Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (8 page)

The boy looked momentarily stunned, then he too forced a smile, “I ought to call you out for that, dear fellow!  I’m sure you cannot mean to reject an IOU from me.” 

“If you can’t pay, don’t play,” said Jeremy with seeming indifference.  Rogers hesitated for several tense seconds, before he laughed harshly and tossed his hand into the centre of the table, “Quite right!  Thank God you stopped me before I threw the deeds to the pile into the game.  Life without legs must be hard enough without my thrusting Hanbury Manor onto you.”  There was a wealth of contempt in his voice, and though Underwood saw Jeremy’s hands bunch into fists beneath the table, he gave no other sign that he has risen to the very hurtful bait.

“I apologize, Rogers.  It is not the done thing to suggest to a man that he should curb his play.  I only speak now, amongst friends, to warn you, with a lifetime of experience behind me, that any man who tries to live off his winnings is a fool.  Take if from one who knows, the banker always wins.”

Rogers’ face was the dull red of a man who tries, and nearly fails, to hold his temper in check and bite his tongue.  He rose so suddenly that his chair was thrust violently backwards, “By Gad, this conversation has taken a damned serious turn.  Don’t you know this is supposed to be a party – and if I am not very much mistaken, it is nearly time for the pyrotechnics.  Shall we adjourn?”

The relief with which this suggestion was greeted was almost tangible. 

As with everything else Rogers arranged, nothing but the best would do.  The fireworks were stunning.  Even Lady Cara, a devotee of the Vauxhall Gardens, was suitably impressed.  In the crush, Underwood lost sight of Rogers, but he was not unduly alarmed.  He felt perfectly at ease knowing both Toby and Gil were at the vicarage with Verity.  Besides, even Rogers would not have the temerity to walk away from his own party.  Before very long people would be taking their leave and, as host, he would have to be on hand to bid them farewell.  Having been so careful up to this moment, he was hardly likely to fall at so minor a fence by making his absence known to upwards of fifty guests.

Underwood was wrong.  When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, had danced until their feet ached, had craned their necks to watch the splendour of the fireworks and had finally begun to summon their carriages, Rogers was nowhere to be found.  His mother was mortified, imagining he had collapsed somewhere in a drunken heap.  Underwood could barely contain his impatience to leave and get back to the vicarage, and silently cursed Dr. Russell, who seemed in no particular hurry to say his goodbyes.  Part of him knew Mrs. Rogers’ whispered fears were probably correct, but he was worried now that Rogers had been up to his old tricks.  He wanted to get home, desperately, and his apprehension caused him to speak roughly to his elderly companion, but Dr. Russell seemed entirely serene, Underwood’s agitation causing him not the slightest pause.  It crossed Underwood’s mind to wonder if the old gentleman was losing his faculties.

At last they were in the carriage and Dr. Russell settled back with a contended sigh, “What a very satisfactory evening, Underwood.  I trust you also enjoyed yourself?”

“I have no real complaints, but I must own I am ready for my bed.  I have always found humanity
en masse
rather trying.”

“Yes,” murmured Dr. Russell thoughtfully, “You have a very valid point there, my friend.”

*

CHAPTER EIGHT

(“Fama Volat” – Rumour travels fast)

In the chilly half-light of a foggy morning, Farmer Broadstone trudged wearily along the little used lane which ran between his farm and Hanbury Manor.  He had walked this way every morning for the past thirty years, bringing the milk to the big house.  The short distance made the effort of hitching a wagon an unnecessary chore, but the sudden death of the old master and the threat of eviction from the new, made this journey suddenly wearisome.  The two lidded pails balanced on the worn wooden yoke were not particularly heavy, but he resented the weight now as much as he hated the trek.  For three generations his family had held Hanbury Farm, he himself had been born there, as had his two strapping sons, and now this young upstart Rogers had come back from London with the news that he intended to sell up and throw them all upon the mercy of the new owner – whoever that might prove to be!

It was as much as he could do to stop his boys (he thought of them thus, though there were both well into their twenties and towered over him) from crossing the fields and doing violence to young Rogers last evening, when the sounds of revelry, then the crack of fireworks, had drifted across to them, gathered as they were about their kitchen table, discussing what life might hold for them once the Manor was sold.

He knew how they felt.  He had wanted to strike the arrogant puppy himself when Rogers had smoothly told him, without a trace of regret or sympathy, that Hanbury was going under the hammer, and that their farm was included in the property.  When he had asked what was intended for himself and his family, Rogers had merely laughed harshly, “Dig out your savings, old man, perhaps you’ll have enough to buy the farm from me.  Make me an offer – you never know, you might catch me on a day when I’m feeling generous!”

Some hope of that day ever dawning.  The boy did not have a generous bone in his body.  He begrudged the servants their pay and his mother her keep.

Broadstone knew every inch of this path, and even through the mist he could discern something up ahead which should not be there.  All along the lane there were ditches, the piled soil dug from them so many years ago now forming the grassed-over mounded verges, all topped by an ancient hedgerow.  In the full glory of summer, it meant the road was almost a tunnel of greenery, but now that the autumn was sinking fast into winter, the hedges were sparser, the grass and wildflowers slowly dying back.  From a distance Broadstone thought he could see a bundle of clothes, but as he drew nearer he saw it was a man, head fallen back, resting against the base of the hedge, his hands palm upwards by his sides, his long legs apart, the picture of relaxation.

The farmer quickly realized it was none other than Godfrey Rogers himself.  With a grim smile the older man could not help hoping that sleeping outside all night in a drunken stupor had frozen the young buck to death, but still he hastened his steps until he reached the spot.  The thought of death had been brief and hardly credible, but as he sank to his knees, intending to shake the boy awake, he pulled his hand swiftly back.  The pallor of the face, the blue-rimmed lips, but most of all, the blood stained waistcoat all told their own story.  Rogers was dead, that much was evident, but drink and cold had not done the deed.

After several long seconds, during which all manner of thoughts crowded into his shocked and confused mind, the farmer staggered to his feet, slipping the milk-yoke off his shoulders, and broke into a shambling run.  There was no help to be had for the boy, but even so, he felt it behoved him to hurry.

*

The vicarage inhabitants were at breakfast when a messenger came to request the presence of Mr. Underwood at Hanbury Manor.  Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Underwood took the hastily scrawled note and broke the wafer.

“Oh dear God!”  His face grew wan as he perused Gratten’s letter, and when he raised his eyes, he found the gaze of the assembled company expectantly upon him.

“There has been an … accident.”  He did not know how else to phrase the news, for he had no desire to frighten or upset Verity, “Godfrey Rogers has been killed.  Mr. Gratten wants my advice, so I must go, now.”

Verity looked steadily at him, “If it is an accident, why does Mr. Gratten want you there?”

“I have no idea.  Perhaps there is some confusion as to how the incident occurred.”

“There must be,” agreed Verity cynically.  Underwood chose not to rise to the bait.  He certainly had no intention of describing the circumstances of Rogers’ death to his very pregnant wife.  His own feelings were of profound and overwhelming relief – but he did not wish to express that emotion to her, either.

Gil was getting to his feet even as they spoke, “I had better accompany you, Chuffy.  Mrs. Rogers will stand in need of solace.”

Underwood could not readily believe there was a soul in the world who would require comfort at hearing of Godfrey’s demise – not even his own mother, but he made no comment upon it, merely saying, “Very well, but hurry yourself.  Gratten seems desperate for support.  You know how he loves his status as Constable of Hanbury, but hates the notion that he might actually have to do something in pursuance of his position.”

In less than forty minutes they were stepping from a carriage onto the gravelled drive at the front of Hanbury Manor.  It was difficult to recall that they had been here only hours earlier, under very different circumstances.  There was still the faintest odour of spent fireworks in the misty air, a poignant reminder of Rogers’ overweening vanity, and lust for a spectacular lifestyle, which now proved to have availed him nothing.

He could not, reflected Underwood soberly, have been more than four and twenty; a wasted life, spent in pursuit of the illusion of happiness.

They had apparently been observed, for the door swung open before they had even reached the top step.  A grim-visaged butler ushered them into the hall, where they were met by a bustling, self-important Gratten, “Ah, Underwood, at last – and you have brought your brother.  Most wise.  Mrs. Rogers is naturally devastated.  A very bad business indeed.”

“So it would see.  Where shall Gil find the lady?”

“The green withdrawing room.  Sneddon will show you the way, Rev. Underwood.  You will come with me, Underwood.”

Never imagining in his worst nightmares what Gratten was about to do to him, Underwood obediently followed, like a lamb to the slaughter – though in this case, the slaughter was of another.

                  They entered an unheated room at the back of the house, the floor stone-flagged and vast, the only furniture a huge, rough hewn table, but with all manner of hooks, pulleys, chains and ropes hanging from the walls and ceilings.

“The old game larder,” explained Gratten, catching Underwood’s puzzled look, “Hasn’t been used properly in years, since the house has not been the venue for any really big shoots since old Mr. Rogers inherited from his father.  He wasn’t a hunting man.  We thought it would be suitably cool in here.”

These words coupled with the bulk under the dust-sheeted table suddenly alerted Underwood to the horrible truth, “By all that is holy!  Were you intending to show me the boy’s body?”  he asked in an utterly appalled tone.

Gratten looked more than a little surprised, “But of course.  How else can you give me an opinion?”

“Pray put such a notion right out of your head, my friend!  I
never
examine dead bodies.  It is not one of the things I do.  Leave it to the doctor, but do not ever involve me.”

“But you held Mrs. Dunstable in your arms as she died,” recalled Gratten, remembering the murder of just a few months before.  He was genuinely puzzled by this unexpected display of squeamishness on the part of the man upon whose help he was prepared to rely.

“I did not know then that she was dying.  I tried to help her – and you would have noticed I dropped her swiftly enough when I realized she was dead!”

“So, you won’t look at Rogers?”

“Certainly not!  I will, however, send an express letter to Dr. Herbert, but further than that I will not go.”

“But you do intend to help with the investigation?”

“Is there to be one?  Are you sure the boy did not shoot himself?  He was deeply in debt, from all I have heard, and facing a protracted court case against his own mother.  Enough, I would have thought, to send anyone over the edge of sanity.”

“Is it likely he would commit suicide during his own party?”

“Knowing Rogers’ sense of humour, that would be the very time he would do it.  What better way to leave the world than in the midst of opulence and merriment – and knowing that no one who attended the occasion was ever going to forget it.”

“True enough!  Well, I cannot be sure the wound was not self-inflicted – that is why I wanted your opinion.  But I must own, I strongly doubt suicide.  It would appear to be damned difficult, if not downright impossible to hold the gun at the angle he did, then pulled the trigger.”

“You said in your note he was shot in the chest?”

“Yes.”

“Suicide by pistol is more generally aimed at the head.”

“I realize that, but no possibility must be overlooked.”

“No, of course not.  Have you any idea how long he has been dead?”

“Not exactly, but preliminary questioning of all those present last night would appear to indicate that he did leave during or immediately after the party – and not very early this morning, for example.  His bed had not been slept in.  You were here last night – when did you last see him?”

“Just before the fireworks began – about eleven, I think.  The display was quite spectacular and went on for at least an hour.  Rogers never stinted, even when he did not have the money to pay for his entertainment.”

“During the fireworks would, of course, have been the ideal time for the murderer – if it was murder – to fire the fatal shot!  One extra explosion would not have been noticed, and one could be sure that the entire gathering would be held fascinated by the display.  Also almost everyone was outside, milling about in the dark, probably even the servants.  It would be extremely unlikely that either Rogers or his killer would be missed.”

“Quite.  But if it was murder, how did the killer know where to find Rogers?  It seems he was killed on the spot where his was found, and not moved after death, so was he followed from the house, was it a chance meeting, or a pre-arranged rendezvous?”

“I suggest we go and examine the place for ourselves – or does that offend your delicacy of principle too?”

“Very droll, Mr. Gratten.  Lead the way.  I assure you that it only corpses to which I have any real objection – and, I might add, I find that a perfectly reasonable, not to say healthy, attitude.”

Gratten laughed, “You are a strange fellow, Underwood!  Did your mother never tell you that the dead can’t hurt you?”

“My mother told me a great many things, sir, and she was entirely wrong about most of them.”

*

As Underwood had secretly feared, the lane yielded little useful information, for, in their eagerness to remove the body, half a dozen men had wandered about, successfully destroying any footprints which might have given a clue to the identity of Godfrey’s assailant – should there ever have been one.  Underwood firmly believed that to be the only possible explanation for the young man’s sudden, violent demise, for, in spite of his words to the contrary, Underwood did not really believe Rogers was the sort to take his own life.  He was a gambler – and the one attribute which characterized all gamblers was their unshakeable belief that the next turn of the card, the next horse, the next throw of the dice, would be the one which would make their fortune.  Gamblers usually died by someone else’s hand, not their own.

Rising from the stoop which he had assumed to peruse the spot where the unfortunate Rogers had apparently breathed his last, Underwood glanced about him.

“This lane is not overly used.  The grass grows in the wheel ruts.  Does it lead anywhere but the farm and the manor?”

“Oh yes, it branches at the farm and leads to the highroad.  As you observe, it is not greatly utilized, but it is indeed a through road.  Anyone who knows the district well would be aware of it and probably use it.  It is quite a short cut between Higher and Lower Hanbury.”

“That is rather unfortunate.”

“How so?”

“Simply because I was hoping to narrow down the list of suspects.  As it is, it merely opens up the list to include almost the entire population!  If it had only been an access between Hanbury Manor and the farm, we would have known that the meeting betwixt Godfrey and his killer was probably an arranged thing – at least on the part of one of them.  Now we have to admit that even though Rogers had half his acquaintance after his blood, his killer could just as easily have been someone he met by chance.”

“Do you think it was?”

“Knowing Rogers as I did, I take leave to doubt it.  But that really has no bearing on the matter just now.  We must not allow ourselves to be swayed by speculation – not even by the assumption that he was murdered – though I’d stake my life he was!”

“Dr. Herbert must be sent for immediately.  It is a great pity we cannot persuade him to take up residence in Hanbury.  It would save a great deal of time.”