Excerpt: Murder at the Opera
Book 3: Atlas Catesby Mysteries
Chapter 1
They emerged from the Covent Garden theater just as the black sky erupted again, spewing cold rain onto the mudslogged streets like a frigid volcano.
Atlas Catesby had neglected to button his overcoat and regretted the oversight the moment the icy dampness sliced through him. It felt as though it had been raining for a year.
Hunching against the elements, he hoisted his black umbrella high above Lady Lilliana Sterling Warwick’s hooded form to shield her from the downpour. Fat rivulets of rain clung precariously to the umbrella’s edge before dripping onto the rim of Atlas’s black beaver top hat, dangling momentarily and then plopping onto his cheeks and racing down to his chin as he hastened Lilliana to the waiting carriage.
Around them, hundreds of fellow theatergoers poured out of the building. Figures with bowed heads scurried toward waiting carriages and hackneys cramming the street. Other patrons streamed away on foot, an army of black umbrellas moving with the urgency and purpose of soldiers rushing toward a battle.
There was far more jostling among the throngs at the public entrances than at the exits set aside for wealthy patrons. A recent enlargement at the entrance vestibule for the well-to-do assured that he and Lilliana could depart in relative comfort after enjoying the luxurious hospitality of the Duke of Somerville’s private box.
The ducal accommodation located to the side of the stage had provided an excellent view of that evening’s performance. The star, the acclaimed singer Juliet Jennings, was Covent Garden’s shining light. She was also a woman with whom Atlas had once been rather well acquainted.
But that felt like another life to him now.
When they reached the Earl of Charlton’s rain-glistened town coach, a handsome vehicle pulled by matching grays, Atlas quickly handed Lilliana up himself rather than pausing to allow the waiting footman to do it. She settled into the forward-facing seat while he climbed in to sit opposite her on the matching tufted velvet deep violet bench. He took care to keep his long legs from crowding her.
Her face was a glimmer in the shadows of the carriage. Family obligations had contrived to keep them out of each other’s company for several months—until this evening. He’d been eager to have this moment alone with her.
Her red silk evening gown contrasted favorably with her dark hair and pearl-like skin. In the theater, he’d noticed how the shade of the fabric highlighted the unique copper tinge of her magnificent eyes.
She shivered. “Will it ever stop raining?”
“This autumn has been unusually wet and cold. Windy as well,” he replied, wondering when their interactions had been reduced to idle comments about the weather.
She gazed out the window into the storm. “I cannot imagine why Somerville and Charlton would care to stay out on an evening such as this.” The duke and the Earl of Charlton had been among their party earlier that evening, but the two men had gone off after the performance in Somerville’s coach, bound for St. James Street.
“Gentleman’s clubs hold a great allure for many.” Atlas had declined to join the other men, much preferring to see Lilliana home in Charlton’s conveyance.
She looked away from the window. “But not for you?”
He held her gaze. “What is most alluring to me cannot be found in a gentlemen’s club.”
Her eyes softened. “Is that so?”
He found it difficult to hear her through the unrelenting rat-tat-tat of the rain striking the metal carriage roof. At first, he assumed the sonorous bang that cut through the clatter on the roof was thunder. But then the screaming started.
The hairs on the back of Atlas’s neck rose. He couldn’t immediately make sense of the spine-tingling cries, but after a moment the panicked utterings took the form of a word he could discern only too well. And there was no mistaking its meaning.
“Murder! Help! Murder!”
Atlas threw open the carriage door and leaped into the street, his feet splash-landing in a puddle, the icy dampness immediately soaking through his leather dress slippers.
“Atlas!” Lilliana’s concerned voice called out from behind him. “Have a care!”
Slamming the carriage door hard behind him, he battled his way through the swirl of people and weaved through the snarled traffic. The carriageway was clogged with conveyances parked close to the theater, awaiting the return of their employers. He moved toward a crowd gathered near the portico, where cries of distress could still be heard, pushing through the crush of elegant ladies and fashionable men, soldiers on furlough, and fruit women carrying baskets laden with oranges.
When he reached the front, Atlas peered down at the prone figure sprawled on the ground before him. The rain pouring off the rim of his top hat impeded his view while the crude oil lamps suspended from the arches overhead provided minimal light.
It was a woman. He could tell that much from her fine evening clothes. Silk and of the latest fashion. Expensive. He could not see what she looked like. In the rainy darkness, her face was lost in black shadows.
“She’s been shot!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.
Shock stamped the face of a middle-aged gentleman kneeling next to the woman. He suddenly scooped her up and staggered to his feet carrying his burden. The woman’s arm dangled lifelessly at her side. “Make way! Make way!” he commanded.
“I saw the one that done it.” A woman’s excited cry distracted Atlas from the grim scene before him. “I seen it all. The man was kneelin’ beside ’er with a pistol in ’is ’and.”
Atlas turned toward the voice, a fruit vendor carrying oranges in a sling around her neck. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“I saw ’im, the one that done it, wearin’ black ’e is.” Damp, silver-streaked hair framed a narrow, lived-in face, and she was even more rain soaked than he felt. “Almost as tall as yer lordship, but skinnier than a Seven Dials beggar compared ta ye.” She pointed toward Hart Street. “’e ran that way.”
Atlas scanned the crowd. It wasn’t much to go on. Singling out the killer in this throng of people would be nearly impossible. But few men possessed Atlas’s stature, and that was something at least.
He started in the direction of Hart Street, nudging his way through the crowd, continually searching for a tall, thin figure clad in black. The darkness, umbrellas, and relentless rain contrived to make his task all the more difficult. After about fifteen minutes of searching, by which time he was completely soaked to the skin, Atlas conceded defeat.
He made his way back to the scene of the crime, but there was little left to see. The body was gone, as were the spectators who’d swarmed around the poor woman’s corpse. Atlas stood there, hands planted on his hips, still stunned by what had just occurred, considering what to do next.
“The gentry cove took ’er away.” The speaker emerged from the building’s shadows. Despite the rain, Atlas could discern the fruit vendor who claimed to have witnessed the murder. Something glinted in her hand. “But ’e left this behind.”
Under the cloudy lighting from the oil lamps overhead, he could just make out the outline of a slender stock and a silver encased barrel. “A pistol? Where did you find that?”
“The cull who done ’er in dropped it.”
“The killer?” He stepped closer for a better look.
She retreated. “’Tis mine now, if ye take my meanin’.” He drew a few silver tokens from his pocket, enough to buy her a hot meal on this wet evening—and a few more besides that— and dropped them into her open palm. The money disappeared somewhere in her clothing before she handed her prize over.
The pistol was cold against Atlas’s skin, and a chill rippled through him, knowing it had recently been used to take a life. “What is your name?”
“Mary White.”
Shoving the pistol into his pocket to shield it from the rain, he raised his eyes to meet the fruit woman’s gaze. “Tell me, Mary, the gentleman who carried the lady away—did you see where he took her?”
“Ta the tavern on the corner. Said ’e was goin’ ta call for the doctor.”
Atlas exhaled. Summoning medical help would be a pointless exercise. The poor woman had in all likelihood been dead before she’d fallen to the ground. Earlier, when the man had gathered the victim in his arms, Atlas had realized why he’d initially been unable to see most of her face.
It was no longer there.
***