed to death internally?”

  “Whoever hit him ruptured his spleen.”

  “And where exactly is the spleen?” Charlton inquired politely.

  “It is about the size of your fist”—Rivers pointed to an area below his chest—“and is located in the upper-left quadrant of the abdomen . . . just under the rib cage.”

  Atlas leaned forward. “How does rupturing a spleen kill you?”

  “As I said, you bleed to death internally,” Rivers explained. “The spleen bleeds into the stomach, which decreases oxygen to the heart and brain.”

  “How long would it have taken him to die?” Atlas asked.

  “In such cases, death can occur anywhere from a few hours to a few days.”

  “How long before he would have felt some pain?”

  “The deceased likely would have experienced some discomfort immediately after the injury occurred. The pain would have become more acute as the hours passed. Mr. Warwick probably grew light-headed and confused. It’s possible he fainted first, before he eventually died. I found all his blood in his abdomen.”

  “Were there any other signs of disruption to the body?” Atlas asked. “Any sign he struggled with his attacker?”

  “No, not that I could tell.”

  “Besides a blow to the abdomen, is there any other way this injury could have occurred?”

  “Sometimes we see this type of trauma following a carriage or a riding accident. And, of course, we sometimes find the condition in pugilists.”

  After a few more questions, Atlas and Charlton thanked Rivers and took their leave. As they climbed into the earl’s waiting carriage, Atlas mulled over what they’d just learned.

  “You seem to be concentrating very hard,” Charlton remarked. “What are you thinking?”

  “Rivers said there were no signs of a struggle,” Atlas said.

  “Is that significant?”

  “There was also no evidence that someone had forced themselves into Warwick’s apartments.” In fact, the space had been quite orderly. No overturned chairs, nothing out of place except for the pewter candlestick on the floor in the sitting room.

  “What do you deduce from that?”

  “That it is very likely Warwick knew his attacker, which narrows the field of suspects considerably.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Charlton dropped Atlas off at his Bond Street bachelor quarters, where he found an earnest-looking young man with a wide face and large, heavily lashed brown eyes sitting on the top stair near his front door.

  When he spotted Atlas coming up the stairs, the boy leapt to his feet and pulled off his cap. “Sir, Mr. Catesby, sir.”

  “Yes.” Atlas reached the landing and inspected the youth more closely. His clothing—a murky threadbare coat and rough brown trousers—marked him as working class. “And who might you be?”

  “James Sutton, sir.” He licked his lips. “But everyone calls me Jamie.”

  Atlas withdrew his key from his pocket and unlocked his door. “And how may I help you, young Jamie?”

  He twisted his cap between his hands. “Mrs. Palmer sent me, sir. She says you are in need of a valet.”

  Thea had sent him a valet? His sister was hardly in the habit of worrying about his staffing concerns. She could barely be bothered with her own. He motioned for the boy to follow him inside. “And how did my sister come to recommend you?”

  “From Mrs. Warwick.” The boy stood awkwardly in the front hall, shifting the weight of his tall, gangly form between his two feet. “Mrs. Warwick is helping me to find a situation, sir.”

  He realized who the young man was. “You’re the footman who worked for the Warwicks in Slough?”

  The boy’s face brightened. He looked like an eager puppy. “Yes, sir. That’s me.”

  “I see.” He took in the boy’s scruffy appearance. “How much do you know about serving as a valet to a gentleman?” The boy’s face fell, which made Atlas feel like he’d kicked a harmless puppy. “Never mind. As I am just barely a gentleman and you are just barely a valet, I daresay we’ll rub along well together for as long as I remain in Town.”

  Jamie’s face glowed with unrestrained excitement. “You’ll take me on, sir?”

  “Yes, but it won’t be for long—a few weeks at most. After that, we’ll see about arranging another situation for you.” Atlas blew out a hard breath. Having the boy underfoot might very well be more of a nuisance than anything else, but he’d promised to help Mrs. Warwick find employment for the servants who’d assisted her and her children. “You don’t perchance know how to cook?”

  Jamie shook his head. “No, sir,” he said cheerily. “I can’t say that I do.”

  “Very well.” He withdrew a few shillings from his pocket. “Why don’t you run down to Pressler’s and get us something to eat?”

  “Pressler’s?”

  Atlas forgot the boy had only recently come up from the country. Becoming accustomed to London would be challenge enough for him without the added strain of learning how to become a gentleman’s valet. “Pressler’s is a grocer just down the street.”

  “Very well, sir.” The boy started for the door.

  Atlas sighed at the thought of the challenge ahead. Training young Jamie was the least of his concerns. Considering the suspicious circumstances surrounding Warwick’s murder, he was certain it was only a matter of time before Endicott came calling again. “Oh, and Jamie.”

  The boy spun around, an expectant expression on his face. “Yes, sir?”

  “Stop by Sanford’s as well. It’s not far from Pressler’s.”

  “Very well, sir. And what do they sell there?”

  “Wine.” The mild pain in his left foot that had dogged
him all day was getting worse. The devil! A flare-up was the last thing he needed to cope with at the moment. “Tell Mr. Sanford it’s for me. He knows what I like. Now go, and be quick about it.”

  * * *

  Not even the finest wine from Sanford’s could take the edge off of a family supper at Jason’s house. The gatherings were a Catesby tradition that Jason had insisted upon continuing after the deaths of their parents. For Atlas, these dinners were a poignant reminder of who was no longer with them more than anything else.

  “Did you kill the old man?” his brother Hermes asked Atlas as soon as the main course had been served. “The bastard certainly seemed to deserve it.”

  Herm, the third son, was tall like Atlas but far more slender, almost sylphlike. They also shared the same gray eyes, but the similarities between the two brothers ended there. While Atlas did not care for superfluous things, Herm was a dandy whose primary concern was maintaining a fashionable appearance, which at present included breeches in a bright-yellow nankeen—a more cost-conscious choice than buckskin, which had to be replaced frequently to retain a fashionable skintight fit.

  “Really, Hermes,” Jason said. “Must you be so crass?” They were seated in the baron’s dining room, which seemed like it had been dipped in gold. Everything in the room that could possibly be gilded was. To say Jason enjoyed ostentatious displays of wealth and rank was an understatement.

  “A man was murdered.” Herm took a large gulp of wine. “Of course I’m curious.”

  “And what would you know about it?” Atlas asked coolly. Frustration rippled through him. Private matters never stayed private for long in the Catesby family.

  “A bit.” Herm ran a light hand over his wildly unruly hair, a look favored by the fashionable, which was painstakingly achieved by infrequent washing and the artful application of hair wax. “Thea said you purchased the chit at market.”

  Atlas scowled at his sister, who had the grace to appear chagrined before snapping at Herm. “You’re quite the town crier, aren’t you? Remind me never to share anything of interest with you ever again.”

  “Gad,” Herm protested. “You didn’t ask me to keep any confidences.”

  Atlas gritted his teeth. Herm was a fop who never meant any harm, but he also didn’t know when to curb his tongue. “Why don’t we leave off on this?”

  “I agree,” Jason interjected with an admonishing glare at Herm. “That is quite enough.”

  “Why?” Herm shot back, not cowed in the least. “We finally have something of interest to discuss.”

  Jason dismissed the two attending footmen with a pointed look. When they were gone, he spoke. “Murder is an unseemly discussion.”

  Herm leaned toward Atlas. “Did you do it? You saw the body. What did it look like?”

  Thea grimaced. “Really, Herm, we are trying to eat.”

  “If I had killed him,” Atlas said, “do you think I would confess my crime?”

  Herm considered that for a moment. “Would you?”

  Atlas shook his head and reached for his wine. “No, I did not kill Warwick, but I do wish I had thrashed him.”

  Herm grinned. “You’ve done worse.”

  Atlas couldn’t deny it. After Phoebe died, he’d spiraled out of control, swamped with overwhelming emotions he didn’t know what to do with. Uncertain of how to manage him, his parents, who were consumed with their own grief, had packed him off to boarding school.

  It was there—at Harrow—that he had become fully acquainted with the extent of the privileged class’s sense of entitlement. Harrow was full of people like Vessey, the man who’d killed his sister, who thought title and rank placed them above everyone and everything, including the law. As the lowly fourth son of a newly minted baron, Atlas was expected to know his place, which was well below that of the blue-blooded scions of viscounts, earls, marquesses, and dukes.

  When the bullies among them had presumed to teach Atlas that lesson, they’d unwittingly unleashed the furies of hell. The spawn of men like Vessey were ideal targets for the cauldron of pent-up rage that churned within Atlas.

  His fearsome reputation had solidified by the end of the first term, when the second son of a duke, older than Atlas by at least three years, had tried to assert the dominance he believed his high birth accorded him. Atlas had savagely rebuffed the attempt, teaching his transgressor that neither rank nor privilege shielded one from a sound beating. Atlas spent six years at Harrow, and while no one challenged him after that first year, he’d often used his fists on bullies who preyed upon the younger, weaker, poorer, or otherwise more vulnerable students.

  “You should distance yourself from the widow,” Jason was saying as he sipped his wine. “Both you and Thea. Not only is she a fallen woman, but our family name should in no way be associated with something as crass as murder.”

  Thea snorted. “Oh, do shut up, Jason. Lilliana is welcome to stay with me for as long as she likes.”

  Atlas dug into his food, determined to ignore his brother’s provocation and get through supper as quickly as possible. His other brother, Apollo, was fortunate to be away in the country.

  Jason’s nostrils flared. “I’m a baron now, and everything you do reflects upon me.”

  Herm hiccupped a short laugh. “Thank God Father was only awarded a barony.”

  Jason turned to him. “Why do you say that?”

  “I shudder to think what would have happened if it had been a dukedom. You’d be even more insufferable—if that’s possible.”

  Jason pursed his lips. “You’re a second son. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Herm rolled his eyes, but Jason didn’t notice because he’d turned his attention to Atlas. “I hope you at least plan to keep your distance.”

  As if he would abandon Mrs. Warwick now, in her hour of need. “If calling upon Mrs. Warwick tomorrow at my sister’s home is what you consider keeping my distance, then yes, I intend to keep my distance.”

  Jason flushed while Herm laughed out loud and reached for more wine.

  * * *

  “You ride very well,” Atlas observed, admiring the way Mrs. Warwick sat a horse. Her posture was excellent, elegant, and straight-backed, and she seemed perfectly comfortable riding the mare they’d borrowed from Charlton, who kept an excellent stable in Town. Her mount was a fine blood, a spirited and intelligent animal she handled with skillful ease.

  Mrs. Warwick raised a brow. “Why do you seem surprised?” She presented a lovely picture in her black, military-inspired riding costume, with her skirts flowing down the left side of her mount. He presumed it was one of the items she’d acquired during her recent shopping spree.

  “I suppose I assumed Warwick wasn’t the sort to allow you to ride at your leisure.”

  “I learned as a girl, and it has been far too long since I’ve been able to ride regularly.”

  He mentally filed away this small clue to her past. It was further evidence—as he’d suspected from the first—that she came from a genteel family that could afford to purchase horseflesh. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have such an excellent seat.

  He’d invited her to go riding shortly after he’d called upon her that morning and found her restlessly pacing the conservatory. The boys were with their tutor, and when she’d mentioned, rather wistfully, that it was a beautiful day for a hack, he’d immediately offered to escort her.

  It was two o’clock when they reached the gravel trail lined with mature trees and wooden fencing. At that time of day, there were few riders or carriages to impede their way. Mrs. Warwick had insisted upon avoiding the fashionable hour on Hyde Park’s bridle path; Mayfair’s finest didn’t typically put themselves on exhibit along Rotten Row until well after four.

  After a brisk run along the Serpentine, they slowed until their animals walked side by side. Atlas kept tight control over Charlton’s beastly tempered stallion, lest he try to cause trouble with Mrs. Warwick’s handsome mare. Once he felt satisfied the animal was in hand, Atlas shared what he�
��d learned about the postmortem on her late husband.

  Her marble composure firmly in place, she showed no emotion. “Do you believe Godfrey was murdered?”

  “The word ‘murder’ is too strong, perhaps.” He chose his words with care. “Given the way Mr. Warwick died, it seems possible he provoked someone to anger, someone who reacted by hitting him without thinking about the action beforehand.”

  She considered this. “Someone who didn’t necessarily mean to kill him?”

  “It is possible. The physician says it’s unlikely he died immediately.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. I despised him, but I never wanted him dead. My children are now orphans.”

  “They have you now, and I daresay they are the better for it.”

  She kept her focus on the path ahead. “The boys believe Godfrey fell ill. I did not want to tell them the truth of why they are now fatherless.”

  Atlas studied her regal profile, the straight nose and defined chin, and wondered if, despite everything Warwick had put her through, she regretted becoming a widow. He couldn’t fathom it. After all, she could now be with her children.

  The boys had been delivered to her shortly after the funeral. He had yet to meet them but sensed an inner contentment in Mrs. Warwick that hadn’t been there before their arrival.

  They directed their mounts to the side to make way for a finely appointed, bright-yellow barouche approaching from the opposite direction. The black hood was down, revealing the two passengers within. One was a young man who appeared to be in his midtwenties, while the other gentleman was older, a head of gray hair apparent beneath his hat. There was a seal of some sort on the side of the carriage, but before Atlas got a clear look at it, Mrs. Warwick’s mount burst into motion.

  “Let us run,” she called back as she picked up speed down the row. As Atlas made to follow, he caught sight of something that made his stomach twist. The young man in the carriage stared after Mrs. Warwick in obvious disbelief. Shock tinged with apparent joy, and an emotion that seemed almost intimate, stamped the man’s aristocratic features.