*
The gossips in the Pump-rooms were being presented with an abundance of information and as a result the whispers were flying.
The joint disappearance of Underwood and Lady Cara Lovell was being viewed as an unprecedented scandal and there was horrified condemnation that a married man of mature years could run off with a pretty young thing, leaving his wife about to give birth to his child. Those who knew Underwood spoke hotly in his defence, but it made little difference.
It was no help at all to the Underwood reputation that the Penningtons were being vociferous in their bitterness toward the vicar, using the loss of their only grandchild to gain the sympathy of the populace.
The arrival of the earl added fuel to the elopement rumours, particularly when he went about the town with a thunderous frown and snapped viciously at anyone who dared to broach the subject of his daughter. The various expeditions to the moors were seen as nothing more than a pretext to cover the eventual return of the runaways. Naturally a man in the earl’s position was not going to admit that his daughter had become the mistress of a married man.
The advent of the very next coach into town provided even more salacious enjoyment for those so inclined. It seemed Underwood had found a moment, in his last busy day in Hanbury, to write a letter to the Constable of Stockport, asking for the address of the parents of a certain Cassandra Millbanke. That gentleman, aware, as were half the town, of the searches instigated by those same loving parents, had taken it upon himself to tell them of their daughter’s whereabouts.
When they alighted from the coach outside the White Hart, Cassie was just walking by on her way back to her lodgings. The ensuing scene was heart-rending, according to several interested onlookers.
The elder Milbankes’ joy could not help but be tempered by the shock of realization that though their child was heavily pregnant, she wore no ring upon her finger.
There were several exchanges, varying between happiness and recrimination. Cassie’s mother caught sight of her first and her anguished cry of recognition brought the attention not only of the girl, but her husband and several passers-by.
Cassie had the look of a startled deer, then gathering her wits, she began to run, but her father caught her before she reached the street corner, “Not another step, young lady,” he said, swinging her around to face him, and at the same time causing her grip on her cape to loosen so that the garment fell open. Mrs. Millbanke gasped at the evidence of her own eyes and cried, “Oh, Cassie!”
The young mother-to-be lifted her chin in a defiant gesture which made her father long to strike her, “Well? If I am to have a baby, what has it to do with you, pray? I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself. Have I asked for your help? Have I complained to you of my predicament, or come home and embarrassed you before your friends? No, I have not. Get back on the coach and go away! You hated Godfrey, and if you hated him, then you must hate me too.”
Mr. Millbanke was preparing himself to answer her with equally harsh words, when his wife glanced about them and realized, with barely concealed horror, that they were being closely observed by a rapidly expanding group of curious onlookers. She plucked nervously at her husband’s sleeve and he glanced down at her with irritation, “What is it?” he demanded. She cast her eyes towards their audience and he grew red as he began to understand her distress, “We will continue this inside, Cassie,” he said, in a tone which brooked no argument. They retired to the inn.
The Millbanke family had held everyone’s attention so fully that it was not noticed that another newcomer had also stepped from the coach that day. He had given the reunited parents and child no more than a cursory glance before picking up his valise and going on his way. He carefully chose an inn which was down a quiet back street, then, leaving his baggage in his newly acquired room, he made his way across the main square to the Pump-rooms. There was nothing particularly curious about this behaviour. The waters were what Hanbury was famous for, and most people found themselves in the Pump-rooms sooner or later. This gentleman, however, looked to be in the rudest of health, and though he happily paid his fee to enter the spa, he, like Underwood before him, made no attempt to take the water.
When he entered through the ornate doors, many heads turned, as they always did – curiosity was the lifeblood of the pump-rooms – but only one person showed any hint of recognition.
Ophelia Knight, with Elliott on her left and Wyndham-Rogers on her right, watched, ashen-faced, as the strange gentleman made his determined way across the room towards her. As he neared her, his hand reached out for hers, “Ophelia, my dear, we meet again.”
She opened blue-tinged lips and tried to speak, “Fabian…” The name died on her tongue and both her companions looked askance at her. Aware that she was going to have to perform some sort of an introduction, she moistened her suddenly dry mouth by swallowing deeply, and said hoarsely, “Mr. Wyndham-Rogers, Captain Thomas Elliott, allow me to present Mr. Fabian Woodward, an old friend of mine…”
Woodward raised a cynical brow, “Friend? Is that really how you wish to remember our relationship, Ophelia? I would have said something very different.”
If it were possible, Ophelia grew paler. Jeremy James, who was well within earshot, turned to Swann, “Sweet Ophelia may be able to see into the future, my friend, but she didn’t see that coming!”
Swann, who did not like Ophelia any more than the other Wablers, and spent most of his time trying to wean his comrade Elliott away from her, sniggered unkindly, “Dashed if she did!” He made no attempt to lower his voice and Ophelia cast him an anguished glance, before returning her pleading gaze to the newcomer.
“Do you think we might have this conversation elsewhere, Fabian?”
Fabian cast his hat, coat, and stick onto a convenient bench, then seated himself and began to pull off his gloves, one finger at a time, as though he was enjoying making her await his response. The gloves off, metaphorically as well as actually, he crossed his legs negligently and smiled at her, “My dearest one, why should we do any such thing? Do not tell me that you have suddenly become ashamed of our association? That was not the impression you were inclined to give me in the past. On the contrary, you have always insisted that the subterfuge was on all my part. How many tedious quarrels have I been forced to endure, whilst you listed my shortcomings, insisting that I was too afraid of convention to break with my wife and live in unmarried bliss with your own sweet self?”
Elliott and Wyndham-Rogers had been thus far too shocked to interrupt, not really fully comprehending the situation, but at this, Elliott at least, came to life. His jaw jutted belligerently, his one remaining fist clenched, “I think the lady has made herself clear, sir! Would you care to step outside?”
Fabian smiled kindly, a vast well of pity for the young man showing in his expression, “My dear boy, I see that you have been enchanted by her – as have so many others before you. Pray do not let the bewitching minx blind you to her true character.”
“I repeat the request. Kindly step outside! No lady should be subjected to this public display of ill-mannered…”
“Lady?” Fabian was no longer gentle. His tone was not only harsh, but cruel, “You poor fool! You have been even more dazzled than I suspected.”
Elliott dealt him an open-handed blow, which Woodward accepted stoically, but which made Ophelia wince and close her eyes, as though the pain were her own,
“Thomas, I beg of you, do not pursue this…”
Wyndham-Rogers, finally thinking of something he could do which would not involve him in fisticuffs, took her arm, “My dear Miss Knight, allow me to escort you away from this unseemly scene.”
Ophelia, throwing a reproachful glance towards the adversaries, allowed him to lead her out of the pump-rooms.
*
True to his promise, Gil rose early and drove a hired gig out to Windward House to fetch Alistair, so that the arranged visit to his grandparents could take place.
Evidently
the little boy had been sitting at the window awaiting his arrival, for as he walked up the path, the front door flew open and Alistair raced towards him, his arms flung wide. It occurred to Gil that this was the first time the child had shown him such open affection and the determination to do right by him became even stronger. Without further ado, he sank to his haunches and clasped the thin little body to him.
“Papa Gil, I watched for you! Toby says we are going home now.”
The arms were tight about his neck, but it was not this which choked him. He took a moment to regain his composure before he asked diffidently, “You mean home to the vicarage?”
“Of course. Is Uncle Chuffy there?”
“No… he’s out of town – but pray do not say so to Aunt Verity. He is planning a surprise for her and…”
“I know. We must not spoil his surprise. Can we go home?”
“Have you not enjoyed being here with Aunt Verity?”
“Oh, yes, but Toby makes me walk quietly so as not to disturb her. I want to go home.”
“We must see your grandparents Pennington first. They are in Hanbury and want you to visit.”
“Very well.” It was a concession, graciously given.
As they went indoors Gil raised a difficult subject, “You know that they want you to go and live with them, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to go, do I?”
“Not if you don’t want to. I would never make you do anything which would make you unhappy, but they feel they would like you to at least consider it.”
The lower lips trembled slightly and large eyes were lifted to his face, “Don’t you want me to stay with you, papa Gil?”
Gil’s grip on the small hand tightened, “More than anything, my son.”
“Good.” The child recovered his equanimity with a speed which stunned Gil, who had little dealings with children and had no idea of the resilience they could sometimes display, “Come and see Aunt Verity. She has been asking for you.”
He allowed himself to be led up the stairs and into Verity’s room, whereupon Alistair ran off to collect his belongings and left the two alone. Verity was still in bed and her smile was warm, but slightly reticent, “I hope I did not distress you, Gil, with the portrait of Catherine?”
“Not at all. You captured her likeness perfectly. I shall treasure it always – as will Alistair. He is so very young that the day may dawn when he finds he has only the vaguest memory of her.”
Her proffered hand was clasped and he seated himself on the edge of her bed – a liberty he would have taken with no other woman but her. This relaxed attitude, however, did not stretch to enquiring after her pregnancy and his curiously formal,
“How are you feeling?” made her smile and answer with perfect gravity, “I’m well, thank you, but I am told my poor Cadmus is suffering! Is his cold very bad? How he hates to be ill when I am not about to pander to his every whim. Is Toby taking care of him?"
“He’ll survive,” answered the vicar, more tersely than he intended, and with a note of forlorn hope which did not evade the sharp ears of his loving sister-in-law.
“Is something troubling you, Gil?” she asked gently.
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He was relieved to be able to change the subject with perfect truth, “As we had always suspected they might, Alistair’s grandparents are trying to take him away from me.”
“Oh, my dear! I am so very sorry. You must be distraught.”
“All the more so,” agreed Gil disconsolately, “because I am not entirely convinced they do not have a right to claim the boy. He is, after all, their only surviving relative. My only claim to him is that his mother did not want him to be raised in the stifling atmosphere which had haunted his father’s upbringing. We discussed the matter fully and I understood that she was not given a particularly warm welcome into the family, nor did her late husband relate well to them. He left home as soon as he was able, and they barely spoke for years. In those circumstances, it is scarcely surprising that she recalled them with little fondness – but does that give me the right to keep them from their own flesh and blood? As a minister I feel sure that had any of my parishioners come to me with this dilemma, I should unhesitatingly side with the grandparents.”
“Have you discussed any of this with them?”
“Naturally not. How could I, an outsider, accuse them of raising their own son so badly that his last wish was that they had no influence over their grandson? My stance has been firmly upon the final request of Catherine.”
She looked thoughtfully at him, “How does Alistair feel?”
“Bless his heart – he wants to stay with Papa Gil.”
“Then there can be no other home for him.”
He smiled sadly, “But how do I tell the Penningtons?”
“With great firmness,” was the sage advice she offered.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
(Fabas Indulcet Fames” – Hunger makes everything taste good – Literally “hunger sweetens beans”)
Mr. Gratten gave an audible groan as he stepped down from his carriage, the frosty grass and dead leaves crunching pleasantly beneath his feet. His lumbago was troubling him again and an early rising, followed by an interminable hour in a frozen field was not going to improve it.
He was joined by his assistant John Turner, an overly enthusiastic young fellow, whose passion for his self-imposed task made Gratten feel not only old, but also rather inept. He could admit to himself – though never to anyone else! – that his was lost without Underwood’s guiding hand, but his bombastic exterior hid his insecurities from the world.
“Has the doctor arrived yet?” he asked in clipped tones, hoping sincerely that it might be so. Dr. Herbert made a poor second to Underwood, but he was better than nothing.
“Yes sir. He’s in the field now.”
“And the fellow who found the body?”
“There also.”
“Lead the way then.”
Turner showed him a convenient gap in the hedge and they both stepped carefully through it, for there was much evidence of the cattle that usually used the exit bespattering the area.
Dr. Herbert and Samuel Broadstone were awaiting their arrival, beside something which lay at the foot of the opposite hedge, and they retreated respectfully back a pace or two as the Constable approached.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” was his polite greeting, “What do we have here?”
The doctor answered him, “Middle-aged male, killed with a single stab wound to the heart through the back. He has been dead a good while.”
“Days? Weeks?”
“Well, it can’t be more than two days, because that was the last time he was seen alive.”
Gratten raised his brows and drew close enough to view the body for himself,
“We know him, then?”
“See for yourself,” Dr. Herbert pulled back the piece of old horse blanket which had been used by the thoughtful Broadstone to cover the face of the dead man. Gratten whistled under his breath, “Oh dear!”
The face had a bluish tinge, rimed with the frost of the early morning and looking for all the world like a child’s drawing of Jack Frost; with spiked ice particles adhering to the brows, lashes and hair, but for all that, instantly recognizable. Mr. Gratten raised his concerned gaze to meet that of the doctor, “I hope to God he was not responsible for Underwood’s disappearance, because if he was, Lady Cara and Underwood are hidden somewhere and the only man who knows where is stiffer than a deer three days after a shoot!”
“Would to God that were our only problem, Mr. Gratten.”
“What do you mean?”
Dr. Herbert transferred his glance back down to the body lying at his feet, “In my humble opinion, sir, this man was killed by the same hand that slew Rogers.”
“Why should you think so?”
“The same modus operandi. A single, very deep, stab wound to the back of the victim. I don’t know if you are aware of thi
s, but it is not the easiest thing in the world to kill a person by stabbing through the back – at least not with one blow. This was done by someone who knew the exact spot to strike for quick death and minimal blood loss. Our killer must have walked away with barely a blood stain upon his person.”
It was Gratten’s turn to look thoughtful; “Does anyone know how he came to be here?”
“Marks in the grass would tend to indicate he was dragged across the field from our point of entry.”
“So he probably met his killer on the lane?”
“As did Rogers,”
“And it would seem they both came willingly to meet him – or might it be her?”
“I would guess at a man. Our victim is not particularly tall, but he is stout, and it is no easy task dragging a dead body backward over grass, especially with long skirts to hamper one.”
“Very well, we’ll assume male. But a man whom our victims was not unwilling to meet. Evidently they did not fear for their lives, or they would not have agreed to the rendezvous – and they would have been prepared for an attack. It seems they were not afraid to turn their backs on the murderer.”
“Perhaps they met by accident,” offered Turner helpfully. Gratten quelled his pretensions with a glance, “That hardly seems likely, does it? There must be a motive for these murders, but I’m dashed if I can see it!”
“Not necessarily,” pursued the courageous young man; he was apprehensive of the consequences of contradicting his superior, but also determined to add his theory to the discussion, “Our killer might simply choose his victims at random.”
“Then he chooses remarkably remote locations in which to lurk. If his lust is for stabbing unknown men, then he would find a great deal more prey down any back alley in Hanbury, than wandering about the countryside with a huge dagger, hoping that he might run into someone out for a stroll in the freezing cold of a Pennine winter!”
Successfully outwitted by Gratten’s ineffable, if somewhat unkindly stated, logic, Turner subsided into an abashed silence. Feeling rather sorry for him, Dr. Herbert took over the questioning, “But if it was not random, then what is the connection? Why kill Rogers and Conrad? We are aware that they were acquainted, but who would want them both dead – and why? We know Rogers owed Conrad a great deal of money and that Conrad had arranged to be paid even if Rogers died, but to my mind that merely gives them a reason to kill each other – not for a third party to kill them both.”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 21
