A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

                She spoke his name and he withdrew his eyes from the pair in front and turned towards her, “I do beg your pardon, Miss Chapell, my thoughts were far away.”

“I wanted to speak to you, sir, but could think of no way of visiting or corresponding with you, without provoking unwanted comment.”

He smiled rather sadly, “Convention can be incredibly wearing on occasion, don’t you think?  We really must think of some legitimate reason for you to visit the vicarage.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“No – oh wait a moment!  Perhaps I have.  Have you ever had any particular desire to learn Greek or Latin?”

Her manner brightened considerably, “Mr. Underwood!  How did you guess?  All my life I have dreamed of improving myself by the study of Latin.  How clever of you to know it, and how kind to offer to tutor me.”

Her enjoyment of the scheme was infectious and he found himself joining her laughter.  It was strange how she always seemed to be able to lift his darkest moods.

“Tuesdays and Saturdays are officially my free times, though I am occasionally given other dispensations, when I am not needed by the girls.”

“You have so little freedom, are you sure you want to spend your time studying, merely as a cover for my investigation?”

“I don’t have anything else which would interest me half so well.  I do a little sketching and painting, but that palls sometimes.”

“Very well.  Shall we say Saturday, then?  Three until half past four, and take tea with my brother and I afterwards.”  Underwood began to have the beginnings of another plan.  Miss Chapell would be a far better choice of wife for his brother.  She knew how to run a parsonage, and a parish, for had she not said her own father had been a vicar?

Unaware of his plotting she saw no objection to his suggestion, “That would be delightful, Mr. Underwood, thank you.”

“Now we have that settled satisfactorily, you said you had something to tell me?”

“Yes, though I am not sure how significant it is.  I have been asking a few discreet questions amongst the staff at the Court, and I have discovered something which might be of interest to you.”

“You are sure you roused no suspicion?”

“Not in the least.  Miss Charlotte’s accident had already brought the subject of Shady Copse to the forefront of everyone’s mind.  No one could resist gossiping over the dinner table about the horrid coincidence of the same spot being the scene of both dramas, and Charlotte had made no secret of her fear at being left in the wood alone, and how you carried her so gallantly back to the house.”

Underwood refused to allow himself any false modesty; “I lived to regret the impulse.  I’m not as young as I once was, and Miss Wynter is no pocket Venus!  But I interrupt.”

“I was told that Toby Hallam found the body at half past five in the morning, but Abney had passed the place at midnight and there had been nothing there then.”

“You are certain of the times?”  Mr. Underwood was indeed very intrigued by this information, though he did not explain why to Miss Chapell.

“Yes.  Abney was quite emphatic.  He says that it is something which has troubled him always – that he must have almost run into the murderer – and that he might have been able to prevent the crime.”

“He can disabuse himself of that notion.  He might have been able to prevent the mutilation, but she was already dead when her body was brought to the wood.”

“Naturally I did not mention that to him.  It would have looked very strange indeed had I known a detail like that!”  Her discretion was amply rewarded by his smile of warm approval, “Quite!  Well done for remembering that fact.  I can see you are going to be of invaluable assistance to me, Miss Chapell.  Tell me, did Abney happen to mention why he was wandering the grounds at midnight, and did he see anything unusual?  Any vehicle on the road, perhaps?”

“Oh!” she sounded disappointed, “I never thought to ask him that.”

“Never mind.  Your behaviour in every other respect has been exemplary.  I shall find an excuse to talk to Abney myself – and Toby Hallam – whoever he might be.”

“One of the gamekeepers,” she supplied promptly.

“A man who would know where all the man traps were laid?  He really must be interviewed. Thank you, Miss Chapell.”

              She blushed at his praise and feeling suddenly shy, she began to search her pockets, partly so that she would not have to meet his eyes, “I wrote a brief resume of my discussions with the rest of the staff, so that you can read them at your leisure.”  At last she located the errant scrap of paper and leaned across to hand it to him.  Without even glancing down, he took the missive and thrust it into his own pocket,

“Thank you once again, Miss Chapell.”

“Verity,” she corrected with a shy smile.

“Verity,” he repeated, with a kind look which made her heart pound.

The enchantment was broken by Pollock, who, seeing that they had reached an open stretch of moorland, now twisted around in his saddle to challenge the stragglers to a gallop.

Verity, on a horse for the first time in months, and still warm from her conversation with Underwood, was undoubtedly game.  Her eyes glowed with subdued excitement, but Underwood firmly shook his head.  He was sadly lacking in practise, he explained, not having ridden for several years.  Not even her growing affection for Underwood could prevent Verity accepting the invitation and she spurred her mount on, but Charlotte, oddly, refused to be drawn.  She declared her intention of dismounting and taking a rest, but happily encouraged her governess to race the curate, and, if at all possible, to beat him soundly.  Neither party needed a second bidding, and within minutes the thundering hoof beats had faded into the distance, leaving Charlotte and Underwood alone.

He gladly slid from the saddle, stifling the groan which rose to his lips as he swung his leg over the beast.  His body was already beginning to protest at the unfamiliar exercise.  He ached, despite the sedate pace which had been set, but not for the world would he acquaint Miss Wynter of the fact.  Tethering his mare to a convenient bush, he glanced towards her, surprised to see that she still sat on her horse, “Do you require assistance?”  he asked, rather surprised that she suddenly seemed so helpless.  Of course Charlotte was more than capable of dropping the considerable distance to the ground, and had often done so without hesitation or fear, but it seemed to her that having a gentleman to help would be preferable.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she answered diffidently.  He approached and offered up his arms to catch her.  She leaned down and placing her hands on his shoulders, she allowed herself to slide elegantly into his grasp.  To her intense disappointment he made no attempt to retain his grip, but dropped her immediately and firmly onto her feet, then walked away from her, leaving her to tie up her own beast before joining him.

He found a comfortable patch of sheep-cropped turf, amidst the bracken and heather, then spread his coat and seated himself comfortably upon it.  As she strolled towards him, she saw he was refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.

“May I try some?” she asked.

“Certainly not!  It is a most unladylike habit,” he stated severely, quite overlooking the fact that he had once offered Miss Chapell his box without a second thought.  In his mind the two young women were worlds apart.  Charlotte was set solidly upon a pedestal, Verity a colleague in employment and a sister in class.  Fortunately Miss Wynter was unaware of this minor hypocrisy and took the blank refusal with equanimity.

They sat in silence for a few moments, he wrapped in his own sombre thoughts, she examining his features and wondering vaguely what ailed him.  It seemed to her that he had been in an odd humour since the onset of their jaunt.  At last she was unable to bear the hush any longer and gathering her courage she ventured,

“What was in the note Verity passed to you?”

He looked so startled that the suspicion which had begun to form in her mind immediately took substance and she hastily added, “Never mind.  I’m sure it is none of my affair!  But I do wish you had told me how things were.”  She rose swiftly to her feet and began to walk back to her horse.

He rose equally swiftly and catching her by the arm, he swung her around to face him, “You wish I had told you what, Charlotte?  What the devil are you talking about?”

There were tears in her eyes, but her perfect features were marred by an ugly frown, “You should have told me that your interest was in Miss Chapell and not in myself.  You have let me make a complete fool of myself, and I hate you!”

His dismay at her vehemence was comic to behold, but Charlotte was too irate to notice.  She thought his hesitation in answering was an admission of guilt, and could not see that it was caused by the stunning impact of so many accusations in two short sentences.  He had never seen Verity Chapell as anything other than a pleasant companion, thus making her assumption of a romance ludicrous, but to add that she hated him was astounding.  No one had ever told him that he was hated; he felt he was not the sort of man to engender so strong an emotion in anyone – and certainly not in a woman, “Hate?  Me?”  his tone grew steadily more incredulous, “Great Heavens!  Why should you hate me?”

She was furious.  Two spots of colour on her cheeks were only cooled by the tears which now began to flow, “You dare to ask me that?  Let me loose!  I don’t want your hands on me!”  She tried to wrench her arm from his grasp, but his fingers merely tightened, “If I am to endure such abuse, I think I deserve to know the reason.”  He was growing decidedly hot of temper himself.  He had been forced to spend the past half-hour watching her flirting with a half-witted curate – a man very nearly young enough to be his son.  He had endured the discomfort of the saddle merely to please her, and now she had the gall to accuse
him
of some unspecified wrongdoing.  Dammit, was the woman ready for Bedlam, or was he?

“You and my governess pass love letters behind my back, and you expect me to ignore the fact – or did you think I was too stupid to notice?”

“Love letters?”  His sudden burst of laughter did little to calm her, “Foolish child!  That was not a love letter – far from it.”

She was unconvinced, but she ceased to struggle, “Do you expect me to believe that?  What other possible reason could Verity have for passing notes to you?  You barely know each other!”

He suddenly released her, his anger dying as swiftly as it had risen, “You may believe what you wish, Miss Wynter, with my blessing!  I think I have given you no cause to doubt my word.”               She had never expected to hear such hurt and anger in his voice, and she was confused by the change in attitude.  Usually in these situations, she held the whip hand, making the would-be wooer beg for forgiveness.  It startled and worried her to be faced with a man and not a boy.  He had always been very much in control of his emotions and she had childishly imagined that because he did not display his passions, then he must simply not experience them.  It rather frightened her to see this unknown side to his character, but there was an undercurrent of excitement too.  She looked at him and his eyes met hers squarely.  Her gaze was the first to fall, and she lifted her hand to brush away the tears from her cheeks, “Do you swear there is nothing between you and Miss Chapel?” she was almost whispering, so ashamed was she of her question, but she felt compelled to ask it.

“Do I need to?”  His voice was quiet too, but had an underlying strength which made her quail, she briefly shook her head.  “Come here.”  It never occurred to her to disobey, though she was headstrong and spoiled, and unused to being ordered and not humbly requested to do things.  She stepped towards him, her head still down.  He lifted her chin with a firm but gentle forefinger, then kissed her on the lips.  It was a swift movement, he barely touched her, but her eyes flew wide open with shock and her breath was sharply taken in.

“Now, behave yourself,” he said calmly, then glancing past her shoulder he added, “Miss Chapell and Mr. Pollock are upon us, wipe your tears and blow your nose.”

With that unromantic remark he left her and went to untether his mare.

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

(“Horresco Referens” - I shudder as I tell it)

Miss Chapell’s list, when he consulted it later that day, began with a short letter of apology, which Underwood quickly scanned, being eager to press on with the more important document:

Dear Mr. Underwood,

Pray forgive the untidiness and lack of order in the following.  Due to the circumstances, I was forced to try and remember everything, then write my notes later.  It would have looked very curious had I taken down every word spoken in the Servant’s hall.

Verity Chapell.

There was a list of staff members and a brief description of their duties,

followed by snippets of conversation.  Mr. Underwood was most impressed.  Verity had compiled an excellent report under difficult conditions, and he could see she was going to be very useful to him.

              “Brownsword – butler; has been with Sir Henry for over thirty years.  Never married, no children.  Shows a great deal of respect for Sir Henry’s title and position, but is not forthcoming on his opinion of the man himself.  I gather he thinks he brings the family into disrepute, though his loyalty is such that he would never be openly critical of his master.

Mrs. Gregg – cook; has served even longer than Brownsword, and was a kitchen maid under Sir Henry’s father.  Never married, no children.  Her title is mere courtesy.  Blindly loyal to Sir Henry, since she remembers him in his ‘golden’ youth, and considers that he has been the unfortunate victim of a succession of ambitious, ruthless women.  She holds the highest position among the female staff, as Sir Henry does not waste his money on employing a Housekeeper.  That position is filled by whichever of his daughters is currently the eldest unmarried.  The staff feel that now Maria is married, Jane will probably hold the position indefinitely.  Sir Henry shows a marked inclination to pass over her in the marriage stakes and keep her at home for his comfort – she is the most biddable of the girls, now Maria is gone.

Sally Peters – housemaid; two years service (there seems to be a constant stream of housemaids coming and going, no one would tell me why they never stay long, but I gather Sir Henry in his cups has an eye for a pretty young girl!)  Sally is very pert and pretty, and seems to hold out hope of marrying Abney’s son Alfred – though he shows no reciprocation of feeling.

Alfred Abney – footman; five years service.  Much to Abney’s disappointment he hates horses and the outdoor life, and so assiduously avoided following his father into the stables.  Taciturn in the extreme, one might almost say sulky!  I found it impossible to draw him into the conversation.

Jacob Mullin – under footman and bootboy.  Shy and somewhat slow-witted.  Likes to feign knowledge he does not possess.  The other staff unkindly state that he is a stranger to the truth, but my experience is that he merely likes to embellish to make himself the centre of attention.  He insists he heard the master quarrelling with Charlotte in the library on the evening before the body was found, but no one believes him.  Charlotte is undoubtedly her father’s favourite daughter, being most like him in temperament, and it is rare indeed for them to exchange cross words.  He vents the worst of his spleen on Maria, Jane and poor little Isobel.  Harry and Charlotte are the true Wynters; the others favour their mother.

Poverty Yates – kitchen maid; An orphan who came from the Workhouse – hence her rather unkind name.  She has been with Sir Henry only a few months and the apex of her ambition is to rise to the dizzy height of cook.  She takes Mrs. Gregg as her example and works herself to the bone, poor little creature!  Since she was not in the house at the time of the incident, is not allowed out of the kitchen, and barely allowed out of the house, there was little of interest to be gleaned from her, though I did ask in case she had overheard any gossip.

There are other workers who do not live in as they have families, and to whom I have not yet spoken, and I have also to interview the outdoor staff.  I shall let you know as soon as I have any more information.”

Mr. Underwood turned to the next sheet of paper.

              “I managed to bring the conversation around to the required subject without much difficulty, by mentioning my surprise at Charlotte’s reluctance to remain in the wood alone on the day she hurt herself.  As I had supposed, the staff gathered for their midday meal were only too glad to have something scandalous to discuss over dinner! 

I noticed most particularly the curious fact that most people want to relate any important occurrences to themselves.  They always seem to remember what they were doing, and why, when they heard the news. I suppose I must have done the same when I heard of the victory at Waterloo!  I was with my papa in the rectory study and the bells began to ring.  You take my point, I imagine?”

Underwood smiled slightly and continued to read.

              “Sally Peters began by expressing her own dread of the wood, and casting longing glances in the direction of Alfred, she declared no one would catch her in that dreadful, frightening place after dark!  All who listened could hear by her tone of voice that she meant only ALONE!  Alfred ignored this rather obvious invitation and shovelled food into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten for a week, as, unfortunately, is his habit. I can’t imagine why Sally finds him so attractive!   Mrs. Gregg chastised her roundly for her boldness, then embarked on her own version of events.  She could remember the whole thing as if it were only yesterday, she said.  Roused from the sleep of the just by the screaming and carrying on downstairs.  She met the Master coming out of his room, dressed in his shirt and breeches, his hair all awry, looking as though he had thrown on his clothes in agitation.  Toby Hallam was jabbering with shock, trying to tell the Master what he had seen, but almost incoherent.  For a moment Sir Henry had looked as though he were going to strike the man.  Miss Maria stood on the landing in her shift, looking like death warmed up (Mrs. Gregg has rather a dramatic turn of phrase!) not saying a word, just staring ahead, as though she were seeing a ghost.  The other girls joined her presently, all demanding to know what had happened.  Maria seemed to come to her senses then, and shooed them all off back to bed.  They have never been told the full story and know only that a girl was found in the woods – no mention of the missing head, so pray do not confide that detail to Charlotte.  Harry never stirred.  He said afterwards that he never heard a thing, but frankly he could sleep through an earthquake!

Brownsword took up the story here.  He recalled how he too had joined the throng, delayed as he was by the fact that he insisted upon dressing fully before appearing in front of the Master and the lower staff members – Brownsword has very definite ideas about what is done and not done!

He was the one who suggested that the doctor out to be sent for, but Toby Hallam interrupted, almost hysterical, “There’s no point in bringing the doctor to her, you fool!  I tell you there’s no help for her!”  Brownsword was not at all pleased to be called a fool by one of the outdoor servants and his dignity was deeply affronted.  He addressed himself to Sir Henry in frosty tones, explaining that the doctor must be sent for anyway.  The coroner would expect it to be done.  Sir Henry seemed confused and agitated and turned aggressively on them all, “For God’s sake, let a man think, can’t you?”  He started downstairs, then turned back and spoke to Brownsword, “Fetch a bottle of brandy to the library – and don’t let anyone do anything until I give you word!  Do you understand?”  Naturally no one argued with him.  His hands were shaking and his face had lost all its usual high colour.  Mrs. Gregg said she thought he looked on the verge of collapse.  He went into the library, taking Maria in with him, and did not come out for nearly an hour.  He had drunk most of the brandy, but it didn’t have the normal effect on him.  He seemed quite sober, and still deathly pale.  Maria looked ghastly and almost fainted when she came out of the room.  Mrs. Gregg said the Master had given her all the gory details, had spared her nothing, and she was terribly shocked and distressed.  When the doctor finally came, he had to see her and give her something to help her sleep, she was in such a state.  Apparently he told Sir Henry what he thought of him for thrusting such awful knowledge on his most sensitive child, “If you had to tell someone,” he was heard to roar, “why did you not confide in that brutal little lout of a son? He has the stomach for death and mutilation – sees it all the time on the hunting field!”  Sir Henry was furious and growled at Dr. Herbert to mind his own damned business!”

There ended Verity’s report and Mr. Underwood’s face was grave as he finally laid the papers down.  There was something strangely evocative about it, knowing, as he did now, most of the characters mentioned.  He could picture each one, see their probable reaction to the stunning news that there was a murdered girl, lying mutilated beyond recognition, within the walls of the estate.  He was glad Charlotte had not been the one to hear her drunken father’s description of the body, but he was also furious to learn that the magistrate had forced the knowledge onto Maria.  Damn the man, he had no soul!  Instinctively he applied a Latin tag to Sir Henry and his son, “
Arcades ambo
” – two of a kind.

He carefully refolded the notes along their original creases and returned them to his pocket.  It would never do for his carefully garnered information to fall into Pollock’s reckless possession.  It would be completely beyond the boy’s capabilities to keep anything a secret.  It was becoming more and more vital that this remained confidential, and not just for Gil’s sake.  Mr. Underwood was beginning to feel there might be a great deal more to this little mystery than had at first been apparent.

Suddenly feeling the need to talk to his brother, he went in search of the vicar, but was unlucky initially.  The study was empty, as was the parlour and it began to look as though the entire vicarage was deserted.  Mrs. Selby was the only living soul he encountered, and he even had to go out into the garden to find her.  She informed him that she rather thought the vicar was in the church.

Mr. Underwood was loath to pursue his brother and disturb him when he was presumably at prayer, but he was also single-minded when the mood came upon him, so he swiftly overcame his scruples and followed the reverend gentleman across the churchyard.

Gil was indeed kneeling at the altar, so Underwood slipped into a convenient pew and waited patiently.  It occurred to him that Gil would have been intensely disappointed that he did not follow the good example offered by the vicar and fall to his own knees, turning his thoughts to higher things, but Mr. Underwood had his own reasons for doubting the existence of a just and loving God – and he had no intention of debating the point with his younger brother.  Instead he stared unseeing at the coloured patterns cast upon the floor by the sunlight through the stained glass window, and cogitated upon the story contained in the missive handed to him by Miss Chapell.

Presently the vicar rose and was startled to see his brother sitting in a pew, evidently deep in thought.

“Chuffy?”  His tone reflected his surprise at the other’s presence, but Underwood was unmoved by the implied criticism in the added, “Is there something amiss?”  He sensed the unspoken, “there must be or you wouldn’t be in here”, but ignored it.

  “Not at all,” he replied evenly, “I merely wanted a private word with you, and the church was the only place I could be sure of avoiding Mr. Pollock!”

“But he is a clergyman,” protested the vicar faintly.

“A very unsuitable one, if I may say so!  Do you think he is aware of the constraints of his calling?”  asked Mr. Underwood, displaying a degree of cynicism which was most unbecoming.

Rev. Underwood made no attempt to dispute this unkind comment, but he did feel that Underwood was unnecessarily hard upon the unfortunate Pollock.  He had no difficulty in finding something to criticize in all that the poor young man said or did.  However, he did recognize that though his brother denied the suggestion, his health was not at its best, and he had taken a Sabbatical with the express purpose of avoiding contact with his boys for a considerable period.  It must be a severe trial to him to find Pollock – one of his least favourite and most annoying charges, installed under the same roof as himself for an unspecified amount of time.

“What did you wish to discuss?”  Gil asked, as he joined his brother in the pew, neatly closing the little door which divided the seat from the aisle.  He prepared himself to hear something unpleasant – merely on the basis that he always seemed to hear something unpleasant from his sibling.

Strangely, having gone to such extremes to search out his brother, then wait so patiently for him, Underwood now appeared to be reluctant to put his thoughts into words.  He toyed nervously with one of the signet rings he wore on each of his little fingers – one deeply engraved with his initials, the other a plain gold band, like a woman’s wedding ring.  In fact that was precisely what it was – the ring his betrothed would have worn had their wedding ever taken place.  It was this ring he twisted and though the vicar noticed it, he said nothing, simply waiting with infinite patience and sympathy for the words to come.

“Gil, what do you know of Miss Wynter’s character?”

“Charlotte?”  He managed to inject just the right degree of surprise into his tone, but in truth he was not as astonished as he wanted to appear.  It was a conversation he had been hourly expecting, but he knew Underwood would abhor the very idea that he had been in any way transparent.