A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (23 page)

              Joshua Thickbroome rose slowly to his feet, “Take him out yourself, Major.” He turned to his erstwhile friend, “John, you have led me down many a path I had no wish to tread, but like a fool I followed, but this time you have gone too far. Find another man to act as your second, if you want to shoot that green boy, for I’m all done with you.”

              When Second Lieutenant Thickbroome walked out of the room, several of the others followed him, including Underwood, who grasped Thornycroft’s chair and pushed him out without being asked. Jeremy James made no protest. All thought of continuing the evening at a tavern was gone.

              Pennyfather was still seated at the table staring after them all, astounded that they should have taken the side of a mere sergeant against the word of a fellow officer.

              They heard him yell, “Damn you all to hell’s flames!” as they reached the foyer.

              Underwood had never been more grateful for Toby’s intuition, for the big man was outside the Assembly Rooms, wrapped in his caped coat against the chill of the late hour. He had taken Verity home and turned around straight away to fetch Underwood, knowing that he did not really wish to make a night of it with the Wablers.

              He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt in allowing the poorly-sighted Meadows and one-armed Elliott take hold of Thornycroft’s chair, followed by the one-legged Dickson and go off down the street to find whatever consolation they might.

              He hoisted himself up beside Toby and settled into the cold seat with a shudder, “I could not be more delighted to see you, my friend. Your timing is, as always, impeccable.”

              “It was not a good evening, then?” asked Toby, glad that for once he had been left out of the jollifications in order to help his wife mind the children. He had the distinct impression that his muscle might very well have been called upon and he never enjoyed having to act as bodyguard to the troublesome Underwood, who tended, albeit unwillingly, to rouse ill-feeling on occasion.

              “I foresee trouble, Toby, a great deal of trouble,” said Underwood dolefully.

              “At least this time you only foresee it and you haven’t caused it,” said Toby equably, “Mrs Underwood will be pleased.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Mors Certa, Hora Incerta’ – Death is certain, the hour uncertain

              It was a sober and subdued gathering in the Pump Rooms next morning. That is to say relatively sober – and very sore-headed. Not for the first time Underwood looked at the faces of his companions and was grateful that his inclination was not towards over-indulgence in strong liquor. In short, the Wablers looked very sorry for themselves indeed.

              “Shot the cat, did you, gentlemen?” he asked solicitously. They were all unamused by his use of the cant expression which referred to drink-induced vomiting. From the sour looks he received, he assumed that more than one of them had done just that and he grinned unkindly.

              “Do you have to be quite so loud?” asked Swann piteously. “Or indeed demonstrate such deplorable good humour?”

              “If you had gone to your bed like a wise man instead of seeking out more boozing kens, you wouldn’t be suffering now,” said Thornycroft, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He had thought Swann would have more sense than to continue drinking after his run-in with the odious Pennyfather. With the two of them loose in a small town, the chances of them meeting up again, whilst in their cups, was high, and God only knew what might have occurred between the pair if that had come to pass.

              Presently they were joined by Petch, Thickbroome and Sam Tredgett, who looked slightly less worse for wear than the Wablers. Evidently they had either drunk less or had hardier constitutions.

              “Where’s that bounder Pennyfather?” asked Swann, turning bloodshot eyes upon the newcomers.

              “I haven’t a notion,” answered Thickbroome coolly, acknowledging that the question was directed towards him more than anyone else, as he was Pennyfather’s usual companion. “I expected him back at our lodgings last night, but he never turned up. I assume he has found himself some lightskirt who was willing to perform the blanket hornpipe with him. He’ll turn up when she has had enough of his rough play.” From his bitter tone, the others apprehended that he had not undergone a change of heart in the night and he was still determined to finish with his erstwhile boon companion. It would appear that his abusive language towards a man maimed for life at Waterloo was one step too far in even his inauspicious previous career.

              They found nothing amiss with his theory. From what they knew of Pennyfather, it seemed all too likely and so the conversation turned to other topics, mainly in teasing Freddie Meadows about his interest in Petch’s sister. Freddie cast an anxious glance towards Captain Petch, lest he should be offended by the bandying about of his sister’s name in such company, but Petch looked quite content. Meadows could not know that Rutherford was only too delighted that he might have found the very man to woo and mayhap marry Cressida and remove from him the lingering feeling of guilt that he was planning to abandon her to run a vast estate with no guiding male hand upon the tiller.

              Freddie was delighted to realize that he was not about to have his cork drawn and allowed himself to relax sufficiently to talk quite openly about what a fine girl he thought Miss Petch was and how he hoped to see her again that afternoon, when the ladies arrived to take the waters.

              Underwood had listened to all this banter, not taking part, but enjoying the exchanges, taking note of any juicy gossip for Verity’s gratification later. Thus it was he who was first to notice the advent of Sir George Gratten, accompanied by two bruising fellows, who looked from their uniforms to be members of the Hanbury Watch. This did not bode well for the Wablers for the three men made directly for them and Underwood pondered upon which of the men was to be taken to the lock-up for drunken misbehaviour the night before. The Watch were in the Constable’s pay and their duties included keeping the peace in the streets at night, for which purpose they were provided with a wooden sentry box to protect them from the worst of the weather. In Oxford and Cambridge it was a hallowed tradition that these boxes were pushed over onto their fronts, thus successfully trapping the Watchman within – a trick known as ‘boxing the Watch’. In London there were plans afoot to create a so-called Police Force, with the idea of having a dedicated body of men to act as peace-keepers full time, as criminality was spreading faster than the plague in the Metropolis. However, that was still being fought through Parliament by Robert Peel and in the meantime, men such as Sir George did their best to quell bad behaviour of all kinds, with only the Watch and in times of desperate need, the local militia, to aid them in their endeavours.

              Sir George looked grim so Underwood restrained himself from giving his usual amicable greeting and simply bade the older man, “Good morning, Sir George.”

              “’Morning, Underwood,” said the Constable gruffly. “Tell me which of these fellows is Swann?” Sir George was acquainted with the Wablers, but only as a group and not individuals, so he would not have known one from the other, despite having been aware of them for several years now. They were not his chosen society and he occasionally wondered at a man of letters like Underwood finding their company congenial.

              “I’m Bertram Swann,” spoke up Swann, rising to his feet with obvious difficulty. It would seem, from his pained frown, that his head had not recovered from the excess of alcohol, despite his taking several draughts of spa water, “What do you want with me? I swear I haven’t been in trouble with the Watch since I was in shortcoats.”

              This was something of an exaggeration, as they all well knew, for the Wablers were notorious for their occasional bursts of over-enthusiastic revelry, but certainly they had been more restrained for a good few months now.

              “I believe you had a set to with a certain John Pennyfather last evening,” said Gratten, his visage grim and his tone stern. No one could now mistake the severity of the situation. Evidently something ill had occurred, for Sir George, despite his disapproval of some of their antics, was often quite as indulgent with the old soldiers as everyone else in Hanbury, they all being signally aware of the debt they owed to these brave but somewhat reckless young men.

              “We exchanged words, but not blows,” admitted Bertie cautiously, wondering what the devil complaint Pennyfather had laid against him to send the Constable hotfoot to the Pump Rooms to question him. “Why? What has the bounder said to you? Whatever it is, he was bamming you, for nothing happened.”

              “Pennyfather will not be carrying tales ever again, Swann, as I suspect you well know.”

              “What the devil do you mean? Why should I know anything about the fellow?”

              “Because he was found dead this morning in a farmer’s field, just outside Hanbury, with a bullet through his head.”

              A stark silence greeted this revelation.

              Though pale, Swann kept his calm demeanour. He swallowed deeply and managed to croak, “What has that to do with me?”

              “I understand you called him out?”

              “Who told you that clanker?” To his credit, Swann did not glance around at his comrades to see if any one of them looked guilty at having reported his argument with the dead man to the Constable. He knew not one of them would have given him away.

              “The Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms, one Mr Sparrow-Loftus. He was regaled with the whole incident by his staff. They were afraid that you were both going to have to be bodily ejected from the ball, but fortunately Major Thornycroft intervened in time to avert an unpleasant end to the scene.”

              “Well, your cacklers have it wrong. Pennyfather called me out, not the other way around. I would have been happy to simply dust his jacket for him on the street outside. He is the one who called for seconds.”

              “That’s true,” interjected Thickbroome, suddenly finding his tongue. He had been struck dumb with the shock of hearing of his crony’s demise, but his long-buried sense of fair play was roused to stand in defence of Swann or perhaps he just realized how badly the others would take his silence. With Pennyfather gone, he needed all the friends he could muster. “He asked me to second him and I refused. There cannot have been a duel. No one else would have stood for him in my stead.”

              “But there was nothing to stop the two men taking it upon themselves to retreat to the field and simply taking a shot at each other. Last man standing and all that,” said Gratten, determined to keep his man now that he had him in his sights.

              “There may have been nothing to stand in our way, sir, but that is not what happened,” said Swann with great dignity, appalled that anyone could suppose that he would breach the strict rules adhering to duelling – especially with a no-account like Pennyfather, “I went off in search of liquid comfort in the face of my losses and I left Pennyfather at the gaming table with Thickbroome and a host of others around him.”

              “Can anyone verify your whereabouts? Which inns did you go to?”

              “I don’t remember. I was already half-disguised when I staggered away from the Assembly Rooms.”

              “Disguised?” snapped Gratten, quick to latch onto any statement that might hint at nefarious doings.

              “He means drunk,” said Thornycroft with great patience. He wished these boys would stop using cant when matters were so serious – it was merely muddying already murky water for Gratten had never been the sharpest of men.

              “Well, well,” blustered Gratten, “be that as it may, I require you to come with me, young man. You are firmly in the frame for Pennyfather’s murder.”

              Underwood had listened in silence until this moment, but now he felt he ought to intervene before the Constable embarrassed himself by arresting the wrong man – for Underwood was very sure that Swann was entirely innocent. He knew all these men well and he understood the unbreakable bond that existed between them and the code of honour that bound them together in battle and could never be broken. Swann might very well have hated Pennyfather enough to kill him, but he would have obeyed the strict regulations for duelling, not just because it was the right thing to do, but also because it protected the victor. If one of the combatants were killed, the man who did the deed would probably only face a charge of manslaughter and not murder – that was if his friends did not manage to spirit him away to France to safety in exile. They would not endeavour to rescue a coward and every man knew it. His reputation would be forever tainted and he could never hold up his head again.

              “Sir George, may I enquire whether it might be possible that your victim is perhaps a suicide? I have to say that Pennyfather did himself no favours at all last night with any of his comrades. As Thickbroome has already attested, he refused to stand as the man’s second and was well aware that the ill-feeling he roused ensured that no one else felt they would take his place.”

              Gratten hesitated for a moment. It was true that he had been told of more than one quarrel by the staff at the Assembly Rooms, but Swann’s was by far the most serious as the challenge to duel had been issued.

              “The body is with Dr Herbert now, so I suppose this can wait until we have had his judgement on the precise cause of death, but let me tell you that his initial reaction was not one of possible suicide.”

              “Then I suggest that the most sensible course is to wait for the result of the
post mortem
and make your arrest then.”

              Gratten eyed Swann severely, “I shall be back for you, Swann, so do not think to leave town!”

              “Naturally I will not! I have nothing to hide.”

              It seemed that Tredgett could no longer keep quiet, though it was evident the whole group were trying to give as little information to the authorities as possible, which accounted for the fact that no one had leapt to Swann’s defence nor thrown any more names of potential murderers into the conversation. They would have rallied around the man had it become necessary, but saying nothing was almost always the safest course.

              “Sir, I’m as sure Swann didn’t kill Pennyfather as I am that I did not either, but if you are looking for men who hated the man enough to shoot him, then it is only fair you add me to the list.”

              Sir George turned a jaundiced eye upon the speaker, “If you are Tredgett, then you have it right, fellow! You are indeed another to whom I will wish to speak.” He glared at the assembled company, “In fact that goes for the lot of you. Do not attempt to leave Hanbury until this matter has been investigated or I will be forced to view your fleeing as an admission of guilt and alert the authorities in every other town that you are wanted men!”

              Having received no response to this stern warning, he turned on his heel and made his way to the door. Underwood followed him and caught him before he left the Pump Rooms.

              “One moment, George.”

              “What is it Underwood?”

              “Only that I thought it mannerly to inform you that I intend to interest myself in this case. Swann is a friend and I think it only fair that he has his side of the matter investigated, since you seem so set upon blaming him for this untimely death.”