A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (30 page)

              “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “Now that I have your attention, I have serious news to impart. Another of the soldier friends of Major Thornycroft has been found shot dead. There is now good reason to believe that it is the military who are being targeted by an unknown assassin. I have stopped all travel in and out of Hanbury and wish to warn you all that until this person or persons are caught, no one is safe. I must request that you ladies do not venture anywhere without a male escort and that all gentlemen go about town in pairs.”

              This naturally caused uproar.

              Sir George Gratten was effectively admitting that he had no way of protecting the inhabitants of Hanbury and that at any moment another gunshot could take the life of any one of the people gathered there.

              Underwood muttered, “Dammit, George, why must you always over-dramatize everything?” but he said nothing aloud to the Constable. It was rather too late now to try and calm the maelstrom he had whipped up.

              Mrs Milner turned frantically worried eyes to her son, “Chuffy, does he mean that the general could be in danger too?”

              “And Jeremy James?” added Adeline, tears forming, but which she bravely blinked away.

              What could Underwood say? He very much doubted that Sir George’s theory was the correct one, but he had no evidence to prove he was wrong. And if he did dismiss their fears as nonsense and then one of their loved ones was killed? What then?

              “Ladies, I beg of you, do try not to worry. I am going now to consult with Sir George and Dr Herbert, who will have carried out a
post mortem
on the body. As soon as I know more, I will tell you.”

              Suddenly a voice from the back of the room shouted, “What about the Frenchie? I’ll bet it is her – the French still hate us for beating them hollow at Waterloo!”

              As a body the entire room turned to look at Violette and she shrank into her seat, her eyes wide with fear.

              “Arrest the frog-eater!” yelled someone else.

              “Yes, string up the foreigner! She’ll be behind the murder of our poor, brave lads!”

              Verity rose to her feet and scrambled onto her seat so that her short stature might not prevent her from being seen and heard by all in the room, “Stop this at once,” she said loudly, “The young lady stayed at my home last night and never ventured out. How could she possibly be responsible for the death of this unfortunate man?”

              “She’s got a cohort,” called another voice, “Find him and you’ll find your killer. Lock her up, Gratten, before we are all butchered.”

              Sir George was at his most pompous when he replied loudly, “Why do you think I came to the Pump Rooms? My very next action was to be to arrest the young woman. Now, that is enough. Go on with your business and let me get on with mine.”

              With that he stepped down and made his way across the room, his stare firmly fixed upon Violette, as though he expected her to either produce a gun or run away. He wanted her to be very sure that he was quite prepared to deal with either eventuality.

              Violette sat, white faced and terrified, and waited for him to reach her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Proprium Humani Ingenii Est Odisse Quem Laeseris’ – It is human nature to hate those you have harmed

              Verity scrambled off the chair upon which she stood in a most undignified way in her hurry to fend off Sir George, but entirely redeemed herself by standing in front of Violette like an avenging angel and speaking to the Constable in a firm tone that brooked no argument, “You will have to arrest Violette over my dead body, George!”

              It was rare for Mrs Underwood to speak informally to Sir George in public, though they were good friends in private, ever since Verity had painted his portrait – for one cannot help but become closely entwined when one spends hours together alone; confidences are exchanged, hopes and dreams discussed. For such an ill-assorted pair, they were remarkably in tune with each other.

              He stopped and the grim expression softened slightly, “My dear Mrs Underwood, pray do not put yourself in a pucker. I’m taking the girl to a place of safety as much for her sake as ours. This crowd are likely to think of taking the law into their own hands.” This was something of an exaggeration. The populace was certainly restive but not yet positively threatening or aggressive.

              “But Miss Molyneux has done nothing wrong,” she protested, “This is mere prejudice.”

              Underwood knew that his quiet little wife could be implacable when she felt justice was on her side and could see this stand-off stretching into hours if nothing was done. He stepped in with what he hoped would be viewed as a reasonable solution.

              “Perhaps we could find somewhere private to have this discussion, Sir George? The sooner we take the young lady away from this place the better, I think.”

              “I couldn’t agree more. In fact that was what I was attempting to do before Mrs Underwood decided to play the role of protectoress. I suggest we adjourn to my office in the Court House.”

              Verity was a little uneasy at the idea of the Court House, since it also contained prison cells for those who were called before the magistrate. It seemed to her that she was leading poor Violette into the lion’s den. Underwood saw and understood her hesitation and said briskly, “Perhaps a private room at the inn across the road would be a better proposition until a decision is made about Miss Molyneux’s fate.”

              Sir George was inclined to protest and insist upon his instructions being obeyed without question but he took one look at Verity’s pugnacious expression and decided that perhaps he should give way – just this once!

              They found an empty room with no difficulty for the Constable’s recent shocking announcement had sent most ladies scurrying home, dragging reluctant male relatives with them for ‘protection’;- even those who were not garbed as soldiers were considered to be in dire peril.

              Underwood could see that Gratten was intensely irritated by Verity’s presence. It prevented him from using strong words and bullying tactics to get the young woman to break her silence and admit her involvement in the murders. He was entirely sure that she was the key to the whole mystery.

              As it was he had to exercise a modicum of tact and civility when addressing her, though it went against the grain for him to do so. He had a nephew who had been killed at Waterloo and, for all his gruff disapproval, he had grown fond of the Wablers over the years. At least they had shown courage in fighting on a battlefield – this hole-in-the-corner affair of a killer hiding behind a woman’s skirts and emerging from the shadows to deal death was sickening to him.

              “Now Miss, it will go far better with you if simply tell us who your accomplice is. I realize it is probably not you personally who wielded the weapon, but I’m damned sure you know who did.”

              Violette stared up at him as though she could barely comprehend his words, “I know nothing,” she said, her voice trembling, on the verge of more tears.

              “Don’t be opening the floodgates on me, my girl! Weeping will avail you nothing. You are in very serious trouble and if I were you I’d make a clean breast of it and give yourself a chance to escape the noose.”

              “Sir George, anyone can see that she is speaking the truth. She knows nothing of these murders,” said Verity evenly, aware that the Constable was extremely angry and very sure of his ground and that the only way to deal with him was to maintain a calm and logical demeanour.

              “Oh, really? Then perhaps you would like to explain to me why, just hours after an altercation with Joshua Thickbroome, which resulted in her losing her position, the man was found dead?”

              “That is hardly Violette’s fault,” said Verity. “You cannot throw accusations about on the strength of a quarrel.”

              “But that is not all, is it? She is French and as such she has a grudge against the army of Wellington. Obviously she lost everything when we defeated Napoleon, otherwise why would she be here, penniless and desperate?”

              “She came straight to Mr Underwood and I as soon as Mrs Jebson told her to leave. How could she have found time to communicate with another person?”

              “How do spies communicate with each other? I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”

              Underwood could see that his wife and the Constable were both growing heated and felt it was time to intervene before relations plunged further and ask a few pertinent questions of his own.

              “Sir George, may I ask if there was anything unusual about the body?”

              “Apart from being dead, you mean?” asked the older man sarcastically. He was now thoroughly disgruntled by Verity’s attempts to prevent him from doing his duty and at the same time tying up the loose ends of this case. It had become a matter of pride to him that he had solved the mystery before Underwood.

              “I think you know what I mean, sir,” said Underwood, refusing to be riled. “Was there a button found with the corpse?”

              “As a matter of fact there was, but I refuse to accept your theory that it has any hidden meaning. Buttons come unstitched all the time. I dare swear at least one of us in this room now will have a missing button right this very moment.”

              One of his henchmen glanced down at his coat and said, in a tone of triumph, “He’s right – I have a missing button.”

              Gratten gave him a scathing look, “Be quiet, Gostelow, you always have a missing button. Tell that wife of yours to look after you better.”

              Gostelow sank into abashed silence while his companion grinned.

              Underwood refused to be intimidated by Sir George’s deliberately blinkered attitude.

              “Come, my dear sir, you cannot, after all I have shown you over the past weeks, be so set in your mind that you are prepared to accept coincidence as a more likely explanation than premeditated placing of the object? Do you have the item about you? Might I see it?”

              Sir George admitted that the disputed button was indeed in his pocket and reluctantly handed it to his companion.

              Underwood took out his quizzing glass and examined it minutely.

              “Well?” asked Gratten, when the silence lengthened and his impatience grew.

              “I would say that is a very expensive item. Though tiny, it is finely made. I’d guess it was from a gentleman’s evening waistcoat, silk-covered.”

              “And what does that prove, pray?”

              “If the young lady is as impecunious as you conjecture, where on earth would she procure such a fine thing?”

              “She probably found it,” answered Gratten.

              “You are now stretching a reliance on coincidence to its fullest extent, sir,” said Underwood finally losing some of his
sang froid
at the obtuse mulishness of the Constable. “I suggest we end this conversation now, for it serves no further purpose. Until you have some indisputable evidence that Miss Molyneux is any way connected to these crimes, I suggest you release her into my care.”

              Sir George knew when he was beaten. Underwood was quite correct. He had no real reason to hold the young woman apart from reports of a quarrel between her and one of the dead men and the fact that she hailed from France – hardly a crime now that the war was long over.

              “Very well,” he said gruffly, “I release her into your care, but mark my words, I’ll hold you fully responsible if she chooses to abscond.”

              “Thank you, Sir George,” said Underwood gravely.

              “You won’t be thanking me when your entire family wakes up with their throats cut!” he muttered and both Verity and Underwood kindly refrained from pointing out the inherent lack of logic in this dire warning.

*

              Once out of the inn, Violette wanted nothing more than to go straight back to Windward House, but Verity suddenly noticed that she had rushed from the Pump Rooms without her pelisse or her reticule and insisted that they go back and find them.

              “I do hope Adeline or Cara were sensible enough to keep them safe for me,” she said distractedly, trying to usher the reluctant French woman across the road, whilst avoiding piles of horse manure and the occasional cart or chaise.

              They found a depleted group of patrons in the spa, for most people had gone, now that the excitement of having a murderous Gallic female amongst them had died away.

              Cressida Petch was chatting happily with Lilith Sowerbutts and Mrs Milner was talking to Jeremy James, a worried frown marring her usually serene face. Underwood was concerned to see her fretting as it was so unlike her, so he went immediately to her and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his, “Something troubling you, Mama?”

              She managed to smile, albeit tearfully, “All this is so very upsetting, Chuffy. The general thinks I am over-reacting but I’m terribly afraid that he or one of the other boys will be the next victim of this awful attacker.”

              Underwood took the opportunity to look around at his red-tunic-wearing companions and had to admit that not one of them looked in the least apprehensive. Apparently facing gun-fire in civilian life was not so very different than facing the canons of war.

              “I shouldn’t lose any sleep over any of them, Mama. They all look quite capable of taking care of themselves. As long as they follow Sir George’s strictures about not wandering abroad alone, they should all be safe enough.”

              “Do you really think so?”

              “I do.”

              “Adeline has been wondering if she ought to cancel the party,” she added, “She’s quite as frightened for Jemmy as I am for the general, but he won’t hear of letting everyone down.”

              “Jemmy is quite right,” he said roundly, then turned to Adeline, who sat nearby and added his thoughts to the protestations being voiced by her husband.

              “Adeline, you must not think of cancelling the celebrations. Poor Jem has already waited a year for this party and imagine the uproar among the Wablers if you deny them the frolics for which they have been longing.”

              “But the danger, Underwood,” she said tentatively, aware Jeremy James detested any hint that he might be any less of a man because of his injuries and was not perfectly capable of caring for himself, his wife and family.

              “Negligible, my dear, I do assure you,” said Underwood swiftly.

              “You seem very sure,” said Cara tartly.

              “I’m sure that if everyone obeys Sir George and does not wander off alone, we are all safe enough. This assassin, whoever he may be, has been careful to hide his identity. He is never going to risk disclosure by carelessness. Go everywhere in pairs and all will be well.”

              “Even to the ‘necessary house’?” joked Swann, who had also re-joined them as he had been required to push the major’s chair across the street.

              “Especially to the necessary house,” said Underwood severely, refusing to be embarrassed by the mention of bodily functions.

              “That will be no novelty to me,” said Thornycroft moodily, “I’ve had attendance in there as in many other things since Bony himself cut the legs from under me with a five-foot long sabre …”

              “Stow it, Thorny,” said Meadows rudely, “We all know that Banbury story, and no one is convinced. The little general couldn’t have lifted a sabre that big, let alone strike you down with it. That’s as long as he was tall!” For once Meadows was not inaccurate in his estimation of the diminutive stature of the vanquished French Emperor.

              Everyone laughed, including the major and this seemed to lighten the atmosphere enough for talk to turn to other things.

              For the first time Underwood noticed that the elusive Miss Sowerbutts was still in the vicinity, though he saw that her brother was swiftly crossing the room, a determined look on his face which made him seem bent on – what? Rescue perhaps? But what was there to rescue her from?