Food For The Gallows (The Underwood Mysteries Book 2) by Suzanne Downes Page A

find the Pump-rooms intolerably dull and had she been able to summon the energy, she might have put her mind to thinking of other things she and Underwood might be doing with their mornings. She refused to acknowledge that this sudden dislike of Hanbury water might be in any way connected with the fact that the two Misses Wynter also frequented the Pump-rooms every day.
    She also knew she ought to be encouraging Underwood to consider their position as guests at the vicarage. It was time they found a home of their own and decided exactly how Underwood was going to earn his living, but she felt curiously protected beneath Gil’s roof and was loath, for the moment, to face the harsher realities of life.
    Underwood exchanged a brief greeting with Oliver Dunstable at the water fountain, as they both filled their respective wives cups – though Mrs. Dunstable had a silver goblet, and not a mere glass like Verity. Underwood then returned to his wife, handing her the water and smiling at her, “Feeling any better?” he asked. She took the glass from him, carefully avoiding any contact between their fingers, “I have not complained of feeling anything other than perfect well,” she answered irritably.
    “No, you have not, but I am neither deaf nor blind…” She never discovered how this sentence was destined to end for at that moment a piercing scream sliced through the usual low hum of conversation, followed by another and yet another. Verity – and several other ladies – started so violently that their cups and glasses fell from their hands and general pandemonium broke out as a mass of people surged forward towards the sounds.
    Underwood and Verity were near enough to see that the screams were issuing form the lips of Josephine Dunstable’s daughter Leah, and that Josephine herself had slid from her accustomed seat and was now writhing upon the floor in a series of jerks and contortions which were horrific and frightening to witness. Flecks of bubbling spittle were dribbling from the side of her mouth and the stiff, puppet-like movements of her arms and legs had caused the hem of her already too-short dress to rise above her arthritically bulbous knees, exposing thin and shrivelled calves clad in the finest silk stockings. Oliver was staring down at her in horrified fascination; Leah was giving voice to louder and more frenzied shrieks. Since it was painfully evident no one was doing anything to aid the unfortunate Josephine, Underwood thrust his way past the crowd which had rapidly gathered about the scene, and was on his knees by the woman in seconds. He managed to catch the wildly flailing arms and perform the dual action of taking her pulse and preventing her from injuring herself any further. He hoisted her up into his arms and tried to speak to her, to calm her and find out, if possible, what exactly ailed her, but he was too late. Her head flew violently backward and with a sickening gurgle, she breathed her last.
    Someone, the Underwoods never discovered whom, dealt Leah a resounding slap and the ensuing, shocked silence was more blood freezing than the previous chaos.
    Oliver Dunstable was the first to speak, “Dear God, she is dead, isn’t she?”
    Underwood glanced up at him, then slid Josephine gently out of his arms and back onto the marbled floor, “I’m afraid she is.”
    “What was it? A heart attack? Some sort of seizure or fit?”
    Underwood rose, but his gaze remained firmly fixed on the recumbent figure at his feet, “I think we should have a doctor here – and the Constable. In my, admittedly limited, experience, we have just witnessed the symptoms of the administration of some sort of toxin.”
    “Poison?” Leah seemed to suddenly come to life, from a gibbering wreck only seconds before, she became lucid and vengeful, “Give me her cup!” Someone handed it to her from the floor whence it had been cast in Josephine’s first agony, and she raised it to her nose and sniffed suspiciously. A