A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) (14 page)

The mention of her husband brought a smile to Verity’s features and drove away the harried look, “Yes, indeed. And his amazing potions have restored Underwood to almost full health. I cannot tell you how concerned I was about him when I took him away for a rest. He was barely eating and had lost so much weight, but Will gave him a tonic and the difference was astounding.”

The ladies all turned to look across the room at Underwood and he was suddenly aware of a dozen eyes upon him.

“What are the Cacklers looking at?” asked Dickson, noticing the ladies gazing at his companion. Underwood could hardly approve of the cant expression referring to the group of ladies as a flock of hens, but he had to admit that the craned and stretched necks facilitating a good view resembled nothing so much as chickens in a coop.

“Me, I do believe,” he said with resignation. “Doubtless my wife is singing my praises and they all feel the need to admire me from afar.”

“More likely they are wondering what the devil that lovely woman sees in an old fool like you, Underwood,” said Elliott disparagingly. “It’s a mystery to us all!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Fere Libenter Homines Id Quod Volunt Credunt’ – People are generally glad to believe that what they want to be true is so

              When he was finally granted an opportunity some time later that week, Underwood took full advantage of the freedom to read the collection of newspapers which had accrued during his absence.

              He waited until his little girls were fully occupied with their lessons and then closed his study door firmly. It had been made very clear to Horatia that she was not supposed to disturb her papa when he was busy writing or reading, and fortunately Clarissa, who blithely ignored all such boundaries, could not yet reach the doorknob.

              He sank into his leather desk chair with a sigh and quietly relished the peace and solitude for a few moments before selecting the oldest paper in the pile and beginning to scan the print. The front pages he could ignore entirely as they mainly consisted of advertisements for such events as fairs and markets, and items for sale which ranged from property, farm livestock, horses, carriages and patent cures for all manner of ills and afflictions. His real interest was in crimes committed and occasionally solved and these he read with an avid interest. Most, sadly, were not only mundane, but casually brutal and with none of the finesse which would have piqued his curiosity. Once in a while he came across a tale which he felt would have challenged him and set his mind to find the solution and more than once in the past he had sent letters to the authorities advising them on ways to uncover the perpetrator. Mostly, however, he simply read and retained the information contained for future use. He had an excellent memory for quirky tales and intriguing stories though he would never have admitted it to anyone of his acquaintance. His one defence in life was his terribly unreliable memory and all who knew him accepted that he was far more likely to forget an engagement or a promise than ever to recall one. It saved him endless quarrels and ill-feeling for no-one took his absent-mindedness personally. Only Verity was aware of this gentle subterfuge and she chose not to disclose it. Underwood was never rude if he could help it and being ‘forgetful’ allowed him to escape unwanted responsibilities without hurting the feelings of those he cared for – and for those he did not, but whom he had no wish to offend.

              One report caught his eye and he had to read it twice before he was satisfied that he was not mistaken in his understanding of it. He looked at the date of the incident and the newspaper in which it appeared. It had taken place some weeks before and was in a London paper, which he had sent to him as a matter of course; as well as publications from other major cities and his own local area. He was only too cognisant of the fact that crime was beginning to travel with as much ease as the populace. It was increasingly convenient for a criminal to steal, defraud or murder, then catch the first stagecoach out of town. Underwood kept a careful watch on the same
modus operandi
occurring in different places at various times, especially for the more audacious or brutal crimes – crimes with an especial need to be stopped.

              It was the manner of this murder – for a murder it undoubtedly was, not an accident or suicide – that gripped his attention, whisking him back, for one painful moment, to that dreadful day on the West Wimpleford stagecoach and the death of the highwayman. The victim in this case had been shot between the eyes – the same
coup de gras
which had ended the hold up on the stage. He had a sudden vision of the black-veiled ‘widow’ with her smoking pistol held negligently in a steady hand, as calm and cold as if she had merely despatched a noisome fly and not another human being.

              He took a deep calming breath and pulled himself together. It must be a coincidence. The ‘widow’ had been at close quarters to her victim and had shot him in self-defence in the most convenient place relative to her position; seated in the coach, as he was leaning in through the doorway. Where else could she have shot him and been sure that he was no longer a danger to herself and the other passengers? There was nothing more to it, he was sure.

              He thrust the suspicion from his mind and read on, determined not to jump to any conclusions until he possessed the full facts of the case.

              The story concluded with a quoted statement from the Constable who had been tasked with investigating the killing. The relationship between the law and newspapers was ever a tricky one and it was unusual for a lawman to be quite so verbose – he evidently felt that he needed the help of the public to find the culprit otherwise he would never have disclosed so much.

             
‘It was an odd case and I was baffled by it. Not the fact that the fellow had been killed – that was an event simply waiting to happen, for Paddy Mulligan was a reprehensible man, with not one redeeming feature, pains me though it does to speak ill of the dead. It was all too easy to find an enemy who would want him dead – there was a long list of them. But finding one who was in the right place at the right time to have shot him was an entirely different matter. His wife and oldest son were prime suspects. He had spent years beating her and for his whole lifetime subjecting the boy to various cruelties, but they were not even in the vicinity at the time of his death, and had many witnesses to prove it. They could, of course, have paid someone to do the heinous deed, but as Mr Mulligan had kept a tight hold on the purse strings, it was unlikely to say the least.

              The queerest thing about his death was the angle of the shot that felled him. The doctor who examined the body concluded that the bullet had come from above the victim and I estimated that the killer must have been at least six feet six inches tall in order to have fired the shot at such an angle.’

              “Or the victim was sitting or kneeling when the shot was fired, you idiot!” said Underwood aloud, with an impatient shake of his head. He continued to read.

             
‘Another little mystery to add to this enigmatic murder was the fact that a button was found next to the body. When the victim’s clothes were examined, it was found not to belong to him, so could only have come from the killer. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the crime at all, and was merely a lost button on the dark alleyway where Paddy Mulligan met his death – we can never know. Nor can we guess who the killer might be. Two young men who had been in the town and had been seen speaking to Paddy Mulligan and playing cards with him were found to be missing from their lodging house the day after the murder, but they had previously stated they would be leaving town on that day, so it would be unfair to assume they had anything to do with the slaying. They had not lost money to Paddy Mulligan, so there was no reason for a grudge to be bourn and they caused no other trouble during their stay. Reasonable attempts were made to find them, but this failed and the case remains open. Mulligan’s wife and son have not been permitted to inherit until the murderer is brought to justice, so if they did have him killed for his riches, then they must now be sorely disappointed. If anyone has any information about this terrible murder, then a reward is offered by Constable Hargreaves of Little Molton-on-the-Hill, Sussex.’

              Underwood laid the newspaper aside and thought deeply for a moment. Without being on the spot and knowing the full details of the case, he could not be positive, but his best guess was that the two young men who had fled town so precipitously were the most likely suspects. Underwood did not believe in such coincidences and for two men to play cards with the fellow, very probably get him drunk, then lead him down an alley to kill him on the evening before they had openly and loudly planned to leave, seemed to him to be the most plausible explanation. Why they had done so was an entirely different matter and sad as it was, it suggested to Underwood that it must have something to do with a beaten wife and cruelly used son – so often in these matters it was the most obvious interpretation which was the true one. The criminal mind was rarely as devious and logical as people supposed.

              He did not envy Constable Hargreaves, for proving guilt in the circumstances was going to be difficult to say the least. The only comfort was that the wife and son, if guilty, had not benefitted from the crime, and nor, supposedly, had the assassins, for they could not be paid if the family had no access to the inheritance.

              He did not allow himself to feel a vague relief that the killers had apparently been male. He owed his life to the ‘widow’ and he preferred to imagine that her action in killing the highwayman had been a defensive action, prompted by a need to take care of herself and her servant when travelling alone, and not something that she was ever likely to do again. He could not condone her behaviour but equally he could not condemn her for it. There was every likelihood that his grave would have a good covering of grass now had she not leapt to his defence, but he could not cope with the thought that he might have allowed a cold and calculating killer to escape the law. His whole purpose in life was the pursuit of justice and if he had failed in that, how could he ever forgive himself?

              He was saved from further introspection by the arrival of Verity with his mid-morning cup of tea.

              She noticed his expression and asked solicitously, “Anything wrong, my dear?”

              He handed her the paper, “What do you think of that, my love?”

              She read the report, then gave a snort of derision, “What a fool that Constable is! Six feet six inches tall, indeed. Does he not think that a man like that might just possibly rather stand out in a crowd? The victim was kneeling, of course.”

              He smiled grimly, “My thoughts exactly – but why?”

              She took a chair opposite to him and frowned slightly as she considered the matter. She could not know how it warmed his heart, looking across his desk at her expression of concentration, to know that he could have this discussion with her, could ask her anything, however peculiar or graphic, without fretting that she would faint, or scream or accuse him of brutality for bringing such things to a delicate creature’s attention. She was the other half of his soul and he could never hope to explain to her how much he admired and needed her.

              “If the murderer had ordered the victim to kneel, it might have been to give him more time to make his escape. It would take a few seconds for a man to get to his feet and begin to chase than if he was right behind his assailant.”

              “A good point. But if the intention had always been murder and not, shall we say, robbery, then why make the victim kneel?”

              “Are we sure it was not a robbery gone wrong? Was there money taken from the body? Perhaps he refused to hand over his purse and the robber felt he had no choice but to shoot him.”

              “It could be so, but there was no mention of robbery in the report, so I think we can safely discard that theory.”

              “Then perhaps this Mulligan sank to his knees to beg for mercy.”

              Underwood rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Or to beg forgiveness?”

              Verity re-read some few lines, then put the paper down again, “He certainly had plenty to apologize for, if that was the case,” she said. “He sounds as though he was a horrible man, but that cannot excuse his execution.”

              Underwood looked startled, “Execution? That’s a very odd expression to use, my dear. What on earth made you say that?”

              She shrugged, “I don’t know. It just seemed to me that he was shot for no other reason than his past behaviour – and that is what an execution is, is it not? Punishment for past sins?”

              Underwood took a sip of his tea, “I very much fear you are right, Verity. And if you are, the finger points very definitely towards those he injured the most, which would seem, on the surface at least, to be his wife and son. Unless he had bested someone in business and cost them dearly, his family would appear to be the most obvious suspects – and if Hargreaves was rather silly in his estimation of a six and a half foot assailant, he was at least canny enough to keep the family in mind when looking for the murderer.”

              “It will be rather hard on them if they were not at fault though,” said Verity, ever caring for those in need. “They have been left penniless by being both disinherited and deprived of a breadwinner.”

              “Very true.”

              “Is there nothing you can do?”

              Underwood sighed deeply. He had been expecting this question ever since his wife had first entered the room, “I don’t see how I can. I cannot presently travel to Sussex as I have too much to do here, and I doubt my interference would be welcomed.”

              “What about the button? Is that not a clue that you can advise Constable Hargreaves to pursue?”

              “Bearing in mind there is no evidence that it has anything at all to do with the crime, what use is it? One cannot go about the whole country searching for a man with a button missing from his coat – no doubt one would find hundreds! Not every man is married to a meticulous housewife like you, my love.”

              She smiled slightly, “That, of course, is true. You are so very fortunate, Mr Underwood. I do hope you appreciate it.”