An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (19 page)

“I just wondered if you were feeling a little better.  You’ve had a hard time of it over these last months, and I felt for you, I really did.  It is not easy being young.  We adults tend to forget, all too easily, how it feels to be a grown man in all but the minds of our nearest relations.  I, however, can clearly recall the frustration of being treated as a child by my father, when it must have been fairly evident I was far too old for leading strings.”

“You have that right,” said Trentham sourly, “When I come into my inheritance, my parents won’t see me for dust, I can tell you.  I’m sick and tired of being treated like an annoying little boy.”

“You must try to make allowance for them.  They have had a troubled few weeks themselves.  Things will no doubt settle when Grantley has his man safely in gaol and Luisa can begin to think of herself as a free woman.”

The younger man looked vaguely uncomfortable at the mention of his uncle’s wife, “I wish I knew who had done it, then we could all put the past behind us and get on with living.”

“Do you really have no idea?  No suspicions at all?  I must say, I’ve racked my brains until my head aches, but I can’t say I’m any nearer to solving the mystery than I was at the very beginning.”

“You and me, both, my friend.  I know Peter was a difficult man, but I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill him.  I’ll tell you frankly, Underwood, there were times when I hated the way he behaved, especially towards Luisa, but I could never have killed him myself, I swear to you!”

Underwood laid a comforting hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, “I know that, Trent, but undoubtedly someone did it – and someone who hated him enough to inflict savage violence – promise me, Trent, you will think again and see if you can’t find some hint, somewhere, of who might have detested Peter that much!”

“I’ll do my best – and thank you, Underwood.  It’s something of a comfort to know at least someone understands how I feel.”

Evening was drawing on apace and there ensued a heated discussion on whether there would be enough light left of the day to reach Brighton before it was too dark too see.  When Underwood pointed out there was to be a half-moon at least, the decision was made, much to his relief.  The very thought of spending the night in the dark and holland-cover shrouded mausoleum which passed for the Lovell’s country retreat, was enough to chill his bones to the marrow.

Coaches were ordered and Trentham slyly offered to stay behind and make sure the house was properly secured when the family left.  His mother patted his cheek affectionately, “Dear Trent, you have been such a tower of strength to me in the past few days.  I think you have finally grown-up at last.  Are you sure you don’t mind travelling alone to Brighton in the morning?”

“Not at all, mama – and I know you would only fret if everything were not left just so, here.  You may leave everything to me.”

*

CHAPTER NINETEEN

(“Tam Facti Quam Animi” – As much in deed as in intention)

Underwood re-entered Brighton with a curious feeling of oppression and one glance towards his wife told him she felt very much the same way.  Neither had particularly wanted to leave home at the beginning of all this, but now they were even more reluctant to stay in the town which ought to have been an amusing diversion.  It was nothing less than duty which made Underwood continue to pursue the case, but he had to admit himself completely baffled and he could see no solution to the mystery.  This, and the notion of entering once more the house where Peter Lovell had met his untimely death, was enough to send him into one of his periodic melancholy moods.

Verity stared despondently out of the carriage window and wondered how she was going to keep her husband’s spirits up.  She hated it when he fell into one of his black depressions – not because he made her life difficult at such times – quite the reverse, for he usually shut himself in his study and refused to eat.  No, she merely detested the pain he evidently felt, and suffered herself in consequence.  There was nothing harder, she reflected sadly, than to watch your beloved sink into misery and to know that there was nothing one could do to ease their unhappiness.

The carriage was brought to a brief halt by some crossing traffic ahead and Verity caught sight of a poorly printed flyer nailed to a tree by the side of the road.  It advertised a travelling fair and Verity turned impulsively to Underwood, “My dear, here is the very thing to take our minds away from our troubles.”

“What is it?” asked Underwood, with more civility than interest.

“A fair.  We must claim Horatia for the day and Alistair too, and take them. They deserve a little enjoyment.  It has been a bleak holiday for us all.  Please mayn’t we take a day off and just enjoy ourselves?”

“I don’t see why not.  I admit that though I am not habitually fond of such junketings, I feel much inclined to attend this one.  It would be such a relief to break free from the constraints our present existence is placing upon us.”

Verity could not agree more.  She felt boundless compassion for Luisa and the rest of the Lovell family, but she had never before experienced the murder of one who was so nearly related and she was finding the strain of the situation was beginning to tell upon her nerves.  It was, perhaps, the most confusing of experiences, for a large part of her mind still could not quite believe Peter was gone.  It had all happened far too suddenly for it to be real.  With sickness and expected death, one had time to assimilate the inevitability of the final outcome; to make one’s peace with God and say the sad farewells to the dying one.  This was too harsh, too swift a loss.  Major Thornycroft had once told her that when the surgeon had severed his legs, he had still for some considerable time afterwards, felt the pain of their shattered bones.  He could even wriggle the non-existent toes, feeling the nail of the big toe scraping against the rough, army blanket.  She had thought him making some sort of a perverse joke at the time, but now she seemed to understand.  Though she knew Peter was dead, she continually expected him to walk in through the door, hale and hearty as he had been the last time she saw him; smiling down at her with those teasing eyes, laughing at her for being such a little squab of a thing.  It was hard to believe that someone could be there one moment and gone the next, never to return; and thus she would find herself laughing and joking, only to draw herself up sharply with a mental admonishment for not showing the proper respect due to a family in mourning.  When the sun shone and the people walked past the house, carefree and happy and bent upon amusement, it was hard to sit with eyes downcast and hands folded.  It was especially hard not to be with her own child, watching her little face light up with interest and joy at the myriad new things the seaside was offering.  This little jaunt would provide a welcome break from a terribly difficult situation.

It was very late when they finally arrived back at the house, so it was a hasty supper followed by bed, but the morning dawned bright and clear and Verity felt a little lift to her spirits at the thought of spending the day with Horatia and her own beloved Underwood – a much needed lift, it must be said, for the house seemed sadly empty and drear without the presence of the Herberts, the Thornycrofts and even young Trentham, who had evidently decided to take a night’s repose before setting off to rejoin his family in Brighton. 

The fair was not mentioned to the Earl or his wife, but Gil and Cara were invited, as was Luisa.  The latter gave a sad smile and answered candidly, “It was sweet of you to think of me, my friends, but a fair would do nothing to amuse me.  You forget that I spent most of my youth working in such places – and I would rather not be reminded of it.  You go and enjoy the glitter, but I could never forget the tawdry filth that lies beneath!”

                Verity almost did not want to go after that bitter little speech, but Underwood stood firm.  He was determined to get out of the house for a few hours at least.  He felt a great need for a change of company.  Toby and Giovanni were also asked, but they made the same excuse as Luisa.  Too much of their precious time had already been spent in such squalid conditions for them ever to enjoy the experience.

The fair, when they finally found it, set up in large field some distance outside the town, was everything they had been led to suppose.  Numerous side shows, which enticed the gentlemen to show their prowess in various endeavours to their ladies, were specifically designed to take the most coins from the pockets of the unwary, whilst offering only tawdry trinkets in return.  Underwood, who had a large ego, but never felt the least need to display it to advantage, bypassed them all with amused ease, as did Gil, who did not approve of gambling, in whichever form it might take.  However, when Cara expressed a wish to obtain a pretty, beribboned fairing, Gil found himself inexpertly tossing hoops and to everyone’s amazement, including the owner of the stall, he found himself jubilantly handing the gift to his wife.  Proudly she pinned the gaudy thing to the front of her dress and it looked so attractive that Verity turned impulsively to Underwood, “Do you think..?”

“No, I do not!”  Was the firm reply, “It would be a waste of a penny.  They only let Gil win because he wears a clerical collar.”

This cynicism raised a storm of protest from his companions, who insisted that Gil had won the prize fair and square and with consummate skill.  Underwood gestured with an impatient hand as though to brush them all away, like noisome flies,

“Yes, yes, very well!  Gil is the champion hoop-thrower of all time – now may we go and see the acrobats?”

They trudged across the field, stumbling slightly on the bent grasses, which had not been cut before the fair’s arrival and now made an uneven carpet beneath their feet.  Horatia, who was being carried at this point, bounced excitedly in her father’s arms.  She had never before seen such a colourful, ever-changing crowd of people and she was enjoying herself immensely.  Alistair, usually so serious, was grinning broadly, overcome with pride that his stepfather should have won something.

The acrobats, and several other acts were contained within a tent, forcing those who wanted to see them to pay an extra charge.  Underwood generously dug deep into his pocket and paid for them all to enter, which they duly did and seated themselves on one of the rickety benches provided for the purpose.  The arena where the display was to take place had been trimmed and sprinkled liberally with sawdust and the reason why quickly became apparent.  They were treated to a stunning act which involved various gymnastic feats, amazing contortions of the body and incredible balancing, the like of which none of them had ever witnessed before.  Each ooh and ah was followed by vigorous applause, which was well deserved.  Even the sardonic Underwood was impressed by the high level of mastery shown.  He had not often attended such functions, but those he had had been of a tired and unenthusiastic sort, which gave the distinct impression that all the participants would all rather have been somewhere quite different.  It was pleasant, for once, to have really got his money’s worth.

Slowly, as he watched and smiled, the problems of the past few weeks faded from his consciousness until one particular action brought the whole mystery of Peter’s Lovell’s death back into his mind with a startling clarity.

One of the acrobats brought forth an ordinary dining chair, straight-backed and of no particular beauty beyond its practicality.  Resting it upon its two rear legs, he placed one hand on the back and the other on the tilted seat and lifted himself into a handstand, every muscle rippling with strain as he endeavoured not only to keep himself upright, but the chair on two legs only rather than four.

Underwood stared at him, thunderstruck, “By Jupiter!  I know how he did it!” he whispered, but not so quietly that Verity did not hear him.  She threw him a startled glance; “Did you say something, Cadmus?” she asked quietly, amazed that he should show such astonishment at something which was, after all, only the result of a steady eye, strong muscles and a good sense of balance.

“Indeed I did,” he asserted in an excited undervoice, “I now know how the door was secured from the outside using the chair.”

“How?” she asked at once.

“I can’t explain here and now – but take my oath upon it, I am sure I can demonstrate fully when we go home.”

“And I suppose you also know who killed Peter?”

“I have long suspected that, my love, but proving it will be an entirely different matter.”

Frustrated, but unable to do anything about it for the moment, she was forced to let the subject drop and reluctantly turn her attention back to the show.

Gil glanced worriedly at his brother.  He could not hear the words that were exchanged between Underwood and his wife, but he had caught the edge of excitement which accompanied them.  This, as he well knew from past experience, usually presaged a revelation from his brother – and where Underwood was concerned, the revelation was almost always an unpleasant one.  He hoped it would not be the case this time, but he held out no very great hope.  From the first instant he had been told of Peter’s death, he had borne the ominous feeling that the solution to the mystery was going to be the cause of very great hurt – how could it be otherwise?  Some member of the household was responsible – and whoever it was, there were going to be repercussions which would be suffered by all who were connected with the family.

*

Though it was quite late by the time the Underwoods had delivered the children back to Mrs. McClure and returned once more to Brighton, still Underwood felt he must send for Mr. Grantley and allow him to see the theory of the locked door turned into reality.

That the Earl and Countess were not pleased by this highhanded invitation issued to a man they had grown to distrust, was fairly obvious, but Underwood, as usual, was entirely oblivious of anything which caused him inconvenience and he showed no shame nor embarrassment when he blithely requested them to join the rest of the party in the bedroom of the late Lord Peter.

Grantley produced the key to the main door, which, of course, he still held, and they all filed into the room.  Underwood went over to the connecting door and standing by the now upright chair, he produced a piece of silken cord from his pocket.

  “Bear in mind,” he said, dangling the cord from his fingers, “That this need not be cord, but could be a long silken scarf, or a length of cravat perhaps.”  No one made any reply but merely watched him as he bent down and swiftly looped the cord over the stretcher which ran between the back legs of the chair.

“I want you all to observe that this relies on a system of delicate balances, so that though it may be swiftly done, it must also be carefully executed or the chair will tip over or the door fall shut before the task is completed.”

With that he half-opened the connecting door, so that a man, slipping sideways, might just pass through it.  He then tossed the two ends of the cord through the doorway and out into the other room.  Finally he tipped the chair up so that it was resting against the door on its two rear legs, held in place by its own weight, so that it did not fall back onto four legs.

Keeping a steady hand around the edge of the door so that the chair did not fall, he slipped out through the narrow gap and carefully closed the door behind him, not loosing his hold on the chair until the very last second and leaving the length of cord still hooked over the stretcher, but now running under the door and out into the room beyond.

His audience watched, intrigued, but unconvinced, for though the chair was indeed leaning against the closed door, and Underwood was out of the room, the fact remained that the chair back was not wedged under the door handle as it had been on the night of the murder.  Grantley was about to say as much when to the astonishment of all, the chair began, very slowly and carefully, inch by inch, to rise up the door, whilst its feet drew ever closer to the bottom of the door.

“Good God!” exclaimed the Earl, “How the devil is he doing that?”

                Suddenly Gil and Grantley, in the same moment, understood.

“The cord – he’s pulling on the cord.  As he draws the base of the chair by the cord under the door, the top also lifts.  When it reaches the handle and stops there, the cord can be pulled away from the other side.”

“By Gad!  That is ingenious!”