A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (32 page)

              No one was ever held to account for the slaughter. The magistrates who ordered in the troops, the soldiers themselves, all were left without a blemish on their reputations. The Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, had utterly rejected a request for an enquiry into the scandal. It was small wonder if someone still held a desire for vengeance and had caused the debt to be repaid in the blood of two of the men who had taken part in the carnage.

              “Do you really think that is the solution, Cadmus?”

              “I suspect so, but it brings us no nearer to knowing who – though I have my own thoughts on that.”

              “Who, then?”

              “I shall know for sure tomorrow – or at least, I trust I shall.”

              The frenzied hammering of the door knocker against the wooden panels reverberated through the house, effectively ending the conversation. They both went into the hall to seek the source of the pandemonium, though they knew that Toby considered it his duty to answer the door.

              As expected he had reached the door before they did and he opened it to reveal a dishevelled Will Jebson, who burst in, looking wildly about him, “Is she here?”

              “If you mean Violette, then yes, of course, she’s upstairs, I think, lying down.”

              “No, not Violette, I’m looking for Martha. She had a note, was secretive about it and insisting on going out alone. That was hours ago and then I went to ask the other shop-keepers if they had seen her. They told me that Sir George Gratten had advised that no one go out unaccompanied. Now I fear something dreadful may have happened to her.”

              Verity felt as though an icy hand had clutched her heart.

              “She is not here. We have not seen her. Where are the twins?”

              “Mrs Simpson offered to sit with them whilst I looked for Martha. Dear God, where can she be?”

              “Come in and sit down, Will. Give Toby and I a moment to change into outdoor clothing and we will come with you and help find her.”

              Will lifted an agitated hand and ran it through his hair, “What have I done?” he muttered, and then smashed one fist into the palm of his other hand, “Oh, dear God, what have I done?”

Underwood and Verity exchanged a worried glance.

              “What have you done?” asked Underwood quietly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘Flamma Fumo Est Proxima’ – There’s no smoke without fire

              Will looked uneasy at hearing Underwood’s question, however gently delivered. He had sounded so apprehensive that the younger man hastened to reassure him with an explanation of the circumstances.

              “We had the most terrible quarrel,” he said breathlessly, the words tumbling over each other in his hurry to get them out, apparently puzzled that his words should have been misinterpreted to such a worrying degree. “I said unforgivable things to my wife and now she might be in danger.”

              Both Underwood and Verity looked relieved, as though they had been expecting him to confess to something much worse than a mere argument.

“Of course she will forgive you,” said Verity soothingly, leading him to a bench which stood against the wall in the hallway and was used when they put on and removed their outdoor footwear in bad weather – even a housewife as casual as Verity did not want mud tramping through the house, “But why should she be in any more danger than the rest of us? Hasn’t Sir George decided that it is only the military men who are being sought by the killer?”

              Will sank wearily into the proffered seat. It was not only the mad rush to the inn to hire a horse, then the wild ride to Windward House that had exhausted him, but the strain of fretting about Martha. He, more than anyone in the world, was only too aware of the sort of crazed behaviour of which his wife was capable when she was riled.

              “I know that, but please, please hurry. I have a feeling of dread that I cannot ignore.”

              Infected with his disquiet, both Underwood and Verity rushed to change into boots and capes for the evening was drawing on and it had grown chilly.

              Will tried to be patient as they strove to get ready but seemed suddenly overcome and he dropped his head into his hands and let forth a groan of pure anguish, Verity looked at him and instinctively she knew there was more to his tale than he had admitted. There was something vital he was not telling them.

              “What is it Will? There is more to this, I know it.”

              The apothecary dragged out a sigh which seemed to come from the very core of his being. The sudden sagging of his entire body spoke of weary defeat.

              “Martha took the keys from me when she served Thickbroome with his laudanum, and when she returned the bunch, there were some missing.”

              Both Verity and Underwood had to strain to hear what he was saying and at first they could not comprehend why this loss of a few keys could be such an issue. Then light dawned and Underwood asked gently, “Are you saying that she has disappeared with the keys to the poison cabinet?”

              “God forgive me, yes! Now do you see why it is so vital that I find her?”

              Before they could respond the front door opened and Violette came in, obviously trying to creep in without alerting anyone, only to be startled to find the hall full of people and several pairs of eyes observing her entrance with varying degrees of surprise.

              “Where have you been? I thought you were lying down in your room,” said Verity, for once abandoning all pretence at civility. She was shocked and angry that the girl had left the house without letting anyone know where she intended to go. Was she not fully aware that there was a killer at large and until that person was caught, they were all in peril?

              “I was restless; I could not sleep so I went out for a little fresh air. I only wanted to go as far as the end of the garden, but it was so beautiful outside that I strolled a little further.”

              She seemed to notice Will for the first time and a charmingly rosy blush spread over her cheeks, “Mr Jebson, I did not see you there. Is something wrong? You look upset.”

              It was hardly surprising that she had not noticed him at first, for both Verity and Underwood blocked her view and the bench he sat upon was next to the hallstand and he was half-hidden by the hanging coats and capes. She only saw him because he rose unsteadily to his feet when he saw her come into the house.

              Their eyes met for a few seconds and neither Underwood nor Verity could fail to notice the sparks that flew between them, until Will lowered his gaze and murmured, “Martha is missing.”

              Violette was all concern, “Oh, no. Are the twins with her?”

              “No, they are at home. Mrs Simpson is kindly sitting with them.”

              “I should go and look after them until Mrs Jebson comes home,” said Violette decidedly.

              Underwood held up his hand to prevent any further speech, “No, you will not. And I’m afraid, Verity, I must ask you to stay at home too. There is no question of either of you venturing out now. Heaven only knows what will happen next and I want you both here, safe, and I shall be leaving Toby to take care of you. This matter has now become very serious.”

              “Then I do not want you to go out either,” said Verity, reaching out and grasping her husband’s arm.

He gave her hand a swift and comforting pat, “My dear, Will needs my help. Try not to fret. Nothing will happen to me, I promise.”

              She said no more, for which he was grateful. He could hardly now confide that he was almost positive that the woman who had once saved his life was the most likely suspect in a series of brutal killings, and it was for that very reason he felt he was quite safe. She would hardly kill him now, having been at such pains to save him once, even if she did wonder if he was closing in on her.

              Toby was called upon to saddle a horse for him and then he and Will set out for Hanbury, discussing as they rode where they might possibly find Martha. Had she made any particular friends, or expressed a liking for any place in town?

              The apothecary did not know the town as well as Underwood did, but even he was stumped as to where a lone woman might go. He would normally guess that she would go to a hotel, with the deliberate intention of frightening her spouse into obedience or remorse, but he was aware that there were not many rooms to be had just then and Martha was forever bemoaning her lack of funds.

              Will shook his head in despair, “She only knows the other ladies to whom she was introduced by Mrs Underwood. I have asked them all, but they know nothing. Your house was my last hope.”

              Having found this thread of conversation fruitless, Underwood fell silent until another thought occurred to him, “Tell me, Will, do you have any notion of exactly which, if any, of the bottles Martha took from the cabinet?”

              “I know she took opium and I fear, I fear most dreadfully, that she also took a vial of strychnine.”

              This was precisely what Underwood had feared when Will first told him of the toxins that he been left by the chemist. There was now a bottle of deadly poison at large and he had no clue into whose hands it might fall.

              “I shall never, never forgive myself if she does herself any harm,” added the younger man, his voice breaking with emotion.

              Underwood wanted to console him, but since he could only find words of the utmost cynicism, it seemed kinder to say nothing. He did not see Martha Jebson as the suicidal sort and felt very sure she had taken the stuff with the express purpose of scaring her poor husband out of his wits – something in which she had succeeded admirably – but he could hardly confide any theory so brutal to the obviously suffering Jebson.

              “Why would she take opium? She is not an addict herself, is she?”

              Will shook his head, “No. As I told you a boy brought a note to the shop and would only deliver it into her hands. I thought it must be from Thickbroome asking for more of the stuff. I was busy in the shop all day, except for when I took the girls to the park and I had not then heard about his murder. As far as I knew, it was he who had sent the note to Martha because he was well aware that I would not sell it to him, but that she might. She was smiling in that infuriating way of hers, complacent but cunning. I guessed he had offered her a lot of money and like a fool I let her go out to meet him.”

              “And she never came back?”

              “No. The day wore on and one of the other shop-keepers came in to tell me the news that they had found the body of Thickbroome. Then I began to panic. The note could not have been from him. So who did send it and where is she now?”

              “You have no notion who could have written it?”

              “Alas, no.”

              “And the boy? Did you know him?”

              “No. He was not a child I recognized. He was dirty and bootless, so I suspect he was a street urchin who was offered a penny or two to bring the note.”

              “Probably. Even if we could trace him, I doubt he could describe the person who gave him the note.”

              “We are no further forward then?” asked Will, almost crushed by the disappointment he felt. He had been relying on an almost miraculous solution from Underwood, though he knew it was foolish to do so.

              “Will, I think we have no choice but to take this matter to Sir George and leave him to search for Martha. You have looked in every possible location.  I suggest we go back to the shop now in the hope that she has had enough of her childish games and has returned home. If she has not, you must stay with your children and I will seek out the Constable and tell him everything.”

              “Even that Martha may have poison with her?”

              “Especially that,” answered Underwood grimly. “And I really think you must prepare yourself for the worst. I hope and pray that I am wrong, but the clandestine meeting arranged by secretive means gives me no confidence in a happy outcome to this.”

              “Please don’t say that, Mr Underwood,” said Will, barely holding back his tears, “If anything happens to my wife, when the last words I spoke to her were filled with hatred and anger, I do not know how I could ever forgive myself.”

              “Don’t despair just yet, my friend,” said Underwood, at once contrite. “I dare swear Mrs Jebson has spent the afternoon somewhere cosy and is thoroughly enjoying the notion that she has punished you for your ill-temper.”

              “I hope so.”

              Of course there was no sign of Martha when they reached the shop. Mrs Simpson had put the twins to bed and was sitting with a book in the warm parlour, a candle flickering in the slight draught as she read, waiting to be relieved of her duty.

              As soon as she saw Will she rose and told him that she must hurry off, after first asking if there had been any sighting of Martha.

              “No. I don’t suppose she has sent some message either?”

              She sadly shook her head and went to hurry away, but Underwood stopped her.

              “Give me one moment to say goodbye to Will, madam, then I will see you home.”

              “No need, Mr Underwood, it’s only a step across the square.”

              He looked at her sternly, “There is every need, Mrs Simpson, I will not have another lady put in peril.”

              He reached out and shook Will’s hand, “Send word if you hear anything, and I will do likewise.”

              Will merely nodded, looking about him in a stunned way, as though he could not quite believe that Martha was not there, sitting in her usual chair, voicing her grievances about the way the day had gone.

              Underwood felt for him, but there was nothing more he could do.

              He saw Mrs Simpson to her door, and would not leave until he saw her safely over the threshold and in the arms of her husband, then he retrieved his horse, which he had tethered to the railings outside one of the houses on Back Lane.

              He did not relish his next task, which was to seek out Sir George Gratten and admit that their unknown assassin could very well have claimed another victim.

              Lady Gratten was, as always, unfailingly polite, though it was late in the evening to be making house-calls. She was no more immune to his innate charm than most other ladies, despite being his senior by a good two decades. She had the butler show him into Sir George’s study, where he was still at his desk and working by candlelight, for though not quite dark outside, it was deep dusk.

              “Any news, Underwood?” he asked when he saw who his visitor was.

              “None good,” answered Underwood tersely. “Martha Jebson, the apothecary’s wife, had gone missing.”

              “Oh?” Sir George raised his eyebrows in way which suggested he thought this uninteresting rather than bad news, “Do we have any reason to believe she is in danger? I’m assuming
she
did not fight at Waterloo?” This last riposte was delivered with more than a little sarcasm, but Underwood merely responded with one brow arched at the older man, knowing that it irritated Sir George beyond measure that he could not quite capture the sardonic nuance which Underwood could so causally deliver with his one quizzically raised brow.