Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (20 page)

“Yes.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“No.”

“Then why go? I thought my brother had made it abundantly clear you were welcome to stay at the vicarage
ad infinitum
.”

“He did, but I no longer care for the prevailing atmosphere.”

Underwood’s characteristic little frown briefly creased his brow and Toby wondered how he was going to react to this obvious piece of criticism. He was almost foolishly relieved when his companion answered candidly, “I can’t say I blame you, my friend, I’m not too happy myself.”

Aware that he had scored a direct hit, Toby grinned, reached out a huge hand and gripped Underwood’s shoulder, “Then do something about it, Mr. Underwood!”

“Easier said than done, Toby. She has destroyed all the trust I held in her, keeping this from me.”

“That was never her intention.”

“I know it – but to tell me she is afraid of me! Good God, what have I ever done to deserve that?”

“Only your wife can answer that, sir. Talk to her.”

But Underwood shook his head; “I can’t Toby. I could not, just at the moment, dredge up enough self-control to confront her. I’m not only hurt, I am also incredibly angry.” He hesitated, then managed to laugh, “I don’t know why I’m burdening you with my confidences – I can assure you it is not my habit to discuss my feelings with anyone. Get yourself off on your guard duty – and don’t let Collinson out of your sight for a moment!”

*

CHAPTER TWENTY

(“Curae Leves Loquuntur Ingentes Stupent” – Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless)

Verity and Underwood continued to meet as strangers. He enquired politely after her health each day, and escorted her to the Pump-rooms, to concerts and assemblies, but every moment in his presence was torture to Verity, who lashed herself into an orgy of self-pity and self-blame. He would never, ever forgive her, they would never recapture the easy friendship they had shared – and she did not blame him! She had behaved abominably. She was worse than a faithless wife to have kept such a secret from him.

Gil tried to talk to them both, at various times, but failed miserably. Underwood was still far from forgiving him for knowing of Verity’s pregnancy and failing to inform his brother – or advising Verity to do so. Verity merely sobbed and cried in exasperation, “For Heaven’s sake, Gil, do not try to mend it. You will only say something dreadful and then where shall I be?” Much offended, the vicar did as he was bid and left them to their own devices. He had troubles enough of his own. Alistair Pennington had begun to fail fast and Gil had to bear the anguish of both watching the beloved boy slowly dying and his mother grow daily more distraught. He felt – and was – entirely helpless and hopeless, and under those circumstances, it seemed both Underwood and Verity were behaving in a pettishly puerile way, which shamed them when compared to the bravery or little Alistair.

Naturally this did little to cheer Verity, who was more than aware of her failings as a wife, a mother and a friend. The only brightness in her life came in the rather surprising form of Vivian Pepper, who had fallen dramatically in love with her when he had discovered, or so he imagined, that she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a much older man. Her condition merely added to the tragic aspect of the case and he felt at his most romantic when he fantasized then into running away together and his raising of the undeserving Underwood’s blond and angelic son.

Verity, naively thinking him a nice, kind-hearted boy who was being polite to an elderly matron, unwisely allowed him to squire her about town. Her husband, well acquainted with calf-love, recognized the symptoms immediately and was infuriated that she should be encouraging Pepper’s presumptuous and obvious advances. He refused to be drawn by her foolish attempts to make him jealous and concentrated even more avidly on solving the mysterious death of Mrs. Dunstable.

He travelled to Manchester to question the herbalist whom, it seemed, had supplied Dunstable, his wife, her daughter and Gedney himself.

Mr. Flynn was understandably shocked and distressed to learn that Mrs. Dunstable, an old and valued customer, had died of an overdose of tansy, and he was only too willing to impart any information which might be of use.

With the aid of Verity’s drawings, and his own exceptional memory, Mr. Flynn identified all the major players in the drama and Underwood could not help but reflect upon how much Verity could have assisted him in the questioning of the elderly man, and how invaluable her sketches had been. He was missing her badly, not just her company, but her wisdom, her insight and her support. Without her by his side, this was a dreary business, grinding its weary way to a depressing conclusion. No longer did he feel the thrill of the chase, the excitement of pitting his wits against those of an opponent worth of his steel. The whole affair had degenerated into a sordid little murder of a cruel, avaricious woman by a greedy, callous and unscrupulous man.

Gone was Underwood’s passion for justice; in its place, mere duty. He had set himself the task and now he was honour bound to finish it.

His lethargy was briefly banished, however, when Mr. Flynn produced a fact that had a profound effect on the case, “I can confirm that Mr. Dunstable and Mrs. Gedney purchased tansy oil, amongst other things, from me. Mr. Gedney, however, has never, to my knowledge, bought any such thing. He asked for advice on identifying tansy growing in its wild state, but he never bought any oil.”

“Really? But surely that has no bearing on the case, for he would have used the oil purchased by his wife.”

“Not to have killed his mother-in-law. Mrs. Gedney bought the smallest bottle I sell. It might have a detrimental effect on one’s digestive system, but it wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Flynn nodded emphatically.

“Then he must have planned all along to take it from the wild and extract the oil himself.”

“I doubt it. It is no easy task, extracting essential oils from plants, sir. It is a long, drawn out process of boiling and distilling.”

“Could he have poisoned her with the plant itself?”

“I suppose so, but I imagine it would be no easy task to persuade her to take it. Would you?”

Mr. Underwood laughed mirthlessly; “I wouldn’t take the time of day from Gedney, let alone eat anything he offered me. So what is the solution?”

“He could have infused dried leaves in boiling water and made what could be loosely described as ‘tea’.”

“Tea? Herbal tea? Who mentioned herbal tea?” Mr. Flynn, baffled by this musing aloud on the part of his visitor, could offer no help, so he merely shrugged.

“Good God! It wasn’t just the wine or the bon-bons. The
coup de grace
was delivered in the bedtime herbal tea.”

“Dear, dear,” murmured Mr. Flynn faintly. He had been hoping that these accusations would be dropped and the whole episode proves to be some ghastly and unfortunate error. He had never before been involved in nefarious goings on – however distantly, and he would have preferred it to remain that way.

Underwood, his attention taken by the elderly gentleman’s obvious distress, kindly changed the direction of the conversation, all the while thinking how useful Verity’s calming presence would have been at this juncture, “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I have read that touching tansy plants can cause a nasty rash, somewhat similar, I imagine, to nettle stings?”

“No, it isn’t quite the same, for not everyone is susceptible to tansy as they are to
urticaria
, but it can irritate the skin of those sensitive to it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flynn, you have been most helpful.”

*

Though he had known he would not be met at the stage by any of his family, for the simple reason that they had not been informed of his time of arrival, Underwood was still curiously down-hearted to be set down once more outside the Royal Hotel in Hanbury. He suddenly fully understood Verity’s desire for her own home. It would be pleasant now, after a long journey, to be heading for one’s own hearth, knowing a loving family was waiting eagerly for the wanderer’s return. Instead he was destined for a chilly vicarage and an even chillier reception.

As he walked back he happened to pass the home of Mrs. Pennington and chanced to meet Gil just coming out of the front door, looking sadly weary and pale. Underwood noticed his demeanour, but made no comment upon it, only hailing him, for the vicar seemed unaware of his approach. Gil summoned a welcoming smile when he saw his brother, “It’s good to see you home, Chuffy. A comfortable journey, I trust?”

“You trust in vain,” replied Underwood tersely, thinking longingly of the day when someone should invent a way of smoothing the roads, or stop the interminable swaying of horse-drawn vehicles, “How does Verity do?”

“She’s very well. The sickness seems to have ceased, I’m delighted to report. I left her not half an hour ago, just preparing to put up her feet and consume a box of bon-bons some kind soul has sent her.”

The colour drained from Underwood’s face “Bon-bons? Oh, my God!” Without saying another word, or waiting for his brother to speak again, he set off at a run, leaving Gil to stare after him, a startled expression on his face.

Underwood was not a man much given to physical exercise, but he ran as though the hounds of hell were on his heels, the blood pounding in his head, his breath dragged out of his lungs in laboured gasps. It was not just the unaccustomed exertion which caused these exaggerated reactions, but the very real fear that Verity was, at that very moment, eating sweetmeats which might be laced with a toxin designed to kill her unborn child, if not herself. He was sent headlong into a panic the like of which he had never before experienced, lashing himself into a frenzy, blaming himself for his stupidity and pride. Why the devil had he not warned her about accepting gifts of food and drink, which came from an unknown source?

He thrust open the front door with such violence that it bounced against the wall and sprang back, almost hitting him, but he cared not. He hurtled down the hall and burst into the parlour, grasping the door handle for support, his chest heaving with the strain of drawing in enough breath to enable him to gasp, “Verity! For God’s sake, don’t eat the bon-bons!”

At least eight pairs of shocked eyes were turned upon him, and one or two tiny screams came from startled mouths. It would be hard to say who was more flustered by this unexpected entrance. It had never occurred to Underwood that his wife might have visitors, and they in turn had never seen a madman force him way into the serenity of a vicarage tea party.

Verity turned a furious face upon him, her own heart pounding with shock, and rising to her feet she swiftly ushered him back out into the hall, closing the door behind her and castigating him in a vicious whisper, “What in God’s name do you think you are doing? Lady Hartley-Wells nearly had a seizure! And I know you are jealous of Vivian Pepper, but to forbid me to eat his bon-bons is the outside of enough. How dare you?”

Underwood listened to these words without immediate comprehension, and he stared foolishly at her for a few seconds before the most vital thing she had said filtered through to his stunned brain, “Those damned bon-bons were from
Vivian Pepper
?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Yes. Did you not know?”

“No,” he muttered grimly, “I did not!”

“Then what was that all about?” She gestured towards the closed door of the parlour.

“Gil intimated you had received them anonymously.” It was her turn to look baffled, but only for a short time, then her puzzled expression was replaced by one of even greater fury than before, “So, you think I am too witless to know not to accept unsolicited gifts? Well, thank you for your confidence in my intelligence. You must think me a complete fool!” She thrust him impatiently aside, not waiting to hear his protests, and went back into her guests, closing the door firmly in his face. Underwood sank wearily into a convenient chair and raised his hand to his brow to wipe away the beads of sweat clustered there. The feeling of deflation was complete. Never had a knight galloped so gallantly to rescue his lady from peril only to fall flat on his face at her feet.

He was going to kill his brother when he saw him again!

*

Geoffrey Beresford met them the following morning at the Pump-rooms to take his leave of them before quitting Hanbury. He was morose, having failed to convince his adopted sister to retract her confession, and, what was worse, he had to work hard at persuading her mother not to make the same gesture and admit to the murder in order to save her only child.

“Adeline is adamant, Underwood. God knows what can be done now. I think she has some silly notion that her trouble will bring Robertson hot-foot to Hanbury, to rescue her – and if he doesn’t, then she imagines he will spend the rest of his life regretting his part in her death.”

“Presumably Robertson is the erstwhile betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the man?”

“Oh, yes. I met him at the engagement party.”

“Is he likely to come here as she hopes?”

“My first action, on hearing about all this, was to write to him and beg him to come here with me to see her.”

“His answer?”

“Completely hopeless. It was a resounding no. He is utterly spineless! I have no idea what she ever saw in the man to recommend him. He has acted from the first as though he was doing her untold honour in marrying her, for she is practically penniless. In his eyes she has forsaken any chance of a reconciliation. He would let her hang and not lift a finger.”

Major Thornycroft had been listening to this conversation with interest, though ostensibly he had been flirting with Verity. When Beresford had shaken their hands and taken his leave, he addressed himself to Underwood, “Do you think she would see me?”

Underwood scanned the face of his companion, trying to fathom the depth of feeling which lay behind this request. Thornycroft rarely gave the impression of being anything other than a wild romancer. He even had several differing versions of how he lost his legs, though all included descriptions of his gallant action in battle. If one story was to be believed, it was Napoleon’s own sabre which had sliced the limbs from under the courageous Major.

“What makes you think you would be any more successful than her brother?”

“There is much common ground between us.”

On the surface this was a ridiculous statement, for there could be little comparison between a girl so young she had barely left the school-room, and a soldier in his thirties, who by his own admission was a hardened drinker and rake, but Underwood sensed the pain they both had to endure. Both were battle-scarred, maimed by life and felt unloved.