A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (34 page)

              The implied threat made him smile grimly, “I wonder how closely death has stalked me these last few days? You must have known that I would recognize you eventually, then perhaps the next shot would have been through my skull.”

              She shook her head, “That would never have happened. I only kill those who deserve death because of their own vile actions. Had you known me at once, I would simply have left town and waited until another opportunity to take down Pennyfather and Thickbroome presented itself – and it would have. No one can escape the Sword of Damocles that they have unknowingly placed above their own heads.”

              He looked at her for a long time, his eyes searching every inch of her face, trying to fathom the workings of her mind.

              “What gives you the right to take lives, even if you consider them to be worthless?” he asked at last.

              “What gives you the right to do the same?” she threw back at him and, shocked, he almost staggered under the weight of her words and the venom in her tone.

              “What do you mean? I have killed no one!”

              “Can you really say that, Mr Underwood, when your investigations have sent so many to the gallows?”

              He swallowed deeply. He did not want to display weakness to her, but her words hit him far harder than she could ever imagine. He did what he thought was right, but it did not ease his conscience when he lay awake some nights, thinking exactly what she had just put into words – that he was responsible for the deaths of others, even if he had not pulled the lever to the trapdoor himself.

              “The law kills them not I,” he said, but his voice broke with emotion.

              “We are more alike than you want to believe,” she said.

              He bowed his head in acknowledgement, “Very well. I accept the accusation. But that does not solve my current dilemma. What, Miss Sowerbutts, am I to do with you?”

              “Why, nothing at all, dear sir. Simply open that door behind you and allow me to walk away. My work here is done. Pennyfather and Thickbroome are dead.”

              “Dead because they took part in the Peterloo Massacre,” said Underwood.

              She grinned in a most unladylike way, “Very clever, Underwood. When all about you were thinking the cause was Waterloo. I salute your intelligence.”

              “Salute my wife, then, it was she who hit upon the real reason.”

              She gave a quick, approving nod, “Well said. Not many men would admit that their wife had been more acute than they. You have met your match, there, Underwood. Your plump little wife is a diamond and I hope you cherish her.”

              Underwood did not need to be told what a treasure he held and he was not about to confide to a self-confessed killer how closely he had come to allowing her to slip through his fingers when foolish pride had almost overcome good sense.

              “Mrs Underwood is my heart’s delight,” he said, straying almost, but not quite into sentimentality, for his tone was quite matter of fact.

              “As Bella is mine,” she said warmly.

              “That would be Gervase, I presume?” he asked.

              “But of course.”

              “You know that I cannot simply let you go,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, “But if you would do me the kindness of telling me everything before I call Sir George to collect you – just for my own satisfaction, you understand?”

              “So you can lord it over the Constable, you mean,” she said wryly, “Show him how wrong he was about everything.”

              Underwood gave his most enigmatic smile, “If it pleases you to think so,” he said.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

‘A Fronte Praecipitium, A Tergo Lupi – In front, a fall from a cliff, behind wolves…

              In the ballroom Verity consulted the pretty watch which hung from a gold pin on her breast. It was quite decorative enough to serve as a brooch for the back was an enamel picture in bright colours. Around her neck she wore the locket Underwood had presented to her on the occasion of their wedding anniversary. This opened to reveal two tiny discs of ivory upon which she had painted miniature portraits of her husband, golden-haired and handsome and their two daughters, looking like rosy-cheeked little cherubs. She wore no other jewellery apart from her wedding ring. Though the other ladies were resplendent in their gemstones and pearls, Verity preferred simplicity. 

              She was trying not to fret, but Underwood had been gone for some thirty minutes now and she was growing restive.

              Adeline noticed her friend’s agitation, though she hid it well, for loving eyes see much more than indifferent ones. She leaned in and spoke to her husband, who was watching the dancing, having, for once, elected to play the dutiful spouse rather than carouse with his comrades.

              “I wonder what has happened to Underwood. Verity would like him here, I think. She is longing to dance.”

              “Meadows told me that he saw him spirit Miss Sowerbutts away from the games room. He had gone in there himself in the hope of a rubber of whist, but Miss Petch tracked him down and dragged him away to dance with her.”

              Adeline looked cross, “Meadows is a dreadful gossip and I don’t believe a word of it. Underwood is not a ladies man, for all they seem to chase him so ruthlessly.”

              “Underwood is no saint, my love. He’s not above perusing the fillies in the market place, like any man. But I’m sure you are right. He thinks far too much of Verity to do anything about it.”

              “I don’t understand why women chase married men. I find it distasteful to say the least. And surely Underwood is beyond all that now. He must be nearly fifty.”

              “He doesn’t look it though,” said Jeremy James, adding thoughtfully, as though he had only just reasoned out the mystery himself, “There are two sorts of women who chase Underwood. Those who wonder what on earth a lovely young thing like Verity sees in him and think he must therefore be something worth having. And those who fail to notice Verity’s very special loveliness and think that they can easily steal a handsome man from his commonplace little wife.”

              “Well, whoever they are, they deserved to be whipped,” said Adeline brusquely and the major looked sideways at her, shocked by her sudden violent outburst, “No one should ever try to come between a husband and wife,” she added piously.

              “I agree. Should any man ever attempt to take you I will take great pleasure in killing him and dangling in the magistrate’s picture frame for it.”

              It was Adeline’s turn to be astounded. Jeremy James liked to maintain his insouciant air and rarely showed such deep emotion, but his tone and expression told Adeline that he meant every word.

              “Pray do not say such things, my dear.”

              “Why not? Does it not please you to know that I would willingly dance a jig at the end of a rope for your honour?”

              She shuddered, “Don’t, Jemmy, the thought gives me chills.”

              He laughed, “Me too, for I could not even rely upon my friends to tug upon my legs to put a swift end to my suffering.” He slapped his foreshortened thighs and grinned to see his wife shudder with horror.

*

              Underwood too was slyly consulting his watch. He was fully aware that had anyone seen him leave the games room in the company of Miss Sowerbutts they would by now have relayed the information to Verity and he could only hope that she did indeed trust him and was not at this moment torturing herself with the thought that he might be disporting himself with a wench young enough to be his daughter.

              He had hoped this interview would be over in a matter of minutes and he could hand his prisoner over to Sir George and return to his wife, but the false Miss Sowerbutts seemed in no hurry to give herself up to the law.

              “Where would you like me to start?” she asked, when they had both settled themselves comfortably, he on a wing-backed chair, she on the settee opposite him.

              “Your real name perhaps?”

              “I thought the choice of ‘Lilith’ was rather inspired,” she told him, obviously eager to avoid the truth.

              “The fabled first wife of Adam who refused to lie beneath him in what she felt was an inferior position and fled from the Garden of Eden,” said Underwood, “She later gave birth to demons. I agree it is a suitable soubriquet, but you digress and I shall not be diverted.”

              “Very well, I shall tell you my name – not that I ever use it – too many bad memories attached to it – but you must then return the favour. No one seems to know your first name – or if they do, they decline to reveal it. I wonder why?”

              “It’s Cadmus,” he said shortly, “But you will kindly keep that to yourself.”

              She giggled, “But why? I think it is rather charming. You mother must have hidden depths to have thought of it.”

              “My mother didn’t have to endure it at school. Little boys can be beastly. Luckily for my brother the impulse to be different was short-lived. She had him christened Gilbert.”

              He tilted his head and lifted a quizzical brow at her and she understood the gesture only too well, “I surrender. A promise is a promise. My birth name was Flora Colfax.”

              Underwood searched his memory, “Wasn’t there a gentleman of that name murdered a few years back and the culprit never found?” Underwood had an especial interest in any unsolved crimes he read about in the newspapers and kept note of them. Should he ever find himself without anything to do, he would look over the cases and see if he could find some clue which might have evaded the authorities.

              “He was shot twice,” confirmed Flora dispassionately.

              Underwood now recalled the event, imprinted on his memory for the exact reason she had just stated. The newspaper reporter had attempted to be circumspect, but the area where the first shot had landed was too specific not to be interesting.

              “That was you?” he guessed.

              “I thought you wanted to know about Pennyfather and Thickbroome,” she said, shrugging off her father’s unpleasant end with less thought than she would shed a piece of clothing if she were too warm.

              He decided that pressing her would be useless. She had no intention of telling him anything which she did not want him to know and she was quite correct in her summation that the two ex-soldiers were his priority just now. He dare not lose the chance to solve at least one of the mysteries that surrounded her.

              “I own I am intrigued. You seem to have very little trouble in luring men to their deaths and leaving no clue as to why they agreed so readily to meet their killer.”

              “People are sheep,” she said, dismissively, “they do exactly as they are told.”

              “It surely cannot be that easy. Perhaps some may be gullible, but those two were men of the world who had survived a dozen battles that had seen the bloody end of thousands of others.”

              “Everyone has a weak spot, Cadmus,” she said and he winced slightly at hearing his name on her lips.

              “Tell me,” he said, trying to rise above his irritation.

              “The reason why Bella and I are so successful is that we have a peculiar talent for scenting the predilections that drive others. An unerring instinct for identifying the frailties we all have and strive so hard to hide. With some it is money – most, in fact, but with others it is … ah, how can I put this delicately?”

              “Don’t bother, I understand.”

              “Before the hunter can bait the trap, he needs to know what bait to use,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken.

              “They both seemed fairly robust characters to me,” he said.

              “That is because you have not the facility to discover and exploit a vulnerable spot. With Pennyfather, it was, predictably, women. A note from the delectable but mythical ‘Miss Mills’ assuring him that she could escape the clutches of her chaperone and meet him in a hay barn for a midnight tumble was enough to send him hotfoot to the farm where he was later found.”

              “No such note was found upon him.”

              “It was removed from his person.”

              “But how could you know he would bring it with him?”

              “I told you people are like sheep. Instructions such as, ‘pray destroy this missive, or I am undone’” Here she wrung her hands in mock supplication, then went on, “Or ‘bring this with you’ are usually sufficient to ensure we retrieve the evidence.”

              He realized that she was quite correct. Most people would obey explicit instructions as a matter of course, and those that do not – well, the murderous pair were usually incognito anyway and long gone before they were ever suspected. He moved the conversation along, eager now to have this over with, “And Thickbroome.”

              “Ah, he was the easiest of all. Word had got about that Gervase Sowerbutts was the most effeminate of young men. My dear companion need only jerk her chin at him and Thickbroome was enslaved.”

              Underwood could imagine that the lost and lonely Joshua Thickbroome had been a sitting duck for these two experts in human frailty. He asked no further questions.

              “Well, Flora, you have been very clever, but this, of course, is the end. I shall ask you to behave sensibly and accompany me to find Sir George whereupon we will leave the party with the least fuss possible. There is no need to ruin Major Thornycroft’s birthday for him.”

              “What time is it?” she asked. He was puzzled but he answered her after another glimpse at his pocket watch.

              “Then I’m afraid I must detain you for a little longer, my dear Cadmus. I am momentarily expecting a knock upon that door and I must insist you to wait for it.”

              “If you have your companion on the other side waiting to shoot me, I fear I shall have to resort to your own tactics and use your body as a shield,” he responded, sounding far more confident than he felt.

              She laughed gaily, “Nothing so crude,” she said.

              The knock came shortly afterwards and the door opened immediately. Underwood flinched, thinking that ‘Gervase’ was about to enter, pistol in hand, but he could not have been more wrong. It was Sir George Gratten who blundered in. Underwood breathed a sigh of relief, “George, the very man. Thank God you are here …”

              Flora intercepted gently, “Hold your tongue, Mr Underwood. Be patient and let Sir George tell you his news before you speak another word.”

Sir George seemed not to have noticed either her presence or her interruption.

“Underwood, at last. I have been looking for you for an age. Fortunately Miss Cromer guessed you might be in here. Come with me. I have need of you.”

              “George …” Underwood tried again to stem the older man’s flow of words, but the Constable was in a state of high excitement and would not be stopped.

              “We have found the body of Martha Jebson. Here, in this very place. I have had her carried to an empty stable and Dr Herbert is there performing a cursory examination. But from what he has told me already, I am going now to arrest Will Jebson. The girl, Violette is awaiting a carriage to take her on her way to the lock-up in town. I knew I was right! By gad, I’ll see them both swing.”

              “What!” Underwood was dumbfounded. He had the ends so neatly tied and now this. He glanced at Flora and she smiled complacently back at him and he knew, without doubt, that she was behind this latest murder.

              “George, please, take a moment to explain fully to me. I fail to see how you can arrest Will. Surely Martha met her end the same way as the others? A shot to the head – and a button was found on the body, I dare swear.”

              “You could not be more wrong, Underwood. From the rictus on the poor woman’s face, Dr Herbert is convinced she took the strychnine.”

              “Then it is suicide,” he reasoned, almost relieved.

              “The woman has defence wounds on her arms; scratches and broken nails and bruises on her legs. Francis Herbert says she was held down by at least two people and forced to drink the stuff.”   

              “But Will and Violette …”

              “Admit it Underwood. They are the only ones who would benefit from her death. I can find any number of witnesses who will swear that they are besotted with each other. It is obvious now they came together in a murderous conspiracy. He helped her to kill the soldiers she saw as her enemies and in return she aided him in getting rid of a troublesome wife.”