An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (9 page)

“And the original key was still in the lock on the inside of the room?”

“It was.  I had to force it out before I could unlock the door from this side.  Everyone in the hallway heard it drop onto the floor inside.”

They went in.  The room was now flooded with light, the blood on the floor beginning to dry out and grow sticky and dark.  Grantley looked about him with keen blue eyes, missing nothing.

“No one touched anything?”

“No.  I came in and brought the lady out, then the Earl held his brother’s hand and spoke a few words, apart from that no one touched anything.”

“I thought you said he was dead?”

“He was.”

“Then what was the use of speaking to him?”

For a moment Francis thought he was joking, then he realized the man was perfectly serious.  But how did one explain the need to tell a dead brother he was loved to a man who had no concept of emotion as opposed to pure practicality?

“I think the Earl wanted to say goodbye, sir.  If he had been called to his brother’s death bed he would have done so, wouldn’t he?”

Grantley gave the tiniest shrug of his shoulders, as though the vagaries of man were quite beyond his ken, “I suppose so.”

Having examined the room he then turned his attention to the body.  With an expert flick of the wrist he denuded Peter of his covering sheet and Francis winced as once more the white face above the vivid gash came into view.  The vision had been quite bad enough by candlelight, but in the harsh beams of the sun all was fully exposed. 

Peter’s head had fallen backwards because it could do nothing else.  So long and deep was the wound that the head had practically been severed.  It was only the edge of the bed which was holding it in place.  It was hard to see how such damage could have been self-inflicted.

Grantley’s piercing gaze scanned the body and the floor around it, “He holds no knife or razor.  Did anyone find the weapon and move it?”

“No.  Unless it was flung from his hands in his death throes and lies under the bed or some other piece of furniture, there is no weapon.”

Of one accord they began to search, moving chairs and cabinets, throwing the bedcovers aside.  There was nothing.  No knife, no razor, no broken glass, nothing, in short, that could have slashed a man’s throat almost to his spine.

When he rose from his knees, Grantley was frowning deeply, “This is devilish odd!  How can there be no weapon?”

“The only explanation is that it was murder, not suicide,” said Francis grimly.

  “I admit, due to the severity of the attack, I was already inclining towards that conclusion myself, but how could a murderer escape from a locked room – unless, of course, she did not escape from it!”

Francis was shocked and he had no compunction about showing it, “Lady Lovell?  Absurd!  Apart from the fact that she is in love with her husband, I doubt she has the strength to inflict such injury.”

“You said they had quarrelled?”

“They had – they seemed to spend at least half their time together bickering, but that means nothing.  I am sure she is not capable of murdering her husband, much less such an act of savagery as this.”

“I’m afraid your opinion has very little effect on the facts, sir.  I will have to see the lady for myself.  Kindly lock the door to this room once more and make sure no one enters it.  I will arrange for the body to be removed and a
post mortem
carried out.  We shall discuss things further when the results are to hand.”

“Do you think I might be present for that?”

“Certainly – in fact I would suggest it is essential.  The Earl needs a reliable witness.  The scandal is going to be appalling as it is – we must make sure there can be no margin for error.”

“Very well – you will let me know the details in due course?”  The other man nodded briefly.  They left the room, Francis carefully locking the door and handing both keys to Grantley, who, even so, felt compelled to turn the knob, just to make sure no sleight of hand had occurred.

*

CHAPTER NINE

(“Mortui Non Mordent” – Dead men carry no tales)

Francis and Grantley requested a word alone with the Earl, but he insisted Underwood be present too.  In the months that Cara had been engaged to Gil, William, Earl Lovell had found himself growing ever fonder of the Underwood brothers.  They seemed to him to be eminently sensible men of great honour and a redeeming sense of humour.  In the absence of Gil, his older brother was the very man he needed to support him through this nightmare.

By this time the rest of the household was astir, so the Earl took the gentlemen into his own private study, whilst his wife and Verity broke the news to those who did not already know it.

                Once ensconced in the Earl’s lair, Grantley wasted no time in coming straight to the point, “I am sorry to have to inform you, sir, that in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, I can only conclude, at the present time, that your brother’s injury was not self-inflicted.”

The Earl was at first inclined to see this as good news and he sank heavily into a chair, as though his legs could no longer support his weight, “Thank God!  I could not have borne the stigma of suicide hanging over him.”

“Unfortunately, since the room was secured,” continued Grantley, ignoring this heartfelt comment, “I can come to no other conclusion than that Lady Lovell must have been the assailant.”

Underwood rose to his feet and began to pace the room, “Just one moment, sir, I must beg to differ.  That is not the only conclusion which may be drawn from the facts.”

Grantley turned to face him, unmoved by his heated interjection, “Really?  Well, naturally, I should be most interested to hear your theory.”

“Very well.  True enough the room was secure, but that does not mean that Lady Lovell and Lord Peter were alone.  After the deed was done, Lady Lovell could have allowed the murderer to leave, then re-locked the door after his departure.”

“An interesting idea, sir,” said Grantley, after a pause during which he obviously weighed the notion in his mind, “Do you also have a suspicion as to whom this mysterious visitor might have been?  Did the lady perhaps have an admirer, who would wish the husband out of the way?”

A stark silence greeted this question and Grantley was astute enough to recognize the reason for it.  Evidently they all could think of a suspect, but not one of them was willing to name him.

“I think perhaps I had better see Lady Lovell myself, now.” 

Verity was still with her, but she scuttled from the room when Underwood brought the Constable upstairs and introduced her to him.  She was still shy of meeting new people, even after a married life which had encompassed almost constant travelling and living in the houses of others.  She and Underwood had only owned their own home for just over a year and prior to that, he had thoughtlessly expected her to reside with various relations, and on more than one occasion had invited virtual strangers to live under the same roof.  She had learned to expect almost anything from him, including his disconcerting habit of involving himself in the solving of various crimes which had come to his attention.

Alone with Luisa, Grantley took a moment to peruse her face before he spoke to her.  She was propped up on the pillows and was almost as white as the bed linen.  Her red-rimmed eyes bore testimony to the many tears she had wept, but even these ravages could not hide her beauty from him.  The dark hair did not hang lank, but curled into natural ringlets against her cheeks and down over her ample breasts, her brown eyes were pools of misery, but held the promise of deep sensuality.  Her skin might be pale, but it was also flawless, her brows and lashes black against the white.  Grantley found the breath catching in his throat as he looked at her and it wrenched his heart to see the terror in her face as he approached the bed.  Either she was entirely innocent of murder, or she was the best actress it had ever been his misfortune to come across.

“Lady Lovell, my name is Grantley and I have come to ask you some questions about the events of last night.”

“I understand.”

He thought that even her voice held a note of enchantment, soft and musical, then he severely dragged his attention away from her and onto the task in hand.  His determination to be businesslike made his voice cold and she shrank away from him, even more terrified than before.

“I want you to tell me exactly what happened after you and your husband retired for the night.”

“I don’t remember,” she gasped, her fingers clutching at the covers as a drowning man clutches at straws; “I don’t remember anything!”

“You remember your husband striking you?”

“Yes,”

“Then you must recall why he did so?”

“He was angry.”

“That much I had assumed, madam.  He would hardly hit you as a celebration.”

She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, tears beginning to roll down her face, “There had been a scene downstairs, Peter blamed me.  We talked – it seemed for hours.  I was trying to calm him, to convince him that I loved him.  Then he began to ask me about my past.  This was always a dangerous moment.  He did not want to hear, really, but he would force me to speak, torturing himself with my disclosures.  It was then he lost his temper and attacked me.  He must have knocked me senseless, for I remember nothing more until Dr. Herbert found me on the bed, covered in Peter’s blood…”

“When did you scream?”

She looked stunned for a moment; “Did I scream?”

“Apparently it was your heart-stopping shrieks which woke the doctor and the Underwoods.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Come now, madam, you really cannot expect me to believe that!”

“I … it must have been when he hit me.”

“You had time to scream before you fell unconscious?”

“No, I remember now, I screamed when he came towards me with his hand raised.”

“I see.  Tell me, why do I see no bruises on you, though you claim your husband struck you hard enough to knock you senseless?”

She turned her head to one side, and lifted the heavy curls of dark hair, there, beneath the covering tresses just in front of her tiny pink ear, was a bruise, running almost from her temple to her jaw line.

“Good God!  He did that with his hand?”

“He wore a heavy gold, signet ring.”

“And that deprived you of your senses?”

“No, I think I hit my head on the cabinet next to the bed.  There is a bump the size of a goose egg just here.”  She leaned forward to show him and he had to tentatively touch her scalp to feel for the lump.  Her hair was so soft beneath his fingers, like silk, but he withdrew his hand sharply when she winced at his questing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, and stepped back away from the edge of the bed.

                She lay back against the pillows, her face tired and drawn; “Can I rest now?” she asked, pitifully, “I don’t feel well.  I’m afraid all this is very bad for my baby.”

His eyebrows shot up; “You are with child?” 

She nodded, “I had only found out yesterday.  It should have been the happiest time in my life – instead…”

“Did your husband know of this?”

“Yes.  It was one of the things we quarrelled about.  He was unkind to me.”

“Unkind in what way?”

She lifted her chin slightly, “That is private.  I will not discuss my husband with you.  I do not even know you.”

“Lady Lovell, I do not think, even now, you fully comprehend the gravity of this situation.  Your husband has been murdered, and you claim to have been alone in the room with him.  It is only your social position which is preventing me from arresting you here and now!”

“Why?  What have I done?  I did not kill him!”

“Perhaps not, but I think you know who did.”

Her lovely rosebud lips straightened into an obstinate line; “You have no right to accuse me.”

“I have every right, madam, and I warn you that if you do not tell me everything you know about your husband’s death, then I may be forced to take you into custody,” he said harshly, his frown deepening.

She held out her hands, “Very well, place shackles upon me and drag me off to gaol.  Why should I care?  I have lost the only man I ever loved, my baby will never know his father!”

She began to cry again and he was horrified that he had been betrayed into losing his temper and speaking so roughly to her, “Pray, madam, calm yourself.  I apologise.  But you must tell me if you know anything which can help my investigation.”

“I know nothing.”

“Very well.  I will speak to you again when you are feeling better.”

“I will never feel better ever again.  My heart is broken!”

There was not very much he could say in reply to this piece of melodrama, so he bowed over her hand and left her alone.

*

Back in the study the other gentlemen waited for his return.  Grim-visaged, he shut the door behind him and looked at their expectant faces one by one.

“The lady is refusing to speak, therefore I must ask you all, once again, is there a man in this house who would have wished Lord Peter dead and Lady Lovell free?”

                The Earl spoke for them all, “Certainly not.  My brother and his wife were very happily married.”

“She says they quarrelled.”

“Which marriage does not have the odd harsh word spoken?  Are you always in perfect amity with your wife, sir?”

“I’m not married.”

“Ah, then that explains much!  Well, as a married man myself I am quite happy to admit that my wife and I have not always seen eye to eye, as the saying goes, and I am sure my companions would agree with me.  I assure you it means nothing.”

“It means a very great deal, sir, when one of the battling partners ends the argument as a dead man!”

There was little the Earl could say in reply to this, so wisely he did not try, but hastily changed the subject, “I presume you wish to remove my brother’s body for examination?”

“Yes.  The arrangements are in hand.  My men will be here very shortly.”

“And when will I know if I can make funeral arrangements?”

“The coroner will be informed of the death immediately and I expect him to adjourn the hearing until the results of the
post mortem
are known.  It will be his decision as to how soon the interment can take place.”

“Then I will address my questions to him.  Thank you Mr. Grantley.  If there is nothing else..?”

This was clearly a dismissal and Grantley took it calmly, “Not at the present time, sir.  Thank you.”

When he had gone, the remaining men breathed a collective sigh of relief.  The Earl actually mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “Thank God that is over!  I must have words with Trentham.  I know he could not have killed his uncle, but that
contretemps
last night, in full view of all the servants, is not going to help his case at all.”

“It would perhaps,” suggested Underwood tentatively, “be wiser for you to tell Trentham to confide in Mr. Grantley.  These things always look so much worse when they come out later.”

“I see no reason for them to come out at all!  My servants are all fiercely loyal to the family.  Not one of them will speak without my permission.”

“My dear William, not all the servants present were your own,”  Underwood reminded him gently, “Giovanni is Luisa’s man to the last drop of his blood, and though Toby is in my employ, he knows, as well as I do, that I have no right to exert any influence or control over his own conscience.  If he is questioned, he will undoubtedly tell the truth.”

“Then we must make sure he is not questioned.  Cara and Gil must be told of this tragedy and brought back to England to attend the funeral.  Toby and Giovanni must be sent in pursuit of them.”

Underwood found his calm assumption of power intensely irritating, but entirely understandable, so he did not even bother to protest at this impertinent theft of his own servant, merely observing, “I shall certainly request that Toby undertake the task, but I warn you he is perfectly free to refuse it.”

“He will not refuse, I will pay him well!”

“That will have very little effect on Toby, sir.”

*