This nonsense prompted him to renew his efforts to escape and eventually he did so by sliding off the far side of the bench, writhing out from under her arm and ending up on the grass, but not much caring how the green stains would ever be removed from his breeches, “Charlotte, you forget yourself!” She pursued him around the seat, “My darling, my own sweetheart…”
“Charlotte!” he commanded icily, “Stop it at once. I have no desire to hear these endearments from you, and you will regret ever having uttered them.”
Since he had evaded her so adroitly, the bench still stood between them. With all the determination of a spoilt child, Charlotte lifted her skirts and climbed up onto the seat, taking him entirely by surprise and leaving him vulnerable to her onslaught. Before he knew what she was about, she was towering over him, her arms around his neck, her lips hovering invitingly above his, “My love,” she whispered, “I am yours! I would not leave you to the scorn of others, make a fool of you with another, as Verity has done.”
Very uncomfortably, he craned his neck that he might not receive her kisses, “For pity’s sake, Charlotte, release me! Anyone might look over the garden wall and witness this folly. And kindly stem your vitriol towards my wife. She has not run off with Vivian Pepper, or anyone else, no matter what the gossips might be intimating.”
Firmly he placed his hands on her waist and tried to wrest himself from her grasp, but after years of riding her huge stallion, she had surprisingly strong arms. She began to rain kisses on his face and he despaired of ever managing to regain enough breath to remonstrate with her. Charlotte felt his tacit submission and placed an entirely different explanation on his actions. At last she relented enough to allow him his freedom, thinking she had convinced him he no longer desired it. She discovered how wrong she was with his next words, “Charlotte, if your mother was still alive, she would be mortified to see you behave in such a wanton manner…”
She gasped at his tone, “How dare you call me a wanton! It is not I who has run off with a mere boy.”
“Since I seem to be incapable of convincing you that Verity has done no such thing, I will merely state that even if she had done so, she certainly never so far forgot herself and her position as to embrace him in public. Or me, either!”
“That only proves she never loved you – and that I do!”
“Balderdash!” he countered with rising irritation; “You merely show the lack of a mother’s discipline. Verity has never misbehaved so grossly, no matter what the provocation.”
“I am sick of hearing about Verity’s perfection,” she sneered, poison dripping from every word.
“Then take yourself off and stop bothering me, you silly girl. To me, Verity is perfection – I had not realized just how perfect until I compared her to you.”
Her cheeks flushed at the insult, “Oh!” She cried in indignation, “How could you?”
“Quite easily. Go away Charlotte, and please, please don’t come back!”
With a proud lift to her chin, she flounced away down the garden, and Underwood sank back onto the bench, dragging his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his heavily perspiring brow, “No wonder Knox called them a ‘monstrous regiment’,” he muttered weakly, before heading into the vicarage for tea, peace and an aura of sanity.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
(“Non Semper Ea Sunt Quae Videntur” – Things are not always what they appear to be)
Major Thornycroft hailed Underwood cheerfully, “Good morning, my friend, no Gil today?”
“No, it is his turn to sit with our invalid.”
“Any sign of recovery?”
“No. The doctor is managing to get a little water down her throat, so at least she won’t die of thirst just yet. Luckily, despite the damage done to her neck, she still seems able to swallow, but she is unconscious and shows no sign of waking. The bruising is fading now, not so vividly purple, but every other hue you can imagine. God knows how anyone could inflict such injuries on a helpless girl.”
“The Law does it every day, and for a host of minor offences.”
“Yes,” said Underwood thoughtfully, “Would to God they would find some other way of dealing with felons. It is the only thing which gives me pause when I involve myself in such matters as Mrs. Dunstable’s death.”
“But in involving yourself, at least you save the innocent from an undeserved fate.”
“One can only hope so. Enough of such dreary thoughts. You must have something to confide that will cheer me.”
The Major grinned wickedly, “As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What is it?”
“We have Gedney and his wife frothing at the mouth. I have persuaded Geoffrey and Adeline to contest their mother’s will. In the original their bequest is a small sum of money. Adeline knew that, which is why she insured her adopted mother’s life. Poor little soul thought she would never find a husband if she did not have a dowry. Another interesting snippet is that it was Gedney who suggested the idea of insurance to her, and arranged the meeting with the company.”
“You discovered more than I. She would not divulge her reasons for assurance when I asked her."
“You do not have the same charm and easy manner as I.”
“Yes, yes! We all know about your innate charm. By Jupiter, Gedney covered himself very well. He lined another up to take his place on the gallows every step of the way, didn’t he? If Dunstable had not played into his hands, Adeline would have – and did, until you persuaded her otherwise. But what I want to know is how you thought of contesting the will? It is a brilliant stroke. I wish I had thought to use the ploy. Gedney is only interested in lining his pockets and is going to be pushed into all manner of folly by his frustration.”
“If you are looking for the brilliant author of Gedney’s misfortune, look no further than your own wife. It was her idea.”
“Verity?” he made no attempt to hide his eagerness, grasping the Major’s shoulder in a painfully tight grip and shaking it slightly, “You’ve heard from her? Where is she?”
Jeremy took his wrist and removed his hand with a theatrical grimace of pain,
“Hold hard, old man! These instructions were left with me before she went. Do you really think I would have kept it from you if I had known where she was?”
A deflated Underwood sank onto a nearby bench, “Dammit! Where the devil has she gone, Thornycroft? At every turn I’m reminded how much I miss her, how much I need her. Even at a distance she is helping me find the key to the crime.”
“I’m sorry, Underwood. I really have not a notion. But, by God! What a woman she is. Even with all the heartache she has endured, she was level-headed enough to plan ahead, making sure you bring your man to justice, even in her absence.”
“I’m sure she would be delighted to know that she possesses so ardent an admirer in you, Jeremy,” said Underwood, with unbecoming cynicism.
“Give me half a chance, my friend, and I will take her away from you.”
“You’ll have to find her first.”
*
The two brothers were alone for the first time that evening. Toby had left the previous morning, his meagre belongings wrapped in a warm blanket which Gil had pressed upon him. Both men were unhappy at his obstinate refusal to remain with them until he at least found employment of some kind, knowing that he was condemning himself to a life of vagrancy, but he was adamant he had trespassed on their generosity for long enough. Underwood had pressed a few guineas into his hand and he had reluctantly accepted them, but it was evident he hated doing so. That, more than anything else, made the parting uncomfortable and Underwood almost wished he had not done it, though he knew he could not send the man out onto the road penniless.
Mrs. Trent had suddenly announced she was taking a couple of well earned days off and had gone to see her sister. This was also intensely inconvenient, since neither Gil nor Underwood were particularly talented in the kitchen, and
they now expected the arrival of their mother at any moment, but since she had borne the advent of the Herberts, Oliver Dunstable and Toby, and had nursed Rachael Collinson for two days without a word of complaint, they could hardly protest when she declared her utter weariness and left them to their own devices.
They had supped fairly well at the White Boar, accompanied by Major Thornycroft, whilst one of Gil’s adoring parishioners had kindly sat with Collinson, and when they returned to the vicarage, she took her leave of them and they retired to the study for an hour or two of relaxation. There was a companionable silence as Underwood read, and Gil wrote notes on his next sermon.
Frenzied hammering on the front door brought them both to their feet and with an exchange of glances which confirmed the panic the sound had instilled in each of them, they set off down the hall of one accord.
Since their arrival home, the light shower they had encountered had been building into a veritable tempest; it was pouring with rain, with buffeting winds lashing the trees. A bedraggled urchin stood on the step as they opened the door, whom neither of them recognised, but even so they urged him to enter out of the rain,
“No, no!” he shouted above the noise of the rain and wind, “I daren’t come in. There isn’t time, I’ve to run for the doctor too. You both got to come. I bin sent to fetch you. It’s Mrs. Underwood, she’s ill, real bad. She’s bin taken to Lady Hartley-Wells and she begged me bring you both.”
“Of course, my boy,” exclaimed Gil, genuinely aghast, “We will come right away. Chuffy, get your cloak.”
Underwood caught his brother’s arm as he turned to the hallstand to grasp his own heavy black cape, “Hold hard, Gil, not so fast! Ask the boy who he is, and who sent him.”
Gil looked into Underwood’s face, scarcely comprehending the fact that he could hesitate at such a moment, “What difference does that make, for pity’s sake? Verity has sent for us…” He broke off, struck by another thought, “My God! He said Mrs. Underwood. It may be mother. There must have been an accident with the stage.”
He spun round to question the boy further, but was faced with the empty blackness of the rain-soaked night, “Never mind. It does not matter which one of them it is, we are needed now, Chuffy.”
Still Underwood did not move, “I don’t believe it, Gil. This is a trick. I know in my bones that it is.”
Gil wrenched himself furiously from his brother’s grasp, “Be damned to your suspicious mind, CH! Have you no heart? How can you even pause for a second at a time like this? Verity has sent for you – or mother. Ill, in pain, perhaps dying and for you to think of logic…”
“You don’t understand, Gil. If we both leave here now, Collinson will be alone in the house. What is to stop someone breaking in and smothering her with one of her own pillows? I swear to you that was a false message.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t know it for sure. And even if you are, how can you bear to risk mother or Verity?”
Suddenly all Underwood’s resolve crumbled, “Let us go,” he said, grabbing his caped great coat, and following his brother out into the wild night, the sound of their feet pounding above the tumult of wind and rain. With every bone-jolting step, Underwood, the man who possessed no religious beliefs, who had not acknowledged the existence of any deity since the love of his youth had died in agony years before, prayed with a fervour of despair, “Please god, let this be the right decision!”
*
Ill-luck dogged them all the way, as Underwood knew it must. There was no sign of life at the White Boar, and their hammering on the door went unheard and unanswered. It became increasingly obvious that they were not going to be able to find a vehicle to carry them to Lady Hartley-Wells, the hour was too late and the weather too wild to hope anyone would still be abroad. They had no choice but to find their way on foot. In daylight the road to her imposing mansion was a pleasant enough walk, now it was a bleak and muddy nightmare of wind and rain, slipping and sliding on greasy soil and grass at the side of the road, or risking a broken ankle in the pot-holed highway, nearly blinded by the driving needles of rain, blown in gusts into their faces.
It took them almost three-quarters of an hour to struggle to the house, and they were faced with the heart-stopping vision of unlit windows and a barred door when they finally reached their destination. No doctor’s gig stood outside, with a disgruntled horse turning its haunches to the biting wind and driving rain. No sign of life at all.
Gil skidded to a halt, looked about him in disbelief and turned to his brother, looking absurdly young with his hair plastered to his skull, and a shocked expression on his streaming face, “Chuffy… shouldn’t somebody be waiting for us?”
Underwood, feeling sick with dread, but unable to panic the vicar by showing it, answered swiftly, “We have to rouse the house, Gil. We need a carriage to get us back to the parsonage.”
“It was a lie then?”
“It was, a cruel and sick hoax, but we must not delay any longer. We have to get back, now!” A sense of urgency at last communicated itself to the staggered Gil and he nobly rose above his own shock and dismay to aid his brother.
Lady Hartley-Wells, being a fairly light sleeper, presently heard their summons and sent Cromer to investigate. Thus, within another half-hour or so, they were ensconced in a chaise and driving fast and wild back to Hanbury. They were rudely rocked and thrown from side to side as Cromer’s youngest brother whipped up the horses and took to the road without thought of the pot-holes, stones or other possible road-users. Underwood could only be silently grateful that on such a night they were unlikely to encounter any other vehicles. His initial thought had been to tell the boy not to bother hurrying. He knew now that the plan had been carefully laid, their every movement watched, and the assassination savagely accomplished. The vicarage would, of course, have been entered within minutes of their leaving and the chances were Collinson had been dead for over an hour. Her tenuous hold on life would have been pathetically easy to sever, as he had suggested to Gil, probably by a pillow held over her face. There would not even have been a struggle, no sign that she had been murdered, no proof that would hang the man who had so callously snuffed out the one remaining tiny spark of life.
He grew increasing depressed as they neared the deserted town, wearily furious with himself for not having resisted Gil’s pleas. Why had he not trusted his instincts and sent his brother out alone?
He knew why, of course. That moment of weakness had been prompted by the mention of his wife. Anyone else he could have risked leaving to their fate, even, it had to be admitted, his mother, but not Verity. He had gambled everything in the hope it had really been her who had sent for him. And it had not paid off. God, what an idiot he had been – and what was worse, he still did not know where to find her! He realized now that he had never loved anyone as he loved her; not Elinor, nor Charlotte. No one had possessed his soul, matched his mind, gripped his imagination, roused his body as she did – and fool that he was, he had driven her away! With his stupid pride, and pathetic insecurities he had made her feel unwanted and unloved. He did not deserve to have her back, but he would give all he possessed to have her safe by his side once more.
He had lashed himself into a suitably abject state of misery by the time they drew up outside the vicarage, and it was left to Gil to leap from the chaise and head for the front door at a neck-or-nothing run. Underwood stumbled down behind him, his muscles having suddenly decided to stiffen in protest at the unaccustomed action to which he had subjected them. As well as mental anguish, he felt bodily battered and bruised and he hoped he would not have too much to do when he entered the house. He had not mentioned Collinson’s peril since those first moments on the doorstep when they had set out on their ill-fated journey, and he hoped Gil had managed to assimilate the knowledge of what they were likely to find. He had no desire to spend the rest of the night treating his brother for the effects of shock.
Gil was still fumbling through his pockets for his k
ey when Underwood joined him and with a tired sigh he reached out, turned the knob and pushed open the door,
“If you recall, Gil, we did not wait to lock the door.”
The vicar went deathly white, “Oh, my God! If that girl is dead, the fault will be entirely mine. How could I have been so witless?”
“Don’t blame yourself, old fellow. He would have broken in if we had locked and barred every entrance to the house. He was determined to see her dead. He could not risk her coming to and telling all she knew.”
“I should have listened to you, Chuffy, the girl is dead because of me.” His distress was acute and Underwood knew that nothing he could say would ever ease the anguish felt by the clergyman. He therefore said nothing more, but led his brother into the darkened hall, waving the young whipster away with a lift of his hand, then closing the door behind them, shutting out the easing storm, but unable to shut out the enveloping aura of despair which assailed them both.
He stood for a moment at the bottom of the staircase, unwilling to climb to witness the carnage he feared lay above them.
Gil suddenly stiffened beside him, “I swear I heard a footfall, Chuffy,” he hissed, “There is still someone up there!”
In his logical mind, Underwood knew he must be wrong, but still he felt a rush of energy, which was a mixture of fear, excitement and fury, “Damn him to hell! If he is still here, I swear I will despatch him myself. Grab a poker from the parlour fireplace, Gil. I’ll have your walking stick from the hall-stand,” he whispered fiercely.
He waited until his brother returned, armed, then as quietly as possible they began the long ascent up the, fortunately carpeted, stairs. Those few seconds were the most drawn-out and painful of his life. Every creaking riser sounded like a pistol shot to their ears, and their breathing seemed to rasp like a snoring consumptive.
Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) Page 24
