Miss Chapell could only be grateful that neither man glanced in her direction. A blush crept into her cheeks, for ‘tall and willowy’ would never be applied to her. She was short – only a little over five feet two and she had a healthy appetite, even when at her most miserable and lonely.
“However,” continued the doctor, “her clothes were more telling. They were of a good quality, but fairly worn, and obviously second-hand.”
Underwood gave Dr. Herbert a shrewd look from beneath half-closed lids,
“What led you to that assumption?”
“The normal areas of wear did not match the girl’s own dimensions. The elbows of the dress, for example. There was a place were the continuous bending of the joint had caused the material to become considerably thinned, but that spot did not lie on the girl’s elbow, but further down her arm, yet the cuffs were neat and unfrayed, leading me to suppose they were newly turned. From little things like that I deduced the garment had once belonged to someone larger, who had worn it well before discarding it to be altered for a different – and smaller – wearer.”
Mr. Underwood smiled for the first time since the interview began, “You have my unstinting admiration, Dr. Herbert. I only wish everyone had your capacity for observation.”
“Thank you – but I rather wish everyone had your capacity for realising that such details can be of importance. When I made these comments to Sir Henry, he was extremely scathing! Demanded to know what the devil use such information was. Who cared whether the girl was dressed in altered clothing? It did not help to catch her killer, in his opinion.”
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I feel the need to ask the same question,” intercepted Miss Chapell diffidently, “Why does it matter what clothes she wore?”
“It gives us some indication of her possible background. In order to find this murderer, we really need to know who and what the girl was in life. It could well be that this was a random killing by a madman, but I suspect it was not.”
“Also,” added the doctor, “It reinforces what we already imagined. Which is that the girl was poor. It is highly unlikely that a rich or well-bred young woman could disappear without provoking an outcry, but poor girls vanish every day of the week without producing even a flicker of interest. I fear that the moral of this story must be that had this girl been well-to-do there would have been a greater determination to find her killer.”
“Do you really believe that, Dr. Herbert?” That Miss Chapell was distressed by this assertion was obvious, but in all honesty the doctor could not now deny what he had said, “Yes, I’m afraid that is precisely what I believe, which is why I welcome Mr. Underwood’s self-inflicted task. No person’s life should be held less precious because their birth was lowly.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Mr. Underwood quietly, “I find it horrifying that certain classes of people in this country are regarded as little more than vermin, and their demise, no matter how caused, is considered a godsend!”
“I agree, of course, but why should you think it was not the work of a frenzied maniac. From what I have heard today, that is just how it seems to me. Surely no sane person could inflict such wounds on a corpse?”
“It is precisely because of what was done that we believe it was a sane person who killed her. Someone was very eager that her identity was never discovered.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
Mr. Underwood’s reply was very quiet, but his words seemed to hang on the air, striking a chill into Miss Chapell, the like of which she had never before experienced, “Because it was ensured that her clothes were unrecognisable as her own, and he took her head away with him.”
*
CHAPTER EIGHT
(“Carpe Diem, Quam Minimum Credula Postero” - Enjoy today, trusting little in tomorrow)
There was a moment of silence before Miss Chapell protested, “But the girl was unknown in Bracken Tor. No one recognized the body, no one reported her missing.” The information they had given seemed threatening – not least because she suddenly realized that she herself was entirely alone in the world. Should she leave Sir Henry’s employ and take the stage to London, there was not a soul alive who would care if she never reached her destination. It became deeply necessary to her peace of mind that she found some reason to deny his suggestion.
The thought that some madman had once passed through the village, leaving one sad, unknown victim in his wake was terrifying enough, but to be forced to acknowledge that the assailant was someone she knew, someone to whom she spoke, perhaps every day, someone who was capable of committing a foul, cruel murder, and who would stop at nothing to hide the crime – no, that was too much! Miss Chapell gave an involuntary shudder, “I can’t believe what you are suggesting. The village I know is a peaceful place, the people who live there are friendly and caring. They wanted to raise a memorial to the girl. I refuse to suspect anyone. It would be quite impossible for such a small community to keep so dreadful a secret.”
“We are not suggesting anything of the kind. There are a dozen villages within easy reach of Bracken Tor,” intercepted Dr. Herbert impatiently, with a glance towards Mr. Underwood which clearly said, ‘Why did you invite an emotional woman into this?’
Mr. Underwood, fully aware that the woman in question had not particularly wanted to be invited in, was forced to speak in her defence; “Miss Chapell misunderstood us, Dr. Herbert. We have not, perhaps, explained clearly enough that we are merely toying with various theories, and that we have no proof.”
“Naturally we have no proof. If we had, we should hardly be sitting here talking. It is a reasonable assumption that there was something recognizable about the victim – perhaps a facial scar – and because she is not known now, it does not follow that she was not know in the past. People leave villages all the time – to seek work, or to be married perhaps. If she arrived back unexpectedly, bringing with her the secret shame of someone’s past, then obviously her body and clothes would stir no memory.”
“It would be a great mistake not to explore every possibility,” added Underwood gently.
“Is one of those possibilities that the killer could be a woman?” asked Miss Chapell, her equanimity almost fully restored by Mr. Underwood’s kind tone.
“No one can be discounted at the moment – except yourself, my brother and myself, since we were none of us in the vicinity at the time. Do you have someone in mind?”
The doctor laughed, “Thank you for your confidence in me!” His visitor smiled in return, “I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, Dr. Herbert. I feel sure a man of your skill would have made a rather neater job of the decapitation; and would be rather less inclined to answer questions so frankly.”
“Do I take it I am off your list of suspects, then?”
“Not entirely. I am an exceedingly suspicious man, and your apparent helpfulness could be a very clever cover for a heinous crime.”
Miss Chapell had been listening to this exchange with growing disquiet. She knew Dr. Herbert well and this was getting a little too close to home. She felt that Underwood was showing a marked lack of respect towards a man she considered to be above reproach, “Mr. Underwood, Dr. Herbert is a gentleman!”
Underwood refused to be even slightly impressed by this character reference,
“I hate to have to disillusion you, Miss Chapell, but I could provide you with an extremely long list of ‘gentlemen’ who have stretched the hangman’s noose.”
“Nonsense!” she said dismissively, but Mr. Underwood pursued his point, “Dr. Herbert, are you a married man?”
“I am, sir,” his friendly smile showed that he was not in the least offended by his guest’s impertinence, on the contrary he seemed intrigued to know exactly where the line of questioning would lead.
“Good. Now imagine your reaction if one dark night a knock upon your door was answered and you found yourself face to face with a young woman, with whom you had had an illicit affair, or give
n the apparent youth of the victim, one perhaps who claimed she was the result of a parental affair and is your natural sister. There is no denying her, she looks like you, or is threatening to expose your familial perfidy. No one knows she is there and a simple way of ending the matter once and for all is a headless corpse in a wood.”
“I would like you to believe that I would not succumb to temptation and murder said child – but I concede your point! No one is beyond reproach, Miss Chapell – and Mr. Underwood is very wise to recognize the fact. Shall we continue?” The doctor shuffled his notes, “Where were we? Ah, yes, the post mortem. Are you sure you wish to stay for this, Miss Chapell?”
She couldn’t imagine how it could be any worse than what she had heard already, so she merely nodded her assent.
“Then pray forgive my candour. The girl was not a virgin, no children had been born to her and she was not pregnant.”
“That removes several possible motives – had she been ravished?” Mr. Underwood had evidently forgotten Miss Chapell’s presence for a moment, for his shoulders stiffened slightly when he heard her shocked intake of breath. Both men deemed it politic to continue, ignoring the need for embarrassing explanations and apologies.
“No.”
“Then that removes another.”
“The contents of her stomach showed nothing unusual. There was not, for example, any evidence of poison, but she had eaten a hearty meal some hours before.”
“Anything of interest?”
“No, just bread, meat, cheese, ale.”
His narrative ended the doctor raised his head, “That is as much as I can tell you, I’m afraid. In the absence of any indication of her identity, I released the body to the authorities. A description of her clothing was circulated to the newspapers, but no information was forthcoming. Sir Henry, as local magistrate, gave permission for her to be buried, which in due course she was. The villagers of Bracken Tor and Calden all subscribed to a fund to purchase a headstone. The vicar at the time, your brother’s predecessor, caused uproar by refusing to allow anything but the word ‘unknown’ to be included on the stone. The general feeling was that given the violence of her death, something of her tale should be etched there, as an expression of regret, I suppose. The Rev. Boscombe was appalled by the very idea, threatening to refuse permission for the girl to lie in his graveyard, if the epitaph contained a description of her killing. He was backed by Sir Henry who pointed out that such a move would be an eternal reminder of an incident which was, perhaps, best forgotten.”
“It was that quarrel, more than anything else, which convinced Rev. Mr Boscombe of his own unpopularity. He found himself preaching to an empty church, and resigned. Your brother, Mr. Underwood, was the happy choice of man to replace him,” Miss Chapell finished the story, with a smile.
Dr. Herbert agreed, “Most certainly. Now, if there is nothing more you wish to ask me?”
“Only a character reference for Mr Boscombe is required. Need I bother to trace and interview him?”
The doctor smiled, “I know you are a cynical man, Mr. Underwood, but isn’t that taking things a little too far?”
“Not at all. A man is still a man, with or without the benefit of the cloth.”
“Very well. I should have thought Mr Boscombe was as likely to murder a fellow human being as the next man – if the next man was St. Francis of Assisi!”
“You are as sure as that?” asked Underwood with a grin.
“Yes! May I offer you some refreshment?”
Both were delighted to accept and presently found themselves seated in a parlour at the back of the house, looking out onto a garden filled with a profusion of flowers, and being served tea by Dr. Herbert’s wife Ellen. She was younger than her husband by several years, very vivacious, but at the same time was, kindly and sympathetic. Miss Chapell knew her quite well and was immediately at her ease, only noticing her companion’s discomfiture after several minutes of animated chatter had ensued. She was amazed at the change in him, not realizing that attractive and flirtatious women horrified him. He had lost all his ease of manner and had chosen to seat himself as far away from his hostess as possible. The very thought that he might be called upon to converse with her sent him into a mild panic. Mr. Underwood had a morbid dread of making a fool of himself, his dignity was his most treasured possession, and he knew, beyond any shadow of doubt that witty and sparkling women brought out the very worst in him. If he once opened his mouth, he was going to look the biggest fool who ever walked the earth! Miss Chapell could hardly believe that here was the same man who had, only minutes before, been discussing murder with obvious sang-froid.
It did occur to her to wonder why her own presence had never, from the moment of their first meeting, had a similar effect upon him and she would have been immensely offended had she known that it was her own unspectacular looks and easy manner which had quickly caused him to think of her as an ‘honorary’ male.
Ellen, with customary understanding, swiftly identified the problem and adjusted her behaviour accordingly. Her voice became quieter, her smile less wide. The girlish chatter she had been exchanging with Miss Chapell ceased abruptly and she became altogether a different creature, serious-minded, very much the doctor’s wife. Dr. Herbert noticed the whole exchange and smiled gentle encouragement to her.
“Milk and sugar in your tea, Mr. Underwood?” she asked.
“Thank you,” was the ambiguous reply. She took it to mean yes to both and handed the cup and saucer to her husband to be passed across, along with a plate containing fruitcake. Underwood, too shy to ask for help, juggled valiantly to hold everything, until the doctor, noticed his dilemma and presented him with a small occasional table.
With relief Mr. Underwood laid his burdens upon it, leaving the cake untouched, but gratefully sipping the tea.
“I understand you teach, Mr. Underwood?”
“Yes,”
“At Oxford or Cambridge, isn’t it?”
“Cambridge.”
Many women would have given up at this point, but Ellen Herbert was made of sterner stuff, “A lovely part of the country, Cambridge. I once spent a holiday there, with my Aunt Agatha.”
If his wife had an Aunt Agatha, it was the first time the doctor had ever heard of it, but he said nothing.
“Indeed it was an inspired spot to build a University,” Mr. Underwood began to relax, and took another sip of tea, “I often think it is a pity my boys do not appreciate their surroundings more. Of course, young men would always rather carouse than study the beauties of nature.”
“I can’t imagine that you preferred carousing to learning in your youth, Mr. Underwood,” Ellen allowed herself a small smile and was delighted when it was returned, “As I recall, Mrs. Herbert, I did have my moments!”
“Oh, call me Ellen, please. I find formality rather tedious, don’t you?”
“I cannot say that I had ever seriously considered the matter,” admitted Underwood, breaking off a minute crumb of cake.
“My name is Verity,” volunteered Miss Chapell helpfully, determined to nurture the small beginnings made by her friend.
“And mine is Francis,” said the doctor.
In the ensuing silence Mr. Underwood became aware that everyone was looking at him, obviously awaiting the pronunciation of his own Christian name. A momentary hesitation on his part was followed by the decisive comment; “I never use my first names.”
He was surprised that they all seemed quite shocked, “Never?” asked Ellen, rather breathlessly, “You can’t possibly go through life not using your name!”
“But I do.”
“What do people call you?”
“Anything they like – at least out of my hearing! Most use my surname.”
“Even your brother?” asked Verity, wondering anew what manner of man she had met.
“No, my brother usually uses my initials – or occasionally a silly pet name he had for me when we were boys.”
Both Ellen and Ver
ity could not help but notice, and be amused by, the faint flush which coloured his normally pale face.
“What is it?” pursued Ellen, refusing to be deterred, despite her husband’s strenuous facial contortions, which were supposed to discourage her impertinence and bring her to silence.
“Chuffy,” This was greeted with another silence, then Miss Chapell made a sound which bore a remarkable resemblance to a snort. With great difficulty Ellen controlled the terrible desire to laugh, “Oh. It doesn’t really suit you, does it?”
“Perhaps it did when I was six years old,” replied Mr. Underwood severely, which had the unfortunate effect of making Miss Chapell choke on her tea.
There followed several minutes of near pandemonium, during which Miss Chapell gasped for breath and grew very red in the face, Dr. Herbert slapped her heartily between the shoulder blades, and Ellen flew to fetch a glass of water. Mr. Underwood simply watched, displaying considerable interest in the proceedings but declining, probably very wisely, to do anything at all to help.
When she had recovered sufficiently to wipe the tears from her eyes, Miss Chapell managed to gasp, “I don’t think I could ever bring myself to call you Chuffy, Mr. Underwood.”
“I should hope not! If you really insist upon dropping my surname, I suggest you use my initials, C.H.”
“That seems very unfriendly. Can’t you possibly tell us your real name?” Ellen spoke in her most wheedling tone, but it had no effect on the determined Underwood.
“No. If my boys were ever to discover my guilty secret, I should never have their respect again!”
“Good Heavens! What can it be, to make you detest it so?”
“I should leave things well alone, if I were you, Ellen. I think Mr. Underwood has borne enough of your meddling,” intercepted the doctor cheerfully, “Now, I have work to do, and Miss Chapell’s horse will be growing restive.”
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 8
