At that moment a sleepy Verity joined them and called anxiously into the twilight, “What is wrong, Underwood? Why have we stopped?”
The sound of a woman’s voice seemed to jerk the man back into consciousness, for he sat upright and muttered between swollen and bloody lips, “For
God’s sake get the girl away from here. They may still be lurking about.”
“Come then,” said Underwood decisively, “let us be on our way.”
The man staggered to his feet, upheld by Underwood and they managed, with difficulty, to get to the carriage door, whereupon the man more fell than climbed into the vehicle. With a supreme effort Underwood hoisted inside the legs which still stuck out into the road, handed the bemused Verity over their sprawling guest, leapt in after her and called to the driver with an exceedingly coarse expression gleaned from his sporting students, “Spring ‘em!” The driver needed no second bidding and with a bellow to the horses, and an expert, and exceptionally loud crack of the whip, they were speedily carried the remaining couple of miles to Hanbury.
Once back in the warm, candle-lit homeliness of the vicarage, the injured man soon found himself stripped of his torn, muddy and bloodstained coat. Verity’s gentle but competent hands were washing his cuts and Dr. Herbert was diagnosing cracked ribs and binding them for him, Gil was making tea in his own ineffable way and Underwood was questioning him about his mishap.
His story was a strange one, and tragic in its way, though Tobias Hambleton, for that was his name, proved to be amazingly philosophical and had not a bitter bone in his body, though his listeners thought he had reason enough.
He had been taken from Africa – what part he had no idea – as a babe in his mother’s arms, as so many hundreds of others had been, and subsequently sold into slavery, as a body servant to a titled lady in London. Through his babyhood and small childhood she had kept him by her, much as one might keep a pet dog. He slept in a little cot at the foot of her bed, and followed her throughout the day, fetching and carrying for her. There had never been a formal education, but a governess of the family’s children had secretly taught him to read and write. All too soon he had out grown the sweet and cuddly stage and a tall gangling youth had no place in a lady’s household. He had first been sent to help in the stables, where he had been given the hardest and most unpleasant tasks, but where he had developed the muscles which were later to be his salvation.
Soon the other servants had baulked at working and eating with him, for in their ignorance they had no idea how to treat this alien presence, who spoke, because his formative years, like a gentleman, and really had no idea how to perform the duties he was assigned. At around the same time the idea of slavery had become an anachronism, and Toby had progressed from lap dog to embarrassment. He found himself free, but cast out into the streets to earn his living as best he could. An outcast because of the colour of his skin, he did the only thing he knew and became a pugilist, for fights had been all too common in the stable yard. His fists became his saviour, but they placed him in his own particular hell. A gentle man, reared to serve a lady of quality, he found it increasingly difficult to batter his opponents senseless and bloody with his great strength.
This day had seen the moment when he had finally refused to do it any longer, and several disgruntled sportsmen had taken out their frustration on him. One man at a time, and they would have stood no chance, for in all his years of fighting he had sustained remarkably few injuries, but this was different. There were at least ten of them, and he had found himself firmly pinioned by half of them whilst the rest used fist and boot indiscriminately. He had regained his senses to find himself dumped in a ditch, only inches from the bottom and fortunate not to have drowned in the cold, muddy water. He had no idea how long he had lain there, only that on hearing hoof beats he had dragged himself out and staggered towards the sound, fearing that a night in the open in his state would have probably have meant the end of him.
His audience was appalled by the story, and there was no hesitation in any of their voices when they all begged him to make free of their hospitality for as long as he felt the need. He grinned, ignoring split lips and showing beautiful white teeth which were miraculously unscathed by his ordeal, “You are all very kind.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hambleton,” said Gil warmly, “We are only sorry that our fellow-countrymen have shown you less Christianity than they ought.”
“Call me Toby, please – and as a Christian myself, I haven’t exactly spent a life of saintliness. Ask anyone who has ever been in a mill with me.”
They all smiled at this sally, though none thought he has been given very much choice in the matter.
“But to have thrown you out on the streets,” protested Verity, “That really was unforgivable!”
“Not as unforgivable as the alternative, Miss,” asserted Toby with emphasis, “Most men in my position would have been resold and shipped out to the plantations in the West Indies. There slavery still exists, and it’s a death sentence for most. I’m just grateful my mistress could not bring herself to do that to me.”
The silence which greeted this was broken by Oliver Dunstable strolling into the room, looking more relaxed than any man with a noose hanging over him had any right to, “Good evening all. What goes on here?”
Introductions were performed, then Mr. Underwood looked grimly at him,
“I’d like to speak to you, Mr. Dunstable – now! You have some explaining to do.”
*
Once again the vicar’s study became the venue for a few choice words, “Mr. Dunstable, you seem determined to bring about your demise by a hangman’s rope, despite my best endeavours.”
Oliver sank into a comfortable chair with a resigned and martyred air of a student about to be carpeted for an unfinished essay, “What ever the problem is, I dare swear you can solve it, Underwood,” he said casually.
“Not being a miracle worker nor a midwife, I fear this little complication is quite beyond my powers, Mr. Dunstable,” answered the older man testily, “Why did you not confide your secret to me?”
“I didn’t think it concerned anyone but Miss Marsh and myself. What has it to do with Josie’s death?” muttered Oliver, a trifle sulkily.
“Didn’t concern …!” Underwood roared, then trailed off, completely bereft, momentarily, of the power of reasonable communication. He took a deep breath, refreshed himself with a large pinch of snuff, and tired again, “Young man, the condition of your lady friend – I use the term advisedly! – bestows on you the perfect motive for having murdered your wife. If you now hasten into marriage with her, you will compound that supposition. All I need now to end the perfect day is for you to admit you attempted to terminate the pregnancy with tansy oil and we may as well start weaving the hemp ourselves.”
Dunstable flushed to the roots of his hair, and then the blood drained as swiftly from his face as the full import of Underwood’s words sank in, “I believe Frederica did try something of the sort…” he murmured reluctantly, “Didn’t work though,” he added somewhat bitterly.
Underwood stared at him for several incredulous seconds, “Do you mean to tell me you have had tansy in your possession in the recent past?”
“I suppose I have – but I swear to God I didn’t know it was a poison.”
“Then how do you suppose it manages to kill an unborn child, you blithering idiot?” roared Underwood, now completely out of patience and not much caring what he said, nor who heard him.
If it was possible, Dunstable grew even whiter, “I... I didn’t think of it like that…”
“Your trouble, Mr. Dunstable, is that you never think at all. If you did not commit this murder, you have played beautifully into the hands of those who did. I fear it is beyond even my ingenuity to salvage the situation.”
“God! Don’t say that. You can’t believe I did it. You can’t leave me to hang.”
“Mr. Dunstable,” explained Underwood with admirable control, “if any court i
n the land hears that you had the means, the opportunity and the motive to kill your wife, then nothing short of Christ himself appearing to the jury to vouch for your innocence is going to save your neck – and even then they will ask to see the crucifixion wounds. God give me strength! Don’t you see what you have done?”
Dunstable was almost snivelling with fright, “Please Underwood! You are my only friend, don’t desert me now.”
“Give me one good reason why I should not?”
“If not for myself, then for Frederica and the child! They are the real victims in all this!”
Underwood sank into a chair, holding his brow with one hand, “Good God, man, you have set me quite a task, haven’t you?”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“It would appear so, but pray do not rely on the outcome being in your favour! I am going to need a miracle of epic proportions to save your worthless hide! You had better tell me where you purchased the tansy!”
“What?” He was still reeling from the explicit warning Underwood had issued and seemed confused and disorientated. Underwood repeated the question, and Dunstable stuttered a reply, scarcely aware of what he said. Underwood took note to the herbalist named by his companion, then left the young man alone with his thoughts.
*
Later in their bedroom, Verity, already tucked up in bed after her exhausting day, peeped at him over the edge of the covers as he performed his ablutions, “What did Mr. Dunstable have to say for himself?”
Underwood lips were pursed in an expression of contempt and exasperation mixed, and he threw his coat violently towards a chair, “The man is a fool! God alone knows how I am going to get him out of this mess.”
“Are you even going to try?”
“I have to. He did not kill his wife.”
“You seem very sure, Cadmus. You were not so positive when you left Miss Marsh.”
“Having spoken to him, I am now sure, beyond any doubt. Quite apart from anything else, he has not the intelligence to have planned any of this crime. My first assessment of him was correct. He could not organize a prayer meeting in a convent.”
Verity giggled appreciatively, “Poor Cadmus. For a man who does not suffer fools gladly, you are having to spend a great deal of time with the biggest one of all.”
“Quite!” he retorted, and climbed into bed beside her, “This has been planned meticulously, Verity, and infuriatingly, I am being manipulated into just the moves the real culprit had intended.”
“What do you mean?”
“Always I am driven back to the same thing. Instead of being allowed to find out who killed Josie, I keep having to prove that Dunstable did not. It merely clouds the issue, as whoever plotted it knew it would. He or she is gambling on the fact that people always jump to the most obvious solution – in this case that Oliver killed his elderly wife, because he wanted her money, had grown tired of her, or wanted to marry his mistress – any reason would do. But even if there was someone on hand, such as myself, who would question these assumptions, then carefully laid traps along the way continually bring the issue back to proving Dunstable’s innocence and not another’s guilt.”
“Then you think Miss Marsh’s pregnancy was known to the real murderer?”
“Oh yes. I imagine the hapless Dunstable has been followed and observed for months, and has played quite happily into the hands of a ruthless killer. This moment has been chosen carefully, because all the pieces were in place. Dunstable has practically hanged himself. I should not be at all surprised to find he had taken the kindly advice of some well wisher who told him where to buy tansy oil and what uses to put it to. The man walks around with his head in the clouds. He married Josie without a moment’s thought as to what his future might be, tied to an old and sick woman, he began his affair in the same casual manner, not thinking how he could cope should she become pregnant, and he did not even have the sense to keep his private life, private.”
“What are we to do about it?”
“I’m going to break out of this cycle, if it is the last thing I do. I’m tired of dancing to another’s tune. Gratten is not helping matters, suspecting Dunstable and forcing me to keep bailing the boy out. I am going to see him tomorrow, then I am going to speak to Mrs. Gedney – and the devil fly away with her husband it he tries to stop me.”
“Cadmus, I worry about your motives.”
He frowned at her, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She almost quailed beneath the aggression in his voice, but bravely continued,
“You seem so very sure Dunstable is innocent, but I wonder if your determination to clear his name stems not from your conviction of his innocence, but the conviction that you, having made known your opinion, cannot possibly admit to being wrong. You fly in the face of all the evidence with no more to back you than your own intuition…” Now her voice did trail away, for the scowl had grown black as night and she knew his was furiously angry with her.
“Thank you for that touching speech of support, dear wife.”
Her voice trembled, but she refused to be cowed, “I will be supportive, Cadmus, when I think you are right, but I cannot quash my own opinions just because they do not tally with yours. If you wanted a compliant wife, you should have chosen one without a mind of her own.”
The frown lifted as swiftly as it had descended, “Damn your principles, Verity. I don’t think I will ever grow accustomed to having someone around me who is prepared to disagree. The position of tutor to a gaggle of boys was much more suited to my overbearing personality Very well, I shall prove to you, too, that though Dunstable is an idiot, he is not a murderer.”
“I’m not saying I think him guilty, I just don’t have your confidence in his innocence.”
“I accept your challenge, my dear. Dunstable shall be left without a stain on his character.”
“He could never be that, Cadmus, after all he has done,” she countered reasonably, “But I shall look forward to his being delivered from the gallows by your hand.”
*
CHAPTER TWELVE
(“Ab Asino Lanam” – Literally “Wool from an ass” – Anyone who attempts the impossible is doomed to failure)
It was quiet and cool in the church and with a feeling of relief and consolation; Gilbert sank to his knees at the altar rail and gave himself up to contemplation and peace. The vicarage was daily filling with more and more people and the vicar was finding it increasingly difficult to get time alone for the renewal of his inner spirit. The church was his last refuge and one where he knew his brother would not follow. Underwood avoided religion assiduously, unless forced.
Gil had intended to pray but he found his mind wandering. The colours which were cast upon the stone floor by the sun-filled stain-glass windows swam before his unfocused gaze. Never, in the past, had he felt that God was not with him when he entered a church, but he experienced nothing but emptiness and abandonment today. The knuckles of his intertwined fingers grew white and he unconsciously clenched his muscles. His face lost its customary calmness, and deep furrows marred his brow as he sank his head into his hands, “Oh God!” he groaned aloud, the words wrenched from him in anguish.
By the time he rose his knees ached with long contact with the cold floor and there was a determined set to his mouth which belied the misery in his eyes. He had struggled with his feelings for over an hour and had left his church decided upon a course of action.
The object of his deliberations was seated upon the stone bench set within the thick walls of the porch and she smiled tremulously when she saw him. There was no answering smile on his lips, but a slight tremble in his hand as he pulled the great oak door closed behind him, “Mrs. Pennington, I did not expect to see you here.”
“Do I intrude upon your time?” she asked softly. He quickly realized he sounded unfriendly and forced himself to be more solicitous, “Oh course not. Would you care to look around the church?”
“Some other time perhaps.
”
“Very well. Where is Alistair?”
“Some of the elderly ladies at the Pump-rooms insisted that I leave him in their charge and get a little air. They suggested I looked a little tired and…”
The way she trailed off without finishing the sentence made him glance sharply at her and he saw that she did indeed look in need of a respite from her nursing duties. She was terribly pale and looked even more unhappy than when he had first beheld her.
“Can I offer you some tea? It is only a step to the vicarage.”
“I should like that very much, but do you think you could sit here with me for a moment first? I have something I would like to say to you.”
“Certainly,” his words held no hint of the reluctance he felt. Suddenly he wanted nothing less than to sit beside her, in his church porch, listening to whatever she had to say. He had the uncomfortable notion he was not going to enjoy the conversation.
He sat, but left as wide a gap between them as it was possible to do. She watched him, her eyes widening slightly when she noticed his distance and his discomfiture.
“Rev. Underwood, I must ask, have I offended you in some way?”
His startled glance flew to her face, then dropped immediately away, “Great Heavens! Of course not. What on earth gave you any such idea?”
“I… I noticed you seemed to be avoiding me. When you first made yourself known to Alistair and myself, I thought you wanted to offer the hand of friendship, but since then you have barely spoken to us, and when you do, you seem cold and distant – oh dear! I sound very forward and strange, but I was so alone and I felt instinctively you were a kind man…” she stopped abruptly, and turning her face away from him she tried again to explain, stumbling over her words, “Oh, what a fool I am making of myself. Pray excuse me, I was wrong to do this … I shall leave you alone…” she rose to leave but he reached out and caught her hand, “Please don’t go, Mrs. Pennington. This whole sorry mess is my fault and you do deserve an explanation.”
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 11