Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

“Francis and Ellen,” she whispered, suddenly aware how very hurtful this sound to him.

“May I be allowed to ask why I was not informed, when half our acquaintance was privy to the secret?”

“I was…” Her voice died in her throat, she swallowed deeply and tried again, “I was afraid to tell you.”

He accepted this in such profound silence that she could not help but shoot a look towards him. His face was a mask of indifference; she would never see the pain that answer had inflicted on him. It was as though they were strangers, for this was not the Underwood she loved. He could never have looked at her with such icy disdain, such loathing.

“Really? When did I turn into such an ogre that I could not be told something so fundamental?”

She almost started out of her seat to fly to him, to throw herself into his arms and beg his forgiveness, but the expression of abhorrence on his face forced her back more brutally than a blow would have done, “I never said … anything so cruel. I … I thought you did not care …for … for children. I didn’t know how to tell you … then there was … Charlotte.”

He lifted his hand, “Don’t, pray, mention that young woman’s name to me!” She was startled at the vehemence with which he said this, but there were too many other things on her mind just then to examine it more closely.

“I cannot help it if you have given me reason to think you would be displeased…” she said, more strongly now.

“I fail to see how I have done such a thing. As far as I am aware, the subject of offspring has never been broached.”

“It was – once. I asked if you liked children and you answered that you thought them a confounded nuisance…” her voice broke on a sob, but he was too furious to consider her feelings.

“You have an extremely disconcerting inclination to view everything I say as carven in stone. I meant other people’s children, naturally. My own … ours…” he stopped too overcome by a mixture of confusing emotions to continue.

Verity knew she had hurt him, probably more deeply than he would ever admit, and the only thing she could say to him was pathetic and inadequate, “I’m so sorry, Cadmus.”

              He ignored her, as she knew she deserved.

“Perhaps you would like to confide when I was to be allowed to know of this momentous event,” he continued, as though she had not spoken, “A month from the birth, perhaps – a week?”

“I know it will not sound true, now, but it was to have been this evening, I promise…”

“Do you have any notion – or even care – of the anguish you have inflicted upon me? I have been frantic for weeks, thinking you seriously ill and hiding it from me – and now I find…” He trailed off, unable to put into words the depth of anger, relief and confusion which swept over him.

They were silent for a moment; she weeping quietly; he trying to master the words, which he wanted to fling at her, the hurt he wanted to repay. At last he was sufficiently calm to ask, “Do I have to beg to be told what date you expect your confinement?”

“I don’t know precisely – I think it will be December,” she murmured, desperately wiping away her tears with shaking fingers, thoroughly demoralised.

“Thank you,” he said coldly.

He went out and left her to reflect upon this misery of her existence. It was to grow more miserable still; for when she finally dragged her weary bones up the stairs, she found he had taken all his things from their room and placed them in another.

She threw herself on the bed she had shared with him and sobbed in good earnest.

*

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

(“Quot Homines, Tot Sententiae” – So many men, so many opinions)

Gratten paced the floor, observed with cool interest by his visitor.

“This is very confusing, sir, I don’t mind admitting it. But you did right to come to me – oh, yes, indeed you did.”

“Well, you must see the difficulty faced by myself and my colleague. We needed a judgement on the matter and you seemed to be the proper person.”

“Quite right, quite right, but I think we will wait for Underwood’s arrival before we make any decisions. He has… er… has been helping me with my enquiries.”

It never occurred to Gratten that a note from him to Underwood might instil serious misgivings. In the excitement of new revelations, he had quite forgotten their previous encounter and he wondered vaguely why Underwood should have a curious air of diffidence about him when he was shown into the magistrate’s library.

“My dear fellow, allow me to introduce Mr. Wilkins,” Underwood accepted the introduction and the change of manner with equanimity. It would appear Mr. Wilkins was in some way responsible for this dramatic alteration of manner towards him from Mr. Gratten, and he would undoubtedly be informed of the reason presently. He did not have long to wait.

“I beg you, sir, that you tell Mr. Underwood exactly what you have told me.”

“Certainly, Mr. Gratten, I should be delighted.”

Wilkins, it seemed, worked for an Assurance Company, a concept which had grown increasingly popular since the Peninsular Wars, when the loss of the breadwinner could have a devastating effect upon a soldier’s family. His friend Johnson did likewise. In the course of the previous week, both gentlemen had received a claim on the life of Mrs. Josephine Dunstable, and both had seen the curious newspaper report, which had stated that the death of Mrs. Dunstable was being treated as suspicious. In the usual way of things, it would be far from both their thoughts to discuss the private business of their respective offices, but this coincidence had been too great to ignore, so Wilkins had volunteered to travel North and present the facts to the gentleman in charge of the case.

Underwood was very interested indeed, “Are you at liberty to disclose the name or names of those who benefit from these policies?”

“I am, sir. My employer and that of Mr. Johnson were most concerned that the lady might possibly have been murdered for the sake of the insurance money, which in both cases amounted to a not inconsiderable sum.”

“The names, then, if you please,” prompted Underwood, who never had any patience with pomposity and verbosity.

“The policy with my company is made out to Mr. A. Gedney – I might add that his wife and daughter are also insured with us, he being the sole beneficiary.”

Gratten and Underwood passed a speaking glance, “Is his life insured for the benefit of his family?”

“Strangely enough, no.”

“How odd that he should be so very certain of his surviving all his family members,” commented Underwood cynically, “Is Mr. Johnson’s policy the same?”

“No, sir. Mr. Johnson is to pay a Miss Adeline Beresford.”

Now that was unexpected, and Underwood raised an eyebrow, “But I was under the impression that only close kin could insure a life? Miss Beresford is not related to Mrs. Dunstable, is she?”

“She certainly is – legally adopted daughter. Beresford was the name of Mrs. Dunstable’s first husband.”

“Is that so? How odd that Mrs. Wolstencroft and Miss Beresford did not furnish me with that information, Mr. Wilkins.”

“Well, if they killed the old lady, it is hardly surprising, is it?”

“Under those circumstances, not at all. Tell me, do you know of any policies which benefit Oliver Dunstable?”

“No, but now you mention the name, Mr. Gedney has a policy on his life too. His father-in-law, I understand?”

“He is, but logically, Gedney would be most unlikely to collect on a man so many years his junior.”

Mr. Wilkins was evidently baffled by this pronouncement; “Do you mean that the father-in-law is a much younger man than his son-in-law?”

“Much younger,” asserted Underwood firmly.

“How very odd,” said Wilkins, but with a shrug of his shoulders. He was a man who was quite accustomed to the many vagaries of his fellow man, and generally took even the most peculiar events in his stride, “Well, I need not scruple to tell you that we will not be paying either of these policies until we are quite sure no blame attaches to the beneficiaries.”

“Very wise, sir. And I would like to thank you for your help. This information could be of vital importance, quite vital.”

Mr. Gratten was not a subtle man and he now made it more than evident he would like Mr. Wilkins to leave so that he could discuss these new developments with Underwood. Mr. Wilkins could take a hint. He shook hands with both men and obligingly took himself off, telling Gratten he would be staying at the Bull for the next few days, should he be required again.

“What do you make of all that, Underwood?” asked Gratten, as soon as the door closed.

“I think it is time to speak to Rachael Collinson, Mrs. Wolstencroft and Miss Beresford again. These ladies have been withholding information, and I want to know the reason why.”

Gratten was suddenly aware that Underwood had come at his call without any recriminations for past behaviour, and he had to admit now that, though Oliver Dunstable was undoubtedly a half-wit, it was looking more and more likely Underwood had been right all along and he was not a murderer. He felt compelled to mention this to his companion, though apologies never came easily to one of his ilk.

“This is very decent of you, Underwood, very decent, especially as I was a little …er … shall we say, hard on you the last time we met?”

              Underwood smiled grimly, “Pray think no more about it, Mr. Gratten. I have had experiences over the past twenty-four hours which have quite cast our little
contretemps
into the shade.”

“Oh? Anything I can help you with?”

“Not unless you know about women.”

“Ah! Which of us does, my friend, which of us does?”

“Quite!” said Mr. Underwood.

*

He had the grace to feel a qualm of guilt when he set forth, alone, to visit the ladies. He knew Verity had been as eager to solve the mystery of Mrs. Dunstable’s death as he was himself, and she would be devastated to know he was now acting without her, but his pain and anger were still too deep and raw to permit her re-entry into his good books just yet.

Consequently his expression had never been more forbidding or his manner less amiable, especially with Collinson, for whom he had never cared anyway. He thought her callous, calculating and thoroughly unpleasant, and he showed no mercy when he spoke to her. For the first time since he had met her, she lost her air of self-assurance. He actually managed to frighten her into thinking about the consequences of her bad behaviour, and it was a very chastened young lady who answered his brusque questions.

“Miss Collinson, I am exceedingly tired of being trifled with over this matter, and I fully intend to discover the truth, or see someone suffer the full force of the law.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t done nothing. Why are you always picking on me?”

“Your employer was probably murdered, yet you have given information reluctantly, have been rude and unhelpful. If you wish my suspicions to be directed towards a person who had constant contact with the victim, who handled her food, her drink, and her medicines…”

She paled visibly, “Are you trying to push the blame onto me...?” she stuttered incredulously.

“Someone is going to hang for this crime, Miss – and if you want that person to be you, just continue the way you are.” His eyes held such a depth of contempt for her that she had no choice but to believe he was capable of laying evidence against her and letting her hang.

“But I didn’t do it … Please, sir, you’ve got to believe me. I swear to God, all I’ve ever done is do as I’m told to do.”

“Then she was murdered?”

She nodded.

“Who told you what to do?”

              She swallowed convulsively, “Mrs. Dunstable was my employer.”

“And who else paid you, Miss Collinson?”

Her eyes slid slyly away from his intense gaze; “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do. There are one or two things I need to have clarified, are you going to co-operate?”

“Yes,” she said sourly.

Even at this admission of defeat, he did not allow his severity to relax, “Mr. Gedney asserts he did not arrive in Hanbury until his came with his wife on the twenty-third of June, but I have evidence to prove he was here some days before that, and he then entered the Dunstable house. Did you act as go-between, telling him when it was safe for him to enter the house without being observed or disturbed?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know. I just let him in, then I left him. I had to find out when the house would have fewest servants present, then leave a message for him at the Bluebell Inn out Northcross way. I then let him in.”

“And you really have no idea what he did?”

“No.”

Damaging, but not enough. Gedney could have wanted to enter the house for a dozen reasons, and if he were glib enough, he could convince any jury that he was not a murderer, but was there for quite different purposes. He might, for example, have been eager to see the old lady’s will, to know for sure what he might expect to gain on her demise. He could very well be aware of her blackmailing activities, and, being short of money himself, might have been attempting to remove the little black book and earn himself a commission.

“You stated the box of bon-bons was a gift from Mrs. Gedney. Are you sure of that?”

“Not really. Everyone who knew her sent her bon-bons. She had several boxes delivered that week. I couldn’t be sure which box she opened that night.”

“Why did you not say that when I first asked you?”

”I don’t like Mrs. Gedney.”

Underwood, who thought he was beyond being shocked by anything, was appalled. It seemed the girl would have been quite happy to see her employer’s daughter in the dock, accused of murder. This was going much further than he imagined even she would dare. He had a sudden flash of inspiration. He scrutinized her face; “Do you have any followers, Miss Collinson?” She blushed deeply and this, coupled with her vehement, indeed violent, denial, told Underwood that she had something to hide. He left the line of questioning for the moment and noticed that she seemed immensely relieved that he had done so.

“We listed everything Mrs. Dunstable had eaten and drunk that day, but I omitted to ask if she consumed anything when she retired. Did she?”

Collinson thought carefully, then, appearing to remember, she nodded vigorously, “Yes, I had forgotten, but Mrs. Gedney came to her room with a pot of herbal tea. They chatted as she drank it – seemed quite friendly with each other for a change.”

Underwood declined to show any interest in this snippet and continued smoothly, “Who, exactly, sent Mrs. Dunstable bon-bons that week?”

“Lady Hartley-Wells, Miss Beresford, Mrs. Arbuthnot…”

“Anyone else?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Very well, that will do for now. If you remember anything else, you are to let me know at once.”

“I will – oh, Mr. Dunstable gave her two boxes as well.”

“Good God! She did have a sweet tooth, didn’t she?”

For the first time a ghost of a smile passed over her features, “She did. It’s a wonder she was so thin, by rights, she should have rivalled the ‘Victory’ for bulk.”

“So it would seem.”

*

When he was shown into her drawing room, he found Miss Beresford there alone, and though he made no comment upon it, he thought she looked extremely unwell. She offered him refreshment, which he declined.

“I understand congratulations are in order, Mr. Underwood. I’m afraid your news is all over Hanbury by now. It is, perhaps, not common for such an event to be made a subject of gossip, but Charlotte Wynter has taken it upon herself to broadcast the scene played out yesterday afternoon at the vicarage.”

He controlled his fury with admirable strength of mind; “Miss Wynter takes too much upon herself!” The comment was stoic enough, considering his own opinion of Verity’s behaviour and Charlotte’s malice.

“Pray don’t scold her, sir. I, for one, am only too delighted to hear some happy news for a change. My own affairs have descended into chaos and I can only be grateful that the whole world is not plunged into a similar misery.” The bitterness in her tone did nothing to encourage him to continue, but he knew he must do so, “I’m sorry to hear that. Might I enquire as to the cause of your distress?”

“Why, the murder of Mrs. Dunstable, what else? Josie threatened to end my engagement by exposing my shame to my betrothed, but that has happened anyway. By dying in such tawdry circumstances, she has scotched my romance. The first hint of scandal and he has run for cover like a rabbit!”