“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know. I just let him in, then I left him. I had to find out when the house would have fewest servants present, then leave a message for him at the Bluebell Inn out Northcross way. I then let him in.”
“And you really have no idea what he did?”
“No.”
Damaging, but not enough. Gedney could have wanted to enter the house for a dozen reasons, and if he were glib enough, he could convince any jury that he was not a murderer, but was there for quite different purposes. He might, for example, have been eager to see the old lady’s will, to know for sure what he might expect to gain on her demise. He could very well be aware of her blackmailing activities, and, being short of money himself, might have been attempting to remove the little black book and earn himself a commission.
“You stated the box of bon-bons was a gift from Mrs. Gedney. Are you sure of that?”
“Not really. Everyone who knew her sent her bon-bons. She had several boxes delivered that week. I couldn’t be sure which box she opened that night.”
“Why did you not say that when I first asked you?”
”I don’t like Mrs. Gedney.”
Underwood, who thought he was beyond being shocked by anything, was appalled. It seemed the girl would have been quite happy to see her employer’s daughter in the dock, accused of murder. This was going much further than he imagined even she would dare. He had a sudden flash of inspiration. He scrutinized her face; “Do you have any followers, Miss Collinson?” She blushed deeply and this, coupled with her vehement, indeed violent, denial, told Underwood that she had something to hide. He left the line of questioning for the moment and noticed that she seemed immensely relieved that he had done so.
“We listed everything Mrs. Dunstable had eaten and drunk that day, but I omitted to ask if she consumed anything when she retired. Did she?”
Collinson thought carefully, then, appearing to remember, she nodded vigorously, “Yes, I had forgotten, but Mrs. Gedney came to her room with a pot of herbal tea. They chatted as she drank it – seemed quite friendly with each other for a change.”
Underwood declined to show any interest in this snippet and continued smoothly, “Who, exactly, sent Mrs. Dunstable bon-bons that week?”
“Lady Hartley-Wells, Miss Beresford, Mrs. Arbuthnot…”
“Anyone else?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Very well, that will do for now. If you remember anything else, you are to let me know at once.”
“I will – oh, Mr. Dunstable gave her two boxes as well.”
“Good God! She did have a sweet tooth, didn’t she?”
For the first time a ghost of a smile passed over her features, “She did. It’s a wonder she was so thin, by rights, she should have rivalled the ‘Victory’ for bulk.”
“So it would seem.”
*
When he was shown into her drawing room, he found Miss Beresford there alone, and though he made no comment upon it, he thought she looked extremely unwell. She offered him refreshment, which he declined.
“I understand congratulations are in order, Mr. Underwood. I’m afraid your news is all over Hanbury by now. It is, perhaps, not common for such an event to be made a subject of gossip, but Charlotte Wynter has taken it upon herself to broadcast the scene played out yesterday afternoon at the vicarage.”
He controlled his fury with admirable strength of mind; “Miss Wynter takes too much upon herself!” The comment was stoic enough, considering his own opinion of Verity’s behaviour and Charlotte’s malice.
“Pray don’t scold her, sir. I, for one, am only too delighted to hear some happy news for a change. My own affairs have descended into chaos and I can only be grateful that the whole world is not plunged into a similar misery.” The bitterness in her tone did nothing to encourage him to continue, but he knew he must do so, “I’m sorry to hear that. Might I enquire as to the cause of your distress?”
“Why, the murder of Mrs. Dunstable, what else? Josie threatened to end my engagement by exposing my shame to my betrothed, but that has happened anyway. By dying in such tawdry circumstances, she has scotched my romance. The first hint of scandal and he has run for cover like a rabbit!”
“He has broken your betrothal for so tenuous a connection with Mrs. Dunstable’s death?”
“He – or at least his parents – have certainly done so. But let us speak of something else. I admit I do not want to dwell on my troubles. Tell me to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”
“I hesitate to lay greater burdens upon you Miss Beresford, but there are one or two questions I must ask.”
“Pray continue.”
“Is it true Mrs. Dunstable legally adopted you?”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip and her fingers twisted themselves into knots, but she gave no other indication the question was not welcome, “Yes.”
“Might I ask why you did not think to mention it sooner?”
“It is not something of which I am particularly proud, and I did not think it relevant.”
“Then why hold a life policy on the woman?”
She drew in a shocked breath, “How did you know about that?”
“I hate to sound pedantic, but I am here to ask questions, not to answer them. Suffice it to say, I do know about it.”
She recovered herself swiftly, “I presume there is no law against holding such a policy?”
“No, but there are laws against benefiting from such a policy by means of murder, Miss Beresford.”
“May I ask if that is the only reason you hold me in suspicion of committing murder?”
“I would not go so far as to say I do hold you in suspicion, but I must explore every possibility. It now seems you would benefit financially from your adopted mother’s death, you have admitted wishing her ill, for reasons of revenge, you were one of the persons who sent her sweets which might have contained poison…”
She lifted her chin proudly, “Very well,” she said with great dignity, “You need not say any more. I admit I did it. I murdered my hated legal mother. I sent her bon-bons filled with poison. Now take me away and hang me! What do I care?”
Her trembling lower lip told Underwood she cared more than she desired him to know. He wanted to smile at her childish response to pain, but it was altogether too serious a matter to be ignored or trivialised, “Miss Beresford, please do not treat this lightly. If you repeat that confession, I shall be obliged to act upon it.”
“Act upon it with my blessing. I’ve lost the only man I shall ever love. Why not let the hangman save me the tedium of killing myself! I repeat, I killed Josie Dunstable with poisoned bon-bons. If you do not take me into custody now, I shall go to Mr. Gratten and reiterate before witnesses…” her voice grew increasingly loud and hysterical, and Underwood thought it best to humour her, “Very well. Would you like to pack a small valise?”
“Aren’t you afraid I will try to run away?”
“No, I trust you.”
“You should not – I am a murderess!”
“Even murderesses have some honour,” he responded calmly.
“But I do not. My body has been bought and sold, doesn’t that take away any claim to honour I might have had?”
“Anything bad which happens to a child rebounds upon its guardians, Miss Beresford. I would place the blame for the past squarely upon the shoulders of Mrs. Dunstable, then forget it forever.”
She looked thoughtfully at him, “Tell me, Mr. Underwood, if you loved a woman, would you let such considerations keep you from her?”
“Not for a second.”
“Do you think the man I was to marry was justified in breaking our engagement?”
“I think him a knave and a fool, Miss Beresford, and though I hesitate to suggest it to you, I think you are well rid of him. And, I might add, he is certainly not worth dying for!”
“No,” she said, as though pondering upon t
he wisdom of his words.
“Do you now wish to revoke your statement regarding the death of Mrs. Dunstable?”
“No.”
*
CHAPTER NINETEEN
(“Falsus in Uno, Falsus in Omnibus” – False in one thing, false in all things)
Twenty days after she died in Underwood’s arms, Josephine Dunstable was finally laid to rest in the peat soil of Gil’s churchyard. Her funeral was well attended, but it was mostly due to the morbid curiosity of the populace. There were probably only two mourners who felt any genuine affection for the dead woman; her old friend, Lady Hartley-Wells, and the man who thought of himself as her son, Geoffrey Beresford – and, of course, only he was actually present at the burial, for women did not traditionally attend funerals, though they joined the wake afterwards.
Mrs. Arbuthnot could barely contain her joy and pride at the presence of Mr. Beresford and Underwood wondered anew how she could have warned him against disclosing her secret, then be so openly adoring herself and not expect people to guess. However, it seemed they did not. No one appeared to be very much surprised that a woman could hold her Godson in such reverence, evidently attributing this eccentricity to her own childless state.
Mr. Gedney was stoic until the moment the coffin was lowered, then lost no time in castigating Underwood for his tardiness in bringing to justice the foul murderess, Adeline Beresford, to justice. Calling her a viper in his mother-in-law’s bosom was one of the least offensive things he said. He was silenced by one of Underwood’s most contemptuous looks, something in the eyes warning him he was treading a very thin line. Wisely he left whatever else he had to say for another time.
Verity, still horribly humiliated by the public knowledge of her condition, had wanted to stay away from the consuming of the funereal meats, but Gil persuaded her otherwise. He sensibly pointed out that she was going to have to face people sooner or later, and perhaps the best moment would be when they would have something far more scandalous to feast upon. The astounding news of Miss Beresford’s confession was still the cause celebre in Hanbury, and nothing Underwood said or did could stem the gossip. He knew she was not the culprit, but whilst she maintained her stubborn refusal to retract, Gratten was only too delighted to take her word. This arrest removed a very tricky burden from his shoulders, and the fact that it transferred that burden to the unfortunate Underwood, bothered him not one whit.
The after funeral gathering took place in one of the private salons of the White Hart and it was here that Geoffrey Beresford approached Underwood and begged the favour of a few minutes private speech. The vicar’s brother desired nothing less, but manners forced him to accede. They retired to a quiet corner and for the first time Geoffrey allowed his concern for his adopted sister to show. Throughout the service and the burial he had preserved his dignity, even when Gedney had begun his diatribe, merely casting the man a disdainful glance. Now he displayed his feelings before Underwood, much to that gentleman’s discomfort.
“My Godmother has told me of your involvement in all this, Mr. Underwood, so I beg you will tell me if Adeline is really guilty of doing this terrible thing.”
“Since I do not possess the power of clairvoyance, sir, I cannot be positive that Miss Beresford is lying when she admits to the crime, but I strongly suspect she has allowed herself to reach such a depth of misery that she has confessed in order to escape from a life she no longer feels holds any happiness for her, either now, or in the future."
Geoffrey looked astounded, and more than somewhat distressed, “Do you mean to tell me she is prepared to go as far as allowing herself to be tried and hanged for this murder, even though she is innocent?”
“Unless someone can persuade her otherwise, I’m very much afraid that may well happen. No jury will ignore a confession, even if it be patently false – and hers is not. She did have the motive and opportunity. The real perpetrators are exceedingly unlikely to save her neck and risk their own with a last minute confession. And I have to say I am not having an easy time finding the proof that condemns them and saves her. Not unnaturally the authorities think they have a culprit and are uninterested in pursuing the matter further.”
“I know my sister is incapable of committing this crime, Mr. Underwood.”
“I could not agree more.”
“You will not, then, give up on her?”
“Certainly not, but she has set me no easy task.”
“I understand that. Perhaps if I went to see her?”
“I think that would be an excellent idea. She’s little more than a child, Mr. Beresford, and most children find it very difficult to imagine a brighter future when they are in despair. Experience teaches us all that things do change, but she has not that experience yet. If you could convince her that life should never end for anyone at eighteen.”
“I will do my poor best, Mr. Underwood, and I shall look forward to a satisfactory culmination to your deliberations.”
Shortly after this conversation, Underwood, Verity, Gil and their house guests returned to the vicarage, most of them having taken part in the funerary feast in an extremely desultory manner, especially Underwood, though this was not entirely due to his preoccupation with the Beresford brother and sister. It was a very subdued gathering which met in the parlour after the ladies had removed their capes and bonnets.
Gil handed round sherry, which no one particularly wanted, but which they all obediently took anyway. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions, for everyone knew of Verity and Underwood’s difficulties. They had scarcely exchanged a word in days, and the vicar at least, knew of the separate bedrooms. Francis and Ellen were to leave the following day for their own home, and this added to Verity’s unhappiness. She was dreading being left alone with the brothers once more, knowing that Gil, being Gil, must say something to his sibling, and she feared it would be entirely the wrong thing, and make a bad situation disastrous! She fervently wished tomorrow would never come.
*
The stench of horse sweat, old leather and closely crammed humanity made the bile rise in Verity’s throat, but she forced a smile to her lips. She could not let Ellen climb into the waiting stage, then travel all the way home, fretting for her friend, for who knew when they would meet again?
It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed to keep the secret of her melancholy from the Herberts, and not for anything would Ellen have told her that she had spectacularly failed to do any such thing. In turn, nothing would have prevailed upon Verity to burden her friends with her troubles, knowing, as she did, there was no help they could offer, and they must therefore spend the entire journey, and probably some considerable time after that, worrying about her.
Ellen embraced her closely, guessing more than Verity knew. She had thought from the beginning that it was foolish in the extreme to keep Underwood in ignorance and Ellen’s soft heart ached for them both, but especially for Verity, for whom she had a very deep and real affection. The only gift she could give her friend now was her silence. Nothing would be more fatal to her composure than any mention of her problems.
So, Ellen, Francis and young Francis were carried away from Hanbury by the stage and Verity watched the vehicle until it disappeared from view, feeling more desolate than she had for many years.
Gil and Toby had come with her to bid farewell to the departing guests, but Underwood was preoccupied with his investigations and had said his goodbyes at breakfast.
As they strolled back to the vicarage, Toby remarked thoughtfully, “I think it is also time for me to be moving on. My ribs are more or less healed now, and I cannot impose on you good people forever.”
Verity raised troubled eyes to his, “But where will you go – and what will you do?”
Toby grinned down at her, the affection in his voice removing any sting from his words, “Mrs. Underwood, don’t you have troubles enough of your own, without taking on everyone else’s?”
She felt compelled to give him an answeri
ng smile, “Is that your way of telling me to mind my own affairs?”
“Could be.”
“Mr. Underwood will be sorry to see you leave.”
“Mr. Underwood has better things than that to be sorry about,” he responded tersely, a reaction which was most uncommon in the affable giant. Verity lapsed into blushing silence.
*
The Bluebell Inn, on the Northcross road, was not much frequented, being, as it was, very near a major tollgate, and therefore tending to attract a passing trade which was all too eager to pass and get the toll out of the way. Couple this with a surly landlord, a bad cook and two unattractive barmaids, it frankly did not have much to recommend it. Unless, of course, one required discretion or even secrecy. It was the sort of place, thought Underwood, ducking his head to avoid cracking his skull on a low doorframe, that footpads and highwaymen would use as a meeting place or hideout. Ideal, in fact, for the use to which Gedney had apparently put it.
The landlord possessed a remarkably poor memory of the patrons he entertained, until Underwood reached his price, then he became voluble. Armed with two of Verity’s swift, but true to life sketches, Underwood asked his questions. The landlord’s answers were much as he expected in all but one respect.
Yes, he had taken messages from a girl who resembled the picture of Collinson, and he had given them to a man akin to Gedney’s, and vice-versa. What was more, the two had met frequently and hired a room in the Bluebell – no, not the coffee room, an upstairs room, and it took no imagination whatever to guess for what purpose they had wanted to use it.
Underwood paid lavishly for ale he had not drunk, then returned as quickly as he could to Hanbury.
Miss Collinson was found in the boarding house where she had been residing since the death of her mistress and consequently the loss of her work and home. She greeted Underwood with a world-weary sigh, “Oh, not you again! I thought I had seen the last of you. For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone?”
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 18
