A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

“Oh, Old Tom?  Still alive is he?  I thought he’d be long dead – he deserves to be, the old reprobate.  One day that wagging tongue of his will fall back in his throat and choke him – that’s if someone doesn’t throttle him first!”

Verity looked so startled by this that Underwood felt it was a good moment for him to intervene, “I shall send Tom your regards, shall I, Mr Gray?”

Gray looked at Underwood warily for a moment, then grinned, “Aye, you do that.”

“If I may say so,” continued Underwood, “Miss Chapell raises a fair point.  It does seem foolhardy to pursue a career of crime when you are capable of such fine craftsmanship.”

“Like so many things in life, sir, I found out too late where my talents lay!  Laid up in bed, a burning ache in a limb I no longer had, near losing my mind with the tedium of it, I took up a stick of wood and began whittling.  Pity I couldn’t have done it before, then I would never have lost my leg.”

“Ironic, to say the least,” murmured Underwood, not without sympathy, “Well, Gray,” he continued, more robustly, “Since our cards are firmly on the table, I see no reason to dissemble.  Briggs told us how you lost your leg and it is for that reason I have come to speak to you.”

“And what interest do you have in my misfortunes, sir?” asked Gray, visibly bridling at Underwood’s blunt manner – something which disturbed Underwood not at all.

“I assume you recall the incident last year in Bracken Tor, when the body was found in Sir Henry’s wood?”

“Young girl, wasn’t it?” asked Gray.

“It was.  I’m investigating the girl’s death – and Tom Briggs intimated that you might be the man to help me.”

“Me?” Gray looked and sounded astounded, “What the devil made him think that?”

“Not to put too fine a point upon it, he thinks you would have been more than capable of revenging yourself upon Sir Henry by acquiring a body and dumping it in his grounds.”

Gray laughed – really laughed, loud and hearty – until the tears rolled down his cheeks and he slapped his thigh, “By God!  I wish I had thought of it.  I’d liked to have seen that old popinjay burst a blood vessel on account of my japes!”

Underwood could not resist a small smile, so infectious was the man’s merriment, “I can take it that Tom has sent me on a wild goose chase, Mr Gray?”

“He has – and he deserves to be well trounced for his impertinence – but since he has given me such an amusing half-hour, I’ll let the matter go.”

“Whilst I appreciate that you are obviously being truthful in your denial, some small gesture of proof would be welcome.  An alibi, perhaps?” suggested Underwood gently.

Gray raised his wooden leg off the floor, “I need no other alibi than that, sir,” he answered, “Tell me how I could carry a body into a wood without sinking knee-deep in the mire and I’ll admit I did it.”

“A good point – but I would be grateful if you could find some one who will confirm your whereabouts on the night in question.”

“You don’t know much about the criminal brotherhood if you imagine I can’t find a dozen who will swear on the Bible that I spent the entire evening with them.”

“Then I shall have to take your word for it – but be sure, Mr. Gray, that I am never deterred.  If I find one shred of evidence linking you with this crime, I will be back.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a thirst to be slaked – and coffee won’t hit the spot.”

With that he shuffled off down the passageway back to the tap-room.

Underwood turned to Verity, “That would seem to be that.”

*

CHAPTER TWENTY

(“Terrae Filius” - a son of the soil)

Mrs Underwood was determined to atone for her clumsiness in mistaking Verity for Charlotte, so accordingly she made a special effort to make the girl feel warmly welcome at the vicarage.  Since she possessed her elder son’s charm in full measure, it was not long before Charlotte was quite as enchanted with the mother as she was with the son.  Daily luncheon at the vicarage became a regular event and Gilbert, delighted to see his brother looking happy and relaxed was also in sparkling form and the luncheons proved to be jolly affairs.

Charlotte was quite accustomed to being the centre of attention in any gathering, so she quickly lost her apprehension and was soon joining in with the family, even to the extent of voicing the question she had longed to ask since first meeting Underwood.

“Please, Mrs. Underwood, won’t you tell me what Underwood’s first name is?  He refuses to disclose it to me, but how can I marry a man when I don’t know his given name?”  She threw a flirtatious glance in Underwood’s direction, but he merely smiled calmly and waited for his mother’s reply.

She pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and made a great play of dabbing her eyes, “My dear Charlotte, you have managed to hit upon the one subject which quite mortifies me!  How can a mother live with herself when she realizes that her child so detests the name she gave him, he absolutely refuses to use it?”

“But surely it can’t be as bad as all that?” protested Charlotte, shocked that Underwood had been heartless enough to castigate his poor mother for her choice of name.

“Well, his papa and I thought it most unusual and strong-sounding, but obviously Underwood did not agree.”

“I did not,” intercepted Underwood wryly, “And I can assure you my mother is under strict instructions never to tell you or anyone else what it is.  It was a ridiculous name to give to an Englishman.”

“Oh, but this is horrid!  You can’t mean to keep such a secret from me,” cried Charlotte, between laughter and tears.

“Indeed I do,” asserted Underwood, “But I am prepared to allow Mama to tell you why she so far forgot herself as to bestow the name upon me in my innocent infancy, and if you can guess what it is, I promise to tell you if you are right or wrong.”

With that Charlotte had to be satisfied, “Very well.”

Mrs. Underwood looked startled, “Good heavens, Chuffy!  You must be in love, for you have never made such a concession before, to my knowledge.”

Underwood continued to smile his infuriatingly serene smile and Gil imagined he knew the reason.  Charlotte was far from being bookish – he doubted she had opened the covers of anything other than a novel since leaving the school-room – and the chances of her knowing and Greek mythology was remote, to say the least.

“Why did you name him so, Mrs. Underwood?”  prompted the now impatient Charlotte, feeling confident that she would soon share the secret of her loved one’s name with those closest to him.

“My husband and I went on the Grand Tour after our marriage.  We happened to be in Athens when…” she blushed delicately, “When we became aware that a child was a possibility.  We were in Rome when we were sure.”

Charlotte was too engrossed in the puzzle to share Mrs. Underwood’s embarrassment at this intimate disclosure, “so his first name is Greek?”

“And his middle name Roman,” inserted the wholly British Gilbert with a grin.

“Are they the only clues I am to receive?” asked the now clearly disappointed Charlotte.  Gil was quite right, she knew nothing of Greece, ancient or modern, and very little of Rome.

“No, I shall give you a little more,” said Underwood, determined to be strictly fair, and aware that any amount of clues could be provided, and still Charlotte would be in the dark, “The gentleman for whom I am named married Harmonia, the daughter of Aphrodite.”  Since both these ladies were famed for their beauty, he had intended that Charlotte should take this as a compliment, but her blank look told the assembled company quite plainly that the names meant nothing to her.  Gil began to feel rather sorry for her, but more, he experienced a sudden qualm.  He had been so eager to encourage Underwood in his courtship that he had taken little heed of the characters of those involved.  Would his brother and the flighty Charlotte really be happy together?  He saw now that they had very little in common.  She seemed young and innocently amusing, but would her husband grow to despise her ignorance of those things which so fascinated him?  Perhaps he had rushed Underwood into a decision which might, one day, cause great unhappiness to them all.  To cover his own fears and worries, he hastily changed the subject, and the previous happy mood soon returned, at least on the surface.

By mid-afternoon Charlotte regretfully decided that she must take her leave, and when Underwood did not offer to see her home, the vicar gallantly, and swiftly, filled the breach.

Underwood, still mildly troubled that he had been neglecting his investigation, was entirely unaware that he had shown, in any way, a lack of concern for his betrothed.  As far as he was aware, Charlotte had been wandering about Bracken Tor alone since she could walk and he saw no reason to pander to her sudden desire to be thought of as small and helpless.  If she could hold that great beast Merryman, then God help anyone who tried to accost her!

He had been thinking about Charlotte’s information regarding the Hazelhursts ever since she had made the comment about them and it was borne upon him that a visit to their farm was long overdue.  As always, when he had a specific goal in mind, all else was cast aside, including Charlotte and his mother.

As soon as Gil and Charlotte left the house, he gave his mother a hasty kiss and bade her tell Gil not to wait dinner on him.

“But where are you going?”

“Oh, just for a walk.  I feel the need to blow the cobwebs away.”

“That is hardly the most romantic way to describe an afternoon spent in the company of your betrothed,” she chided him gently.  He grinned unrepentantly, “My dear, I think the world of the girl, but I cannot wrap my entire existence around her pretty form, now can I?”

“I suppose not.  Shall I come with you?”

“Not this time, mama, if you don’t mind.  I would rather be alone.”

“Very well.”

As Underwood reached the door, she called him back, “She is quite lovely, my dear.”

He rewarded her with his most boyish smile; “She is, isn’t she?”  With that he was gone, and his mother was left alone with her thoughts, not all of them happy.

*

Underwood turned left out of the vicarage gate, past the church and left again when he reached the blacksmith.  He had made it his business to know where every villager lived, and where they could usually be found during the course of a normal day, but he had never travelled along this particular track before, so it was with great interest that he looked about him.

Presently he reached the large old house, which was used by the two Misses Dadd for their school – and which was the reason he had neglected this path before today.  The measles epidemic had materialised as Dr. Herbert had feared, and the place was in quarantine until further notice.  All was quiet so he assumed that the young ladies had either been sent home, or were confined to their beds.  Gil had told him that the elderly ladies taught the daughters of respectable, but generally impecunious gentlefolk, and the clergy, hence the far-flung situation of the building.  Hill Farm, the home of Hazelhurst, was their nearest neighbour – and not a particularly helpful or friendly one, if the two ladies were to be believed.

Once past the school the path began to climb steeply and Underwood found the going increasingly difficult.  It was not for nothing, then, that Hazelhurst’s place was called ‘hill’ farm.

When he stopped briefly to catch his breath, Underwood glanced back and was surprised to see just how high he had climbed.  Bracken Tor was laid out below him like a child’s toy village.  He could see every detail, from the church and graveyard, to the trees which marked the boundary of Sir Henry’s property.  He could even see the twisted chimneys of Wynter Court peeping over the top of the foliage.  He was glad the morning mist had lifted, for all this would have been lost to him, for when he looked up he could scarcely make out the tops of the higher hills, mantled as they were with broken, grey clouds.

He walked on and was beginning to think he had been misdirected by his brother, for apart from the stony track beneath his feet there was no indication of any dwelling place in this inhospitable spot.  Even the sheep were few and nervous, running wildly at his approach.  At last a single stone gatepost, set askew, proclaimed the presence of Hill Farm up ahead.

He still had a good distance to walk, but presently he found himself in the muddy courtyard of a large, stone-built farmhouse and allowed himself the luxury of a well-earned rest upon a conveniently low stone wall.  He was still puffing and blowing when he was horrified to hear a volley of vicious barking and a woman’s voice commanding the dog to be quiet and asking of him, “Are you all right?”

It was salutary for him to have to admit to himself and her that he was even more out of condition than he had previously thought.  He lifted his head and managed a smile; “I shall be when I have regained by breath!”

She looked him up and down with a half smile and a look in her eye which Underwood was more used to witnessing in men when observing pretty wenches.  Much to his chagrin he found himself growing red in the face.

“You do know you are trespassing, don’t you?” she asked, her hands upon her very shapely hips.  Underwood could not help but let his eyes wander over her.  She was that sort of a woman, born to be looked at and enjoyed, and knowing it.  If she was, as he suspected, Harriet Hazelhurst, he could quite understand what Sir Henry had seen in her.  From her dark hair to her slim ankles, just visible beneath the hitched up skirts, meant to avoid the worst of the mud, she was perfection.  Not his type, of course, but as a scholar, he told himself, he had the capability of admiring loveliness where it might be found, and understanding its allure to other men.

He did not answer her question, but asked one of his own, “Are you Miss Hazelhurst?”

“I am.  And who might you be?”

“My name is Underwood.”

Evidently she had caught his admiring glance for she said with disgust, “Good God, not the vicar!”

“His brother,” he told her swiftly.  She shrugged indifferently, “Not much better!  What do you want with us?”

“I don’t want anything at all,” he assured her, “I just happened to be out walking and growing rather tired, as you saw for yourself, I hoped to beg for a drink of water.”

She gave him that same half crooked smile he had noticed before – one which clearly said, “I don’t believe a word you say.”

‘“Just happened’?” she mimicked unkindly, “My dear sir, no one ‘just happens’ within five miles of Hill Farm.  It is the God-forsaken end of the earth!  If you have taken the trouble to walk up here, you must have a damn good reason.”

He spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders, the picture of innocence,

“I’m prepared to admit that I had not realized the road led only to here, but I promise you, there was no other motive.”

She hesitated, swayed by his candour, but only for a moment, then with pure venom she spat, “Are you sure you have not listened to village gossip and come up here to try your luck with me?  Oh, I know what they say about me, and I don’t give a damn!”  The fact that she felt the need to voice this remark told Underwood that she did care, very much indeed, what was said about her, but he felt it safer to keep that opinion to himself.

“Miss Hazelhurst, you may believe me or not, as you wish, but I am very happily betrothed to Miss Charlotte Wynter, and I am not the sort of man who seeks adventures of the kind you are suggesting.  No other woman holds any interest for me whatsoever.  Now, do you think I might be granted that drink of water?”

The mention of the name Wynter, as he had supposed it would, appeared to shock her and it was several seconds before she recovered sufficiently to speak again,

“You had better come indoors.  I’m about to make tea for my brother, and I’ll not have it said I was ever unmannerly to a visitor, albeit an uninvited one.”

He followed her across the yard, warily watching the dog, a great ugly brindled thing, a breed which Underwood did not recognise, but it appeared to have lost interest in him the moment its mistress spoke to him and it lumbered off behind an untidy outbuilding.  She led him into the house, kicking off her pattens as she reached the door and he likewise scrubbed his boots on a piece of sacking, evidently placed there for the purpose.  He found himself in the kitchen, not so very different from the cottages down below in the village, except somewhat larger.  The floor was stone slabbed, the fireplace equipped with hooks and spits for cooking and before it stood two wooden settles, high-backed and uncomfortable, but the only seats the room offered.  Down the centre of the room was a vast wooden table, clean-scrubbed and worn with years of use.  To one side of the fire was a basket which contained a greyhound bitch, happily suckling several puppies, which looked to have a common ancestry with the beast outside.