Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (10 page)

Unaccustomed to having his mentor side with his brother against him, Underwood was lost for words – but only briefly.  Verity, seeing that the discussion was about to take an ugly turn, hastily intervened, “Dearest Gil, of course you are full of sympathy for Mrs. Rogers, as we all are, but you must not seek to cover up the facts.  You are accusing Underwood of attempting to play God, but surely that is also what you seek to do, in suppressing evidence?  You know that Cadmus will do everything in his power to serve justice, whilst also doing his best to protect her.”

Gil threw her a severe look, “I sincerely hope so, for this may very well end with my brother having blood upon his hands.  I fear very deeply for Mrs. Rogers’ sanity if she has to go through much more.”

“Mrs. Rogers is a strong woman, Gil, and more than equal to any misfortune life may serve her.”  Underwood sounded quite as bitter as his sibling, and Verity feared that the emotion being generated was going to cause a rift which might last a long time.  The two were exceptionally fond and proud of each other, but there was always an undercurrent of sibling rivalry, childhood jealousies and more adult feelings which slightly marred their relationship.  She supposed all brothers and sisters must be similar, but as an only child, she could not share this particular sensation with her husband.

She glanced at Dr. Russell, hoping for some wise comment from him, designed to remove the heat from the situation, but he was observing the brothers with an expression of grim satisfaction.  With dawning horror, she realized that the old gentleman was enjoying the fight.  He had provoked Underwood deliberately, not because he agreed with Gil, but because he wanted to see the men quarrel.

With a sick knot of tension in the pit of her stomach, she rose unsteadily from the table, “I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I must ask to be excused.”

The brothers were at once united in their concern for her, but it was too late to heal the wound she had received.  She blindly pushed away the hands which reached out to aid her, and silently left the room, leaving the three men behind her suitably shame-faced at their lack of control and consideration.

Mrs. Trent found her in the hall a few moments later, steadying herself against the newel post, “I’m about to bring in the next course, madam,” she said, somewhat surprised at this apparent desertion.  The heavily pregnant Mrs. Underwood usually ate a good luncheon.

“Do go on and serve the gentlemen, Mrs. Trent.  I’m a little tired and not particularly hungry.”

“Very good, ma’am,” she completely understood the utter weariness brought on by a growing baby and smiled sympathetically, “Perhaps you might like to go and open your parcel then?”  she added.

“A parcel?  For me?”  Verity was astounded; she was not expecting anything to be delivered.

“Yes.  I found it not half an hour ago, on the doorstep.  Clearly marked with your name.”

“I wonder what it can be – and from whom?”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it is not a gift from one of the Reverend’s lady parishioners.  I expect it will have baby clothes in it.  Women like to make little garments, even when they have no babies of their own.”

Verity was immediately cheered, the distress at the quarrel between her husband and brother-in-law entirely supplanted by the thought of some kind-hearted woman diligently stitching some tiny garment for her coming child, “Yes, of course!  How kind people can be.  Where did you put it?”

“On the table in the parlour.  There are scissors in the sewing-box to cut the string.”

Verity went off happily to see to her gift, but within minutes a piercing scream was echoing through the vicarage.  Underwood, in the dining room, leapt to his feet, his heart pounding with shock, “Dear God!  What is amiss with Verity?”  He ran to her, closely followed by the other two.

He found his wife, white-faced and shaking uncontrollably, in the parlour, still standing by the package on the table, but her face turned away from it, and her hand firmly over her mouth, as though to stifle any further shrieks.

“What is it?  What the devil has happened to you?”  In his agitation he barked the questions at her, but she seemed to neither notice nor care.  Speechless, with tragic eyes raised to his, she could only gesture vaguely towards the table.

He walked across the room and approached the package cautiously.  Verity shuddered and staggered away from him as the paper rustled slightly as he drew it aside in order to peer into the box.  He too recoiled in horror at what it contained.

His thoughts were stark and frightening; what sick mind existed, capable of such a dreadful deed as this?

*

CHAPTER TEN

(“Non Semper Ea Sunt Quae Videntur” – Things are not always what they appear to be)

That one cursory glance into the box told Underwood all he needed to know.  When Mrs. Trent came running into the room, also summoned by the terrified screams of Mrs. Underwood, he turned on her and curtly delivered his orders.  Though she had no idea what was happening, she knew this was not the moment to demur.

“Take my wife upstairs, get her a hot drink, then fetch the doctor.”

“Yes sir,” with that she was gone, supporting the now quietly sobbing Verity.

“I’ll go for the doctor,” offered Gil swiftly.  He had a sudden disinclination to join his brother and his guest by the opened parcel.  Dr. Russell had displayed no such qualms and was already peering short-sightedly into the bundle of torn paper; rent asunder by Verity’s excited fingers only minutes before, “What on earth is it?”  It was as well he needed no direct answer, for Underwood was looking green, and was evidently struggling to hold on to the small amount of food he had already eaten.

The older man looked at his companion with some concern, then drew his spectacles from his pocket, placed them carefully on his nose and peered once again at the unlidded box, “Great Jupiter!”  He breathed, after a moment of shocked silence,

“Who the devil is responsible for this abomination?”

“I wish I knew,” murmured Underwood, mopping his face with his handkerchief.  Dr. Russell, far less squeamish than his erstwhile pupil, lifted the contents out of the package in order to inspect it more closely.  It was a young rabbit, and it had obviously been snared, for the cord was still tight about its throat, and its bulging eyes and protruding, purple-black, swollen tongue bore silent, but graphic, testimony to its unpleasant and agonizing end.  This scene was sickening enough in itself, but the fact that the little creature had been roughly garbed in a baby’s lawn night dress and bonnet added a macabre and frightening aspect to the message it was meant to convey.

              Ashen, Dr. Russell glanced at Underwood, “I fear this means Rogers cannot have been your trickster, my friend.  He was a dead man when this arrived.”

The same thought had occurred to Underwood, but he refused to relinquish his theory so easily, “Not necessarily.  He could have made the arrangements for the delivery before his death.  In fact it would have made more sense for him to employ another party to do his dirty work.  Being caught in the act would have been incredibly embarrassing.”

“Very true.”

Underwood moved, nauseated, away from the table, “Pray excuse me, Theodore.  I must go to Verity.”

“Of course.  What do you want me to do with this thing?”

“Put it back in the box and cover it.  Toby will dispose of it when he returns.  This would have to happen on his free day.  He has been watching Verity and the house like a hawk – not so much as a mouse could have crossed the garden without him seeing.”

“That’s probably why it did happen today, my friend.”

Underwood acknowledged the sense of this remark with a swift nod of the head, then he followed his brother out of the room.

Upstairs, Verity presented a sight which would have melted the hardest of hearts.  Mrs. Trent had persuaded her to lie down and the vast, old-fashioned, curtained bed dwarfed her, making her appear child-like and vulnerable – all the more so because of the tears which slid unheeded down her white cheeks.

She turned startled eyes to the door when it opened to admit her husband, and he was appalled to see the flash of fear in her eyes, before she swiftly banished it and forced a tremulous smile.  It was perhaps just as well that someone else had taken the opportunity to kill Rogers, for Underwood could quite happily have taken a gun and shot the boy himself in that moment!  He said nothing of the kind to his wife, of course, merely crossing the room and grasping her hand warmly and comfortingly in his own.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart!  I should not have let my vigilance slip.  You ought never to have been subjected to that.  I hold myself entirely responsible.”

“No, no!  Do not blame yourself.  I was foolish.  I should have known that no one with good intentions would ever have sent a package without a card.”

He could see she was more than ready to work herself into a frenzy of self-castigation, so he quickly steered the conversation in another direction, “Gil has gone for the doctor.  I think he ought to take a look at you.  You sustained a nasty shock, and that cannot be good for either of you.”  He laid a gentle hand on her stomach, and she blushed rosily, but did not, surprisingly, disagree.  Under normal circumstances, any hint that she was not enjoying the most perfect health roused her most stubborn moods, “I must admit I do feel a little shaken.  Every time I close my eyes, I see that … thing!”

The arrival of the doctor sent Underwood from the room, but he hovered on the landing outside until the consultation was at an end.  Not for the world would he ever admit it, but he was seriously concerned for Verity and their baby.  He leaned against the wall, his fisted hands thrust into his pockets, and stared moodily at his feet, his thoughts far away, until the doctor joined him, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.  He straightened himself hastily and opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor frowned slightly and placed his finger to his lips.  Underwood took the hint and led him downstairs to the study, so that there was no possibility of Verity overhearing their conversation.

“Is everything well with my wife and child?”  he asked, as soon as the study door closed behind them.  The doctor, a middle-aged man of kindly aspect and himself the father of several strapping sons, smiled reassuringly, “Mother nature has her own ways of protecting the unborn, Mr. Underwood.  I don’t think you need worry unduly.  Your wife had a nasty shock, true enough, but a small dose of laudanum has sent her into a healing sleep.  I suggest she keep to her bed for a sennight, just to be sure, but her own body will begin to calm her, now that the birth is imminent.”

It was now Underwood who sustained a shock.  The word imminent was suddenly ominous to him, “Imminent!  Just exactly how imminent?”

“You have no date?”  Dr. MacGregor was accustomed to his own life being run upon the cycles of the moon and he could scarcely believe the Underwoods had been so slapdash.

“No, not really.”

“Well, babies always arrive in their own time, but I would be immensely surprised if your family has not expanded within a fortnight.”

Two weeks!  Underwood was stunned.  This was a little too close for comfort.  Since the first moment Verity had announced her pregnancy, he had been having great difficulty in imagining the arrival of a baby, but it had always been blissfully far ahead, and he found no need to think any too deeply about the future.  Suddenly this man was using words like ‘imminent’.  Underwood became an extremely apprehensive man.

He barely heard the congratulations or farewells of MacGregor, merely slumping into a chair as soon as he was alone, his face a shade whiter than it had been before.  His reverie was shattered by the advent of his brother and Dr. Russell, both demanding to know how Verity did – and what precisely he intended to do about the dead rabbit which was rendering the parlour unusable.

“Is Toby not back yet?”

“No, but we were not expecting him before eleven this evening.”

“Why, what time is it now?”  Underwood did not wait for a reply, but consulted his own watch, drawn from his waistcoat pocket.  By Jove!  Only half-past two.  He felt as though he had lived through an eternity since luncheon.  Was it really only mid-afternoon?  He thrust the watch impatiently back into his pocket.

“Dammit all!  It is only a dead rabbit.  Surely it cannot be beyond the ingenuity of us all to bury it in the garden.”

“Have you ever dug a hole?” asked Gil diffidently.

“Not that I recall,” admitted his brother brusquely, “Amazingly enough, there was never any great demand for digging at Cambridge University.  What about you?  You must have seen a thousand graves dug.”

“I don’t stand about watching the grave-diggers at their work,” protested Gil, horrified by the thought that he might be forced into the disposal of the dead creature.  He was very nearly as squeamish as his sibling, though not quite.  He, after all, was required to give the last rites to the dead and dying.  Underwood would run a mile if requested to attend a death-bed.

“Dear God!” said Dr. Russell, torn between amusement and irritation at their irrational horror of a dead animal, “Have you any idea how pathetic you sound?  Tell me where to find a spade.  I’ll bury the thing myself!”

This interjection caused the brothers to pause in their bickering.  They glanced at each other, “Very well, Gil, tell Theodore where he might find a spade,” said Underwood smoothly.

“How the dev … How should I know?” replied Gil testily.

Dr. Russell threw his glance heavenward, “Never mind, I’ll ask Mrs. Trent.”

*

The weary afternoon wore on.  Verity slept.  Gil went to visit Catherine.  Dr. Russell, having performed his grave-digging duties in a little-frequented spot at the bottom of the garden, washed the soil from his hands and took himself off for a walk.   Underwood dozed before the study fire until about four o’clock, whereupon he was woken by the sound of rain blowing against the window panes.  It had gone very dark and Underwood knew he ought to rouse himself to light the candles in their sconces, and to stir up the fire and add more wood before it fell too far to be reanimated, but the early twilight and the silence of the nearly empty house somehow suited his mood of melancholy.

It was rare, these days, for him to find himself entirely alone.  And when, at such times, he thought about it, he missed the solitude.  Not for a moment did he regret his marriage, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.  The transition from bachelor to married man had been a swift one, leaving him little time to cogitate upon the consequences of his actions.  It was probably the only impetuous thing he had ever done in his life, but the notion that he might lose Verity to his brother had been a suitably sharp spur.

A light knocking on the door dragged him back from his contemplation of his past life, and he stirred himself sufficiently to cross the room and open the door, “Ah, Mrs. Trent.  I was about to come in search of you.  Is Mrs. Underwood awake?”

“No, sir.  I have just been up to see if she required tea, but she’s still fast asleep.  I was coming to ask you the same.  The Reverend is not back yet, nor Dr. Russell, but I can bring you something if you want me to.”

“No.  No need.  I’ll wait for the others.”

“Do you want me to light the candles?  What with the rain, it’s suddenly gone very black outside.”

He did not have the chance to reply, for the front door knocker sounded, reverberating in the silence of the dark hallway.

“I expect that will be Dr. Russell or the vicar now.  Let them in and I’ll see to the lights.”

He went back into the study and taking a spill from a holder on the mantle, he teased it into life from the swiftly dying embers of the fire.  He had lit only two of the many candles in the room when Mrs. Trent came in behind him, “Mr. Gratten to see you, sir,” she announced formally.  She did not care for the Constable, thinking him full of self-importance – or as she coarsely phrased it to her cronies, “full of wind and water”.

Mr. Gratten, who had an instinctive dislike of over-familiarity in servants, dismissed the housekeeper with an impatient, “Thank you, my good woman,”  and bustled into the room as she, full of irritation, bustled out of it.  She gave a derisive, and clearly audible, snort and stomped off down the passageway to her kitchen, where she spent a pleasurable half hour banging her pans about, wishing they were Gratten’s head.

“Rather dark in here, Underwood,” he commented helpfully, as the door closed upon the furious Mrs. Trent.

Underwood, who had a lighted spill in his hand, thought it rather obvious he was trying to remedy the situation, but he held his temper rather better than the housekeeper, “I’m seeing to it,” he replied evenly, “What can I do for you, Gratten?  I presume this is not a social call.”

“No, no.  I have bad news, I’m afraid.  I have had a message from Mrs. Herbert.  It seems her husband is away – gone to Edinburgh, apparently, for the retirement of his old Professor, or some such thing.  She is writing to him express, in the hopes she can send him straight on here instead of going home first.  Even so, it is going to be two or three days before he reaches us.”

“Oh,” this was a blow.  Underwood trusted no man as he trusted Francis Herbert, and he was desperate for his old friend to perform the
post mortem
examination on the body of Rogers.

“Does this mean you will wait no longer, and ask one of our local doctors to look at the body for you?”

“Not if you are in agreement with my suggestion.  I don’t imagine two more days is going to make any difference to the evidence the body can offer, do you?  The weather is cold enough, and the game larder at Hanbury Manor was designed to keep meat fresh.”

This was not quite how Underwood would have liked to think of the situation, but he had to reluctantly agree.  He could only wish Gratten would not view the dead Rogers quite so dispassionately, and worse still, imagine that Underwood felt the same way.