A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (24 page)

              Sir George shrugged with seeming indifference, but was in reality glad to hear of the undertaking. He had an odd feeling about this murder – for murder he was sure it was – and though it would take wild horses to drag from him an admission of bafflement, he was nevertheless secretly delighted that he could rely upon Underwood. If nothing else, it removed from him the responsibility of sending a man to the gallows. Let Underwood solve the mystery if he so wished. He was welcome to the plaudits, for along with them would come the condemnation of those who felt he might have been mistaken in his conclusions. Gratten had been through it all before and he disliked it intensely. He much preferred his position as Constable of Hanbury to be a mere title and nothing discommoded him more than having to act in an official capacity when a crime was committed.

              “I should have been astounded if you had managed to keep your long nose out of it,” he responded rudely.

              Underwood ruefully pulled at his insulted feature and grinned, “Just so long as you know, then you cannot complain when I whip your quarry away from you and present you with another culprit in his place.”

              “You have me wrong, Underwood,” he answered grimly, “I don’t care who I hang for this, but take my word upon it, someone will hang! I will not have my pretty little town turned into a place where people cannot sleep safely in their beds or walk unmolested in the street.”

              “Quite right too, my dear fellow,” said Underwood pleasantly, “But let us also not have the reputation for hanging the wrong man. It is very difficult, not to say impossible, to restore a man to life if you find later he was innocent.”

              “Very droll,” growled the older man. “Very well, my friend, do your best. But mark me. If you find no one else, then Swann is the most likely culprit and I will do my duty in taking him to law – let a judge and jury decide on his fate.”

              Underwood watched him thoughtfully as he went away, his two Watchmen at his heels, dejected not to have a prisoner in tow. A slow, delicate pinch of snuff seemed to much refresh him and he replaced his silver box back in his pocket before taking out his fob watch and looking at the time.

              Dr Herbert should have just about finished his cutting up of the victim’s body, so Underwood could safely seek him out and question him, without risking the horror of actually having to view the gory process for himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘Adscriptus glebae’ – Allocated to the soil

              Underwood returned briefly to the Wablers to tell them of his intentions and found them suddenly far more voluble than they had been in the presence of the Constable and his henchmen.

              “What the devil were you about, Tredgett, putting your own head in the noose?” Swann was saying hotly, “If he has half a chance, the fat beak will have us all dangling in the magistrate’s picture frame.”

              “Don’t be bird-witted, boy. The Constable is no fool. He knew about my quarrel with Pennyfather, he said as much. It looks better to a jury if the admission comes from me than someone else. Besides, it puts us in a position of strength.”

              “How do you make that out?” demanded Swann, still angry, but slowly calming in the face of the older man’s insouciance.

              “Unless he finds indisputable evidence to convict one or the other, he can’t hang either of us. He could throw an accusation of manslaughter at both of us, but not murder. There was only one shot fired therefore only one killer.”

              Swann’s face cleared, “That true enough. And I know I didn’t kill the man.”

              “Nor I. So all we have to do is hold our nerve.”

              Underwood sincerely hoped that they would both be able to do so. Rather than draw the attention of the entire group, he leaned towards Jeremy James, who had been listening to this exchange with growing disquiet.

              “I’m going to see what Francis Herbert has discovered about the murder, Jemmy. See if you can keep these fools out of any further trouble until I return.”

              The major managed to force a smile, but it was evident he was shocked by the turn of events. He hadn’t particularly liked Pennyfather, but this sordid demise was not to be wished upon anyone – and certainly not a brother of the sword.

*

              Underwood was fortunate enough to find Dr Herbert had done his duty and was back at home. Pennyfather’s body had been taken first to a barn on the land of the farmer where he had been discovered and since the nearest mortuary was attached to the infirmary in Braxton, Dr Herbert had decided to examine the body where it lay – it was as good a place as any and meant he did not have to travel. There could be no doubt what had killed the man – the bullet hole in his forehead attested to the method of despatch.

              The good doctor eyed his friend warily as he stood aside to allow him into his house, then closed the door behind him, “Not that I am not always delighted to see you, my dear Underwood,” he said, “but I trust you are not here to ask me about my examination of the body, for you know full well that I am now officially employed by the Constable in this matter and must deliver my verdict first to him.”

              “Of course, my dear fellow,” said Underwood fondly, clapping him on the shoulder, “I should not dream of asking you to disclose anything until you have reported to Sir George. However, it would be a kindness to tell me some news which I may impart to Jeremy James and the Wablers, since they are all comrades of the dead man and were, in all probability, the last to see him alive.”

              “No.”

              “Come now, Francis. I shall hear all presently anyway.”

              “No.”

              “Well, if that is your final word on the matter.”

              “It is.”

              “Then perhaps I could tell you something. The man was shot from a strange angle of which you are struggling to make sense and about his person you perhaps found an odd object – namely a button.”

              Francis’ mouth dropped open, “How the devil could you possibly know that?” he gasped. He was used to Underwood’s intelligence and ability to apply logic and intuition to solve puzzles, but this pronouncement smacked of some mystical insight.

              “A lucky guess,” said Underwood, with a pleasant smile.

              “Fustian!” exclaimed the doctor rudely, “Dammit, tell me how you knew.”

              “Of course, my friend. In exchange for your information, I will gladly divulge mine.”

              Francis shook his head in frustrated resignation.

              “You know exactly how to play your hand, don’t you? Come into the parlour then, and I’ll tell you what I know – but I shall expect a full explanation of your extraordinarily accurate guess.”

              It was, of course, complete speculation on Underwood’s part, but he was hardly going to admit that to the doctor. Some aura about Francis had given the distinct impression that he was confused by his findings, probably the brevity with which he addressed his visitor, when he could usually be relied upon to be much more expansive. Only bafflement would prompt him to be so unforthcoming. He was a man who liked to be in control of every situation and he did not take kindly to conundrums such as this one.

Though the facts that Underwood did know were few, he was fully aware that the fatal shot had been to the victim’s head, and no other injuries had been mentioned. Added to the knowledge that neither Swann nor Tredgett appeared to be the guilty party then this made no sense to him unless there was something afoot of which he was, as yet, unaware. Duelling injuries were almost always to the body, as it was far too formidable a task to aim for and hit the head of one’s opponent in the poor light of an English dawn. Suicide was also very unlikely. It was extremely difficult to aim at one’s own head as the length of a flintlock pistol’s barrel and the kickback when it went off, made it almost impossible to ensure a clean, accurate shot. The only way to be certain of death and not merely injury was to place the gun either under the chin or in the mouth. Whilst an ordinary person might not know this, a soldier most certainly would. Pennyfather had not shot himself.

For a man like Underwood, always looking for patterns, for tell-tale clues which indicated innocence or guilt, it was too soon after reading about the mysterious killing in the newspaper for him not to make the connection. He would have looked a fine fool if he had been wrong, but Underwood was never afraid of taking a chance in the hope of making himself seem preternaturally clever. The mention of the button had been a last minute addition which could easily be dismissed if erroneous. Underwood had to acknowledge to himself that even when Verity had pointed out that it could be a valuable clue, he had been inclined to dismiss it as unimportant, but somehow it had stayed at the edge of his consciousness to be recalled now that it might suddenly have relevance. He hid his surprise well, but he too was astonished that another button had been left on a body, killed by being shot through the head. It now became obvious that it had some meaning to the killer, if no one else.

“So, tell me how you knew about the angle of the shot and the button, Underwood, or I shall be forced to tell Sir George that you are the murderer, for I swear no one else could possibly have known but the man who fired the shot!”

“I might have been to look at the body before you were even abroad,” pointed out the older man, entirely unconcerned by the threat.

Now Francis did laugh, and heartily too, “You, up and about just after dawn and examining corpses? That is about as likely as you killing the man in the first place.”

Underwood smiled slightly, a pale reflection of his friend’s mirth. The doctor had a fair point. Neither circumstance was plausible to anyone who knew Underwood well. He decided the time had come to confide his suspicions to his friend and he told of the tale he had read in the newspaper.

“Gad, that is odd,” said Dr Herbert when he ended his story. “Did you ever hear back about the button?”

“Yes. They thanked me for my interest but explained that sadly the object was of an ordinary sort, with no identifying marks. The only thing they knew for sure was that it was probably off a man’s clothing and they had decided that it was mere coincidence that it had been found near the body and lost on some other occasion.”

“Well this one was placed in his dead hand, so no coincidence there,” remarked Francis, then bit his lip. This was more than he had intended to divulge. He still had some loyalty to the Constable.

“Interesting,” mused Underwood. “I begin to see that it has some hidden significance, but I doubt we shall ever know what, unless we find the killer. Keep it to yourself and ask Sir George to do the same, will you, Francis? I think that may help us later so the fewer people who know about it, the better.”

Francis was glad enough to move on, “Very well. Now, about the angle that the shot entered the forehead?”

“Verity and I surmised that the victim was either sitting or kneeling when the bullet was fired into the skull.”

The doctor’s face cleared as though he had been vouchsafed some blinding revelation, “Of course! That must be it. I don’t mind telling you, Underwood, that had me foxed. I was looking for traces of a duel, as instructed by Sir George but the powder burns on the skin told me that the pistol had been discharged from close quarters.”

“Ah, the dangers of assumption,” said Underwood rather smugly. “If you had gone to that field without any preconceptions, you would have seen more clearly how the deed had been done. Our beloved Constable did you no favours in setting the scene for you.”

The doctor had to admit the truth of this. He had indeed gone to investigate what he had been told was a duel resulting in a death and therefore what he had seen made no sense to him. He was grateful now that he had spoken to Underwood before writing his report for the Constable. His notes would give a much more coherent account of the evidence now.

“So if the culprit is not one of the Wablers, then who the devil is it?”

“The newspaper report told of two young men leaving town soon after the murder, but not much more is known about them – and sadly with the sudden influx of visitors to Hanbury for Jeremy James’ birthday, we would be searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“Then how do you propose to find him or them?” asked the doctor.

“Or indeed her,” murmured Underwood thoughtfully.

“You think it could have been a woman?” asked Francis, shocked to the core that such an eventuality could even be considered. In his experience women were creatures of gentleness and raised to nurture not to kill. To suspect that a female could be callous enough to force a man to his knees then deliberately place a gun to his head and pull the trigger – no, it was inconceivable!

Underwood would have liked to reassure him, but he had a sudden vision of a woman dressed all in black, a smoking pistol in her hand. Even the veil she wore over her face was not sufficient to disguise the implacable iciness in her eyes as she watched the dead man she had just shot fall to the ground.

Alas, time and his long illness had served only to wipe his memory clean of everything about her but the vague shape of her in her black garb and her stony glance. He was sure that he would not now recognize her if he met her on the street – but suddenly it was vital that he did. He needed her to be unconnected with these crimes, for if he was faced with the fact of her guilt, what would he do? He owed her his life and it would be a poor way to repay that debt by sending her to the gallows.

Francis looked at his friend’s face, suddenly pale, a faraway look in his eyes as though he was seeing something horrifying.

“Underwood, are you all right?” he asked solicitously.

Underwood dragged his mind back into the present with an effort, “Of course, my dear fellow. Now, where were we?”

“You were about to tell him how you intend to trap our killer,” said the doctor.

“Ah, yes. The eternal puzzle; how to find someone about whom you have not the slightest notion? I think the answer must lie in Pennyfather’s past, since his death would appear to have no connection with his present behaviour. Just in case I am mistaken, however, my first act must be to track down the young lady from the Pump Rooms who would appear to have caused the unfortunate
contretemps
between Swann and the dead man.”

“And if she has no information to share?”

“Then the Wablers and others must be prevailed upon to tell all about their erstwhile comrade.”

“You won’t find it easy to persuade them to drag their fellow-soldier’s name through the mud, no matter how much they may have despised him.”

“I know,” said Underwood with concern. He was only too aware of the bonds that tied the fighting man to his regiment. “But they must be made to see that it could be the only way to save Swann and Tredgett from the gallows.”

There seemed to be nothing more to add, so Underwood took his leave, after being reminded by his friend to pick up his hat and cane, which had been left by the front door and which he was about to walk off without retrieving.

As he was leaving the house, he met Sir George just arriving. The older man spluttered with annoyance at seeing him there, but he smiled serenely and wished both gentlemen a pleasant day.

The Constable watched him as he sauntered off down the street, swinging his cane and lifting his hat in greeting when he met an acquaintance or two.

“Dammit it all, Dr Herbert, what are you about, allowing Underwood to interfere in this matter?”