Even as this thought entered his mind, the door opened to admit the doctor, who walked in shrugging himself into his coat and raising a hand to straighten his cravat, “Gentlemen, you have presented me with a pretty puzzle, I must say.”
Underwood’s interest was instantly engaged, “Explain yourself, Francis.”
“It would seem you have achieved your wish, my friend. Patrick Carter is ‘off the hook’ to use a fisherman’s vernacular. Did it occur to nobody to strip the body and examine it, ever superficially?”
Gratten’s smile slid from his face as it gradually began to dawn upon him that all was not well. He was a little pale as he answered, “Underwood entirely refused to view the body – and I imagined it would be better left to you. But what can you mean? Rogers was shot and the boy Carter has admitted to firing the gun. What other explanation could there be?”
“Rogers was already dead when the ball entered his chest.”
There was a moment of stark silence, then the constable sank into a chair, his legs evidently no longer able to support him, “You cannot be right. I refuse to believe it!”
“You can believe it, my friend. If anyone had taken the time to observe, there is a bloodstain on the back of his coat, as well as a hole.”
“That was the exit wound of the shot!”
“No, it was the entry wound of the knife used to stab him. Something very long and thin – a stiletto, I imagine.”
“How can you be so sure?” Gratten was loath to relinquish his favoured theory. He reminded Underwood of nothing so much as a bulldog with a bone. Even his plump jowls quivered as he struggled to find the words to argue with the calmly confident doctor.
“The ball was still lodged in his chest – and as a matter of interest, it would never have been fatal – far from it. It has barely entered the muscle. I imagine the poor boy’s hand was shaking so much, it was a miracle he hit the body at all.”
“But the grin – the boy swore Rogers was grinning at him, almost defying him to fire the gun.”
“Rigor mortis setting in, sir. Under certain circumstances the face muscles are the first to tighten, pulling the lips back in a rather demonic smile – and of course, the boy may have been grinning when the knife went in. More than likely it was post mortem rictus.”
“I find this most unlikely,” Gratten tried hard to deflate what he saw as intolerable pomposity on the part of the doctor, but he was singularly unsuccessful. Dr. Herbert was on the solid ground of fact, and was enjoying watching the constable flailing in a morass of confusion and supposition, “Why should you think it unlikely? The boy was stabbed in the back – and it is safe to assume he did not expect the blow. One does not turn one’s back on a dagger. If my reading of his character is correct, he had driven his assailant to murder by his appalling behaviour. Underwood tells me that he found the discomfiture of others vastly amusing. It is not difficult to imagine the scene. He had probably said or done something utterly unforgivable and was laughing at the humiliation of his victim – unfortunately for both of them, on this occasion the victim struck back!”
Underwood was astounded. The more he thought about the doctor’s news, the more convinced he became that he had known all along that there was something about the murder which had not fitted into the convenient explanation provided by Gratten. Patrick Carter had merely been unlucky enough to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Rogers had been dead for some time – possibly an hour or slightly more. No one at the party really recalled when he had disappeared. Only the killer, or killers knew that. And they also knew why Rogers had agreed to meet them in the lane – although he had evidently not expected them to be armed.
“Is there anything else we should know?” he asked.
“Yes. There was a torn off fragment of paper in his hand. I would say someone tried to remove it after death, but his fist was so tightly clasped that a little piece remained unseen between his fingers.”
“Is there anything written on it?”
“It’s very smudged, but it looks remarkably like a capital ‘R’.” Dr. Herbert handed the scrap to Underwood, who examined it closely, his eyes narrowed, regretfully acknowledging, at least to himself, that he was going to have to consider getting spectacles.
“R for Rogers,” said Gratten dismissing the evidence with scorn. He was still reeling from the doctor’s disclosures.
Underwood looked thoughtful, “Possibly. But it helps us very little anyway. It is so torn and smeared, it could quite easily be another letter – ‘B’ for example.”
“Is there anything else, doctor?” inquired Gratten, barely civil. He felt the doctor had said more than enough for one day.
“I shall write a full report, naturally, but I don’t think there is anything I can add which will help your case along. I merely reiterate that Patrick Carter, despite his other crimes, cannot hang for the murder of Godfrey Rogers unless it can be proved he had a long-bladed knife along with a gun.”
“He might have thrown it away, or sold it,” protested Gratten, not very convincingly. Even he was sure Patrick Carter was merely a stupid, careless and frightened boy, and not a killer.
“Then find it, my friend, and find some witness who will swear the boy once possessed it.”
Mr. Gratten almost snarled, looking more like a bulldog than ever. He had once thought almost as highly of Dr. Herbert as did Underwood, but he suddenly found he had never really fully trusted the man’s judgement.
“I’ll bid you good day, gentlemen,” he said stiffly.
Underwood rose swiftly to his feet, “Are you going back to Hanbury?” The answer was a swift, bad-tempered nod, “Then might I plead for a ride? I really must call and see Gil and Catherine.”
“I’ll come with you, if I may,” added the doctor, much to Gratten’s chagrin.
*
All thoughts of the murder were driven from their minds when they entered the vicarage. The house was preternaturally silent, and it took a few moments before they realized why. The one noise which was always present was missing. Gil had removed the pendulum from the tall case clock in the hall, it’s deep, comforting, measured tick was gone. The road outside the house had been overlaid with straw and sawdust to muffle the sounds of passing vehicles and animals, but it was the silent clock which made Underwood suddenly understand that Catherine really was dying. The same thing had happened years before when his father had lain down for the final time, and he had never wanted to see a pendulum laid useless on a hall table ever again.
In the dim winter afternoon light which managed to filter in through the hall window, Underwood and Francis exchanged a glance, “Dear God,” whispered Underwood in anguish, “this is the end. I have been trying to convince myself she would get well.”
Before Francis could frame a reply, Gil appeared at the top of the stairs and began to descend swiftly. Both visitors were astounded that he should have grown so gaunt in the short period since they saw him last. Underwood desired nothing more than to revert to the days when he had been the idol of his younger brother, when one word of his could wipe all trace of misery and fear from his sibling’s face. It tore at his heart to no longer have that power, “Gil …”
“How is Verity? Is the baby born yet?” Gil took his brother’s outstretched hand and smiled warmly, but his grip was that of a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. Underwood could only be humbled at the selflessness of the man. For his first words to be of others, when his own world was crumbling about him, took a kind of courage which Underwood was not sure he understood, but knew he did not possess.
“She is well, but not yet a mother. It seems my child is to be as contrary as its father. We came to ask after Catherine.”
Gil seemed to notice Dr. Herbert for the first time, “My dear Francis, how are you? Chuffy has been awaiting your arrival with impatience.”
“Yes, I know, but I am here now, and at your service, dear friend. Is there anything I can do?”
“I fear not. The end is
very near. I have been battling to bring a priest to my wife, but to no avail. She is crying for the sacraments – something about extreme unction. I do not fully understand it. She is a pariah because she has married me, and now I can offer her no comfort …” his voice broke on the words and Underwood felt helplessly angry in the face of his distress.
Francis also looked pained. He had not known Catherine well, but he had liked her, and his feelings for Gil were deep and sincere, “Is she fully conscious?”
“Not really. The pain is so great, she has had a great deal of laudanum …”
“Underwood knows Latin, do you think that would help?”
Gil looked as though a great weight had been lifted from him, “I should be so grateful, Chuffy. Do you think you could do it? I cannot bear to see her so distraught, and be able to do nothing to ease her passing.”
Underwood had not attended a death bed since his father’s demise, and he had sworn never to attend another, but this was all he could do for his brother and sister-in-law now, and he did it gladly.
*
It was late when he arrived home – much later than he had originally intended, but that could hardly be helped. Verity had begun to grow fretful, but one glance at her husband’s pale and tired face convinced her that something dreadful had indeed happened. He took her in his arms and told her as gently as he could that her friend Catherine was dead.
Predictably she lashed herself into a frenzy of guilt-ridden weeping, “I should never have left her. I knew she was more ill than any of you were admitting. Oh, Cadmus, I never had the chance to say goodbye to her. And Gil – poor, poor Gil! How will he ever manage? He must be devastated and I am not there for him, either. How stupid I am, how weak and pathetic! Why could I not have a baby easily like other women?”
“Please stop this, my love. You must not distress yourself. It is for that very reason you are in this situation now. I know Catherine meant a great deal to you, but she would not have wanted you to risk your baby for her, would she?”
He had said, more by accident than design, the only thing which could possibly have calmed her just then, but though she ceased to sob and rant, still the tears fell. He gave her his handkerchief, feeling helpless, as he always did when faced with a woman’s tears – even his wife’s. She rarely cried and he had never grown used to the sensation of watching such visible and tender emotions. He had spent the majority of his life almost exclusively in the company of men, and the display of the softer feelings was not generally encouraged – especially in the public school system, probably from a fear of the floodgates opening.
He waited until the storm seemed to have abated a little more, then ventured to speak gently to her, “Gil is taking it all very well. He has a deep faith in God and that is helping him cope. He confided that Catherine was very unhappy at losing her Catholic faith, and that her life without it would have been almost intolerable. He feels strongly that they will be reunited in God’s care one day. He also has Alistair to consider. He is presently and very confused and distressed little boy. Gil is trying to be strong for him.”
“Poor little Alistair.” The thought of the now motherless child, who had so unselfishly given his rocking horse to her own baby, brought forth a renewed torrent and Underwood silently cursed his own folly. He had known he would say the wrong thing. He was not good at dealing with women and there was nothing to be done about it. Damn his stupidity.
He realized a change of topic would be politic, “I’m afraid I will be required to leave you again tomorrow. I feel I ought to attend Godfrey Rogers’ funeral, if only for his mother’s sake.”
She determinedly blew her nose, resolving not to distress him any further,
“Yes, of course, you must go. How is Mrs. Rogers?”
“Bearing her lot with fortitude. She is a remarkable woman.”
“You will give her my regards and condolences?”
“Naturally.”
“When is Catherine to be buried?”
“Nothing has yet been arranged. Put it from your mind for the present,” he said hastily, afraid of provoking another bout of weeping. He did not think he could stand much more – it had been a very long and draining day, “Try to rest. I have to speak to Toby. I have been using him ill these past few weeks. He has not had a free day since we came here. I must make it up to him once tomorrow is over.”
She obediently sank down in the bed, and rather to her own surprise found she was suddenly overtaken by exhaustion. She did not know how she could be so very tired after spending the whole day in bed – and all the days which had gone before. Had she ever been out of this room? She could scarcely remember her other life, alive with health and unencumbered, it seemed like a distant, rapidly fading dream.
She felt the pressure of his lips against her brow, but did not even have the energy to acknowledge the embrace, let alone return it.
As he reached the door her turned back and smiled at the suddenness of her slumber. Sometimes she was like a child in her demeanour, so openly affectionate, so easily brought to laughter and to tears – and to sleep. Underwood struggled every day of his life to keep his emotions under strict control, Verity had no such inhibitions.
He wondered vaguely which way was best. She certainly seemed less troubled than he, but then she also seemed satisfied with far less. It appeared to him that as long as she had her love for him, she could happily dispense with everything else. He could imagine she would be perfectly content to sleep under a hedgerow as long as he was by her side.
What strange creatures women were, to be sure!
*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
(“Pessimum Genus Inimicorum Laudantes” – Flatterers are the worst type of enemies)
Gil looked down upon the gathering from his pulpit, but it seemed to Underwood that barely saw the faces raised to him. It was fortunate that Rogers had never inspired any particular affection amongst his fellow man, for if ever a vicar delivered a funeral oration which owed nothing to fact and everything to polite fiction, this was it. Gil himself was hardly there. He spoke the words required of him, but it was evident that all he said was dredged from memory, and had he been interrupted, he would not have known how to continue, for he would not have recognized the place where he broke off. Not that anyone was in the least concerned. The news of the death of his young wife had spread through the town as though carried on the wind, and even those who disapproved of the union could not but help pity the man.
There were those in the congregation, of course, who knew nothing of any of this. They had arrived that day merely to attend the funeral and Underwood, from his pew at the back of the church, observed them all closely. The identity of Rogers’ murderer was once again open to question. Any one of those listening to the empty words of the cleric could be the guilty party. Underwood knew that mere observation could not really hope to offer any clue, but still he scanned the ranks – and ranks there were. At first he was rather stunned that someone with the glaring flaws of character displayed by Rogers could have brought so many together at his demise, but when he discounted his own feelings of dislike, it became abundantly clear that a man of Rogers’ class would always have acquaintances who would feel honour bound to support his mother and show their faces at his burial. They would ignore their own disillusionment with the boy for the sake of their place in society. The gentry always defended their own. Hundreds of years of history had taught them the wisdom of the adage, ‘divide and conquer’, and conversely ‘stand united and overcome’. They would always stand together, no matter how much they secretly despised one of their number, and since it was nearly always the lower classes who suffered in any given situation, it was that much easier to do so. After all, they would reason, who had Rogers really damaged? True, he had taken money from his gambling cronies, but most of them could well afford to lose, and sometimes he lost to them – nature’s balance always came into play. No, the real victims of Rogers and his ilk were the tradesmen who had trust
ed the vows to repay debts, and the legions of foolish young maid servants who had believed those expressions of affection and had given their all for pie-crust promises – those which were easily made and more easily broken.
Undoubtedly, Rogers would have had to behave a great deal more badly than he had to lose the support of his peers.
Thoughts of serving wenches seemed prophetic, for at that very moment Underwood caught sight of a young girl, seated well back behind all the others, and very obviously trying to hide her bulk beneath her cape. Her clothing and general demeanour gave her away as belonging to the lower classes, for she barely dared raise her eyes to look at the coffin on its flower-strewn bier. Her presence was not only unusual for the reason of her evident poverty, but for the very fact that she was a woman. It was not expected for women to be present at funerals, especially not at the service for a young, unmarried male. A youthful virgin might hope to have a group of young women accompanying her last journey, as they might have hoped to follow her down the aisle on her wedding day – but never a young man! Of course elderly women attended, particularly if the deceased was lacking in male relatives. Underwood noted the bowed head of Mrs. Rogers, ably supported by Lady Hartley-Wells, and one or two of the fearsome Pump-room harridans, but this girl was the only other female present. Underwood was intrigued.
His interest was even more piqued when the cortege moved out into the churchyard. As the coffin was manoeuvred into position ready for lowering into the gaping grave, the girl broke into audible sobs, crying out, “Oh Godfrey, what have you done to me? How will I ever manage now?” The typical British reserve ensured that though everyone stole a covert glance at her, no one moved towards her, either to remove her, or offer her comfort.
Unfortunately for Underwood, he happened to be standing nearest to her when she seemed to stagger forward, almost falling headlong into the grave after the studded, velvet-covered casket, and his hand shot out instinctively to catch her. The action was automatic, and deeply regretted. It was not that he meant to be unkind, or unfeeling, but he intuitively knew this girl was going to mean trouble – and frankly he had enough to occupy him. Once involved with her, he knew he was going to have a devil of a task disentangling himself. Only let Verity hear about this new lame dog, and he could see himself Master of a house which contained not one, but two babies, and a serving maid who was worse than useless, and who would probably come home at regular intervals with yet another misdemeanour kicking under her apron.
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 14