A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (29 page)

              The story had an entirely unexpected effect upon Martha Jebson. Her face took on an altogether unpleasantly calculating expression, “You mean there are places I could send the girls to be cared for?” she said, entirely missing the point of the story.

              Both Verity and Violette spoke in the same instant; Violette to say, “Oh, no, pray do not send Prue and Minta away. That would break Will’s heart.”

              “You could not do anything so wicked,” said Verity, and her louder exclamation fortunately drowned out Violette’s error in calling her ex-employer by his first name and with such unrestrained passion.

              “I’ll thank you both to mind your own business,” said Martha tartly, “If you care so much, Mrs Underwood, take them off my hands yourself. You seem happy to take in any dirty little waif or stray that comes your way.” She looked pointedly at Violette, who met her eyes with a defiant stare. Violette found in that tense moment that she not only disliked and distrusted Martha Jebson, she positively hated her.

              Miss Sowerbutts had watched this exchange with astonishment. She had intended to inveigle herself into their company in order to meet the famed Mr Underwood, but she had hardly expected such an entertaining development. In order to take some of the heat out of the confrontation, for she could see that Verity was growing red-faced with suppressed fury, she gave her own opinion of the case.

              “I know a little about these things, Mrs Jebson, was it?” she asked and Martha nodded to acknowledge that she had named her correctly. She went on, “I understand such places are prohibitively expensive – or at least, the good ones are. As to the rest, well, as with everything in life, you get what you pay for.”

              Martha was in no mood to be placated, “Mr Jebson will find the money if it is for the care of his precious children – he cares more for them than for me, I dare swear. But, after all, why waste resources on them? They barely know their own names, so I doubt they will much care where they are, provided their bellies are filled.”

              Even Verity could find nothing to say to this callous appraisal of the woman’s own flesh and blood. Violette simply began to cry quietly and Adeline, her eyes heavy with worry and even greater sadness than usual, put a comforting arm about her shoulders.

              “Oh, for goodness sake,” said Martha, brutal now in order to hide her disquiet at having ruffled so many feathers. “I could do worse to the wretched creatures! Jebson has a cupboard full of stuff that would see me relieved of them forever, if I should want it and who would blame me?”

              She stood up and shook out her skirts to straighten the creases that had formed from her long sitting, “You are all such gooses to be taken in by my hoaxing. Of course I would not do anything to harm my babies – you see what a good mother I am. Did I not heed the horrid man Thickbroome and rid myself of the French woman when he threatened to burn down my home? You all make me tired, sometimes, you really do.”

              She went off with her shoulders proudly lifted, but the silence which accompanied her departure told her that her final words had done nothing to convince her listeners that she had been joking and that she was indeed a good and loving mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

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

              When first we left my father’s house, X took me far away for several months. First we went to quiet little out of the way places, to give me time to grow used to the sort of life that others live and take for granted. I had been so cloistered, cut off from normal human contact, which I needed to accustom myself to being around people, rather than just my father and his servants.

              It took time before I could stop myself from trembling and stuttering should anyone address me directly. I found the company of strangers agonizing and X excused me saying that I had been ill for a long time.

              We travelled far and wide, even across the English Channel, seeking new people and exciting experiences until I could tolerate the society of all, rich or poor, gentry or peasant.

              But our real purpose for the future had been revealed in the very first place we stayed.

              We had gone first to the Lakes – made famous by the poets, despite their isolation – and where X knew we would find peace and quiet. X seemed to have a distant relative or friend of a friend in every corner of the country and we moved with ease, always finding some haven we could use.

              At first the landlord of the ancient inn we had chosen seemed amiable enough but as the days stretched into weeks he grew used to our presence and was comfortable enough to cease all pretence.

              I had taken to his wife, a motherly soul who took pity on my weakened state and believing she was aiding my recuperation, produced delicious food to tempt my jaded appetite.

              When first we saw her sporting a blackened eye we believed her tale of walking into a door, but soon the bruises became too obvious and frequent to ignore.

              I knew nothing of such things, thinking it was only fathers who beat their children. I had always convinced myself that once I attained my majority, my father’s abuse might cease – how else could I have survived? Surely adults did not stand for such treatment?

              X explained that when the man of the house was in his cups and needed a punch bag on which to vent his frustrations, then often it was his wife who served that purpose, sometimes also their children.

              The anger that overwhelmed me was frightening to me. I had thought I had escaped all that with the death of my father, now I found that many others were suffering as I had. Well, I was determined to do something about it.

              I still had my pistols and I told X of my plan to rid a nice woman of such a beastly husband. X smiled grimly – it was the wife to whom X was distantly related.

              Late one evening, when I had supposedly already retired to my bed, a whisper to the landlord promised him such a time as he had never had before, if only he would go to the copse at the side of the isolated inn, when all other patrons had gone.

              He went eagerly to his doom.

              I was waiting for him amongst the trees, having crept out under cover of darkness. The moonlight glinted on the gun that was pointed directly at his heart and when he turned to run back indoors, he found X behind him similarly armed.

              He fell to his knees, blubbering like an infant and begging for his life.

              I might have had pity and listened to his pleas if he had faced me like a man, but at his pathetic cowardice I felt the power surge through me such as I had never known before and instead of his face I saw my father, begging my forgiveness – the way I had dreamed he would, but which reality had failed to match.

              I told him to cease his caterwauling and beg pardon for his evil treatment of his wife. He stuttered that he was sorry and that he would atone for his sins and would never ill-use her again.

              I listened to him beg for his life and I was happier than I had ever been. I can only compare the emotion I felt as akin to that when X and I were in bed together.

              I waited until he had fallen silent, looking pleadingly up at me, hopeful that I was going to spare his life.

              Then I pressed the muzzle of the pistol against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

              His wife heard the shot and came running, but we had already melted into the shadows amongst the trees and returned to the inn by a circuitous route, while she screamed for help. The place was so remote and unfrequented except by locals, that the only other servants they had were two ostlers, one young and one extremely old, so by the time they had roused themselves and come to her aid, X and I were stumbling downstairs, in our nightclothes, ostensibly woken by all the noise and confusion.

              Once again no thought of accusing us seemed to enter the minds of the authorities. We were so obviously well-to-do, and I apparently still recovering from a serious illness, so what possible reason could we have to kill and rob a publican? Roaming footpads were blamed and for a few weeks the whole district lived in fear of another such attack – doors were well secured for months to come.

              Before we moved on we had the pleasure of seeing the widow come into her own, blossoming into quite a pretty creature, no longer beaten and terrified by a bullying husband.

              Then we knew how we would occupy ourselves for the rest of our lives.

              Word would soon spread in the underworld of crime, with X’s contacts who lived on the periphery of that murky world. We would kill for those who were dispossessed, abused or cheated, sometimes for a fee, often for nothing, if the cause was just.

              “But to earn our pay they must be sure of the killer,” said X, “How will they know the deed was done by us and not by some chance?”

              “We must have a calling card. Some sign that we were the assassins. Something the authorities will barely notice, but through which our clients will know they have been avenged.”

              “And what shall that be? A flower? A note?”

              “A button,” I replied decidedly, delighted to have found a use for them and wondering anew at the whim which had made me keep them “One of those cursed buttons from my father’s garments.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

‘Aequam Servare Mentum’ – To keep a calm mind when all about are losing theirs

              Blissfully unaware that he was being sought by a pretty young lady and that he had left behind him some very ruffled feathers amongst the wives and sisters of the townsmen, Underwood found the Wablers and the rest in the first inn he visited, such was his knowledge of their habits.

              Jeremy James, he was relieved to notice, was drinking coffee, but most of the others were already imbibing and noisily playing either cards, billiards or skittles.

              Swann sat morosely with him, also drinking coffee – his recent brush with the law seemed to have encouraged a more sober lifestyle. Meadows, Underwood was told rather bitterly, had accompanied Miss Cressida Petch to look at a display of watercolours at the newly-opened art gallery – another innovation to add to the attractions of the town - with Miss Fettiplace as chaperone, though no one relied upon her good sense to keep too avid an eye on the behaviour of either party. Rutherford was also sitting with them, apparently unmoved by the thought that his sister was loose in the world with an unmarried man and the unsatisfactory guardianship of his silly cousin.

              “Is Joshua Thickbroome not with you today?” asked Underwood, casting an eye around the assembled party and noting the absences.

              “I’ve not seen him since yesterday,” said Jeremy James vaguely, watching, with something approaching envy, as one of his companions drained a glass of daffy and called the serving wench to bring more.

              Underwood shrugged resignedly and then pulled a chair from under a neighbouring table and joined his friend, “Perhaps it is as well. I need to ask some rather searching questions about him.”

              This brought the major’s attention firmly back to him, “Come, Underwood, do we have to have more of this? These fellows went to hell and back with me and I don’t take kindly to all this raking over old coals.”

              “One of those men is now dead, Jemmy, do you really not want to know how and why that happened?” asked Underwood, with as much moderation in his tone as he would summon. He understood his friend’s reluctance, but was discouraged at being fought at every step.

              “I know how,” muttered the disgruntled old soldier, “And I’ve a pretty fair notion why.”

              “Then perhaps you’d like to share that information with me, for I own I’m baffled. But I take your point. I was avoiding asking ‘who’ for fear of offending you.”

              “You really think it was one of us?” asked Thornycroft and Underwood could not help but perceive the very conspicuous use of the word ‘us’ which told him in no uncertain terms that the major was allying himself with his comrades and putting his friend firmly on the other side.

              “I have no choice but to consider the possibility,” said Underwood reasonably, “what is more, I have come into some intelligence which might just clarify your own thoughts on the matter.”

              Jeremy James gave the sort of elegant lift of the shoulders which pretended indifference, but told Underwood that he was at least prepared to listen.

              The conversation with the false ‘Mrs Mills’ was soon related and the major looked mutinous at the end of it, “So, because this fellow, whoever he was, wore a uniform, then it must be one of us?” he asked, rather aggressively.

              Actually, I suspect not. As you quite rightly suggest, anyone can wear a uniform, but it is not within my remit to decide who to interview and who to exonerate. You know I cannot do so, Jemmy. Now, climb down off your high horse and help me find out whoever did this.”

              The major gave a reluctant grin at the barely restrained frustration in his friend’s tone. He had made a token effort at protecting his comrades, but he saw the justice in Underwood’s contention. A killer was a killer, no matter whom, and in murdering one of their own, he had put himself outside the brotherhood.

              “What do you want to know?” he asked.

              “The woman was adamant that in her vast experience of the male sex, she is able, by unerring instinct, to identify those men whose interest is not in the petticoat line. She says her visitor was one such. I fear I have no such talent and would ask you if any rumours abounded that might indicate who she could mean.”

              “Didn’t you teach at a University? Surely you must have some such instinct yourself,” said Thornycroft cynically, still trying to avoid naming any of his companions.

              “I regret to say that I had very little interest in the personal pursuits of my students and never troubled my head about any of their preferences, unless it was forced into my notice by some scandal,” answered Underwood, with his usual candour.

              Swann and Petch had been listening to this exchange with interest, but without volunteering any comments themselves. They were solidly behind Jeremy James in this matter; they did not think it was right to give up one of their own to the authorities. Their training and years of fighting together meant that, above all else, they believed they were a single entity, each a small part of the whole. They always had each other’s backs and it was not easy to fall away from that ingrained habit now. However, almost unconsciously, Petch gave voice to a thought which had just occurred to him, “I always thought there was more to the relationship between Pennyfather and Thickbroome than they admitted.”

              Thornycroft cast him an impatient look, “Good God, Rutherford, were you deaf and blind for the entire Peninsula Campaign?”

              Petch looked hurt and rather startled, “You mean I was right?”

              “Yes,” said Jeremy James with exaggerated forbearance, “You were right. Well, half right,” he conceded, “for the passion was all on one side.”

              “Thickbroome?” hazarded Underwood.

              The major merely nodded grimly.

              “You realize this gives him a motive?”

              “Why do you think I didn’t want to share the information?” asked Thornycroft, with barely concealed bitterness, “Pennyfather knew exactly how to manipulate his admirer into actions he would never normally consider. As soon as they found Pennyfather’s body, I wondered if Joshua had finally had the scales fall from his eyes.”

              “We need to find him,” said Underwood, rising to his feet.

              He was prevented from any further movement by the opening of the door and a loud voice exclaiming, “No one move. I require you all to stay exactly where you are.”

              Sir George Gratten entered, accompanied by his two henchmen, which seemed to be his regular habit these days, thought Underwood.

              “What the devil is going on?” called Jeremy James irascibly across the room. He was growing a little tired of the Constable’s posturing, when everyone knew that it was not he, but Underwood who solved every crime in Hanbury.

              “Sir George,” said Underwood, raising a calming hand, “Before you begin randomly arresting any of these gentlemen for murder, may I tell you that I have need to question Joshua Thickbroome about the death of John Pennyfather.”

              “Good luck getting any answers out of him,” growled the Constable, frowning at the interruption.

              “Why?” asked Underwood, “Do not tell me that he has absconded?”

              “Not exactly. He’s dead. Found this morning in a back alley behind the apothecary shop with a bullet through his head.”

              “Suicide?” suggested Jeremy James hopefully.

              “Not unless you can explain how he could shoot himself directly between the eyes and from above.”

              All gaming had stopped as soon as Gratten entered the inn and he had been harkened to in silence, but now there was a bustle and a murmuring amongst the company.

              Full of his own importance, Gratten lifted both his hands to command silence, “From this moment on, you are all requested not to try and leave town. I have suspended all travel on the stage until this matter is resolved.”

              “You can’t do that,” protested Petch.

              “I can and I have. You are all suspects, but more than that, you are all in peril. Given the deaths of two of your number, I cannot overlook the possibility that it is your uniform that is the target for these incidents.”

              “Are you saying that you think some madman is trying to kill us because we are or were soldiers?”

              “What other conclusion would you come to?”

              For that piece of logic no one had an answer.

*

              Martha Jebson left an uncomfortable silence in her wake. No one quite knew how to break the evil spell she had spun with her vitriol. To return to banal chatter now seemed unaccountably callous.

              Fortunately the arrival of Mrs Milner and Cara, pink-cheeked and breathless after their exertions, gave everyone the opportunity to forget Martha and return to their cosy world of shopping and gossip.

              “Cara, Mama, I don’t believe you have met Miss Lilith Sowerbutts,” said Verity, always mindful of her manners, even in extreme circumstances. Truth be told she was rather glad of something to say which did not include the rather nasty scene she had just endured. “Lilith, pray meet my sister-in-law, Lady Cara Underwood, and Mrs Milner, my husband’s mother.”

              As she shook hands with Mrs Milner, Miss Sowerbutts murmured, “Annabella,” causing Mrs Milner to look askance at her, “How do you come to know my Christian name?” she asked in surprise.

              Miss Sowerbutts laughed softly and looked a little confused, “I do beg your pardon, Mrs Milner. I must have heard one of the others use it. I was thinking what a pretty name it is.”

              “Thank you. Lilith is lovely too,” she added, not knowing what else to say.

              “Not so lovely when you know it means ‘of the night’ – I rather think it makes me sound terrifying,” answered the young lady, shifting her skirts aside so that Mrs Milner could sit beside her on the long seat.

              Verity glanced towards them and was pleased to see that her mother-in-law and the newcomer seemed perfectly content in each other’s company so that she could turn her attention to Cara and pretend to drool over her purchases, when in reality all she could see were frills and furbelows that she would not be seen dead wearing. She did not even want to imagine how much money Cara had wasted on items for which she had no real use and would probably throw into a drawer and never look at again.

              In an effort to distract her sister-in-law before she noticed her utter indifference to the contents of her parcels and bandboxes, Verity confided in an undertone to Cara what had occurred just before her arrival and was relieved that Cara was suitably horrified by Martha Jebson’s threats to have her damaged children sent away.

              Violette had managed to stop sobbing, but her poor face still bore the ravages that the storm of weeping had left. Her little nose was red and shiny and her eyes puffy, but she still managed to look adorable, thought Verity, glancing sympathetically at her. Cara noticed the sideways look and reached out a comforting hand and patted the French girl’s arm, “Don’t worry, my dear, we will think of something. I’m very sure Mrs Jebson cannot do anything with the children until she has her husband’s permission and he surely will not give it.”

              The young woman shook her head sadly, “Left alone, of course he would not – but you have no idea what goes on in that house – she rules the roost and makes life miserable if she does not get her own way. She will peck, peck, peck at him until he is nearly mad and then I’m afraid of what might happen …”

              Cara and Verity exchanged a worried glance. They were all too aware of what could happen behind closed doors when suppressed anger and resentment built to such an extent that the emotions became like a powder-keg just waiting for a spark to ignite it and blow everything sky high.

              Before they could utter a word of consolation to the still distressed girl, Underwood burst into the Pump Rooms with unaccustomed energy and hastened across the room towards them, “My dear,” he said urgently to his wife, “Sir George is on his way here and I do not want you to panic at what he has to say.”

              Of course these words engendered immediate pandemonium amongst the ladies and he was besieged by questions and exclamations of horror at what he could possibly mean.

              He had no time to clarify for Sir George was barely seconds behind him and moved with grim determination towards the dais upon which the string quartet played soothing background music to calm the patrons of the spa.

              He was now clearly visible above the heads of the crowd and his voice boomed out, effectively silencing all the chatter and causing the musicians to cease playing at once with one last discordant squeak issuing from the viola before the notes died away.