“I wish I could believe you meant a single word of that, Mr. Underwood, but I thank you with all my heart for saying it. I don’t know why Godfrey turned to wickedness. I swear there was nothing his father and I could do to prevent it – and believe me, we tried. The despair of it all shortened his father’s life, and in the end, for what? My son lies dead gentlemen, and in truth, I cannot pretend to be sorry. God knows he was guilty of every villainy known to man, and looked set fair to invent a few of his own! How can I regret that he is dead? And how can I ever forgive myself for feeling so? I want to kiss the hand which raised the gun to his breast and discharged a shot into his black heart. May God forgive me!”
Anything either of the brothers could say after that speech would have been mere hypocrisy, so they wisely held their tongues.
Underwood took a seat opposite Gil and in the silence which ensued, their eyes met over the bowed head of their hostess. Underwood mouthed instructions to Gil to say something consoling, but Gil shrugged helplessly, indicating his complete inability to find anything useful to say to the distraught woman. It was therefore with some relief that they both turned automatically at the sound of the door opening. Gratten entered quietly and, with obviously subdued excitement, he beckoned wildly to Underwood. Unfortunately before that gentleman could make his excuses and leave the room, Mrs. Rogers raised her head and caught sight of the gesticulating constable. He blushed like a schoolboy caught in the act of wrong-doing, “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I have need of Mr. Underwood for a few moments.”
“What is it, Mr. Gratten? Have you discovered something which will help?”
“Nothing you need trouble yourself with, madam, I assure …”
“Pray do not seek to protect me,” she interrupted harshly, “Nothing could possibly shock of distress me any further. Was Godfrey engaged in some perfidy which I have yet to uncover?”
“No, no, madam! Nothing like that, at all. It is merely the fortuitous circumstance which prompted me to search the boy’s pockets. I am assured by his valet that his watch, fobs, seals and a small amount of money is missing from his person. It seems that robbery was indeed the reason for the killing. Knowing his headstrong nature, I would imagine he refused to hand over his valuables and the footpad simply shot him where he stood – foolhardy, but understandable. Given this information, I think I can safely conclude that the Coroner’s inquest will be swiftly and satisfactorily closed. Nothing of your son’s life need ever be made public.”
She closed her eyes, her hand covering her black-swathed breast, as though to still the beating of her heart, “Thank God for that small mercy,” she whispered fervently.
Underwood was livid with an all consuming anger at Gratten’s stupidity and his expression of horror mixed with ire left no doubt in the Constable’s mind as to his feelings.
“What?” hissed the older man, none too pleased to be on the receiving end of such a malevolent glare.
“Mrs. Rogers has heard enough, gentlemen. Shall we leave her?” The clipped tones invited no opportunity for discussion. Gil and Gratten found themselves ushered out of the room, and wisely did not attempt to protest – indeed Gil had no wish to, for he was glad to be away from the company of a woman whom he pitied profoundly.
Once in the hall, the door safely closed behind them, Underwood turned on the constable and verbally attacked him unmercifully, “What the devil do you mean by it, Gratten? How could you presume to tell that poor woman her suffering is nearly at an end?”
“It is,” blustered the older man, completely aghast, both at the display of anger by the usually stoic Underwood, and the intimation that his information had not signalled the end of the whole sorry affair.
“It most certainly is not! What was the boy doing in the lane? Until that question is answered, we can take nothing else for granted.”
“Nonsense! He probably went out for a breath of fresh air. What difference does it make? He was robbed, and there’s an end to it.”
“No one wanders half a mile or more from their own party, in the dead of night, during a firework display which must have cost a small fortune to arrange. Rogers went down that lane for a reason. The likelihood being that it was a pre-arranged meeting, and one that evidently went very badly wrong – at least for Rogers.”
Gratten’s high colour faded as the sense of what Underwood was saying sunk into his mind, “But there is no need for any of this to be raised. For his mother’s sake, we should all agree to say that the boy was robbed and murdered by person or persons unknown.”
“I think not, sir!”
Underwood turned on his heel and walked out of the house, leaving Gratten and Gil staring worriedly at each other.
*
Underwood went home to find his wife resting on a sofa in the vicarage parlour, a welcoming fire roaring up the chimney, an unread book in her hands. She looked up and smiled at him as he entered the room, but he detected a lingering sadness in her expressive green eyes. He perched on the edge of the sofa by her side, and taking her hand, his kissed it gently, “You have not been too distressed by the news, I hope?”
“Not distressed precisely. I own I was never very fond of Mr. Rogers. He had a way of looking at all women which made one feel rather – unclean! But I do feel most strongly for his mother. She is a charming woman. I cannot even now believe that anyone was kind and pleasant could have given birth to such a rapscallion.”
“I have a notion her own feelings run in a similar direction, my dear. I left her torn between grief and joy at his passing.”
“Poor lady! She has had so much to bear these past months. I wish there was something I could do for her.”
“Whilst I sympathize with your desire to comfort her, you will kindly oblige me by doing nothing for the present. I have a feeling this matter is far from over, and there is much we do not yet know.”
“What a strange thing to say. You are surely not suggesting some nefarious involvement of Mrs. Rogers in the death of her son?”
“Good Lord, no! But I think the events of last night are a great deal more entangled that anyone imagines. It is better that you rest and keep yourself well – after all, the time is fast approaching when you will need all your strength.”
She blushed slightly, as she always did at any mention of her condition, however oblique. She felt it to be an intensely private matter which was, unfortunately, profoundly visible.
“I’m well enough – I do nothing but rest.”
“Good, I delighted to hear it. Now, allow me to tell you something which may make you rest even easier. I have reason to believe that it was none other than Rogers who was your tormentor. I think his death may mean the end of your fears.”
The lifting of the expression of anxiety from her face demonstrated only too clearly how much these incidents had been troubling her, “Oh, Cadmus! Are you indeed certain it was he?”
Even to alleviate her fears, he could not lie, “Without proof, I cannot be entirely certain, but I feel safe enough in the assumption, my dear. He was a horrid child who grew into a particularly odious young man. Those events which frightened you had all the hallmarks of a Rogers’ scheme.”
“Then it is really over?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
She left the matter there, for even now she could not confide the depths of her terror. Underwood meant far too much to her for her to burden him with worries which he could do nothing to cure. She felt she was being ridiculously sensitive to have taken such a boyish prank so much to heart. With the gift of hindsight, Godfrey was an overly enthusiastic young man who had played a silly trick which he had imagined would have been taken in the light manner he had intended.
“Where is our guest?” Underwood asked presently, rising to his feet and consulting his watch. His stomach told him that it was high time luncheon was served. It seemed many hours since his disturbed and only half-eaten breakfast.
“He went out shortly after you and Gil left for Hanbury Manor. H
e did not confide his destination to me. He seemed shocked and upset at the news of Rogers’ death and I imagined he wanted to be alone.”
“Very probably. He appeared to be quite fond of the boy – though God alone knows why. Well, he is a grown man, and perfectly capable of providing himself with food if he misses the vicarage mealtimes. I am famished and don’t intend to wait on him.”
As it happened he was not called upon to do so, for Dr. Russell entered the house at that very moment, closely followed by Gil. Underwood and Verity met them on their way across the hall to the dining room and though there were many questions waiting to be asked, there was no conversation, for Mrs. Trent bustled by, bearing a steaming tureen of soup. The two late-comers hastily divested themselves of their outer wear and followed the delicious aroma.
No one spoke until the edge had been taken off their hunger, but thereafter things became somewhat heated. Gil was still furious that Underwood, yet again, looked set to interfere in matters which were best left alone. He agreed wholeheartedly with Gratten that the Coroner’s Court should speedily and quietly despatch Rogers on his journey to the grave, but he knew that whilst Underwood had a tongue to wag, that was never going to happen! On this occasion he could not see what possibly purpose could be served by dragging out the affair. The world was a far better place for the loss of the boy, and his assailant would no doubt quickly follow this crime with another and be duly executed for it.
Underwood was, not unnaturally, appalled when presented with this version of poetic justice from his cleric brother, “My dear Gil, you cannot possibly be hoping for another murder?”
“Do not, pray, be so ludicrous!”
“But that is what you are saying. If we do not find this killer, he may very well claim another victim.”
“God will protect the righteous,” said Gil pompously, but without real thought, annoyed to have been bested in a philosophical argument by his brother, “And my concern now is for poor Mrs. Rogers.”
“Are you really trying to convince me that God will ensure that the murderer will only kill those who, in your opinion, deserve to be despatched?”
Having his theory put into such stark terms made Gil realize how unrealistic and unfair was his premise, but he felt he could not back down now, “I trust so,” he said weakly. Strangely it was Dr. Russell who came to his rescue, “You are rather over-simplifying the matter, Underwood – deliberately, if I may say so, merely in order to win the argument. Gil is quite right. It is not for us to play God, but to leave it to the Almighty. He has given Mrs. Rogers some hard-won peace, so who are we to take that from her? She has been through enough. We are not asking that you allow the murderer to go free, merely that you do not make too much of an issue of his connection with Rogers.”
Unaccustomed to having his mentor side with his brother against him, Underwood was lost for words – but only briefly. Verity, seeing that the discussion was about to take an ugly turn, hastily intervened, “Dearest Gil, of course you are full of sympathy for Mrs. Rogers, as we all are, but you must not seek to cover up the facts. You are accusing Underwood of attempting to play God, but surely that is also what you seek to do, in suppressing evidence? You know that Cadmus will do everything in his power to serve justice, whilst also doing his best to protect her.”
Gil threw her a severe look, “I sincerely hope so, for this may very well end with my brother having blood upon his hands. I fear very deeply for Mrs. Rogers’ sanity if she has to go through much more.”
“Mrs. Rogers is a strong woman, Gil, and more than equal to any misfortune life may serve her.” Underwood sounded quite as bitter as his sibling, and Verity feared that the emotion being generated was going to cause a rift which might last a long time. The two were exceptionally fond and proud of each other, but there was always an undercurrent of sibling rivalry, childhood jealousies and more adult feelings which slightly marred their relationship. She supposed all brothers and sisters must be similar, but as an only child, she could not share this particular sensation with her husband.
She glanced at Dr. Russell, hoping for some wise comment from him, designed to remove the heat from the situation, but he was observing the brothers with an expression of grim satisfaction. With dawning horror, she realized that the old gentleman was enjoying the fight. He had provoked Underwood deliberately, not because he agreed with Gil, but because he wanted to see the men quarrel.
With a sick knot of tension in the pit of her stomach, she rose unsteadily from the table, “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I must ask to be excused.”
The brothers were at once united in their concern for her, but it was too late to heal the wound she had received. She blindly pushed away the hands which reached out to aid her, and silently left the room, leaving the three men behind her suitably shame-faced at their lack of control and consideration.
Mrs. Trent found her in the hall a few moments later, steadying herself against the newel post, “I’m about to bring in the next course, madam,” she said, somewhat surprised at this apparent desertion. The heavily pregnant Mrs. Underwood usually ate a good luncheon.
“Do go on and serve the gentlemen, Mrs. Trent. I’m a little tired and not particularly hungry.”
“Very good, ma’am,” she completely understood the utter weariness brought on by a growing baby and smiled sympathetically, “Perhaps you might like to go and open your parcel then?” she added.
“A parcel? For me?” Verity was astounded; she was not expecting anything to be delivered.
“Yes. I found it not half an hour ago, on the doorstep. Clearly marked with your name.”
“I wonder what it can be – and from whom?”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it is not a gift from one of the Reverend’s lady parishioners. I expect it will have baby clothes in it. Women like to make little garments, even when they have no babies of their own.”
Verity was immediately cheered, the distress at the quarrel between her husband and brother-in-law entirely supplanted by the thought of some kind-hearted woman diligently stitching some tiny garment for her coming child, “Yes, of course! How kind people can be. Where did you put it?”
“On the table in the parlour. There are scissors in the sewing-box to cut the string.”
Verity went off happily to see to her gift, but within minutes a piercing scream was echoing through the vicarage. Underwood, in the dining room, leapt to his feet, his heart pounding with shock, “Dear God! What is amiss with Verity?” He ran to her, closely followed by the other two.
He found his wife, white-faced and shaking uncontrollably, in the parlour, still standing by the package on the table, but her face turned away from it, and her hand firmly over her mouth, as though to stifle any further shrieks.
“What is it? What the devil has happened to you?” In his agitation he barked the questions at her, but she seemed to neither notice nor care. Speechless, with tragic eyes raised to his, she could only gesture vaguely towards the table.
He walked across the room and approached the package cautiously. Verity shuddered and staggered away from him as the paper rustled slightly as he drew it aside in order to peer into the box. He too recoiled in horror at what it contained.
His thoughts were stark and frightening; what sick mind existed, capable of such a dreadful deed as this?
*
CHAPTER TEN
(“Non Semper Ea Sunt Quae Videntur” – Things are not always what they appear to be)
That one cursory glance into the box told Underwood all he needed to know. When Mrs. Trent came running into the room, also summoned by the terrified screams of Mrs. Underwood, he turned on her and curtly delivered his orders. Though she had no idea what was happening, she knew this was not the moment to demur.
“Take my wife upstairs, get her a hot drink, then fetch the doctor.”
“Yes sir,” with that she was gone, supporting the now quietly sobbing Verity.
“I’ll go for the doctor,” offered Gil
swiftly. He had a sudden disinclination to join his brother and his guest by the opened parcel. Dr. Russell had displayed no such qualms and was already peering short-sightedly into the bundle of torn paper; rent asunder by Verity’s excited fingers only minutes before, “What on earth is it?” It was as well he needed no direct answer, for Underwood was looking green, and was evidently struggling to hold on to the small amount of food he had already eaten.
The older man looked at his companion with some concern, then drew his spectacles from his pocket, placed them carefully on his nose and peered once again at the unlidded box, “Great Jupiter!” He breathed, after a moment of shocked silence,
“Who the devil is responsible for this abomination?”
“I wish I knew,” murmured Underwood, mopping his face with his handkerchief. Dr. Russell, far less squeamish than his erstwhile pupil, lifted the contents out of the package in order to inspect it more closely. It was a young rabbit, and it had obviously been snared, for the cord was still tight about its throat, and its bulging eyes and protruding, purple-black, swollen tongue bore silent, but graphic, testimony to its unpleasant and agonizing end. This scene was sickening enough in itself, but the fact that the little creature had been roughly garbed in a baby’s lawn night dress and bonnet added a macabre and frightening aspect to the message it was meant to convey.
Ashen, Dr. Russell glanced at Underwood, “I fear this means Rogers cannot have been your trickster, my friend. He was a dead man when this arrived.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 8
