Conrad’s smile never shifted, “My dear sir, you move me, truly you do. Bless the poor widow’s heart! Of course I would do nothing to distress her – and neither will her friends and relations. So when you plead for her to them, they, like I, cannot fail to be moved. Why, my dear fellow, before you know it, you will possess the wherewithal to settle my account in full. Do you know, it quite renews my faith in human nature, when I contemplate the generosity displayed towards a poor, victimised widow. Now, I really must leave you. I have so enjoyed our little chat, and if there should happen to be any entertainment with which I can provide you, pray do not hesitate to ask me. My whole life, you know, is devoted to the service of others – all their little foibles happily catered for.”
With that and a cheery wave, he was gone, leaving Underwood seething with a barely concealed anger, and a distinct sensation of being soiled with an unseen slime.
Mr. Gratten joined him, “Who was that, pray tell? What a popinjay! Whoever he might be, he certainly did not take your fancy – I have never seen you look so glum.”
“And probably never will again – for I do not intend ever to find myself in his company at any time in the future.”
“Good Heavens, what did he have to say, to enrage you thus?”
“My friend, this is neither the time not the place to discuss it, but I tell you now that you have another suspect for the murder of Rogers. Barclay Conrad, for that is his name, would never have soiled his hands to commit the deed himself, but he freely admitted to me a moment ago that he was so confident of Rogers’ early demise, he made sure, by means clandestine and probably illegal, that his gambling debts would be paid by Rogers’ estate.”
Gratten looked puzzled, “But he undoubtedly knows gambling debts have no validity in law.”
“He knows it so well that he has made certain they could be disguised as other expenditure. I fear Mrs. Rogers is going to have to find his money, or pay the penalty.”
“That is outrageous!” Gratten blustered in genuine horror; “I will not allow it.”
“I wish you the best of luck, constable Gratten, but I’m truly afraid you will be dealing with a man so slippery that the jaws of a pike could not hold him. It seems he has, to use his own words, ‘every eventuality covered’, and if he is responsible for Rogers’ death, it may be beyond our ingenuity to expose him.”
“Do you think it a possibility?”
“Indeed I do. He is a man who will stop at nothing to enrich himself. But as I have said many times before, what I think is of no consequence. We must have proof – and it must be so undeniable there is no way for the man to escape the hangman’s noose – if that be his fate.”
Underwood did not tarry long after this, for it was more than he could bear, watching the man making merry at Mrs. Rogers’ expense, quite apart from the fact that he now knew that the elderly fop had detested Rogers and was not in the least sorry that he was dead. It seemed hypocritical, if not macabre, to be present at a celebration of the boy’s death – for that is what it was turning out to be. Even Lady Cara had met up with friends from London and was a fair way to forgetting that Godfrey Rogers had ever lived. Mrs. Rogers had left on the arm of the solicitous Dr. Russell soon after greeting her guests, and so Underwood felt quite safe in slipping quietly away.
If he hadn’t already realized it, it was borne upon him that he had somehow offended providence, for the day was growing increasingly uncomfortable. As he walked into the street, the pregnant girl from the graveyard stepped out of a shadowy alleyway and grasped his hand. It was evident from the chill of her small fingers that she had been awaiting his arrival for several hours, so he had little option but to take her to the coffee-room of the nearest inn and provide her with food and drink.
A cup of tea did much to revive her; she wrapped grateful fingers around the hot vessel and closed her eyes in near ecstasy as she sipped. Underwood took the opportunity to peruse her face and was rather surprised to find she had a curious, transient beauty. Most of the time her loveliness was marred by a frown or an expression of harried aggression, but in repose she had the most delicate bone structure, dark lashes of incredible length and skin which was flawless. Her nose was classical, and her brown hair fell in tendrils which gave her the look of an Italian Madonna, such as he had frequently seen on his Grand Tour many years before – though the actions of Napoleon had cut it viciously short.
When he finally spoke the words came directly from his heart, and bore no resemblance to the way he should have spoken, had convention ruled him at it ought.
“How the devil did you come to be involved with the odious Rogers? It seems to me you are entirely too good for him in every respect.”
Her brown eyes flew open and she looked shocked, “If you think that, you do not know him as well as you think you do.”
“My poor, deluded child! I knew Rogers far better than I ever desired to, and I saw no redeeming feature. If you really know of one, then pray share it, for I have the task of finding his killer, and unless I can shake off the conviction that he deserved a fate far worse than the one he was subjected to, then I will have the utmost difficulty in concentrating my mind upon bringing his murderer to justice.”
“Oh! How can you say so? To me he was a kind and gentle lover. He did his best for me, but his mama kept him so short of money that he could not marry me as he wished to.”
For once in his life, the insensitive Underwood paused to consider before speaking his mind. The girl was clearly infatuated with her dead lover; she believed in him as few other people must – but every word he had spoken to her had been a cruel, cynical lie, designed to grant Rogers the pleasure of bedding her, without thought or responsibility for the consequences.
His decision made, Underwood began to tell her the truth, but as gently as he could.
“Tell me your name.”
“Cassandra Millbanke – my family call me Cassie.”
“Forgive me Cassie, but did no one warn you against Rogers?”
She had the grace to blush, making herself, in the process, even more breathtakingly lovely. Underwood watched her with fascination, but it was the detached interest with which he would admire a work of art. His heart was Verity’s, but he was a man for all that, and could still appreciate the beauty of the female form.
“Everyone did – that was why I ran away to be with him.”
“Are you telling me that far from being alone in the world, you have a loving family somewhere who want you to go home?”
“Yes, but I will not!”
“That, of course, is entirely your own affair, but if I may be so bold, how do you intend to live? Do you have some future plan which encompasses the health and welfare of both yourself and your child?”
“No.”
Stark and to the point. Once more Underwood could only be grateful that Verity was not in the vicinity.
“As someone who is, unfortunately, old enough to be your father, allow me to give you a little advice…”
“I will not go home,” she burst in passionately.
“I was not about to suggest any such thing – in fact, in your present condition, I feel to do so might not be quite so simple a matter as you seem to believe. Unless you have extremely loving and understanding parents, the chances are that whilst you might be welcomed home, your illegitimate offspring will most certainly not.”
Her lip trembled, but she controlled any hint of tears as she replied coldly,
“I am only too aware of that.”
“Then you are not quite as silly as you presently seem,” he said severely, “My suggestion lies in quite another direction. You appear to view Mrs. Rogers with considerable animosity, based on the information provided by her son, that she was the sole reason he could not marry you.”
A distinctly stubborn look came over her face; “I know it!”
“Then it might interest you to hear that Mrs. Rogers had no knowledge of your existence. She did not ignore you today from pride
or malice, but because Godfrey never told her about you, or your baby. He never at any point had the slightest intention of marrying you. He also had no reliance upon his mother for money – on the contrary, he held the purse strings after the death of his father. He gambled and wenched away his whole inheritance and was about to sell the family home to raise more money to be frittered away on his own selfish pleasures.”
She was ashen, even her lips had the blue-tinged appearance of bloodlessness.
“I … I don’t believe you,” she whispered, stuttering over the words.
“Yes, you do. In your heart of hearts you have suspected as much from the very first, knowing that if Godfrey was really a man of honour, he would have waited until he could marry you, and not taken his pleasure of you without benefit of clergy. You are not stupid, or wicked, Cassie, merely young and in love – and he took full advantage of that fact.”
He held her gently while she wept, reflecting grimly that for a man who hated tears, he had to bear a great many – and mostly caused by other men. When the torrent had eased, he did as he always did, and sacrificed his handkerchief.
“I think we should both go and see Mrs. Rogers. When you have apologised to her for your conduct at the funeral of her only son, we will explain your predicament. I feel sure she will welcome the idea of raising Godfrey’s child with you.”
“It is my baby,” she muttered, still slightly mutinous.
He smiled and said wisely, “Of course, but also her grandchild – possibly – and hopefully – the only one she will ever have. Do you not think that fact might be important to her?”
She raised a tear-soaked face to him, her lashes engagingly spiked with the wetness, giving her the appearance of extreme youth, “You are such a good man, sir. You could have turned me away, but you did not.”
He found he could not confess how much he had longed to do just that, and how relieved he was that he seemed to have found a solution which would not involve the disturbance of his own comfort.
*
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
(“Temporis Ars Medicina Fere Est” – Time is a great healer)
“Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”
She shook her head, utterly deflated now, her whole body sagging with a depth of despair at which Underwood could only guess, never having been either destitute, or indeed heavily pregnant. He had waited patiently, not wanting to thrust hard decisions too quickly upon her, but time was ticking inexorably away and he was eager to return to Verity.
All too easily he could recall the emotions of youth – for young she was, sixteen or seventeen at most. When Elinor had died he had known, beyond any shadow of doubt, that he would never be happy again; the rest of his life spread before him like a vast, lonely, barren desert. He could not imagine the easing of the pain; the dulling of the empty ache which had replaced the excited beating of a loving heart, full of hope for the future.
He wanted to tell her that the agony would end, that time, in spite of all indications to the contrary, and despite the triteness of the sentiment, really did heal wounds, eventually.
Of course he told her none of this. He knew it would be a waste of breath – for that was the other thing he remembered of youth, the utter selfishness, and the incontrovertible certainty of always being right. In all his years of teaching he had never met a young person who did not think all adults were a mere two heartbeats away from death, and had long forgotten, or never experienced, the follies and passions of youth.
Instead he continued, in the fatherly vein he had adopted towards her, “Do you have any money? Forgive the impertinence…”
“No, no, not at all. You have, at least, earned the right to question me.”
“I don’t know how you came to that conclusion, but thank you. I must own it would make my task much easier if you would allow me to direct the situation for the present. I shall pay for you to spend the next two or three nights here, whilst I arrange for the meeting with Mrs. Rogers. I feel she should be given a little time to grow used to the idea of your existence.”
“Oh no! Pray do not even suggest it. I could not allow you to pay my shot…”
Underwood hid a smile; that vulgarism, which could only have been culled from a man-about-town like Rogers, betrayed her childishness, and utter inability to take care of herself in a harsh world. He held up his hand to halt the flow of protest,
“My dear child, I am about to become a father myself, and if I thought my wife could be in your situation, alone in the world, uncared for, with no one to help her, I would be horrified. The very least you can do is allow me the honour of helping you.”
The tremulous smile and the look of intense relief in her eyes told him that she would offer no further resistance. It also told him that she was not quite as hardy and lower class as he had at first imagined. She had dreaded the thought of managing without a roof over her head. The boy, Patrick Carter, had shrugged his shoulders at the notion of a night spent in a barn – but Cassie did not. The thought occurred to Underwood that her family might just want to know where she was.
“Where do your family live, Cassandra?”
“Stockport.”
“How came you to meet Rogers? I dare swear he was never in a provincial town in his life.”
“I was sent to stay with an Aunt in Cambridge to be her companion when her husband died. My papa thought it would keep me out of mischief – there had some little incident with a young man who wanted to court me, but my father thought I was too young. Godfrey was living with Dr. Russell at the time. We met whilst I was out walking my Aunt’s horrid little dog.”
Underwood knew a moment of pure astonishment. He was fully aware that Theodore and Rogers had known each other; they had made no secret of their association, but he had not realized that far from being a day student of Dr. Russell, Rogers had also been his lodger. He did not quite know why, but the news seemed rather important.
It made his sense of urgency to get home even more acute; yet he must further delay his departure, for he ought to call on his brother before the day was much more advanced.
He called the landlord to him, made the necessary arrangements for Cassandra to be given a room, overcoming that gentleman’s scruples at having a pregnant woman under his care with a large gratuity then took himself off to the vicarage.
*
Gil was in his study; not seated at his desk which was strewn with papers, but staring moodily out of the window. He turned when he heard his brother enter the room and summoned a smile, “I’m glad to see you, Chuffy. I could not bring myself to talk to anyone after the funeral, but I would have words with you. How is Verity?”
“Much better, thank God. I think she might be allowed to sit downstairs tomorrow. She is utterly weary of her bed, and I do not blame her.”
“That is good news.”
Underwood made himself comfortable in a deeply-upholstered chair, “Did you want to say anything in particular, Gil, or were you just anxious about Verity?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you about the arrangements for Catherine’s funeral.”
“Very well.”
Gil left the window and took a chair which faced his brother, “Alistair wants to attend – but I cannot help but feel he is too young for such a melancholy event. I can think of no sound more final than that of a clod of earth hitting a coffin lid, and he is such a little boy. To know he will never feel his mother’s arms about him again…”
Underwood drew in a deep breath. He did not know what to say. Gil, of course, was quite right in what he said, but who were they to deny the child the right to say his last farewell to his mama? After a moment he spoke, his tone hushed and measured, “Perhaps it could be arranged for someone to take him away before the end?”
Gil’s face cleared, “Of course. How obtuse of me not to think of that for myself. Will you perform that service for me?”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” Underwood spoke nothing but the truth. He was honest eno
ugh to admit that he did not particularly relish hearing that final sound himself.
Having made their plans, Underwood felt he could speak of other things.
“Gil, I don’t know if you noticed her, but there was a young girl at Rogers’ funeral today.”
“The one who is to have a baby?”
“You did see her, then? I had the notion your thoughts were far away.”
Gil smiled slightly, “Even one as preoccupied as I could not help but be aware of her condition when she attempted to throw herself on top of the lowering casket.”
“Very true. I own it was a melodramatic moment, but her extreme youth must excuse her.”
“For my own part, I could only be glad for Godfrey’s sake that there was one person on this earth who was sorry to see him leave it.”
“Unfortunately she may have had cause to revise her opinion. I was forced, by necessity, to tell her a few home truths.”
“I suppose you had no choice?”
“None at all. She is penniless, pregnant, and estranged from her family. Her only chance in life is to fall upon the mercy of the child’s grandmother.”
“How does Mrs. Rogers feel about that?”
“I was rather hoping you would help me in discovering the true extent of the lady’s maternal feelings.”
“Naturally I will do so, but what will happen if Mrs. Rogers decides she has neither the strength nor the inclination to begin again with a child who may very well put herself through the same torture eighteen years hence?”
“Heaven only knows. One could hardly blame her. Only let Verity know of the girl’s existence, I very much fear Cassandra and her baby will be my problem.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 16