Page 39 of A Ruse of Shadows
“So you see,” continued Miss Charlotte in her role as the quietly shrewd Herrinmore, “even though I cannot vouch for your ability as boxers, I can gauge your reliability as individuals—and you are good people to have. About Mr. Underwood, however, I have been unable to gather anything concrete. No one seems to know what he did—or even where he lived. I found a single address, a flat, but the owner said he moved out years ago and left no forwarding address. And that during the five years he lived there, he always paid rent three months at a time in advance, therefore the landlord never had reason to demand letters of character.”
“So you are looking for letters of character for Mr. Underwood?” asked Jessie. When not shouting in the middle of a bout, her voice was soothing—dulcet, almost.
Both Jessie and Mumble turned toward Johnny. There was nothing accusatory in their gaze, but Johnny still squirmed. “I already told them yesterday that he was good to us, to all three of us,” he said, again speaking to Mumble.
“I think,” said Mumble, “that our hosts wish to hear specifics.”
Johnny’s jaw moved. He stared at the finger bowl in front of him. “I don’t know that I’d have been able to keep my family alive if it hadn’t been for Mr. Underwood. Winter before last, both my mamma and my little sister fell ill. He raised my stipend so we could move to a better place, somewhere not so damp and cold. And they got better almost right away.”
Guilt. The boy had tried hard to come across as uncaring, but in truth he was racked by guilt.
“Mr. Underwood raised Jessie’s and my stipends, too,” added Mumble, “just to be fair, even though we weren’t in dire straits.”
All that Mrs. Watson had known about Mr. Underwood was that he had been a trusted and loyal lieutenant to Lord Bancroft. A more complex picture was emerging from those who knew him in different capacities. He appeared to have been a good mate to Mrs. Claiborne, suspicions of another woman notwithstanding; he certainly seemed to have been an exceptional sponsor to these three young people.
“All I know is that he never touched me. And he never commented on me except as a boxer,” said Jessie. “He never told me that I ought to be a different sort of woman inside or outside the ring. Never said anything about how I looked or how he’d like me to look. I know it may not seem like much, but you wouldn’t believe the things a woman hears in a gymnasium, especially on a fight night.”
Mr. Underwood, not only shrewd and capable but also principled and kind?
Could a kind man have served as henchman to Lord Bancroft all these years? Mrs. Watson was unclear on everything Lord Bancroft had done, but he had very clearly orchestrated the murder of one completely innocent bystander, so that he could have a body to use to frame Lord Ingram. And given his fastidious nature, Mrs. Watson would be surprised if he hadn’t delegated the deed to Mr. Underwood.
How, then, did one reconcile Mr. Underwood, the cold-blooded killer, with Mr. Underwood, the softhearted sponsor?
Not to mention Mr. Underwood, the probably devoted lover?
Their waiter came into the dining room; Miss Charlotte ordered for the table. She then said to Mumble and Jessie, “So the two of you want, as much as possible, to stand by Mr. Underwood?”
Mumble and Jessie exchanged a look—and nodded.
Johnny, who had just then looked up, bent his face to the table again.
Miss Charlotte continued her questioning of his friends. “I understand you’ve been searching for him. Have you found anything?”
“We spoke to Mr. Constable, his accountant,” answered Mumble, the obvious leader of the trio. “The ledgers and records looked shipshape. But Mr. Constable also didn’t know any more about Mr. Underwood than we did. And the only address he had was of Mr. Underwood’s old flat, the one he moved out of a while ago.”
“When did you speak to Mr. Constable?”
“You mean, specifically to ask about Mr. Underwood? It was after Mr. Constable told us that he had given us the last installment of our stipend, and that there would be no more unless he heard from Mr. Underwood again.”
“I believe your stipends ran out in April?”
“Yes, but it came as such a shock to us—I’m not sure why, but it did—that it took some time before we recovered enough to even think about asking questions.”
The boy was skilled at answering questions without giving concrete particulars—he had yet to provide a date, or even a time frame, for this meeting with Mr. Underwood’s accountant. And he managed to do so without looking calculating.
Mrs. Watson wondered how hard Miss Charlotte needed to press him for the specifics. But Miss Charlotte abandoned that line of questioning altogether.
“Have you ever heard that Mr. Underwood had a mistress?” she asked instead. “This might be the most interesting rumor I’ve chanced upon about Mr. Underwood since I started asking—that he kept a mistress in St. John’s Wood.”
Jessie and Mumble again glanced at each other. Then Mumble’s gaze settled on Johnny. Mrs. Watson couldn’t be sure whether he was expecting the latter to give an answer or instructing him to.
“I always assumed he had a family somewhere,” said Johnny, after a glimpse at Mumble. “But he never brought a woman to the gymnasium—or anywhere I’ve ever seen him.”
Mumble picked up his glass of water and drank, indicating that he had nothing to add. Jessie, after a moment, did the same.
And Miss Charlotte failed to pursue this line of questioning, too, but cheerfully welcomed the waiter who returned with their soup, and encouraged everyone to enjoy the repast.
Johnny ate with the speed and efficiency of someone who had lived too long not knowing where his next meal would be coming from. Jessie also had a healthy appetite and consumed more pudding than Miss Charlotte, a sight Mrs. Watson did not witness often. Mumble, more restrained in his dining, carried on a conversation with Miss Charlotte concerning, of all things, the mystery of where eels originated.
