“The same way as Rogers,” supplied Francis brusquely, cursing his folly in forgetting to provide his companion with warning of this particular shock.
“Indeed?”
Gratten was furious with the doctor for stemming the flow of information, for he could see that Underwood’s mind was now on an entirely different track, “Yes, yes! But that can be dealt with later. Go on with your story, Underwood. Who is this fellow? And are you sure he could not be our murderer?”
The slightest frown drew Underwood’s brow together; “I cannot imagine so. What possible reason could he have?” He spoke almost musingly, as though turning over the possibilities in his mind, and Gratten grew increasingly irritated, “How in Hades can we know, if you will not tell us who it is?”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Underwood could not suppress a smile. Gratten was in incorrigibly impatient.
“I beg your pardon, sir. But even when I tell you the name, it will mean nothing to you. The boy – young man, I should say, is called Harry Wynter. Though, more properly he ought to be calling himself Hazelhurst.”
Only Francis knew who he was. Gratten, Dr. Russell, Mrs. Rogers and Jeremy all looked suitably mystified; “Who the devil is he?”
Underwood swiftly explained how he had solved the sad case of a murder in the small Pennine village of Bracken Tor two years before. It had been where he had met Verity, but not before he had been briefly engaged to Harry’s sister Charlotte. The revelations of Underwood’s investigation had caused Harry’s father to blow his brains out with his own gun, his elder sister had died in a lunatic asylum and Charlotte had married the new heir, who had replaced the disinherited Harry, merely to keep a roof over her head.
“No wonder he hates you,” muttered the eternally unhelpful Gratten. He could not have hurt Underwood more had he taken a knife and slashed open his heart. He had been immensely fond of Charlotte and grateful to her for teaching him how to love again after years of seclusion. Francis could gladly have punched him in his unbridled mouth.
Dr. Russell looked astounded, “But you were so sure it was Godfrey, Underwood. How could you be so utterly wrong?”
One glance at Underwood’s devastated expression told Francis that this conversation had gone far enough, “Be reasonable, gentlemen. Underwood is not a seer. And he accused no one, merely speculated. After two years of silence, how could he possibly know Harry Wynter would decide to wreak his revenge? Now, I suggest we all have other things to do. Gratten, you have Harry to find and arrest, Dr. Russell, you may take Mrs. Rogers home. She has good news to carry to her guest, the earl.”
Mrs. Rogers looked stricken with guilt, “Oh, good heavens! Dr. Russell and I were so eager to get here that I quite forgot him. I left him sleeping. How could I have been so thoughtless? He was frantic with worry over Cara and I have left him in ignorance of her safe return.”
With that she was gone, entirely forgetting that she had intended to visit Verity and the baby.
Jeremy James quickly realized that these departures would mean that the discussion would swiftly turn to thoughts of murder, and since he had experienced more death and gore in his army days than he cared to recall, he wheeled his chair to the door and roared for Toby.
“Be a good fellow and help me up the stairs,” he said, when the big black man made his appearance, “Mrs. Underwood must be pining for the sight of me.” Toby grinned good-naturedly and hoisted the ex-soldier into his arms, “You’ll brighten her up, sir, no doubt of that, but if you wake the baby, you’ll be sorry.”
Left with Dr. Herbert and Gratten, Underwood recovered himself sufficiently to ask a few questions of his own, “You seem to think Conrad was killed by the same hand as Rogers, Francis. May I ask why?”
“The entry wound was almost exactly the same. God knows what the weapon was. Long and thin, like a stiletto, but who the devil carries around a dagger or knife like that? It would not be the easiest thing to conceal.”
“No other clues?”
“Not a thing – except the similarities of the places where the deed was done. A quiet back lane, not far from the high road, but far enough to make observers unlikely.”
“No messages, letters in his pockets, to indicate he had gone to meet someone?”
“Nothing.”
“Has anyone made enquiries at his lodgings to ascertain whether he had a visitor with whom he might have arranged a meeting?”
“My assistant Turner is questioning all who knew Conrad even as we speak. I should have more news for you later in the day.”
“And I have another post mortem to perform, so I should also have information for you later,” added Dr. Herbert.
“Then I suggest we meet this afternoon at Gratten’s,” said Underwood decisively. His head was beginning to ache again.
Upstairs they heard the baby set up an anguished wail and Verity’s voice rose above the clamour, “Toby, take this rapscallion away! I knew he would wake her.”
Toby passed them in the hall, grinning, “I trust there is room in your carriage for Major Thornycroft and his chair as well as Dr. Herbert, Mr. Gratten, sir. He sent his hired hack away in the hopes of being invited to stay for dinner.”
*
It was noon before Cara finally made her way downstairs and joined Underwood in the parlour. He was alone and seemed, to her eyes, curiously despondent for a man who had just become the father to a beautiful baby girl, but she could not bring herself to ask him the reason why this should be so.
It was foolish, but she suddenly felt shy of him, as though the past few days had been a dream, or something which had happened a long time ago and was barely remembered. It had vanished entirely, that easy intimacy they had shared; gone when they had walked through the door of windward House and the cry of a new born babe had forced her to acknowledge Verity existence as a living, breathing woman, whom Underwood loved and wanted and had for his own. Theirs was the intimacy now, their being together the reality and all Cara would ever have of him were the memories of those few precious weeks of careless flirtation and desire, and those hours she had spent, cradling his head in her lap, thinking that when he woke, hers would be the first face he saw and her name the first word he spoke.
No longer was he her fascinating, infuriating Underwood – now he was that terrible, forbidden thing – another woman’s husband! She could scarcely credit now that she had been so stupid, so arrogant as to imagine he was free and that she need not enquire into his circumstances.
It took all her will-power and her courage to smile charmingly and speak to him as though her heart were not bruised and battered by her long night of anguish and self-recrimination, “Good morning, Mr. Underwood.”
He turned slightly in his chair at the sound of her voice, for he had not heard her enter, so engrossed was he in his own thoughts. When his eyes met hers she felt her stomach contract with an excitement she could neither suppress nor control. He smiled that slow, lazy smile, with which, she suddenly realized with a slight shock, he could have bedded her in an instant had he so wanted.
“Good day,” he seemed a little hesitant himself, she was glad to notice. How much more difficult would this conversation have been had he been his usual, insouciant self. “I trust you managed some sleep? Last’s night couch must have been slightly softer than the one we shared.”
“A little,” she agreed, wishing she could think of something witty to say; anything to break down the barrier between them and allow her to hide behind merry laughter, so that he need never know how the inanity of their exchange was stinging her pride and breaking her heart.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thank you. Mrs. Trent brought me breakfast in bed.”
“Did she indeed?” he grinned, only too aware how great an honour this was, “You may thank your title for that concession. It has done no end of good for her standing with her cronies that we have a real Lady staying in the house.”
Strangely, instead of being diverted by th
is sally, as he had intended, she was more inclined to be annoyed, “Oh, how foolish people are! How can they imagine a title makes any difference to the sort of person I am? I’m sure I am exactly the same as everyone else.”
She could see he was vastly amused by the emphasis she placed on her words, but there was nothing she could do now to withdraw them, so she subsided into a blushing silence. His next words made her cheeks burn redder still, “No one would dare to say you were exactly the same, my dear, especially in view of your remarkable courage over the past few days.”
Her only excuse for what followed was that she was feeling tired and emotional. Tears sprang unbidden into her eyes and her voice broke on a small sob as she replied, “Don’t… pray, say anything more…”
He crossed the room and led her solicitously to a chair, the expression of concerned affection on his face causing the tears to flow in good earnest.
“I do apologize, Cara – and not just for being so careless as to remind you of an exceptionally traumatic experience. I am fully cognisant of my own responsibility in causing you to become involved in this sorry coil at all. God alone knows why Harry should have chosen you for his victim. I know I managed to place Verity out of his reach, but why the devil he should then have chosen to abduct you is entirely beyond my comprehension.”
Cara, of course, was fully aware of the reason and could only send heartfelt gratitude to Providence that he, alone of all Hanbury, was too blind to see what she had evidently made painfully apparent to everyone else – that she was in love with him. She wiped away her tears on a scrap of lawn which was woefully inadequate for the task, “Do you think I might be allowed to meet Verity – I mean Mrs. Underwood – before I return to town.” It was the last thing she wanted, but there was no choice. To avoid her would cause even more comment.
“Certainly. I will go and see if she is free now.” He was only too eager to make his escape; he abhorred the feeling of helplessness and ineptitude which assailed him whenever he was confronted by a weeping woman.
Walking up the stairs and into the room occupied by her unknown and unwanted hostess was one of the most difficult things Cara had ever been forced to do. She knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that had some flighty young thing been after her own husband, she would have seen through any subterfuge in a second! It was terrifying to think that this woman’s welcoming smile was going to turn, in a moment, into a pitying smugness for her own good fortune and Cara’s loss.
She need not have worried. Verity was too exhilarated to notice anything was amiss. All she could see was a charming young woman who had been kind enough to call and congratulate her upon the birth of her child, merely because she had met her husband once or twice in the Pump-rooms. Cara did not know what to think. Verity was so unlike anything she had been imagining. The fantasy of a tall, graceful creature, with incisive instincts, ready to cut dead any presumptuous young pretenders to the affections of her spouse, was hastily dismissed. Cara might just have felt that such a harridan might deserve to lose Underwood to a younger, kinder, more vivacious girl – but not Verity. To begin with she was almost as young as her would-be rival, besides which there was something undeniably vulnerable about her open face, her deeply kind and sympathetic eyes.
Lady Cara Lovell made her a warm farewell and accepted her offer of Underwood’s escort into town with a sinking feeling of faint depression which would not be swiftly banished. She now how to confront her father and explain her little adventure to him – whilst admitting that the man she had spent several nights with was not available to make an honest woman of her! The prospect did nothing to lighten her spirits.
*
The snow had ceased to fall in the early hours of the morning and as a result, though the fields were lightly dusted with a fine sprinkling of white, the road was ankle-deep in slush filled, muddy ruts. The carriage sent by Gratten from Hanbury to collect them took some time to travel the short distance to the Manor, the horse struggling and fighting against the suction of the hock-deep morass. Once there Underwood gallantly offered to escort her indoors, but Cara was resolute in her refusal. The thought of allowing him to carry her even the short distance to the front door across the sea of mud was horrifying, but worse still was the imagined meeting between her papa and her rescuer. The earl was going to need quite some time to digest the tale she had to recount, and a great deal more to accept the notion that Underwood had done nothing to earn his enmity. For his first view of Underwood to be holding Cara in his arms, no matter how great the necessity, would not help with his understanding of the situation! She allowed the coachman to lift her from the carriage, waving with her unbound hand a sad farewell. Would she ever see him again? It seemed unlikely. Her father’s first action would in all probability, be to bundle her into his own vehicle and whisk her off to London. She supposed it did not really matter now, but her heart ached anyway.
The vicar’s brother, blissfully unaware that the earl might be anything other than immensely grateful to him for the safe return of his daughter, shrugged with indifference at her emphatic refusal of his aid and called to the coachman to continue at his leisure.
His first inclination was towards calling upon Gil, but he swiftly changed his mind. Mr. Gratten had not paid for and despatched a coach that Underwood might spend the afternoon in visiting his relations.
He leaned comfortably back against the squabs and indulged himself in a pleasant five minutes in cogitating upon the apoplexy into which he could have sent Gratten had he delayed his arrival at their arranged meeting, blithely and casually admitting that he had not only stayed for tea with Gil, but had then followed that by taking Hanbury Waters with Lady Hartley-Wells – or better yet joined the Wablers at the nearest inn.
By the time he had exhausted the amusement afforded by this fantasy, the carriage was slithering to a halt outside Gratten’s door. Very fortunately there was a stone-flagged pathway at the side of most of Hanbury’s roads, so he was able to leap from the vehicle, free of mire, and bound up the steps, suddenly feeling ten years younger. He was given admittance by the constable himself, who had evidently been watching for his arrival with his usual impatience, “You’ve taken your time,” was the testy greeting. Underwood, in an excess of philanthropy, merely smiled kindly, “Pray forgive the tardiness. I had to deliver Lady Cara into her father’s care – and the roads are practically impassable.”
“Humph! Very well, but let us not waste any more time in idle chit-chat.”
Underwood followed him inside, trying, and utterly failing, to look suitably repentant and subdued.
The reason for Gratten’s bad temper rapidly became clear. For Dr. Herbert was waiting in the drawing room and since the Patrick Carter incident, neither man had much cared for the other. Gratten waited no longer than it took Underwood to seat himself before he embarked, “Now, perhaps you will honour us with the results of your deliberations, Doctor?” he growled ill-naturedly.
The newly arrived Underwood grinned knowingly and said, rather unkindly,
“Did you make Mr. Gratten await my arrival, Francis, before putting him out of his misery? How very annoying of you.”
“Get on with it,” instructed Gratten, through gritted teeth.
“I was not prepared to exhaust myself by going through the whole thing twice.” Dr. Herbert excused himself, with infinite – and in the present circumstances – admirable patience, then added, suddenly serious and businesslike, “Shall we begin? Death, as I fully expected, was due to a single stab wound to the heart, through the back. The wound proved, on closer examination, to be of a similar shape and size to that found on Rogers’ body, so I concluded the same, or a remarkably similar, weapon had been used. The only difference was the angle of entry. On Rogers’ despite his height, the direction of the wound was slightly downward, as though the blow had come from above the victim. On Conrad the opposite was true; the angle tended upwards. In both cases, the killer knew exactly what he was doing and death was almost instantane
ous.”
Gratten was clearly puzzled by this summing up of the evidence, “What conclusion do you draw from all this, doctor?”
Francis answered truthfully, if a little vaguely. He was not a man to fail to admit when he was stumped, “The killer was above Rogers, but below Conrad.”
“That does not make any sense. Rogers was far taller than Conrad, yet you are saying the killer was taller than the taller man, yet shorter than the smaller one. If that is indeed the case, then the two murders cannot have been committed by the same hand.”
It took a man of Underwood’s strange logic to explain, “I think you will find the answer lies in the position of the victims immediately prior to the attack, rather than to the height of the murderer. Rogers was found propped against the base of the hedge, sitting on a grass verge. There was no evidence he had been moved after death.”
“Yes,” prompted Gratten, trying to picture the scene, all personal feelings put aside for the moment.
“Then he was probably stabbed whilst sitting in that very position, perhaps leaning slightly forwards – he was, as we all know, extremely drunk! His killer was sitting to one side of him, a little higher up the verge, almost directly behind him, in fact. When the knife went in, it would then travel slightly downwards, would it not?”
The other two nodded in silent agreement.
“It would then be a simple matter for the murderer to ease the now forward-slumping body back, so that it was leaning upright against the hedge.”
“But would the boy have taken a seat on the ground? It was November when he died.”
“It was, but he was wearing his greatcoat, albeit unfastened, and we had not had a particularly wet month until then. Most importantly of all, he was inebriated. When has a truly drunken man ever cared where he sat, or felt the cold and damp? If he was, as we suspect, waiting for someone to join him, or knew that the discussion was going to be a long, possibly tedious one, he would, in his state, consider sitting on the ground to be a necessity, not an inconvenience.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 23