Of course I had heard the name C H Underwood before, even though I had no idea of his identity until that very moment. I had read of his exploits in the newspapers and I was convinced that he was a good man. Whosoever had requested his death was a villain and I was not about to allow it to happen.
Underwood was obviously afraid – only a fool would not be – but he was brave. He requested to be let out of the carriage unmolested so that no one else would be hurt. He knew he was stepping out to his death, but still he thought of others.
I reacted quickly. It was a risk to interfere, for what real lady carries a pistol and knows how to use it? A few, I know, but not so many as to be commonplace!
I looked at X and an almost imperceptible nod gave me the signal to rid the world of another piece of human detritus.
My hand was in my beaded reticule, ostensibly to get money, but in reality I had a small, lady’s pistol secreted within.
I lifted the gun, still inside the bag and pulled the trigger. I despatched him with less thought than I would swat a fly or stamp upon a cockroach.
No need for a button left at the scene this time – I had killed that one for free.
And how could I possibly imagine that Underwood and I would meet again, almost a year later?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘Age Quod Agis’ – Do what you do carefully, concentrate on the business in hand
Underwood woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rain against the panes. He lay for a moment listening to the sporadic spatter as the wind changed direction. It occurred to him to hope that Martha Jebson was somewhere under cover, then he recalled her heartlessness in throwing Violette out onto the street with no knowledge of where she might go and he slightly altered his opinion. Perhaps she would benefit from a taste of her own medicine – ironic for an apothecary’s wife.
A steady drip, drip, drip alerted him to the fact that water was seeping through the window, which was ajar, for it had been warm and humid when he and Verity had retired for the night. He rose as quietly as he could to close the casement, but Verity felt rather than heard his movement and murmured sleepily, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Go back to sleep, it’s nothing. Just the rain coming in a little,” he said softly. He knew better than to raise his voice to anything above the breathiest whisper for Clarissa was attuned to the least sound from her parent’s room and would set up a squall if she thought she was missing any excitement.
“Oh, no, not rain on the day of Jeremy James’ party.”
“I shouldn’t worry, don’t they say rain before seven, fine by eleven?” he quoted, hoping that it proved true on this occasion. So much work and anticipation had gone into this event that he could not countenance the possibility of disaster.
He need not have concerned himself. When he woke later it was to full sunlight shining into his eyes. He had neglected to draw the curtains when he shut the window in the dark some hours before.
Lady Hartley-Wells had outdone herself. She had not hosted a party for twenty years or more and was determined to make a success of this one, feeling that it could very well be her last. Not that she intended to die any time soon, but she was not a social butterfly anymore and it ill-behoved her to pretend that she was.
Miss Cromer had been sent to consult Will Jebson and he had provided a linctus for her cold which she declared to be ‘miraculous’ but in truth the cure had been her own determination not to let something as slight as a chill spoil her enjoyment.
The festivities began in the late afternoon, for at least half the guests were parents and had their offspring with them. To this end, Wells Place had been turned into something resembling a fair. No expense had been spared. There was a string of donkeys providing rides, and games galore, both for the children and the adults. Skittles vied with archery. Cricket was being played, with little adherence to the rules, on the large field behind the house. There were frames holding swing boats, and entertainers teaching juggling and demonstrating fire-eating – in fact Lady Hartley-Wells had tracked down and hired a travelling fair. She was a woman who really knew how to throw a party, thought Verity, looking about her in awe. To add to the myriad delights, there were marquees where refreshments were laid out in delicious profusion.
Indoors there were cards and billiards in the games room and there was to be dancing in the ballroom later. The music indoors was provided by a string quartet and was suitably refined. Outside was a small band who played the sort of jolly folk tunes that made May Day and Christmas such joyous affairs.
Horatia and Clarissa looked about, scarcely able to believe their eyes at such wonders and immediately took off, Horatia running full pelt, Clarissa staggering after her sister on plump and unsteady legs. Sabrina smiled at Verity, “Toby and I will watch the children. You go off and enjoy yourself with Mr Underwood.”
Verity needed no second bidding and soon Underwood found himself in the middle of what he would once have considered a nightmare, but which he secretly enjoyed immensely. Verity wished to take a ride on the swing boats, then she insisted that they have an archery competition – though they were equally as bad as each other and she won by simply getting an arrow into the target. Underwood missed completely, but declared that it was because the sun was in his eyes.
When they had finally exhausted all the fun that could be had outside, they ventured indoors and found most of their friends socializing in the ballroom. Only the most hardened gamblers were already in the games room which had been set with half a dozen card tables.
Underwood spotted Sir George Gratten talking to Lady Hartley-Wells and excusing himself to his wife he went to join them. Verity was quite happy to let him go for her own little coterie was gathered and she went happily to sit with them in a cosy alcove, waiting for the dancing to begin.
“Good day, Underwood. Your timing is impeccable. I was about to suggest to Serena that her talent for organization is unprecedented and she should host a gathering such as this every year. Add your voice to mine to persuade her!”
Lady Hartley-Wells looked shocked for a moment and then she smiled in that stern way of hers that warned that perhaps one had got away with a single piece of impertinence, but try nothing further on pain of death!
“Underwood has no need to add his supplications to yours, George, I was about to reply that it is the finest notion you’ve had in that empty noddle of yours for thirty years!”
The pompous Sir George would have liked to snipe back at her, but even he was a little afraid of the redoubtable lady and merely laughed affably at her sally.
“We are all in agreement then,” he said, ignoring the fact that Underwood had made no contribution to the conversation whatsoever. “We should hold it on the anniversary of Waterloo – that would be apt, I think.”
Serena snorted at the presumption of her old friend, but she did not deny him. When she presently went off to see that all was running smoothly, Underwood took the opportunity to ask the Constable if there were any news.
“I assume Will Jebson has not contacted you to tell you that his wife has turned up, alive and well?”
“On the contrary, he sent me a note asking if I had found any trace of her. The answer was sadly no. I set my men searching places such as hayricks and ditches in the surrounding area, thinking that she might have found somewhere to spend the night, or had perhaps fallen and knocked herself unconscious. Those were the better situations I was imagining for her. The worst is that she lies dead and my men have been warned that they may be looking for a corpse.”
“I hope to God that is not the case,” murmured Underwood.
“If it is, then the outlook is grim for your friend Jebson, after his admission that they had a violent quarrel before she ran out on him.”
Underwood would have liked to disabuse him of this unhappy conclusion but in good conscience he could not, so he swiftly changed the subject and they talked of other things for a few minutes. Underwood then caught sight of Miss
Sowerbutts and her brother Gervase and it gave him the perfect way of extricating himself.
“Will you excuse me, sir?” If Gratten was surprised by his sudden departure he gave no indication of it, merely strolling off to find himself a glass of something cooling on this hot afternoon.
Underwood kept an eye on the Sowerbutts siblings, but made a detour so that he could speak to his wife. He drew her away from the company of his mother, sister-in-law and the nominal hostess of the party, Adeline, though she had been usurped by Lady Hartley-Wells – a position she gave up gladly – and the other ladies.
“My love,” he said quietly, “I am about to behave in a way which is quite out of character for me and I would ask your indulgence.”
“Of course, Cadmus,” she said, looking up at him and wondering anew how this clever and handsome man could be her husband. He looked especially fetching today, in his blue velvet tailcoat, cream breeches and a white linen shirt and stock. His waistcoat was embroidered and sported a heavy gold chain with a fob and a watch in the pocket. She had matched her outfit to his, quite by chance and wore her blue striped muslin.
“What would you like me to do?” she added.
He looked down at her, a half smile on his face and his grey eyes burning into her like the embers of a dying fire, which told her that he liked what he saw quite as much as she did.
“I have a task to perform and it may appear that I am behaving in a way which would distress you, but I want you to know that I have nothing but respect and adoration for you.”
She smiled in return and lifted a gentle hand to his cheek, “I know that and trust you completely, my dear. Do whatever it is you have to do. I will say and do nothing.”
“Thank you, my own heart’s darling.” He kissed her hand, and was gone.
The music being played up until this point had been of the quiet, background variety, to sooth the revellers while they ate from the cold collation set out in the dining room. Now that evening was drawing on, and the shadows grew long outside, the mood changed a little. Some of the younger children were taken away to bed, amongst them Horatia and Clarissa, though the older children were given a later curfew. A row of flaming torches were lit in the grounds so that the fair could continue, though the archery was swiftly put away – no one wanted arrows flying in the twilight. The donkeys were led back to their well-earned bundles of hay.
Underwood had lost sight of Miss Sowerbutts and her brother and he cursed himself for his carelessness, but he would not, for anything, have missed his hurried explanation to his wife. She must, always, come first in his thoughts.
He wandered through the rooms and fortunately came upon them both in the games room, where Gervase had seated himself ready to play and his sister stood behind him, negligently fanning herself with a pretty ivory fan and looking bored.
Underwood approached her and standing slightly behind her, he said softly in her ear, “My dear Miss Sowerbutts, I have been searching everywhere for you.”
She twisted her head so that she might see more clearly who was addressing her. Upon recognizing him she treated him to a long, languorous smile, “My dear Mr Underwood, what on earth could you possibly want with me?”
“Come with me and I will show you,” he answered, matching her languid grace with his own particular brand of elegance.
She put her hand in his.
“Where are we going?”
“I know of a small anteroom where we can be alone.”
“How daring - but my brother will be so angry.”
“How can he be angry if he knows nothing of our little tete-a-tete?”
“Naughty Mr Underwood,” she said, but she allowed him to lead her through the crowd of people and soon they found themselves in a back corridor which led, as Underwood had said, to a small sitting room, still as sumptuously furnished as the rest of Wells Place, but far smaller. It was a spot which Underwood used as a bolt-hole when the strain of being too gregarious played upon his nerves. Miss Cromer, who also detested cards, but was forced to indulge her mistress, had shown it to him years before. It was her own room, in point of fact, but she was rarely allowed to retreat to it, for as companion to Lady Hartley-Wells, she was expected to be on duty almost all the time. She certainly wouldn’t be using it that evening; she would be far too busy entertaining guests along with her mistress, probably, if Underwood knew the Wablers and their legendary capacity for drinking and revelling, until the early hours of the morning.
As soon as they were alone, she turned towards him, laid her hands upon his chest, and looking up into his eyes from beneath lowered lashes, she said demurely, “I had no idea you were interested in me, Mr Underwood – what is your first name, bye the by? I cannot feel at all romantic if I have to refer to you as ‘mister’ all the time.”
He very firmly removed her hands from his person and said brutally, “There will be no romance, Miss – or should I say the Wimpleford Widow?”
She gave him a wounded look, as though he had disappointed her, and dropped sulkily onto the settee, “Cruel, sir, to lead a poor girl on. You should hang your head in shame. And who pray tell is this widow to whom you refer?”
“You are,” he responded bluntly, “and stop your play acting. We both know the truth.”
She gave a sigh of great but sorely tried patience, “My dear sir, as you can plainly see, I am not married, let alone widowed. I really have no idea what you are talking about.” She held up a ringless hand and waggled her fingers playfully at him.
“So,” he countered, approaching her swiftly and grasping the reticule that hung from her arm, “If I were to search this bag, I would not find a pistol hidden in it.”
She pulled it away from him, observed him through narrowed eyes for a moment then laughed and held up both her hands as though in surrender, “You win, sir. You would find a gun and as I would prefer not to use it, I will not put you to the trouble of trying to take it from me.”
The implied threat made him smile grimly, “I wonder how closely death has stalked me these last few days? You must have known that I would recognize you eventually, then perhaps the next shot would have been through my skull.”
She shook her head, “That would never have happened. I only kill those who deserve death because of their own vile actions. Had you known me at once, I would simply have left town and waited until another opportunity to take down Pennyfather and Thickbroome presented itself – and it would have. No one can escape the Sword of Damocles that they have unknowingly placed above their own heads.”
He looked at her for a long time, his eyes searching every inch of her face, trying to fathom the workings of her mind.
“What gives you the right to take lives, even if you consider them to be worthless?” he asked at last.
“What gives you the right to do the same?” she threw back at him and, shocked, he almost staggered under the weight of her words and the venom in her tone.
“What do you mean? I have killed no one!”
“Can you really say that, Mr Underwood, when your investigations have sent so many to the gallows?”
He swallowed deeply. He did not want to display weakness to her, but her words hit him far harder than she could ever imagine. He did what he thought was right, but it did not ease his conscience when he lay awake some nights, thinking exactly what she had just put into words – that he was responsible for the deaths of others, even if he had not pulled the lever to the trapdoor himself.
“The law kills them not I,” he said, but his voice broke with emotion.
“We are more alike than you want to believe,” she said.
He bowed his head in acknowledgement, “Very well. I accept the accusation. But that does not solve my current dilemma. What, Miss Sowerbutts, am I to do with you?”
“Why, nothing at all, dear sir. Simply open that door behind you and allow me to walk away. My work here is done. Pennyfather and Thickbroome are dead.”
“Dead because they took part in the Pete
rloo Massacre,” said Underwood.
She grinned in a most unladylike way, “Very clever, Underwood. When all about you were thinking the cause was Waterloo. I salute your intelligence.”
“Salute my wife, then, it was she who hit upon the real reason.”
She gave a quick, approving nod, “Well said. Not many men would admit that their wife had been more acute than they. You have met your match, there, Underwood. Your plump little wife is a diamond and I hope you cherish her.”
Underwood did not need to be told what a treasure he held and he was not about to confide to a self-confessed killer how closely he had come to allowing her to slip through his fingers when foolish pride had almost overcome good sense.
“Mrs Underwood is my heart’s delight,” he said, straying almost, but not quite into sentimentality, for his tone was quite matter of fact.
“As Bella is mine,” she said warmly.
“That would be Gervase, I presume?” he asked.
“But of course.”
“You know that I cannot simply let you go,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, “But if you would do me the kindness of telling me everything before I call Sir George to collect you – just for my own satisfaction, you understand?”
“So you can lord it over the Constable, you mean,” she said wryly, “Show him how wrong he was about everything.”
Underwood gave his most enigmatic smile, “If it pleases you to think so,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘A Fronte Praecipitium, A Tergo Lupi – In front, a fall from a cliff, behind wolves…
In the ballroom Verity consulted the pretty watch which hung from a gold pin on her breast. It was quite decorative enough to serve as a brooch for the back was an enamel picture in bright colours. Around her neck she wore the locket Underwood had presented to her on the occasion of their wedding anniversary. This opened to reveal two tiny discs of ivory upon which she had painted miniature portraits of her husband, golden-haired and handsome and their two daughters, looking like rosy-cheeked little cherubs. She wore no other jewellery apart from her wedding ring. Though the other ladies were resplendent in their gemstones and pearls, Verity preferred simplicity.
A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 30