“Well this one was placed in his dead hand, so no coincidence there,” remarked Francis, then bit his lip. This was more than he had intended to divulge. He still had some loyalty to the Constable.
“Interesting,” mused Underwood. “I begin to see that it has some hidden significance, but I doubt we shall ever know what, unless we find the killer. Keep it to yourself and ask Sir George to do the same, will you, Francis? I think that may help us later so the fewer people who know about it, the better.”
Francis was glad enough to move on, “Very well. Now, about the angle that the shot entered the forehead?”
“Verity and I surmised that the victim was either sitting or kneeling when the bullet was fired into the skull.”
The doctor’s face cleared as though he had been vouchsafed some blinding revelation, “Of course! That must be it. I don’t mind telling you, Underwood, that had me foxed. I was looking for traces of a duel, as instructed by Sir George but the powder burns on the skin told me that the pistol had been discharged from close quarters.”
“Ah, the dangers of assumption,” said Underwood rather smugly. “If you had gone to that field without any preconceptions, you would have seen more clearly how the deed had been done. Our beloved Constable did you no favours in setting the scene for you.”
The doctor had to admit the truth of this. He had indeed gone to investigate what he had been told was a duel resulting in a death and therefore what he had seen made no sense to him. He was grateful now that he had spoken to Underwood before writing his report for the Constable. His notes would give a much more coherent account of the evidence now.
“So if the culprit is not one of the Wablers, then who the devil is it?”
“The newspaper report told of two young men leaving town soon after the murder, but not much more is known about them – and sadly with the sudden influx of visitors to Hanbury for Jeremy James’ birthday, we would be searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“Then how do you propose to find him or them?” asked the doctor.
“Or indeed her,” murmured Underwood thoughtfully.
“You think it could have been a woman?” asked Francis, shocked to the core that such an eventuality could even be considered. In his experience women were creatures of gentleness and raised to nurture not to kill. To suspect that a female could be callous enough to force a man to his knees then deliberately place a gun to his head and pull the trigger – no, it was inconceivable!
Underwood would have liked to reassure him, but he had a sudden vision of a woman dressed all in black, a smoking pistol in her hand. Even the veil she wore over her face was not sufficient to disguise the implacable iciness in her eyes as she watched the dead man she had just shot fall to the ground.
Alas, time and his long illness had served only to wipe his memory clean of everything about her but the vague shape of her in her black garb and her stony glance. He was sure that he would not now recognize her if he met her on the street – but suddenly it was vital that he did. He needed her to be unconnected with these crimes, for if he was faced with the fact of her guilt, what would he do? He owed her his life and it would be a poor way to repay that debt by sending her to the gallows.
Francis looked at his friend’s face, suddenly pale, a faraway look in his eyes as though he was seeing something horrifying.
“Underwood, are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
Underwood dragged his mind back into the present with an effort, “Of course, my dear fellow. Now, where were we?”
“You were about to tell him how you intend to trap our killer,” said the doctor.
“Ah, yes. The eternal puzzle; how to find someone about whom you have not the slightest notion? I think the answer must lie in Pennyfather’s past, since his death would appear to have no connection with his present behaviour. Just in case I am mistaken, however, my first act must be to track down the young lady from the Pump Rooms who would appear to have caused the unfortunate contretemps between Swann and the dead man.”
“And if she has no information to share?”
“Then the Wablers and others must be prevailed upon to tell all about their erstwhile comrade.”
“You won’t find it easy to persuade them to drag their fellow-soldier’s name through the mud, no matter how much they may have despised him.”
“I know,” said Underwood with concern. He was only too aware of the bonds that tied the fighting man to his regiment. “But they must be made to see that it could be the only way to save Swann and Tredgett from the gallows.”
There seemed to be nothing more to add, so Underwood took his leave, after being reminded by his friend to pick up his hat and cane, which had been left by the front door and which he was about to walk off without retrieving.
As he was leaving the house, he met Sir George just arriving. The older man spluttered with annoyance at seeing him there, but he smiled serenely and wished both gentlemen a pleasant day.
The Constable watched him as he sauntered off down the street, swinging his cane and lifting his hat in greeting when he met an acquaintance or two.
“Dammit it all, Dr Herbert, what are you about, allowing Underwood to interfere in this matter?”
The doctor was also observing his friend as he disappeared down the road and he smiled indulgently, “My dear Sir George, you know as well as I do that if this crime is to be solved, then Underwood is the man to do it.”
“Humph!” said Sir George and turned to enter the house, “Damned popinjay. What is it about him that makes my blood boil?”
“You know you are exceptionally fond of him really,” said Francis. “I still recall your devastation last year when you thought his final hours had come.”
“Yes, but then I was anticipating a lifetime without him – an exceedingly different matter than contending with his antics when he is very much alive!”
Dr Herbert laughed, “Come in, sir, and let me get you some tea. I’m afraid I have to tell you that Underwood had some very useful insights into our murder, so sadly you are going to have to contend with his antics for a little longer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
(Extract from a journal discovered by C H Underwood, Winter, 1829)
We need not have worried. There was never a hint that anyone suspected me or X for my father’s murder. The trick with the bell had worked perfectly and all were convinced that we had been safely indoors when some violent footpad had accosted my father, robbed and killed him. The authorities tried not to divulge the details of his injuries, but the newspapers relished the sordid tale and the below-stairs gossip speculated that the nature of his wounds pointed towards an angry lover rather than a sneak thief – and there were plenty of those to choose from! I had taken the trouble to search and empty his pockets before fleeing, but it fooled no one. He had left too many mistreated people in his wake for anyone to believe his death was random.
Being the most grievously ill-treated one of all, I was curiously insulted not to be suspected, but the truth was that that devil incarnate had done his work too well. His years of lies about me meant that I was viewed as little better than a half wit, barely able to feed myself let alone plan and execute a murder, leaving no clues as to the identity of the killer.
The relief amongst lawyers and distant relatives was universal when X made it clear that I was to retain the services of one who could be trusted to keep me safe and closeted as had been the case before.
Of course my father, true to form, had lied about the will too. He had tried to fool me into not ending his life by offering a worse future, but it was all nonsense – not that I would have cared to have been left in penury – I wanted nothing from him!
It was true that he had bequeathed the house to a distant cousin, but most of the money had been my mother’s and the principle was untouched by him. I now discovered that he had married my mother for her money though it did him no good, for her own father had despised him on sight. He had only allowed
the marriage because my smitten mother had begged and pleaded to be allowed to follow her heart and would not be deterred. She learned later that she had made a grave error in ignoring her father’s strictures.
However, my grandfather had not been a complete cat’s paw. He tied her money up tight before the wedding. He left trusts allowing her to draw upon the interest of the investments, but she could never use the capital as long as my father lived. He, of course, had tried everything to break the entails, but Grandfather was no fool.
Sadly his foresight had ensured my own misery, for he had left all to me, but only if I should marry. This would keep the money out of my father’s hands, for which spouse would hand over an inheritance to their father-in-law? Small wonder then, that he had been determined to keep me by him until he could find a marriage partner who would suit his own purposes.
It was a problem that was soon solved. X had a widowed friend, elderly but trustworthy, who was willing to wed me for a small consideration. The deed was soon done and the happy couple parted perfectly amicably straight afterwards.
I was delighted to leave the house to my cousin, but I did two things before I left.
I took all my mother’s jewels and bade X take them out of the house in secret and hide them. They were not mentioned in any will of my departed relatives including my mother – but then, apparently, she had either not expected to die, or my father had destroyed her last wishes – I suspected the latter. I was determined that I would not leave them for the future wife of my cousin to wear. I would sooner have cast them into the sea.
Then I had X cut every single button from my father’s clothes – I could not bring myself to touch or look at them – then between us we took the garments into the garden and burnt every last scrap of material.
The buttons were put into a box and kept by me. I had already begun to formulate a vague plan as to how I would occupy myself and the despised bits of bone, silver and wood might have a future use. But even if I never looked at them again, they represented my freedom – never again would I have to cower in fear merely at the sight and sound of a button coming undone.
When all was accomplished X and I walked away into a new life with new identities, never to return.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘Captatio Benevolentiae’ – A bid for the goodwill of hearers or readers
After consulting his wife, Underwood concluded that in order to interview the Wablers and other assorted brethren of the sword and gun; he needed to take them away from their usual haunts. Trying to hold their attention in the Pump Rooms or the various hostelries they enjoyed was like trying to catch floating dandelion seeds on a windy day. The moment a woman arrived on the scene or a round of drinks was ordered, they were off like hounds after a hare.
It was Verity who suggested afternoon tea at Windward House. If the invitation issued from the lady of the house, no refusal was tenable and once she had lured them in and filled them to the point of bursting with tea and cake, they would be nicely lulled almost to insensibility and susceptible to the rigorous questioning which Underwood intended to deliver.
If the likes of Joshua Thickbroome were surprised to be summoned by the jolly little Mrs Underwood, he was far too mannerly to mention it or indeed fail to attend.
Verity at least had the consolation of knowing that once tea was over, she could escape into the garden with Adeline, who would be needed to bring Jeremy James as she hardly dared trust any of the Wablers not to tip him into the hedge in an excess of wheel-chair pushing enthusiasm. The only member of the group who was really fit enough to take the weight of the major and his chair was Freddie Meadows and his eyesight was so poor that he could not be relied upon to see the ditch before it was too late.
The plan worked beautifully. Everyone in Hanbury had the greatest affection for Verity, with her kind heart, patient listening skills, wise advice and the knowledge that nothing she heard would ever go any further. At various times all the Wablers had either confided in her or elicited her aid in matters of romance, or dealing with angry parents. Added to all that was her wicked sense of humour, which made allowances for drunken indiscretions and made no reminder of the embarrassment the next morning. Such a woman, who offered no threat of misunderstanding any approach or moodiness when offence was given but not intended, was bound to be universally popular and indeed she was.
With the Wablers on their best behaviour, Underwood realized that this was the first time most of them had been to his home. Jeremy James and Adeline were frequent visitors, but the rest of them were a little younger and far more inclined towards roistering and wenching than to be his boon companions. He fully understood that their behaviour had connections with their experiences of war so he never judged, but equally he never allowed himself to be too closely entwined in their world. It would be truer to say that Verity knew them all far better than he did, despite the chasm which ought to separate a respectable wife and mother and a group of out-of-control and physically and emotionally maimed men.
Despite the odd situation in which they found themselves, the old soldiers soon made themselves at home and demolished the tea Verity had provided. Only Thickbroome was ill-at-ease, wondering about the purpose of the meeting, for he was entirely sure it was not simply to take tea with an amusing, if slightly matronly, housewife. He could not know that he was vastly underestimating Verity, who was quite as intelligent as her husband, as well as being an accomplished and intuitive artist and portrait painter.
When the table was cleared, Verity encouraged Adeline to go and see the garden, which was looking at its loveliest, thanks to Toby’s hard work. Underwood could take no credit for the lush growth and colourful borders. He knew the Latin names for flowers, but he couldn’t have pointed out a hollyhock if his life depended upon it.
He waited until the ladies had retired, then he turned his attention to the military men.
“Gentlemen, I have to admit this tea party has a purpose and you must now cast aside any notion that I will go easy upon you just because you are guests under my roof. You are, of course, entirely free to leave and refuse to discuss Pennyfather’s murder, but I feel I must warn you that to do so will avail you nothing. If you do not confide in me now, then you will be forced to speak to Sir George Gratten later – and he will not make any allowances for you as I, as a friend, am inclined to do.”
There was a general disgruntled muttering, but no one rose to leave, knowing that he spoke nothing but the truth. They could not hide behind their code of honour forever, not now that one of their number was dead by the hand of another.
“What is it you want to know, Underwood?” asked Jeremy James at last, realizing that none of the others were inclined to be the first to break ranks.
“I want you to tell me as much as you know about Pennyfather. I fully comprehend that it sits ill with you all to discuss a dead man – and probably to his detriment – but if I am to track down his killer, I need to be aware of all his foibles.”
“I don’t think any of us but Thickbroome knew him that well,” said the major cautiously, unwillingly, even now, to be the first to criticize the dead man.
Underwood was neither fooled by the wary denial, not deterred by the reluctance of his old friend, “You knew him well enough that he took the time to attend your birthday party,” he said cynically.
“True enough, but there are plenty of others who knew him better.”
“Then I suggest they speak up,” said Underwood sternly, casting a severe look about him. “Come now, gentlemen, coyness has no place in a murder investigation.”
Tredgett cleared his throat and broke the silence which followed this stark comment.
“I don’t mind telling you all I know, Mr Underwood, but it is, in truth, little enough and entirely biased for I only knew him from tales my brother told before he shot himself – and I know he must have held much back.”
“Are you convinced that your brother’s suicide was a result of Pennyfather’s ill-trea
tment?”
“There can be no question of it. The man was a monster – and well known as a harsh disciplinarian and unfair to those he took in dislike.”
“Would you agree with that, Thickbroome, Thornycroft, the rest of you?” asked Underwood, looking closely at every face, noticing every nuance. One winced in distaste, another frowned in disapproval, but not one denied the accusation.
“He could be hard,” conceded Thickbroome eventually, “but then his was the finest company, the most obedient, well-turned out …”
“At what cost?” interrupted Tredgett savagely, “My brother was not the only casualty that his methods claimed. I know of another who hanged himself and two who inflicted serious injuries upon themselves in order to be invalided out and escape his rule.”
Thickbroome looked angry and discomfited, but he said nothing.
“So if I were to look into the man’s past, I would find any number of people who wanted to revenge themselves upon him?” asked Underwood.
“All this was fifteen years ago and more, Underwood,” said Thornycroft. “Do you really imagine anyone carrying this bitterness for so long?”
“I have,” said Tredgett frankly.
“Yes, but you did not come in search of him in order to wreak vengeance,” countered the major reasonably. “Fair enough, you told him what you thought of him when you met him again, but you did not spend the past twenty years seeking him out to kill him – or, at least I’m assuming you did not.” He gave a grim smile to take the sting out of this last and was rewarded by a throaty laugh from the bearded ex-soldier.
“Right enough, I did not. I’ve never forgiven nor forgotten, but I would not have run my own head into a noose just for the satisfaction of killing him. He was not worth the sacrifice.”
“Quite,” said Underwood, pondering upon what he had been told. “It takes a special kind of fury to kill a man. You are all soldiers and you knew that the life you chose in the army was not going to be an easy one. A certain amount of cruelty is to be expected in order to keep a disparate group of men, from all kinds of backgrounds and levels of intelligence and morality, in line.”
A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 22