Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (15 page)

“I trust not.  Mrs. Rogers has been through a particularly harrowing time of late – even before the deaths of her husband and son.  I fear Godfrey was not a son who made his mother proud.”

His companion gave a wry smile, which had not the least warmth in it, “You are outspoken, sir.  Most people would be reluctant to ‘speak ill of the dead’, but I see you have no such scruples.”

Underwood returned the smile, with equal measures of chilly civility and sarcasm, “I have always thought it curious that death should endow even one’s worst enemy with previously unrecognized virtues.  Rogers was a dreadful boy, and had he not died in his youth, he would undoubtedly have developed into an equally dreadful man.  I refuse to let the tragedy of his murder alter my opinion.”

“I fear you are right, sir, though I admit I try not to voice such opinions in his mother’s hearing.”

Underwood was mildly irritated that the pompous little man should attempt to teach him manners, but he let it pass, “You display a very proper discretion.  Now, tell me about your other properties.  I find your good fortune fascinating.  I own I belong to a family who are notoriously long-lived, but who also have barely two farthings to rub together.  I inherited a goodly sum from my father, but I strongly doubt I have any other expectations.”

“You are right to be fascinated, Mr. Underwood, for the route to my riches has been tortuous to say the least.  My cousin Godfrey’s property was a simple case of being the next heir, but the two previous bequests were arrived at via relationships which were removed two and three times.  Allow me to explain …”

And explain he did – for two interminable hours.  The only comfort Underwood could draw from the wasted evening was that once set in motion, Wyndham-Rogers needed no further input.  Occasionally, across the table, he caught the eye of Lady Cara, who smiled a warm, secret smile at him, fully sympathising with his situation.

When the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to smoke over their port and brandy, Underwood made good his escape and went to consult doctors Russell and Herbert, whilst foisting Wyndham-Rogers on Gratten – he felt they richly deserved each other.

Francis had garnered much information over the meal, and wished to discuss his findings with his friend, “I have satisfied myself that Mrs. Rogers is quite content that I perform a
post mortem
tomorrow morning, but I feel we should not attempt to remove the body to another venue.  Too much time has been lost already, though I understand the game larder where Rogers lies is extremely cold – especially at this time of the year.”

“I would say so, though naturally I know very little of such things – and I would add, have no desire to expand my knowledge.”

“Very well.  Now tell me about Gil.  I hear he has married a young woman who is most seriously ill.”

“Not merely ill, my friend, but dying.  That was the reason for the hasty nuptials – otherwise you would most certainly have been invited to attend.”

Francis waved a hand, as though to dismiss so trivial a thought, “My dear fellow, you must not imagine Ellen and I were offended.  We knew there must be a good reason for the haste.  Poor Gil must be frantic with worry.  Naturally I shall offer him my services.  Perhaps I can find some hope where others have failed?”

“I sincerely hope you may, for it is not only Gil who will be devastated.  She also has a young son.”

“Yes, Dr. Russell mentioned him.  I understand he too has not enjoyed the best of health.”

“Consumption, I understand.”

“But that is not what ails the mother?”

“I think not.  She has some trouble with her throat.  The first diagnosis suggested a quinsy, but draining it failed.”

Dr. Herbert looked thoughtful, “I shall certainly call upon them when my work here is finished – but for now I think I will return to my lodgings.  I have been travelling for almost two days – and posting houses and wayside inns are not my favourite resting places.  I am longing for the crisp white sheets which I noticed upon my bed in Hanbury.”

“I do regret the necessity of imposing lodgings on you, dear fellow, but Dr. Russell occupies the guest room in Windward House – and of course, Gil is in no fit state to be thinking of entertaining visitors at the vicarage.”

“Think no more about it.  I can assure you, Mrs. Todd had all the makings of being the perfect hostess – with the added attraction of standing totally in awe of the medical profession.  I shall be treated like a king – though I shall have to consult for my supper.”

Soon after his announcement of departure the party broke up.  Lady Cara was to stay the night with Mrs. Rogers, as was Wyndham-Rogers – it was, after all, his own house.  The Grattens had their own carriage, but Dr. Herbert’s hired conveyance was to be used to take him back to town, after having first dropped Underwood and Dr. Russell at the end of the lane leading to Windward House.

On the walk up the rutted and now frost-rimed lane, the hedges on either side of them glittering coldly in the moonlight, Dr. Russell took a rare opportunity to speak alone with his erstwhile pupil, “You would tell me, dear boy, if I was in the way?  I feel I should not still be with you at such a delicate time, but this business with Rogers has distressed me more than I ever imagined it could.  I’m loath to leave Mrs. Rogers at such a time, and your house is the nearest I can be for her convenience.”

Underwood, who had been planning a speech of the sort which politely told his visitor it was time he left, immediately denied any such notion, “In the way?  Theodore, what a thought!  You are more than welcome to stay for as long as you wish.  I know Verity has grown fond of you, and I am certainly enjoying your company.  I’m only sorry your visit has been marred by this tragedy.”

“Well, that could not be helped, but I did need to know that you understand my desire to stay in the vicinity, and that you do not object to my presence.”

“Pray think no more about it, old friend.  You shall stay for as long as you need.”

“Thank you, my boy.”

The house was quiet when they entered, only Toby waited for them.  Ever patient and loyal, he could not rest until he knew all the family were safely gathered in for the night.

Slowly all the candles were extinguished, and the silent watcher outside in the moonlight felt that he too could leave the household in peace – for that night, at least.

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

(“Memento, Homo, Quia Pulvis Es Et In Pulverem Revertis” – Remember, man, that thou art dust, and to dust shalt thou return)

Since Verity had had a good night’s sleep and showed no sign of starting labour, Underwood felt he could safely leave her once again in the charge of Toby, whilst he met with Dr. Herbert to hear the results of the dissection of Godfrey Rogers’ earthly remains.

Mrs. Rogers had made her smallest drawing room available to them for their discussion, but she herself was absent.  She had gone to see her dressmaker with Lady Cara, who felt she ought to be distracted from the grim occasion.  After all, her half-mourning of greys and lilacs now needed to be returned to deepest black – probably never to recover.

Mr. Gratten arrived in the best of good spirits, convinced that this final act was to be the end of the affair.  He had behaved very properly in allowing the doctor to make his examination, though it had hardly seemed necessary, and the result was academic – he had his murderer, and the case was now closed.  He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he greeted Underwood, “I don’t suppose Mrs. Rogers left word we were to be offered refreshments?  The weather has turned suddenly and I’m chilled to the bone.  I don’t mind admitting a small brandy would be most welcome just now.”

“If you ring the bell, I’m sure the staff will oblige you, sir,” Underwood looked and sounded cold.  There was a curious sensation of depression hanging over him, and nothing he could do would shift it.  He supposed it was due to the knowledge that Dr. Herbert was about to confirm young Patrick Carter’s guilt.

Even as this thought entered his mind, the door opened to admit the doctor, who walked in shrugging himself into his coat and raising a hand to straighten his cravat, “Gentlemen, you have presented me with a pretty puzzle, I must say.”

Underwood’s interest was instantly engaged, “Explain yourself, Francis.”

“It would seem you have achieved your wish, my friend.  Patrick Carter is ‘off the hook’ to use a fisherman’s vernacular.  Did it occur to nobody to strip the body and examine it, ever superficially?”

Gratten’s smile slid from his face as it gradually began to dawn upon him that all was not well.  He was a little pale as he answered, “Underwood entirely refused to view the body – and I imagined it would be better left to you.  But what can you mean?  Rogers was shot and the boy Carter has admitted to firing the gun.  What other explanation could there be?”

“Rogers was already dead when the ball entered his chest.”

There was a moment of stark silence, then the constable sank into a chair, his legs evidently no longer able to support him, “You cannot be right.  I refuse to believe it!”

“You can believe it, my friend.  If anyone had taken the time to observe, there is a bloodstain on the back of his coat, as well as a hole.”

“That was the exit wound of the shot!”

“No, it was the entry wound of the knife used to stab him.  Something very long and thin – a stiletto, I imagine.”

“How can you be so sure?”  Gratten was loath to relinquish his favoured theory.  He reminded Underwood of nothing so much as a bulldog with a bone.  Even his plump jowls quivered as he struggled to find the words to argue with the calmly confident doctor.

“The ball was still lodged in his chest – and as a matter of interest, it would never have been fatal – far from it.  It has barely entered the muscle.  I imagine the poor boy’s hand was shaking so much, it was a miracle he hit the body at all.”

“But the grin – the boy swore Rogers was grinning at him, almost defying him to fire the gun.”

“Rigor mortis setting in, sir.  Under certain circumstances the face muscles are the first to tighten, pulling the lips back in a rather demonic smile – and of course, the boy may have been grinning when the knife went in.  More than likely it was post mortem rictus.”

“I find this most unlikely,” Gratten tried hard to deflate what he saw as intolerable pomposity on the part of the doctor, but he was singularly unsuccessful.  Dr. Herbert was on the solid ground of fact, and was enjoying watching the constable flailing in a morass of confusion and supposition, “Why should you think it unlikely?  The boy was stabbed in the back – and it is safe to assume he did not expect the blow.  One does not turn one’s back on a dagger.  If my reading of his character is correct, he had driven his assailant to murder by his appalling behaviour.  Underwood tells me that he found the discomfiture of others vastly amusing.  It is not difficult to imagine the scene.  He had probably said or done something utterly unforgivable and was laughing at the humiliation of his victim – unfortunately for both of them, on this occasion the victim struck back!”

Underwood was astounded.  The more he thought about the doctor’s news, the more convinced he became that he had known all along that there was something about the murder which had not fitted into the convenient explanation provided by Gratten.  Patrick Carter had merely been unlucky enough to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  Rogers had been dead for some time – possibly an hour or slightly more.  No one at the party really recalled when he had disappeared.  Only the killer, or killers knew that.  And they also knew why Rogers had agreed to meet them in the lane – although he had evidently not expected them to be armed.

“Is there anything else we should know?”  he asked.

“Yes.  There was a torn off fragment of paper in his hand.  I would say someone tried to remove it after death, but his fist was so tightly clasped that a little piece remained unseen between his fingers.”

“Is there anything written on it?”

“It’s very smudged, but it looks remarkably like a capital ‘R’.”  Dr. Herbert handed the scrap to Underwood, who examined it closely, his eyes narrowed, regretfully acknowledging, at least to himself, that he was going to have to consider getting spectacles.

“R for Rogers,” said Gratten dismissing the evidence with scorn.  He was still reeling from the doctor’s disclosures.

Underwood looked thoughtful, “Possibly.  But it helps us very little anyway.  It is so torn and smeared, it could quite easily be another letter – ‘B’ for example.”

  “Is there anything else, doctor?”  inquired Gratten, barely civil.  He felt the doctor had said more than enough for one day.

“I shall write a full report, naturally, but I don’t think there is anything I can add which will help your case along.  I merely reiterate that Patrick Carter, despite his other crimes, cannot hang for the murder of Godfrey Rogers unless it can be proved he had a long-bladed knife along with a gun.”

“He might have thrown it away, or sold it,” protested Gratten, not very convincingly.  Even he was sure Patrick Carter was merely a stupid, careless and frightened boy, and not a killer.

“Then find it, my friend, and find some witness who will swear the boy once possessed it.”

Mr. Gratten almost snarled, looking more like a bulldog than ever.  He had once thought almost as highly of Dr. Herbert as did Underwood, but he suddenly found he had never really fully trusted the man’s judgement.

“I’ll bid you good day, gentlemen,” he said stiffly.

Underwood rose swiftly to his feet, “Are you going back to Hanbury?”  The answer was a swift, bad-tempered nod, “Then might I plead for a ride?  I really must call and see Gil and Catherine.”

“I’ll come with you, if I may,” added the doctor, much to Gratten’s chagrin.

*

All thoughts of the murder were driven from their minds when they entered the vicarage.  The house was preternaturally silent, and it took a few moments before they realized why.  The one noise which was always present was missing.  Gil had removed the pendulum from the tall case clock in the hall, it’s deep, comforting, measured tick was gone.  The road outside the house had been overlaid with straw and sawdust to muffle the sounds of passing vehicles and animals, but it was the silent clock which made Underwood suddenly understand that Catherine really was dying.  The same thing had happened years before when his father had lain down for the final time, and he had never wanted to see a pendulum laid useless on a hall table ever again.

In the dim winter afternoon light which managed to filter in through the hall window, Underwood and Francis exchanged a glance, “Dear God,” whispered Underwood in anguish, “this is the end.  I have been trying to convince myself she would get well.”

Before Francis could frame a reply, Gil appeared at the top of the stairs and began to descend swiftly.  Both visitors were astounded that he should have grown so gaunt in the short period since they saw him last.  Underwood desired nothing more than to revert to the days when he had been the idol of his younger brother, when one word of his could wipe all trace of misery and fear from his sibling’s face.  It tore at his heart to no longer have that power, “Gil …”

“How is Verity?  Is the baby born yet?”  Gil took his brother’s outstretched hand and smiled warmly, but his grip was that of a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.  Underwood could only be humbled at the selflessness of the man.  For his first words to be of others, when his own world was crumbling about him, took a kind of courage which Underwood was not sure he understood, but knew he did not possess.

“She is well, but not yet a mother.  It seems my child is to be as contrary as its father.  We came to ask after Catherine.”

Gil seemed to notice Dr. Herbert for the first time, “My dear Francis, how are you?  Chuffy has been awaiting your arrival with impatience.”

“Yes, I know, but I am here now, and at your service, dear friend.  Is there anything I can do?”

“I fear not.  The end is very near.  I have been battling to bring a priest to my wife, but to no avail.  She is crying for the sacraments – something about extreme unction.  I do not fully understand it.  She is a pariah because she has married me, and now I can offer her no comfort …” his voice broke on the words and Underwood felt helplessly angry in the face of his distress.

Francis also looked pained.  He had not known Catherine well, but he had liked her, and his feelings for Gil were deep and sincere, “Is she fully conscious?”

“Not really.  The pain is so great, she has had a great deal of laudanum …”

“Underwood knows Latin, do you think that would help?”

Gil looked as though a great weight had been lifted from him, “I should be so grateful, Chuffy.  Do you think you could do it?  I cannot bear to see her so distraught, and be able to do nothing to ease her passing.”

Underwood had not attended a death bed since his father’s demise, and he had sworn never to attend another, but this was all he could do for his brother and sister-in-law now, and he did it gladly.

*

It was late when he arrived home – much later than he had originally intended, but that could hardly be helped.  Verity had begun to grow fretful, but one glance at her husband’s pale and tired face convinced her that something dreadful had indeed happened.  He took her in his arms and told her as gently as he could that her friend Catherine was dead.

Predictably she lashed herself into a frenzy of guilt-ridden weeping, “I should never have left her.  I
knew
she was more ill than any of you were admitting.  Oh, Cadmus, I never had the chance to say goodbye to her.  And Gil – poor, poor Gil!  How will he ever manage?  He must be devastated and I am not there for him, either.  How stupid I am, how weak and pathetic!  Why could I not have a baby easily like other women?”

“Please stop this, my love.  You must not distress yourself.  It is for that very reason you are in this situation now.  I know Catherine meant a great deal to you, but she would not have wanted you to risk your baby for her, would she?”

He had said, more by accident than design, the only thing which could possibly have calmed her just then, but though she ceased to sob and rant, still the tears fell.  He gave her his handkerchief, feeling helpless, as he always did when faced with a woman’s tears – even his wife’s.  She rarely cried and he had never grown used to the sensation of watching such visible and tender emotions.  He had spent the majority of his life almost exclusively in the company of men, and the display of the softer feelings was not generally encouraged – especially in the public school system, probably from a fear of the floodgates opening.

He waited until the storm seemed to have abated a little more, then ventured to speak gently to her, “Gil is taking it all very well.  He has a deep faith in God and that is helping him cope.  He confided that Catherine was very unhappy at losing her Catholic faith, and that her life without it would have been almost intolerable.  He feels strongly that they will be reunited in God’s care one day.  He also has Alistair to consider.  He is presently and very confused and distressed little boy.  Gil is trying to be strong for him.”

“Poor little Alistair.”  The thought of the now motherless child, who had so unselfishly given his rocking horse to her own baby, brought forth a renewed torrent and Underwood silently cursed his own folly.  He had known he would say the wrong thing.  He was not good at dealing with women and there was nothing to be done about it.  Damn his stupidity.

He realized a change of topic would be politic, “I’m afraid I will be required to leave you again tomorrow.  I feel I ought to attend Godfrey Rogers’ funeral, if only for his mother’s sake.”