Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (5 page)

“Certainly, certainly,” said Gil, quickly coming to his senses, for he had been watching this exchange with rising disquiet. He was beginning to find this situation extremely trying, for with their relationship at such a delicate stage, the last thing the Underwoods needed was the presence of Charlotte Wynter. He took Isobel’s arm and they walked away, leaving Verity and Underwood alone on the street.

“Shall we go?” Verity nodded unhappily and obediently fell into step beside him, though she made no attempt to take his arm. They said nothing for a few minutes, then Underwood said gently, “I wish you would tell me what is troubling you, my dear.”

She wanted to tell him everything, but found she could not, so instead she told him of seeing Oliver Dunstable in the library with his mistress.

“Has that caused you to think all men are alike?” he inquired tersely.

“What do you mean?”

“Just because Oliver Dunstable is being untrue to his wife, it does not follow that I have been behaving in the same way.”

“I know that.”

“I sincerely hope you do!”

*

Verity spent the afternoon sleeping on a sofa in the vicarage parlour, quite worn out by the events of the morning. Underwood found her there and gently covered her with a silk shawl, then sat quietly with a book until she woke just before tea, much refreshed and ravenously hungry. She was surprised to find him beside her and said so, at which he smiled and replied that he had set himself as guard-dog to drive away the procession of callers who had been determined to disturb her rest.

“Have I had callers?” she asked, quite astounded.

“Why the surprise?” he responded, “You have made many friends here. Lady Hartley-Wells sent Miss Cromer to ask after your health. She had noticed you looked a little pale this morning and was concerned. Isobel Wynter came whilst Charlotte was out riding. And Josephine Dunstable also called.”

At the mention of this last name Verity’s face drained of all colour, “Thank Heavens I did not have to face Mrs. Dunstable! I could not have looked her in the eyes after this morning. How awful it is to know something so dreadful about someone else’s husband.”

Underwood looked gravely at her, “You must not think of telling her, Verity, you know that, don’t you?” she met his glance with troubled eyes, “You think not?”

“I know not. For God’s sake, my dear, do not become embroiled in this. I know you are sure of what you saw, but there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Dunstable’s behaviour, and untold trouble would be caused if you had your facts wrong. Let the Dunstables sort out their own affairs – after all, there could be many reasons for a man to embrace a woman who is not his wife.” The pointed way he said these words made Verity look sharply at him, but he gave her no clue as to his meaning. She had entirely forgotten her own embrace with Gil, for it had meant nothing to her beyond brotherly comfort, therefore she foolishly imagined he was making some feeble excuse lest she later be told that he himself had been caught embracing Charlotte Wynter. The blood rushed back into her cheeks and she said bitterly, “I can think of no innocent explanation for such behaviour!”

“I’m sorry to hear you say so,” he replied evenly, “Now, do we dine with Lady Hartley-Wells?”

“Whatever you wish, I don’t care!”

“Then since she keeps an excellent cellar, I shall gladly accept.”

*

Verity very nearly turned tail and ran when she realized that the Dunstables were also guests of Lady Hartley-Wells, but quickly recovered her equanimity – after all, she was going to have to meet Oliver Dunstable and his wife sooner or later – and he had no idea she had witnessed his assignation.

Surprisingly the meal was a merry affair, for it seemed that Mrs. Dunstable and Lady Hartley-Wells were old friends who had many amusing anecdotes to relate. Of course Gil and Underwood were always at their best when entertaining elderly ladies, since they were able to relax and not imagine themselves pursued – something which they both professed to abhor, but neither of whom seemed to run very speedily in the opposite direction.

The only sour note to the evening was the excessive attention poured upon Josephine by the detestable Oliver. No one ever found his fawning and gross flattery of his aged wife particularly pleasant at the best of times, but with the knowledge they now possessed, his behaviour was frankly nauseating.

They would have found it much, much worse had they known what the next few days were to bring.

*

CHAPTER FIVE

(“Altissima Quaeque Flumina Minimo Sono Labi” – Literally, the deepest rivers flow with the least sound – Still waters run deep)

Verity had slept badly, woken early to be sick, and now sat, heavy eyed and lethargic, waiting for her husband to bring her the customary cup of healing waters. She was beginning to find the Pump-rooms intolerably dull and had she been able to summon the energy, she might have put her mind to thinking of other things she and Underwood might be doing with their mornings. She refused to acknowledge that this sudden dislike of Hanbury water might be in any way connected with the fact that the two Misses Wynter also frequented the Pump-rooms every day.

She also knew she ought to be encouraging Underwood to consider their position as guests at the vicarage. It was time they found a home of their own and decided exactly how Underwood was going to earn his living, but she felt curiously protected beneath Gil’s roof and was loath, for the moment, to face the harsher realities of life.

Underwood exchanged a brief greeting with Oliver Dunstable at the water fountain, as they both filled their respective wives cups – though Mrs. Dunstable had a silver goblet, and not a mere glass like Verity. Underwood then returned to his wife, handing her the water and smiling at her, “Feeling any better?” he asked. She took the glass from him, carefully avoiding any contact between their fingers, “I have not complained of feeling anything other than perfect well,” she answered irritably.

“No, you have not, but I am neither deaf nor blind…” She never discovered how this sentence was destined to end for at that moment a piercing scream sliced through the usual low hum of conversation, followed by another and yet another. Verity – and several other ladies – started so violently that their cups and glasses fell from their hands and general pandemonium broke out as a mass of people surged forward towards the sounds.

Underwood and Verity were near enough to see that the screams were issuing form the lips of Josephine Dunstable’s daughter Leah, and that Josephine herself had slid from her accustomed seat and was now writhing upon the floor in a series of jerks and contortions which were horrific and frightening to witness. Flecks of bubbling spittle were dribbling from the side of her mouth and the stiff, puppet-like movements of her arms and legs had caused the hem of her already too-short dress to rise above her arthritically bulbous knees, exposing thin and shrivelled calves clad in the finest silk stockings. Oliver was staring down at her in horrified fascination; Leah was giving voice to louder and more frenzied shrieks. Since it was painfully evident no one was doing anything to aid the unfortunate Josephine, Underwood thrust his way past the crowd which had rapidly gathered about the scene, and was on his knees by the woman in seconds. He managed to catch the wildly flailing arms and perform the dual action of taking her pulse and preventing her from injuring herself any further. He hoisted her up into his arms and tried to speak to her, to calm her and find out, if possible, what exactly ailed her, but he was too late. Her head flew violently backward and with a sickening gurgle, she breathed her last.

Someone, the Underwoods never discovered whom, dealt Leah a resounding slap and the ensuing, shocked silence was more blood freezing than the previous chaos.

Oliver Dunstable was the first to speak, “Dear God, she is dead, isn’t she?”

Underwood glanced up at him, then slid Josephine gently out of his arms and back onto the marbled floor, “I’m afraid she is.”

“What was it? A heart attack? Some sort of seizure or fit?”

Underwood rose, but his gaze remained firmly fixed on the recumbent figure at his feet, “I think we should have a doctor here – and the Constable. In my, admittedly limited, experience, we have just witnessed the symptoms of the administration of some sort of toxin.”

“Poison?” Leah seemed to suddenly come to life, from a gibbering wreck only seconds before, she became lucid and vengeful, “Give me her cup!” Someone handed it to her from the floor whence it had been cast in Josephine’s first agony, and she raised it to her nose and sniffed suspiciously. A look of triumph crossed her face, “He is right. This cup contained more than plain water. My mother was murdered!” She pointed a trembling finger at the white-faced Dunstable; “He was the one who fetched the water. I want him arrested and hanged. God grant my mother revenge for this most foul deed!”

Dunstable and Verity both fainted at almost the same moment.

*

When Verity recovered her senses, she found it was Gil who was by her side as she lay on one of the hard benches at the far end of the Pump-room. In the few seconds it took her to recall the events of the past few minutes, she first noticed Underwood’s absence, and the knowledge of his desertion pierced her heart. She tried to sit up but was prevented by a wave of nausea, so she lay back and re-closed her eyes, saying as she did so, “I see that your brother had more important things to attend to other than his own wife.”

She felt Gil firmly clasp her wrist, “No, no, my dear. You have him wrong. When you swooned, his anxiety was such that he felt he could not be of any use to you. I have his strict instructions to call him the moment you regained your senses.”

Verity drew in a deep breath and with a great effort, she pulled herself back from the brink of another faint. She had no idea whether Gil was speaking the truth, or merely calming her with kind lies and strangely, she found she hardly cared. A curious lethargy was afflicting her, and when she spoke it was slowly and with cold monotony, “You need not trouble to call him. I shall get up in a moment.”

“Would you like a drink of water,” asked Gil solicitously, then wished he could unsay the words as her startled glance flew to his face and she exclaimed in horror, “Good God, no!”

He had not been present when Mrs. Dunstable had died, having arrived just in time to take the insensible Verity from his brother’s arms, but he knew all about the accusations of poisoned water, since Leah Gedney had been vociferous in attacking the young man who was her step-father. Gil was made painfully aware by her reaction how very thoughtless it was of him to offer ‘water’ at that time and in that place.

Verity gave herself a few more minutes, then rose unsteadily to her feet and rejoined the group, now much smaller, which was still gathered about the prone form of the dead woman.

Underwood had evidently taken charge, and with the help of the Pump-room caretaker, he had arranged for all but the main witnesses to be expelled into another room. He had removed his own frock coat and used it to cover the face of Mrs. Dunstable, and he now stood, in his shirt sleeves, waistcoat and breeches, apparently deep in conversation with Mr. Gedney. For all that had happened, Verity could still not see her husband without the breath catching in her throat. He looked strangely attractive arrayed thus, and when compared to the other men. She realized in that fleeting second that for all his faults, there could be no other for her. With a sensation of plunging misery, she wished it could have been the same for him with her.

As he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, he swiftly excused himself and walked across to her, taking her hand and quickly kissing it, his only concession to a public display of affection and concern, “You are fully recovered?” he asked anxiously. She nodded and he added, “Thank God! Please don’t do that any too often, my dear.”

“I’ll try not. It wasn’t altogether pleasant for me, either.”

“No, I imagine not. You did not hurt yourself when you fell? You seemed to hit the floor with a terrible crash?”

“I don’t think so. To be honest I haven’t had time to assess the damage.”

“I’m so sorry you had to witness this,” he said suddenly, “Would you like me to ask Gil to take you home?”

“No, I want to stay here with you.”

She was surprised he didn’t argue, but took her hand again and pressed it warmly before saying, “Very well, but be sure to let me know if you change your mind.”

There was no time for any further conversation for a rustle of interest in the assembled company heralded the arrival of the town’s Constable, a bucolic little man, shorter than Verity, with a very red face and neck, who looked frankly terrified of the task which lay before him. Verity thought how ridiculous it was that a man should be plunged into the unenviable position of finding a possible murderer, when his only entitlement to the task was a few votes by his friends on the town magisterial bench.

With an unmistakable tremor in his voice George Gratten asked, “Who can tell me what has occurred here?”

All eyes turned to Underwood, and having thus been tacitly elected spokesman, he began, “Mrs. Dunstable appeared to fall into some sort of seizure. I held her in my arms as she was dying and managed, with no great ease, to very briefly feel her pulse and examine her other symptoms at close range. Having made a minor study of the subject, I would strongly suspect the presence of some kind of poison in her system.”

Some of Mr. Gratten’s high colour faded, and his eyes bulged slightly, “Are you quite sure of this?” he gasped, obviously deeply shocked.

“Well, naturally I would prefer to have my suspicions confirmed by a doctor, but I fear I shall be proved right.”

“Do you have any idea of the sort of poison?”

Here Leah Gedney stepped forward and thrust her mother’s cup into the hands of the startled Gratten, “It is tansy. I recognize the smell, faint, but unmistakable.”

“And you are?” asked Gratten rather coldly. He did not like her attitude towards him. He was a man very conscious of his dignity and he expected for people to wait until they were addressed before thrusting themselves into his notice.

“I am her daughter,” Leah nodded towards the body, apparently quite recovered from her hysterical shock and distress and now only intent upon revenge, “And I demand justice in her name. He is the man who killed her. He filled the cup and gave it to her. An easy matter for him to have slipped the poison into her water.” A finger, now without a trace of a tremble, pointed directly at the now conscious, but still ashen Dunstable. He staggered slightly as he backed away from her, his whole body shaking, “No … no.” he mumbled, “It isn’t true…”

Mr. Gratten, sensibly, discounted much of this, determined not to be swayed by the raw passion which coloured much of the scene. He returned his attention back to Underwood, sensing his calm detachment. Here was a man who would tell the facts as he saw them, not as some hysterical woman wanted them to seem, “What is your opinion, sir?”

“The symptoms do concur with a dramatic overdose of tansy oil, but that generally takes a few hours to work its way through the system. Very few vegetable-based toxins kill instantly. I really don’t see how poisoned Spa water could have killed Mrs. Dunstable so swiftly. She was dead within minutes of falling ill.”

“Nonsense! She was an old woman. Any poison would have killed one of her weak constitution in moments,” intercepted Leah Gedney, throwing a darkling look at Underwood.

“Do you agree with that assessment?” asked Gratten of Underwood, who was forced, from honesty, to admit that he had no idea, “As I said, I would prefer a competent doctor to be called in.”

“That is all being dealt with,” said Gratten, with an impatient wave of his hand, “Now, did anyone actually see – what was the woman’s name?”

              Underwood supplied the required information when Leah Gedney determinedly closed her lips, as though refusing to sully her lips with the name of the man whom she considered to be her mother’s murderer.

“Did anyone see Mrs. Dunstable drink the water?” asked Gratten. A thin girl stepped forward, “I did, sir.”

“And you are?”

“Rachael Collinson, sir. Mrs. Dunstable was my employer.”

“In what capacity?”

“Ladies’ maid, sir.”

“Did anyone see…?” Gratten gestured towards the cowering Dunstable, who had been given a chair by Gil, since it was evident he could barely stand, “Who are you, my man?”

“Oliver Dunstable,” was the muttered reply.

“Her son?” asked the astounded Gratten. The response stunned him even more.

“Her husband.” Gratten was rendered speechless by this unexpected development, but swiftly recovered himself; “Did anyone see Mr. Dunstable filling the goblet at the water fountain?” He held aloft the silver vessel which Leah Gedney had so triumphantly produced.

“I did,” said Underwood quietly. He was oddly disinclined to give any assistance to Leah’s accusation, but he was always relentlessly truthful, no matter what the outcome.

Gratten looked about the assembled company, all of whom had fallen silent, waiting for his judgement.

“I don’t think there is any purpose to be served by standing about her any longer. I shall require names, addresses and occupations of all here present, and would ask you all to write a statement of your own experience of the tragedy whilst it is still fresh in our minds. No one may leave Hanbury without the prior permission of myself or the local magistrate.”

There was a short pause, the Leah Gedney burst forth with a torrent of invective, “What of that beast? You cannot mean to leave him free to wander the streets after what he has done to my mother. I want him jailed!”