Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

They climbed into the waiting carriage without exchanging a word, and it was not until the hamlet was fading into the distance that Underwood risked a comment,

“It would seem, my dear, that you were right and I was wrong. There are more reasons to kill than merely money.”

“I fear that may well be the case. Are you still confident that Oliver Dunstable did not murder his wife?”

“If you want me to be brutally honest, no. I can scarcely believe it, but Oliver could well be cleverer than either of us ever imagined.”

“That is hard to believe,” returned Verity sardonically. She really did not like Dunstable, but her feelings towards any man who betrayed his wife were growing daily more bitter.

Underwood gave a short laugh, “Poor Oliver, you really do detest him, don’t you?”

“You have no idea how much.”

*

CHAPTER ELEVEN

(“Beneficium Accipere Libertatem Est Vendere” – To accept a favour is to sell one’s freedom)

Dusk was coming on apace and Underwood stared moodily out of the carriage window. Verity, pale and exhausted, had fallen asleep against the worn velvet squabbs of the hired hack and Underwood envied her the ability to slumber after the shock they had just sustained.

Where did Miss Marsh’s admission leave them now? Oliver Dunstable not only had every reason to wish his wife dead, he also seemed to have promised that very thing. He had motive, opportunity, and means all within his grasp, so could Underwood be quite so certain he had judged his man correctly – and more importantly, what hope did he have of convincing a jury in the face of such damning evidence?

Underwood was thrown forward, suddenly and violently, as the carriage came to an unexpected halt and he heard the terrified whinnying of the startled horses, accompanied by the loud curses of the driver.

He let down the window with a clatter and thrust his head out, “What goes on?” he called quietly, so as not to wake his sleeping wife. The vehicle moved jerkily backwards and forwards slightly as the elderly whipster tried to bring his frightened steeds under control, “There’s a man lying in the road, sir,” came the reply from the box, “He looks to be in a bad way.”

“Good God! We didn’t run over him, did we?” exclaimed Underwood in concern, struggling to undo the door, which proved at first, unyielding.

“No, no, sir. I think he must have been set upon by footpads.”

Underwood burst through the door as it suddenly swung open and found himself almost falling out onto the dusty highroad. He righted himself and squinted into the gathering twilight, barely able to discern the figure of the man who had staggered in front of their vehicle, before collapsing in a heap on the road, almost under the dangerously stamping hooves of the panicked horses.

Of one accord the driver and Underwood ran to the front of the carriage, the former to grasp the nosebands of his animals, the latter to see what aid could be given to the obviously injured man.

As he rolled the man onto his back, Underwood suffered a slight jolt, for the victim was black-skinned, something rarely seen in this remote area of England at this time. Black people were quite widespread in London and other large cities, for slavery had been rife in the previous century, and Underwood had taught several African Princes at his university, but he had not been expecting to come across anyone here of Negro descent. It caused him no more than a momentary hesitation, however, for the man was severely beaten and was covered in blood and bruises. Underwood hoisted him into a semi-recumbent position and spoke gently to him,

“If I help you, do you think you could make it into the carriage? I’m sorry not to be able to merely lift you and save you the effort, but I doubt my ability.” He spoke nothing less than the truth, for now he was nearer, he could see the man was of huge proportions, taller than Underwood’s six feet by a good four or five inches, and immeasurably broader than his rescuer’s slim physique.

At that moment a sleepy Verity joined them and called anxiously into the twilight, “What is wrong, Underwood? Why have we stopped?”

The sound of a woman’s voice seemed to jerk the man back into consciousness, for he sat upright and muttered between swollen and bloody lips, “For

God’s sake get the girl away from here. They may still be lurking about.”

“Come then,” said Underwood decisively, “let us be on our way.”

The man staggered to his feet, upheld by Underwood and they managed, with difficulty, to get to the carriage door, whereupon the man more fell than climbed into the vehicle. With a supreme effort Underwood hoisted inside the legs which still stuck out into the road, handed the bemused Verity over their sprawling guest, leapt in after her and called to the driver with an exceedingly coarse expression gleaned from his sporting students, “Spring ‘em!” The driver needed no second bidding and with a bellow to the horses, and an expert, and exceptionally loud crack of the whip, they were speedily carried the remaining couple of miles to Hanbury.

Once back in the warm, candle-lit homeliness of the vicarage, the injured man soon found himself stripped of his torn, muddy and bloodstained coat. Verity’s gentle but competent hands were washing his cuts and Dr. Herbert was diagnosing cracked ribs and binding them for him, Gil was making tea in his own ineffable way and Underwood was questioning him about his mishap.

His story was a strange one, and tragic in its way, though Tobias Hambleton, for that was his name, proved to be amazingly philosophical and had not a bitter bone in his body, though his listeners thought he had reason enough.

He had been taken from Africa – what part he had no idea – as a babe in his mother’s arms, as so many hundreds of others had been, and subsequently sold into slavery, as a body servant to a titled lady in London. Through his babyhood and small childhood she had kept him by her, much as one might keep a pet dog. He slept in a little cot at the foot of her bed, and followed her throughout the day, fetching and carrying for her. There had never been a formal education, but a governess of the family’s children had secretly taught him to read and write. All too soon he had out grown the sweet and cuddly stage and a tall gangling youth had no place in a lady’s household. He had first been sent to help in the stables, where he had been given the hardest and most unpleasant tasks, but where he had developed the muscles which were later to be his salvation.

Soon the other servants had baulked at working and eating with him, for in their ignorance they had no idea how to treat this alien presence, who spoke, because his formative years, like a gentleman, and really had no idea how to perform the duties he was assigned. At around the same time the idea of slavery had become an anachronism, and Toby had progressed from lap dog to embarrassment. He found himself free, but cast out into the streets to earn his living as best he could. An outcast because of the colour of his skin, he did the only thing he knew and became a pugilist, for fights had been all too common in the stable yard. His fists became his saviour, but they placed him in his own particular hell. A gentle man, reared to serve a lady of quality, he found it increasingly difficult to batter his opponents senseless and bloody with his great strength.

This day had seen the moment when he had finally refused to do it any longer, and several disgruntled sportsmen had taken out their frustration on him. One man at a time, and they would have stood no chance, for in all his years of fighting he had sustained remarkably few injuries, but this was different. There were at least ten of them, and he had found himself firmly pinioned by half of them whilst the rest used fist and boot indiscriminately. He had regained his senses to find himself dumped in a ditch, only inches from the bottom and fortunate not to have drowned in the cold, muddy water. He had no idea how long he had lain there, only that on hearing hoof beats he had dragged himself out and staggered towards the sound, fearing that a night in the open in his state would have probably have meant the end of him.

His audience was appalled by the story, and there was no hesitation in any of their voices when they all begged him to make free of their hospitality for as long as he felt the need. He grinned, ignoring split lips and showing beautiful white teeth which were miraculously unscathed by his ordeal, “You are all very kind.”

“Not at all, Mr. Hambleton,” said Gil warmly, “We are only sorry that our fellow-countrymen have shown you less Christianity than they ought.”

“Call me Toby, please – and as a Christian myself, I haven’t exactly spent a life of saintliness. Ask anyone who has ever been in a mill with me.”

They all smiled at this sally, though none thought he has been given very much choice in the matter.

“But to have thrown you out on the streets,” protested Verity, “That really was unforgivable!”

“Not as unforgivable as the alternative, Miss,” asserted Toby with emphasis, “Most men in my position would have been resold and shipped out to the plantations in the West Indies. There slavery still exists, and it’s a death sentence for most. I’m just grateful my mistress could not bring herself to do that to me.”

The silence which greeted this was broken by Oliver Dunstable strolling into the room, looking more relaxed than any man with a noose hanging over him had any right to, “Good evening all. What goes on here?”

Introductions were performed, then Mr. Underwood looked grimly at him,

“I’d like to speak to you, Mr. Dunstable – now! You have some explaining to do.”

*

Once again the vicar’s study became the venue for a few choice words, “Mr. Dunstable, you seem determined to bring about your demise by a hangman’s rope, despite my best endeavours.”

Oliver sank into a comfortable chair with a resigned and martyred air of a student about to be carpeted for an unfinished essay, “What ever the problem is, I dare swear you can solve it, Underwood,” he said casually.

“Not being a miracle worker nor a midwife, I fear this little complication is quite beyond my powers, Mr. Dunstable,” answered the older man testily, “Why did you not confide your secret to me?”

“I didn’t think it concerned anyone but Miss Marsh and myself. What has it to do with Josie’s death?” muttered Oliver, a trifle sulkily.

“Didn’t concern …!” Underwood roared, then trailed off, completely bereft, momentarily, of the power of reasonable communication. He took a deep breath, refreshed himself with a large pinch of snuff, and tired again, “Young man, the condition of your lady friend – I use the term advisedly! – bestows on you the perfect motive for having murdered your wife. If you now hasten into marriage with her, you will compound that supposition. All I need now to end the perfect day is for you to admit you attempted to terminate the pregnancy with tansy oil and we may as well start weaving the hemp ourselves.”

Dunstable flushed to the roots of his hair, and then the blood drained as swiftly from his face as the full import of Underwood’s words sank in, “I believe Frederica did try something of the sort…” he murmured reluctantly, “Didn’t work though,” he added somewhat bitterly.

Underwood stared at him for several incredulous seconds, “Do you mean to tell me you have had tansy in your possession in the recent past?”

“I suppose I have – but I swear to God I didn’t know it was a poison.”

“Then how do you suppose it manages to kill an unborn child, you blithering idiot?” roared Underwood, now completely out of patience and not much caring what he said, nor who heard him.

If it was possible, Dunstable grew even whiter, “I... I didn’t think of it like that…”

“Your trouble, Mr. Dunstable, is that you never think at all. If you did not commit this murder, you have played beautifully into the hands of those who did. I fear it is beyond even my ingenuity to salvage the situation.”

“God! Don’t say that. You can’t believe I did it. You can’t leave me to hang.”

“Mr. Dunstable,” explained Underwood with admirable control, “if any court in the land hears that you had the means, the opportunity and the motive to kill your wife, then nothing short of Christ himself appearing to the jury to vouch for your innocence is going to save your neck – and even then they will ask to see the crucifixion wounds. God give me strength! Don’t you see what you have done?”

Dunstable was almost snivelling with fright, “Please Underwood! You are my only friend, don’t desert me now.”

“Give me one good reason why I should not?”

“If not for myself, then for Frederica and the child! They are the real victims in all this!”

Underwood sank into a chair, holding his brow with one hand, “Good God, man, you have set me quite a task, haven’t you?”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“It would appear so, but pray do not rely on the outcome being in your favour! I am going to need a miracle of epic proportions to save your worthless hide! You had better tell me where you purchased the tansy!”

“What?” He was still reeling from the explicit warning Underwood had issued and seemed confused and disorientated. Underwood repeated the question, and Dunstable stuttered a reply, scarcely aware of what he said. Underwood took note to the herbalist named by his companion, then left the young man alone with his thoughts.

*

Later in their bedroom, Verity, already tucked up in bed after her exhausting day, peeped at him over the edge of the covers as he performed his ablutions, “What did Mr. Dunstable have to say for himself?”

Underwood lips were pursed in an expression of contempt and exasperation mixed, and he threw his coat violently towards a chair, “The man is a fool! God alone knows how I am going to get him out of this mess.”

“Are you even going to try?”

“I have to. He did not kill his wife.”

“You seem very sure, Cadmus. You were not so positive when you left Miss Marsh.”

“Having spoken to him, I am now sure, beyond any doubt. Quite apart from anything else, he has not the intelligence to have planned any of this crime. My first assessment of him was correct. He could not organize a prayer meeting in a convent.”