A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  “I’m Bertram Swann,” spoke up Swann, rising to his feet with obvious difficulty. It would seem, from his pained frown, that his head had not recovered from the excess of alcohol, despite his taking several draughts of spa water, “What do you want with me? I swear I haven’t been in trouble with the Watch since I was in shortcoats.”

  This was something of an exaggeration, as they all well knew, for the Wablers were notorious for their occasional bursts of over-enthusiastic revelry, but certainly they had been more restrained for a good few months now.

  “I believe you had a set to with a certain John Pennyfather last evening,” said Gratten, his visage grim and his tone stern. No one could now mistake the severity of the situation. Evidently something ill had occurred, for Sir George, despite his disapproval of some of their antics, was often quite as indulgent with the old soldiers as everyone else in Hanbury, they all being signally aware of the debt they owed to these brave but somewhat reckless young men.

  “We exchanged words, but not blows,” admitted Bertie cautiously, wondering what the devil complaint Pennyfather had laid against him to send the Constable hotfoot to the Pump Rooms to question him. “Why? What has the bounder said to you? Whatever it is, he was bamming you, for nothing happened.”

  “Pennyfather will not be carrying tales ever again, Swann, as I suspect you well know.”

  “What the devil do you mean? Why should I know anything about the fellow?”

  “Because he was found dead this morning in a farmer’s field, just outside Hanbury, with a bullet through his head.”

  A stark silence greeted this revelation.

  Though pale, Swann kept his calm demeanour. He swallowed deeply and managed to croak, “What has that to do with me?”

  “I understand you called him out?”

  “Who told you that clanker?” To his credit, Swann did not glance around at his comrades to see if any one of them looked guilty at having reported his argument with the dead man to the Constable. He knew not one of them would have given him away.

  “The Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms, one Mr Sparrow-Loftus. He was regaled with the whole incident by his staff. They were afraid that you were both going to have to be bodily ejected from the ball, but fortunately Major Thornycroft intervened in time to avert an unpleasant end to the scene.”

  “Well, your cacklers have it wrong. Pennyfather called me out, not the other way around. I would have been happy to simply dust his jacket for him on the street outside. He is the one who called for seconds.”

  “That’s true,” interjected Thickbroome, suddenly finding his tongue. He had been struck dumb with the shock of hearing of his crony’s demise, but his long-buried sense of fair play was roused to stand in defence of Swann or perhaps he just realized how badly the others would take his silence. With Pennyfather gone, he needed all the friends he could muster. “He asked me to second him and I refused. There cannot have been a duel. No one else would have stood for him in my stead.”

  “But there was nothing to stop the two men taking it upon themselves to retreat to the field and simply taking a shot at each other. Last man standing and all that,” said Gratten, determined to keep his man now that he had him in his sights.

  “There may have been nothing to stand in our way, sir, but that is not what happened,” said Swann with great dignity, appalled that anyone could suppose that he would breach the strict rules adhering to duelling – especially with a no-account like Pennyfather, “I went off in search of liquid comfort in the face of my losses and I left Pennyfather at the gaming table with Thickbroome and a host of others around him.”

  “Can anyone verify your whereabouts? Which inns did you go to?”

  “I don’t remember. I was already half-disguised when I staggered away from the Assembly Rooms.”

  “Disguised?” snapped Gratten, quick to latch onto any statement that might hint at nefarious doings.

  “He means drunk,” said Thornycroft with great patience. He wished these boys would stop using cant when matters were so serious – it was merely muddying already murky water for Gratten had never been the sharpest of men.

  “Well, well,” blustered Gratten, “be that as it may, I require you to come with me, young man. You are firmly in the frame for Pennyfather’s murder.”

  Underwood had listened in silence until this moment, but now he felt he ought to intervene before the Constable embarrassed himself by arresting the wrong man – for Underwood was very sure that Swann was entirely innocent. He knew all these men well and he understood the unbreakable bond that existed between them and the code of honour that bound them together in battle and could never be broken. Swann might very well have hated Pennyfather enough to kill him, but he would have obeyed the strict regulations for duelling, not just because it was the right thing to do, but also because it protected the victor. If one of the combatants were killed, the man who did the deed would probably only face a charge of manslaughter and not murder – that was if his friends did not manage to spirit him away to France to safety in exile. They would not endeavour to rescue a coward and every man knew it. His reputation would be forever tainted and he could never hold up his head again.

  “Sir George, may I enquire whether it might be possible that your victim is perhaps a suicide? I have to say that Pennyfather did himself no favours at all last night with any of his comrades. As Thickbroome has already attested, he refused to stand as the man’s second and was well aware that the ill-feeling he roused ensured that no one else felt they would take his place.”

  Gratten hesitated for a moment. It was true that he had been told of more than one quarrel by the staff at the Assembly Rooms, but Swann’s was by far the most serious as the challenge to duel had been issued.

  “The body is with Dr Herbert now, so I suppose this can wait until we have had his judgement on the precise cause of death, but let me tell you that his initial reaction was not one of possible suicide.”

  “Then I suggest that the most sensible course is to wait for the result of the post mortem and make your arrest then.”

  Gratten eyed Swann severely, “I shall be back for you, Swann, so do not think to leave town!”

  “Naturally I will not! I have nothing to hide.”

  It seemed that Tredgett could no longer keep quiet, though it was evident the whole group were trying to give as little information to the authorities as possible, which accounted for the fact that no one had leapt to Swann’s defence nor thrown any more names of potential murderers into the conversation. They would have rallied around the man had it become necessary, but saying nothing was almost always the safest course.

  “Sir, I’m as sure Swann didn’t kill Pennyfather as I am that I did not either, but if you are looking for men who hated the man enough to shoot him, then it is only fair you add me to the list.”

  Sir George turned a jaundiced eye upon the speaker, “If you are Tredgett, then you have it right, fellow! You are indeed another to whom I will wish to speak.” He glared at the assembled company, “In fact that goes for the lot of you. Do not attempt to leave Hanbury until this matter has been investigated or I will be forced to view your fleeing as an admission of guilt and alert the authorities in every other town that you are wanted men!”

  Having received no response to this stern warning, he turned on his heel and made his way to the door. Underwood followed him and caught him before he left the Pump Rooms.

  “One moment, George.”

  “What is it Underwood?”

  “Only that I thought it mannerly to inform you that I intend to interest myself in this case. Swann is a friend and I think it only fair that he has his side of the matter investigated, since you seem so set upon blaming him for this untimely death.”

  Sir George shrugged with seeming indifference, but was in reality glad to hear of the undertaking. He had an odd feeling about this murder – for murder he was sure it was – and though it would take wild horses to drag from him an admission
of bafflement, he was nevertheless secretly delighted that he could rely upon Underwood. If nothing else, it removed from him the responsibility of sending a man to the gallows. Let Underwood solve the mystery if he so wished. He was welcome to the plaudits, for along with them would come the condemnation of those who felt he might have been mistaken in his conclusions. Gratten had been through it all before and he disliked it intensely. He much preferred his position as Constable of Hanbury to be a mere title and nothing discommoded him more than having to act in an official capacity when a crime was committed.

  “I should have been astounded if you had managed to keep your long nose out of it,” he responded rudely.

  Underwood ruefully pulled at his insulted feature and grinned, “Just so long as you know, then you cannot complain when I whip your quarry away from you and present you with another culprit in his place.”

  “You have me wrong, Underwood,” he answered grimly, “I don’t care who I hang for this, but take my word upon it, someone will hang! I will not have my pretty little town turned into a place where people cannot sleep safely in their beds or walk unmolested in the street.”

  “Quite right too, my dear fellow,” said Underwood pleasantly, “But let us also not have the reputation for hanging the wrong man. It is very difficult, not to say impossible, to restore a man to life if you find later he was innocent.”

  “Very droll,” growled the older man. “Very well, my friend, do your best. But mark me. If you find no one else, then Swann is the most likely culprit and I will do my duty in taking him to law – let a judge and jury decide on his fate.”

  Underwood watched him thoughtfully as he went away, his two Watchmen at his heels, dejected not to have a prisoner in tow. A slow, delicate pinch of snuff seemed to much refresh him and he replaced his silver box back in his pocket before taking out his fob watch and looking at the time.

  Dr Herbert should have just about finished his cutting up of the victim’s body, so Underwood could safely seek him out and question him, without risking the horror of actually having to view the gory process for himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Adscriptus glebae’ – Allocated to the soil

  Underwood returned briefly to the Wablers to tell them of his intentions and found them suddenly far more voluble than they had been in the presence of the Constable and his henchmen.

  “What the devil were you about, Tredgett, putting your own head in the noose?” Swann was saying hotly, “If he has half a chance, the fat beak will have us all dangling in the magistrate’s picture frame.”

  “Don’t be bird-witted, boy. The Constable is no fool. He knew about my quarrel with Pennyfather, he said as much. It looks better to a jury if the admission comes from me than someone else. Besides, it puts us in a position of strength.”

  “How do you make that out?” demanded Swann, still angry, but slowly calming in the face of the older man’s insouciance.

  “Unless he finds indisputable evidence to convict one or the other, he can’t hang either of us. He could throw an accusation of manslaughter at both of us, but not murder. There was only one shot fired therefore only one killer.”

  Swann’s face cleared, “That true enough. And I know I didn’t kill the man.”

  “Nor I. So all we have to do is hold our nerve.”

  Underwood sincerely hoped that they would both be able to do so. Rather than draw the attention of the entire group, he leaned towards Jeremy James, who had been listening to this exchange with growing disquiet.

  “I’m going to see what Francis Herbert has discovered about the murder, Jemmy. See if you can keep these fools out of any further trouble until I return.”

  The major managed to force a smile, but it was evident he was shocked by the turn of events. He hadn’t particularly liked Pennyfather, but this sordid demise was not to be wished upon anyone – and certainly not a brother of the sword.

  *

  Underwood was fortunate enough to find Dr Herbert had done his duty and was back at home. Pennyfather’s body had been taken first to a barn on the land of the farmer where he had been discovered and since the nearest mortuary was attached to the infirmary in Braxton, Dr Herbert had decided to examine the body where it lay – it was as good a place as any and meant he did not have to travel. There could be no doubt what had killed the man – the bullet hole in his forehead attested to the method of despatch.

  The good doctor eyed his friend warily as he stood aside to allow him into his house, then closed the door behind him, “Not that I am not always delighted to see you, my dear Underwood,” he said, “but I trust you are not here to ask me about my examination of the body, for you know full well that I am now officially employed by the Constable in this matter and must deliver my verdict first to him.”

  “Of course, my dear fellow,” said Underwood fondly, clapping him on the shoulder, “I should not dream of asking you to disclose anything until you have reported to Sir George. However, it would be a kindness to tell me some news which I may impart to Jeremy James and the Wablers, since they are all comrades of the dead man and were, in all probability, the last to see him alive.”

  “No.”

  “Come now, Francis. I shall hear all presently anyway.”

  “No.”

  “Well, if that is your final word on the matter.”

  “It is.”

  “Then perhaps I could tell you something. The man was shot from a strange angle of which you are struggling to make sense and about his person you perhaps found an odd object – namely a button.”

  Francis’ mouth dropped open, “How the devil could you possibly know that?” he gasped. He was used to Underwood’s intelligence and ability to apply logic and intuition to solve puzzles, but this pronouncement smacked of some mystical insight.

  “A lucky guess,” said Underwood, with a pleasant smile.

  “Fustian!” exclaimed the doctor rudely, “Dammit, tell me how you knew.”

  “Of course, my friend. In exchange for your information, I will gladly divulge mine.”

  Francis shook his head in frustrated resignation.

  “You know exactly how to play your hand, don’t you? Come into the parlour then, and I’ll tell you what I know – but I shall expect a full explanation of your extraordinarily accurate guess.”

  It was, of course, complete speculation on Underwood’s part, but he was hardly going to admit that to the doctor. Some aura about Francis had given the distinct impression that he was confused by his findings, probably the brevity with which he addressed his visitor, when he could usually be relied upon to be much more expansive. Only bafflement would prompt him to be so unforthcoming. He was a man who liked to be in control of every situation and he did not take kindly to conundrums such as this one.

  Though the facts that Underwood did know were few, he was fully aware that the fatal shot had been to the victim’s head, and no other injuries had been mentioned. Added to the knowledge that neither Swann nor Tredgett appeared to be the guilty party then this made no sense to him unless there was something afoot of which he was, as yet, unaware. Duelling injuries were almost always to the body, as it was far too formidable a task to aim for and hit the head of one’s opponent in the poor light of an English dawn. Suicide was also very unlikely. It was extremely difficult to aim at one’s own head as the length of a flintlock pistol’s barrel and the kickback when it went off, made it almost impossible to ensure a clean, accurate shot. The only way to be certain of death and not merely injury was to place the gun either under the chin or in the mouth. Whilst an ordinary person might not know this, a soldier most certainly would. Pennyfather had not shot himself.

  For a man like Underwood, always looking for patterns, for tell-tale clues which indicated innocence or guilt, it was too soon after reading about the mysterious killing in the newspaper for him not to make the connection. He would have looked a fine fool if he had been wrong, but Underwood was never afraid of taking a chance in the hope of
making himself seem preternaturally clever. The mention of the button had been a last minute addition which could easily be dismissed if erroneous. Underwood had to acknowledge to himself that even when Verity had pointed out that it could be a valuable clue, he had been inclined to dismiss it as unimportant, but somehow it had stayed at the edge of his consciousness to be recalled now that it might suddenly have relevance. He hid his surprise well, but he too was astonished that another button had been left on a body, killed by being shot through the head. It now became obvious that it had some meaning to the killer, if no one else.

  “So, tell me how you knew about the angle of the shot and the button, Underwood, or I shall be forced to tell Sir George that you are the murderer, for I swear no one else could possibly have known but the man who fired the shot!”

  “I might have been to look at the body before you were even abroad,” pointed out the older man, entirely unconcerned by the threat.

  Now Francis did laugh, and heartily too, “You, up and about just after dawn and examining corpses? That is about as likely as you killing the man in the first place.”

  Underwood smiled slightly, a pale reflection of his friend’s mirth. The doctor had a fair point. Neither circumstance was plausible to anyone who knew Underwood well. He decided the time had come to confide his suspicions to his friend and he told of the tale he had read in the newspaper.

  “Gad, that is odd,” said Dr Herbert when he ended his story. “Did you ever hear back about the button?”

  “Yes. They thanked me for my interest but explained that sadly the object was of an ordinary sort, with no identifying marks. The only thing they knew for sure was that it was probably off a man’s clothing and they had decided that it was mere coincidence that it had been found near the body and lost on some other occasion.”