None had been prepared for the size and magnificence of the sight which met their eyes. Great pillars of glistening limestone seemed to support the dripping roof of the cave, though they were informed that this was not really the case, the columns were the result of stalactites and stalagmites respectively falling and rising to meet each other over thousands of years.
It was bitterly cold, but no one noticed the chill, so great was the awe they felt at the unexpected beauty of the sparkling stone. As they gazed about them, fantastic shapes leapt and receded in the flickering candlelight and it was several minutes before anyone was inclined to break the silence.
On and on into the blackness reached the caves, too vast to be imagined and naturally too dangerous to fully explore, though they were led a little further on to see the cold darkness of a subterranean lake.
Catherine smiled at Alistair’s wide-eyed astonishment, and allowed him to reach forward and dip his fingers into the water, to feel for himself how icy it was.
It was with regret that they left the wonders of the caves behind them, but with profound relief that they emerged, squinting and half-blinded by the sunshine.
Their chosen picnic spot was charming, with a breath-taking view across the hills, a soft, bouncy sheep-cropped turf beneath them, convenient flat rocks off which they might dine, and a wind-breaking rocky outcrop to keep off the worst of the gusts. A small watercourse gurgled at their feet, wild flowers grew in profusion and the only nuisance was an occasional fly, which buzzed annoyingly about their heads as they ate.
With great good humour they invited their guides and drivers to join the feast and it was soon a very merry gathering, with Charlotte being gallantly, though respectfully, pursued by the guides, both personable young men, and Toby swapping pugilistic anecdotes with the two drivers.
The food was good and plentiful, Mrs. Trent had surpassed herself, and the only untoward incident occurred when Underwood found a chicken leg he was about to bite into wrenched from his grasp by Melissa, who, due to her muteness was unable to request anything. This being the case, she had grown accustomed to helping herself whenever she wanted something. Underwood’s surprise was comic to behold and everyone roared with laughter, even Melissa, though it was doubtful if she knew the real reason for their amusement.
When the food was finished, the adults relaxed and chatted. Francis and Ellen could only regret their son was too young to have enjoyed the treat, Catherine and Gil talked quietly, discovering each other, with perfect amity, whilst Melissa and Alistair played an hilarious game of catch, the boy proving himself quite capable of joining in, so long as the ball did not fall too far beyond the reach of his chair.
Verity took the opportunity to sketch not only the view, but her companions also, whilst they were unaware of being observed. Underwood watched her with undisguised admiration, for her talent was considerable. She seemed to be able to catch a perfect likeness with only a few deft strokes of her pencil, and he noticed, with amusement, that each picture was carefully dated and the place of execution noted.
“Why do you do that?” he asked, after watching her for some time.
“Draw?” she asked, puzzled, for he might just as well ask her why she breathed, and she thought he knew it.
“No; date, subject, place. It seems very organized behaviour for an artist. One always imagines talented people to be above such meticulous cataloguing.”
She laughed, “Well, you are talented too, but you do not think yourself above order and structure in you work.”
“True,” he granted, oblivious of any lack of modesty of which he could be accused, “But I have not that extra creativity which sets the artist, the poet, the writer, apart from the common herd.”
She laughed again, more heartily this time, “Now I know you are teasing me. You are a writer yourself – and in print.”
“Ah, but only in Academia, that is quite different, and you haven’t answered my question.”
She blushed rosily; “You will think me terribly conceited if I tell you.”
“Never! You are the least conceited woman I ever met – sometimes to your own detriment.”
She could not meet his eyes as he said this, and refused to respond to the accusation, merely murmuring, “Of course it gives me pleasure to sketch, and serves as a reminder of my days, but I hope one day that my drawings will tell future generations how we lived, they are a sort of illustrated diary.”
“I think that is a charming idea, and not in the least vain.”
“Thank you.”
“May I look?” With a nod she handed him the book. He noticed it was firmly bound, evidently rather an expensive purchase, for the paper was of good quality, and the pages could not be removed without tearing, so there was no margin for error. He realized as he flicked through that she had been busy whilst he had been taking his ease in Hanbury. Their visit was marked by at least one drawing, sometimes several, which she had done each day, sometimes in the early morning whilst waiting for him to ready himself for their daily sortie to the Pump-rooms, sometimes in the afternoons, in the quiet period just before tea. One in particular caught his attention, and with a carefully controlled edge of excitement to his voice he asked, “Do you remember drawing this, my dear?”
She glanced down without much interest, glanced away, then dragged her incredulous gaze back again, with a shock of recognition, “Good God!” she breathed.
“Do you remember drawing it?”
“I do now that I have seen it again. I thought his face looked familiar, but I sketch so many people …”
Underwood held the book a little closer and scrutinised the figures at the bottom of the page – he needed spectacles sometimes, but was too vain to wear them,
“This date certainly doesn’t agree with the information he gave us, Verity. According to this, he was in Hanbury at least three days before he had admitted to being there.”
She lifted her eyes to his; “Does this mean we have him, Cadmus?”
“It could. We will have to question him again, and if he persists in the lie, then we certainly have something to present to Mr. Gratten.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
Because they were in company with others, their conversation turned to other things, but their intense conversation had not been missed by several others in the party and not all were happy to see a lightening of the gloom, which had so recently surrounded them.
Charlotte flirted more outrageously than ever with her two country swains, but was infuriated to realize that Underwood was scarcely even aware of her presence, and far from being made jealous by her obvious popularity, was engrossed in his wife’s conversation. Isobel watched everything with severe misgivings, knowing well that her sister was likely to reinforce her determined pursuit of Underwood, now that she had been thwarted.
Only Catherine and Gil seemed a world apart. True to his word, the vicar gave no sign, by word or action, that he considered the young widow to be anything other than a charming companion. She found it hard to believe he had ever spoken words of love to her, so calm was his demeanour, and she was acutely grateful that he had made it so easy for her to be in his company, for the truth was she very much enjoyed it. She had feared a feeling of embarrassment or even diffidence, but within seconds of being with her, he had set her at her ease. With this new relaxed atmosphere between them, Gil was at his best; content to be with her, without the weight of his unspoken emotions casting a cloud over his personality, he was free to be the man only his family usually saw. Because of their differing religions, he was not required to be a minister – in fact was at some pains not to be so, and with this serious side to his nature removed, Catherine found a witty, humorous, kind and intelligent man.
As the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, and the shadows grew long, they packed the remains of their feast into the baskets, hoisted them and themselves back into the carriages and set off for home, all content with what had been on the whole a very ag
reeable outing.
There were more treats in store, for Lady Hartley-Wells, much impressed by their Christian actions in caring for the two invalid children, had arranged a magnificent dinner party followed by a musical soiree.
Underwood was less than pleased when he was informed that he was to be part of the entertainment, but Verity’s pleading glance could not be ignored, and he at last consented to performing a duet upon the pianoforte with his wife. He was a reticent man, but not entirely without vanity, so the enthusiastic applause was accepted with a wry smile and a kiss on his partner’s hand.
One look at her sister’s face caused Isobel even more discomfort. Charlotte was livid and made no attempt to hide it. She was sure now that Verity was deliberately showing off her talents in order to expose Charlotte’s shortcomings. It seemed now that the whole day had been a procession of events which displayed all Verity’s charms and accomplishments and Charlotte, who had at first been inclined to despise and discount the importance of her former governess, was now coming perilously close to hating her with a passion rarely experienced before.
Verity, blissfully unaware of all the malevolence, merely enjoyed the evening and was delighted to see that her husband and brother-in-law seemed to do likewise.
It was, perhaps, just as well that they had spent a pleasant day, for there was a shock awaiting them which was to seriously mar their memories of the occasion.
*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
(“Ad Utrumque Partatus” – Ready for either eventuality – good or bad)
Underwood had no presentiment of disaster when he noticed a letter addressed to himself propped against the mantle clock. It was in Oliver Dunstable’s rather untidy script, and if it looked to be even more of a scrawl than usual, Underwood merely put that down to being written in haste.
Written in haste indeed it was. As he scanned the few lines it contained, Underwood’s face grew pale and Verity, always alert to her husband’s moods asked, in sudden panic, “What has happened?”
Underwood sank into the nearest chair, crumpling the missive between his hands and dropping his head, as though physically crushed by the news it imparted,
“The witless idiot! The mindless, stupid, heedless young fool!”
“What is it?” demanded Verity, in a voice so compelling that he raised his head and looked at her, as though suddenly remembering her presence, “I’m sorry, my dear, but if you only knew … Tell me, what could the boy do that would be more fatal than anything else?”
“He’s run away?” suggested his wife tentatively.
“Worse! He’s run away with Miss Marsh – and he fully intends to marry her.”
“Good God!”
“’Good’! There is no goodness in the god that overlooks me. How am I to explain this to the Constable and the Magistrate? I persuaded them both to release Dunstable into my custody, assuring them of his continued presence in Hanbury. I’ll be fortunate if I don’t find myself behind bars, charged with aiding and abetting a murderer.”
“It will not come to that, I’m sure. They know you acted with the best of intentions.”
“You know what they say about the road to Hell and good intentions, Verity. Damn the boy! I could strangle him myself for this folly. What chance does he imagine he has now of avoiding the hangman’s noose?”
“Perhaps he will leave the country.”
“I suppose he may, but he must know he can never return if he does. His actions have confirmed him as his wife’s murderer – and the real culprit will have evaded justice.”
“If that is so, then there is nothing we can do about it, but I feel we ought to contact Mr. Gratten immediately. The longer we delay, the worse it looks for us.”
“Very true. I had better take myself off right away.”
“Can you not send a message? You are so tired. It has been a long day…”
“It is going to be an even longer night. Don’t wait up for me. I fear I may be late.”
Verity looked into his eyes and she knew he feared he might not be coming home at all. He had spoken nothing less than the truth when he voiced a dread of gaol, though he had tried to make light of it not to frighten her. The constable was likely to take a very dim view of Underwood’s loss of the major suspect in a murder investigation – especially when he had been so adamant in championing the one man every one else thought guilty. Immediately she picked up her cape from where she had laid it on the sofa when they entered the house, and draped it about her shoulders,
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Please Cadmus. I will speak to Mr. Gratten and explain how this was no fault of yours. He may be more inclined to listen to reason from a woman…”
“I said no, and I meant it. This is my error and I will take the consequences alone.”
“But…”
He held up his hand for silence, “My dear, never since our wedding day have I asked you to honour the vow of obedience you made – I am asking you now.”
“When we faced Gil at the altar, Cadmus, we also spoke of ‘better and worse’,” she reminded him gently. He smiled, the smile which reminded her why she loved him so desperately, because when it reached his grey eyes, it turned them smoky with desire, like embers which look dead, but which one knows one only has to stir to bring them back to a leaping flame.
“You must have known even then there was going to be far more ‘worse’ than ‘better’.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said throatily.
He reached out for her hand and kissed it, “Bless your heart for that, my dear, but still you stay here.”
With a sigh she acceded to his order.
*
Mr. Gratten greeted Underwood congenially, though he was evidently surprised at the tardiness of the visit, “’Evening Underwood, rather late for a social call, so I assume you have some news for me. Had a breakthrough, have you?”
“Not exactly. Shall we have a seat?”
Gratten obligingly led him into the drawing room and once they were both comfortably settled, Underwood wasted no time in breaking the bad news, “I’m sorry to have to tell you we have a problem, Mr. Gratten – rather a serious one.”
Poor Gratten, with no idea of the tidal wave that was about to engulf him, smiled cheerfully, “Whatever it is, I’m sure I can rely on you to solve it, dear fellow.”
“Not this time, sir. Dunstable has taken it into his head to go travelling.”
Underwood, rather callously, watched in complete fascination as the colour slowly drained from his companion’s normally ruddy countenance; it was as though someone had turned off a tap and the blood had simply poured away. It was several tense seconds before the Constable was able to speak, then his voice was a croak of disbelief, “Travelling?” he repeated faintly, sounding winded, “Are you trying to tell me he has left Hanbury – after all the warnings he was given of the serious consequences of such an action?”
“He has.”
“But of course you know his destination?” His tone was more hopeful than the question implied.
“No.”
“And he intends to return when?”
“The letter he left for me indicates that he does indeed intend to return when … when he has settled the business which calls him away, but whether he will actually do so is a matter for conjecture, as is the duration of his absence.”
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Gratten, suddenly recovering full use of his voice, “This is dreadful. Do you realize what this means?”
Underwood felt that the elderly gentleman did not really require any input from him at this juncture, so wisely held his tongue. Gratten continued without drawing breath, “It means he did it. He has duped us all, with that heartfelt weeping, and youthful air of innocence. We have let a murderer escape. By Jupiter, Sir Alfred Dorrington is going to love this snippet.”
Mr. Underwood felt it behoved him to intervene, “I beg you will be calm, sir. It means nothing of the
sort. Dunstable is the kind of hot-headed young fool who bows to the prevailing wind, but he is not a killer. The truth of the matter is he has a young lady friend who is expecting his child – he wants – not unnaturally – to marry her before the child is born.”
If Underwood hoped this news would soften the blow for Gratten, he was destined to be sadly disappointed, for that gentleman grew almost apoplectic,
“Marriage… pregnancy… Oh God! Oh God!”
Underwood glanced swiftly about the room and spotted a decanter on a side table and quickly crossed the room to fill a glass for his afflicted companion. Gratten tossed off the liquid in one mouthful, then choked alarmingly and managed to gasp,
“Ratafia for the ladies! Are you trying to kill me?”
“I do beg your pardon.”
Gratten managed to bring himself under control and finally turned his anger upon the one who had been momentarily expecting it, “This is your doing, Underwood. Why in hell did I ever listen to you? I should have followed my first instinct and thrown the young puppy straight into gaol.”
“Mr. Gratten, believe me I entirely understand your anger, but even in spite of this occurrence, I still maintain Dunstable is innocent of murdering his wife. Admittedly he is guilty of almost every other folly and vice you care to name, but that doesn’t make him an assassin.”
The constable, however, was in no mood for rational thought, “Give me one good reason why I should believe anything you say, and why I should not now throw you in prison for aiding the escape of a suspected felon.”
“I don’t have one,” said Underwood candidly. Gratten looked on the point of a heart attack, but he managed to hiss viciously, “Get out of my sight, Underwood. And pray, pray hard, that Mr. Dunstable decides to return to Hanbury in the next few days.”
*
Verity was in bed, though not asleep, when Underwood crept up the stairs, so as not to disturb the slumbering household, all of whom had fallen into bed before he and Verity had even read Dunstable’s fateful missive, and so knew nothing of the latest developments. She laid aside her book as he entered the bedroom, and one look at his face told her not to try and say anything cheering. He began to dispiritedly divest himself of his garments and she watched him silently as he threw aside his coat and began to loosen his cravat. The relief she felt at his safe return was reflected in her loving glance, but Underwood did not look at her.
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 13