An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (16 page)

“To be honest, my dear Verity, I will not be returning to Brighton either,” said the Countess diffidently – she knew she was abandoning the sinking ship, but she hadn’t particularly liked Peter and was determined to salvage something from her summer season, “My sister has invited me to go to her house in Sussex, to recuperate.”

“Do you all mean to tell me that I shall have to spend the summer here alone, without even my Horatia?” she asked in an appalled tone.

“Luisa will be with you.  She will have to stay under Mr. Grantley’s eye until the culprit is brought to justice – and Mrs. McClure will be delighted to have little Horry for as long as she is needed.”  The Countess was evidently trying to be comforting, but Verity found nothing to calm her in this speech.

“Thank you very much!  I shall take great solace in knowing that my little girl is in someone else’s care instead of my own.”

“Well, Verity, the answer is in your own hands.  You must insist that Underwood take you home too.  He is not the Constable or a Bow Street Runner.  He has no moral duty to solve this mystery.  That is Grantley’s domain.”  Ellen was beginning to be swayed in her friend’s favour, so her words grew increasingly selfish and hard.

“Certainly not!  I would never force Underwood to desert William.  What can’t be cured must be endured.  If you will excuse me, ladies, I will go and see how Luisa’s health is standing up to all these horrid shocks!”

As she reached the door Ellen said, in a bemused tone, “Is it my imagination, Verity, or do you have a piece of straw in your hair?”

Scarlet, but smiling slightly at the memory of how it came to be there, Verity reached up and felt for it, when her fingers found it, she pulled it out and brandished it before their astonished eyes, “So I do!  I wonder how I came by that?”

Then she went out with a decided skip in her step, leaving the other ladies to exchange an astonished glance.

*

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

(“Quem Di Diligunt, Adolescens Moritur” – Whom the gods love dies young)

As Verity came out of the parlour, she almost ran into Mr. Grantley and Underwood, who were about to mount the stairs and have another look at the scene of the crime.  When Underwood explained their mission she asked shyly, “Do you think I might be allowed to come with you?”

“Are you sure you want to, my love?”

“Oh yes.  It is only a room, after all, and it has been cleaned I know.”

The room had indeed been cleaned.  The floor was no longer awash with gore and the bed had been stripped.  All Peter and Luisa’s belongings had been removed and now it was, as Verity said, just a room.  Nicely furnished, but faintly impersonal, like a room in a hotel or an inn.  It seemed impossible that some trace should not remain of the terrible thing that happened here, but the truth was it did not.

Grantley stood in the middle of the floor and looked about it, “What the devil happened in here, I wonder?  No matter how I rack my brains, I cannot think how the scene fits the clues.  Whichever way one views it, the conclusions we have reached are manifestly impossible!”

“I think,” said Underwood, with that slight crease to his brow which characterized his deepest puzzlement, “that we are looking at this thing entirely the wrong way.  We are trying to find a person who broke into the room, but on whom Peter had no compunction about turning his back.”

“Correct, but what other way is there to view it?”

“Suppose there was someone in the room to begin with – someone whom Peter would have expected to see there, and therefore felt no fear or anger at his presence.”

“But who? – By Jove, yes!  A servant.  Peter was raised in the rarefied atmosphere of an aristocratic home.  All his life he would be accustomed to having servants about; he would, in fact, have learned to treat them as part of the furniture – invisible until wanted.  He would have had no compunction at behaving in his usual manner, even though there was another present.  Did he have a valet or a manservant of some kind?”

“No, but Luisa has,” said Underwood quietly, “Giovanni – though I admit I fail to see how he could have reached to cut the throat of a man who was so much taller than he.”

“Giovanni?” said Verity, then she gave a slight gasp and paled, “Oh dear!”

“What is it, my dear?” asked Underwood.

“I have just this moment recalled something Luisa said to me.  It did not seem very important at the time – and so much has happened since.  I thought it was just her usual over-emphasis…”

“Well?” interjected Underwood, uncharacteristically brusque, “What did she say?”

“When she told me that Peter was being horrid to her about the baby, she said that if her father were here, he would slit Peter’s throat in repayment for the insult.”

“What?” exclaimed Grantley, not caring very much that his outrage caused Verity to look rather frightened, “She said that, and you did not think to report it to me?”

“I did not consider it to be a true appraisal of the situation, Mr. Grantley.  After all, how many of our fathers would go about slitting people’s throats?  Luisa says so many things which are obviously not true.  Why, in the same breath, she threatened to kill herself…” With a look of horror, Verity subsided into silence.  She realized now that Luisa had indeed tried to commit suicide, albeit unsuccessfully.

                Underwood felt the moment had come to rescue his wife from the ire of the Constable, “Come, Grantley, you really need to bring a little perspective to the matter.  Verity should have mentioned the comment, but not surprisingly, she felt it to be the sort of remark we all make when we are annoyed and upset.  As I recall, I myself threatened to strangle Peter with my bare hands, after he had duped me into taking a so-called ‘dip’ in the sea.  You would hardly have expected me to carry out my threat.”

“I suppose not,” admitted Grantley grudgingly.

“And I knew Luisa’s father was not here, so I took the remark with a pinch of salt,” added Verity, eager to defuse his anger, “She does sing in Opera and is inclined to live her life like one of her heroines.  It is not uncommon for them to solve their differences by recourse to sword and knife.”

“I suppose slitting a throat is a peculiarly Italian method of killing,” said Underwood thoughtfully; “They are a passionate people.  The stuffy English tend to use poison or a gun – death at a distance, with no chance of dirtied hands.”

“How do we know Luisa’s father is not here?  Does anyone know who he is?” demanded Grantley, ignoring these spoken aloud cogitations.

“We certainly don’t, but the Earl might.”

“If the culprit is her father, somehow allowed into their room that night, it would explain why Peter was not afraid to turn his back.  He would hardly be expecting violence from his father-in-law,” mused Grantley, his interest reawakened by the new direction his thoughts had taken.

“It would also explain why Luisa is reluctant to talk.  No matter how much she loved Peter, she is hardly likely to betray her father,” said Verity.

“It still does not explain how he escaped from the locked room!”

“Let’s take one step at a time, Grantley,” said Underwood soothingly, “It may very well be that if we find the ‘who’ we may also find the ‘how’.”

“Then let us ask, once more, the one person who can tell us everything,” said the Constable, his face set with determination.  He was tired of the prevarication.  He had been holding back in his dealings with the widow, out of respect for her loss, but he now felt she had been making a fool of him all along. 

“If you mean Lady Lovell, my friend, I must say I would not advise it,” countered Underwood calmly.

“And why not, pray?  It is becoming increasingly obvious she knows much more than she is telling.  All this nonsense about not remembering, and being unconscious.  It is the height of absurdity to allow her so much licence.”

“You must handle this delicately, Grantley.  If you intimate for an instant that you suspect Giovanni, or her unknown parent, she will neatly foil you by sending them back to Italy.  You have no evidence to perform an arrest and she will have the culprit out of the country before you can blink.”

“Then why has she not already done so?”

“In case it has escaped your notice, gentlemen,” interjected Verity quietly, “she
may
have already done so.  Who was sent to the Continent to bring back Gil and Cara?”

“Good God!  Giovanni, of course.  It was probably Luisa who suggested his being sent to fetch my brother home.”  Underwood was much struck by this realization.  He had been blaming the Earl for this piece of ingenuity, but he might more accurately have placed it at the feet of Luisa Lovell.

“Then I suppose we need not expect him to come back,” muttered Grantley glumly,   “By God, I have been a rare fool, trusting her.  The boy is right; she is a witch with the power of enchantment.”

“Before you leap to any more conclusions, dear fellow, let us at least see if he does return.  We could be entirely wrong, you know.  This is all supposition – and remember, he does have Toby with him.”

Grantley shrugged non-committally.  He was beginning to despair of ever plumbing the depths of this baffling murder.  He had learned long ago that a conspiracy of silence was by far the best defence for any crime.  With no witnesses there was no proof.  Underwood was right.  He could gaol Giovanni, search his belongings, charge Luisa with aiding and abetting – but unless he found a bloodstained knife in the man’s hand, he could prove nothing.  Luisa could swear that the shock had wiped her memory clean and he could not argue with her. 

“I still don’t understand why this door was jammed with a chair and not simply locked with a key,” said Verity from across the room.  She had begun to wander idly about, and Grantley had been so deep in his own thoughts, he had not even noticed.

“I think I can answer that,” said Underwood, “It is only my own idea, you must understand, but I suspect I am not far from the truth.”

“By all means enlighten us,” said Grantley, “My head is already spinning with theories, so why not add a few more?”

“Very well.  I think the murderer was still in the room when we entered.  He hid somewhere, taking a gamble that we would be so concerned with Luisa that we would not make an immediate search.  He used the chair and not a key because he could not lock the door, then take away the key because that would alert us to the fact that it was someone inside the house who had committed the crime.  He could not lock the door from the outside because he was inside.  He needed to make the death look like suicide – and of course, at first it did.  His errors were to make the cut so vicious that it could not possibly be self-inflicted and to leave no weapon when he finally left the room.”

“But how could he manoeuvre the chair from outside the door?”

“That I have yet to discover.”

“By Jupiter, this is making my head ache,” declared Grantley, “If you will forgive me, Underwood, Mrs. Underwood, I am going home for my dinner.  I have had enough of this for one day.”

“A very sound idea.  Do you travel to London with us, for Peter’s funeral?”

“I think perhaps I ought to be there, though I cannot for the life of me imagine why.  I did not know the man, and do not really expect to learn anything new from observing the mourners at his interment, but still, I will make the journey and see what good it brings.”

“Then we will see you in London next week,” observed Underwood.

“Good bye, Mr. Grantley,” said Verity, “And I am so sorry if you think I was remiss in not reporting Luisa’s comments.  I really did not think them important,”

“Pray think no more about it, Mrs. Underwood.  I suspect you are the least of my problems – there are others who could tell me more, but probably never will.”

With one last look around the room, they vacated it and watched Mr. Grantley carefully lock the door behind them.

“I don’t suppose there is anything so impossibly romantic as a hidden staircase or secret passageway in that room, is there?” asked Underwood, half-joking.

“I’m afraid not.  As much as a fool that I felt for doing it, that was one of the first things I asked the Earl.  His father built the house and he knows every nook and cranny.  There is no secret escape route, no trapdoors, no hidden rooms.  Our man was a magician – or Lady Lovell really is a witch,” said Mr. Grantley gloomily.

  “It was just a thought,” said Underwood sheepishly.

As Grantley went down the stairs, leaving the Underwoods to retire to their own room to change for dinner, he found himself behind Lady Luisa, who was also descending, but rather slowly.  She was evidently still not in the best of health.  She looked very pale, and each step she took seemed to cause her some discomfort.  It was the first time Grantley had ever witnessed her with her beauty marred, and strangely it affected him more than her loveliness had.  A few moments before he had been furiously angry with her, ready to arrest her, lock her into a cell and throw the key into the deepest part of the ocean.  Now he found himself asking solicitously if he could be of any assistance to her.  She had apparently not been aware of his presence, for the sound of his voice behind her caused her to start so violently that she almost toppled headlong down the remaining stairs, “
Mia madre!
  Sir, I beg your pardon, I did not hear you.”

“Forgive me, madam.  I had not intended to frighten you.  Can I offer my arm?  I hesitate to say so, but you do not look as though you should be out of bed.”

“Mr. Grantley, I know you have the disadvantage of seeing me at the worst time in my life, but even you must know that a lady lives and breathes for the compliments a gentleman may offer.  I have yet to meet you when you do not either see me being ill, or looking ghastly!”

He smiled at the pout she gave him, “Again, forgive me, Lady Lovell, I only wish our meetings could have been otherwise.  I can assure you it gives me no pleasure to witness your illness and distress.”

“I suppose you have come to see me?”

“On this occasion, unfortunately not.  I had words with Trentham.”

“And what did that young man have to say for himself?” she asked, with an edge to her voice which did not go unnoticed by Grantley.

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to disclose the content of private conversations, Lady Lovell.”

She laughed, “Oh, but you are so very
English
, Mr. Grantley!  How properly you behave.  Do you ever do or say anything you should not?”

“Very frequently,” He was not in the least offended and even returned her smile, albeit in a pale reflection of her own amusement.

“I don’t believe you.  But I should very much like to see it happen.”

“Perhaps you will, one day.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then Luisa sank onto the stairs, and lowered her head onto her knees, “Oh dear,” came her muffled voice.

At once he was sitting beside her, taking her hand in his, “What is it?  Are you alright?”

“Just a little faint, that is all,” She raised her head and seemed rather startled that he was suddenly so near, “It seems you were right, sir.  It was too soon for me to rise.  But I must be well for the journey tomorrow.”