The same thought had occurred to Underwood, but he refused to relinquish his theory so easily, “Not necessarily. He could have made the arrangements for the delivery before his death. In fact it would have made more sense for him to employ another party to do his dirty work. Being caught in the act would have been incredibly embarrassing.”
“Very true.”
Underwood moved, nauseated, away from the table, “Pray excuse me, Theodore. I must go to Verity.”
“Of course. What do you want me to do with this thing?”
“Put it back in the box and cover it. Toby will dispose of it when he returns. This would have to happen on his free day. He has been watching Verity and the house like a hawk – not so much as a mouse could have crossed the garden without him seeing.”
“That’s probably why it did happen today, my friend.”
Underwood acknowledged the sense of this remark with a swift nod of the head, then he followed his brother out of the room.
Upstairs, Verity presented a sight which would have melted the hardest of hearts. Mrs. Trent had persuaded her to lie down and the vast, old-fashioned, curtained bed dwarfed her, making her appear child-like and vulnerable – all the more so because of the tears which slid unheeded down her white cheeks.
She turned startled eyes to the door when it opened to admit her husband, and he was appalled to see the flash of fear in her eyes, before she swiftly banished it and forced a tremulous smile. It was perhaps just as well that someone else had taken the opportunity to kill Rogers, for Underwood could quite happily have taken a gun and shot the boy himself in that moment! He said nothing of the kind to his wife, of course, merely crossing the room and grasping her hand warmly and comfortingly in his own.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart! I should not have let my vigilance slip. You ought never to have been subjected to that. I hold myself entirely responsible.”
“No, no! Do not blame yourself. I was foolish. I should have known that no one with good intentions would ever have sent a package without a card.”
He could see she was more than ready to work herself into a frenzy of self-castigation, so he quickly steered the conversation in another direction, “Gil has gone for the doctor. I think he ought to take a look at you. You sustained a nasty shock, and that cannot be good for either of you.” He laid a gentle hand on her stomach, and she blushed rosily, but did not, surprisingly, disagree. Under normal circumstances, any hint that she was not enjoying the most perfect health roused her most stubborn moods, “I must admit I do feel a little shaken. Every time I close my eyes, I see that … thing!”
The arrival of the doctor sent Underwood from the room, but he hovered on the landing outside until the consultation was at an end. Not for the world would he ever admit it, but he was seriously concerned for Verity and their baby. He leaned against the wall, his fisted hands thrust into his pockets, and stared moodily at his feet, his thoughts far away, until the doctor joined him, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He straightened himself hastily and opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor frowned slightly and placed his finger to his lips. Underwood took the hint and led him downstairs to the study, so that there was no possibility of Verity overhearing their conversation.
“Is everything well with my wife and child?” he asked, as soon as the study door closed behind them. The doctor, a middle-aged man of kindly aspect and himself the father of several strapping sons, smiled reassuringly, “Mother nature has her own ways of protecting the unborn, Mr. Underwood. I don’t think you need worry unduly. Your wife had a nasty shock, true enough, but a small dose of laudanum has sent her into a healing sleep. I suggest she keep to her bed for a sennight, just to be sure, but her own body will begin to calm her, now that the birth is imminent.”
It was now Underwood who sustained a shock. The word imminent was suddenly ominous to him, “Imminent! Just exactly how imminent?”
“You have no date?” Dr. MacGregor was accustomed to his own life being run upon the cycles of the moon and he could scarcely believe the Underwoods had been so slapdash.
“No, not really.”
“Well, babies always arrive in their own time, but I would be immensely surprised if your family has not expanded within a fortnight.”
Two weeks! Underwood was stunned. This was a little too close for comfort. Since the first moment Verity had announced her pregnancy, he had been having great difficulty in imagining the arrival of a baby, but it had always been blissfully far ahead, and he found no need to think any too deeply about the future. Suddenly this man was using words like ‘imminent’. Underwood became an extremely apprehensive man.
He barely heard the congratulations or farewells of MacGregor, merely slumping into a chair as soon as he was alone, his face a shade whiter than it had been before. His reverie was shattered by the advent of his brother and Dr. Russell, both demanding to know how Verity did – and what precisely he intended to do about the dead rabbit which was rendering the parlour unusable.
“Is Toby not back yet?”
“No, but we were not expecting him before eleven this evening.”
“Why, what time is it now?” Underwood did not wait for a reply, but consulted his own watch, drawn from his waistcoat pocket. By Jove! Only half-past two. He felt as though he had lived through an eternity since luncheon. Was it really only mid-afternoon? He thrust the watch impatiently back into his pocket.
“Dammit all! It is only a dead rabbit. Surely it cannot be beyond the ingenuity of us all to bury it in the garden.”
“Have you ever dug a hole?” asked Gil diffidently.
“Not that I recall,” admitted his brother brusquely, “Amazingly enough, there was never any great demand for digging at Cambridge University. What about you? You must have seen a thousand graves dug.”
“I don’t stand about watching the grave-diggers at their work,” protested Gil, horrified by the thought that he might be forced into the disposal of the dead creature. He was very nearly as squeamish as his sibling, though not quite. He, after all, was required to give the last rites to the dead and dying. Underwood would run a mile if requested to attend a death-bed.
“Dear God!” said Dr. Russell, torn between amusement and irritation at their irrational horror of a dead animal, “Have you any idea how pathetic you sound? Tell me where to find a spade. I’ll bury the thing myself!”
This interjection caused the brothers to pause in their bickering. They glanced at each other, “Very well, Gil, tell Theodore where he might find a spade,” said Underwood smoothly.
“How the dev … How should I know?” replied Gil testily.
Dr. Russell threw his glance heavenward, “Never mind, I’ll ask Mrs. Trent.”
*
The weary afternoon wore on. Verity slept. Gil went to visit Catherine. Dr. Russell, having performed his grave-digging duties in a little-frequented spot at the bottom of the garden, washed the soil from his hands and took himself off for a walk. Underwood dozed before the study fire until about four o’clock, whereupon he was woken by the sound of rain blowing against the window panes. It had gone very dark and Underwood knew he ought to rouse himself to light the candles in their sconces, and to stir up the fire and add more wood before it fell too far to be reanimated, but the early twilight and the silence of the nearly empty house somehow suited his mood of melancholy.
It was rare, these days, for him to find himself entirely alone. And when, at such times, he thought about it, he missed the solitude. Not for a moment did he regret his marriage, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break. The transition from bachelor to married man had been a swift one, leaving him little time to cogitate upon the consequences of his actions. It was probably the only impetuous thing he had ever done in his life, but the notion that he might lose Verity to his brother had been a suitably sharp spur.
A light knocking on the door dragged him back from his contemplation of his past life, and he stirred himself sufficiently to cross the room an
d open the door, “Ah, Mrs. Trent. I was about to come in search of you. Is Mrs. Underwood awake?”
“No, sir. I have just been up to see if she required tea, but she’s still fast asleep. I was coming to ask you the same. The Reverend is not back yet, nor Dr. Russell, but I can bring you something if you want me to.”
“No. No need. I’ll wait for the others.”
“Do you want me to light the candles? What with the rain, it’s suddenly gone very black outside.”
He did not have the chance to reply, for the front door knocker sounded, reverberating in the silence of the dark hallway.
“I expect that will be Dr. Russell or the vicar now. Let them in and I’ll see to the lights.”
He went back into the study and taking a spill from a holder on the mantle, he teased it into life from the swiftly dying embers of the fire. He had lit only two of the many candles in the room when Mrs. Trent came in behind him, “Mr. Gratten to see you, sir,” she announced formally. She did not care for the Constable, thinking him full of self-importance – or as she coarsely phrased it to her cronies, “full of wind and water”.
Mr. Gratten, who had an instinctive dislike of over-familiarity in servants, dismissed the housekeeper with an impatient, “Thank you, my good woman,” and bustled into the room as she, full of irritation, bustled out of it. She gave a derisive, and clearly audible, snort and stomped off down the passageway to her kitchen, where she spent a pleasurable half hour banging her pans about, wishing they were Gratten’s head.
“Rather dark in here, Underwood,” he commented helpfully, as the door closed upon the furious Mrs. Trent.
Underwood, who had a lighted spill in his hand, thought it rather obvious he was trying to remedy the situation, but he held his temper rather better than the housekeeper, “I’m seeing to it,” he replied evenly, “What can I do for you, Gratten? I presume this is not a social call.”
“No, no. I have bad news, I’m afraid. I have had a message from Mrs. Herbert. It seems her husband is away – gone to Edinburgh, apparently, for the retirement of his old Professor, or some such thing. She is writing to him express, in the hopes she can send him straight on here instead of going home first. Even so, it is going to be two or three days before he reaches us.”
“Oh,” this was a blow. Underwood trusted no man as he trusted Francis Herbert, and he was desperate for his old friend to perform the post mortem examination on the body of Rogers.
“Does this mean you will wait no longer, and ask one of our local doctors to look at the body for you?”
“Not if you are in agreement with my suggestion. I don’t imagine two more days is going to make any difference to the evidence the body can offer, do you? The weather is cold enough, and the game larder at Hanbury Manor was designed to keep meat fresh.”
This was not quite how Underwood would have liked to think of the situation, but he had to reluctantly agree. He could only wish Gratten would not view the dead Rogers quite so dispassionately, and worse still, imagine that Underwood felt the same way.
“If Mrs. Rogers does not object to the boy’s presence, I see no problem.”
“Why should she object? It’s her own son, isn’t it?” Gratten asked baldly, with genuine surprise.
“Do you not see that might be precisely why she would object? Would you want your dead son in the house for four long days?”
“She doesn’t have to go into the game larder!”
Underwood could see he was never going to breach the thick skin of his companion, so with a resigned sigh, he blew out the now spent spill, “In the meantime, have you circulated a description of the items missing from Rogers’ person?”
“Indeed I have. If that watch turns up in any pawn shop or jewellers within a radius of fifty miles, I shall get to know of it. I am a man of widespread influence.” This last was said with an air of pride which almost made Underwood smile. Dear Gratten. He ought to be a politician.
Presently the constable took his leave and Underwood made no attempt to delay him – indeed, he had been actively hoping that the arrival of the vicar and the tea things would not occur whilst the man was still present, thus forcing Underwood to play the dutiful host and offer refreshments. He was more than ready for his tea, recalling with pain his unfinished lunch.
A message came from Dr. Russell. He had called upon Mrs. Rogers to offer his condolences and had been invited to stay for dinner. Now Underwood need only wait for his brother and tea could be served. He looked in on Verity, but she still slept, her hair spread upon the pillow, and the flickering firelight lending her cheeks a healthy glow which Underwood could only hope was not an illusion.
As he came down the stairs the front door opened and Gil came in. Unaware of his brother’s presence, he closed the door behind him, them slumped wearily against it, his whole demeanour confiding a despair which Underwood had never thought to witness in his younger sibling. He was wet, completely drenched, as though he had been out in the rain since it had started, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping steadily onto the wooden floor, his trousers damp to the knee, and his shoes causing a rapidly widening puddle. Underwood could not understand the reason for this spectacle, for Gil need never be caught in the rain. Any household in town was open to him. He need only knock on any one of a hundred doors to be hauled inside and lavished with refreshments and offers of carriage rides home.
“Gil?” he spoke softly, but Gil straightened himself as though he had heard a gun shot. He looked up at his brother, saying nothing, but raking his fingers through his hair, pushing it impatiently off his forehead.
“Is there something wrong?”
Gil forced a smile, but even the insensitive Underwood could see the pain the effort caused him, “Not at all. How is Verity?”
“Still sleeping. What is it, Gil?”
“Is Dr. Russell here?”
“No, he’s having dinner with Mrs. Rogers.”
Gil’s head dropped to his chest, “Thank God!” he murmured fervently, “I don’t think I could have borne to make small talk over dinner.”
Underwood descended the last few stairs and crossed the hall, his eyes on Gil’s bent head, a slight frown creasing his brow. He grasped his brother by the arm and was horrified to feel that his clothes were indeed sodden, “You must get out of these things, old fellow. You’ll catch a chill.”
Gil gave a humourless laugh, “Do you think I care? I must tell you, Chuffy, I always secretly despised you for losing your faith when Elinor was murdered. I know you thought that if there was a God, he ought to have saved her.”
Underwood could not have been more shocked if the vicar had hit him full in the face. These were things which had never been spoken of before, and for Gil to casually mention now the incident which had nearly brought him to the borders of desperation was astounding, and, he felt, more than a little cruel. There was something behind all this, and he meant to find out what it was, “Come into the study. There is a fire in there.”
“There is always a fire in the study, dear brother. The clock in the hall always chimes the quarters; Mrs. Trent always brings tea at four o’clock.”
“Not today, she hasn’t,” said the pragmatic Underwood, “You are late.”
Gil shook off his hold, “I wish I was late. The late Reverend Underwood – past pain, beyond despair!” He laughed again, but the sound quickly dissolved into a sob. Underwood, now thoroughly alarmed, grabbed both his shoulders and gave him a slight shake, “Tell me what is going on, Gil!”
“Catherine is dying. It is not a quinsy, it is some sort of a growth. The doctors can do nothing for her…”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Underwood could find nothing to say. He simply drew his brother into his embrace and let him weep as he had not wept since they were both young and had lost their father.
*
CHAPTER ELEVEN
(“Non Semper Erit Aestas” – It will not always be summer – be prepared for hard
times)
Gil seemed a little calmer with a cup of tea in his hands, his soaking garments removed and replaced with his warmed dressing gown. Underwood still observed him with concern, but the outbreak of raw misery had evidently passed. True, his hands shook slightly as he raised the cup to his lips, and his hair was still damp, though now neatly combed, but the incident by the front door might never have taken place.
Unexpectedly he began to talk, to tell his brother exactly what had occurred, and though Underwood loved Gil, he found he had no desire to share his pain, feeling at that moment he had quite enough heartache of his own, but he did not have sufficient selfishness to stop him. He knew the price of his love was going to be listening to every broken hearted word his brother spoke – and to live with the knowledge of the man’s agony.
“She looked so peaceful when I arrived, as though there were nothing untoward. She has been so agitated these last few weeks, worrying about Alistair, fretful that our marriage was not going to be allowed. I thought something wonderful must have happened, that her parents-in-law had ceased to object to our nuptials, perhaps. She smiled so sweetly at me as I walked across the room, and held out her hand to me. I took it and kissed it, waiting for her to speak, to tell me her good news. She sent her companion away with a gesture – something she has never done before, and with so small a movement of her hand that I knew the signal must have been prearranged. We have never been alone in her bedroom, even though she has been so very unwell, for we were both aware that no hint of scandal must touch either of us, for the sake of our future together.”
He took a sip of his tea, then continued, “When we were alone, she asked me to sit on the bed beside her and I did so reluctantly. As I observed her more closely, I noticed how very pale she is, her skin almost translucent, and how very difficult it is for her to speak, and swallow, even to breathe, so swollen is her throat. I was suddenly overwhelmed by my love for her and I so far forgot myself to kiss her on the lips – when I raised my head she was weeping. Then she told me what the doctors had said.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
