A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 20

  He handed over the crutch and watched the young man stagger off down the street, his one leg and wooden stump already made him unsteady without the added complication of excess drink.

  He now saw the flaw in his plan and as he sat wondering how he might manoeuvre his chair so that he might re-enter the Assembly Rooms as he needed someone to push him, he was hailed from somewhere behind him. He twisted his body to look around to see from whence the shout came.

  A rough-looking individual came into view, a broad grin on his face. He was dressed in his soldier’s uniform, but whereas most of Thornycroft’s other guests were resplendent in Officers’ garb, this fellow sported the less decorative clothing of the lower ranks. Not for him the gilded epaulettes and silver buttons, but he wore it with pride just the same.

  The major recognized him with some difficulty, for it had been fourteen years since he had seen him last, and then he had been younger and clean-shaven. This man sported a beard so bushy that it obscured most of his face.

  “Sergeant Sam Tredgett,” he announced with a smart salute as he drew near enough to Jeremy James to be seen clearly in the moonlight, and by the light that poured from the windows and doors of the Assembly Rooms.

  A smile appeared on Thornycroft’s face as he saw the man close to, “By gad, Sam, that’s quite a crop of face fungus you have there! Your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

  “She never would have done, since I never had one, beyond the age of five,” he said, holding out a hand to shake the major’s and then jerking his head to gesture towards the retreating figure of Swann, “Who was that, by the way?”

  “Young Bertie Swann. I think he may have been after your time.”

  Sam never made it to Waterloo having been injured and invalided out before that fatal day had dawned. He had lost two fingers from his right hand and was deaf in his right ear, making him a liability on the battlefield. He always cocked his head to catch the words of whoever was speaking to him, giving him the alert expression of a gundog.

  “Must have been. I didn’t know his face – but from what I could see, he looked like a green ‘un. Were they really taking them that young at Waterloo?”

  “I fear they were. Poor lad lost his leg at seventeen. Barely saw any action before he was cut down.”

  “He goes at a fair lick for a cripple,” observed Tredgett, watching Bertie hare off down the street as fast as his wooden leg and crutch would allow.

  “He’s angry,” said Jeremy James by way of explanation, “He thought he was being cheated at cards. He waved goodbye to quite a pile of goldfinches.”

  “And was he bubbled?” asked the old soldier cynically.

  The major shrugged, “Who knows? I should not be at all surprised. John Pennyfather has always sailed pretty close to the wind.”

  “Pennyfather!” exclaimed Tredgett, “There couldn’t be two with that name. If it is the rogue I’m thinking of, then cutting a sham on a Johnny raw would be the least of his sins.”

  “Tell me more,” said Thornycroft, still angry on his young friend’s behalf. If nothing else, Pennyfather had been appallingly insensitive with the maimed boy, so to hear that he might be capable of more transgressions that cheating a greenhorn would hardly be a shock and might give him the excuse he needed to send the fellow on his way before he caused any more trouble.

  “A list too long to tell, but amongst his other pretty habits, he was rather too fond of having the men under his command flogged for minor misdemeanours. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said he got some enjoyment out of it.”

  Jeremy James hadn’t known Pennyfather particularly well, but when Tredgett said this, he began to have a vague recollection of whispers flying about certain unsavoury traits in Pennyfather’s character. He looked thoughtful as he said, “Be a good fellow, Sam, and push this damned chair back inside for me. There’s a drink in it for you.”

  “No need for payment, Major,” said Tredgett briskly. “You earned a favour or two, unlike some of your fellow officers.”

  They found most of the Wablers and some of the newcomers still in the card room. The music had stopped and most of the ladies were gathered in the foyer, reclaiming their cloaks, capes and pelisses from the serving wenches.

  When Underwood was called over to join his cronies by Thornycroft as he and Tredgett passed on their way to join the others, Gil, only too happy to escape more drinking and carousing, said hastily, “Go and have an hour with the Wablers, Chuffy. I will see the ladies home and send Toby back for you later.”

  In truth Underwood felt the need for nothing more than a cup of tea and his own bed, but he knew he would be ribbed unmercifully the following morning if he showed a clean pair of heels while there was still something left of the night, so he kissed his wife’s cheek, and undertook not to be late or intoxicated when he finally came home.

  Verity’s feet were throbbing with the endless dancing so she happily waved him off and allowed Gil to hand her into the waiting carriage.

  Since the dancing had finished and the ladies were preparing to leave, there were several more gentlemen in the card room, though only Captain Pennyfather and his crony Second Lieutenant Joshua Thickbroome were still sitting at the table, though the game was evidently either over or abandoned, as the cards were scattered, some face up others not. Underwood noted however that any coins or notes of hand had been safely gathered in.

  Roland Dickson hailed Underwood as he entered, “Snuff Underwood, the very man. I have been talking to one of your many admirers. He was most eager to meet you, but unfortunately had to go and see his sister safely back to their hotel.”

  “Really? And who might that be?” asked Underwood, more polite than interested. He was far too used to being teased unmercifully by the Wablers to take anything they said at face value.

  “Chap by the name of Gervase Sowerbutts. He couldn’t hear enough about your exploits.”

  Underwood assumed his usual vague expression, “The name rings a vague bell. Do I know him?”

  “I don’t think so. He only knows you by reputation, I think. You know how Hanbury is; a veritable hotbed of gossip – and you are the main topic of conversation.”

  “I take leave to doubt that. Did he say why he wanted to speak to me?”

  “No, he just seemed full of admiration for you – from the aura he gives off, I would guess he has developed a youthful fancy for you.” Dickson grinned unkindly and the other men in earshot gave voice to a volley of laughter and coarse remarks.

  Underwood had spent over twenty years as a tutor to boys just emerging into manhood in the unhealthy confines of a University. There was nothing left to shock him after being subjected to that heaving maelstrom of burgeoning masculinity. He had been the object in his time of misplaced passion, insulting apathy and unjustified hostility. Then as now he treated the entire subject with kindly indifference.

  “He is probably an ex-student. Well, if he is so avid to make my acquaintance, no doubt he will find ample opportunity to do so.”

  His attention was fortunately drawn elsewhere, as indeed was everyone else’s, for a half-drunk Pennyfather had caught sight of the man who was pushing Jeremy James’ wheelchair into the card room. His eyes narrowed, as though to confirm what his unreliable sight was telling him.

  “Thornycroft, I was under the impression this celebration was for your fellow-officers. I didn’t realize we were entertaining the lower ranks of the regiment too.”

  Sam Tredgett simply met his antagonistic gaze dispassionately, “Good evening to you, Captain. I had not expected you to remember me.”

  “I don’t remember you,” said Pennyfather with a sneer, “but I recognize your uniform. Well, now you have performed your service for the major, you can take yourself off.”

  Sam ignored the dismissal, “Well, no, perhaps you wouldn’t know me. You knew my younger brother better. Does the name Isaac Tredgett mean anything to you?”

  The colour drained from Pennyfather’s face, and it
was obvious to all those who observed this quiet exchange that he was having some difficulty maintaining his insouciant air, “Not a thing. You can scarce expect me to recall every young recruit who passed through my hands. There was nothing to mark them out – all as unclean as they were uneducated.”

  “Uneducated?” Sam savoured the word thoughtfully, “Aye, I suppose we were uneducated. Hoping for a better life by taking the King’s shilling. I know Isaac joined up full of enthusiasm and greener than most, being only fifteen. He never expected to fall under the command of a man who made his life so miserable that he preferred to put his pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger than to carry on.”

  The silence in the room was palpable.

  Pennyfather tried to laugh, but it was a hollow sound, “Can I help it if he was a snivelling little coward? It wasn’t me he was trying to avoid, but the heat of battle. He did not have the guts to face the enemy!”

  At least four men leapt forward to hold Sam Tredgett back, as he gave a roar of raw pain and launched himself towards the still seated Pennyfather.

  He fought them for a few seconds, desperately trying to break away and get his hands around the throat of the despised man, then he realized the futility of resistance. Even in his overwhelming fury he was not strong enough to fight off four ex-soldiers. He ceased to struggle and swallowed the bitter words that sprang to his lips, saying quietly instead, “All right, you fellows, you can let me go. Do you think I want to choke at the end of a rope for this worthless bastard? I’m leaving.”

  “Come and find me tomorrow,” said Thornycroft quietly, “I’ll be in the Pump Rooms from eleven o’clock.”

  Tredgett nodded, threw one last contemptuous glance towards Pennyfather, then left the room.

  In the silence that followed Pennyfather felt that he had to regain the respect of his ex-comrades and he did so in the only way he knew how, “Listening to that little exhibition of bile has reminded me that I have another score to settle. Josh, you will act as my second and go and seek out that young flat, Swann. I’ll have satisfaction for that accusation of cheating.”

  “Thickbroome, get your friend out of here,” yelled Jeremy James, almost beside himself with anger.

  Joshua Thickbroome rose slowly to his feet, “Take him out yourself, Major.” He turned to his erstwhile friend, “John, you have led me down many a path I had no wish to tread, but like a fool I followed, but this time you have gone too far. Find another man to act as your second, if you want to shoot that green boy, for I’m all done with you.”

  When Second Lieutenant Thickbroome walked out of the room, several of the others followed him, including Underwood, who grasped Thornycroft’s chair and pushed him out without being asked. Jeremy James made no protest. All thought of continuing the evening at a tavern was gone.

  Pennyfather was still seated at the table staring after them all, astounded that they should have taken the side of a mere sergeant against the word of a fellow officer.

  They heard him yell, “Damn you all to hell’s flames!” as they reached the foyer.

  Underwood had never been more grateful for Toby’s intuition, for the big man was outside the Assembly Rooms, wrapped in his caped coat against the chill of the late hour. He had taken Verity home and turned around straight away to fetch Underwood, knowing that he did not really wish to make a night of it with the Wablers.

  He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt in allowing the poorly-sighted Meadows and one-armed Elliott take hold of Thornycroft’s chair, followed by the one-legged Dickson and go off down the street to find whatever consolation they might.

  He hoisted himself up beside Toby and settled into the cold seat with a shudder, “I could not be more delighted to see you, my friend. Your timing is, as always, impeccable.”

  “It was not a good evening, then?” asked Toby, glad that for once he had been left out of the jollifications in order to help his wife mind the children. He had the distinct impression that his muscle might very well have been called upon and he never enjoyed having to act as bodyguard to the troublesome Underwood, who tended, albeit unwillingly, to rouse ill-feeling on occasion.

  “I foresee trouble, Toby, a great deal of trouble,” said Underwood dolefully.

  “At least this time you only foresee it and you haven’t caused it,” said Toby equably, “Mrs Underwood will be pleased.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Mors Certa, Hora Incerta’ – Death is certain, the hour uncertain

  It was a sober and subdued gathering in the Pump Rooms next morning. That is to say relatively sober – and very sore-headed. Not for the first time Underwood looked at the faces of his companions and was grateful that his inclination was not towards over-indulgence in strong liquor. In short, the Wablers looked very sorry for themselves indeed.

  “Shot the cat, did you, gentlemen?” he asked solicitously. They were all unamused by his use of the cant expression which referred to drink-induced vomiting. From the sour looks he received, he assumed that more than one of them had done just that and he grinned unkindly.

  “Do you have to be quite so loud?” asked Swann piteously. “Or indeed demonstrate such deplorable good humour?”

  “If you had gone to your bed like a wise man instead of seeking out more boozing kens, you wouldn’t be suffering now,” said Thornycroft, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He had thought Swann would have more sense than to continue drinking after his run-in with the odious Pennyfather. With the two of them loose in a small town, the chances of them meeting up again, whilst in their cups, was high, and God only knew what might have occurred between the pair if that had come to pass.

  Presently they were joined by Petch, Thickbroome and Sam Tredgett, who looked slightly less worse for wear than the Wablers. Evidently they had either drunk less or had hardier constitutions.

  “Where’s that bounder Pennyfather?” asked Swann, turning bloodshot eyes upon the newcomers.

  “I haven’t a notion,” answered Thickbroome coolly, acknowledging that the question was directed towards him more than anyone else, as he was Pennyfather’s usual companion. “I expected him back at our lodgings last night, but he never turned up. I assume he has found himself some lightskirt who was willing to perform the blanket hornpipe with him. He’ll turn up when she has had enough of his rough play.” From his bitter tone, the others apprehended that he had not undergone a change of heart in the night and he was still determined to finish with his erstwhile boon companion. It would appear that his abusive language towards a man maimed for life at Waterloo was one step too far in even his inauspicious previous career.

  They found nothing amiss with his theory. From what they knew of Pennyfather, it seemed all too likely and so the conversation turned to other topics, mainly in teasing Freddie Meadows about his interest in Petch’s sister. Freddie cast an anxious glance towards Captain Petch, lest he should be offended by the bandying about of his sister’s name in such company, but Petch looked quite content. Meadows could not know that Rutherford was only too delighted that he might have found the very man to woo and mayhap marry Cressida and remove from him the lingering feeling of guilt that he was planning to abandon her to run a vast estate with no guiding male hand upon the tiller.

  Freddie was delighted to realize that he was not about to have his cork drawn and allowed himself to relax sufficiently to talk quite openly about what a fine girl he thought Miss Petch was and how he hoped to see her again that afternoon, when the ladies arrived to take the waters.

  Underwood had listened to all this banter, not taking part, but enjoying the exchanges, taking note of any juicy gossip for Verity’s gratification later. Thus it was he who was first to notice the advent of Sir George Gratten, accompanied by two bruising fellows, who looked from their uniforms to be members of the Hanbury Watch. This did not bode well for the Wablers for the three men made directly for them and Underwood pondered upon which of the men was to be taken to the lock-up for drunken misbehaviour the night befo
re. The Watch were in the Constable’s pay and their duties included keeping the peace in the streets at night, for which purpose they were provided with a wooden sentry box to protect them from the worst of the weather. In Oxford and Cambridge it was a hallowed tradition that these boxes were pushed over onto their fronts, thus successfully trapping the Watchman within – a trick known as ‘boxing the Watch’. In London there were plans afoot to create a so-called Police Force, with the idea of having a dedicated body of men to act as peace-keepers full time, as criminality was spreading faster than the plague in the Metropolis. However, that was still being fought through Parliament by Robert Peel and in the meantime, men such as Sir George did their best to quell bad behaviour of all kinds, with only the Watch and in times of desperate need, the local militia, to aid them in their endeavours.

  Sir George looked grim so Underwood restrained himself from giving his usual amicable greeting and simply bade the older man, “Good morning, Sir George.”

  “’Morning, Underwood,” said the Constable gruffly. “Tell me which of these fellows is Swann?” Sir George was acquainted with the Wablers, but only as a group and not individuals, so he would not have known one from the other, despite having been aware of them for several years now. They were not his chosen society and he occasionally wondered at a man of letters like Underwood finding their company congenial.