A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 5

  “No use, I’m afraid, my love. She had given a false name.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” asked Verity, rather disappointed at his unenthusiastic response.

  “Because she used the classic ‘Mary Smith’,” he said cynically.

  Verity’s mouth dropped open slightly, “Wasn’t that the name used by the young lady who ended by being murdered when she came to Bracken Tor all those years ago?” she asked, referring to the time when she and Underwood had first met and had discovered the identity of a poor, unknown, headless corpse left in a bluebell wood.

  “It was. And it is used for a reason. It is probably the most common name for any woman in the land. Trying to trace a ‘Mary Smith’ is, indeed, like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Oh,” said his deflated wife, and then she brightened. “But you are not going to give up, are you? You must find her now.”

  “Why?” asked Underwood bluntly, addressing himself to some bread and butter. It was another hour to dinner and he was surprisingly hungry after his ride.

  “Well, if she used a false name, then she really must have something to hide,” reasoned Verity.

  As Underwood knew very well that she did indeed have ‘something’ to hide, it was not possible for him to deny this assertion, so he prevaricated, “I suppose she must, but I fail to see how I can pursue her any further without any clues as to her name, destination and the passage of time.”

  “You’ll think of something,” said Verity serenely, ever confident of his abilities and ingenuity. “Now, tell me about the Petches – and did you see Mr Jebson?”

  Underwood was happy to change the subject and give her a full account of his day and the list of invitations he had secured for her.

  “I have some news for you too,” said Verity when his litany was over. “Lindell tells me that a troupe of players is due into town in the next few days and he has promised to take some of the young people to see the play. I assured him that you and I would be happy to act as chaperones. I know how you love your Shakespeare.”

  Underwood could not deny that adoration of the Bard, but he was not entirely sure he would particularly enjoy a visit to the theatre in the company of a host of unruly youngsters, however in view of Verity’s concession in allowing him to begin a search for the ‘widow’ he could not refuse any request from her. He forced a smile, “That sounds interesting.”

  The mention of travelling players reminded him of something he had heard earlier in the day, “As a matter of fact, I do believe I met one of the actresses in the Jebson’s shop. A Frenchwoman – though she insisted she is from Flanders. At least it seems she was telling the truth when she refused treatment because she said they were moving on to the next town.”

  If Verity was astounded by his capacity for meeting and interrogating strange women, she gave no indication of it, “Really? What a coincidence. But how came you to learn so much about the lady just from a chance meeting in an apothecary shop?”

  “Oh, it all just came out in the course of the conversation,” he said vaguely. “She was suffering from a rather nasty toothache.”

  “That accounts for her presence in the shop, but not for the telling of her life-story,” said Verity tartly. She wondered how pretty this young actress was, and exactly how long Underwood had engaged her in ‘conversation’.

  Underwood finally sensed an undercurrent of irritation in his darling wife and raised a quizzical brow at her, “My love, if I knew no better, I would swear you were jealous.”

  Verity lifted one shoulder huffily, “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “I have no such feeling – but be assured, if you keep being accosted by strange women, you will find it very difficult to shake me off for a whole day again, whilst we are here!”

  He laughed, crossed the room, and lifting her chin with one careless finger, he kissed her heartily, “How sweet that after so many years of marriage, and to a decrepit old invalid like myself, I still have the wherewithal to rouse your protective instincts where predatory women are concerned.”

  Verity allowed him to kiss her, but she answered him with a snort of derision, “Do not inflate your ego too much, Cadmus, I simply think you are too old to making a fool of yourself chasing young women – so very undignified, my dear!”

  They laughed softly together and Underwood drew her to her feet, “I’m terribly tired, sweetheart. Do you think I should lie down before dinner?”

  She blushed rosily, “You are incorrigible, husband, but I will see you upstairs and settled in your bed. You have had a very long day, after all, for a decrepit old invalid.”

  *

  The next few days passed uneventfully. The Underwoods received their promised invitations from the residents of West Wimpleford, as well as tickets for the theatre and Verity was able to reflect happily that the social whirl she had been longing for was finally coming to fruition. Underwood was not, perhaps, quite so enamoured of the prospective outings, but he viewed them with equanimity, since they were all with people he knew and he was not facing the agony of tedious small talk with strangers.

  The first of their appointments was the theatre and Underwood found himself looking forward to the treat, especially when he discovered that it was to be ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ they were to see. In his current unsteady state of mind, he didn’t think he could cope with one of the bloodier or more morbid plays.

  He was not very sure of the veracity of the French girl, Violette’s story of being an actress, until he caught sight of her on the stage. She was evidently one of the bit part players and had few lines to deliver, which turned out to be very fortunate, for it rapidly became evident that her tooth was still troubling her and she was struggling to speak clearly. His heart went out to her, especially when a few rowdy young fellows in the pit began to call out to her, “Speak up, lassie, we can’t hear you!” and other similarly discouraging pieces of advice.

  When Benedict gave the line, ‘I have the toothache.’ Underwood could not help but lean into Verity and whisper, “Ironic, don’t you think?”

  She nodded soberly and whispered back, “Poor girl to be reminded of it even by the play she is appearing in.”

  He was sure that there were very few people like himself who noticed that she never appeared again after the second act, though her character should undoubtedly have been present. Shakespeare was so impenetrable to most of the audience that they barely recognised who was who and the loss of one minor character made no odds to them. Underwood was worried and so was Verity when he whispered first her identity and then her absence during the course of the play.

  “She looked terribly unwell, Cadmus,” whispered Verity, when he pointed out the missing girl, “Do you think she is in real distress? Should we go backstage and look for her?”

  “I don’t see how we can do so until the play is over. It would cause a distraction which would be grossly unfair to the other players and the audience. We will tell Lindell of our intention the moment it is over. I’m sure he can see the young people back to the vicarage alone, if necessary.”

  They were both tense for the remainder of the evening, fully aware that the young woman had looked both ill and distressed by the catcalls. Luckily it was not an overly long play and when the end came they hastily explained to Lindell of their concern for the girl. He was both worried and determined to be helpful.

  “By all means go behind the scenes and find out if the young lady is being cared for. I noticed her myself and wondered what the trouble was. I will see you later at home.”

  He shepherded his excited flock off down the street, all loudly discussing the play, comparing notes on the various actors and their good looks, the clever use of scenery and the meaning of the archaic language, while the Underwoods found their way to the back door of the theatre, down a dingy alley which smelled, for some unknown reason, strongly of fish.

  It was chaotic and rather grubby behind the facade of the stage and Underwood thought sadly of how
the illusion was shattered by the reality of the human condition. In candlelight the players had looked young and vibrant, but in reality most were middle-aged or older, the greasepaint so thick that it looked as if it might crack like old plaster if their faces became too mobile. The handsome leading man would have sadly disappointed the sighing young ladies in the auditorium had they seen him close to, for he was well past his prime and complained loudly of a creaking, aching knee which he swore meant he could no longer bend it without severe pain.

  It took the interlopers a long time to find someone who could direct them to the stage manager, who seemed to be the only person who knew what had become of Violette. He was in what passed for an office and was slouched in a battered old chair, just pouring himself a well-earned and extremely large glass of blue ruin.

  “What do you want?” he asked rudely, “A bit old for begging signed playbills, aren’t you?” He leered at Verity, apparently familiar with ladies lusting after the heroes of the stage and coming backstage in search of illicit adventures.

  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 paris
h 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.