A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (24 page)

He took a deep, refreshing breath, then picked up his neglected plate and began to eat the rapidly staling food.  Charlotte offered to go and fetch him another glass of ale and he hoped a second glass would not prove to be an error.  He could not afford to let his bowling become a thing of amusement, too many young bucks were hoping and praying to see him fail.

As Charlotte departed, Dr. Herbert took the opportunity to join Underwood and have a quiet word, “Congratulations on your innings, Underwood.  I don’t think we have ever had a higher score to chase.”

Underwood found himself suddenly ravenous and was making up for lost time.  Since his mouth was full he could not answer, but he nodded in acknowledgement of the other man’s compliment.  Francis settled himself on the grass beside his friend and added softly, “Devilish unfortunate, that fellow turning up and shouting about his affairs to all and sundry.  I’m afraid any attempt at secrecy is now doomed.  How did Charlotte react?”

              “Badly, at first,” responded Underwood shortly.

“You managed to explain it away, then?”

“No, I told her the truth.”

“Gad!  That was courageous.  Are you are still engaged?”

“Only just.  She could not do any other than take my actions as a personal affront to her father.” 

“Well, I suppose in a way, they are.”

“In every way,” asserted Mr. Underwood wryly, “ and I would be astounded if he did not have something to say to me on the matter too!”

*

Mr. Underwood had been hoping for a little peace and quiet, in order to prepare himself for the meeting with the stranger who claimed Mary Smith as his wife, but it was a forlorn hope.  No sooner had he entered the house than Mrs. Selby informed him that Mr. Renshaw had been waiting in the study for over half an hour, wanting to speak urgently to him.  Underwood could not imagine what the man wanted, but he resignedly entered the room and found an exceedingly agitated man pacing the floor.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Renshaw?”

The older man was white and shaking and Underwood immediately took pity on him.  He looked ten years older and really quite ill.  Without waiting to ask he poured his visitor a brandy from the rarely used decanter.

“Thank you,” Renshaw took the glass and drained it in one.  It seemed to steady him a little for he was able to meet Underwood’s eyes and say, “What I have to tell you is not pleasant or easy, Mr. Underwood and I want you to believe I am not proud of myself, but I overheard what that young man had to say today, and I knew then I could no longer keep my secret.”

Underwood said nothing, but raised a quizzical brow.  He wondered what new revelation was about to shatter his illusions.  Mr. Renshaw tried to read his companion’s face, but when Underwood gave no indication of his thoughts, he was forced to continue without the desired encouragement, “I lied when I denied all knowledge of the girl.  I met her, only hours before she was killed, and I…” A dull red crept into his cheeks and Mr. Underwood compassionately finished the sentence for him, “If she did not claim you as her kin, then the only other thing she could have done to cause you such embarrassment was to solicit you.  Which was it, Mr. Renshaw?”

The old man looked confused, “How could she make claim of kinship?  What gave you that idea?”  Underwood waved a dismissive hand, “A theory I had.  Never mind.  You made love to her?”  Renshaw nodded miserably, only too aware how sordid Underwood must think the incident, “I have no excuse, she offered and I could not resist accepting.  I must have been mad, but it was as though I had no control over the situation.  Please believe me, Underwood, I have been faithful all my life, but this chance to have another woman, just once, with no one to know, no harm done to her or my wife.  It was a fumbled exercise, in a dark wood, on the cold ground and I need not scruple to tell you it was largely unsuccessful.  I knew as soon as I began that I was going to regret the incident…”

“Where did you meet her?”

“I overtook her outside the village.  I was on my way back from Beconfield and was late, it was growing dark and when I saw her by the road, I stopped to offer her a ride.”

“Where did you go?”

“Shady copse.  We were not far from Wynter Court when I met her, and I knew there was no one living in the lodge at that time.  I was able to drive in unchallenged and hide the carriage behind the cottage.”

“Rather a dangerous undertaking, wandering about Sir Henry’s property.  You know he lays traps.”

“I’m invited on occasional shoots with him.  I knew Shady Copse was clear – mainly because there is nothing there worth poaching.  Too near the road to encourage much wild life.”

Underwood wondered vaguely what had changed.  There had been a trap there recently, as he knew only too well, but he had other more pressing things on his mind just then, so he dismissed the thought, “Did you kill her, Mr. Renshaw?”  The question was quietly asked, but its effect was dramatic, “Dear God, no!  This is what I was afraid of!  The moment I knew she was dead, I knew I would be blamed.  That is why I have come here to see you, Underwood.  I realize now that I have been a fool to keep quiet, but I was scared witless when they found her next day.  Can you imagine how I felt, knowing I was the last person to see her alive?  And what would my wife have said, if she knew what I had done.  We have had an exceptionally happy marriage, Underwood, despite the tragedy of losing our only son.  How could I admit I had been unfaithful with the first little slut who offered herself for a few shillings?”

“It ill behoves you to call her names, Mr. Renshaw.  She had hunger and homelessness to excuse her behaviour – what reason did you have for yours?  We are all what life had made us, and she seems to have paid rather heavily for her loose morals.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.  I apologise.  But what am I to do now?”

Underwood was aware that the apology was peremptory and insincere, but he left that to the older man’s conscience.

“Answer one or two more questions, if you will.  What time did you meet her?”

“It must have been after ten.”

“And could you describe her?”

Renshaw shook his head regretfully, “I’m sorry, but it was dark and I was tired.  I only ever saw her by the light of a horn lantern.  She wore a bonnet which half covered her face – actually, now I look back on the incident, she seemed at pains to hide her face from me.”  He seemed much struck by the thought, “Dear God!  You don’t suppose I knew her?”

“Did you recognise her voice?”

“No.”

“Then it’s unlikely.  A voice is a hard thing to disguise.  She was probably more worried that she would meet you again in the future.”

“Then you think she came to Bracken Tor to stay?”

“I suspect that may have been the case.  She left nothing behind when she made her fateful journey.”  Underwood looked thoughtful and Renshaw, who had little interest in the trivialities which seemed to fascinate his companion, twisted his hands in anguish as he waited for him to speak again.  When the silence became too much for him to bear, he asked diffidently, “You do believe me, don’t you, Underwood?”

Thus roused from his reverie, Underwood glanced at his guest, “I think I probably do, Mr. Renshaw, but you must let me think about what must be done next.”

Renshaw was pathetically grateful for this lukewarm assurance and he left looking a great deal happier than when he arrived.  He would not have been quite so relieved had he been able to read Underwood’s thoughts on his tardy confession.  There was something which troubled him greatly, and that was the significance of Renshaw’s own words.  He had stated that he was the ‘last’ person to see the girl alive, but surely that ‘last person’ was none other than her killer?  Had Renshaw used his words carelessly in his very apparent agitation, or was his subconscious mind taking the opportunity to admit to the murder?

Underwood was not a happy man.  He had instinctively liked Mr. Renshaw and his wife, but he could not ignore the old man’s determination that his spouse never learn of his brief infidelity.  In trying to clear his name at this late date, Renshaw had woven a mesh about himself which might ultimately lead him to the gallows.

*

When Mr. Underwood entered the inn that evening to keep his rendezvous with the stranger, his reception was somewhat mixed.  On the one hand the entire village was elated that he had, almost single-handedly won the cricket match for them, having ended the second innings with three wickets (one of them caught by his brother) and a superb catch of his own, but all that was negated by the news that he had been secretly investigating the murder of the year before.  It was not something of which Bracken Tor was particularly proud and they deeply resented this outside interference, which they took as a personal affront to their ability to catch the culprit.

He received a few half-hearted slaps on the back, but no one rose to offer to buy him a drink.  This did not disturb him unduly, since he had had a great deal more than his usual allowance immediately after the match.

The stranger was sitting by the inglenook, in the company of Tom Briggs and his cronies and appeared to be conversing warmly with the old man.  This vision did nothing to comfort Underwood, for he intended to ask several searching questions in order to discover whether or not the girl had really been known to him.  Now there was a good chance that Tom had been hoodwinked into giving the young man information which would be of use to him, should he prove to be nothing more than a mercenary hoaxer.

As he approached the stranger rose, with his self-confident grin, which Underwood had come to despise, despite their short acquaintance, firmly in place.

“Good evening, Mr. Underwood.”

“Good evening… er… Smith, I assume?”

“No, Blake.  Frederick Blake, late of His Majesty’s Navy.”

“Oh.  Your wife was travelling under the name of Smith.  Why was that, do you suppose?”

“Women do strange things sometimes.  Perhaps she found herself on Queer Street and was avoiding the duns.”  Since he accompanied this remark with a meaning wink, Underwood reflected that his initial opinion of the man was not about to undergo any radical alteration.  He also had to admit that it was a pertinent explanation.

Due to the successful day, the inn was considerably more full than usual, and it was obvious to Underwood that their conversation had little chance of remaining confidential, he therefore asked, “Shall we find somewhere a little less congested for our discussion?”

“Where do you suggest?”

“Your room here - or the vicarage, perhaps?”

“I think the vicarage.  I might need the vicar to support me, should you decide not to give me the payment you promised.”

“I can assure you, if you are who you say you are, there will be no need to worry that I will fail in my obligations.  But let us go to the vicarage, by all means.”

They left the inn together and were very soon entering the front door of the vicarage.  Gil had been told to expect the possibility of a visitor, so he had retired to his room, leaving his study to his brother.  In truth, he was glad enough to avoid a discussion with Underwood that evening.  As he had always feared, the news of the murder investigation had spread like wildfire, and he was going to have to live with the damage long after Underwood had forgotten Bracken Tor had ever existed.

Once he was happily ensconced in one of the more comfortable chairs in the study, Blake became positively expansive on the subject of his marriage to ‘Mary Smith’.  He told Mr. Underwood how they had met, how his wife had hated his long trips away at sea.  Since his host had no way of proving or disproving any of this information, he allowed Blake to talk himself to a standstill before asking, “Could you describe your wife to me, Blake?”

Blake laughed, but for the first time he seemed a little uneasy, “What the devil do you think I have been doing?”

“No, I meant her physical appearance.  What was the colour of her hair, for example?”

The sailor was not quite so unprepared as Underwood had hoped; he gave his infuriating grin, “But I understand the corpse was headless, so how would you know if I was right or wrong?”             

“And if I were to tell you the head had been found and we now know the colour of her hair?”

“I should ask you what it was, then tell you whether it was my wife,” countered the not unintelligent Blake.

“Touché!” commented Underwood; “It would appear we have reached an impasse.  You can’t prove my corpse is your wife, equally I cannot prove it is not.”

“So it would seem.”

“Perhaps you knew her height?”

“Considerably shorter without her head,” jibed the now irritated Blake.

“It was possible for the doctor to estimate her height in life, despite the missing part,” returned Underwood coldly.  He was now fully convinced of Blake’s imposture, but it was imperative that he prove it beyond any doubt – not an easy thing to achieve when he was almost as ignorant at the fraudster.

“She was average,” said Blake, sketching a hasty swing of the hand, which could have represented a height of anything between five feet and five feet six.