Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) (8 page)

Mr. Gratten grunted his acceptance of this fact, “Damned fishy, though, all the same. Well, Underwood, are we to continue our search, or have you found what you wanted?”

“I think our work here is done, Mr. Gratten, but I would ask your permission to take away the private papers of the lady of the house. There seems to be a copy of her will, which requires greater scrutiny than I have yet been able to manage.”

              “I see no reason why not, but don’t, for God’s sake, lose any of them.”

“I shall guard them with my life,” Underwood assured him gravely, “But in return, I would ask you both to refrain from mentioning to anyone that they are in my possession, for the present at least.”

Having been given the word of both gentlemen, Underwood suggested they reseal the house and go to their respective homes to write a report of the day’s labours.

*

Reluctant as he was to associate with the unpleasant Gedneys, Underwood knew he could not much longer delay the inevitable interview, so he set his steps in their direction the next morning.

The maid showed him into the drawing room and left him whilst she went to find her mistress. He glanced about him, noting the overly fussy décor, typical of the Spa’s rented houses. Hanbury was trying very hard to become fashionable and aped its rival resorts of Bath and Harrogate in trying to outdo themselves in gentility and opulence. One could almost be in the drawing room of a Duchess, such was the number and variation of spindle-legged chairs, china ornaments and decorative swirls and festoons of plaster and gilded carving.

He was joined very swiftly by Mr. Gedney who burst into the room and not bothering with the niceties of a greeting demanded, “You asked to see my wife? May I ask why?”

“I did,” agreed Underwood amiably, taking his snuffbox from his pocket and helping himself to a generous pinch. He offered the box to the glowering Gedney, who impatiently brushed it aside, “I don’t know what the devil you want with her, but you are out of luck. She has been devastated by her mother’s death and has taken to her bed.”

“I am sorry to hear it, but it is of no consequence. You may just as well answer my questions.”

Gedney looked first stunned, then grew red and began to bluster angrily,

“Be damned to you! By what right do you come here, prying into our private affairs?”

“I am here at the personal request of Mr. Gratten, the Constable of Hanbury. We are investigating the death of your mother-in-law, Mrs. Dunstable.”

“I don’t see what there is to investigate. That sneaking little runt of a husband did it.”

“Did what?” asked Underwood reasonably.

“Murdered her, of course!”

“Who told you she was murdered?”

Gedney was lost for words for a moment, then began a furious tirade, “What the hell do you mean by that? Of course she was murdered. You said so yourself on the day she died. I heard you talk of poison with my own ears."

“You may well have done so, but that does not necessarily mean she was murdered. She might have taken the poison herself.”

Gedney grinned suddenly, but it was neither a pleasant nor friendly expression, “So that is your game, is it? You are going to get your little friend off by claiming suicide. Well, it won’t work. I’ll see that rat in a gibbet or my name isn’t Adolphus Gedney.”

“You seem passionately set on revenge, Mr. Gedney. I was told that you did not hold Mrs. Dunstable in any particular affection, nor she you, so I fail to understand this sudden desire to avenge her death.”

“What? And let that rogue Dunstable walk off with her money? You must be out of your mind!”

“Ah, everything becomes clear. But does Dunstable inherit? You seem very sure of that fact.”

“I’ve not seen the will with my own eyes, if that is what you are hinting at, but it does not take a genius to work out that he’ll get the bulk of her money – money that should, by rights, go to her daughter.”

“And thence her son-in-law,” murmured Underwood, not bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice, “Tell me, Gedney, did you and your wife have free access to Mrs. Dunstable’s house?”

“I see no reason to lie about it, yes we did.”

Underwood surveyed the man before him for a few seconds in silence, then said mildly, “One more question, then I shall leave you in peace – for the moment. Have you always suffered from that rash on your hands?”

Gedney glanced down at the reddened, swollen patches on both his hands, before thrusting them behind his back, “No, I haven’t. Perhaps the water here doesn’t agree with me either!” He laughed coarsely and Underwood walked past him and out of the door, appalled that he could make so tasteless a joke about the death of his mother-in-law – a death which he as well as Underwood had witnessed, and which he must have known was agonizing for the woman.

Gedney might be a thoroughly obnoxious individual, but unfortunately that did not prove him to be a murderer.

Underwood went home, disheartened, but not yet beaten.

*

CHAPTER EIGHT

(“Facilis Est Decensus Averni” – The road to Hell is an easy one)

Lady Hartley-Wells was delighted to see her visitors and immediately ordered tea, “Underwood and dearest Verity. I hope we are to see you at the Ball this evening in the Assembly Rooms?” Lady Hartley-Wells was a great supporter of the Charity Balls which were held monthly in Hanbury, though she did not ever dance herself. Gil usually partnered her, though his evening would be spent playing whist or backgammon.

Underwood had been doing his utmost to avoid this gathering, but Verity was eager to attend, so this recommendation – which almost amounted to an order – from the elderly tyrant, was most welcome. Verity smiled her sweetest and replied, “We would not miss it for the world!” Underwood was betrayed into the slightest of scowls, but made no demur. He placed himself squarely before the unlit fire and accepted a tiny, delicate cup of tea from his hostess’ footman, “Certainly, certainly,” he said gruffly, “But we did not come here to discuss the dance, but the death of Mrs. Dunstable.”

Lady Hartley-Wells regarded him steadily then said, “If you are going to tell me there was ‘foul-play’ as I believe the expression runs, then I cannot honestly say I am surprised.”

Underwood raised one brow, as was his habit when he was faced with something unexpected, “Would you like to expand on that comment?”

“Josie was a wealthy woman – and her second marriage was not the most popular move she ever made.”

“With whom? Her family?              He found himself the subject of her intense scrutiny for several seconds before she seemed to make a decision and speak again, “I shall not hide anything from you, Underwood, for two reasons. One is that I know nothing I say can hurt my old friend now; the second is that I believe you to be a gentleman and you will treat whatever I have to tell you with discretion.”

“You may have my word upon that,” he replied rather pompously, but Lady Hartley-Wells merely laughed, “Lord bless you my dear, I know it! A girl of Verity’s sensibility would never have married you otherwise.”

Verity blushed rosily at the compliment, but Underwood was, for once, rendered speechless. It had never occurred to him that he might be judged on the strength of his wife’s character. There would be no more evidence of an over-blown ego from him that afternoon – or indeed for some considerable time thereafter.

“To return to the subject,” he interjected hastily, “You have some information about Mrs. Dunstable?”

“I have a great deal – none of which you would have heard from my lips had she not died under such dreadful circumstances. But let me begin by warning you that you would be very wrong to imagine that no one but her family might wish her dead?”

“Are you saying she had enemies?”

The old lady laughed humourlessly, “More than you could shake a stick at, my dear.”

“Good grief! What had she done to deserve that?”

“The trouble with you young people,” observed the aged one grumpily, “is that you look at we old folk and imagine we have always been ancient and decrepit. We all have pasts, Underwood, and Josie’s was more colourful than most.”

Underwood and his wife exchanged a glance which confirmed exactly what their elderly hostess had surmized. They had indeed both been seeing Josephine Dunstable as a wealthy, sweet little white-haired old lady, somewhat eccentric and gaudy, but harmless, nonetheless. It had not occurred to either of them that they ought to delve into her more distant past for a reason to explain her untimely and violent passing.

“Tell us,” said Underwood simply and Lady Hartley-Wells continued, “You have heard, I imagine, of ‘baby farmers’?”

Naturally they had, though Underwood’s knowledge was a little sketchy, to say the least. He had led rather a sheltered life with the confines of his university prior to his marriage, and though he congratulated himself upon keeping abreast of life outside, there were large gaps in his education. He therefore nodded, but still looked blank and Verity, coming to his rescue, hastily explained, “They are women who take in unwanted children – for financial remuneration.”

“That is surely laudable, is it not?” asked Underwood, imagining happy families, with maternal ladies and rosy-cheeked cherubs, “And what do you mean by ‘unwanted’” he added, still not quite clear.

“Illegitimate!” supplied Lady Hartley-Wells tersely, “As to laudable – that rather depends … The money is more to pay for secrecy than the upkeep of the child – and it is often not perceived as particularly tragic by either party if the child never reaches maturity.”

“Do you mean to say that these children are killed?” The truth was beginning to filter through Underwood’s naivete.

“Well, no one exactly smothers them – at least not often, for it would be a criminal offence, if discovered! But neither are most of them nurtured sympathetically, and once they are old enough to fend for themselves, they are usually cast out into the streets to do just that – or set to earn for their fosterer.”

“How?”

“Factories, sweat-shops, prostitution…”

“Good God! And Mrs. Dunstable was one of these … baby farmers?”

“She was – and not only that. She had a very profitable sideline in blackmail and extortion. Some of the ladies who brought their children to her were very eager to ensure their husbands’ or families’ continuing ignorance of their little indiscretions.”

“I had no idea…” he murmured, still shocked to the core. Verity reassured him hastily, “Not all are like that, Underwood. Some raise the children as their own for very little recompense, but there are always going to be those who feed like vultures upon the misfortunes of others.”

“I suppose so,” he pulled himself together with a visible effort, “I do beg your pardon, ladies. No sooner do I convince myself that mankind can no longer surprise or disgust me with the depths to which they are prepared to plunge, than yet another vice rears up before me.”

Lady Hartley-Wells shrugged eloquently, seeming not to notice the melancholy edge to his tone, “I have long ago given up being shocked or appalled, Underwood,” she said briskly, “If there is one thing I have learned about life it is there is no limit to man’s inhumanity to man. That pit is definitely bottomless.”

“Do you mind if I ask why you chose to associate with Mrs. Dunstable, if you knew of her past? Surely there must be more pleasant companions?”

“Fewer and fewer when you get to my age, young man,” she said tartly. “Besides I became friends with her before I knew any of this stuff, and strange as it may seem, Josie was a kind and humorous woman – I can only think she had the capability of being able to view those children as business and nothing more, just a commodity. It is hard to understand I know, but she seriously believed she was doing the Lord’s work. The women she blackmailed deserved punishment for their sins, the children were a product of that sin and therefore tainted. As for myself; I have long ago ceased to presume to judge others. And Josie was punished by God, if one believes in that concept, by the birth of young Melissa. She was truly devastated by that – and by the misery inflicted on her daughter by that rogue Gedney. Josie suffered, take my word upon it.”

“From what you have told us, there could be literally dozens of people who wanted Mrs. Dunstable to die in agony – revenge being the motive.”

“I’m not saying that exactly, Underwood, I just want you to be aware that you would be making a very grave error indeed not to consider the possibility.”

As Verity and Underwood walked down the flight of stone steps which ran from the path to the imposing front door, the former remarked forlornly, “With the thought of all those poor, suffering little children, I really don’t feel much like dancing this evening, do you?”

“I never did feel much like dancing,” returned Underwood forcefully, “But I understand your meaning, and the answer is no.”

*

When Verity arrived back at the vicarage, it was to find a note from Isobel waiting for her, asking for a meeting at the Pump-rooms, without delay. She was inclined to refuse, feeling, as she did, rather tired and low, but Ellen persuaded her otherwise, “I should love to see the spa – and Isobel,” she said heartily, determined to shake her friend out of her lethargy. As they were leaving, Gil offered to accompany them, since Francis and Underwood were once more closeted in his study, effectively barring him from his own belongings, exchanging theories and notes on the murder.

Verity’s attention was centred on her companions when they came into the Pump-rooms, so it was several seconds before she noticed Gil standing motionless beside her, staring across the room as though transfixed. She followed the direction of his glance and saw that he was looking at a young woman, standing by the water fountain, dressed in black from head to toe, a small boy in a bath chair at her side. She was smiling down at him as she handed him a full cup, but there was an aura of sadness about her which even the warmly tender smile could not dispel. Verity spoke twice to Gil, but he did not seem to hear her, so she tugged at his sleeve, “Who is that, Gil? Do you know her?”

Gil dragged his gaze from the woman and looked down at his sister-in-law, “What? I beg your pardon, Verity. Did you say something?”

Verity did not trouble to hide her amusement, “I asked if you knew the young lady.”

Gil was so smitten he did not even attempt to be coy; there were no protestations of misunderstanding. Sounding remarkably like the red-blooded male Isobel had so recently declared him not to be, he said, “No, but I fully intend to,”

Verity laughed out loud, “Why, Gil, I have never seen you like this. I thought you weren’t interested in women.”

“Great Heavens! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, you resist your mother’s match-making so strongly…”

“My mother has a strange notion as to what would make a good vicar’s wife. And she has never presented me with a gem such as she,” answered Gil with emphasis, “Pray excuse me, my dear. I must fetch you some water.”

“But I don’t want…” she trailed off since Gil was already half way across the room. She smiled indulgently as she watched him engage the young woman in conversation, the turned her attention back to her friends.

Gil, meanwhile, was giving himself no time for second thoughts, for he knew he would lose all his courage if he did so. Almost before he knew what he was about, he was holding out his hand and introducing himself to the bemused newcomer. She looked a little startled by this approach, but politely accepted both the handshake and the introduction, “How do you do, Mr. Underwood, did you say?”

“Reverend Gilbert Underwood,” he amended, “I am vicar here in Hanbury. I could not help noticing a new face and thought I would presume to bid you welcome.”

“That was kind. My name is Catherine Pennington and this is my son Alistair.”

Her son. Gil began to realize he had assumed a great deal. He had imagined the child was her charge – had wanted to believe so, if the truth were told – for the boy’s obvious frailty made it seem she must be a nurse of governess.

He recovered swiftly, “Is your husband in Hanbury with you?” It was not the sort of personal question he usually asked, but desperate times called for desperate measures!

“I’m afraid my husband died two years ago, Mr. Underwood,” she replied quietly.

“Please accept my deepest apologies, Madam. How incredibly tactless you must think me.” He had the sinking feeling of a man who has not only made a complete fool of himself, but who has also ruined any chance of furthering a friendship. He was about to make his excuses and leave her when his eye caught hers and he saw a soul which twinned his own in loneliness and despair.

“Pray do not say so. You could not possibly have known.”

He dragged his gaze from hers, suddenly becoming aware that they were being scrutinized by the solemn little boy, whom he had not yet greeted. He detested people who ignored children, treating them as barely human until they reached adulthood. He squatted so that his face was on a level with the child’s. “Hello, Alistair, are you enjoying your stay in Hanbury?”

The boy smiled, but even that seemed to take a strength he barely possessed. His eyes were enormous in his tiny, pale face, his cheeks hollow, his frame painfully thin, “I like the hills, but I don’t much care for the waters,” he said. Gil thought he must be around nine or ten, but he was so pathetically small, one would never know it until he spoke.

“Well, it is because of the hills that we have the water. Rain falls on the hilltops, then filters down through the ground until it flows out at the bottom, but it takes thousands of years. The water we are drinking now probably fell as rain before Christ was born.”

This apparently appealed to the young gentleman, for his little face was lit with enthusiasm and he looked at his cup with renewed interest, “It doesn’t taste too badly for such
old
water, does it?”

“Not too badly at all,” Gil smiled and when he raised his eyes to Catherine Pennington, he saw that she was smiling too, a smile which encompassed him in its warmth, in gratitude for making this precious child happy. Because Alistair was not looking at her, her face also held an expression which told Gil she did not think her boy was destined to reach manhood. If Gil had been brought to her side by her beauty, it was her courage and tender love for her child which held him there.