by D. M. Quincy
He entered Nash’s establishment to find a tasteful shop furnished in deep greens and dark-paneled wood. A patron standing before a mirror was being measured by a clerk while, by the counter, another customer examined a top hat. There were three clerks on the floor attending to clients, but Nash, with the startling gray streak shooting through his black hair, was immediately recognizable to Atlas.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Catesby?” Mr. Nash asked after the introductions had been made. He ran an appraising eye over Atlas’s clothing. “May I suggest a new greatcoat? Perhaps I can interest you in an exquisite aubergine wool facecloth I’ve just acquired for my most discriminating patrons.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think so.”
“Are you certain? Double breasted would look very well on you. You have the figure for it.” Nash was younger than he’d expected, less than thirty, with a lean, elegant form and an upright bearing.
“I would like a have a few words with you regarding Mr. Godfrey Warwick.”
Nash’s friendly demeanor melted away. “What about him?”
Atlas glanced around at the customers and clerks within hearing distance. “Is there a more private place where we might talk?”
Nash regarded him warily. “Are you a friend of Warwick’s?”
“No.”
“Then what is your interest?”
“I am keen to find out who killed him.”
An odd expression came over Nash’s face. It almost looked like relief. Perhaps Nash thought Atlas had come to continue the extortion Warwick had begun. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time in coming here. I barely knew the man.” Nash turned away. “Now if you will excuse me, I have patrons to attend to.”
“You knew Warwick well enough to visit him in Buckinghamshire,” Atlas said to the man’s back.
Nash froze and slowly pivoted to face him. “What do you know about that?”
“Enough to surmise that it might be prudent to have this discussion in a more private location.”
Nash pressed his lips firmly together. “Very well. If you will follow me.”
He led Atlas through to the back, into a well-lit workspace dominated by a large workbench. Apprentices and journeymen sat cross-legged on the wooden platform, cutting patterns, threading needles, and sewing. A wide sashed window provided ample light for their work. Nash had certainly done well for such a young man.
The tailor led him past this scene and into a small, dimly lit storage room stocked with fabrics.
Crossing his arms over this chest, he faced Atlas. “What is it you want to know?”
“I’ll come straight to the point. I’d like to know why you and Warwick argued in Slough.”
The guarded expression on the man’s face didn’t change. “It was regarding a private matter.”
“Let me assure you that I have no interest in revealing any secrets you wish to keep hidden. However, I happen to know Warwick was extorting money from you, and I’d like to know why.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“It might have a bearing on the case.”
“Ah, I see.” Understanding sparked in Nash’s eyes. “You want to know whether my secret is terrible enough to kill for.”
“Is it?”
“Decide for yourself.” Nash actually seemed amused. “Follow me.” They went down a narrow corridor and came to chamber filled with comfortable masculine-looking furniture and shelves overflowing with books. Paintings and maps adorned the walls, and books were stacked on one tabletop next to a sizeable globe nestled in a bronze stand.
“Well, here it is.”
“Here what is?” Atlas asked.
“My secret.”
Confused, he surveyed the space but saw nothing beyond the books and maps. “I don’t follow.”
“I’m a merchant who is impudent enough to indulge my literary and intellectual interests.”
Atlas began to understand. The upper orders had nothing but contempt for tradesmen with cultivated tastes. They were viewed as upstarts who dared to place themselves on the same level as their betters. “Warwick discovered this room and threatened to disclose its existence to your customers? In particular, those who reside in Mayfair?”
“He threatened to ruin me. After all, a proper merchant who knows his place spends his free time in alehouses and taverns. I have the audacity to read and study a variety of subjects, which, in the eyes of the ton, is a crass attempt to get above myself.”
Atlas surveyed the room, scanning the titles of the books, which covered many subjects—history, geography, metaphysics. On the table before him, next to the globe, an interlocking wooden puzzle caught his interest.
“You have a Chinese Cross,” he noted. “May I?”
Nash waved a hand. “As you like. It was a gift, but I’ve never been able to figure the thing out.”
Atlas picked up the three-dimensional structure, which easily fit in one hand, and fiddled with the cubic-shaped pieces. “I’ve seen these puzzles, but I’ve never worked with one.” He looked up. “How did Warwick come to find this room?”
“I was out at a client’s when Warwick paid a visit. A foreman who was new to my employ very indiscreetly directed Warwick back to my private rooms to await my return.”
“And when you did, you found Warwick here among your books.”
“Precisely.”
“He wanted money from you in exchange for keeping quiet. How much did you pay?” As he spoke, Atlas quickly disassembled the six-piece puzzle.
“I was to deliver a set amount at the beginning of each month.”
He began to reassemble the squared-off pieces, fitting two C-shaped pieces into a closed circular piece. “How many payments had you made before Warwick died?”
“Not a one.” Nash’s attention dipped down to where Atlas’s hands worked on the puzzle. “I was to make the initial payment on the first of next month.”
“But you had agreed to pay what he’d asked?”
Nash exhaled heavily. The decision had obviously weighed on him. “I felt I had no choice. The revelation could put my business at risk. There are many who depend on this enterprise for their livelihood, to support their families.”
“Why have you agreed to show me this room?” Nash seemed almost too willing to share his secret. “You run a great risk in doing so. You do not know me or my character.”
“I have heard you are a man of honor. I also know you are Silas Catesby’s son.”
He paused and looked up from the half-finished Chinese Cross. “Were you acquainted with my father?”
Nash shook his head. “Not personally, no. But I had the privilege of hearing him speak in public on two occasions. I know he did not set much store by the separation of the classes.”
“No, he did not.” That egalitarian outlook, along with a healthy disdain of the peerage, was why his father had been hesitant about consenting to Phoebe’s calamitous marriage to the marquess. The unbidden image of his sister’s broken body flashed in his mind. A painful sense of loss throbbed in his lungs. The sensation never really left him; he merely felt it more intensely on some occasions.
“I trust you will be discreet in regards to what you have seen here today,” Nash was saying.
Atlas locked the sixth and final piece into place and set the puzzle back on the table. “You may depend upon it.”
Nash picked up the Chinese Cross to examine it. “You’ve finished it.” He blinked in surprise as he turned the symmetrical square-shaped structure over in his hands. “It took you less than five minutes. That’s quite impressive.”
Atlas dipped his chin, quietly acknowledging the compliment. “Who else knows about this chamber?”
Nash set the piece down. “No one. If that will be all”—he motioned toward the doorway as if to usher Atlas out—“I do have patrons to attend to.”
Atlas paused. “One more question.”
Lines of irritation puckered around Nash’s mouth. “Yes?”
&nb
sp; “Where were you on the evening of September second?”
His forehead wrinkled. “The second of September? I’m not certain. Why?”
“That’s the evening Warwick was killed.”
Nash huffed an incredulous breath. “You cannot seriously believe I would murder a man over a few books.”
“I am merely attempting to be thorough in my inquiry.”
Nash’s countenance became decidedly unfriendly. “On whose authority are you conducting this little investigation of yours?”
“It is a favor to Mr. Warwick’s widow, the mother of his two sons.” Not exactly the truth, but not precisely a lie either.
“On the evening Warwick died, I was doing a fitting at the home of a client,” he said curtly.
“How late did you stay?”
“Very late.”
“May I trouble you for the name of your client?”
“No, you may not. I never discuss my patrons with anyone.” He answered with a finality that signaled the conversation was over. “I’ll see you out. I’m very busy at the moment.” Nash personally escorted him to the door. Atlas sensed the man’s solicitousness had less to do with courtesy and everything to do with making certain his unwelcome guest departed the premises. As they walked across the shop floor toward the exit, a familiar voice rang out.
“Atlas? Whatever are you doing here?”
He turned to find Charlton standing before a shop mirror, being fitted in a navy tailcoat. “I could ask the same of you.”
The earl shrugged out of the jacket with help from the clerk. “I have ordered some new things.” The clerk held up the next coat for the earl to try, this one in black.
“Black and navy jackets?” Atlas asked. “A little somber for your tastes, aren’t they?”
“One always appreciates variety.” Standing with his arms extended while the clerk pinned the sleeves, Charlton regarded Atlas through the mirror’s reflection. “Do you suppose Mrs. Palmer will approve?”
“Thea?” Atlas was taken aback by the mention of his sister. “Why would it matter?”
Charlton concentrated on the actions of the clerk pinning his sleeves. “Are you here for clothing as well?”
“No, I had some unrelated matters to discuss with Nash here,” he said of the tailor who watched their exchange with tense interest. “I was just leaving.”
“I am done here as well.” The earl shrugged out of the black jacket and allowed the clerk to help him back into his own coat. “I’ll walk out with you.” He finished giving the clerk detailed instructions about the fit of his jackets before they left together and strolled along Pall Mall.
“I wasn’t aware that Nash was your tailor,” Atlas said.
“He and Weston are the two I frequent most often.”
“What is your opinion of him?”
“Of Nash? He’s a fine tailor and has always dealt with me in an honest and forthright manner.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask? And what were you doing there?”
“I have reason to believe Warwick was planning to extort quite a bit of money from Nash.”
“Truly?” Charlton’s eyes rounded. “That haberdasher was one slimy bastard. It is no wonder at all that someone did away with him.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that score.”
Interest gleamed in Charlton’s eyes. “But what dark secret could a tailor like Nash have?”
Atlas revealed what he’d seen in Nash’s back room and the reason for Warwick’s plan to extort money from the man. “The question is,” he said after sharing what he’d learned, “whether a roomful of books is motivation enough for murder.”
“Saving one’s reputation and livelihood might be motivation enough for many men,” Charlton said after thinking on it for a few moments.
“Would such a revelation be enough to ruin Nash?”
“I have heard of something similar happening to a milliner a few years ago. A peer discovered the man was studying with a tutor in the evenings and contrived to destroy the milliner’s business.”
“Solely for the crime of trying to better himself?”
“His clients began to accuse him of spending his time reading rather than attending to their orders. He lost almost half of his business.”
Atlas thought of the clerks on the shop floor as well as the journeymen and apprentices he’d seen laboring in the back. Nash seemed to have a prosperous business and, therefore, quite a bit to lose had Warwick lived long enough to reveal his secret.
He and Charlton reached Bond Street and parted company—the earl heading for his club while Atlas made for home. As he trotted up the steps, he resolved to verify the tailor’s alibi for the evening of the murder, which meant finding the mystery client Nash had supposedly been with the night Warwick was killed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The following afternoon, Atlas sifted through the facts of the case as he cut through Red Lion Square on the boundary between Bloomsbury and Holborn. His footfalls drummed a steady beat along the path. He had nowhere in particular to go, but walking seemed to clear his mind, and except for a mild ache, his foot wasn’t bothering him.
He was contemplating how to get a hold of a list of Kirby Nash’s patrons—in hopes of tracking down the tailor’s alibi—when a wooden hoop rolled across the grass and rammed into his leg. He caught hold of the hoop, wondering who it could belong to, when a dark-haired child raced across the grass and came to a screeching halt before him.
“Excuse me, sir, but that’s my brother’s hoop.” The boy was out of breath, his dark eyes round and solemn. Atlas guessed him to be around seven or eight years of age.
“Is it? He seems to have lost control of his toy.”
The boy shuffled his feet. “Yes, sir, we’re only just learning how to use them.”
A much younger boy dashed up to them and pointed to the hoop. “Mine!” he said indignantly.
“This is my brother, Robin,” the older boy said. “And I am Peter.”
“I am pleased to meet you both.” He made a bow. “My name is Atlas.”
“That’s mine!” the younger boy repeated, refusing to be distracted by the introductions. He had a headful of soft brown curls and a sturdy little body that didn’t seem to be completely within his control. Atlas judged him to be two or three years younger than his brother. “I was trying to roll it.”
Both boys were smartly dressed in matching pale-blue skeleton suits with white ruffled cambric shirts underneath, outfits commonly worn by children of the upper classes. Their high-waisted trousers buttoned into the hem of a matching jacket, creating one long jumpsuit.
“It got away,” the younger boy, Robin, said.
“I can see that.” Atlas hoisted the hoop, twirling it on his arm. “The trick of controlling a hoop, while making it go as fast as possible, is all in the elbow.”
The older boy, Peter, watched with rapt interest. “What do you mean?”
“There was a time when I was very young that I was quite the expert at bowling hoops.” He winked at the younger boy. “I even beat all my older brothers in a race.” He smiled at the memory of besting Jason and Apollo, even though they were older than him. Herm, a talented and agile athlete, had been harder to beat.
“How did you do that?” Peter asked.
“I could also jump back and forth through the hoop as it rolled.” He’d been able to perfect a number of tricks with his hoop.
The younger boy, Robin, frowned as he ran his eyes over the length of Atlas’s tall form. “But you are too big to fit through a hoop.”
“Now, yes, I certainly am.” Atlas returned the hoop to its young owner. “But once, a very long time ago, I was the size of you and your brother.”
Holding his hoop with one hand, little Robin sucked three fingers in his mouth and continued to regard Atlas’s statements with obvious skepticism.
“Have you ever played catch with a hoop?” he asked the older brother.
Peter shook his head, although int
erest gleamed in his dark eyes.
“Would you like me to show you?” Atlas asked.
Peter nodded vigorously. “I’ll be right back.” He scampered off to a bench where a woman who seemed to be his nurse had watched their entire exchange. Atlas thought it rather careless of the young nurse to allow her charges to speak at length with a strange man. He watched Peter snatch up a hoop lying in the grass near the woman.
Atlas followed, and as he drew closer, the young woman stood up, and he recognized her as one of his sister’s maids. She curtseyed as he approached. “Mr. Catesby, sir.”
He realized Thea’s servant had allowed the boys to speak with him because she’d recognized him as her employer’s brother. He struggled to remember her name. “Clara, isn’t it?”
She beamed. “Yes, sir. The boys are trying to learn how to bowl hoops, and I’m afraid I am not very good at it.”
It dawned on him then who her young charges were. Peter and Robin. He should have recognized the names. He recalled Mrs. Warwick mentioning them once or twice. He studied the boys with renewed interest. Peter, the older boy, had narrow shoulders and a slim build and was dark and serious like his mother. Robin’s coloring was lighter, and he was sturdier and thick bodied, more like his father.
The younger boy tugged on his tailcoat. “Teach us,” he demanded. “I want to play catch.”
Clara reddened. “Now, Robin,” she admonished, “that is not a polite way to speak to Mr. Catesby.”
Atlas waved her off. “Please don’t concern yourself.” Children didn’t normally interest him, but he found himself to be exceedingly curious about Mrs. Warwick’s children. “I’ll just show the boys a trick or two that they can do with their hoops.”
The nurse seemed relieved. “I myself have no idea how to bowl hoops, sir, so the young masters will no doubt welcome the instruction.”
He spent the next hour showing the children how to roll their hoops and perform assorted tricks. Before long, the boys were marveling at themselves for having learned how to play catch with their hoops.
