“I suppose you may be right,” conceded Gratten ungraciously, “But the killer was mighty lucky not to have met with Carter when he came along. It can only have been a few minutes later.”
“Indeed. And that time made all the difference to us. Minutes earlier and he would have been disturbed at his work, and we should not have been side tracked by the misleading bullet wound. However, that is by the bye. It is possible he had not gone away, but was merely hiding behind the hedge until Carter had gone.”
“Now, what of Conrad?”
“I think he had turned to walk away, and was struck down from behind for that reason. His assailant did not quite have his height, hence the upward thrust. I suspect on this occasion that Conrad was grabbed around the neck and gripped against the body of the killer as the knife went in. It would be too risky merely to plunge the dagger in, since it might be deflected by the spine or a rib. Our killer knows he needs to hit the heart with the first blow. He cannot risk the survival of his victim. My own reading of the situation is that he is not particularly robust and that is the reason for the one, fatal blow struck from behind. He cannot hope to win in a face-to-face confrontation because he cannot match the strength – or perhaps the courage – of his victims. Strangely enough, I have the distinct impression that the murderer is actually quite squeamish. He does not want to fight, he does not want to prolong the death throes and he does not want vast quantities of blood. I think he has carefully researched his method of killing, and has perfected it quite brilliantly.”
Unconvinced, Gratten turned to the doctor for an opinion, “What do you make of Underwood’s theory?” he asked bluntly, as though daring Francis to agree to the fanciful notion that their killer hated to impose death.
“It seems extremely plausible to me,” he said, “It also sounds as though Underwood knows who he’s looking for.”
Gratten was roused to ire again, “So, you think Underwood knows a short, weakling coward, who hates blood, runs from a fight and yet carries an exceedingly sharp blade, which he has no compunction in using? Jeremy James had better have a damn good alibi!”
Underwood, quite rightly, was offended by both gentlemen, “Jeremy James Thornycroft may lack height, Mr. Gratten, but in every other respect, you are way off the mark. If he needed to kill a man, he would do it quite openly, believe me. As for you, Francis, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If you really thought I knew who the killer was, do you suppose I should leave him to continue his carnage unfettered?”
“My apologies, Underwood,” said Francis, not in the least abashed.
“Sounds like a hum to me!” muttered Gratten, annoyed at his own folly in having laid himself open for a well-deserved rebuke.
“Scoff if you want to, Mr. Gratten,” said Underwood firmly, “But we are looking for a man who kills for other reasons than a bloodlust.”
“What reason? What is the connection between Rogers and Conrad?”
“That I cannot, at present, answer, but knowing Godfrey and Conrad and their ilk, I imagine the only thing they have in common is money. Search Conrad’s belongings and see if you can find someone who owes him a goodly sum, then you may begin to follow the killer’s trail.”
*
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
(Quos Deus Vult Perdere Prius Dementat” – Whom God wishes to destroy, he first makes mad)
This seemed to Underwood to be a convenient moment to change the subject and save further argument, “Have you found Harry Hazelhurst yet?”
“We tracked him down to a room in an inn just outside Norcross, but the bird had flown, leaving most of his belongings behind him. I doubt we will see him again, now he knows you have recognized him.
“I hope to God you are right. Damn him to hell’s flames! He had Verity and Cara Lovell terrified out of their wits.”
“He did not do your nerves much good either, did he Underwood?” asked Gratten, with his usual lack of tact.
“Umm,” was the non-committal response.
“I must say,” continued the constable, satisfied that the dart had hit the target, “he left behind some extremely unsavoury relics. I understand you believe he broke into the vicarage at some point?”
“Yes,”
“That should have been reported to me,” said Gratten severely, “Be that as it may, we found something which I suspect might have helped him.”
“Really?” said Underwood nonchalantly, feigning disinterest, “What was that?”
“A Hand of Glory,” answered Gratten with relish, waiting for the shocked reaction this revelation was bound to elicit.
“A what?” The response was just as Gratten had imagined. Horror was written all over the face of the disgusted Underwood and for once it was Dr. Herbert who was in the dark, “What on earth are you talking about?” he asked, and the appalled Underwood allowed the constable to explain.
“It is the embalmed hand of a gibbeted man, almost skeletal since it has been drained of blood and dried. Between its bony fingers is thrust a candle made of, amongst other delightfully macabre ingredients, hanged man’s fat. It is lit once the robbers are in the house of the victims. It is supposed to render the household insensible until it is extinguished.”
“Utter nonsense, of course,” added Underwood, recovering his equanimity.
Gratten grinned savagely, “Mayhap it is nonsense, my friend, but you did all remain fast asleep whilst that boy was in the house, did you not?”
For that comment, Underwood had no ready reply.
*
Gil knew he should stir himself for there was much he ought to be doing. He had received word that Verity’s baby was born and that Underwood and Cara had returned safe and sound to Windward House, but still he could not summon the energy to do anything useful about either of these pieces of news. He could not, somehow, find the strength within himself to face the joy of fatherhood, which his brother was presently experiencing. The loss of Catherine was too new, too raw, to allow him to be happy for his brother. The beginning of bitterness was being born within him and he knew it, but he could not fight against it just yet.
Underwood’s arrival at that moment was salutary.
Mrs. Trent sent him into the vicar’s study without preamble, assuming that Mr. Underwood was always welcome in the vicarage. Gil, caught off guard, had to force a smile to his lips and platitudes to his tongue. Fortunately Underwood was still wondering about the mystery of the Hanbury assassin and noticed nothing amiss in his brother’s attitude. He was deeply preoccupied with the abundance of information provided by Dr. Herbert and he accepted the good wishes of the vicar with a barely concealed impatience, so eager was he to speak to his sibling on other matters.
“Gil, do you have a few moments to spare?”
“Of course, dear fellow. Is there something troubling you?”
“There is, but I hesitate to burden you…”
“Chuffy, to one as over-laden as I another burden is as nothing,” he managed to smile sincerely enough to rob this comment of any sting. Underwood, naturally, needed no further encouragement.
He embarked on a long, rambling analysis of the evidence presented to him not half an hour before by Dr. Herbert and though Gil listened carefully, he failed to understand why his brother was sharing these rather gory details with him. He had no interest at all in the murders of Rogers and Conrad, beyond a natural repulsion of murder in general, and he had never fully appreciated Underwood’s predilection for involving himself in the solving of such crimes, especially as he knew better than anyone how the end result distressed the nervy Underwood. All he could fathom was that his sibling was somehow blaming himself for the murders, feeling that he bore a guilt which Gil felt to be entirely unnecessary. He could only be grateful when Mrs. Trent re-entered the room and announced, rather importantly, “Lady Cara Lovell to see you, sir.”
“To see me?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced apologetically at Underwood, “Chuffy, wo
uld you mind very much ...?”
Underwood rose to his feet, “Not at all. You have your duties to perform and I should be getting back to Verity and the baby, anyway.”
Lady Cara entered just as Underwood was preparing to take his leave and immediately began to apologize profusely for the intrusion, “I will not disturb you, Rev. Underwood, Mr. Underwood, but perhaps call another day …”
“I would not hear of it,” asserted Underwood with a smile, “I was about to leave.”
She allowed herself to be persuaded to linger and presently found herself alone with the vicar. Having come this far, she was now at a loss how to continue. She did not know Gil very well, having only seen him in church or occasionally in the Pump-rooms with the other ladies. She had been far too intent upon the pursuit of his brother to notice the minister, but now she felt in need of solace and advice and he had seemed the natural choice.
He sensed her confusion and smiled encouragingly and with infinite kindness,
“How may I help, Lady Cara?”
She breathed deeply, then making her decision, she plunged into a confused and confusing explanation, which Gil felt to be quite as complex as the story Underwood had just insisted upon expounding.
“I fear I have been very foolish, sir. It seems I was most indiscreet in my behaviour, even before my little adventure with your brother and I now do not know how to extract myself from a coil of my own making. My only salvation would have been in marriage, but, of course, that is not possible. My papa is terribly angry with me – and with … with another. He says I will never be able to hold up my head again, that it is the greatest good fortune that my presentation has already taken place, or I could not hope to be accepted socially…”
He leaned forward and placed his hand lightly on hers, partly as a gesture of comfort, but mostly to stop the babbling flow of words without hurting her feelings.
“My dear girl, I hate to seem obtuse, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”
She ceased speaking abruptly. Evidently both brothers walked about with their eyes shut. No, that was unfair. Rev. Underwood had been occupied by more important things than her silly flirtations over the past weeks. She wondered how best to describe her predicament.
“I am trying to explain that I have been absent from town for two whole days, in the company of a man who is not – and never can be – my husband! The scandal-mongers have been busy and have taken care that my father knows everything that happened and a great deal more that did not.”
Gil laughed, “Is that all? Good grief! You were being held against your will. That cannot be held to be your fault.”
“You do not understand. I made … I had been … Oh, dear! Rev. Underwood, I had been flirting outrageously with your brother beforehand. I had no idea he was married – and now no one believes in our story of abduction. They think it merely a cover for our … misbehaviour.”
“I suggest you are placing too much emphasis upon mere light-hearted banter. Underwood is not the man to encourage you too far. He is very happily married and would not hurt Verity for the world.”
He could not know how his words of comfort stung her. With lowered head and crimson cheeks she admitted her fault fully, “You are very right. He did not encourage me in the least – in fact he was at pains to dismiss me as a troublesome child – but I did not understand. And now those who witnessed my behaviour are making mischief. They went back to London with a very wrong impression and told my father of my indiscretion. He is furious and I am utterly ruined!”
She seemed on the verge of weeping and Gil panicked slightly, though he was more used to it, he had almost as great an aversion to weeping women as had his older brother.
“I’m sure that is not so, my dear. Would you like me to have words with your papa? Perhaps I can convince him of your innocence?”
She raised eyes brimming with gratitude and tears, “Would you do so? I should be so grateful. He simply will not listen to me. I have never seen him so angry.”
“Indeed I will. Once acquainted with the facts, he will quickly forgive you this little error.”
Cara could only hope his powers of persuasion were as great as he imagined.
*
Mrs. Rogers viewed the advent of Mr. Underwood with some trepidation. The earl was not in the house, having taken himself off for an invigorating walk before dinner, partly to whet his appetite, but more to cool his anger with his wayward daughter, who was resolutely refusing to accompany him back to London, to be swiftly married to a suitor of his choice, before the scandal of her Hanbury jaunt could reach the ears of society and forever destroy her reputation and her chances of wedlock.
Underwood neither knew nor cared that the earl was baying for his blood. Single-minded as always, he was a great deal more interested in solving his case than he was in the relationship between Cara Lovell and her bucolic parent. He was immensely troubled by a vague conviction that some part of the puzzle was missing and that Mrs. Rogers held the key.
“I have no desire to distress you, madam, but I must ask you to cast your mind back once again to the night young Godfrey died.”
She smiled rather bitterly, “Every moment is engraved upon my heart, sir. Ask whatever you wish.”
“I was told you were in the company of one of your guests for the entire evening. Was there anyone in particular who never left your side for even a moment?”
“No. I surely never told you any such thing? There were several periods when I was alone. Cara was sweet and spent a great deal of time with me, but she is young and wanted to dance – I believe she danced with you, did she not?”
“Not for long,” said Underwood with a wry grin, “She soon grew tired of having her toes trodden upon.”
“Dr. Russell was most attentive in the early part of the evening, but later he went off to play cards. Lady Hartley-Wells was the most constant of my friends, but even she went to watch the dancing for a little while.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers, you have told me all I need to know.”
She had told him a great deal more than she could ever imagine. Underwood now knew, beyond any possible doubt, who had killed both Rogers and Conrad.
*
Gratten was surprised to see Underwood back so soon, “I thought you had gone home.”
“Not yet. There is something I must discuss with you, but first I must urge you most strongly to find Harry Hazelhurst. I fear for him.”
“You are right to do so, my friend – but unfortunately your warning comes too late. I have not five minutes since had a message from Dr. Herbert. He has identified the body of a young man found down an alley in Norcross this afternoon as none other than Harry Hazelhurst.”
“Stabbed?”
“Single stab wound to the heart, through the back.”
“Oh God!” Underwood sank, sickened and despairing, into a nearby chair.
“This is mighty queer, Underwood, I must say. What possible connection could there be between this boy Harry and the other two? After listening to your theories this morning, I could grant a vague link of money between Rogers and Conrad, but where does this youth come in to the picture?”
“I am your answer, Mr. Gratten.”
Gratten, as usual, grasped the wrong end of the stick, and with vigour, “You! Are you trying to tell me you killed the boy?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man, show some intelligence,” snapped Underwood, driven beyond endurance, “I said that I am your connection, not your killer!”
The constable was somewhat taken aback by this unwonted show of aggression from the normally passive Underwood, but like all bullies he was immediately conciliatory when faced with a show of equal strength, “Of course, of course, I apologize, but you must see I am rather in confusion here. You evidently know something which I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you,” offered Underwood grimly.
*
At home later that evening, Underwood set his scene carefully. He
ordered everyone in the house to stay out of the way, no matter what happened. Toby was inclined to balk at this instruction, but Underwood was firm, “It is vital that you obey me in this, my friend. I have to end it, once and for all. There must be no more deaths.”
“But you – what if he takes it into his head to attack you?”
“He will not, I promise you.”
So Underwood was quite alone in the parlour when the front door opened quietly, not long before midnight. His every nerve was strained to the slightest sound, so the turning of the key in the lock and the barely discernible creak were as loud as gun shots to him. He held onto his calm demeanour as best he could and called in a low voice to the late arrival, “Join me, old friend, I would have words with you.”
Dr. Russell entered through the open door with a smile, “You are abroad late, Underwood. Is the baby keeping you from your sleep?”
“No, Theodore, you are.”
The old man touched his chest, “I? Great Heavens! You have no need to sit up on my account, dear fellow. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know that – none better.”
Dr. Russell’s smile remained firmly in place, but the warmth did not reach his eyes; they merely looked wary, “I’ll be dashed if that did not sound like an accusation.”
Underwood didn’t move a muscle, merely observing him from beneath heavy lids. His body was in a relaxed position, sprawled in his chair, his long legs stretched towards the blazing logs in the fireplace, but every nerve and sinew was stretched and tense, ready for action at the first hint of danger.
“I suppose it was an accusation, Theodore. You know it has to end now, don’t you?”
“They have found Hazelhurst’s body, then?” he asked, moving further into the room, his eyes never leaving Underwood’s face, “I feared he would be one step too far. You could not fail to see the pattern emerge after that.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 24