When he entered the hall, his gaze was very naturally drawn to the open doorway of Verity’s studio and thereupon lighted on his own portrait. His sombre expression, as befitted the bearer of ill tidings, quickly faded into a proud and delighted smile, “It looks very well, don’t you think, Underwood?” he said, with a gesture towards the picture, “Mrs. Gratten will be delighted. Your wife is a talented woman. When do you think she will be able to finish it?”
“Soon, I trust,” was the curt reply, “Tell me, sir, is this a social visit, because if so, I must deprecate your timing of it. We have barely entered the house ourselves, and there is much still to be done…”
The smile slid away as Gratten was thus brought back to the purpose of his visit, “No, no, my dear Underwood. Grant me some sensibility please.”
Underwood silently reflected that such a task was not an easy one.
“No,” continued the older man, “I merely came to warn you that the investigation is likely to be delayed further. I have a message from Mrs. Herbert. It seems the doctor had already moved lodgings when she sent her missive, and unfortunately missed it. One of his old friends has invited him to weekend in Edinburgh, so we cannot hope t see him here before the middle of next week.”
“You still insist that we should wait on him to perform the examination of Rogers’ body?”
“I’ve no objection to waiting a little longer – after all, we know the basic story. The boy was shot by person or persons unknown – what more can the doctor really tell us?”
Underwood shrugged non-committally; he had learned long ago never to take anything for granted – but if Gratten, in his arrogance, had failed to learn a similar lesson, it was not for Underwood to teach him.
“If there is nothing else?”
Gratten, for once, took this summary dismissal very well, “Forgive me, Underwood, but I mustn’t stay. I hate to keep the horses standing, and Mrs. Gratten expects me for tea. We are to meet the young man who wishes to court my eldest daughter today. I want my wits about me when I ask him about his future prospects. Take my word upon it, if he is a pauper, he can forget his aspiration with regard to my girl.”
Underwood had a sudden, and extremely unwelcome, vision of himself making similar remarks in twenty years time. Please God let the coming child be a boy.
*
He awoke the following morning, early, and with an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. The room was flooded with light, for they had neglected to draw the curtains the night before, and the day was one of those crisp, sunny winter days, with high blue skies and frost rimed fields, which stirred vague desires to achieve something of note. Verity seemed untroubled by similar thoughts, for she was still deeply asleep, a tendril of dark hair resting against her cheek and her lashes curled against her faintly pink skin. Underwood smiled slightly at the vision she presented, then slid out from the bed beside her. His toes contracted in protest at contact with the cold floorboards, and he hastily felt about for his slippers, whilst pulling on his brocade dressing gown. He went to the casement and gazed out upon the new day. It was quite as glorious as he had imagined from the warmth of the bed. The sky was a cold, hard blue, and the wheeling rooks cawed a greeting which sounded amused and insulting as they fled untidily from the trees behind the house in search of breakfast. It had probably been the noise from the rookery which had woken him so early, and he briefly toyed with the notion of having the birds cleared away, as most other landowners would not hesitate to do, for rooks were considered a pest in the countryside, feeding, as they did, on young pheasants and attacking lambs, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Underwood would never be a killer – not even of vermin. Every creature, in his opinion, had the right to life – which was why he dedicated much of his time to seeking out those who took the lives of others – but he fervently wished the hangman’s rope was not their ultimate fate. It troubled his conscience to send a murderer to the gallows, but while that was the law, there was little he could do about it.
He feasted his eyes for a few moments longer on the view of his own meagre acres, white with hoarfrost and glittering in the sunlight, then came away from the window. It was decidedly chilly, though the now almost dead fire had kept the ice patterns on the panes at bay.
What should he do with his day? He felt the need to do something and presently his thoughts turned to the riddle of Rogers’ death, whereupon he found the source of his guilt. He had done very little about Rogers. The boy, no matter how wicked, ill-mannered, cruel and thoughtless, had been murdered, and Underwood had been too busy indulging in his own feelings of relief at his demise, to make any proper investigations into the mystery.
He resolved there and then to cure the lapse.
It was only a step across the fields to Hanbury Manor, and the farm lane upon which the body had been discovered.
Verity would be perfectly safe left in the large and capable hands of Toby.
Underwood had rediscovered his raison d’etre.
*
The Broadstones were, conveniently for Underwood, all seated around their kitchen table, eating what he imagined was breakfast. It later transpired that the meal was nearer to their equivalent of luncheon – he had failed to appreciate just how early a farmer’s day began.
Mrs. Broadstone, four foot ten, and dwarfed by her strapping six-foot sons, bustled him into the house and before he knew what he was about, he held a cup of strong tea in his hands and was facing a plateful of home-cured ham, oatcakes and eggs.
He quickly discovered that conversation was not a priority in this family. They had been up and working since five and they were hungry – those simple facts reduced everything else to nothing; including the civilities due to a guest under their roof. Food was shovelled into mouths and the only comments concerned the farm.
“Milk yield was a little down this morning,” remarked the elder Broadstone, after several minutes of a silence broken only by the sound of champing jaws.
“Bound to be now it is getting colder – but keep an eye on which of the old girls is stinting. Market waits for those who don’t pull their weight.”
Underwood allowed the talk to continue in this vein until he felt the worst pangs of their hunger must surely have been assuaged, then he intercepted.
“I fear this is not suitable conversation for the table, Mr. Broadstone, but I must ask you some questions about the death of Godfrey Rogers.”
“Ask away, sir. Me and my boys will answer anything we can, but I don’t see how we can help.”
“The most innocuous …” Underwood hesitated, their blank faces telling him the word meant nothing to them, “the most simple and innocent information can sometimes have great importance. Allow me to be the judge of the value of your testimony.”
“As I said, we’ll tell you all we can.”
“Thank you. When was the last time you saw Mr. Rogers?”
“Before his death, you mean?”
“Yes – I know you found his body, but we will come to that presently. When was the last time you saw him alive?”
“The Sunday before last. We were just coming back from church – your brother had given the most rousing sermon, quite set me up for the week, it did. You probably remember it.”
Underwood did no such thing. He attended services merely to spare his brother embarrassment, and because Verity insisted he should, but his mind was rarely focused upon the rites of the church. He usually took the opportunity to marshal his thoughts upon other things – quite often his writing. He was published and well-thought of in the world of academia, and found the small income a useful source of pin money.
“Umm…” he murmured non-committally, “And the circumstances of that meeting?”
“He had come to tell us of his intention to sell Hanbury Manor. I was upset and begged him to reconsider. Three generations of my family have worked these fields and who knows what a new owner might want to do. I wanted to hand this land onto my boys, and God willing, live to see my grandsons stri
ding our acres. Rogers cared nothing for that. He laughed in my face and offered to sell me the farm if I could raise the money. He knew I could never find his sort of price. Cruel, I call it! Taking a man’s livelihood then mocking his despair. The old gentleman would never have behaved in such a fashion, and would turn in his grave to see his son doing so.”
“Cruelty was Rogers’ speciality, Mr. Broadstone. If it is any consolation, you were far from being his only victim.”
“I don’t suppose, Mr. Underwood, you know who is to inherit now Mr. Rogers is dead?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea – but you have both presented me with an alibi and produced an interesting tangent for me to follow in asking that question."
The old man, not unreasonably, looked extremely puzzled by this remark, “I don’t quite understand …”
“It is quite straightforward,” said Underwood, smiling kindly, and with a modicum of relief – he instinctively admired the honesty and simplicity of the farmer, and had no wish to see him embroiled in the death of the odious Rogers, “You and your sons were, most unfortunately, suspects in the murder. The body was found on a road which leads to your farm, and it was universally known that you were disgruntled, to say the least, with the late Mr. Rogers. In asking who your new landlord is to be you have ably demonstrated that it would be foolish of you to kill Rogers without knowing if your new master might not be even worse than the previous one.”
“I see – and the tangent thing – what does that mean?”
“It means we have a new suspect. Men have been known to kill for a much less magnificent inheritance than Hanbury Manor.”
“You think it is the new owner then, who killed the boy?”
“No, not at all. I don’t even know the man. But I certainly need to know who he is, and where he was on the night of the murder.”
“You believe me and my boys didn’t do it?”
“Sir, I can say that I do not hold you in any particular distrust, but you were treated very badly by Rogers, and for the moment that must stand.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir. You’ve been more than fair with us. I trust in God to prove me and my boys innocent.”
“And I trust your belief in Him will be justified,” Underwood said nothing more, but thanked his hostess for his meal and left the family, for the present at least, in peace.
*
By virtue of his position as Mr. Gratten’s unofficial deputy, Underwood was shown directly into the drawing room where Mrs. Rogers sat. She was not reclining upon a sofa, sal volatile in hand, as Underwood had half expected, but was on a high-backed chair by the window, ramrod straight, her tambour frame before her. A needlepoint design was stretched upon it, but it was evident to Underwood, who knew little of such feminine pursuits, that she had not laid even one stitch upon the cloth. She was clad, as was her wont, in deepest black, and her gaze was fixed unseeing upon the panorama viewed through the long windows. It seemed she had not heard the butler announce him, though that was hardly surprising, so softly spoken was the servant, in deference to his mistress’s sorrow.
“Forgive the intrusion, madam,” said Underwood quietly, as he approached her, loath to break the heavy silence, but aware he must make his presence known.
She turned startled eyes upon him, “Oh, Mr. Underwood! I did not hear you come in.”
“I’m sorry. I was announced, but your thoughts were far away, I think.”
“They were indeed. I have been tormented by my thoughts ever since Godfrey died, Mr. Underwood. Pray do whatever you can to distract me from them.”
“I regret very deeply that you have had to go through all this, Mrs. Rogers. Though I have never experienced the loss of a child, I can imagine the pain it must cause.”
She gave him a wan smile, gesturing that he seat himself, “Would to God that losing the boy was the source of my distress, sir. I know you thought I spoke in the passion of grief the other day, and you imagined it was merely shock which drew such harsh words from me – words I could not possibly really mean. But you were wrong. I meant every word. Godfrey did not grow into the fine young man I hoped he would be. He was wicked and his sins found him out, but still I must take my share of the blame. Other mothers do not bring forth such monsters!”
“Pray put these thoughts from your mind, Mrs. Rogers,” pleaded Underwood, genuinely distressed on her behalf, “Along that road lies madness. No parent raises a child deliberately to the pursuit of evil. Some quirk of nature shaped your son’s character, it was not through any fault of yours.”
“I hope you are right, my dear Mr. Underwood. I could not live with myself if I thought all those ruined lives were due to flaws I created in my son.”
“I am sure of it, so cease to blame yourself.”
“I will try. Thank you.”
“Good. Now, I must beg leave to ask you some questions. Do you feel able to answer?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. You told me last week that there was no entail on this property, which was why your son would have been able to sell it. That being the case, is there a named heir who comes after Godfrey, since he will now have no issue?”
“Oh yes. In our troubled times, it is quite usual to cover the eventuality of the heir dying without attaining fatherhood. My late husband’s cousin, Richard Wyndham-Rogers, is the next heir.”
“And was this gentleman aware of his expectations?”
“He was, most certainly.”
“Are we likely to meet Mr. Wyndham-Rogers in the near future?”
“As a matter of fact, he has written to tell me that he will be here next week, for Godfrey’s funeral.”
“Where does he presently reside?”
“Sussex.”
“Really? He had the news of Godfrey’s death remarkably quickly.”
“I suppose he did – but I have always found bad news has swift feet.”
“Do you think I might be allowed to meet him when he arrives?”
“With pleasure. Do you think a dinner, with a few select guests, might be permitted? I know I should be in full mourning, but Godfrey’s behaviour over these past years has made it nigh on impossible for me to feel fettered by convention in this matter. I have no wish to shock society, but I refuse to be a hypocrite.”
“Quite understandable,” said Underwood emphatically, who had never allowed himself to be fettered by convention for any reason whatever, “I’m sure no one will attach the least blame.”
“Then you may expect an invitation – but I presume Verity will not be able to accompany you?”
“Unfortunately not. She is confined to her bed on doctor’s orders – for which reason I too should be avoiding dinner parties. We shall defy convention together.”
“Naturally I will select the guests with care – no one who would disapprove of us shall be allowed over the threshold.” Her smile was so much warmer than when he arrived that he was able to take his leave of her with far fewer qualms about her well-being and hopes for swift and permanent recovery.
*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
(“Mortui Non Mordent” – Dead men carry no tales – literally, “Dead men don’t bite”)
After chasing half way round the town, Mr. Gratten finally ran Underwood to earth in his own front parlour, where Mrs. Gratten was graciously dispensing tea in anticipation of her husband’s early arrival. The constable’s greeting was customarily irascible, “Where the devil have you been, man? I’ve wasted all the morning looking for you.”
“Were you looking for me?” asked Underwood sweetly, at his vaguest, “What a coincidence – I was looking for you.”
“Really?” was the sardonic response, “Well, let me tell you, my friend, your news cannot possibly have the importance mine does. We have found the killer of Rogers. He waits us in Hanbury lock-up even as we speak! Leave that stuff alone and let us be gone."
If Underwood was surprised, he declined to show it, “I suppose there is no doubt you have
the right man?”
“None at all. He has freely admitted his guilt.”
“May I ask how all this came about?” pursued Underwood, sipping his tea.
Gratten was never unwilling to reveal his own ingenuity, so he seated himself and absent-mindedly accepted the cup offered by his diligent wife, “I told you, I think, of the description of Rogers’ missing effects which I had distributed to all the local pawn shops and jewellers?” Underwood nodded, but wisely made no comment – Gratten detested above all things to be interrupted when he was in full flow.
“This very morning I had word that a young fellow had gone into a shop in Wendmoor and tried to see a watch similar to Rogers’. The shopkeeper made a pretext to go into the back room, where he sent his assistant scurrying off to fetch the local constable whilst he returned to the front of the shop and kept the man talking until help arrived. Once he knew the game was up, the man went almost willingly. Apparently he said something about being relieved it was all over. He swore Rogers had grinned at him as he shot him, and that the killing had haunted him ever since.”
Underwood had the faintest trace of a frown between his brows, “He said Rogers grinned and put up no fight?”
“So it seems. Perhaps the boy thought the gun was a bluff – a fatal error to have made, of course.”
“I would have said that it was most unlike Rogers to have made so basic an error.”
“The boy was drunk, Underwood. For God’s sake, don’t start to make an issue of the matter. We’ve found the murderer. Let us interview and charge him. The courts must then decide his guilt or innocence.”
Underwood allowed himself to be persuaded of the sense of this – for the present at least.
*
Patrick Carter was even younger and more frightened than Underwood had expected. His eyes lifted to meet them as they entered the drab, barred room in which he was being held. The two men took seats opposite the prisoner and Underwood immediately took charge, though Mr. Gratten had not asked, nor given him leave to do so.
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 11
