A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (17 page)

“You are just jealous because he has not singled you out for his attentions,” said Roberta, rather cattily. 

Belinda blushed, “That was unkind and untrue, sister,” she said, “In fact I find him very slightly unnerving.”

“Your instincts do you credit, Miss Belinda,” said Underwood, “I do believe he is our man. I suspect he has some woman as an accomplice, but he is the perfect character for this type of situation. In fact he is a winner whichever way the wind blows, for if he cannot manage to steal the gems, there is always a chance that he will be able to bag himself a rich and elderly wife.”

“But where does he hide the jewels, Mr Underwood?  Everyone in the Pump Rooms was searched after Mrs Winnington’s emeralds were stolen.”

                Rather than answer the question, Mr Underwood called Mr Sutton over. 

              The gentleman obeyed with alacrity, well aware that Underwood was held in high regard in Hanbury.

“Mr Underwood, I do not believe we have been formally introduced, but may I say how honoured I am that you appear to know my name,” he said, bowing low to Underwood and his lady companions, “May I be of assistance?”

“You may, Mr Sutton,” said Underwood, rising to his feet, “I have a wager with the ladies that I could guess the title of your book.  I swear it is Robinson Crusoe, but Miss Belinda insists that was last week’s title and you could not possibly be still reading the same tome.”

              The smile was a little false, “Alas, Miss Belinda is correct; I am still ploughing through the adventures of Mr Crusoe.” He clutched the book protectively to his chest, but Underwood was not to be deterred.

              Before the man could do anything to prevent him, the book was snatched from his fingers in an action so unexpected that the ladies gasped.

“One of my favourite stories, pray let me see where you are up to,” said Underwood smoothly. 

              Sutton tried desperately to grab it back but Underwood was too quick for him.  He opened the book and there, nestled in the centre, where a hole had been gouged in the pages for the purpose, was a diamond brooch.

“Well done, ladies,” said Underwood, “You caught our sneak thief!”

“How the devil did you know?” growled Sutton viciously.

“You’ve been clutching a book and never reading since you arrived,” said Underwood, “And when, a few days ago I set my brother to direct a Latin quotation at you, you had no idea what he meant.  Let me tell you, Sutton, if that is your real name, there is not a school teacher in the land who does not know that
tempus fugit
means ‘time flies’, for it is engraved on every clock face that ever counted down the dull, interminable hours spent watching little boys avoiding work.”

It did not take long for Sir George to arrive and remove the gentleman to a place of confinement, whereupon the Misses Northfleet also departed, shocked and excited by their remarkable discernment in unmasking the robber.

Verity watched them scuttle away, still twittering at each other, “Dear Bill and Bob,” she said warmly, “I wonder that they don’t kill each other, for all they claim undying affection.”

Underwood lifted a quizzical brow, “Bill and Bob?” he queried.

Verity laughed, “A soubriquet bestowed by the Hanbury ladies,” she explained, “but pray never use it to their faces. Belinda and Roberta have no idea that they are gently mocked by most of their acquaintance.”

“Dear God,” he responded, “What the devil do they call me?”

“You don’t want to know, my love,” teased Verity. “There is, however, something I should like to clarify.”

“What is that, sweetheart?”

“You told Mr Sutton that you had directed Gil to quote Latin to him.”

“Did I?”

“You did. But you must have made that request some time ago – which leads me to suppose that you had already suspected Mr Sutton and all this supposed disinterest in the robberies was a mere blind. And in spite of being warned off by George Gratten, you had every intention of unmasking the robber!”

He smiled, “My dear Verity, you really do have the most suspicious mind.”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

(Extract from a journal discovered by C H Underwood, Winter, 1829)

             
We surprised ourselves by how quickly we became proficient with the firearm – desperation can work miracles indeed, for the sooner we could put our plan into action, the sooner we would be free.

              I still cannot believe that the other servants did not know what was going on in that cellar. The noises we made were certainly muffled, but I cannot imagine they were entirely silenced by the thick walls – I like to think that though they were not courageous enough to offer us their help, they possessed sufficient sympathy for our plight that they chose not to interfere. They could not be unaware that there was something very wrong with my father’s behaviour. He was too arrogant to hide his true nature in his own home, devious as he undoubtedly was outside the walls of the house, and he believed he had them all in his thrall because he paid them so well.

              Whatever the truth, nothing was ever said, not even after my father’s ‘unsolved’ murder.

              But I am getting ahead of myself for that was in the future, and I need to explain exactly how I managed to kill him, and  then avoid prosecution.

              Once we were sure we could both shoot with the accuracy needed to ensure a clean kill – injury would not do, for we could not risk his survival – the next part of the plot was perfected.

              I could not easily leave the house, I was too closely observed, but X could move freely about in the hours between any tasks, and so it fell to X to follow my father whenever he left the house so that we might become familiar with his habits. We needed just one moment when he would be alone and unnoticed so that the bullet could be fired, leaving us enough time to flee the scene. We could not allow ourselves to be caught in the act.

              This shadowing went on for three weeks before we were satisfied that we had pinpointed the time and place where he would finally meet his destiny.

              He was, it seemed, a creature of habit – most of them bad, it must be admitted, but that admirably suited our purposes.

              Most of his excursions involved drink, opium or women of ill-repute, but he was careful to ensure that he also spent plenty of time with other men of business in order to maintain the illusion of a prosperous, hard-working gentleman of means.

              It would be his less salubrious occupations which gave us our best chance – coupled with my desire that he should die in a way which exposed his perfidy.

              X thought – hoped! – that I would allow the fatal shot to issue from X’s pistol, but I had no such intention. I was never going to allow X to court danger and only allowed the shooting lessons as a cover for my real intentions.

              I would be the one to kill him.

              But we had to create the illusion that I had never left the house.

              A piece of cotton thread was to be my saviour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘A Fronte Praecipitium, A Tergo Lupi’ – In front a fall from a great height, behind wolves – to choose between two appalling alternatives

              Will Jebson felt like a man standing on a precipice, but he didn’t really know why he was dogged by a feeling of constant apprehension. On the surface nothing had changed. He was married to Martha; they had two children to care for and a business to run. It was true that Martha had suddenly taken this crazed notion into her head about moving to Hanbury and had followed up this folly by suggesting that he try to run two shops half a day’s journey apart, but why should that make him feel that something fundamental was shifting, that his whole world was turning upside down? He had lived all his life in West Wimpleford, and the idea of moving was daunting, but after all, he was a grown man with responsibilities and more and more people were leaving their homes and searching farther afield for employment. There had been a time when a man would live and die without ever having travelled a mile from the place where he had been born, but the countryside no longer held the majority of jobs. Industrialization was taking over and cities grew larger with every passing year. Of course that held its own problems, but Will knew nothing of that, only that he was a man lost in a situation not of his making.

              No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that everything was well, the feeling of impending doom refused to leave him.

              To the dispassionate observer his house had never been more smoothly run, his children never happier, and the whole atmosphere more peaceful.  Even the sulky Lucy was moved to smile occasionally, her workload was so much less now thanks to the newcomer. In spite of this, she was steadfast in her enmity of the inoffensive and eager to please Violette.

              It was true that Lucy’s only relative, a brother, had been killed at Waterloo and so she refused to countenance the girl, even though she was adamant in claiming she was not in actuality French. Lucy didn’t care which part of the Continent she came from, she was not going to share her room with her or sit with her in the evenings in the cosy kitchen, chatting over a basket of mending. Will could have insisted and threatened Lucy with dismissal if she refused, but it seemed easier to accept that Violette was going to have to spend her evenings in the sitting room with him.

              It should not have been a hardship to him for as time went on he found he liked her more and more, mainly because she was kind and gentle with his children. She showed endless patience with them and even made progress in their education, which had previously been sadly neglected by their mother on the presumption that they could never overcome their birth defects. He had been astounded when Prue and Minta had delightedly told him the French words for various items around the house. He had secretly despaired of their ever learning proper English, so to hear them use and understand French was overwhelming. They had little idea of grammar in either language and confined themselves to single words or the sort of simple sentences infants used when learning to speak, but he had never imagined they would ever know the French words for such items as table, chair and doll. He began to slowly realize that though the girls would always be a little slow, and would always need care, there was no reason to believe that they could not one day perform simple tasks and lead useful lives, instead of being confined to home, forever written off as a burden.

              In the company of a woman who listened to them and answered their questions and tried to fulfil their requests, the two little girls ceased to be the cowed and basically silent creatures they had been under their mother’s care. She had been so afraid of the neighbours’ pitying glances and condescending comments that she had scarcely ventured out of the house with her children and Will was ashamed to admit that he had allowed her to do it, more concerned with her contentment than his children’s welfare.

              All this unwonted introspection made him feel awkward in Violette’s presence and for the first two weeks they barely exchanged a word. He stayed as late as he could in the shop, ostensibly showing Joe what would be required of him if he was to be trusted with the day to day running of the establishment, but in reality merely avoiding going home at any cost.

              For her part, Violette hardly noticed that he was aloof and unfriendly. Her first reaction was one of grateful relief that she was housed, fed, clean and warm. She had endured several years of hunger and degradation after fleeing France after the defeat of Napoleon – for, of course, Underwood had been quite right in his assessment. She was French, but her mother was English and thus she had been unwelcome in the homeland of her father when the British had triumphed. Orphaned, penniless and without even a country to call home, she had chosen to try and make a life in England as a better alternative to a France bankrupted by a lost war and which suddenly viewed her as the enemy.

              Sadly her distant English relatives had been quite as hostile and unwelcoming as the Gallic side. They had not wanted her parents to marry and had cast them off without mercy. The child of that marriage was considered an embarrassment and she managed to get no farther than the front step of the London mansion before she was sent away by an implacable servant.

              From there she had drifted into whatever work she could find, trying desperately to disguise her accent and claiming to be from Flanders when challenged. She had managed to gain employment as a governess, for being able to teach French was still desirable, but without references she was ill-paid and ill-treated. She had considered herself fortunate when she had been taken on by the travelling players, but she had soon learned that she was viewed as little better than a prostitute by both the audience and fellow actors and had spent most of her time fighting off unwanted advances. Truth be told, she had accepted a few men as lovers when they had taken her fancy, but it had been fleeting, for no matter how deeply her affections were engaged, the men rarely, if ever, felt the same way and she had been used and abused more times than she cared to recall.

              It was hardly surprising that she was inclined to see her present occupation as heaven-sent. Two undemanding little girls who wanted only to play and to be loved, an absent mistress; a master who spent more time out of the house than in and when there, treated her with old-fashioned courtesy and something approaching trepidation. She would have preferred Lucy to have been a little more amicable, for she was isolated and craving company but she could happily manage without a friend if the servant girl was determined to be her enemy. She cared little either way. She had learned the hard way to be self-sufficient.

              However, it grew too onerous to sit evening after evening with Will Jebson, in uncomfortable silence or exchanging the most basic of pleasantries and after two weeks of this she resolved to clear the air between them.

              He was reading a newspaper and she was hemming a nightdress for Prue. The evening was warm and they had the window open, but the curtains drawn so as to deter any moths which might have fluttered into the room, attracted by the flickering candlelight.

              She laid aside her stitching, “Mr Jebson, tell me, have I done something to offend or annoy you?”

              He lowered the paper and looked at her, startled and shamefaced, “Of course not. Whatever makes you think that?”

              “I can only imagine my work is not satisfactory, then.”

                 “Why would you think so? I have been delighted with the progress you have made with my daughters.”

              She smiled sadly, “You might perhaps have told me so,” she chided him gently. “I have been so worried that you were about to tell me that my services are no longer required.”

              “Good gad, no!” he exclaimed, hastening to reassure her, “I could not have managed these past weeks without you – and the girls obviously adore you, which has relieved my mind greatly in the absence of their mother.”

              “I’m so pleased. They are charming little girls and I have grown fond of them – but they miss you and often ask why you are seeing so little of them. I was afraid it was my fault and you disliked me so greatly that you could not bear my company.”

              He was left speechless by her candour and his own guilty conscience and he found he could not meet her eyes. Not that he was unaware of their appeal. He knew they were dark brown and expressive, long lashes brushed her pale, unblemished cheeks and emphasised the heart-shaped face, framed by dark hair.

              She waited for him to respond and when he did nothing but redden slightly and look at his feet, she smiled a secretive smile and asked, “If we are perfect friends again, perhaps you will spare me and the children an afternoon and take us on a picnic? The weather is too fine to waste, for if I have learned one thing about this country of yours, it is that the sun may not always shine.”

              The talk of the weather gave him the chance to recover his equilibrium and he managed a small laugh, “That is all too true. But I am very busy just now, with this move to Hanbury ...”

              “Please?” she said, her accent strongly apparent over the drawn out vowels.

              He ignored the apprehension he felt, “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”

              She was delighted, “That is wonderful. Tomorrow I will ask Lucy to help me prepare a basket of delicacies and we shall walk by the river. The girls will love it.”

              When she left the room to go up to bed, he wondered why he felt like a condemned man walking to the gallows instead of a fond father going on an outing with his daughters.

*

              He went to the shop early the next morning, promising to be back in time to take his little family to eat their midday meal by the river. During a largely sleepless night he had decided that he must keep his vow, but he could make the outing as short as he possibly could. Luncheon was sufficient, then he could plead he needed to return to town and continue with his urgent tasks.

              As he unlocked the door of the apothecary shop, he realized that he actually did have one urgent errand which he had so far neglected. He needed to see Rutherford Petch and hand in his notice on the cottage and assure his landlord that he intended to keep the business premises, at least for the present.

              He gave Joe instructions on what was needed for the day then he set off to walk to Pershore House, hoping that he would be early enough to catch the Captain still at home. His gruelling daily round of riding and visiting his tenants had become legendary in the past few months. It seemed he could not endure being indoors after his experiences as a prisoner, or so the gossips presumed. He could not know that his doings were of such universal interest, and would not have been particularly happy to have his every action scrutinized.

              Will was fortunate to find Rutherford still at home; in fact he was seated at the breakfast table, alone, for it was far too early for Cressida or Miss Fettiplace to have risen. He was reading the newspaper and grinning broadly to himself. He greeted Will warmly and gestured towards a chair, inviting his guest to join him in a cup of coffee. Will rarely drank the stuff, for it was not the sort of beverage in which ordinary folk indulged, but he felt too intimidated to request tea.

              “Have you seen this?” asked Rutherford, nodding towards the paper he held. “Damn me if Underwood has not done it again. The press is full of the story of how he has unmasked a thief who has been haunting all the watering places across the country and lifting jewels as if they were fallen apples. Apparently he took advantage of the mineral baths or sea-bathing to rob the changing rooms. He had a system in which his female accomplice took a job as an attendant and took the gewgaws when the ladies were distracted by their treatments or the entertainments on offer and he smuggled the items out of the various venues hidden inside a hollowed out book. Even when the militia was called in to search everyone, they found nothing. It had been a complete mystery as to how the job was done until Underwood caught the fellow pulling the same stunt in Hanbury.”

              Will had not seen the piece and was interested to read about his friend, so he happily took the paper and perused the article whilst Rutherford rang for fresh coffee.

                When they were both served and Will had laid aside the paper, Rutherford asked his companion about the purpose of his visit, “For I know you have not just called at this early hour merely in the hope of an offer of coffee,” he added with a friendly smile.

              “I have something important I must discuss with you, Captain,” said Will and his tone was so serious that Rutherford was immediately wary. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to be drawn into yet another of the pointless and weary complaints which had been the main focus of his life in the past few months.

              He found it hard to keep a note of irritation out of his voice as he asked, “What is it with you, Will – a leaking roof, peeling paint, an infestation of mice?”

              Will looked bemused by this litany, “Not at all? Why would you think so?”