Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

When the attack seemed to have abated, he lifted her off her feet and deposited her on the bed; “I’m going to wake Francis.”

She lay back on the pillows, totally spent, her hair damp with perspiration, her face reddened and blotched with tears, “No, please don’t. I’m better now.”

“Verity, you’ve been unwell for weeks now.”

She opened her lips to tell him the reason, but suddenly realized she could not. The knowledge that she was to have a child would lay an intolerable burden of worry upon him, should the threat of prison become a reality. It would be better to wait a few days, then tell him when all was calm again.

“No, really, I am better. It was foolish of me to get so upset. I’m just tired – over tired. And I have been fretting about our not having a house, but now you have promised, and I shall brighten up, I swear it.”

He hesitated, torn by the desire to have her consult the doctor, but reluctant to distress her again by insisting upon it. She saw that she had him and pressed home her advantage, turning over onto her side and firmly closing her eyes, “I’m so weary, Cadmus, please just let us get some sleep.”

He could not but agree with that, but there was the wash basin to empty and the rest of his clothes to shed. By the time he had climbed, exhausted, into the bed beside her, he gave every appearance of being fast asleep. Except for the occasional hiccupping breath, such as a child gives when it has fallen asleep on tears, she seemed quite peaceful, but Underwood stared at her for several minutes in the guttering candlelight, a slight frown creasing his brow, before he finally snuffed the candle and closed his eyes.

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

(“Nemo Me Impune Lacessit” – No one provokes me with impunity)

Dunstable’s disappearance caused much consternation in the vicarage the following morning. Underwood’s first instinct had been to keep the whole matter to himself and Verity, but with his brother’s house bursting at the seams with guests, it rapidly became obvious no such secret could be kept.

Gil, much to Underwood’s surprise, tended to view the elopement with approval – except, of course, for the difficulty it promoted for Underwood himself.

“Gil, what has happened to you, old fellow? I should have expected one of your calling to be threatening hell-fire and eternal damnation for the unfortunate couple.”

Gil, who had certainly never been heard to say anything so unforgiving, merely smiled, “You will have your little joke, won’t you, Chuffy?”

“I wasn’t joking,” asserted Mr. Underwood, “Dunstable’s behaviour has been thoroughly reprehensible from beginning to end – and was never worse than when he dropped me right in the mire and left me to flounder out of it as best I might.”

“But he does seem to be attempting to put at least some of the coil to rights. His baby will now be born in wedlock.”

              Underwood was at his most sardonic when he responded, “You can have no notion how much better that makes
me
feel.”

There was nothing else to do but continue their daily lives and wait for any further developments, so presently they made their usual pilgrimage to the Pump-rooms, where Underwood severely bade his wife sit and drink her water – every last drop.

He managed to catch Francis alone by the fountain and asked him in a concerned undertone what he thought ailed Verity. The doctor was distressed to have to lie to his friend, and silently resolved to speak firmly to Verity at the next available opportunity, but he had given his word, so nothing would prevail upon him to give her away, “What does she say is wrong?” he asked warily.

“That she has been fretting because we have no home of our own.”

“Oh, well,” said the doctor decidedly, “there you have it. Of course she feels odd living with your relations. She thinks she is being a burden. Imagine how you would feel under similar circumstances. Women get these strange humours from time to time. She’ll be as right as ninepence when she has her own place.”

With that Underwood had to be content.

Fortunately there were several events that helped to take his mind off his vague concerns for his wife, the most prominent being the arrival of a host of new visitors to Hanbury Spa. Gil, who knew everyone thanks to his infallible system of gossip gathering, was able to furnish them with names and brief biographies of some of the more diverting characters, and the morning was spent in amused contemplation of some amiable and elderly eccentrics.

The first of the new arrivals were Mrs. Sophie Fancourt and her son Algernon. She was a sprightly little woman, barely four feet six, he a stooping six-footer. The Underwood party were astounded to be informed that Mrs. Fancourt was not a day less than ninety, and her bachelor son almost seventy. Her only concession to age was to admit to a little deafness, and the carrying of a silver-handled can, which she clearly did not need. She had not a tooth in her head and her sight was not as quick as it had once been, so her son carried out and incessant commentary of everything which went on around them. Unfortunately her deafness meant that every remark of his was answered with an “Eh?” from her, which required him to repeat his every utterance more loudly. After so many years of this tedious interchange, no one observing them could ever understand why he did not simply speak more loudly in the first place, and so negate the necessity of the repetition, but he never did, so consequently she missed half the things he had been at pains to point out to her. Their conversations were hilarious, but infuriatingly frustrating to listen to – and naturally, since they were held at top volume, impossible to ignore.

“Look mother, Sir Barnaby has just walked by.”

“Eh?”

“SIR BARNABY! Never mind, you’ve missed him now.” She turned her head, and said loudly, “Isn’t that the back of Sir Barnaby’s head? Why did you not tell me, Algy?”

“I did. Is that a pigeon or a turtle dove?”

“Eh?”

“PIGEON OR DOVE? It’s gone now.” She looked up; “I don’t see anything.”

“No, you missed it.”

After watching this for some time, Underwood dug Gil in the ribs, “That will be you and mother if you don’t find yourself a wife, brother.”

Gil gave Underwood a stern glare, “Don’t be so unkind. Mother isn’t even slightly deaf.”

“She will be by the time she’s ninety!”

“Who says I won’t be married anyway?” This rejoinder was only wrenched from Gil by the extreme irritation he felt at his brother’s smug taunting, and he could have bitten his tongue the moment the words were out of his mouth, for naturally Underwood was not about to allow anything so provocative to pass unheeded, “Have you someone in mind, Gilbert?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Pennington is an excessively charming woman, don’t you think?” hazarded the irrepressible Underwood.

“Exceptionally charming,” agreed Gil, with as much disinterest as he could muster.

He was saved from further annoyance by Toby, who had quickly become privy to all their lives, and who now leant forward and hissed warningly, “Beware, gentlemen! Mr. Gedney is heading this way – and he seems mightily pleased with himself.”

“Oh no,” muttered Underwood feelingly, “That is all I need to make the day perfect.”

Gedney was quite as obnoxious as everyone had expected him to be. From the odiously knowing smirk on his face, to the arrogant stance he took up in front of them, he proclaimed triumph, “I hear your house guest has taken to his heels. Ha! Quite a facer for you, Underwood. The wife and I are debating whether or not to sue you. If we can’t get the murderer, why not the idiot who let him escape, eh? We’ll inform you of our decision in due course.”

“Very well,” said Underwood calmly.

“Who is that person?” enquired Mrs. Fancourt loudly, from her seat a few feet away from Underwood.

“Don’t know him,” returned her son, without interest.

“Eh?”

“DON’T KNOW!” roared Algy.

“Don’t want to know, either,” commented Mrs. Fancourt, “What’s he want to yell for? We’re none of us deaf – nor interested in his business.”

Gedney turned a dull red and threw a venomous look at the old lady, which she returned, stare for stare, even raising her ornate lorgnette to her faded blue eyes, a wealth of contempt in the gesture. His glance fell first, and he lowered his voice a little, “You’ve not heard the last of this, Underwood, believe me.”

“That in itself would be a novel experience, Gedney,” he responded coolly, his lips still twitching at the unconscious humour displayed by the Fancourts. The man looked confused, “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“Believing you. I’ve never had cause to do any such thing, thus far into our acquaintance.”

“Very amusing!”

“I do my poor best. Tell me, Gedney, whilst I have your attention, when did you say you had arrived in Hanbury?”

              Gedney grinned, “Still trying it on, eh? Well, it won’t do you a scrap of good, not now. I arrived on the twenty third, with my wife and family.”

“And you swear you were not in town before that date?”

“I’ve not been in Hanbury since last year, when my mother-in-law last visited.”

“Thank you.”

Underwood then turned and addressed some remark to Toby, so Gedney could only feel himself summarily dismissed, he hesitated, apparently about to say more, then with a contemptuous, “Pah!” he went away.

“We have our answer, Verity,” whispered Underwood. She nodded, much to the mystification of the rest of the group.

Fortunately there were more new arrivals in the Pump-rooms to distract attention from this exchange, so the couple never found themselves questioned by their companions as might have been the case under other circumstances.

The same Sir Barnaby Pepper, whom Mrs. Fancourt had missed only minutes before, returned accompanied by a finely dressed young dandy, who swaggered in, raising his quizzing glass indolently to his eye and sweeping his gaze about the room,

“Gad, father, the place is a mausoleum!”

“Don’t be impertinent, you young puppy,” spluttered the severely embarrassed Sir Barnaby, only too aware of the furious glances being sent in their direction.

The son was entirely unmoved by his father’s exasperation, or the tacit disapproval of the gathering, merely dropping his glass on its ribbon and adding, “You’re right, Pa, I take it back, some of ‘em are undoubtedly breathing.”

Verity could not restrain a choke of laughter and this drew the exquisite’s attention to her, “By Jupiter, not only a live one, but young and pretty enough to take a chap’s interest. My dear girl, allow me to present myself, Vivian Pepper, at your service.” Verity, much amused, took the proffered hand and admired his perfect bow,

“How do you do, Mr. Pepper, my name is Underwood.”

“Your name cannot simply be Underwood. Such a divine creature must have a prefix.”

“I do – Mrs.”

He smiled, “Ah! That complicates matters, rather. Might I have the honour of apologising to Mr. Underwood?”

That particular gentleman had been watching this scene unfold in bemused silence, but at the mention of his own name, he rose to his feet, “Your servant, sir.” He said wryly. Mr. Pepper glanced at him for the first time and his expression of faint boredom was altered at once into one of startled recognition, “By Jove! It cannot be Snuff Underwood. I thought the name had a familiar ring.”

“Still playing the Bond Street Beau, I see, my dear Vivian.”

The young gentleman allowed a pained expression to pass across his handsome features, “Snuff, please! You ought to know better. A Pink of the Ton, nothing less.”

“Quite so,” answered Underwood, with mock humility, “Tell me, did you ever pass your finals?”

“Good God, no!” exclaimed Pepper, with deep loathing, “Don’t have anything to do with the word ‘final’, altogether too serious a notion for the likes of me.”

“I can imagine it would be.”

“So, Snuff, can it be true that you are really leg-shackled to this lovely creature?” asked Pepper, turning his devastating smile back upon the astonished Verity.

“
Leg-shackled
?” retorted Underwood in a pained voice, “What an appalling turn of phrase you possess, you abominable boy. If you refer to marriage, then yes, this is indeed my wife, Verity.”

“How the devil did you persuade her up the aisle, Snuff? Inherit a fortune?”

“Certainly not! There is more to a man than riches and fine clothes - speaking of which, where
did
you get that waistcoat?”

Mr. Pepper drew aside his coat to further display the offending article of clothing, which was extremely loud, every inch of cloth being covered with embroidered flowers, birds and cherubs, “Oh, do you think it a mistake?” was his disappointed comment, “I own I wasn’t quite sure about it myself, but I risked it, since we are in the Provinces.”

“You’ll frighten the horses with it!” asserted Underwood cordially, “What brings you into the wilds of Derbyshire?”

“Oh, visiting some old tabby – relation of m’father. He thinks we should do the pretty and get m’self a mention in the will.”

“Not Lady Hartley-Wells, by any chance?” guessed Underwood shrewdly.

“The very same. Do you know her?”             

“I do – and if you’ll take a piece of friendly advice, don’t attempt to see her whilst wearing that waistcoat.”

When Vivian had sauntered away in search of his father, or more probably, unmarried quarry, Verity’s attention was drawn once again by a young man, but this time it was overpowering pity which was the cause and not mere amusement. The bright red of his tunic lent a gaiety to his demeanour, which was utterly destroyed when a glance revealed that his bath chair was a tragic necessity. His face was handsome, his upper body strongly muscled, but both his legs were gone.

“Oh, Gil,” whispered Verity, “Who is that?”

Gil followed the direction of her eyes and his face split into a delighted grin,

“So Major Jeremy James Thornycroft is back in Hanbury. Don’t waste your pity on the man, Verity. You’ll never meet a more wicked flirt, a more avid gambler or a more insane lunatic. He uses his pathetic state to capture girl’s hearts, and to hold off the Magistrate when his folly leads him into court. Come and let me introduce you. You’ll rarely spend a more amusing half hour.”

*

Charlotte Wynter was furious. All her plans had gone awry and she could find no way to untangle the mess. The picnic in the hills had been the ideal opportunity to arrange matters so that she could have been close to Underwood, taking his attention away from his mousy little wife. She could have claimed his hand to help her over rocks, perhaps twisting her ankle and finding herself once more in his arms – it had worked before, when he had first fallen in love with her, but in the event she had not dared risk any such subterfuge, for she had been made only too aware that any accident would have ended with her being clasped to the excessively hairy chest of one of the guides, or worst still, the carriage drivers.