Atlas returned home to find Jamie bickering with Bess, the cleaning lady. They were in the sitting room where Bess was mopping the floor by the game table.
“Do not touch the master’s puzzle or his papers,” he said imperiously.
Bess bustled around Jamie, not even bothering to look up, mopping in long sure strokes. “Move along, boy, before I trample you with my mop.”
Jamie jumped out of the way, his face a mottled red. “That’s Mister Sutton to you.”
“Bollocks.” She came at him with the mop again, and Atlas suspected it was a deliberate offensive action. Jamie sidestepped out of Bess’s path before she hit him. “I’m more likely to turn you over my knee than call you Mister anything. I’ve got slippers older than you.”
“Good afternoon,” Atlas interrupted. After his parting with Lilliana, he was in no mood for their bickering. And a slight headache had begun to throb behind his left eye.
Jamie stiffened, while Bess paused and dipped a curtsey. “Master Atlas, sir.”
“Hello, Bess.” He turned to Jamie. “Shall we step out of this room and allow Bess to finish her cleaning?”
Shooting a furious look at Bess, Jamie protectively snatched up a piece of paper from the game table—it was the list of potential suspects Lilliana had drawn up—and followed Atlas with the reluctant, dragging gait one would expect of a convict facing transportation. They went down to Waters for coffee and sweet buns.
Once they entered the shop, where the mingled aromas of fresh rolls and coffee saturated the air, Jamie stood hesitantly by the table.
“Sit,” Atlas instructed.
Jamie didn’t move. “As your manservant, it is not appropriate for me to sit at table with you.”
“Is it appropriate to disobey the gentleman you serve?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed. “No, sir, certainly not.”
The waiter arrived with the coffee and sweet buns. Jamie watched intently while Atlas reached for a bun and bit into it. “Mmm, delicious. Warm and sweet. Just the way you like them.” He sipped his coffee. “But do just stand there if you prefer.”
Jamie plopped down into the seat opposite him. “I suppose it is more important for a valet to obey his master’s instruction than follow the proprieties.” He reached for a bun, tore it in half, and eagerly popped a piece into his mouth. “I suppose I shall have to ask Mr. Finch what a manservant should do in this situation.”
“By all means.” More instruction on cravat tying was also in order, but Atlas held his tongue on that subject. “Where’s that list of suspects you picked up from the table?”
Jamie pulled the paper from his pocket and straightened it out on the table. “Mr. Perry?” He scrunched his eyes as he scrutinized the list. “There’s a Mr. Perry on this list.”
“Yes.” Atlas bit into his bun despite a marked lack of appetite. The one thing he truly hungered for now was forever lost to him. “What of it?”
Jamie pushed the list over to Atlas’s side of the table. “There was a Mrs. Perry who purchased arsenic in Bloomsbury, near where that Davis fellow died. I saw her name on the poison registry there.”
Atlas stopped chewing. “How can you possibly remember that? Perry was not a name I asked you to look for.”
“No, sir.” Jamie reached for another bun. “But ‘Perry’ is my father’s Christian name, so I remembered when I saw it on the poison registry.”
The hair on Atlas’s arms stood up. “Are you certain?” Both Mr. and Mrs. Perry had access to Davis and could have easily poisoned his food or drink. They lived in the same house and took their meals together.
“Yes, sir.” Jamie spoke around a mouthful of half-chewed sweet bun. “Quite sure.”
“Which apothecary was it?” He could only hope Jamie remembered the name.
“Greenwood’s.” Jamie gulped some coffee down. “It’s off Great Russell just down the lane from the boardinghouse.”
Atlas shot up. “I have to go.”
Jamie glanced mournfully at the basket of sweet buns. “But we just sat down.”
Atlas dug some money out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Stay as long as you wish, but I’m for Bloomsbury.”
Atlas had little trouble finding Greenwood’s, a small apothecary tucked away on Phoenix Street off Great Russell.
It took a moment for Atlas’s eyes to adjust to the shop’s dark interior. He crossed the worn stone floors to reach the wooden counter, narrowly avoiding a striped gray cat that streaked across his path. An immense apothecary chest with dozens of small medication drawers stood behind the counter, as did a bearded man of middle years.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Atlas responded. “I hope so.” The feline meowed, arching its back before slinking between Atlas’s feet.
“That’s Lenny. Don’t mind him,” the apothecary said.
Taking care not to step on the animal, Atlas returned his attention to the man. “Are you Mr. Greenwood?”
“I am.”
“Are you familiar with a Mrs. Perry, who lives near here?”
The man’s gaze narrowed. “I am. She comes in from time to time.”
“Did she buy arsenic from you?”
“Who are you? And what business is that of yours?”
The man’s defensive posture took Atlas aback. “I am investigating the death of a man who lived near here, at the request of the Duke of Somerville.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
Atlas studied the man’s demeanor with more care. “I did not accuse you.”
“She told me the poison was to kill rats up at the boardinghouse. I had no reason not to believe her.”
The feline curled up on Atlas’s feet. “So Mrs. Perry did buy arsenic from you.”
The man nodded. “The next thing I hear is that a boarder ended up dead, poisoned from arsenic. I knew it was her that did it. I just knew it.”
Atlas’s heartbeat moved a little faster. Here, finally, was the true break in the case he’d been searching for. “Why do you assume Mrs. Perry murdered the man?”
“She bought enough arsenic to poison twenty men.”
“If you had your suspicions about Mrs. Perry, why did you not bring them to the attention of the authorities?”
Greenwood rolled his eyes. “And who would have cared? The cove who died was just a lowly clerk with no family to speak of.”
“He has a sister. She works for the Duke of Somerville.”
“And that’s the only reason you are here,” he said disdainfully. “Because someone powerful and important wants to know who killed the man.”
No, he was there for Lilliana. He didn’t give a damn about Somerville. “I would like to find the killer to give the man’s sister, who is a lady’s maid, a measure of peace.”
Greenwood reached for a heavy worn leather book. He paged through it until he found what he was looking for. “Here it is.” He pointed to an entry.
Atlas bent over to study the poison registry. There it was in careful penmanship: Mrs. Maria Perry. She’d purchased the poison on the fifth of March, about one month before Davis died. Atlas looked up. “Have you seen Mrs. Perry since Mr. Davis died?”
“No, she knows better than to come in here. Mrs. Perry comprehends that I’m aware of what she did. I saw her once after I’d shut the shop for the evening. She crossed the street to avoid me.”
“I see.” It was time to visit Mrs. Perry again. He turned to go, gently shaking his foot to dislodge the sleeping feline that had taken up residence atop his boots. The animal made a sharp meow of protest at being unsettled. Atlas looked down in time to catch its accusatory stare before the creature dismissed him with an arrogant glance and wandered behind the counter. “Thank you for your time.”
Greenwood slammed the poison book shut. “Are you going to see her then?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Mind you don’t drink the tea.”
As he approached the boardinghouse, Atlas found Gordon Davis’s landlady sweeping the front stairs.
“Mr. Catesby.” Mrs. Norman paused from her task when she spotted him. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Good day, Mrs. Norman. I hope I am not interrupting your chores.”
The woman flushed. “It is not my usual task, you understand. My maid of all work is ill, so I must make do. After all, cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“It is indeed,” he said agreeably.
She resumed sweeping dirt and debris from the stairs, flicking it out into the street with the broom. “How may I be of help?”
“I’ve actually come to call upon Mrs. Perry. I hope she is at home.”
“I believe she is, but Mr. Perry has gone out.” She worked in short efficient strokes. “You are welcome to go on up.”
“My thanks.” He stepped around her to reach the front door and then paused. “If I may ask . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do you perchance have a problem with rats or mice here at the boardinghouse?”
The broom stilled. “Absolutely not,” she huffed, clearly offended. “I keep the cleanest of homes.”
“I can see that you do,” he said soothingly. “I suppose you never asked Mrs. Perry to procure a large amount of arsenic in order to rid yourself of any rats that might come around.”
“No. I have no vermin here.” She perched one hand on her hip while the other gripped the broomstick. “We do have the occasional mouse, but that is all.”
“That is as I expected.” He went on in, treading over the threadbare rugs as he made his way to the stairs. In the parlor, the worn curtains framing the open windows flapped lazily in the gentle breeze.
It was the warmest day they’d experienced so far that season. Perhaps the lingering winter had finally ceded the field to the long-overdue spring. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet in the corridor leading to the Perrys’ room. Mrs. Perry answered as soon as he knocked at the door.
“Mr. Catesby.” She opened the door wider to allow him entry. “I was just about to have tea and lemon cakes. Won’t you join me?” Her manner was open and unguarded; she showed no hint of discomfort in his presence.
“Tea and cake sounds like just the thing,” he said, stepping into her rooms. He sat in the hard chair at the small round table and observed Mrs. Perry as she bustled around, plating the cakes and pouring tea from the kettle.
It seemed incongruous that this small homely woman of middle years would have been driven to murder her handsome young neighbor. Had Davis finally come up against a female conquest who had not been content to allow him to callously toy with her affections?
“There now,” she said when she’d served the tea and offered him a lemon cake, “what brings you here on this fine day?”
Eyeing the steaming cup she set before him, Atlas grimly recalled the apothecary’s warning: Mind you don’t drink the tea. He bit into a lemon cake instead. It was warm, moist, and flavorful. “This is delicious.”
“It is the lemon.” She beamed at the compliment. “Just the right amount of fresh lemon and lemon peel makes all of the difference.”
“As to what brings me here.” He swallowed the last of the dainty cake, which had the slightest bitter aftertaste, and decided to come straight to the point. “I was wondering why you purchased arsenic from Greenwood’s Apothecary.”
She took a breath and calmly sipped her tea before answering. “I am not surprised you learned about that.” She set her cup down. “I expected it was only a matter of time before you looked in the poison book.”
“Mr. Greenwood said you purchased a large amount of arsenic.”
“I did.” Her gray eyes were sharp in her narrow face.
“You purchased the poison to kill Mr. Davis.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand at all.”
“Please explain it to me.”
“I purchased the arsenic because Gordon asked me to,” she said in a calm, matter-of-fact manner.
“Why would he do that?”
“He was an arsenic eater. I suspected he was taking it for what ailed him.”
“If Davis asked you to buy the poison, why did you tell the apothecary you needed it to kill rats in the boardinghouse?”
She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “Gordon asked me to keep it a secret, so I obliged him.” Her eyes watered. “I realized too late that he wanted the arsenic to kill himself.”
“You believe he killed himself?”
“I do, yes.”
It made perfect sense. Davis had enough of the poison to kill himself. “There was no sign of the drug in Davis’s room after he died. Do you know what happened to it?”
“After he died, I went into his room and retrieved all of the arsenic I could find.” Her distress was becoming more apparent, her manner more agitated. “I knew how badly it would reflect upon me if Bow Street found the arsenic in Gordon’s chamber and learned that I had purchased it. They would have suspected me of killing him when the truth is I only acquired the poison because Gordon asked me to. You must believe me,” she pleaded.
The pieces shifted into place. Atlas suddenly understood why Davis had manipulated both Elizabeth Archer and Mrs. Perry into purchasing arsenic.
“It is Elizabeth Archer’s fault.” Hate twisted Mrs. Perry’s face. “Gordon killed himself because she broke his heart.”
He stared at her. “You know about Miss Archer?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Perry rose from her seat and paced across the room in an agitated manner. “I followed him once when he went to her house. She’s nothing but a strumpet who must pay for what she’s done.”
A strange sense of euphoria shot through Atlas’s veins. He blinked. His body felt weighted down by a thousand stones. “What the devil—?”
“It was the lemon cakes,” Mrs. Perry said from behind him. “I sprinkled a little laudanum on them to keep things manageable. You’re such a large man. The drug will slow you down.”
He blinked, willing himself to keep his eyes open even though his lids suddenly seemed incapable of the task. “I don’t understand.”
“You should have just drunk the tea. It would have gone much easier on you than this.”
He was about to turn around and ask her what she meant when pain exploded against the side of his head and the room went black.