Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2)

by Suzanne Downes

  He frowned, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because that idiot of a nephew of mine left town the same day, and we haven’t heard from him since”

  It was Underwood’s turn to slump into a convenient seat; “Vivian Pepper has left Hanbury?” he managed to murmur, still not quite able to assimilate the information fully.

  She was frantic with worry and this made her more than usually irascible,

  “Of course Vivian! How many idiot nephews do you think I possess?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. And for God’s sake, open your ears Do you walk around completely blind and deaf to all that is going on? It has been the subject of gossip for the past week that Verity and Vivian disappeared on the same day, after spending every waking moment together and flirting madly with each other. The fact that she is having a baby and you apparently knew nothing of it is giving the real scandalmongers food for much imaginative talk. They are saying they met before, in Cambridge.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek as his jaw tightened, “Verity has never been in Cambridge. I fear I must take my leave of you, Lady Hartley-Wells.”

  “Pray do so – but for Heaven’s sake, find your wife and my nephew before this goes beyond repair!”

  His tone was curiously tight and unemotional as he replied, “I can assure you, my wife is with my mother and certainly not with your witless nephew.”

  “I hope you prove to be correct, sir.”

  As he reached the door she called to him, “How is the Collinson girl? With all this, I almost forgot to enquire after her.”

  “Still unconscious – and likely to slip away at any moment.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “So am I. She was the only chance I had of saving an innocent man from the gallows.”

  *

  It was with a less than jaunty step that Underwood approached the door of the vicarage, only to be almost bowled off his feet by the sudden advent of his brother, who had jerked open the door and set off down the path at a neck-breaking run. He skidded to a halt when faced with Underwood, “Thank heavens, Chuffy! I was just coming to find you.”

  “Having found me, might I be allowed to know the reason for this unbecoming haste?”

  “I sent an express letter to mother, and she has sent one in reply.”

  Underwood said nothing, but raised an enquiring brow. Gil, for some reason, felt compelled to explain his actions, “I was worried about Verity, so I wrote.”

  “Presumably mother is on her way here with Verity, thanks to your interference”

  Gil’s hands dropped helplessly to his sides, the letter drifting from his suddenly nerveless fingers, “I wish to God that were the case, Chuffy. Mother is coming, but she will be alone. Verity is not there.”

  Underwood had the curious sensation of having been punched directly in the stomach. He had only once before experienced the horrible sickening loss of air which now assailed him, when as a boy he had fallen out of a tree onto his back, and that feeling of fighting for breath was one which he had never forgotten. He stared uncomprehendingly at his sibling, so blank was his expression that Gil felt it necessary to repeat his news, “Chuffy, Verity is not with mother. She has never been there. Mother had no idea she was gone, nor did she know about the baby.”

  “My God! What have I done?” The anguished whisper went straight to Gil’s heart, for in spite of his behaviour over the past few days, he held his brother in the greatest respect and affection.

  The sound of footsteps outside the gate and voices floating on the warm afternoon air suddenly reminded him of their situation and he realized this conversation could not be continued on the front path. He took his brother’s arm and gently led him indoors, speaking comfortingly as he did so, “Don’t blame yourself, Chuffy…”

  “Who else should I blame?” was the bitter rejoinder, “Because of my selfishness, my wife is alone in the world! She could be ill, hurt, frightened, dead! And I was so arrogant I thought I knew how her mind worked. I thought I need only wait for her to come crawling back to me.”

  “Not quite that, old fellow.” They had reached the door of Gil’s study and the housekeeper’s face appeared around the corner of the passageway leading to the kitchen. She opened her mouth to speak, but Gil silenced her with a lifted hand and a shake of his head. She took one look at the ashen-faced Underwood and swiftly retreated. Gil took him into the study and closed the door.

  “Oh, yes! Precisely that I was relying on her adoration of me, as I have since the first day I met her.”

  “I think you are being unnecessarily harsh with yourself. You were in an appalling situation, the like of which you have never dealt with before. Neither of you were thinking clearly.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, Gil. I have made a rare mess of my marriage from beginning to end! I should have listened to my own fears and objections. I should have known I was too old for her, and too selfish and set in my ways to change.”

  “Chuffy, Verity loves you, and always has. I’m sure you can be reconciled.”

  “If I can find her! Gil, you were the last to see her, did she give you no hint of her intentions?”

  Gil had the grace to look shame-faced, “I’m sorry, Chuffy, but I suspect she left because I was remiss enough to tell her that you believed she and I were … emotionally involved.”

  Underwood was incredulous, “You told her that? My God, Gil, what were you thinking of?”

  “Well, that was what you said,” muttered Gil, in a tone of self-defence which made him sound remarkably like the irritating little brother Underwood had almost forgotten had ever existed.

  “You half-wit! No wonder she has left me. Surely your own common sense must have told you those words were spoken in haste and deeply repented.”

  “I should think they were. Not that Verity or I were ever offered an apology for so gross a slur…”

  “I apologise” interrupted Underwood tersely, “Now, can you remember anything she said which might have given some clue to her whereabouts?”

  “No, she merely said she was mortified at having come between us and that she knew how to put it right. I never thought for a moment she intended to leave.”

  “Do you not know of any friend or acquaintance with whom she might stay?”

  “I know nothing more than you – she’s your wife!”

  “Thank you, Gil. Why not just plunge a knife between my ribs and twist it?”

  Gil smiled weakly and apologetically, “Sorry,” he thought carefully for a moment before adding, “Who was that elderly lady she went to see a few weeks back?”

  Underwood pondered the question; “I don’t remember the name. Perhaps someone else does. Thank you, Gil.”

  “Is there anything more I can do?”

  Underwood stared at his brother, almost unseeing, before he replied, “Yes, you can stay here and wait for the arrival of mama. I, for once, will turn my much-lauded detective skills towards something vaguely useful. I shall find my wife, if it takes the rest of my worthless life!”

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  (“Vulneratus Non Victus” – Bloodied, but unbowed – Literally, “Wounded but not conquered”)

  Her face was far more attractive in repose than it had ever been when animated, probably because only such base interests as greed and spite had ever caused a flicker of emotion. Underwood, taking his turn at nursemaid to the still insensible Collinson, had found ample time to reflect on this fact and many others besides. He wondered how Gedney could have brought himself to seduce this unpleasant girl, and having done so, how he could then coldly dispense with her. What was more vitally important, he pondered on his own next move. Each day that passed made her recovery more and more unlikely, and her death would seal the fate of the unfortunate Dunstable. His new wife would undoubtedly avoid the hangman’s noose by “pleading her belly” as the parlance went, added to her extreme youth and naivete, but this did
not much comfort the man upon whom they had both placed their trust and reliance.

  Presently he was joined by Toby, who had come to take his turn at the bedside, “Any change?”

  “No, our sleeping beauty still sleeps.”

  “Well, go and get your own rest, but I may as well warn you, I’ll be gone when you wake.” Underwood looked startled at this sudden announcement, “I’m sorry to hear that, my friend. Any particular reason?”

  The big man shrugged, “I was going to have to go sooner or later, but frankly it just isn’t the same without Mrs. Underwood here.”

  “True enough. The house is empty without her – and believe me, no one regrets her absence more than I.”

  “Do something about it then.”

  “I’m doing my best, Toby, but she has not left me much to work upon.”

  “I’m sure a man of your intelligence can find his wife.”

  “I’ve been to every livery stable in town. No one admits to having hired a horse or carriage out to her.”

  Toby grinned, “And what does that tell you, Mr. Underwood?”

  “That someone hired it for her – my God! You are not trying to tell me that she really is with that witless Vivian Pepper?”

  “For someone so very clever, you can be remarkably obtuse, my dear sir. She left on foot.”

  Underwood looked relieved for a moment, the his expression clouded again,

  “On foot? In her condition? Where the devil is the nearest town where she could catch the Stage?”

  “I’ve no idea. But I’ll know tomorrow, because I’ll be boarding one myself.”

  “Would it make any difference if I asked you not to go?”

  “No, but thank you for saying it. It means a great deal to have been befriended by you and your family. I heard about your little contretemps with Gedney. It was good of you to speak in my defence.”

  “I just wish he hadn’t been drunk, then I could have taken him outside and struck him as he so richly deserved.”

  Toby laughed, “I’d rather you did not. You have a reputation to uphold.”

  “My reputation would be well lost for that cause.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your reputation, I meant your brother’s.”

  *

  The afternoon sun sent darts and spears of dancing light between the gently stirring leaves of the mossy old apple tree and Underwood felt himself drifting into the first decent sleep he had experienced for weeks. The stone garden bench was not the most comfortable of couches, but his head rested on an ancient velvet cushion which smelled pleasantly musty, rather like the interior of an old country church, reminding him of a time when being in such places had been a pleasure to him and not the trial it had become in later years. After two days of rain the air smelled fragrantly earthy, a slight breeze took the overwhelming heat out of the day and he deliberately cleared his mind and allowed slumber to creep over him, knowing that if he thought about any one of his problems, then all idea of rest would be immediately banished. Callous as it might seem to outside observers, he knew he needed some sleep desperately, or his ever-precarious health would break under the strain.

  He heard his name spoken by a woman, but not the feminine tones he longed to hear, so it was languid grace that he opened his heavy-lidded grey eyes and hoisted himself first into a sitting position, then reluctantly to his feet, “Mrs. Gedney,” he said, with patient resignation, “How may I be of assistance?”

  She did not look well, though she had never been a particularly attractive woman, having a bitter set to her thin lips, a long sharp nose and dark rings continually circling her eyes. He observed a tightly controlled panic about her and knew that the moment of truth had arrived. He was immediately alert, though he showed no physical evidence of the sharpening of his every sense.

  “I have come to ask a favour of you, sir.”

  “I’m sure you have, madam, but I fail to see any service which I might render you.”

  She drew in a deep, exasperated breath, expanding her already ample figure and looking for all the world like a harried hen, “Please stop playing games, Mr. Underwood. You know to what I refer!”

  “You are mistaken, I have no idea. I was lying here, in my brother’s garden, minding my own affairs, taking a well-earned rest. You have trespassed on his property, obtruded into my leisure time, and begun to throw unwarranted accusations about. I cannot charge myself with ever having played games – and certainly not with any member of your family.”

  She made an obvious effort to not lose her temper and her tone was conciliatory, “Mr. Gratten has now arrested Dunstable for my mother’s murder. I have come to ask you to allow the matter to follow its logical course.”

  He gazed at her from beneath a quizzically raised brow, “What makes you think I intend to do anything else?”

  “Well, let us not prevaricate! All through this unfortunate affair, you have championed Dunstable, insisting on his innocence, when every shred of evidence pointed to his undoubted guilt. I merely require your word that you will now accept the right man is in gaol.”

  “Why? I am powerless to change Mr. Gratten’s mind. What difference does my opinion make?”

  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then apparently decided she had no choice but to be honest with him, “The Assurance Companies are refusing to pay out, and they have persuaded my mother’s solicitor and man of business to hold up the proceedings. We cannot touch any of her money because you have placed a doubt in their minds.”

  “Ah! I might have known this visit centred upon cold, hard cash. Nothing else could have prompted civility from you.”

  Her sallow skin took on a hue of dirty red, “Insult me if you must, but spare a thought for my daughter…”

  “Pray, do not say another word,” he interrupted harshly, holding up his hand as though to ward her off, “Of all the iniquities you could commit, bringing your child into this must be the most base.”

  “How could I not bring her into it? She is the one who will suffer from your obstinacy. Why will you not accept my husband’s innocence?”

  “Because, madam, your husband can lie faster than a stray dog trots.”

  “Mr. Underwood,” she tried to placate him, realizing that her present line of pleading was leading nowhere, “I understand that you do not like my husband. He is not a conciliating man, but that does not make him a murderer.”

  “Liking or disliking him has nothing to do with the case. You are either blind or extremely obtuse.”

  “Say anything you want to about me, or him, for that matter, but take pity on Melissa.”

  Underwood was suddenly very tired of the conversation, and he desired nothing more than to be rid of the woman. It was with liberation from her in his mind that he replied wearily, “Very well.”

  She looked startled at gaining so easy a victory, “You mean you are going to do as I ask?”

  “I mean you may think whatever you will, with my blessing. If it comforts you to imagine I will ever concede defeat, by all means imagine it.”

  Her face contorted with fury, “You beast! You are wicked to play such cruel games with me. Do you not think I have trouble enough with my unfortunate daughter, without you mocking me thus?”

  It was Underwood’s turn to lose his temper, and for once he put no curb upon it, “Wicked? You dare to speak to me of wicked, when you know what your husband had done? I strongly suspect you aided him. You are a pitiful, pathetic woman, Mrs. Gedney, but not because of the afflictions of your child. You are prepared to say anything, do anything, sacrifice anybody, for a few grubby gold coins – coins more tainted than Judas’ thirty pieces of silver. You are too stupid to understand that the man you seek to protect today, will be the murderer of yourself and your child tomorrow!”

  The colour drained from her face, leaving her skin with a yellowish tinge and emphasising the dark staining under her eyes, “You don’t know what you are talking about!”

  “I know exactly,
madam. Gedney is interested only in his own comfort and pleasure. You are only safe whilst he needs you. The moment Dunstable hangs and he feels himself protected from discovery, you and your daughter will merely be awaiting death. It will be slow and subtle. You will gradually weaken and have more and more bouts of illness, each one leaving you frailer than the last. No one will be in the least surprised when you finally succumb to the sicknesses which have dogged you. Count the hours, Mrs. Gedney!"

  “You are a liar!” she whispered.

  “Am I, madam?” he answered coldly, “Well, as I said before, you must believe whatever gives you comfort.”

  She stared at him for several long seconds before she managed to gasp, “I’ll tell you everything. I’ll turn King’s evidence against him.”

  “That won’t save you, Mrs. Gedney. You are of no use to me. A wife cannot testify against her husband. You had better pray Rachael Collinson wakes – and that when she does, she will remember who attacked her.”

  “Are you not going to help me?” she pleaded, losing all her bravado. He gave her a glance of withering contempt, “You do not deserve my help madam, but I will do my utmost to save your child.” With that he lay back down on the bench, his booted feet crossed at the ankles, his long fingers intertwined on his chest and his eyes determinedly closed. With relief he heard her footsteps die away down the path.

  He knew not how much later in the day it was when he was startled awake by an arm flung across his chest and an anguished voice in his ear, “My dear, I’m so sorry!”

  He opened weary eyes to find Charlotte Wynter kneeling by his side, her face close to his.

  “Good God!” he ejaculated and attempted to extricate himself. She pressed him back into his prone position, all sweet reasonableness, “Pray do not disturb yourself. I know you must have endured sleepless nights, worrying about the appalling behaviour of that thankless wife of yours. But please believe me when I say I always knew she was not worthy of you. Only I have ever loved you…”