An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (24 page)

He was aware that every eye in the room was upon him, but his gaze never wavered from Grantley’s.  For a moment the two men locked glances, then Grantley shook his head and gave a mirthless laugh, “Very amusing, Mr. Underwood!”

“I’m perfectly serious, Mr. Grantley.  The razor is upstairs in my room at this very moment.”

“Then send a servant to fetch it.”

“I will have to go myself.  It is carefully hidden.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I intended to keep this information to myself if I could.  No member of this family wishes Peter to be forever branded a suicide – but your actions today have left me no choice.”

“Peter Lovell did not commit suicide.  You admitted as much yourself.  You have invented this tale to protect Lady Lovell.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Grantley?” asked Underwood softly.

“No, I’m calling you a damned liar!” answered Grantley, but he was smiling, albeit rather grimly.

Underwood laughed, “By God, I don’t think I’ve ever been so charmingly insulted in my life before.”

“I can’t imagine why.  You seem to me to be an eminently suitable candidate for insult, my friend.  Go and fetch the razor.”

“It will be delivered to you tomorrow morning, along with a sworn statement as to its discovery.”

“Very well.  I will look forward to our meeting on the morrow.  Good day to you all.”

With that he was gone and Underwood was left to face the barrage of questions from his companions.  Half of them believed his story, but could not understand his reticence, but Gil and the Earl were in no doubt that he was, as Grantley had so graphically declared, a “damned liar”.

“What the devil did you say that for, Underwood?” asked the Earl at length, “You must have taken leave of your senses!”

“My dear William, it seems to me you have only two choices here.  Either go along with my tale and allow a quiet rumour of suicide to end the story – or see Luisa give birth to her child – your possible heir – in Newgate!”

*

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

(“Dixi” – I have spoken – let that be an end to it!)

              Silence greeted this remark, but not for long.  Gil was the first to speak, and, as always when he clashed with his brother, he did not bother to pull his punches, 

  “Chuffy, I cannot believe what I am hearing!  You are really proposing to manufacture false evidence in order to spare Luisa’s father from the gallows?”

                Underwood was mildly irritated by this stark description of his own altruistic actions.  He preferred to imagine his reasons were altogether loftier than Gil suggested; “My dear Gil, Luisa’s father stands in no danger of mounting the gallows!  He is now well beyond the reach of English law!  My intention is to spare this family further distress and scandal!  It cannot be denied that Grantley is well within his rights to arrest Luisa!  She has lied, covered a serious crime, encouraged the escape of the culprit, probably even given him the wherewithal to effect that escape, which would account for her own lack of funds just now – am I right, Luisa?”

              She hesitated for a moment, then seeing that nothing could be achieved by lying once more, she nodded miserably.

              Gil had very little interest in this aspect of the matter and pursued his brother doggedly, “You are asking us all to lie, Chuffy!  To say that Peter committed the sin of suicide when we all know he did no such thing!”

  “You, my moralistic sibling, will not be asked to swear any such thing!  You will merely be required to hint that suicide is the most likely solution to the mystery of Peter’s death!  What harm can that do, now?  He is safely buried in consecrated ground, so the stigma of self-harm is not going to banish him from the blessings of his mother-church!  You yourself allowed him to be interred under the auspices of both the Church of England and the Roman Catholic faiths!  God, in his infinite wisdom, knows the truth, so Peter will not be denied his rest in Perpetual Light!”

              Gil, well aware that his brother had no belief in God or an after-life, could not help but recognize the edge of sarcasm which accompanied these words, and his cheeks were stained with faint red, “You can be damnably offensive, Cadmus, when the mood takes you!”

              Cara and Verity, who had never before heard Gil use Underwood’s real, and despised, Christian name, were both shocked by the depth of feeling which was evidently present between the two brothers.  The moment had come, Verity knew, to place herself between the warring factions, “Underwood, that will be quite enough!  You had no right to make this decision alone!  I am most seriously displeased!  I think you should apologize to all here, then we will order tea and when we have all calmed sufficiently, we will discuss the matter in a rational manner!  This is not something which can be decided by any one person!”

              Underwood, who was rarely chastised by his adoring Verity, looked as shocked as if a favourite kitten had suddenly turned wild and had hissed, bitten and scratched.  He glanced down at her, ready to silence her with a cutting remark, but when she held his eyes with hers, rigid determination shining in them, he suddenly capitulated, “Very well,” he growled ungraciously, “I apologise – but you must all agree that my solution is the only sensible course for us to take!”

              Nothing further was said until servants were summoned and provided the party with the required tea.  Underwood watched mutinously as his plump little wife took charge and began to pour tea, directing Gil to hand the cups around, but his annoyance soon evaporated.  She looked remarkably pretty with those two angry spots of colour in her cheeks, and her previous incarnation as a governess had never been more apparent as she ordered Gil and the Earl about in a tone which brooked no argument.  William found himself serving his guests with bread-and-butter and delectable little cakes, whilst his new son-in-law handed cups and saucers.

              When Gil crossed the room to bring Underwood his tea, the latter looked up and caught his brother’s eye, “Gil, forgive me!  You know that in moments of passion I forget myself, but that is no excuse for offending you.”

              Gil seemed, for a moment, to be prepared to ignore this piece of magnanimity, but only for a moment.  He was immensely fond of his older brother, and knew just how difficult the man found the act of apology.  He smiled warmly, “There are some things upon which I fear we are never going to agree, Chuffy, but though I find you infuriating, you will always be my brother and I will always love you.”

  “Good God, Gil!  Don’t ruin a lifetime of dissent by being too nice to me!  You will make it impossible for me to taunt you – then where shall I find my amusement?”

                Gil grinned, the mantle of maturity and seriousness falling from him and restoring him to boyhood mischief, “You are incorrigible, Chuffy!  I ought to take you outside and dust your jacket for you!”

  “It would be the first time, if you could manage to do it!” asserted Underwood scornfully, “As I recall our boyish fisticuffs, you never laid a finger on me!”

  “Only because you fended me off with your excessively extended arms, Longshanks!” said Gil cheerfully.

              Just as Verity had predicted, the delay caused by the imbibing of afternoon tea managed to restore calm.  Choler could only be dampened by full stomachs and the passage of time.

              Underwood rose to explain himself to a group of people who were much more inclined to listen than they had been an hour before.

              He took his customary stance before the empty fireplace and began, “My wife, though, I felt, unnecessarily harsh with me, did have a point.  I should not have made the decision to alter the circumstances of Peter’s death without consultation!  For that I apologise, but I should like to say in my own defence that I had very little time to think of anything but saving Luisa from the threat of arrest and imprisonment.”

              The Earl, wearied by his long journey and the previous few weeks worry and distress, found he did not have sufficient energy to maintain his previous level of fury.  He waved a dismissive hand, “If I have learned one thing throughout this dreadful time, Underwood, it is that you usually have the good of the family in mind when you act.  Pray think no more about it, but lay before us your idea of a solution to this unholy mess!”

  “Thank you, William,” replied Underwood, genuinely moved by the kind words, “To continue, then.  It would seem that we are unlikely ever to bring Giovanni to justice.  He would have to be a half-wit to return to these shores knowing that he is wanted for murder.  That being the case, it seems foolish beyond permission to tell the world at large that Grantley and we allowed him to flee!  Grantley would lose his position; Luisa and possibly Toby too, would be jailed.  Besides all this, the most awkward questions would be asked.  Why did Giovanni kill his master?  Why did his mistress cover the crime?  The answers to these must cause the most acute embarrassment to all concerned!  It would have to be admitted that Peter was a wife-beater and drunkard, that Giovanni was no mere servant, but the father of Lady Lovell!  Worse still, if it were to become public knowledge that Giovanni was also responsible for the accident which befell Trentham, the explanation does not bear thinking about!  To have to admit that the boy had designs on his own aunt!  I know that it seems grossly unjust to allow Giovanni to escape punishment and allow the memory of Peter to be tarnished by the hint of suicide, but in all truth, what choice do we have?”

  “You speak with the voice of reason, Chuffy, but there is something decidedly unsavoury about twisting the facts merely to save ourselves from scandal!” said Gil quietly, “You have always, in the past, been adamant that the perpetrator of any crime be punished under the law!  Why the change of heart now?  Giovanni killed Peter most brutally and cruelly – do you really think he should be allowed to escape without punishment?”

  “No, I do not, Gil.  You are perfectly correct when you say that I have always been an avid upholder of the law – though I should add that I do not believe in the concept of the death penalty.  But one must bring a degree of perspective to this case in particular.  Giovanni is an Italian, and under the dictates of his own culture, he had no choice but to kill the men who had abused and insulted his child!  He acted in defence and the throes of passion when he attacked Peter, who, from the evidence we have heard, sounded fully capable of killing Luisa that night, or of forcing her into the act of killing her unborn child!  Viewed in that light, his actions were not entirely unreasonable!  Admittedly he was on unsafe ground when he attempted to assassinate Trentham, but we must remember that he did not succeed!  Trent is still alive and shows every likelihood of being with us for many years to come.  And if punishment is what you require, then pray recall that Giovanni will probably never see his daughter again, nor her child.  They have never been apart since the day of her birth, so imagine the torment this separation must bring.  I don’t think any of the players in this tragedy are left unscathed, Gil!  Think of your own wife who has not only lost her favourite uncle, but has had to endure the horror of discovering the cruelty of which he was capable!  William has lost his brother, nearly lost his son, and has had his family name dragged through the mire!  Luisa has had her husband and father taken from her and must now wait for the birth of her child to discover whether she has lost the right to return to her homeland!  Can you honestly say that suffering and remorse has not been widely spread?”

              Gil had no answer.  He shook his head, then turned and took his wife’s hand.  She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, willing him to agree to a solution which seemed to her to be the only kind and sensible thing to do for all their sakes.

              The Earl glanced about him.  Gil’s had been the only voice raised in protest and now even he was silenced by the justice of his brother’s assertions.

  “Underwood, you have my permission to take Peter’s razor tomorrow and present it to Grantley as the weapon by which my brother took his own life – but the man knows the story of suicide to be untrue, so how do you propose to convince him?”

  “Leave that to me, William.  I have the measure of the man and feel safe enough assuring you now that he will cause no difficulty.”

  “I hope you are right, Mr. Underwood,” said Luisa suddenly, taking them all by surprise.  She had raised no demur during the whole of the debate and they had almost forgotten her presence, “He seems to me to be a very harsh man, who has held me in dislike since the first moment we met!  He wanted to arrest me this day – I think he took delight in tormenting me with his power over me!”

  “My dear Luisa, you could not be more wrong!” said Underwood firmly.

*

              Underwood presented himself promptly the following morning at Grantley’s home and was shown immediately into the study. 

              His assessment of Grantley’s demeanour was that he looked like a man who had not slept well for several nights.  Underwood had never seen the Constable seem so tired or depressed.  Dark rings under his eyes looked blacker still against the unusually pale skin, and he seemed to have developed deep lines which ran from his nose to the corners of his lips, making his face gaunt.

  “Do you have the razor?” he asked in a wearily disinterested tone, without bothering with the niceties of a greeting.

  “I do,” answered Underwood and handed him a linen-wrapped parcel.  Grantley took one edge of the cloth and unrolled the bundle, allowing the item to fall heavily into his waiting hand.  It was an expensive thing, with a great deal of weight to it, and he stared down at it as it lay glinting against his palm.

  “The gentleman made sure he had nothing but the best,” he said conversationally,

  “This casing is ivory, inlaid with nacre and silver.”

  “I would imagine Peter had it made by the finest craftsmen – probably in Italy.  Its edge must be keen indeed to have inflicted so deep a wound!”

  “There seems to be very little blood upon the blade,” remarked Grantley, as he carefully drew it open.

  “But there is blood,” answered Underwood, never taking his eyes away from Grantley’s face.

  “It does not look as though it is a fortnight old.  It could almost have been shed last night.”  For the first time he raised his eyes and challenged Underwood, albeit silently.

              The older man merely shrugged, “As to that, I could not say I would know the difference between old blood and new.  It has always been my habit to strenuously avoid contact with weapons, stained or otherwise!”

  “I notice you seem to have cut your thumb,” said Grantley softly.

              Underwood glanced down at his bandaged hand, “A foolish accident with a fruit knife at dinner!  One can scarcely credit the discomfort a mere scratch can evoke!”

  “I can imagine,” responded Grantley wryly, “You mentioned a statement outlining the discovery of the razor?”

              Underwood reached into his coat pocket and brought forth a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to the Constable.  He perused it swiftly, then raised his eyes again to Underwood’s, “My men searched the room very thoroughly, Mr. Underwood, how do you account for their missing this vital piece of evidence?”

  “As I have said in my statement, it had fallen down a crack in the floorboards and was hidden by a joist.  I saw the glint of metal by the veriest chance.  The floorboards had to be lifted to retrieve it.”