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

              Underwood stepped discreetly in front of his wife to protect her from any further impertinence, “Mind your manners, fellow and tell us what has happened to Violette Molyneux. She is a friend and we saw she was taken ill during the performance.”

              The man grinned unpleasantly, “A friend of the Frenchie, eh? Well rather you than me, if she’s like the rest of her race, she’d as soon cut your throat as smile at you.”

              “I understand she is from Flanders,” said Underwood evenly, determined not to let the man rattle him.

              “Same difference,” snarled the man, “whatever the hell she is, she’s no longer my problem. I fired her. Sent her off to gather her chattels and get out. I don’t pay good money for those who cannot keep up with rest of the troupe.”

              “You’ve left her destitute?” asked Verity, righteous anger making her brave enough to address the bloated bully.

              “If you care that much,” said the man, leaning threateningly forward and spitting the words with malice, “take her in yourself. Now get out of my theatre, frog-lovers, before I have you thrown out!”

              Underwood considered briefly calling the fellow outside to teach him some manners, but good sense prevailed.  The fellow was drunk and a gentleman did not take advantage of another’s weakness – besides, he very much doubted his own physical strength was sufficient to acquit himself well just yet. He contented himself by saying quietly, “You are a disgrace, sir, and I trust your accounts are in order, for I fully intend to report you to the relevant authorities.” He well knew that rambling players such as these felt themselves to be above the law and taxes were unlikely to have been declared or paid for years. It was simple enough to underestimate the number of persons in the audience and issue tickets which would later mysteriously disappear off the ledgers.

              As the colour drained from the fellow’s face Underwood knew he had hit upon the very thing to make the man sweat, for ever since the war with Napoleon and the vast sums of money it had cost the Government, they were ever more avid to chase those they thought might be cheating the revenue. Punishment for non-payment was swift and brutal.

              He escorted his wife from the premises with a sense of mild satisfaction.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Zonam Perdidit’ – She is impoverished

              Verity was almost tearful when they reached the street, “What a horrid man,” she said, with a sigh. “Now what should we do? How will we find Violette and make sure she is safe?”

              “Simple. You will go home and I shall follow the actors and find out where they are lodging. With luck I will find the young lady still there.”

              “What if she has already gone?”

              “Then there is nothing we can do and it ceases to be our concern – however, I doubt that strongly. I cannot imagine anyone being cruel enough to throw a young woman onto the street at this time of night. It can make no odds to them to allow her to lodge for a few more hours.”

              He was not as confident as he sounded, being all too painfully aware of man’s inhumanity to man, but he could not have his wife fretting the night away. However two things occurred in rapid succession which set his plans awry. First he and Verity were plunged into sudden darkness. They both looked up and realised that dark clouds had scurried up on a freshening wind and had obscured the moon like a shutter over a lighted window. The first heavy drops of rain made unsightly blotches on Underwood’s caped great coat and Verity’s velvet pelisse. She shivered as the cold breeze swept across the street, sending torn theatre tickets, and a discarded newspaper dancing around their feet.

              They were just wavering about how to deal with this new obstacle when the first of the actors came strolling out of the alley, still chattering loudly to each other as though they were still projecting their voices into the auditorium, with the main topic of conversation being in which tavern they intended to spend the rest of the evening.

              Underwood’s plan of following them back to their lodgings was suddenly moot. It could be hours before any of them staggered back to their beds and in the meantime the rain was falling so heavily that they were rushing past the Underwoods to find shelter and it looked most unlikely that any of them would spare a thought for their foreign ex-colleague.

              Underwood took off his coat and wrapped it around his shivering wife, “I’m sorry, Verity, but it looks very much as though poor Violette is going to have to look after herself. I can’t let you wander the streets in this. If it is any consolation this foul weather will render it even more unlikely that her landlord would be un-Christian enough to make her leave before morning.”

              “But you will look for her tomorrow and make sure she has somewhere to go?” asked his wife, looking up at him, appealing for compassion. Her tender heart could not bear to think of another person, especially a young woman, who would be so much more vulnerable than a man, in such dire need.

              “Of course I will. I feel for her as much as you do. Now, for goodness sake, let us get out of this damnable rain.”

              Fortunately it was not far to the vicarage, but both were soaked through by the time they reached the door, especially Underwood, being without his overcoat.

              Lindell was waiting for them with the kettle on the boil, for he too had heard the rattle of raindrops against the casements and knew that they were likely to be caught in the downpour.

              He sent them both upstairs to change out of their wet clothes immediately, having no wish to contend with a relapse on Underwood’s part, or indeed the frantic worry of his wife, should that occur, and only when they were both dry and holding hot drinks before a roaring fire did he deign to listen to their tale, with a serious expression which brought no consolation to the fretful Verity.

              “You think she is likely to be out in this dreadful weather, don’t you, Lindell?” she asked worriedly, “I can see that you have no confidence that they will be kind to her.”

              “No, no,” he hastily assured her, “I’m sure Underwood is right. No one would cast out a dog in this rain, let alone a fellow human being. Pray think no more about it. I promise you that Underwood and I will go and find her at first light.”

              Underwood was quick to agree with his friend, though he was rather put out by an oath which included the words ‘at first light’ – he did not care for early rising, but he readily acknowledged that on this occasion he was going to have to sacrifice his warm bed for the greater good.

              Since they could do no more that night, they bade each other good night and went up the stairs to their room, though not necessarily to sleep, for the rain and wind had intensified and they all thought of the horror of being exposed to the fury of the storm without shelter. They could only hope that it had not been Violette’s sorry lot.

              True to his promise, Lindell was up and about early and was soon joined by his guests; Verity as bright-eyed as ever and Underwood still half asleep, but willing. Fortunately the vicar had a reasonable notion of where they might find the players’ lodging house, since he knew his parish well and had served his flock for many years.

Unluckily they found that their certainty of kindness was entirely misplaced. Violette had indeed been ordered to take her meagre belongings and leave the night before, and they had every expectation that she had been forced to spend the storm tucked under a hedgerow somewhere, for they were fairly certain that she had not much money – for had she been able to afford it, would she not have stayed where she was, in view of the foul weather?

              They returned to the vicarage, dreading breaking the bad news to the soft-hearted Verity.

              In fact Underwood found himself in the unenviable position of telling his wife without the support of his fellow would-be-rescuer, for Lindell parted company with him at the front door, saying, “I need to go across to the church, Underwood, otherwise Matins will be late.”

              Underwood felt that his own need was greater than the one or two pious souls who attended early morning services, but there was not much he could say to prevent the vicar from doing what was, after all, his job. He had entirely forgotten that it was Sunday.

              He went inside hoping that Verity was not going to be too distressed to make him some breakfast, and would not see his appetite as unutterably callous, for he was now not only hungry, but decidedly grumpy too.

              Lindell trod the well-worn path to the church, stepping aside to avoid the puddles, barely noticing that the nodding heads of the grasses were soaking his shoes and stockings despite his attempts to keep dry. He was thinking about the French girl and wondering what exactly he could do to find her. She could have gone in any direction, and might very well have begged a lift from a vehicle, though he doubted that, since it had been late evening when she left the theatre and shortly after that the rain had started. Any man of sense would have found shelter and delayed his errands until the end of the storm.

              As he approached the carved stone porch, he saw what he thought was a bundle of rags on the narrow stone bench which lined the wall, seating for any supplicant who was early for the service, but as he drew nearer and the dim interior became more easily discerned, he realised that the rags had an occupant – in fact a young lady was curled upon the hard stone, her head resting on a small and tattered valise, her feet tucked under the hem of her coat in a desperate attempt to keep them warm.

              “Great heavens, you can be none other than Violette,” he exclaimed and she sat up, startled, then gazed at him fearfully.

              “How do you know my name?”

              He smiled reassuringly, “My house guests and I have been awake half the night worrying about you. I think you know Mr Underwood, though I understand you have not yet made the acquaintance of his wife?”

              “Mr Underwood?” she frowned, having entirely forgotten the chance meeting in the apothecary shop some days before, “I do not think I know anyone of that name.”

              “Do you not? Ah, well, I apprehend it was the briefest of introductions – in West Wimpleford a few days ago? You were seeking a cure for toothache.”

              Her hand went automatically to her cheek and he could see, even in the dim light, that it was red and swollen. He also perceived that she was not merely shivering with cold, but shuddering violently from head to toe.

He held out his hand to her, “Please let me escort you to the vicarage, where Mrs Underwood will be only too delighted to get you some dry clothes and something to eat. You must be so cold and wet after the dreadful weather last night.”

              She shrank away from him, eying his proffered hand with real terror, “I do not know you.”

              “I understand your apprehension, but surely everything I have confided must tell you that I mean you no harm. In fact, if it will comfort you, I cannot even come into the house with you, for I must take the morning service. People will begin to arrive any moment, so if you wish to avoid being seen in your sad state, I should hurry now.”

              She needed no further bidding, for the very thought of being amongst people when she was dishevelled, cold and hungry was mortifying. She quickly realized that she had very little choice but to trust this stranger and hope nothing untoward befell her, for she was indeed feeling light-headed and perished to the point of pain in her hands and feet.

              True to his promise Lindell merely ushered her through the front door, called to the Underwoods with the news that he had found Violette, and here she was, safe, if not sound, and he would see them after Matins.

              Violette found herself enfolded in the warm embrace of a small, plump brunette, and coolly observed by a tall blond gentleman whom she vaguely recognized, before being borne off into the kitchen, which she was assured was the warmest room in the house, and there she was plied with food and a hot drink, all of it under a barrage of questions as to her health and well-being.

              “You spent the night in the church porch? Why, how clever of you! I should never have thought of that, though I am the daughter of a vicar, so it really ought to be my first port of call – but then I have never found myself cast out into the storm, so I suppose it doesn’t signify,” babbled Verity, busying herself with making toast for their unexpected guest and her own husband, who was, thankfully, not one of those demanding men who were too fine to eat in the kitchen. He was more than happy simply to be fed and didn’t much care for the niceties of placement.

              He did, however, notice the young woman’s wince of pain when she tried to nibble politely on a slice of nicely browned bread.

              “Do you not think Miss Molyneux would manage better with bread and milk sops?” he enquired delicately, bringing his wife’s attention to the still suffering girl.

Verity was at once filled with all-consuming sympathy, “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry! What a silly goose I am. You must be in agony with that tooth. As soon as we have eaten and you have rested, we must send at once for Mr Jebson.”

              “Oh, pray do not,” murmured Violette, “I could not ask him to attend me on a Sunday, especially since I do not have the money to pay him. Now I have lost my place in the players I must conserve every penny.” Underwood was quick to notice that though she had a pronounced accent, her English vocabulary was excellent.

              “I’m sure he will not mind, just this once,” Verity assured her earnestly, “He is a most accommodating man, and so very, very kind. Underwood shall fetch him just as soon as he has finished his breakfast.” She carefully avoided any mention of money, afraid that an offer of a loan would cause offence.

              Underwood made no demur, though he was dashed if he could see why
he
had to run the errand, or indeed why it had to be poor old Jebson. There must surely be an apothecary or tooth-puller of some description in Dacorum-in-the-Marsh?

              Lindell returned just as they finished eating and smiled warmly at his visitor, “I do hope you are feeling a little better, Miss ... I’m sorry, I don’t recall your surname. I fear we have all taken the liberty of using your first name in your absence.”

              “Please call me Violette,” she invited shyly, “you have all been so kind. I do not know how I can ever repay you. But I should really be on my way.”

              “You have somewhere in mind?” he asked gently, fully cognisant of the fact that she had no job, no money and very probably no living relative – or at least not one that was within reach.

              “No, I supposed I should find another theatre, perhaps in the next town, and ask for some employment.”

              “You can’t possibly work until we have seen to that sore tooth,” said Verity decidedly, “Think no more about leaving until you are feeling better.”

              Since she did feel so terribly unwell and the ache in her jaw was rapidly spreading into the entire side of her face, Violette was only too grateful to accept this edict. She allowed herself to be led upstairs and watched woozily as Verity deftly made up one of the many spare beds in the huge vicarage, then sank wearily into it. After a dose of laudanum, she fell into a feverish sleep.

              Verity came downstairs and spoke urgently to her husband, “Cadmus, I know that manners dictate that we should wait until tomorrow before calling Mr Jebson out to see to Violette’s toothache, but I’m very concerned about her. She is burning with fever, but even asleep, she was still shivering with cold. That is never a good sign.”