An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4) (18 page)

BOOK: An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4)
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Grantley had indeed noticed it.  Giovanni could hardly be missed.  For a man so small in stature, he had a remarkable presence.  He stood now, by Luisa’s chair, glowering threateningly at anyone who dared to say anything which might distress her.

“Did Toby have anything interesting to say about their time together?”

“Not really.  He seems to be exceptionally fond of the man and refuses to be drawn on his opinion of the tragedy.  It’s odd.  I have never known Toby to be so uncommunicative – on the contrary, he usually has much to say on matters when one might prefer he kept silent.  He feels no compunction at telling me when he thinks I am wrong – a rare enough event, I admit, but unwelcome when it occurs.”

Grantley smiled, “You are, without doubt, the least modest man I have ever encountered.”

“I have very little to be modest about,” said Underwood, but his boyish grin robbed the remark of its arrogance.

“So can I assume you have now worked out how the murderer left a locked room behind him?” asked Grantley, determined to deflate the overblown ego of his companion.

“Unfortunately not – but I shall.”

“I sincerely hope so.  Time is running out rapidly.  I don’t think next year will see me as Constable.”

“Would you really be sorry to lose your position?  It seems to me to be a prodigiously unrewarding occupation.”

“And yet you perform almost the same tasks, without even the honour of a title,” countered Mr. Grantley.

                Underwood looked much struck, “By Jove!  I suppose I do.  Well, Grantley, we have more in common than I ever supposed.”

“Let us hope that the solving of this mystery will provide an even closer alliance.”

“I’ll drink to that.  Do you suppose anyone will notice if we indulge ourselves in a large brandy?”

“I don’t give a damn if they do!”

 

*

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

(“Qui Fugiebat Rursus Proeliabitur” – He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day)

 

They had imbibed barely half their generous measures of spirit when Gil joined them.  He made no comment but cast his brother a censorious glance, which Underwood studiously ignored.

“I would have words with you both.  Do you think you could slip unobtrusively away and meet me in the church in five minutes?”

“Won’t they have locked it up?” asked Underwood.

“No.  My father-in-law has offered me the living here and I asked if I might be allowed to have a look around.”

“Are you going to accept?”  Underwood was careful to keep his tone neutral.  Not for the world would he sway his brother from his desires by letting his own disappointment show.  He would frankly be horrified if Gil and Cara were to move so far from the place where he and Verity had chosen to settle, but Gil would never know it.

“I have not the slightest inclination to do so.  I have absolutely no intention of living in the Earl’s pocket, but the least I could do was to do him the service of appearing to consider his very generous offer.”

“Very well.  We will be there.”

              When Gil had gone away again Grantley asked his brother, “What do you suppose that is all about?”

“I suspect he wants to discuss what our next move is to be.  He is, after all, married to a relation of the murdered man and I imagine he wants to protect her from as much hurt as possible.”

Underwood proved to be quite correct in his assessment of Gil’s character.  In the quiet of the church Grantley and Underwood sat in a pew and waited for his arrival.

“It is a nice little chapel,” remarked Grantley, looking around him.

“They could afford to make it so,” responded the cynical Underwood, referring to the previous Earls.  He had very little time for organized religion or the landed gentry.  Both institutions were a gigantic hoax perpetrated on an unsuspecting public, as far as he was concerned, though he rarely spoke in such bald terms.  He was wise enough to accept what he could not change, even if it was not always with graciousness.

They both turned when they heard Gil’s footsteps coming down the aisle, then waited, in respectful silence, whilst he made a swift obeisance towards the altar.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said quietly, filling the space in the pew which Underwood had shifted over to make for him, “Tell me everything.  I know, only too well, that much has been kept from Cara, but there is no necessity to keep me in the dark also.  I can be trusted to tell her nothing more than is good for her.”

Underwood gave him a rapid summary of the story so far and Gil was suitably shocked at the violence with which Peter had met his end, “Thank God there is no possibility that Luisa was responsible.  Cara is so fond of her, and I must say I am also becoming so.  She seems a sweet creature, for all her little foibles and I should hate to imagine her capable of such ferocity.”

“As would we all,” said Underwood, with a sly glance towards Grantley, “But the question now remains.  Who did kill Peter?  We feel, most strongly, as did Francis, that the wound simply could not have been self-inflicted.  I don’t suppose you, Gil, know anything of Luisa’s past life?  Who, for example, were her parents, and are they still living?”

Gil frowned slightly as he tried to recall any conversations he might have had with Cara or her family with regard to Luisa, “I must say the family do not often refer to the lady – there is a very definite feeling that Peter let them all down badly by marrying so lowly a bride – but I am sure I heard it mentioned that she lost her mother at a very young age and was raised by her father.  It seems they had a hard time of it, until her singing voice was discovered.  They travelled all over Italy, doing anything they could to earn a crust.  I even heard it mentioned that they worked for several years in a circus or travelling fair of some sort, though what they actually did, I have no idea.”

Grantley and Underwood exchanged another telling glance, “Just the sort of people to be able to escape from a locked room, I imagine,” said Underwood thoughtfully.

“Very probably.  Though I cannot, for the life of me, see how it was done,”  answered Grantley, “Sir,” he added, turning to Gil, “I don’t suppose you know if Lady Lovell’s father is still alive – and more importantly, residing in England at the present time?”

“Where he lives, I have no notion, but I have not heard it mentioned that he died.  On the odd occasion that Luisa mentions her mama, she makes a sign of the cross, but she does not do so when she mentions her father.”

“Thank you, sir, you have been most helpful,” said Grantley, “Tell me, do you return to Brighton with us?”

“Yes, Cara feels the need to be with her parents at this terrible time, and they, of course, cannot leave town until this mystery is solved.”

“Then doubtless I will see you there.  If you will excuse me, gentlemen.  I arranged for my carriage to collect me and it wants only five minutes to the time of its arrival.”

He went away and the brothers sat for a few moments longer in the quiet of the church, “He appears to be a very pleasant young man,” said Gil presently.  Underwood smiled, “My dear fellow, you are letting the position of Rural Dean go to your head.  If Grantley is younger than either of us by more than a couple of years, I’ll go begging in the street.  Young man, indeed!  He’s thirty-five, if he’s a day.”

“And you are rapidly approaching forty-four.  That means, if my mathematics are not at fault, that you can give him almost ten years.”

Underwood, much struck, was rather offended that his brother should have had the ill-grace to point this out, “Oughtn’t we to be getting back to the gathering?” he said gruffly.  Gil laughed, “My dear Chuffy, I apologise.  I had forgotten how sensitive a subject your age is to you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” responded Underwood, with as much dignity as he could muster, “My age is, and always has been, entirely immaterial to me.”

“Of course it is,” soothed Gil, “I should never have suggested otherwise.  Shall we go back to the house?”

 

*

 

When they returned to the hall, only immediate family remained.  When Grantley had taken his leave, it had been the signal for everyone else to claim their carriages and bid farewell to the Earl and his kin.  The hasty departures were understandable.  There was a heavy atmosphere prevailing in the house; a feeling that the worst was not yet over.  Even the supposedly insensitive Underwood was aware of the oppression of the unlived-in house.

Only Trentham seemed unaffected by the prevailing gloom, he greeted Gil and Underwood with subdued excitement, “Gil.  You and Underwood must come with me.  I have something to show you.” 

“What is it, Trent?” asked Gil, with an edge of impatience to his voice which was most uncharacteristic.  Even though he tried to be Christian, a very large part of him still blamed Trentham for Peter’s death.  He knew, of course, that the boy himself had not struck the fatal blow, but he also felt, very strongly, that had Trentham not made his infatuation for Luisa so obvious, the evident ill-feeling which had existed between man and wife would never have occurred.  Though they really still had no idea why or by whom Peter had been killed, some instinct told Gil that Luisa was at the heart of the affair, in one way or another.  Someone had killed Peter either to protect Luisa or to avenge her – of that he was positive.

“My new carriage has arrived.  The groom, Quinn, has just given me the nod when I was by the front door, seeing Great Aunt Mary off.  He took delivery of it yesterday.  It’s in the coach house now.”

Gil had absolutely no interest in carriages of any sort and he thought Trentham callous in the extreme for having his attention so easily swayed from the tragedy of his uncle’s death by the triviality of the presence of a new vehicle, but before he could issue a stern rebuke, Underwood intercepted, “Lead the way, Trentham.  I should very much like to see your new phaeton – I assume, since you are a young man of fashion, that it is indeed a high-perch phaeton?”

                Trentham’s face lit with pride, “It most certainly is,” he answered, as loudly as he dared, for he did not want his father to hear the conversation and forbid him access to the coach house, out of respect for his dead kinsman.

Gil raised a brow at Underwood, but he wisely made no comment.  He was well aware that Underwood had about as much fascination with wheeled vehicles as he had himself, so there must be another reason for this sudden inclination to view the item.

In this he was nothing less than completely accurate.  Underwood had several reasons for wanting to accompany Trentham, foremost amongst them being a desire to escape from the depressing and distressing gathering, but more than that he wished to open up a route of communication between himself and his young companion.  As much as his brother, Underwood felt Trentham held one of the keys to the mystery of the death of Peter Lovell and he needed to gain the boy’s confidence.  The only way to do that was to cease to give the appearance of disapproving adulthood and become ‘one of the boys’.  Evidently the way to this particular boy’s heart was through his love of horses and fast carriages.

The coach house, being at the back of Lovell Hall, had long since lost full daylight so it was rather dark when they entered – at least until their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.  There were several carriages in the vast, barn-like structure, silently gathering dust until called into use by masters who had too many vehicles and far too much money, and so Trentham’s brand new phaeton was shiny and sparkling by comparison.  It glittered dully in the half-light, its coachwork an outrageous shade of bright daffodil yellow, its large wheels white with red tooling.

The sprung seat stood impossibly high over the body, elevating the driver to a distance of five or more feet off the ground.  Underwood thought it looked to be the most unstable piece of machinery he had ever encountered and could quite understand the smitten expression of pure delight on the face of the youth beside him.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” breathed Trentham, almost in awe at the magnificence of this thing which now belonged solely to him.

“Absolutely,” agreed Underwood emphatically, “Forgive my ignorance, but is it for two horses or four?”

“Two, of course!”  Trentham’s tone held a wealth of contempt for such ignorance.  Underwood smiled slightly in the half-light, “Of course,” he murmured, “Well, it must have cost a pretty penny, I suppose.”

“A small fortune,” admitted Trentham, “But worth every penny, you must agree.”

“How the devil did you persuade your father to let you have it?  I should have thought one glance at it would have sent him scurrying in a panic towards a much more sedate little gig for you.”

“He hasn’t actually seen it,” said Trentham, without a trace of guilt or remorse, “I told him it was – well, much quieter than this, anyway.”

“Do you think he’ll allow you to keep it?”

“Well, once I’ve driven it, he’ll have a devil of a job getting the fellow who sold it to me to take it back, won’t he?”

“You’re that bad a driver, are you?” teased Underwood.  Trentham turned hotly, intended to issue a stern denial of this slur, but he caught Underwood’s grin and began to laugh, “Damn it, Underwood!  You nearly had your jacket dusted then.  No, I am not a bad driver, but I’m bound to pick up the odd scratch or two until I get used to handling the thing, aren’t I?”

“Very probably!”

“Do you care for a ride?”

“Not in the least, my friend.  The thing looks lethal to me.  And I’m terrified of heights.  But it is just the thing for the young man about town.  Your fellows are going to be pea-green with envy when you tool yourself into London with it.”

“They will, won’t they?” murmured Trentham, yearningly, “I say, do you think I dare drive it back to Brighton?”

“I don’t suppose you have the horseflesh available to harness to it, do you?”

“Good Lord, yes.  Pa’s stables are always full to bursting.  Of course I shall presently purchase a pair of prime-steppers, but there’ll be something passable here in the meantime.  Papa may be an old fellow, but he does know horses.”

“If you do decide to use the thing, for God’s sake be careful,” said Underwood, suddenly serious, “Take a corner too sharply and you’ll find yourself tossed over a hedge with your neck broken!”

“I’ll be alright.  I know how to drive.”

“I’m sure you do, but high-perch phaeton’s have a character all of their own – and a bad reputation as well.”

“I’ll be careful. Frankly I’m more concerned about my father’s reaction than I am about driving the carriage.”

“You have every reason to be.”

They began to stroll back towards the house, “Tell me, Trent – you don’t mind if I call you by the family name?”

“Not at all – I suppose you are family now, aren’t you?  My grand-uncle, or something?”

“I’m nothing of the kind!” asserted Underwood swiftly, deeply offended – why was everyone obsessed with the passing of the years suddenly? “Brother-in-law, or something of the sort, but I don’t suppose I’m even that.”

“Oh,” said Trentham, with very little interest, “What did you want to ask me?”

BOOK: An Aria Writ In Blood (The Underwood Mysteries Book 4)
5.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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