Over my dead body, thought Underwood grimly. Mrs. Underwood will be going nowhere alone with you my friend!
*
Dinner over, Rogers remembered a card game organized by Major Thornycroft and took himself swiftly off; he found he had no desire to talk over old times with Dr. Russell. Verity pleaded fatigue and withdrew to her room. Gil went to his study, ostensibly to write his sermon for the following Sunday, in reality to cogitate upon his future. Accordingly Underwood and Dr. Russell retired to the damaged parlour to drink the rest of the claret and discuss life. As they sat, Underwood glanced about him, imagining the carnage which would have ensued had the explosive device actually gone off. As it stood, most of the damage inflicted had been by soot and smoke. The wall above the fireplace and the stone mantle were blackened, a picture which had hung on the chimney breast was burned beyond repair and stood outside the back door, to await disposal. The hearth stones had saved the oak floor from real harm and all that had been necessary to restore the rest of the room to its former state had been a thorough cleaning. Of course there was still a definite aroma of burnt wood and cloth, but that would wear off with time. Dr. Russell watched his companion’s face as he perused their surroundings, “Is there something you are not telling me, Underwood?”
Brought back to himself by this intuitive remark, Underwood could do nothing but smile wryly and reply, “Was I so transparent as a boy, Theodore? If so, I can understand why you always seemed to know when I had failed to complete the tasks you set me.”
“I like to think I am not insensitive, my friend, but I admit it does not take a great talent for deduction to know there is something worrying you.”
“Dammit! I had hoped it was not so apparent. Tell me Verity has not noticed.”
“Calm down, Underwood. I’m sure Verity noticed nothing, but why is it so important she should not? Never tell me you are conducting a clandestine affair.”
“Certainly not! What manner of man do you think I am?”
Dr. Russell smiled kindly at his tone of abhorrence, “I do beg your pardon – but an affair is usually the reason why a man does not wish his wife to notice his demeanour.”
“That is not the case here, I assure you.”
“Then what is it?”
Underwood, recalling his affection for a man of great humanity, kindness, wisdom and integrity, needed no further encouragement. The whole story came tumbling out, including the incident of the fire, without omissions, and his suspicions concerning Godfrey Rogers.
“Do you think he is capable of such behaviour?” he asked, greatly troubled that he was being unjust to a young man who might not deserve it.
Dr. Russell considered the question carefully before giving a measured answer, “Rogers left my care over a year ago, and boys growing into men can change a great deal in a very short space of time, but I have to say Godfrey possessed a peculiarly cruel streak, the like of which I have never encountered before. He found things amusing which others would find only sickening. Frankly, I think that young man is capable of almost anything.”
*
George Gratten, Constable of Hanbury, did not, on the face of it, have either the figure or the demeanour of a knight in shining armour, but that was how Underwood came to view him on the following morning when he met him on the street, “Well met, Underwood. The very man I wished to see.”
“Good morning, sir. Pray tell me you are not about to produce a corpse. I don’t think my nerves could stand the strain of another investigation just yet.”
Gratten laughed pleasantly for Underwood’s past help in the matter of bringing murderers to justice had done a great deal for his standing in the town.
“No, my friend, your nerves may remain un-shredded. I merely wanted to ask if your lady wife is now sufficiently well to execute a commission for me.”
“That would, of course, entirely depend upon the nature of the commission.”
“Quite. It is my portrait. She did agree some weeks ago now, that she would paint my picture, but as Christmas speedily approaches, I fear time will run out. If I am to present the portrait to my wife for the festive season …”
Under normal circumstances, Underwood might have greeted this request with impatience. Being a reticent creature himself, he did not entirely understand the desire to have one’s features captured for posterity, and he viewed Gratten’s notion that a picture of himself was a suitable gift for his long-suffering wife, egotistical to say the least. However, the idea that Gratten would be the unwitting guardian of Verity for several hours of each day, thus freeing himself and Toby for the investigation, was not one to be lightly dismissed. It did cross his mind to wonder if Verity ought to be alone with a man in her present condition, but he quickly swept the thought away. Convention had never bound him very strongly, and certainly not when he had a goal in view.
“Verity would be delighted. She has been complaining of boredom for weeks now. This would be the perfect antidote. Call this afternoon at the vicarage and we will make the necessary arrangements.”
The gentlemen parted in perfect amity, both pleased with the outcome of their discussion, and neither very concerned about how Verity might react to their plotting.
*
CHAPTER SIX
(“Magni Nominis Umbra” – An unworthy descendant of an illustrious family)
The Constable of Hanbury was quite the best sitter Verity had ever had – though it had to be admitted she did not have a particularly large number of sitters against whom she could compare him, having always been extremely reserved in singing her own praises.
As for Gratten, he was so determined the likeness be a good one, he remained frozen in his pose until Verity gave him leave to stir, and when she was working on parts of the canvas which did not require his complete immobility, he was more than delighted to discuss art and artists, and her husband, the one topic of which neither seemed to tire, Gratten being, in his own way, quite as ardent an admirer as Verity. Underwood would have been mortified had he heard even a snippet of the fulsome praise which was heaped upon him.
Meanwhile Underwood’s relief at being able to leave Verity not only safe, but also happily engrossed, was considerable. He and Toby wasted no time at all in setting about solving their own little mystery. Toby was invaluable because he moved easily between two distinct worlds. He was, by now, well known to all the friends and acquaintances of the Underwoods’, but due to his past life as a pugilist, he also frequented all the surrounding inns, taverns, gaming hells, cock-pits and mills. He was fond of the Underwoods, after all they had been his salvation when he had no job and no roof over his head, but sometimes a man has to relax in his own way.
Unsurprisingly he frequently came across Rogers in these less than salubrious places. Try as he might, he could find no evidence that the young man was their culprit, but perhaps more tellingly, he could find nothing which proved his innocence either. No one to whom he spoke had a good word to say for the boy. Other gamesters suspected him of cheating, men with whom he drank found him offensive in his cups. Prostitutes said he was less than generous and decidedly strange and cruel in his requirements.
Underwood was more than happy to let Toby take care of this side of Hanbury life, but he would have done it himself if it had been required. He never stood in judgement upon those who were forced by circumstances to live in a way which was distasteful to himself. He only despised those who lacked morality from choice.
Whilst Toby dredged the dregs, he concentrated his efforts on the so-called cream of society. The story, however, was not so very different here. Rogers seemed to make a token effort to hide his true colours from his peers, but he had a habit of allowing the façade to slip when he was drunk, or angry, or under the influence of opium – which appeared to be quite frequently.
In the end Underwood came to pretty much the same conclusion as Toby. Rogers was more than capable of persecuting the Underwoods and would seem, in his own opinion at least, to have ample reason for
doing so, but whatever the truth, he had left no clues to be followed.
Unfortunately this merely convinced Underwood of his guilt. If he did not have something to hide, why should he cover his tracks so carefully?
This conviction did nothing to ease matters when he finally met Mrs. Rogers. There was very little to be said to a woman when one suspected her son was threatening to hurt, or possibly even kill, oneself and one’s pregnant wife. Her first words did nothing to mollify, “Mr. Underwood, you are a friend of Godfrey, I believe.”
They were in the Pump-rooms, Mrs. Rogers still in her widow’s weeds, made a stark contrast to the mainly colourfully-garbed visitors to the Spa. She had evidently sought Underwood out, and having found him, set her steps purposefully in his direction. Underwood, unusually for him, was momentarily stumped for an answer. He realized at once who she was – her dress of unrelieved black told him that much, and strangely there was a certain, fleeting resemblance to her son. He could not bring himself to deny friendship to the woman who had given Rogers life, on the other hand, he could neither bring himself to admit and alliance to one whom he roundly despised. Gathering his wits, he held out his hand to her, “Mrs. Rogers? Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences for your loss.”
She graciously allowed her hand to lie briefly in his and thanked him gravely,
before adding, “Might I sit with you, sir? I would have words with you and the opportunity may not again present itself.”
“Certainly, madam. May I fetch you a cup of the waters?”
“No, thank you.” She seated herself and looked steadily at him for several seconds, much to his discomfiture.
“You do not seem to be at all similar to my son’s other friends, sir,” she said at last.
“I’m very sure of that! In point of fact, to describe me as a friend of Godfrey is rather misleading. I tutored him at Cambridge. We would be more accurately described as mere acquaintances.”
Her face seemed to clear of some of its troubles, “Ah, I understand. In truth, Godfrey had latched onto you, presuming heavily upon a previous association.”
Underwood debated whether to spare her feelings by denying this, but on reflection found he could not. His innate honesty asserted itself and he answered baldly, “Yes.”
“I apologize for my son – and for my own encroachment on your time. Allow me to waste no more of it.” She made as though to stand, but his hand instinctively shot out to stop her hasty departure, “Please do not leave, Mrs. Rogers. I would value a few moments of your time.”
She was surprised, and she showed it, “I cannot imagine what you think you have to discuss with me, Mr. Underwood.”
“Would you be so good as to answer a question, madam?” he asked politely, ignoring her astonishment.
“Certainly, if I am able.”
“Why did you seek me out when you thought I was a friend of your son?”
She coloured a little, but was determined to be honest, “That rather depended upon the sort of man I felt you to be. If, as I found, you were a gentleman, drawn into Godfrey’s circle in ignorance of his true nature, I should have warned you against him. If, on the other hand, I had discovered you were one of his ilk, I intended to attempt to frighten you away from him by threat of law. A mention of the Bow Street Runners has proved not unsuccessful in the past.”
“I imagine it has. Forgive my bluntness Mrs. Rogers, but I see no reason to pretend ignorance. I understand Godfrey has been a less than perfect son, and that you are even now planning a court action which promises to sunder you still further – probably irrevocably. That being the case, why bother to seek out his cronies and warn them off?”
She held his glance with eyes which held a depth of sorrow he prayed he would never feel, “No mother ever entirely loses hope that her child will return to the path of righteousness, Mr. Underwood. I know, only too well, what kind of a man Godfrey has become, but I still remember the sweet innocence of his babyhood. The tiny, plump hand which grasped my finger, the wide blue eyes which had never seen evil, the little pink lips which had never tasted ought but a mother’s milk. It is the hardest part of being a parent, Mr. Underwood, to watch that innocence drain away, little by little, year after year. And the bitterest thing is that one can do nothing to stop it. It is like Canute trying to hold back the waves, protecting your child from finally realizing what life actually holds for them.”
It was a speech which one of Underwood’s character did not really need to hear; she could have said nothing more calculated to plunge him into melancholy introspection. He barely noticed she had walked away.
He was only roused from his reverie when Thornycroft’s wheeled chair came to rest beside him and the hearty tones of the invalid assailed his ears, “Good God, Underwood, has somebody died?”
The one man who could have cheered him punched him gently on the arm, “Come on, man. I need your help. Elliott is determined to approach Miss Die-away-Knight. You have to help us stop him.”
Underwood managed a grin, “Dash it all, Jeremy, let the boy alone! If he wants to make a fool of himself of the woman, it is surely his own affair."
“Balderdash! Where is your sense of allegiance to the male sex? It is a matter of honour, to save our brother-men from matrimony.”
“No one tried to save me – or you, for that matter.”
“Ah, but we had found perfect women and didn’t need saving.”
“Well, let Elliott find out the hard way. He’ll be well-served for being so utterly lacking in taste and judgement.”
“You’re a hard man, Underwood!”
“Jeremy, you play cards with Godfrey Rogers, do you not?” asked Underwood thoughtfully, having swiftly grown bored with the previous topic.
“I do – and I keep swearing never to play with him again.”
“Why, does he cheat?”
“No, I don’t think so, but he brings an unpleasant atmosphere to the table. Everything is life and death with him. He’s damned rude when he loses and ungracious when he wins. It seems we all play because we want to, but he plays because he has to. It leeches all the amusement out of the game, let me tell you.”
“Do you think he is in debt?”
“Think it? I know it! If his mother succeeds in halting the sale of his estate, he’s going to find himself in Queer Street.”
“She fully intends to try. She thinks she would be saving him from himself.”
“She’s probably right.”
Having nothing else to do, Underwood allowed himself to be persuaded to join the other ‘Wablers’, who were all being vociferous in their condemnation of Elliott’s plans to woo Miss Knight. He could, of course, have ended the discussion instantly by revealing the existence of Olivia’s married lover, but he would never break his word to Verity in so cavalier a manner, so he merely sat back with god-like omniscience and callously watched the fun.
Elliott was quite determined, having drunk several brandies to give him courage, to approach Miss Knight and tell her of his devotion, and his friends were having to physically restrain him. Underwood was amused to notice that though they
Thought they were being terribly discreet, the level of noise rising from their corner of the Pump-rooms was attracting a great deal of attention.
Suddenly Underwood became aware of a gaze which was resting exclusively upon himself, and not the ‘Wablers’. He turned his head and found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes, in the depths of which any man would willingly drown. She smiled slightly at him and he, almost against his will, returned the salute. She raised her fan so that it masked her face from all but he, then mouthed the words, “Come over here.”
Underwood had never been so brazenly propositioned in his life, and he could honestly say that he never for a moment entertained the idea of being unfaithful to Verity, but there was something undeniably compelling about the young woman. With a cautious glance towards the ‘Wablers’, he ascertained they were too engrossed to take heed of his departu
re, so he strolled casually across the room.
“May I present myself, since there is no mutual acquaintance to perform the service? My name is Underwood.”
She held out a long, slender white hand, tipped with beautifully manicured pink nails, as delicate as tiny seashells, “How do you do, Mr. Underwood?” He took her hand and bowed over it, lifting his eyes to more closely observe her face. It was well worth observing. She was ravishing; guinea gold curls framed a physiognomy of exquisite perfection, and those eyes …
“I’m well, Miss ..?”
“Cara – Lady Cara Lovell.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“Please, it is of no consequence. I should like you to call me Cara.”
“It’s a pretty name. From the Italian – ‘dear girl’ – I suspect you were well named.”
She smiled, her eyes brimming over with merriment and mischief, “My, what a flirt you are, sir!”
Underwood, with his usual lack of finesse, which for some reason women found irresistible, retorted, “Good God, no! I never flirt.”
She laughed and fluttered her fan, “I stand corrected. Tell me, Mr. Underwood – I suppose I must call you that, since you are determined to be formal – why were you standing with the army? I can see by your bearing you are not a soldier.”
“I should say not. Soldiering would never be for me. However, living in a Spa town makes one used to having strange bed-fellows. One makes acquaintances one never imagined in another life.”
“Did you have ‘another life’ before Hanbury?”
“I tutored at Cambridge.”
“Ah, what a pity. My brother attends Oxford.”
“He would – if, as I imagine, you are the daughter of an Earl.”
“You are perceptive.”
“No, merely well-informed and observant. Your finger bears no wedding ring, and whilst that is not proof absolute, it suggests you are unmarried. Tell me how you came to be here. I should have thought the more fashionable watering places would have suited you better.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 5
