by D. M. Quincy
“But he never came to the door.”
“He wanted to guard my privacy, which I appreciated. However, I asked him to speak to you and to tell you what you wanted to know.”
“That your wife had an abortion and that’s what killed her.”
A slight grimace marred John’s weary face. “Yes, she suffered terribly for it.”
“Excuse me for being somewhat confused,” Atlas said. “Why would you consent to the medical examiner sharing such personal matters with me?”
“You are pursuing my brother’s murderer, and he must be brought to justice. If you believe these lines of questioning will bring you closer to learning who killed my brother, then so be it.”
“Very well.” He forced out the next question. “Who was your wife having an affair with?”
The puckered lines around Warwick’s mouth deepened. “She was not having an affair. She was a good and honest woman.”
“Yet the babe she carried was not yours.”
John’s eyes were ice. “She’d been forced.”
Atlas straightened, his heart thumping. “By whom?”
“She never said. I didn’t even know she’d been raped until she lay dying.” He exhaled, a rattling, shuddering sound. “By then, she could barely get any words out.”
“Where and when did this rape occur?”
“I’ve no idea. She wasn’t able to tell me. She was too far gone.” Warwick dragged both hands down his face. “I think of it often. Did it happen while she walked home from the village? She used to love to go for long walks. Did it happen in the wood?” He dropped his face into his hands. “I’ll never know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I,” Warwick said. “In the end, it seems all we have left are our regrets.”
Atlas left the man there in the garden, torturing himself with thoughts of his beloved wife and the attack by an unknown assailant that had eventually taken her from him.
* * *
“Poor Verity,” Lilliana said. “How awful for her.”
Atlas set the horses in the direction of London. “Do you believe she was forced?”
“Of course.” She drew back to look at him seated beside her in the curricle. “I told you she wasn’t the sort to conduct an illicit affair.”
“An abortion seems particularly extreme and dangerous.”
“She must have felt she had no choice. I cannot imagine what it would be like to raise a child that resulted from a rape.”
“I imagine it would be very difficult.”
She gave a small laugh devoid of mirth. “Godfrey would have taken her pregnancy very hard.”
“How do you mean?”
“In those last few weeks before . . . the inn . . . whenever we were with Verity and John, he would often mention how his child would inherit everything after John died. He was so smug and self-satisfied.”
Atlas shook his head. The man had truly been a varmint. “He would speak in such a reprehensible manner in front of John and Verity?”
“Yes. His comments were like daggers in poor Verity’s heart. She would grow pale and tremble. Sometimes she would leave the room in tears. He was awful to her, constantly reminding her of her failing as a wife for not having given John an heir.”
“She would have been pregnant at the time.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“There were certainly many people who had a motive to kill your husband. Verity would be an ideal suspect if she hadn’t died first.”
“Have we hit a dead end?” she asked.
“No . . . maybe.”
“What is it?”
He paused. “I feel like you had the right of it when you said we are missing a key to the puzzle.”
“Which means we still need to find it.”
“Yes, and when we do, we will find Warwick’s killer.”
* * *
Atlas awoke the following morning to find Jamie had returned. He heard the valet moving around in the front rooms.
“Are you back for good then?” he asked with a yawn, pulling on his banyan as he walked into the sitting room.
“Indeed, sir.” He was setting the table with fine china and gleaming silver. Quite fancy for Atlas’s little bachelor establishment. “Are you ready for your meal?”
“Has Charlton’s cook sent yet another feast fit for a prince?”
“Yes, sir. She knows how well you like kidney pie. Cook sent that along with baked eggs and honey cake. And I brought some coffee from the shop a few doors down.”
“Perfect. I’ll start with that.” He eyed Jamie’s attire more closely, noting the expensive black trousers and pristine white linen shirt topped with an exquisite cream waistcoat. “New clothes?”
“Yes, sir.” Jamie straightened his waistcoat. “A valet must always be impeccably dressed.”
“I shudder to think how much I am going to owe Charlton.”
“Nothing at all, sir.” He poured the coffee into the saucer. The resulting steam that rose suggested the libation was still hot. “A valet usually receives his master’s hand-me-downs. This is clothing the earl no longer needs, and his valet was kind enough to pass these pieces on to me.”
He wondered whether a valet was supposed to be better turned out than his employer. “I hope you’re not expecting anything so fine from me.” He accepted the hot drink Jamie held out to him and went to sit at the game table. The Gainsborough was almost complete, the perfect picture coming into focus. He picked up a piece and tried it where he thought it might fit. It didn’t. As he tried again in a different section, he thought over what he’d learned the day before.
Except for the sounds of his sipping the hot coffee and moving the puzzle pieces around, all was quiet, which allowed his thoughts to settle as the information he’d gathered began to fall together in his mind.
Something didn’t quite fit. He thought back to the evening of the murder, when a horrible storm had raged outside. His mind moved to Verity, who had told Maud that the man who’d fathered her child had wanted to be a part of the child’s life. Such a man did not sound like a rapist. Unless—
He shot up from his chair. “That’s it.”
Jamie reappeared instantly. “Sir?”
Atlas strode to the bedchamber. “Help me get dressed. I must get to my sister’s house as quickly as possible.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Less than an hour later, Atlas pushed open the door to Thea’s breakfast room. “Where is everyone?”
She turned from her chalkboard, a smudge of white on her chin. “Must you barge in so early in the day? Really, Atlas, one would think you were raised by savages.”
“Where are Lilliana and the boys?” he demanded.
She studied his face. “They’ve gone to the park with their guardian. The boys wanted to show Mr. Warwick how well they can bowl hoops.”
Cursing, Atlas spun on his heel and practically ran for the front door. His sister dashed after him. “What is amiss? Are they in danger?”
“Possibly.” He threw open the front door and charged in the direction of the park with Thea on his heels. They hadn’t gone far before he spotted them walking toward him. Lilliana strolled alongside Warwick, who carried young Robin in his arms while Peter rolled his hoop along the sidewalk. Clara, the boys’ nurse, trailed behind the group. Street carts and carriages rumbled by in the muddy street.
Tension coiled in Atlas’s gut. He needed to get Lilliana and the boys away from Warwick before confronting the man.
Lilliana spotted them first. “Thea, Mr. Catesby.” Her face lit up. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“Mr. Catesby!” Peter ran up to him, eagerness and excitement written all over his face. Atlas had not seen the boys for a while, in keeping with their mother’s wishes that he keep his distance. “I was showing Uncle how well I bowl hoops. Want to see?”
He forced a relaxed tone. “I should very much like to see that, Peter.” His gaze moved to Lilliana and settled on Warwick.
“Good day. Enjoying the fine weather?”
“Very much,” Warwick replied in the same courteous tone, yet there was no ignoring the tension that strummed between them.
“Me too.” Robin squirmed in John’s arms. “I’ll show you, too, how I can bowl hoops. Down.”
Warwick tightened his hold on the boy. “Not now, Robin. Stay with Uncle.” His gaze fastened on Atlas as he withdrew something from his pocket—a sweet treat for the boy, who settled immediately, sucking contentedly.
Robin’s attention was diverted by livestock in the street. He pointed. “Look at the cows.”
A man drove the livestock past them, no doubt headed for market somewhere. The stench of animal dung hung heavy in the air. A man driving a cart cursed at the drover for blocking the street before wedging his cart around the animals and being on his way.
“Come to have a word with me, have you?” Warwick asked Atlas.
“Yes.” He saw no reason to deny it. Warwick wouldn’t believe any attempt on his part to dissemble.
Lilliana looked from one man to the other. “About what?”
Atlas kept his attention on the other man. “Put the boy down and let them be on their way with their mother.”
Warwick edged closer to the street. “Robin is content enough in my arms.” The young boy was still staring at the passing animals.
Lilliana stiffened. “What is going on between the two of you?”
Thea turned to Clara. “Take the boys and return to the house now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Palmer.” The nurse moved toward John. “It is time for the young master’s nap.”
John stepped away. “No need. I’ll keep him with me.” Clara looked to Thea for guidance.
“Go on with Peter,” Thea said. The nurse ushered the older boy away.
Warwick stared at Atlas. “You’ve finally put it all together, have you?” He shifted the boy in his arms, resettling his weight. “How did you manage it?”
“Now is not the time to discuss this.”
“I don’t believe we’ll have another chance. How did you realize?”
“You helped me with some of it.” Atlas contemplated whether he could lunge at the man and pull Robin from his arms without endangering the boy. “The rest I worked out on my own.”
The drover and his animals were well past them now and had turned a corner. The traffic on the street began to speed up. Robin yawned and rubbed his eyes. He laid his head on his uncle’s shoulder.
“Which part was that?” Warwick asked.
“It did not storm in Slough the night your brother died.”
Warwick’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t follow.”
“You said you did not leave your house that evening because there was a terrible storm outside, but Bole said there was only a gentle patter on the roof.”
Warwick’s attention turned to the boy who’d fallen asleep in his arms. He used the pad of his thumb to gently wipe a smudge from Robin’s cheek. “How does that signify?”
“There was a terrible storm here in London. It rained all night. The only way you could have known that is if you’d come to London yourself that evening.”
All color leached from Lilliana’s face. She reached for her son. “John, give Robin to me.”
Warwick ignored the request. “He was a vile man.”
“John.” Lilliana pleaded with him, a panicked tremble shaking her voice. “Let me have my son. I beg of you.”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “Tell me your theory, Catesby.”
“You came to see your brother, to kill him, to make him pay for what he’d done to your wife.”
“No, you are wrong. I did not come to London to murder Godfrey. I came with the intention of trying to talk some sense into him.” He absentmindedly stroked Robin’s back. “I’d learned he intended to charge you with criminal conversation. It was abominable. Lilliana did not deserve that. I was aghast that he intended to shame the mother of his children in that way.”
Lilliana stepped in front of him and reached for her son. “Give him to me.”
To Atlas’s extreme relief, John relented, allowing Lilliana to take her child. Once she had ahold of her son, she moved quickly away from John, toward Thea. “Please take him home.”
Thea took the sleeping child and settled him in her arms. “Are you certain you don’t want to come with me?”
“Quite certain.”
Thea turned to go. “Have a care,” she said softly to her brother before she walked away with the child in her arms.
Warwick didn’t seem to notice. He appeared too wrapped up in remembering the last evening of Godfrey Warwick’s life. “My brother laughed and said that considering that fact that I couldn’t even control who my own wife laid with, I had no business trying to tell him how to conduct his marriage. That’s when I knew he was the one who had raped her.”
The pieces began to fall into place. The midwife had said the father of Verity’s child wanted to be part of the baby’s life. “When she found out she was pregnant, she did want to pass the child off as yours, but Godfrey wouldn’t allow that.”
John nodded, his eyes going to the rumbling traffic in the street. “That is what the argument in the garden was about. Godfrey told me she’d begged him not to say anything, but he told her he would make sure I knew it was his child I was raising.”
Lilliana paled. “When Godfrey kept mentioning how his child would inherit everything, he wasn’t talking about Peter, was he?”
“No, he was referring to the babe he’d put in her belly. By force.” John’s expression was hard, angry. “He enjoyed tormenting her.”
Atlas moved closer. Just one more step, and he’d be able to grab ahold of John. “Did he admit to raping her and getting her with child?”
A coach and four came charging down Great Russell Street, going far too fast for a street where families with children lived. “He said she enjoyed it. That he was disappointed she’d died because he had looked forward to watching us raise his child, all the while with me knowing he’d cuckolded me.” His tone was flat, emotionless. “He hated me.”
Atlas edged nearer. “He hated you because you’d always gotten everything he’d ever wanted—the land, the house, and the woman he’d intended to marry.”
“I lost my mind when he began to describe the attack in vivid detail.” He shifted closer to the street. The rustle and roar of the approaching coach and four, the clopping of the horses’ hooves, grew louder. John raised his voice to be heard over the approaching traffic. “I grabbed the candle holder and swung it as hard as I could at his belly. Anything to shut him up.”
“It was an accident,” Lilliana said urgently. “You can tell the runner that. The authorities will understand. You did not mean to kill him.”
“Oh, in that moment, I certainly wanted him dead.” He looked toward the busy street. “And now I must pay for my crime.”
John’s diminishing health began to make sense. It wasn’t illness that consumed him—it was guilt. “You wanted me to discover that it was you,” Atlas said. “That’s why you allowed the medical examiner to share the results of the postmortem with me.”
He nodded. “I am a murderer and must be punished as such.”
“Not if you didn’t intend to kill Godfrey.” Lilliana held out a calming hand. “He provoked you, and you reacted in anger. Come back to the house with me, John. The boys are waiting for you.”
“No, they do not need for all of society to know their uncle killed their father.” He smiled, the expression eerie and distant, as if he’d already escaped the bonds of earth. “It is better for it to be known that a tragic accident took me.”
The coach and four bore down on them. John leapt into the street before Atlas could stop him.
“No!” Lilliana screamed and instinctively lunged after him. Atlas grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, turning to shield her from the gruesome sight in the street as the four perfectly matched gray-dappled mares reared and whinnied
and trampled John Warwick to death.
* * *
They buried him a few days later in the same churchyard where his wife and brother had so recently been laid to rest. The service was crowded, with many expressing dismay at having lost such a fine man to a tragic carriage accident. Unlike his brother, John Warwick had been well regarded in the county and would be missed.
He left a will bequeathing everything to Peter and Robin. Although Peter received the house, John left a respectable inheritance of land and funds for Robin, the younger brother.
Endicott attended the burial. “I wonder,” the runner said to Atlas as they left the churchyard, “what would drive a man to take his own life.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Atlas replied in a mild, almost disinterested manner. “It is a terrible tragedy that befell John Warwick, falling into the street that way.”
“It is the strangest thing. We have a witness who says he leapt in front of the carriage.” Endicott clasped his hands behind his back. “I interviewed John Warwick on two occasions, and his health had declined markedly. In retrospect, it was almost as if guilt literally ate away at him.”
“Surely your witness is unreliable. The sister of the Duke of Somerville says his death was an accident. As do I.” Atlas looked straight ahead as they walked. “If anyone were to surmise that John Warwick killed himself, or that he had a hand in his brother’s death, it would leave a terrible stain on Mrs. Warwick and the children, who have already endured far too much hardship and loss.”
Endicott stopped and peered at him with intelligent black eyes among the fleshy folds of his face. “If I had the proof, I would name John Warwick as the killer and close this case.” He shrugged his hefty shoulders. “Unfortunately, I do not have sufficient evidence. Consequently, the murder of Godfrey Warwick will likely remain unsolved.”
Atlas held out his hand. He’d come to respect the man’s intelligence and dedication to duty. “Until we meet again, Endicott. Hopefully under more pleasant circumstances.”
The runner gave a hearty handshake. “I look forward to it, Mr. Catesby.”
“As do I,” Atlas said, realizing—to his surprise—that he might actually mean it.
