An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (8 page)

“Thank you.  I must apologise for this appalling display.  There is little point in my trying to hide what is going on in this house.  To ignore it would merely to insult your intelligence.  I am a proud woman, and this is my punishment, I suppose.  I would give anything not to have my son drag our private lives under your noses.”

“Pray think no more about it, madam, and be assured of our discretion.  I’m only sorry Trentham has the audacity to flaunt his lack of the respect, which is due not only to you and his father, but also his uncle and aunt.  The boy has a lot of growing up to do.”  Underwood patted her hand gently as he said these words, but it was evident to all he was barely containing his fury.  He hated, more than anything else, to be subjected to embarrassment – and Trentham had turned the evening into one long, hideous humiliation for all concerned.

A servant maid appeared at the door, “Madam, the master is asking for you.”

“Very well.  I shall be there directly.”

When the Countess had gone there did not seem to be very much else they could do but retire themselves, and this they duly did, taking their candles from the table at the bottom of the stairs and lighting their way to their rooms, silent and rather depressed by the events of the day and of the evening.  Jeremy, with the help of the ever-present Toby, who had materialised when needed from the basement, left his bath-chair in a convenient niche in the hall, by the porter’s leather bound chair and allowed himself to be carried up the stairs.

By midnight the whole house was shrouded in darkness and silence and it remained that way until four o’clock, when shriek after hysterical shriek echoed through the quiet rooms, bringing the occupants of the bedrooms in the west wing of the house awake with a horrible start and a hammering of the heart.

“Dear God! What has happened now?” asked Underwood, throwing back the covers and feeling for his tinderbox in the grey, half-light of the approaching dawn.  It was Verity who found it and struck a light. 

The screaming had ceased now, but the silence was ominous.  Verity, white-faced and frightened stared at her husband in the flickering flame of the candle.

“I thought it sounded like Luisa.”

“We’ll soon find out.”

With that he was gone, the draught from the swiftly opened and closed door making the curtains on the bed billow.  Verity sat shaking with a reaction to the shock of the hurried and unexpected awakening, hugging her knees and trying to tell herself that there was nothing wrong, that Luisa had merely had a bed dream and would even now be laughing in her husband’s arms at her own silliness.

But the memory of the sheer terror in those wild screams was hard to ignore, and before very long, she too slipped out of bed, flung a shawl about her shoulders and went to find her husband.

*

  CHAPTER EIGHT

(“Aureo Hamo Piscari” – Any door is opened by means of gold)

Verity found several people gathered outside the bedroom door of Lord Peter and his wife and a whispered conversation in progress.

“What is going on?” she hissed, wondering why nothing was happening.  Her heart had barely ceased its harried pounding and she could not understand why they seemed to have no sense of urgency.

“There is no answer to our knocking and the door is locked,” answered Francis.

“Then go through the dressing room,” she suggested shortly.  No one told her she was resourceful, but she knew they all thought it. 

Francis walked down the corridor, found the dressing room door and entered, only to return very quickly with the news, “The connecting door is locked too.”

“Then go to the housekeeper’s room and ask for the spare set of keys.”

“Do you really think we ought to go in?”

Underwood was decisive for once, “My dear fellow, I’m as reluctant as you to disturb a married couple in their own room at four in the morning, but take my word upon it, there was something seriously wrong when the woman screamed.  No one who heard her could doubt it!”

Presently Francis came back with the keys, but also with the Earl in his wake.

And it was he, as master of the house who took the key and fitted it into the lock.  He had an initial struggle as the key was evidently still in place on the other side of the door, but with some concentrated jiggling and pushing they finally heard the satisfying sound of the key clattering to the floor inside the room.

The door swung slowly open and the Earl called softly to his brother, “Peter, Peter!  Are you awake?  What happened?”

Francis was at once struck by the faint odour that drifted from the room and gently ushered the Earl aside.  He took Underwood’s candle and held it aloft.  In its softly guttering light they saw a scene of such horror that Underwood turned, sickened away, dragging Verity with him before she could catch sight of the fearful mess.

“Oh dear God!” whispered the Earl.

Luisa lay across the bed, her hair spread free over the counterpane, her little bare feet just peeping from below the hem of her white night dress – or at least it had been white once.  Now it was red, a red which glistened wetly in the candlelight, and which not only stained her gown and the bed, but also crept across the floorboards, almost to the door.  Peter was propped against the base of the bed, his head hanging backwards, revealing a yawning slash, blood-filled and black in the half-light.

It was the smell that Francis had recognised, that had alerted him to what they might find in the room.  It was the slightly metallic odour of fresh blood; great, warm gouts of gore such as he remembered from his days at medical school, and which he had hoped never to have to smell again for as long as he lived, for that much blood always meant death.  When a vein or an artery began to pump blood out at such a rate that two hands, four hands, even six hands could not stem it, then the patient was as good as dead and one might as well not waste one’s time and energy trying to save them.  He was reluctant to enter, knowing there was no hope, but he forced himself to step inside.  It was painfully obvious Peter was dead, but the woman might still have a chance.

He gingerly strode over the pool of blood and approached the bed, relieved to see, as he drew near, that Luisa was indeed still breathing.  His hands were shaking as he managed to coax the candle by the bed into life with the flame of the candle he held in his hand.  He felt the hot wax roll over his fingers and spatter onto the table, but he ignored the pain, his concentration wholly on the situation around him and not on his own discomfort.

He heard Luisa stirring behind him, her voice as she called for her husband a mere whimper.  He hastened to help her rise, placing himself firmly between her and the sight of the dead man.

“My dear, can you tell me what happened?”

She looked at him with wild eyes, her hands cupping her cheeks in a gesture of pure despair, “I don’t know.  We were quarrelling – and he hit me!  For the first time in our life together he hit me.  Where is he?  Where is Pietro?  He must understand about Trent.  He must know that I love only him!”  Her voice grew more and more hysterical and Francis placed a gentle hand against her mouth, “Hush, my dear.  There has been an accident and Peter is badly hurt.  You must try to be calm and tell me everything.”

  “But I don’t know anything.  I told you.  Pietro hit me.  He flung me across the bed, his face was so angry – I have never seen him like that, never!  I tried to reason with him, but he brought the back of his hand across my face and I remember nothing more.”

She dropped her head in weariness and despair and it was then she saw the blood which stained her night dress, “Oh, God, so much blood!  Where is Pietro?  What has happened?”

“I’m sorry, Luisa.  I’m afraid Peter is dead.”

Her face was a ghastly shade of white and Francis thought she was going to faint.  Perhaps that would have been the kindest thing, for she would have to be removed from the room and it would be almost impossible to do that without her seeing Peter.  She swallowed deeply, “No, no, I don’t believe you!  It cannot be!”

                She began to rock backwards and forwards, a stream of Italian issuing from her lips.  Underwood, who knew mostly Latin, but a little of her language too, thought she was praying.  He wished he could bring himself to enter the room and help Francis, but he simply could not bear to see the body again.  He leaned forward and called to his friend, “For God’s sake, Francis, get her out of there.  There is no need to question her now, is there?”

Francis needed no second bidding.  He lifted the bloodstained figure off the bed and carried her out of the room, carefully stepping past the stream of gore, praying that he did not slip in it.  He could think of nothing more macabre than to find himself dropping the grieving widow because he had slid on the blood of her dead husband.

“Underwood,” he hissed, as he reached the door.  Underwood reluctantly moved a little nearer and found himself being handed Luisa as though she were an unwanted parcel, “Take her away from here, wake the servants and get those clothes taken off her!  I’ll see what I can do here and will join you presently.”

Underwood and Verity took Luisa away, whilst Francis and the Earl went back into the bedroom.

“Is he really beyond hope?” asked the Earl, his voice barely above whisper, his horrified stare fixed upon his brother.

“Say your goodbyes, my friend,” answered the doctor grimly.

The Earl knelt on the floor by the body, and took one of the rapidly cooling hands in his own, “Peter, we have never agreed with each since the day you were born, but you were my brother and I loved you in my own way.”  Tears rolled down his face as he looked for the last time on his younger sibling, then he stood and Dr. Herbert gently draped a sheet over the recumbent figure.

He turned his back and his shoulders heaved for a few moments, until he was able to master his emotions, then he wiped his handkerchief across his eyes and looked at his companion, “How the hell can this have happened, Francis?  Luisa was unconscious and the doors were locked.  Did he cut his own throat?”

“I really don’t know, but I can’t see any other solution.  He was extremely agitated by Trentham’s outburst last evening.”

He could hear the birds beginning to trill outside the window and realized that dawn had arrived.  He went over and pulled back the heavy velvet drapes, then looked about him.  The room was fairly tidy, only the usual clutter about, but no sign of a fight or a struggle.  The door that connected the bedroom to the dressing room was not locked with a key, but had a straight-backed chair wedged under the handle, apart from that one curiosity, there was nothing amiss.  He had a sudden thought, “Where is the knife?”

“What?” asked the Earl, still stunned and confused.

“The knife.  If he committed suicide, the knife must still be here.”

“He probably used his razor.”

“Yes, of course.  Well, there is nothing more we can do here, so I suggest we re-lock the door and send for the authorities.”

The Earl looked appalled at the very suggestion, “My God, no!  Think of the scandal.  I can’t allow this to come out.  Isn’t it bad enough that Peter was driven to this, without dragging his name through the mud?”

                Francis laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I would give anything in this world to save you from this, sir, but you must know we cannot keep this a secret!”

“I suppose not.  Very well, but for God’s sake, be discreet!”

“You have my word on it.”

The Earl left the room without a backward glance, but after Francis had snuffed the candles; he stood in the doorway for a few moments, a puzzled and very concerned expression on his face.  Something was not quite right.  He knew it, but he did not want to admit it.

*

Failing to think of any better solution, Verity and Underwood took the half-swooning Luisa to their own room, then Verity sent Underwood in search of Luisa’s maid, whilst she briskly helped the lady take off the gory night dress and replace it with one of her own.

Luisa was like a doll in her hands, ashen-faced and shocked, she simply sat on the edge of the bed and let Verity undress and redress her without protest.  Verity could see that the blood had soaked through the fine lawn garment and had stained Luisa’s sallow flesh with red, but there was little she could do about it.  She certainly did not intend to start trying to remove the blood with cold water from the washstand.  As long as Luisa was warm and free from the sight of Peter’s blood, that would do for the moment.

When Verity felt her hands and feet, she found they were frozen, so she gently lifted the younger woman’s feet off the floor and pushed them under the covers of her own bed.  Underwood was unlikely to want to return to sleep now, anyway, so it hardly mattered that his bed had been commandeered.

Luisa sank against the pillows, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, “Verity, is it really true?  Is my Pietro dead?”

“Yes.”

“Holy Madonna!  What will I do?”

“Try not to think about it just now, my dear.  Try to sleep.  You have had a terrible shock, and you have your baby to think about.”

Her hands went immediately to her stomach, “My baby!  Peter will never see his child now.”

                Verity realized she had made a tactical error in mentioning the baby and tried to recover by changing the subject, “Is there anything I can get for you?  Perhaps a brandy would help you to sleep?”

“I can’t sleep, I can’t stop thinking about Pietro!”  She began to cry again and feeling helpless, Verity could do nothing but seat herself by the bed and hold her hand whilst she wept.

*

Underwood, meanwhile, had wandered into the unknown world of the servants’ quarters in the attics.  One look down the long corridor and the myriad closed doors convinced him that finding Luisa’s maid was going to be nigh on impossible.  He decided that it would be far better to go downstairs and summon help from down there by the familiar medium of bell-pulls.

When he reached the parlour he found he was not alone.  Francis had brought the Earl down to find him a glass of brandy.  Also with them were Jeremy and Trentham.  Underwood was informed that Toby had been woken by Pryce and had gladly volunteered to go in search of the town’s Constable.

Pryce had now gone to rouse the servants and arrange for them to be brought tea and coffee.

Underwood glanced about at the faces of his companions.  Francis, accustomed as he was to death, looked the least affected; though even he was a little pale.  The Earl looked every one of his fifty years and more.  Jeremy was grim.  He always said he had had his fill of carnage on the battlefields of Europe and was particularly affected by senseless deaths such as this one.  Trentham was evidently the most shocked.  His face was parchment white and his eyes had the look of a lost and confused child.  Even as his father looked older than his years, so Trentham looked far less than his.  He could have been six years old for all the bombast which clung about him now.

Underwood took it upon himself to serve the beverages when they came, not asking, merely handing cups to those about him, well sugared to combat the shock they all obviously felt.

In less than half an hour the Constable arrived and Underwood found himself shaking hands with a very different man than the Constable of Hanbury.  John Grantley was a tall man, broad and handsome, his hair touched with grey at the temples, his visage habitually serious.  He accepted introductions to all those gathered there, then asked if he might be taken and shown the body.

Francis accompanied him, though he did not particularly want to re-visit the room.  He was a doctor and as such he was used to death, but not this kind of death.  He thought now that a quiet passing in one’s own bed, with the family around, had much to recommend it.

Grantley showed no emotion as Francis unlocked the door and pushed it open, to allow him entry, merely asking, “You say the door was locked?”

“Yes.  We had to find the housekeeper and borrow the spare set.”