Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

She sank back onto the sofa and began to sob helplessly, “How can you be so cruel?”

“How can you?” he responded severely, “Have you no affection or respect for Verity that you can speak thus to me? I’m sorry if you were hurt, but you have none but yourself to blame!”

“Have I not?” she shot back, more angry than upset, “But you came here with me. No one forced you, yet you encouraged me to think there was something to hope for by being here.”

“I came here in a spirit of friendliness and because I had no notion you were going to rake up a past which is dead. Fool that I am, it did not occur to me that you would so far forget yourself as to say such things. But since you have done so, I will repeat exactly what I have said, in private, that you might be spared the humiliation of a more public rejection. I am married to Verity now let that be an end to it!”

“So, you care nothing for me, and never have!”

“If it pleases you to think so. Now, I am leaving, do you wish me to escort you back to your lodgings?”

She looked up at him, appearing, he could not help but notice, more lovely than ever, her green eyes swimming with tears, her hair clinging in tiny tendrils to her hot forehead, “Have I completely forfeited your friendship?” she asked humbly, holding out her hand to him. He hesitated before her clasped it lightly and briefly,

“Not if you behave yourself from this moment on,” he said with mock severity.

“I cannot help it if I wish things had been different,” she murmured.

“That is your misfortune, my dear. For myself, I am more than happy that events ended just as they did. Verity is a good wife and we suit each other well.”

“So you are no longer in love with me, but love only her?”

“My feelings for my wife are entirely my own affair, Miss!” He was not about to be drawn on a subject which he had not even discussed with Verity. He found most strong emotions embarrassing and difficult to voice, “Suffice it to say I regret you have been hurt. That was never my intention.”

“Then I must learn to live with my regrets, and it only remains for me to beg your pardon for having subjected you to a display of unseemly behaviour.”

“There is no need,” he spoke brusquely, desiring nothing more than to be away from her, and tossing his handkerchief into her lap he added rather callously, “Now mop up your tears and let us go.”

*

When he entered the vicarage, rather drained and tired, he found that Ellen and Verity were still out, and the doctor had completed his survey.

“What news, Francis?” asked Underwood eagerly, banishing all thoughts of Charlotte from his mind with an ease which would have vastly offended her had she known of it.

“It looks as though the daughter was correct. There were traces of tansy in the contents of the stomach – but I only found it because I knew what I was looking for. There is, as yet, no scientific way of testing for herbal poisoning. If Mrs. Gedney had not told us of her suspicions, Mrs. Dunstable’s death would probably have been put down to natural causes.”

              “Any idea how and when she ingested it?”

“I would imagine the night before, possibly in food, but I could not discount the idea that she simply took it straight.”

              Underwood looked thoughtful; “Do you think she took it herself?”

“It’s not impossible, but I would have thought it unlikely. Judging from the amount still undigested, I would say she had quite a lot, much more than would be required for the worst case of worms, for example.”

“Was there any evidence she was suffering from that particular affliction?”

“None at all, but it is not uncommon for people to take remedies as a preventative rather than a cure.”

“Could it have been in the water her husband gave her?”

“Not without her tasting it, I would think. Besides she cannot have had much more than a sip, there was very little in her stomach. It can only have been mere coincidence that she collapsed after taking it.”

“So, we are looking at murder?”

“Or suicide – but that I doubt. There are other poisons which cause less discomfort. Tansy is not something I would choose to swallow in large amounts. So, unless it becomes apparent the lady was in the habit of dosing herself with vast amounts of the stuff…”

“Did anything in the house show traces of poison?”

“No. The whole house was spotlessly clean – suspiciously so. Even the empty wine bottles had been rinsed. Either Mrs. Dunstable ran a very tight ship, or someone in the household had something to hide!”

“The personal maid must be questioned as a matter of urgency.”

“I agree that she should be first, followed by the husband and daughter.”

“Then there is no time to be wasted.”

“Do I take that to mean you intend to involve yourself in this?”

“If I do not, an innocent man might be hanged.”

Dr. Herbert closed his eyes and shook his head, as if incredulous and long-suffering, “Will you never learn, Underwood?”

“I don’t pretend to understand what you mean by that,” was the swift and not very convincing reply.

“You know exactly what I mean by it. But nothing I can say will stop you.”

Underwood smiled grimly, “You are a very wise man to realize it.”

*

Isobel Wynter eyed her sister suspiciously as she drifted into the drawing room of their rented house, humming softly under her breath, “You look very happy.”

“I am.”

“I hope that means you have found some other gentleman into whom you may legitimately sink your claws, instead of trying to steal Mr. Underwood from under Verity’s nose!”

Charlotte raised her brows and threw her sister an arch look; “You have an abominably offensive way with words, dear sister. For your enlightenment, I shall tell you that I have just taken coffee alone with Mr. Underwood in the private parlour of an inn. Does that sound as though I am having to ‘steal’ him from anyone?”

“Alone?” Isobel was astounded, but quickly recovered herself; “I don’t believe you.”

“Then ask the landlord, sweet sister. Believe me, it will not be long before Underwood and I are making plans to run away to Italy together.”

She ostentatiously waved Underwood’s monogrammed handkerchief before her sister’s appalled eyes, the careful embroidery of Verity being plainly recognizable to the ever fond Isobel; “You are more of a cat than I ever imagined, Lottie!”

“Nonsense! As someone said – I misremember who, ‘all’s fair in love and war’. If Verity cannot hold his interest, that is hardly my fault, is it?”

Isobel writhed with impotent fury, despising not just her sister and her ignorance, but Underwood too, and all his breed.

How she hated all men! Not one of them could be trusted.

*

CHAPTER SEVEN

(“Experientia Docet” – Experience teaches)

Rachael Collinson was not a prepossessing person. There was a sly look about her which rather chilled Verity, who felt that she was not in the least sorry that her mistress had died under such distressing circumstances, and that she desired merely to get the most she could out of any situation in which she found herself. She made it quite clear to Underwood she expected to be paid for any information she imparted. Verity was infuriated by her impertinence, but Underwood merely smiled, not unkindly, but not with his usual warmth.

“I can appreciate your fears for the future, Miss Collinson, but this is hardly the time to look to your fiscal security.”

“My what?” she demanded rudely.

“Money,” explained Verity tersely, “Surely you cared more about Mrs. Dunstable than a few miserable shillings?”

“Not really,” said the girl, with a shrug of her thin shoulders, “Why should I? I worked for her, she paid me, there was nothing more to it than that. Why should I like her or she me?”

Verity had no response to offer, but she felt more sympathy than ever for the deceased. Poor woman to have been surrounded by such dregs of humanity as these. A faithless husband, a disloyal servant, a money-grabbing daughter and an odious son-in-law. She was almost fortunate to be dead. Perhaps she had taken the tansy oil herself. Who could blame her, if she had?

“If you have been a good servant, Miss,” continued Underwood smoothly, “I have no doubt you will be remembered with a sizeable bequest.”

The sarcasm was not lost on Collinson, who flushed painfully and threw him a poisonous glance, “No doubt!”

“Now, I should like you to tell me exactly how Mrs. Dunstable spent her last day, including who she saw, what she ate and where she went.”

The lady’s maid was aware that she had very little choice and it was with obvious reluctance that she complied.

“She woke at seven as usual and drank hot chocolate.”

“Prepared in the kitchen by her own staff?”

“No, I always made that. She said I had the knack of getting it just right.”

“Then?”

“She bathed as she always did – I brought up the hot water. At about ten, after dressing and applying her face paint, she came down to breakfast with her husband – he also rises at seven, but goes riding – at least that’s where he says he goes, and he does take a horse out, but it’s never very lathered when he gets back, and it’s the fattest horse I’ve ever seen that is getting regular exercise!”

Underwood resisted the temptation to meet Verity’s eyes at this and hastily drew her away from the subject of Oliver Dunstable; “We’ll come to Mr. Dunstable later, let us concentrate on the lady of the house for the moment. What was served for breakfast?”

“That morning, cold beef and ham, bread and butter and China tea.”

“And Mr. Dunstable ate with his wife?”

“Oh yes, giggling and laughing the whole time! They even fed each other. It was disgusting, carrying on over the table!”

Underwood chose to disregard this comment and continued, “After breakfast?”

“To the Pump-rooms. Mr. Dunstable always fetches – always fetched – her water, sits with her for an hour or so, then goes to the Circulating Library for her books, whilst she sits – sat – with her cronies.”

Verity thought wryly that she knew all about his trips to the library. Underwood again refused to meet the challenge in her glance.

“At three they went home for luncheon.”

“Did they both take every dish?”

“I think so. Mr. Dunstable took everything anyway. He always does. She only orders – ordered – what he likes.”

“How was the afternoon spent?”

“Same as always, either she goes to visit her friends, or they come to her, and they play cards and gossip, taking tea together later. On that day her friends came to her.”

“Who are these friends?”

“Lady Hartley-Wells, Mrs. Arbuthnot, Mrs. Wolstencroft and her niece Miss Beresford.”

“And they all took tea?”

“Yes. Mr. Dunstable goes to his club, to gamble with his friends, or if the weather is fine, he might go to the races or to a mill or a cockfight. He said he was at his club that day. After tea Mrs. Dunstable always rested for an hour or so in her room, to refresh her for the evening’s entertainment. They would go to a ball at the Assembly Rooms, or a concert or play at the theatre. Usually they dined at home, but sometimes out with friends. That night they dined at home, but Mrs. Gedney was there with her husband. Young Melissa stayed at their house with her nursemaid.”

“Why did the Gedneys not stay with the Dunstables? The house they have hired is certainly large enough to contain them all comfortably.”

“Mrs. Dunstable will not stay under the same roof as Mr. Gedney. Even though she pays for the hire of their house, she would rather pay the extra than have him near her – I mean she used to…”

“Did everyone partake of everything at the dinner?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Dunstable always drank a full bottle of claret to herself. Mr. Dunstable insisted, because she often had trouble sleeping. No one shared that, nor the box of bon-bons which were a gift from Mrs. Gedney. They all knew they were Mrs. Dunstable’s weakness, so refused when offered. She would have finished the lot by bedtime.”

“Was the claret decanted?”

“No. Mr. Dunstable always uncorked it and left it to breathe, but he didn’t decant it, so there could be no error as to who received it. I understand it was very expensive wine.”

“Was Mrs. Dunstable in the habit of taking any medication?”

“She had lots of things, tonic, physics, things for rubbing, things for inhaling. Bottles and bottles of the stuff.”

“Did she ever use tansy oil?”

“Tansy oil!” Collinson evidently knew of only one use for the herb for she snorted contemptuously, “Good God! At her age? I should think she would have welcomed the miracle of a child, not tried to get rid of it.”

“It has other uses,” said Underwood briskly, “But you say she never had any?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Thank you, Miss Collinson. You have been most helpful.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Underwood,” was the sardonic reply.

When they were alone again, Underwood spoke thoughtfully to Verity,

“I suggest that gives us two possible methods of administering the poison – though of course, if Collinson did it herself, she would hardly tell us how she accomplished the deed.”

“The wine and the bon-bons,” mused Verity, “That gives us Mrs. Gedney and Oliver Dunstable.”

“Amongst others. The wine would probably be left unattended on the sideboard for an hour or more – anyone with access to the house could thus adulterate it. The same applies to the bon-bons, unless the box was somehow sealed. I also forgot to ask Collinson if Mrs. Dunstable had a night time drink before retiring, but that will do another time. We have plenty to work on for now. It is a pity we could not have been sure Mrs. Dunstable was poisoned sooner, we have given the culprit ample time to dispose of any bottles, boxes, plates and glasses which might have contained traces of poison and shown us how and when it was administered.”

“Do you really suspect Collinson?”

“Not unless she proves to benefit financially from her mistress’ death. That young woman is interested only in money, and it would be her only temptation to murder, I think. A look at Mrs. Dunstable’s will would be most instructive. I must see George Gratten about arranging it.”

“It’s horrible to think she was killed for her money.”

“Horrible, I agree, but unfortunately, the most likely explanation. Dunstable had no need to kill her in order to be with his mistress, for it seems he was given complete freedom to indulge himself as much as he wished, and he knew his wife was in poor health. He needed only to wait for nature to take its course and he would be free without risking his own neck. It makes me quite grateful I don’t possess great wealth.”

“What a strange thing to say,” snapped Verity, cut to the quick by the remark which she considered was directed solely at her, “Do you suspect that I might poison you for your riches?”

Underwood, who had been attempting to lighten a dark moment with a joke, suddenly felt very old. It seemed he could say nothing to his wife without offence being taken where none was intended, “In your present mood, you’ll be the death of me anyway,” he said wearily, “Can I not make the lightest of light hearted remarks without you tearing at me?”

Verity burst into tears and ran from the room.

“Good God Almighty!” roared the suddenly frustrated husband, “What the devil have I said NOW?”

*

George Gratten was only too willing for Underwood to take over the investigation into the death of Mrs. Dunstable, and would have agreed to almost anything the gentleman might ask of him. The request that Underwood, Dr. Herbert and himself should all go to the Dunstable home and search it together met with his complete approval. He had never before been faced with a murder to solve, but his pomposity and vanity demanded that he bring the culprit to justice without recourse to the local Magistrate, with whom he had a long-standing and rather vitriolic feud. It would have been a bitter gall for Gratten to swallow, had he been forced to ask the help of Sir Alfred Dorrington. The Magistrate with whom he was friendly, and who he had hoped to consult, was unfortunately away from home and not due back for several days.

The house was cold and clammy after its swift desertion and careful sealing, for not a window had been left open, nor door unbarred.

The three men began a systematic round of the house, and very businesslike they seemed, though only Underwood had any clear idea of what exactly they were seeking. After setting his two companions various tasks involving opening cupboards and drawers, he started his own self-imposed task of going through the contents of the lady’s desk and box of private papers.

He found a copy of her will, which was precisely what he wanted, and quickly scanned it with great interest until he was recalled to the present by a shout of triumph from Dr. Herbert.

He ran down the stairs two at a time and joined the other two in the dining room, whence had come the voice of the doctor.

“The glasses in this cupboard reek of tansy, Underwood. It looks as though the entire household was under threat of death!”

Underwood took one of the proffered glasses from the doctor’s excitedly shaking hand and sniffed at it, “Undoubtedly tansy, but not placed there for the reason you imagine, Francis.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a meagre smear would not kill anyone – it would not even hurt them. Don’t forget it is used as a medicine in smaller doses. It takes rather a lot before it proves fatal.”

“Then why have the glasses been tampered with? I don’t understand it.”

“Because this plot has been carefully planned and callously executed. We are not just dealing with one murder here, but also attempted murder. Whoever killed Mrs. Dunstable was quite determined that Oliver Dunstable would be hanged for the crime.”

“But how was that to be achieved? No one could be sure Oliver would be on hand to take the blame. You said yourself that tansy oil can take several hours to kill.” George Gratten had his suspect and was loath to lose him, even though he was allowing Underwood to investigate the matter, it was more through a sense of fair play than any belief in Oliver’s innocence. When he got his conviction, he wanted it to stand.

“That is why these glasses have been soaked in the oil – wherever Mrs. Dunstable was when she met her end, someone was going to be able to take a vessel from her hand and scream the accusation of poison. If she had collapsed here and not in the Pump-rooms, she would still have a glass in her hand which would have been placed there by the unfortunate Oliver. He always ate in her company, you see, no matter where else he might be in between times.”

“But of course, he could have done all this himself, in the hope that someone such as yourself would have leaped to the same conclusion,” argued the incorrigible Gratten, “After all, everything else the old lady used has been cleaned with the exception of these glasses.”

“Very true,” conceded Underwood, “But things moved very quickly once she was dead, it would have been remarkably difficult to get back into the house, and incredibly suspicion behaviour if one had been caught washing what were, in theory, clean glasses. I think our suspect was forced to leave them and hope that the smell had faded by the time they were, if ever, found. Thanks to our ever-vigilant doctor, that was a vain hope. Unfortunately, it does not bring us much closer to finding the culprit, for even though Mrs. Gedney was the one who sent up the cry of murder by poison, we have no proof that it was not mere coincidence and luck that she recognized the aroma of tansy.”

Dr. Herbert looked at his friend, his brow furrowed, “Do you think it a coincidence, Underwood?”

“What I think is of no consequence. If I want to save Oliver Dunstable from the gallows, I must have solid proof, not mere conjecture.”