Flora smiled kindly at them both, “Believe me, I do know how difficult this is for you. I too have had to fight against my natural inclinations in the pursuit of a higher principle.”
It was Verity who replied, though Underwood would have preferred her to retire to her room and have no part in this debacle.
“Please do not try to justify what you have done, Miss Sowerbutts. Simply give us the confession and be on your way.”
“So hasty, Mrs Underwood. How fickle you are. Just a few hours ago I was considered a friend.”
“That friendship was an illusion, a cruel deception and I will forever regret my own gullibility in not seeing beneath the façade to the rotten corruption beneath.” Verity’s tone was mild enough, considering the fear churning in her stomach.
Flora laughed, “Dear me, you and Underwood have much to learn about humility. When you are begging a favour, Mrs Underwood, it is hardly customary to insult your benefactor.”
“If the lives of two innocents were not at stake, I would not allow you under my roof, Miss. Now hand over the paper and get out!” Manners were finally cast aside, despite her best and courageous effort to be the better person.
“Not just yet, my dear,” said Flora, entirely unmoved by Verity’s outrage. “I have questions for your husband which I feel sure he will be happy to answer, since I was so obliging as to have been fully frank with him.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Underwood wearily.
“Only this – what really gave me away? It has been obvious from the first that you did not recognize either Bella or myself when we finally met, for all our fears that you could not possibly fail to know us from the stagecoach.”
“Why do you want to know? What does it matter now? You have achieved your aim in escaping justice yet again, in spite of my best efforts.”
“Simply in order that I do not make the same error again. The reason why we are so very successful at evading the law is careful planning and meticulous execution. I would not have us stray into peril again.”
“I prefer not to divulge my devices,” said Underwood, determined to salvage some small shred of dignity from the whole sorry mess.
“Then I prefer not to pass over my signed confession,” she said calmly and holding out her hand towards Bella, still garbed as Gervase, who promptly placed a sheet of parchment in it. She held it sideways and prepared to rend the document in two.
Underwood automatically stepped forward to prevent the destruction and found himself facing the barrel of a pistol held by the woman he still thought of as a stripling.
“Careful, my dear sir, Gervase has a trigger-quick temper,” said Flora, then laughed gaily at her own joke. “Now, perhaps you can be a little more accommodating?”
“Very well, I will respond to your request, with the utmost reluctance and regret. It was the buttons. I also was capable of subterfuge and the day I handed you the pelisse, which I knew full well belonged to my wife, I did so deliberately to observe your reaction to the buttons. Those odd little items always troubled me. I conjectured that they must have some deep significance for the killer.” He shrugged as though to illustrate his disinterest. “Take my word upon it, I am not a man who takes much notice of fashion, but even I could not help but wonder why none of your clothing bore a button of any sort. Everything is fastened by laces, ribbons, pins and brooches. When I compared your outfits to the current trends worn by other ladies, I saw how very unusual it was. Buttons of all kinds adorn every sleeve, collar, and coat, not merely as fastenings, but also as a form of decoration.”
“Very clever, but rather obscure,” she said lightly, trying to hide the fact that she was wincing even at the word as he repeated it. “Many people have such aversions.”
“Hardly,” he commented. “They have aversions to such things as spiders, snakes, vertical drops, but very rarely to something as innocuous as a button.”
“Umm,” she mused, “What a pity. I thought I was being rather subtle, but if this quirk of mine was so obvious to you, perhaps I need to think of another calling card.”
“Or you could, perhaps, simply stop killing people?” suggested Underwood wryly.
“If only I could,” she sighed with genuine sounding remorse, “But there are so very many bad people in the world.”
“Would you like to confide why you think it is your duty to rid the world of them?” asked Underwood.
“Not here and now,” she said, “Bella and I must be on our way, but I promise that one day, all will become clear.”
“Enough of this, Flora,” said Bella, speaking for the first time in her own female voice and Verity looked askance at her. She had been told that the person before her was in reality a young woman, but so convincing was the performance that she was quite shocked by the revelation.
Flora turned and smiled at her companion, “Quite right, my darling girl, it is time we were leaving.” She returned her gaze to Underwood, “It has been a pleasure crossing swords with you, my dear Mr Underwood, but I trust we will not meet again.”
“Oh, I think we will, Miss Colfax, on the day I see you standing in the dock and answering for your crimes.”
“Still intent on pursuing me? I’m disappointed, sir. I would have thought you might show a little gratitude to the woman who saved your life.”
“Unfortunately for you, Will Jebson also saved my life, so I owe him an even greater debt. But do not think me ungrateful, madam.”
Verity suddenly spoke up, surprising them all, including, it would seem, herself, “I am grateful, Miss Sowerbutts,” she said. “I cannot condone your actions in anything else, but I do thank you for my husband’s life.”
Flora smiled and lowered her head in acknowledgement.
Bella offered the paper which Underwood took and glanced over it to be sure of its contents before he nodded to accept that it was what he wanted and then they were gone.
*
Toby came in shortly after their departure bearing in his strong arms two sobbing little bundles, wrapped in blankets, having been lifted from their beds once their father was safely in the custody of the Constable of Hanbury, quietly jubilant that he had finally beaten Underwood to the prize.
The big black man not only brought the Jebson twins, but also news of an even more sobering kind. Once he had been acquainted of the facts; that his wife was dead and his lover arrested for murder, Will had immediately confessed to all the killings, his wife included, and begged Sir George to release Violette at once, for she was, he swore, entirely innocent.
Underwood was tired, drained and inclined to be unsympathetic, “Those two fools! Each thinks the other has committed the crime and seeks to protect their loved one. I wish they would both close their mouths and keep them closed. It is going to be hard enough to convince Sir George that this confession from Flora Colfax is genuine without their well-meaning declarations of guilt.”
“You really think George will resist accepting the truth?” asked Verity anxiously.
“I know he will,” responded Underwood wearily, “And if I had one ounce of compassion for Violette and Will, I would drag myself to town and insist he release the pair of them right this very second. However, I think we would all benefit from a night’s rest before I attempt to wrest the victor’s laurels from my old friend’s grasp. A night in the cells might teach Will and Violette to be a little more circumspect – and trusting of each other. If they had been sure each of them that the other was innocent, none of these lavish gestures of self-sacrifice would have been necessary.”
“That is a little unkind, Cadmus,” said Verity.
“Unkind or not, that is my decision. Now put those two little ones to bed while I lock the doors. Not another soul is crossing the threshold tonight, no matter how heart-wrenching their tale of woe!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
WINTER, 1829
Before a roaring fire in his book-lined study, Underwood was enjoying a rare hour of peace and quiet.
; It was the day before Christmas Eve and he was toying with the various excuses he could tender in order to avoid Lady Hartley-Wells’ annual soiree at Wells Place the following day. She had welcomed a few select friends to dinner on Christmas Eve for years, but the success of her party in the summer had rather gone to her head and she now planned to hold two major engagements each year; a ball in the winter and a grand garden party in the summer.
For Underwood the celebration of Jeremy James Thornycroft’s birthday had been rather overshadowed by the finding of the corpse of Martha Jebson in the shrubbery, but since most people had remained unaware of this horror until after the event, it had not spoiled the general enjoyment.
He felt very strongly that he would sooner have Will the apothecary extract one of his teeth than attend what promised to be a rumbustious affair, for the Wablers had suddenly become the old lady’s favourites and now she would not think of entertaining without them. Verity, however, had read the invitation with eyes sparkling in anticipation so he knew that nothing but the direst circumstance could excuse him.
To make his impending nightmare even worse, the two Misses Northfleet had come home from their self-imposed exile to Harrogate, now that the town was clear of all Waterloo veterans but the Wablers, who seemed now to be paragons of virtue and self-restraint in comparison to some of the carousing that had frightened the ladies away in the first place.
However, since he could not think of anything severe enough to save him from the enforced socializing, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the bliss of a relatively silent house. He could hear nothing but the crackle of the fire, the sonorous ticking of the case clock out in the hall, and the musical chime when it struck the quarters. Delightfully there were no running feet, no shrieks or yells. Sabrina and Toby had taken his daughters out to search the hedgerows for holly, ivy and mistletoe to garland the house ready for the festivities.
Verity was in her studio putting the finishing touches to a portrait of Cressida Petch and Frederic Meadows for their wedding gift when they married in the spring. Freddy looked very Nelsonian with his eyepatch and Cressida had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, finally freed from all domestic tyranny by having a loving man by her side and the death of her affectionate, but extremely demanding Great Aunt Jemima Greenhowe. She and her brother Rutherford were now independently wealthy, but Rutherford was still set on returning to Australia the moment he saw his sister was safely wed.
There had been another wedding too, only a few days before, performed very quietly and circumspectly in Dacorum-in-the-Marsh by Lindell Draycott.
Will Jebson had barely waited six months after his wife’s murder to marry Violette. To try and avoid too much scandal, they had returned to the place where they had first met, but no one in Hanbury had judged them too harshly. Any show of mild disapproval was merely a nod to convention. Martha had made herself thoroughly unpopular with almost everyone and though Will and Violette had been accused of her murder, the confession by Flora Colfax also known as Lilith Sowerbutts, had eventually exonerated them both.
Of course Sir George had made Underwood work hard for their freedom, declaring that they had both made their own confessions and that the letter could be a forgery, but in the end he had to admit defeat. In the face of his own certainty of the integrity of his old friend Underwood – and lacking any real evidence of their guilt, he had to acknowledge that both Violette and Will had declared their culpability merely in order to save the other from the gallows and he had finally released the pair without a stain on their characters.
He still had his moment of victory, of course, for Underwood had held the assassin, wanted in at least five counties, in his grasp, and through sheer carelessness he had let her and her accomplice make their escape.
The Constable would hold that against him for many a long day and when he was feeling particularly irascible, he would relish the chance to remind his friend of his butterfingers!
So life in Hanbury had slowly returned to its sleepy, uneventful way and Underwood had promised his wife – yet again – that he would endeavour to stay out of trouble, and he would never again keep any secrets from her. Both of which oaths they knew were heartfelt but exceedingly unlikely to be fulfilled.
He must have dozed off because a light tap on the door startled him awake and he turned to see Verity peeping around the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear, I can see you are busy,” she said, laughter lighting her eyes as she looked lovingly at him, his hair tousled from leaning against the wing of the chair in which he had been relaxing.
“Just resting my eyes, my love, after a hard morning of writing,” he answered, but his boyishly sheepish grin told her that he had been well and truly caught out.
“A messenger just brought you a package.” She held it out to him, wrapped neatly in brown paper and the size and shape of a book, “I thought we agreed we were not going to buy any more books until the New Year,” she added chidingly.
He would have liked to deny the accusation, but the truth was that he was not entirely sure he was not guilty. His one weakness was the written word.
She handed it over, saying as she left, “Tea in the parlour in a few minutes.”
“I’ll join you presently. Thank you.”
When she had gone he walked across the room and took his seat behind the big oak desk under the window as the light was better to read by.
There was nothing on the covering but his own name and address, no identifying bookshop stamp or frank to tell him from whence the thing had come and so snipped the string and opened it cautiously, aware that there might be hidden blades or noxious substances hidden within the folds. He had been investigating crime for so long now that his name was well-known and the threat of revenge was not an uncommon peril to him.
He need not have concerned himself. All that the package contained was a leather-bound notebook and a piece of white card, bearing, in neat copperplate handwriting, the legend;
“A promise is a promise, Mr Underwood,
With Fond Good Wishes,
The Mother of Demons”
Lilith, the mother of demons, it could not be anyone else but Flora Colfax. She had remembered her undertaking to explain her actions to him.
With something approaching trepidation he opened the notebook and began to read;
‘I’ve sometimes wondered what leads some of us kill others – for gain perhaps, for revenge, for love? But not I! No, I began to kill for survival – and I continued to kill to help others around me survive …’
THE END
SUZANNE DOWNES COPYRIGHT 2015
A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 33