“Very true.”
Dr. Russell sat down on the sofa, his silver-handled walking stick balanced between his hands, “You know that I did it for you, don’t you, Underwood?”
“I wish to God I did not know it, Theodore. The stain of that boy’s blood will be forever on my hands.”
“You are overly dramatic, my boy! He behaved appallingly. He deserved to die.”
Underwood never thought to hear a tone so cold and brutal from the lips of his old friend and mentor. He had to remind himself that this was not really Theodore, not the Dr. Russell he had once known. This was a sick mind in a familiar body.
“Maybe he did, but it should have been at the hands of the hangman, after having stood trial and been condemned by his peers. We, none of us, should have the power of life and death over our fellow man.”
“Oh, but you are wrong! I have been given that power. God told me how to do it. Do you think I could have killed in cold blood had not a greater power than mine own guided my hand?”
“Then why did not that ‘greater power’ save Rogers? He was the wrong man, do you not remember that? I told you I thought he was behind the hoaxes played on Verity, but I was mistaken.”
“He was full of wickedness. God knew he needed to die. He may not have been your tormentor, but he was mine. I loved that boy, but the moment he was dead, I knew I had purged myself of a great evil. I knew then that I should never have turned away from you. The love I bore you was pure, unsullied. That sordid little affair with Rogers overshadowed our truly Platonic relationship.”
Underwood had no desire to pursue this particular train of thought, so he raised himself slightly in the chair, “Why did Conrad have to die? He had not harmed me. He was all bluster and threats.”
“No, but his threats were distressing Mrs. Rogers. I owed her peace after taking her son from her. She is an exceptional woman. Had nature formed me otherwise, I might have asked her to be my wife.”
“I see. Well, we have the ‘why’, now shall we have the ‘how’? How did you persuade them all to meet you?”
“Simple. I am an unspectacular person, Underwood, not even slightly ominous, so to each man I mentioned the one thing he could not resist. Every man has his price. To Rogers I wrote a note, which I slipped into his pocket, stating that I had changed my mind about lending him money, but stipulating that he must meet me away from the house, as I would not have his mother know I was encouraging him to gamble. He was fluttering the paper in front of my face, just before he died, saying that it was as good as a note of hand and I had better honour it. I had to wrest it from his dead fingers. It must,” he mused, his face thoughtful, “have meant a great deal to him. Even in death he clung to it.”
This explained the scrap of paper with the letter ‘R’ – Rogers or Russell – it did not matter which now, Underwood thought sadly.
“After that,” continued the old man, as though pulling himself back from the brink of painful memories, “I learned my lesson – nothing else was ever committed to paper. Conrad, I approached and spoke to in the Pump-rooms, when I followed him there one morning. I told him that I had taken it upon myself to pay Mrs. Rogers’ debt to him, but that we must make the exchange out of town, since the lady’s pride would brook no charity from me.”
“He would, of course, agree to meet you if he thought he could profit from it.”
“Of course. Ironically, he was so accustomed to the hatred of his fellow man that he habitually kept a bodyguard by him at all times. He evidently did not think he stood in need of protection from me!”
“How wrong can one be?” murmured Underwood cynically.
“In the end, he was very nearly the end of me. I don’t know how my heart stood the shock when I thought I had killed the one man who knew where Lady Cara and yourself were hidden.”
That explained Russell’s excessive display of horror at the announcement of Conrad’s death.
“But it transpired that that man was Harry Hazelhurst. How did you find him?”
“I know that Verity draws a portrait of everyone she meets at one time or another, and since you had told me she was governess to his sisters when you met her first, it was a simple enough matter to go through her sketchbooks in her studio. The portrait I found was two or three years old, but he had not changed a great deal. Oddly enough, I found I already knew him. I had seen him wandering about town a few times, when I was engaged on my own peregrinations.”
Underwood found this unsurprising. They were almost destined to run into each other, both sneaking about Hanbury in their nefarious way, each following their own potential victims!
“I told him that I also had ill-feelings towards you which needed resolving – and he seemed to find that very easy to understand. I suggested we ought to meet and discuss ways of teaching you a lesson you would not soon forget.”
“Thank you,” said Underwood dryly. It did not seem to occur to Russell to recognize the irony of his actions. To tempt Harry Hazelhurst to his death with a concocted tale of revenge, when he was actually to be punished for taking his own revenge, was callous, to say the least, “So, they all agreed to meet you, without a single qualm?”
“I am not,” said Russell, with simple dignity, “as I said before, a particularly threatening figure.”
Underwood looked at him then, with new eyes, knowing what he had done and still scarcely able to comprehend the enormity of it. Short and plump, white-haired and innocuous, Dr. Theodore Russell was no one’s idea of a ruthless killer, yet he had been singularly successful – and seemed almost proud to admit to the committing of these dastardly crimes. Underwood would almost have preferred a head-on fight with his adversaries. This creeping, lying, unexpected dealing of death was too sordid, too filthy to accept. It did not become the man whom he had always seen as honourable and fastidious.
“Where is the weapon, Theodore?” He almost hoped the doctor wouldn’t be able to produce his instrument of death; that all this would prove to be the fantasy of a demented old man, and for a moment it seemed it would be so. Dr. Russell made no sound, nor did he move. The room was silent but for the crackling of the burning wood in the fire. Then there was a quiet click. The shaft of Russell’s cane slid to the floor with a clatter that made Underwood start violently. The old man was left with the silver handle in his grasp, but protruding from it was a sharper blade than Underwood had ever seen. He swallowed deeply as he watched it glint coldly in the firelight. A sword stick! Why had he not thought of that? Though this one could be more properly described as a stiletto stick, for the blade was shorter than a true sword, though rather longer than the average dagger.
“I never imagined you would know how to use such a thing, my friend. I’d have thought we were looking for a doctor of medicine, not a doctor of Philosophy.”
“My dear fellow, I am both. Though I left the study of medicine many years ago.”
Underwood rose slowly and held out his hand, “Give it to me, Theodore, please.”
Dr. Russell raised his eyes to Underwood’s face, “I am now a dead man, Cadmus. Tell me once, before I give myself up to the hangman, that you have loved me as I loved you.”
“Theodore, I felt almost as much for you as I did for my own father – after all, you were there when he was not, but you must know that I have never shared your deepest feelings for me. I cannot lie to you, even if you take that knife and plunge it into my heart.”
“I will not do that, my dear Cadmus, even though you have just plunged a knife into mine.”
With old-fashioned courtesy he stood up, offered the dagger to Underwood, hilt first, then bowed slightly to acknowledge his thanks.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
(“Tempora Mutantur Nos Et Mutamur In Illis” – Times change and we change with them)
The atmosphere in the Pump-rooms was subdued, an air of heavy expectancy hanging over those gathered there. All eyes turned towards the doors as the Underwood party entered; Verity trying to appe
ar unconcerned, but cringing inwardly beneath the barrage of stares. She hated to be the centre of attention even for a good reason, but she wholeheartedly detested it for a bad one. Never in all her life had being a friend been more difficult. For behind them followed Richard Wyndham-Rogers and his bride of just three weeks, Ophelia.
In their customary corner the Wablers threw looks of dislike and fury in her direction, but she seemed quite unaware of their animosity, laughing softly at some sally of her husband, leaning against his shoulder, her arm entwined in his. Elliott grew pale and turned his face away, angrily shaking off Swann’s hand when it automatically gripped his one good arm in quick sympathy.
Verity agonized long over his broken heart, but there was nothing she could do to ease it. She had pleaded with Ophelia not to marry Wyndham-Rogers, but as the young woman said, she had made Elliott no promises and she was free to marry whomever she chose. After the humiliation poured upon her by her erstwhile lover, it was not to wondered at that she had chosen to marry the first eligible bachelor who asked her. Elliott was a nice boy, but that was all he was – a boy, and a penniless one at that. He might have the honour of knowing that he had given his arm for King and Country, but it did not do him any favours in the marriage mart.
After all her talk of freedom and honesty and her scornful contempt for convention, Ophelia cut a less than honourable figure in this sorry tangle, but that too was her own affair. Only Verity knew of the hours of tears and self-recrimination which had been endured before the final decision to marry Wyndham-Rogers had been reached.
She cast these thoughts aside, longing to enjoy her first real outing in three months. The winter weather had kept them virtual prisoners in Windward House and the warm winds of March had stirred her soul as nothing else had for many a day. She was missing her baby, but Underwood had been adamant that she have a short break from the constraints of motherhood.
It was not entirely true that she had been constantly indoors. She had managed two trips into Hanbury, once for her ‘churching’ after the birth of Horatia (named after her father Cadmus Horatio Underwood, despite his vigorous protests) and once for the child’s christening. Gil, of course, had only been able to perform the post-natal blessing ceremony. Rev. Blackwell had been re-called for the baptism, for Gil had once more shed his clerical garb to stand as Godfather with Lady Cara as Godmother.
It was, perhaps, that joint endeavour which had drawn them so much closer together over the following months, after all, it was a serious undertaking this care of the spiritual welfare of a tiny child. Naturally Cara and Gil were going to need a close, working relationship.
Cara was also immensely grateful to Gil for his handling of her father. The earl had finally been soothed by Rev. Underwood into accepting that Cara’s tale, no matter how fantastic, had been nothing but the truth. The murder of Hazelhurst coupled with the arrest of Dr. Theodore Russell for the spate of deaths had convinced him that Cara had indeed been abducted by Harry and subsequently rescued by Underwood. He was reluctant to leave his daughter in a place which he was now quite sure was far more dangerous than London, but Lady Cara had found a salve for her wounded heart and refused to be shifted. Gil, of course, was entirely oblivious, but she was in no particular hurry.
Cara had changed. She had grown up and in doing so, she had developed into a much more caring and thoughtful young woman. She saw now that what she had felt for Underwood was nothing more than mere infatuation, but her feelings for Gil were another matter entirely. Quite apart from his kindness, his deep brown eyes and his voice of warm velvet, he needed her. There was something particularly appealing about a man trying to raise a little boy on his own. She didn’t know why it should be so, but when she saw him running races, and bowling cricket balls, his black garb flapping in the biting winds, she thought her heart would break. Alistair evidently found the vision of the staid vicar falling flat in pursuit of a ball quite as moving as she did, for he laughed, but he ran to pick up his papa Gil and rub the dirt from his chin with his own handkerchief.
Gil’s look of guilt mixed with glee at having caught the ball, and embarrassment at having had his playing witnessed by Lady Cara Lovell was a joy to behold. Watching him trying to dust thick mud from his knees and look dignified whilst sporting a huge dirty smear on his chin caused by Alistair’s less than scrupulous ministrations, made Cara smile with real charm. Gil seemed to be seeing her for the first time when he caught sight of that expression on her face. Without thought or inhibition he took her hand and led her indoors for tea. Cara knew then she was in love.
Her next difficulty arose when Mrs. Rogers decided the time had come to hand over Hanbury Manor to Wyndham-Rogers. To give the man his due, he had been incredibly patient, putting no pressure on her at all to move herself away, and making no demands of her in the way of finance, but once he became engaged to Ophelia Knight, Mrs. Rogers knew she could no longer delay her departure. The offer of a shared house in Bath with her younger, unmarried sister, was too convenient to be dismissed. She spent her last quiet Christmas at home without Cara, who had been forced by her mother to post home for the holidays, then during a short January thaw, she left.
Lady Cara, despite the pleadings of her parents, was determined to return to Hanbury, but where to stay? She was extremely reluctant to reside at an inn – never having stayed anywhere but private homes, apart from the very occasional night in a posting house on one of her many journeys.
Once again Gil, as was his wont, came to her rescue. His old friend Lady Hartley-Wells was resistant to the idea of offering hospitality to one she considered a flibbertigibbet, to use her own graphic word, but the vicar won through in the end. He not only offered a heart-rending description of the trials suffered by the gently-reared young lady, but he also gave a glowing testimonial, which, as he laughingly informed Cara later, had better be lived up to, or he would be forever damned to Hell’s flames for his outright lies.
The old Cara would have (and indeed had) considered Lady Hartley-Wells to be impossibly old-fashioned and straight-laced and would never have even thought of giving her the opportunity to prove otherwise. The new Cara treated the older lady with civility, deference and patience and was soon rewarded with an affection which cast aside all pretension and revealed a warm and humorous companion.
Spring had come to Hanbury after a long, hard winter and found the inhabitants of the little town more than ready to forget the hardships and heartaches of the past year and welcome the rebirth of nature with enthusiasm.
The Wablers soon took themselves off to find an inn which was willing to serve them drinks, Richard and Ophelia went to fill their cups at the pump, leaving Underwood and Verity alone together, albeit briefly.
“That was horrid,” commented Verity, with a slight shudder of distaste.
“What was?” asked her husband vaguely, lifting a quizzical brow.
“Oh, Cadmus! Do you never notice how people are behaving unless you suspect them of murder?”
“Not particularly. Have I missed something?”
Verity gave up on him, “Never mind.”
They were joined by Gil, Lady Cara and Lady Hartley-Wells, all of whom asked after the baby and Verity’s own health. An enthusiastic conversation followed between the elderly lady and Verity, away from which Cara drifted. She had not quite reached the stage of developing an abiding interest in babies. She found herself listening, with much interest, to Gil and his brother.
“Though I deeply regret the necessity, I fear I shall have to employ the services of a lawyer. The Penningtons have no intention of letting the matter rest.”
“Perhaps the General knows of someone. Write to mother and ask her. She will be delighted to help. She adores Alistair.”
Cara was intrigued, and now felt sufficiently relaxed with the family to intercept, “Forgive me, gentlemen, but would it be impossibly impertinent of me to enquire why you stand in need of the services of a lawyer?”
“Not at all. Had I thought
you might be interested, I should have told you long ago,” answered Gil with a warm smile, “Alistair’s paternal grandparents are trying to take him away from my care. I have done my utmost to ensure that he sees a great deal of them, even allowing him, rather against his inclination, to spend Christmas with them, but nothing short of full control will satisfy them.”
“Perhaps my father could help?” suggested Cara, “He knows a great many men in the legal profession, besides having a seat in the House.”
Underwood smiled, much impressed in spite of himself. He generally disapproved of inherited wealth and privilege, but if it could be used to help his brother, he was prepared to overlook his prejudices, “By Jove, Gil, there is an offer you should not refuse.”
“I have no intention of doing so, Chuffy,” responded Gil promptly, but his eyes were on Cara and not his brother. He took her hand briefly in his own, “Thank you, my dear.” It was, perhaps, a defining moment for them both. Catherine would, forever, hold a special place in his heart, but once a heart has learned to love, it is the more eager to do so again. Many months would pass before he would ask Cara to be his wife, but it would happen, and it was then that she knew it.
The spell was broken, as it so often was, by the arrival of Mr Gratten, “Good morning to you all. Underwood I have some news to impart.”
“My dear George, you always have news to impart. What is it this time?”
“Prepare yourself for a shock, old friend. I have had word from Norcross gaol that Dr. Russell was found dead this morning in his cell. It seems he passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
Underwood seemed too stunned to react and Gil and Verity both reached out comforting hands to him, though it was Gil who spoke, for she could do nothing but try to stem her sympathetic tears.
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 25
