Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (23 page)

Elliott and Wyndham-Rogers had been thus far too shocked to interrupt, not really fully comprehending the situation, but at this, Elliott at least, came to life.  His jaw jutted belligerently, his one remaining fist clenched, “I think the lady has made herself clear, sir!  Would you care to step outside?”

Fabian smiled kindly, a vast well of pity for the young man showing in his expression, “My dear boy, I see that you have been enchanted by her – as have so many others before you.  Pray do not let the bewitching minx blind you to her true character.”

“I repeat the request.  Kindly step outside!  No lady should be subjected to this public display of ill-mannered…”

“Lady?”  Fabian was no longer gentle.  His tone was not only harsh, but cruel, “You poor fool!  You have been even more dazzled than I suspected.”

Elliott dealt him an open-handed blow, which Woodward accepted stoically, but which made Ophelia wince and close her eyes, as though the pain were her own,

“Thomas, I beg of you, do not pursue this…”

Wyndham-Rogers, finally thinking of something he could do which would not involve him in fisticuffs, took her arm, “My dear Miss Knight, allow me to escort you away from this unseemly scene.”

Ophelia, throwing a reproachful glance towards the adversaries, allowed him to lead her out of the pump-rooms.

*

                 True to his promise, Gil rose early and drove a hired gig out to Windward House to fetch Alistair, so that the arranged visit to his grandparents could take place.

Evidently the little boy had been sitting at the window awaiting his arrival, for as he walked up the path, the front door flew open and Alistair raced towards him, his arms flung wide.  It occurred to Gil that this was the first time the child had shown him such open affection and the determination to do right by him became even stronger.  Without further ado, he sank to his haunches and clasped the thin little body to him.

“Papa Gil, I watched for you!  Toby says we are going home now.”

The arms were tight about his neck, but it was not this which choked him.  He took a moment to regain his composure before he asked diffidently, “You mean home to the vicarage?”

“Of course.  Is Uncle Chuffy there?”

“No… he’s out of town – but pray do not say so to Aunt Verity.  He is planning a surprise for her and…”

“I know.  We must not spoil his surprise.  Can we go home?”

“Have you not enjoyed being here with Aunt Verity?”

“Oh, yes, but Toby makes me walk quietly so as not to disturb her.  I want to go home.”

“We must see your grandparents Pennington first.  They are in Hanbury and want you to visit.”

“Very well.” It was a concession, graciously given.

As they went indoors Gil raised a difficult subject, “You know that they want you to go and live with them, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to go, do I?”

“Not if you don’t want to.  I would never make you do anything which would make you unhappy, but they feel they would like you to at least consider it.”

The lower lips trembled slightly and large eyes were lifted to his face, “Don’t you want me to stay with you, papa Gil?”

Gil’s grip on the small hand tightened, “More than anything, my son.”

“Good.”  The child recovered his equanimity with a speed which stunned Gil, who had little dealings with children and had no idea of the resilience they could sometimes display, “Come and see Aunt Verity.  She has been asking for you.”

He allowed himself to be led up the stairs and into Verity’s room, whereupon Alistair ran off to collect his belongings and left the two alone.  Verity was still in bed and her smile was warm, but slightly reticent, “I hope I did not distress you, Gil, with the portrait of Catherine?”

“Not at all.  You captured her likeness perfectly.  I shall treasure it always – as will Alistair.  He is so very young that the day may dawn when he finds he has only the vaguest memory of her.”

Her proffered hand was clasped and he seated himself on the edge of her bed – a liberty he would have taken with no other woman but her.  This relaxed attitude, however, did not stretch to enquiring after her pregnancy and his curiously formal,

“How are you feeling?”  made her smile and answer with perfect gravity, “I’m well, thank you, but I am told my poor Cadmus is suffering!  Is his cold very bad?  How he hates to be ill when I am not about to pander to his every whim.  Is Toby taking care of him?"

“He’ll survive,” answered the vicar, more tersely than he intended, and with a note of forlorn hope which did not evade the sharp ears of his loving sister-in-law.

“Is something troubling you, Gil?” she asked gently.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”  He was relieved to be able to change the subject with perfect truth, “As we had always suspected they might, Alistair’s grandparents are trying to take him away from me.”

“Oh, my dear!  I am so very sorry.  You must be distraught.”

“All the more so,” agreed Gil disconsolately, “because I am not entirely convinced they do not have a right to claim the boy.  He is, after all, their only surviving relative.  My only claim to him is that his mother did not want him to be raised in the stifling atmosphere which had haunted his father’s upbringing.  We discussed the matter fully and I understood that she was not given a particularly warm welcome into the family, nor did her late husband relate well to them.  He left home as soon as he was able, and they barely spoke for years.  In those circumstances, it is scarcely surprising that she recalled them with little fondness – but does that give me the right to keep them from their own flesh and blood?  As a minister I feel sure that had any of my parishioners come to me with this dilemma, I should unhesitatingly side with the grandparents.”

“Have you discussed any of this with them?”

“Naturally not.  How could I, an outsider, accuse them of raising their own son so badly that his last wish was that they had no influence over their grandson?  My stance has been firmly upon the final request of Catherine.”

She looked thoughtfully at him, “How does Alistair feel?”

“Bless his heart – he wants to stay with Papa Gil.”

“Then there can be no other home for him.”

              He smiled sadly, “But how do I tell the Penningtons?”

“With great firmness,” was the sage advice she offered.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

(Fabas Indulcet Fames” – Hunger makes everything taste good – Literally “hunger sweetens beans”)

Mr. Gratten gave an audible groan as he stepped down from his carriage, the frosty grass and dead leaves crunching pleasantly beneath his feet.  His lumbago was troubling him again and an early rising, followed by an interminable hour in a frozen field was not going to improve it.

He was joined by his assistant John Turner, an overly enthusiastic young fellow, whose passion for his self-imposed task made Gratten feel not only old, but also rather inept.  He could admit to himself – though never to anyone else! – that his was lost without Underwood’s guiding hand, but his bombastic exterior hid his insecurities from the world.

“Has the doctor arrived yet?” he asked in clipped tones, hoping sincerely that it might be so.  Dr. Herbert made a poor second to Underwood, but he was better than nothing.

“Yes sir.  He’s in the field now.”

“And the fellow who found the body?”

“There also.”

“Lead the way then.”

Turner showed him a convenient gap in the hedge and they both stepped carefully through it, for there was much evidence of the cattle that usually used the exit bespattering the area.

Dr. Herbert and Samuel Broadstone were awaiting their arrival, beside something which lay at the foot of the opposite hedge, and they retreated respectfully back a pace or two as the Constable approached.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” was his polite greeting, “What do we have here?”

The doctor answered him, “Middle-aged male, killed with a single stab wound to the heart through the back.  He has been dead a good while.”

“Days?  Weeks?”

“Well, it can’t be more than two days, because that was the last time he was seen alive.”

Gratten raised his brows and drew close enough to view the body for himself,

“We know him, then?”

“See for yourself,” Dr. Herbert pulled back the piece of old horse blanket which had been used by the thoughtful Broadstone to cover the face of the dead man.  Gratten whistled under his breath, “Oh dear!”

The face had a bluish tinge, rimed with the frost of the early morning and looking for all the world like a child’s drawing of Jack Frost; with spiked ice particles adhering to the brows, lashes and hair, but for all that, instantly recognizable.  Mr. Gratten raised his concerned gaze to meet that of the doctor, “I hope to God he was not responsible for Underwood’s disappearance, because if he was, Lady Cara and Underwood are hidden somewhere and the only man who knows where is stiffer than a deer three days after a shoot!”

“Would to God that were our only problem, Mr. Gratten.”

“What do you mean?”

Dr. Herbert transferred his glance back down to the body lying at his feet, “In my humble opinion, sir, this man was killed by the same hand that slew Rogers.”

“Why should you think so?”

“The same
modus operandi
.  A single, very deep, stab wound to the back of the victim.  I don’t know if you are aware of this, but it is not the easiest thing in the world to kill a person by stabbing through the back – at least not with one blow.  This was done by someone who knew the exact spot to strike for quick death and minimal blood loss.  Our killer must have walked away with barely a blood stain upon his person.”

It was Gratten’s turn to look thoughtful; “Does anyone know how he came to be here?”

“Marks in the grass would tend to indicate he was dragged across the field from our point of entry.”

“So he probably met his killer on the lane?”

“As did Rogers,”

“And it would seem they both came willingly to meet him – or might it be her?”

“I would guess at a man.  Our victim is not particularly tall, but he is stout, and it is no easy task dragging a dead body backward over grass, especially with long skirts to hamper one.”

“Very well, we’ll assume male.  But a man whom our victims was not unwilling to meet.  Evidently they did not fear for their lives, or they would not have agreed to the rendezvous – and they would have been prepared for an attack.  It seems they were not afraid to turn their backs on the murderer.”

“Perhaps they met by accident,” offered Turner helpfully.  Gratten quelled his pretensions with a glance, “That hardly seems likely, does it?  There must be a motive for these murders, but I’m dashed if I can see it!”

“Not necessarily,” pursued the courageous young man; he was apprehensive of the consequences of contradicting his superior, but also determined to add his theory to the discussion, “Our killer might simply choose his victims at random.”

“Then he chooses remarkably remote locations in which to lurk.  If his lust is for stabbing unknown men, then he would find a great deal more prey down any back alley in Hanbury, than wandering about the countryside with a huge dagger, hoping that he might run into someone out for a stroll in the freezing cold of a Pennine winter!”

Successfully outwitted by Gratten’s ineffable, if somewhat unkindly stated, logic, Turner subsided into an abashed silence.  Feeling rather sorry for him, Dr. Herbert took over the questioning, “But if it was not random, then what is the connection?  Why kill Rogers and Conrad?  We are aware that they were acquainted, but who would want them both dead – and why?  We know Rogers owed Conrad a great deal of money and that Conrad had arranged to be paid even if Rogers died, but to my mind that merely gives them a reason to kill each other – not for a third party to kill them both.”

Gratten shrugged, rather irritated that the doctor should ask the one question to which he could provide no sensible answer, “That we may discover in due course,” he said dismissively, “In the meantime, have you seen all you wish to?  I think we might move the body and continue this discussion somewhere warmer.”

Samuel, son of Farmer Broadstone, now spoke up for the first time; “Do you need me any longer?  I have to help my brother with the animals.  We know there has been a murder, but they don’t.”

Mr. Gratten, irascible as always with those he considered his inferior, asked gruffly, “Why are you here, anyway?”

“I found the body, sir.”

This brought Gratten’s head up with a jerk, “Did you indeed?  I find that extremely worrying, young man, since it was your father who found the body of Rogers.  What were you doing here?”

“It’s our field,” was the stoic reply, “We had some cattle wandering a few weeks ago, so I thought I would check the hedges whilst it was empty of livestock.”

“How very convenient!”  Gratten rejoined cynically, “I think you had better come into town with us, my man, and answer a few questions.”

Samuel hunched his shoulders impatiently, but he did not refuse.  He knew there was very little point in doing so, once the constable had the bit between his teeth.

*

Underwood had reached the edge of desperation.  Quite apart from the sheer discomfort in which he and Cara were being kept, he was feeling increasingly unwell, and hourly more frantic about his wife.  His baby could be born and he knew nothing of it.  His wife could be dead, ill or merely fretting about him.  Had her own mother not died giving birth to Verity?  How did he know she would not be taken the same way?  The thoughts and concerns which chased each other across his mind were driving him into a barely concealed frenzy.  It was this feeling of horror that he had nothing to lose which prompted him to quietly outline a plan which seemed to Cara to be foolhardy at best, and at worst, positively dangerous.  However she was feeling almost as wretched as he; their close proximity had been a torture to her, loving him as she did, and knowing his passion and thoughts were all for another woman.  She was quite as eager to escape as he.

Accordingly they lay beside the fire and prepared to sleep, Underwood having extinguished all but one lantern.

Presently their captor returned and he could not resist the temptation to approach closely, the lack of light forcing him to venture nearer than was wise, as Underwood had prayed it would.

The moment he leaned over the ostensibly soundly sleeping Underwood, he found his throat gripped with a strength which made him gasp and struggle for breath.  The adrenaline of frustration and pure fury gave Underwood a power which surprised even himself.  Almost before he knew what he was about, he was on his feet, grappling with the man who had suddenly become the victim instead of an assailant.  He strove to wrest Underwood’s fingers from his neck, gasping in his efforts, and Underwood found himself fading fast.  He was never going to be a match for the boy, who had youth and immense strength on his side, so in a last despairing effort, he employed a trick that Toby had once confided to him before he had to let go.  He jerked forward with his head down and his forehead came satisfactorily into contact with the other man’s nose and he heard the crack as it broke, swiftly followed by the sound of blood spattering profusely onto the rocky floor of the cave.

              The moment Underwood released him, he took to his heels and ran, but not before both Underwood and the now wide awake Cara had taken note of the direction he took.  Underwood reached out and grasped her hand, jerking her to her feet, “Come, Cara, Quickly!  We mustn’t lose him!”  He grabbed the lantern and set off in hot pursuit.

She staggered and stumbled after him, her hair falling over her face, her breath coming in short, frantic, frightened gasps.  Why, oh why did men never remember that women wore stays?  Perspiration began to pour down her cheeks, her underarms were damp and she felt a trickle run down between her breasts – thank God he did not know of it.  She would have been mortified had he known she could sweat like any common labouring woman.

Suddenly they stopped and for a moment she did not care why, merely dropping her head and drawing the air into her lungs with painful heaves.

“Damn!” muttered her companion and she forced herself to lift her head and see the cause of the swearing.  It was not good.  They had come to a parting of the ways, without any idea which fork was the right one.  Underwood strained his ears, but there was no sound, nothing to give them a clue.

He walked an experimental step or two forward, but he was hesitant now, only too aware that the wrong choice could result in disaster.  Cara saw something on the floor glisten briefly in the lantern-light and she quickly drew his attention to it, “What is that, Underwood?”  He crouched, holding the lantern close as he examined the mystery, then rose with a triumphant grin, “Our friend has carelessly allowed his blood to stain the floor, my dear.  I not only managed to give the scoundrel a broken nose, I have also laid a trail for us to follow out of here.  Let us pray he doesn’t manage to staunch the flow before we get out.”

Half an hour later she was sobbing with relief as fresh air hit her in the face.  It was bitterly cold and the wind brought tears into her eyes, but she drank it in like nectar.  He put a comforting arm about her shoulders and she clung to him, half-hysterical, “Thank God, oh thank God!  I thought we were going to die in that ghastly place.”

He shook her gently.  The last thing he needed now was a fit of the vapours.  They still had the moor to traverse before they were truly safe, “Brace up, Cara!  We are not out of the woods yet – or should I say, across the moors. You have rather a long walk ahead of you.”

She did not care.  How many hours had they been trapped in that stinking hole?  To be out side in the air and light, that was all, at the moment, that she wanted.  This euphoria was not destined to last for long.  She had been wearing riding boots when she had been thrown from her horse and she soon began to regret the footwear.  The soles were thin leather and she could feel every pebble and stone under her feet.  The bracken, heather and cruel brambles tore at her dress as she staggered after Underwood down a sheep path and her sweat-damp clothes now clung to her body with icy determination.  He barely seemed to notice her distress, nor his own discomfort.  He was merely thanking providence that he had taken several pleasure jaunts on the moors around Hanbury in the previous summer, and could now be vaguely sure that he was heading in the right direction.  

*

Francis Herbert had barely entered his lodgings when he was dragged forth again.  The message he received was straightforward enough.  Mrs. Milner begged him to attend for Mrs. Underwood had been in labour since the early hours of the morning and the baby now seemed imminent.

He shrugged himself back into his greatcoat, grabbed his bag and followed the bearer of the missive out to the waiting carriage.  He was expected by Gratten to perform the post mortem examination upon the body of Barclay Conrad, but they would both have to wait.

The search for Underwood had been exhaustive, but fruitless and Dr. Herbert was beginning to despair.  The death of Barclay Conrad was a worrying development, for if he was, in truth, the author of Cara and Underwood’s misfortune, then they could be lost forever in the labyrinth of limestone above the town of Hanbury.  All Francis could do for his old friends was to deliver their child safely – and he fully intended to do so, to the exclusion of all other duties.