An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (12 page)

“I cannot know what was in his mind.  He was acting like a madman, striding about the room like a caged lion.  I have never seen him that way before.  It was as though he could not be still.  I tried to calm him, to get him to sit with me on the bed, but he would not.”

“Madam, I have no wish to cause you pain, but the more you tell me, the more I envision a portrait of a man who was losing his mind.  I know you have every reason to deny he committed suicide, but if that is what happened, I ask you now, in the presence of Mr. Underwood as your witness, to admit it to me.”

                She lifted her chin proudly; “My husband was a brave man!  He would not shame me or his family with the cowardice of taking his own life.”

“How can you be so sure, if, as you say, you were unconscious?”

“Pietro was madly in love with me.  He would not have been able to bear the thought of losing me.  He would not kill himself and leave me alone.  Some madman must have broken in to the house and murdered him!”

“Much as I would rejoice in that solution, my Lady, I fear it is impossible.  You were found in a completely secured room.  The window was also locked, and your room is on the second floor, with no means of scaling the walls.  If you can tell me how this miracle could be accomplished, I should be interested to hear it.”  His voice rose very slightly as he finished this impassioned speech and she seized upon this fact to turn in appeal to Underwood, “Dear sir, why are you allowing this man to harangue me?  Have you no compassion for my pitiful situation?”

Underwood glanced at Grantley, his brow slightly elevated, and the Constable, with a barely restrained sigh of frustration, admitted himself beaten, if only for the moment.

“I apologise, Lady Luisa.  I have no desire to cause you distress.  I merely act out of duty when I ask you these questions.  Pray forgive me.”  He stood and offered his hand to her.  She laid her tiny fingers in his and he bowed with great courtliness before leaving the room.  Underwood joined him in the hall, “My dear Grantley, I could not feel more sympathy for you.  Lady Luisa is a consummate actress, and I fear she is going to play upon her newly-widowed status every time you ask her something she does not wish to answer.”

“I’m damned sure she is!  Is there anywhere in this mausoleum where a man can smoke a cigarillo without causing a scene?”

“Certainly.  The games room.  Allow me to escort you.”

*

CHAPTER TWELVE

(“Probitas Laudatur et Alget” – Honesty is praised and then left to freeze)

Grantley had barely ridden away when Francis returned.  He was immediately ushered into the Earl’s study along with Underwood.

“What news, Francis?  I assume the examination of Peter’s body is complete?”

“It is – and the result is that he could not possibly have committed suicide.  The wound was far too deep and vicious for it to have been by his own hand.”

“Is there anything else?” asked the Earl, torn between relief that he would not have to fight to get his brother’s body into a consecrated grave, and horror that his own flesh and blood should have ended his life in such a way.

“Do you really want – or indeed need – to know all the details, my friend?” questioned the doctor gently.

“Yes, yes, I think I do!”

“Very well.  From the angle of the cut, we deduced that Peter must have had his head pulled violently back, probably by having his hair gripped, so that his collar would not interfere with the action of the knife, then the blade was drawn across his throat from left to right.  It seems he did not even have time to raise his hands to prevent the injury, it must have all happened too swiftly.  He cannot have been expecting the attack.”

“Not surprising as it must have been from behind, if what you say is true,” commented Underwood.

“Correct.  And his assailant must have been at least as tall as him, otherwise he could not have hoped to reach to pull back his head and inflict the wound.”

“Unless he stood on something,” remarked Underwood. 

Francis smiled wryly, “Always ready to throw a pebble into the pool, aren’t you, Underwood?  Well, I think we can safely discount that.  Peter was hardly likely to stand conveniently near to a chair so that his killer could reach him.  And the killer could not possibly have dragged a chair across the room to Peter without him being aware of it.  I think we are finally going to have to accept that Lady Luisa could not possibly have struck her husband down.  In all probability she is telling the truth.  She fainted and the attack happened whilst she was unconscious.”

“What about the blood?  Would the killer not be covered in gore?  God knows there was enough of it in the room,” interjected the Earl.

“Strangely enough, he – or she – was unlikely to receive much of a dousing.  Most of the blood spurted from the artery in a forward direction.  Luisa’s prone body seems to have caught most of it.  If the murderer was indeed behind Peter, then he was almost wholly protected by his victim’s body.  He might have some on his hand, or the sleeve of his coat, but probably not even that.  Peter must have remained on his feet for a few moments, before collapsing into the position in which we found him.  It would have been several seconds before the sliced windpipe and loss of blood killed him.”

The Earl gave an audible groan, “Dear God, are you telling me he knew he was dying?  He saw his life’s blood draining away before his eyes?  I thought he would have died instantly.”

                Francis realized he had allowed himself to become too carried away by the technicalities of the murder.  There are some things the loved ones should not be told.  He hastily tried to rectify the error; “The shock of the attack would have rendered him senseless, William.  He would not have known anything.  I merely meant that his body’s natural reactions would have come into play, even though he would not be aware of them.” 

                The Earl sat slumped in his chair, his ashen face covered by one trembling hand, “Poor Peter.  He did not have one stroke of luck from the day he was born.”

Underwood and Francis exchanged a pained look.  They had investigated so many untoward deaths now that it was beginning to seem that they were in danger of treating such matters in a dangerously casual manner.  They both silently resolved to show more compassion for the bereaved.

“Can I get anything for you, William?” asked Francis quietly, laying a comforting hand upon the Earl’s shoulder.

“I could do with a brandy – but I don’t know if I dare risk Pryce’s wrath by asking for one at this time of the day.  Not only would he be shocked beyond measure, he would also make sure my wife found out!  The man is a tyrant of the first water.”

Both younger men knew he was joking to ease their own feelings of inadequacy and could only admire the much-vaunted stoicism of the upper classes.  No one outside this room would ever know how deeply affected he was by his sibling’s untimely and violent death.

“Damn Pryce!  I shall fetch you a brandy myself,” said Underwood.  He went into the dining room, picked up a very handsome crystal decanter from the mahogany Tantalus – fortunately unlocked - and bore it back to the study with three glasses.

“Drink your fill, my friend, you deserve it.”

When they all had a glass on their hands, the Earl raised his, “To my brother, Peter, wherever you are now, I pray you are finally at peace!”

“To Peter,” echoed Underwood and Francis, then Underwood added quietly, “Requiescat in pace,”

As soon as they were able to do without causing offence, the two men took their leave of the Earl, eager to have a discussion between themselves without the complication of the older man’s presence.

Once alone, Francis asked urgently, “Underwood, do you know where Trentham is?  I have not seen him since this morning and I do not scruple to tell you that his absence is not helpful!  I heard a whisper that one of the servants – I know not which one – has let slip the information about the quarrel between him and Peter last evening.  When I left the mortuary, Grantley was not back and had not been told of the development, but you can be sure he will know of it soon enough.”

“By Jupiter!  Another stupid boy to rescue from the jaws of death.  I am quite sure he would not have either the courage or the coldness of heart to cut his uncle’s throat, no matter what he threatened, but it will be hard to persuade Grantley of that.”

“Are we really so very sure he did not do it, my friend?  He seemed prodigiously heated last night.  Undoubtedly Luisa is the sort of woman who raises fierce passions in her admirers.  Peter, on more than one occasion, offered violence to those who dared raise their eyes to her, and Trentham knew no shame where she was concerned.  He appeared not to care very much who knew of his feelings for her, including his parents and his sister.”

“Infantile posturing, merely!  I am sure he did not do it.”

“Are you sure – or do you only want it to be so, because any other notion would be far too painful – not only to you, but to your brother and his wife?”

Underwood looked at Francis for a long time before he replied, “My dear Francis, as usual, you hit the nail squarely upon the head.  God help us all if Trentham did do this dreadful thing!  My instincts tell me he is not capable of it, but always there has to be that seed of doubt.  You are very right when you say that his passion for Luisa was frightening in its intensity.  When he is in his right mind, I know the boy could not kill his uncle – but if he thought Luisa was being threatened, God knows how he might react.  However, something which puzzles me is the lack of chaos in the room.  Surely they would have fought each other, knocking over tables and chairs, upsetting the candles, disordering the bed – why would Peter stand calmly by, if Trentham was in his bedroom with his wife in her night clothes?  And if they could both have so over-mastered their emotions as to be discussing the problem man to man, why would Trentham suddenly find himself in such a rage that he could attack and kill his uncle with such ferocity?  Nothing makes any sense at all!”

“Then we must explore the second theory, that it was an intruder, who broke into the house, came across Peter, still awake, and attacked him.”

“The questions are even more laborious when one examines that scenario.  Why break in on the second floor, when the ground floor is so much easier?  How did he scale the wall and open the window?  Why did Peter not fight him off, or call for assistance?  Why did he turn his back on an armed intruder?  And most puzzling of all how did he manage to leave the room locked behind him?”

Francis, as Underwood clearly knew, had no replies to give him.  They were no further forwards than they had been before.  If the medical evidence was wrong and Peter had slashed his own throat, where was the knife?  If it was right and he was murdered, why had he not tried to defend himself from his killer – and how had that killer managed to leave a locked room?  The only explanation was that Luisa had released the killer and the feigned a swoon – but how had she managed to leave the bed then get back onto it without disturbing the pattern of blood on the bed, her clothes and the floor?  Underwood did not know – and very much feared that for the first time in his life he was facing a puzzle which was beyond his powers to unravel. 

*

Grantley may have ridden away, but it was not to be very long before he rode back again. 

The gentlemen were about to sit down to a bachelor dinner when his imperious hammering on the front door alerted them to his extreme bad temper.  The Earl waited for Pryce to enter the room and announced the Constable, even though he had a good idea exactly who it was who was abusing the panels of his impressive front door.

“I told the gentleman you were at dinner, my Lord, but he was most insistent,” said Pryce, his face as blank as his tone.

“Very well, Pryce, show the Constable in – and set another place at the table.  I’m sure the gentleman will stay to eat with us.”

                Pryce did not so much as raise an eyebrow, but went off to do his master’s bidding.

Grantley joined them at the table, but his grim expression did not give the impression that he intended to eat, though he did accept a glass of wine.

“Sir, I am beginning to feel that you are trying to make a fool of me,” he burst out, when the serenity of the other guests finally began to play upon his nerves.

“In what way, Mr. Grantley?” asked the Earl pleasantly, expertly dividing the fish on his plate and lifting the bones away.

“You have deliberately denied me vital information.  I have had to discover, by the most circuitous route possible, that far from being the happy family you have intimated, there was a violent altercation last evening between your brother and your son!”

“I did not consider it to be of importance.  Peter and Trentham were always at each other’s throats…” his voice died away as he realized how very inappropriate was this particular expression, “That is to say,” he amended hastily, “They had a tempestuous relationship, but there was no real animosity.”

“Where is Trentham, sir?  I would have words with him.”

“I have sent him to London.  There was much to arrange.  Peter’s death had to be announced to our relatives – and it was not something I intended to do by letter.  Besides that steps had to be taken in executing his will and arranging his funeral.  You seem to forget that Peter was the son and brother of an Earl.  Even the royal family will be represented at his interment.”

If this was not a threat, Underwood had never heard one.  To give Grantley his due, he appeared to be unimpressed, “I understand all that, sir, but you had no right to remove Trentham from the vicinity until I had spoken to him!  You must see that his position is extremely serious.  If you do not send for him, I will be forced to have the Bow Street Runners search him out and bring him back forthwith.”

The Earl’s face grew red and his eyes were hard, “You would not dare!” he spat venomously.

“Don’t try me!” responded Grantley, his own grey eyes like granite, “I have a task to perform and no-one – I repeat no-one! – is going to stand in my way.  Peter Lovell died a vicious death; his wife evidently witnessed it.  I will not be swayed from my duty.”

Underwood felt the moment had arrived for him to intervene, “Quite right, my dear fellow, and I assure you, the Earl had no intention of doing any such thing.  He knows Trentham is incapable of performing such a deed, so naturally it did not occur to him that the boy might be required for questioning.  Suffice it to say, Trentham will be sent for immediately.”

Grantley turned his attention to Underwood, “And you, sir!  I had thought better of you.  Cry shame on you for assisting the Earl in this matter.  You also knew of the quarrel between Trentham and his uncle, but you too saw fit to keep it from me.  The Earl is shocked and distressed by the death of his brother, so I can almost forgive his attitude – but what is your excuse?”

Underwood looked almost comically shocked; it was rare for him to be wrong-footed in anything, but Grantley had him over a barrel and he knew it.

“I don’t have one.  And I apologise, but even you must grant that I was in something of an awkward situation, living, as I am, on my host’s bounty.  It would hardly have been mannerly of me to run the risk of placing his son’s head in a noose.”

                The Constable was not to be placated, “If Trentham is innocent, he has no need to fear any such thing.”

“That would be a comforting platitude, Mr. Grantley, if one did not hear every day of hanged men being giving posthumous pardons!”

Grantley had the grace to look slightly abashed.  One of his own cases had very nearly ended in tragedy only weeks before, but fortunately the guilty party had been found before the execution had been carried out.  It had been a near-run thing – and Underwood obviously knew all about it.