“I knew it! You are on to something. Tell me what it is, I swear I could be helpful to you.”
“Help and you don’t mix, Mr. Pollock.”
“Snuff,” begged the curate.
Underwood rose to his feet in irritation, “Dammit! Will you stop using that ridiculous name.”
“It suits you,” grinned Pollock.
“No, it does not!”
Mr. Pollock ignored him, “What time do you want to leave in the morning?”
“As early as you like, but I have an appointment between eleven and twelve.”
“With Miss Wynter? I must say, Snuff, I never knew you were such a dark horse.”
Mr. Underwood began to gather his papers together, “I shan’t pretend to understand what that remark is supposed to mean.”
His companion laughed heartily, “A lovely young filly like that - and you at your age!”
“Am I to assume from that you have counted her teeth as well as my own?”
Underwood wondered what was happening to him, with sarcasm and irritation the over-riding emotions of the day – and on a Sunday too!
“I don’t need to look in anyone’s mouth to know you are a lucky old dog,” countered Mr. Pollock. Underwood gave him a look which bordered upon loathing,
“My, aren’t we wallowing in the farmyard! I’m not exactly in my dotage, Pollock, and a ride with a young lady does not indicate a calling of the banns.”
“You don’t have an understanding then?”
“No!” he was being too emphatic, and he knew it. Pollock was grinning in an odiously knowing manner which made Underwood long to have him back under his tutelage for just a few hours. The phrase ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ sprang to mind.
“I presume you would not object to me trying my hand, then?”
Underwood wondered, with an almost visible wince of distaste, why everything to do with courtship had to be couched in such coarse terms.
“You presume a great deal too much!”
“Perhaps we should let the lady decide? May the best man win?” Pollock held out his hand and Underwood hesitated only momentarily before he grasped the proffered extremity and said scathingly, “The best man? I don’t believe I have any contest to concern me, Mr. Pollock. Your trouble is that you are too young.”
“Perhaps that is the advantage I ought to press,” replied the incorrigible curate with a friendly grin.
Underwood decided that he urgently required a change of topic and so managed to repress any vague desire to answer this remark, “Have you given any thought to which of your parishioners is to be the lucky recipient of your first visit?” he asked as he retook his seat.
Successfully distracted, Mr. Pollock joined him at the table, “Well, the large house directly opposite the vicarage seemed as good a starting point as any. I understand from your brother that it belongs to a rather wealthy, retired manufacturer and his wife. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm to flatter them with my first visit.”
His listener could think of several ways in which a visit from him could do irreparable damage, but he kindly did not voice them.
“I think that is an excellent idea – but I wonder why a wealthy man should retire to this rather out-of-the-way little place?"
“You think that suspicious?” asked Pollock eagerly. Mr. Underwood frowned in a manner intended to suppress his pretensions; “I think nothing of the kind. I’m merely interested…”
“In human nature!” concluded Mr. Pollock on his behalf, “Yes, I know. But I also know there is more to this than you are admitting, and I’m going to find out if it kills me.”
Mr. Underwood eyed him with ill-concealed loathing, “Now that really would be too much to hope for. If you don’t mind, I shall go back to planning the perfect murder!”
“Feel free, old fellow. You shan’t disturb me, have no fear.”
With this kind assurance, Mr. Pollock searched his pockets and presently brought forth a pack of cards, which he proceeded to riffle between his fingers in a most irritating manner, “You won’t mind if I try Patience?” he asked innocently, unceremoniously shoving Underwood’s papers aside and clearing himself a space on the table.
Mr. Underwood smiled weakly, “Believe me, Mr. Pollock, it is what you do best!”
*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
(“Festina Lente” - Make haste slowly)
As Mr. Underwood wandered into the dining room the next morning, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of hot chocolate and fresh bread and honey, he was rather surprised to be grasped firmly by the hand, “Chuffy, my dear fellow!” The vicar’s features were adorned by a smile of pure affection coupled with intense gratitude, and Mr. Underwood could barely restrain himself from glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being followed by the person to whom this accolade should be directed, for he was quite sure he had done nothing to merit it. Realizing that he was not pursued and his brother was indeed speaking to himself, he asked tentatively, “Gil, is there something I should know?”
“Only that you have my eternal gratitude,” answered the vicar, his voice warm and alive with genuine emotion.
Underwood allowed himself to be led to the table, made no protest when his brother held his chair for him as he sat, and did not even murmur when he felt his brother briefly, and affectionately, grip his shoulder before taking his own place.
“Why do I suddenly feel as though I have somehow missed a very large portion of my life?” he asked diffidently, as he spread his napkin across his knees and began to serve himself from the assembled dishes.
Gil was evidently in a remarkably good mood, because for once his brother’s apparent vagueness did not irritate him, “What do you mean, Chuffy?”
“Well, you seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that I have, out of the goodness of my heart, done you some kindness. I must say that delighted as I am to have been or service, I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how I have done so.”
“You must surely know that in volunteering to escort Mr. Pollock about the village, you have removed a great weight from my mind?”
“Have I indeed? That really is most gratifying – I had rather thought you would disapprove.”
The vicar heaped kidneys onto his plate, “Why should you imagine that? I was terrified at the prospect of loosing Septimus onto my unsuspecting parishioners, but could not accompany him myself without betraying my lack of trust in him – something I would care to do! The boy has a good heart, and I should hate to hurt his feelings.”
Mr. Underwood allowed himself a covert glance in his brother’s direction and observing his happy expression did not have the heart to spoil his mood – as a reminder of his real motives would surely do, “Oh, I simply thought you would consider my meddling insufferable.”
“Good gracious, no! There is meddling and there is timely intervention. Anything which keeps Septimus Pollock out of mischief definitely comes under the latter heading.”
Since the young curate made his entrance at that moment, Mr. Underwood was spared the necessity of finding a response. He had to admire his brother for his coolness when, completely unperturbed, he greeted the latecomer most warmly,
“Good morning, Mr. Pollock, pray come and break your fast. Mrs. Selby has prepared a vast repast, so I trust you are hungry.”
Mr. Underwood, being of a literary inclination, could not help but notice his brother’s musical lilt and his use of rhyme, and thought it denoted a mood of extreme magnanimity. It was for this reason, he told himself, that he kept his silence on the matter of the murder. Why spoil Gil’s day, and his own short visit to the vicar’s good books. Heaven knew the trip would be of short duration, if the past were anything to go by.
Pollock needed no second bidding where food was concerned and began to heap his plate as Underwood asked; “Do you have any plan for us to follow?”
“Plan?” The curate looked startled, “What d’ye mean, plan?” The very idea of actually formulating
a scheme before embarking on anything, be it major or minor, was a notion both novel and unpleasant to the impetuous Pollock.
“Do not panic, my dear Septimus. My brother does not require drawn maps and written campaigns. He merely wishes to know if you have any particular order in which you intend to make your visits. In short, where are you going first?” Gil’s friendly demeanour and pleasant smile robbed his tone of any hint of sarcasm which might have stung the curate – though that was a doubtful eventuality.
“Oh! Well, why did he not say so?” Pollock asked, a trifle testily. He hated to have the important task of eating upset by such shocks to his system. He returned his attention to his neglected food, “I told him yesterday that I thought we would call on the Renshaws first, then carry on down the High Street.”
“In the general direction of the Wynter Arms?” guessed Mr. Underwood perceptively.
“That’s right!”grinned Pollock.
Gil waited for his brother to protest, since he was not generally a man who much frequented public houses, but to his surprise Underwood made no demur. Though he would not have confided as much to the vicar, Underwood was well aware that any tavern was a hotbed of local gossip and he would find no better place to hear all the news. For once in his life he was going to relish the smoky, dim interior of a farming hostelry.
Some time later Mr. Underwood and Mr. Pollock met at the garden gate and set forth on their journey of discovery. All who saw them thought them strange bedfellows, but neither were aware of anything odd in the alliance. Underwood could think of no better façade behind which he could hide. Naturally, as a newcomer, Mr. Pollock would be more than fascinated by any information he could gather about his new home, and that he should be discreetly guided by the vicar’s brother was of no surprise to anyone who had met him already.
For his part, Pollock was simply grateful that he should have company to relieve the tedium of a necessary, but unpleasant task.
Their first port of call could scarcely have been nearer, since the home of the Renshaws’ was situated directly opposite to the vicarage. Within moments they had crossed the dusty road and Pollock was giving the doorbell what Underwood considered to be an unnecessarily hefty pull.
An extremely youthful and rather nervous maid answered their summons, looking frankly terrified at the prospect of having to speak to anyone as imposing as Underwood and as large as Pollock. Underwood guessed she could hardly been more than eleven or twelve and he therefore smiled kindly and leaned slightly towards her as he said, “Are your Master and Mistress at home?”
“Yes, sir. Oh! I’m not supposed to say that am I? Er… oh dear.”
“Perhaps if we gave you our names, you could then go and see if they are receiving visitors today.”
She looked immensely relieved, “Yes, that’s right. Thank you, sir. Could I ask your names please?”
The information duly given, she went off, her lips still framing the words, lest she forget them before her goal was reached.
The vicar had given them a short resume of each parishioner he expected them to see, so they knew a little of Renshaw. He was a wealthy man, having been a successful manufacturer in Manchester, owning businesses as diverse as a candle factory, a glassmakers and numerous others. Having no children and no close relatives to whom he could bequeath his factories and mills, he had sold them all upon his retirement and now lived very comfortably on the proceeds. Why he should have chosen to come here to Bracken Tor – a place which seemed to belong almost exclusively to Sir Henry Wynter – when he had the whole country to choose from, Underwood could not imagine, but he fully intended to find out.
The little maid returned and showed them into a lavishly decorated drawing room, with the information that both her Master and Mistress would join them presently.
Underwood cringed as Pollock dropped himself heavily into the most spindly-legged chair in the room. It creaked a little but mercifully did not break. The curate was oblivious of his companion’s fears and gazed about the room with approval,
“This is a rum go, Snuff, don’t you think?” he asked, not even making the gesture of attempting to lower his tone to anything even vaguely resembling a whisper.
“What is?” hissed Mr. Underwood in irritation.
“This place, of course. Look at it! It’s huge – and yet he’s chosen to build in this God forsaken spot, slap-bang in the middle of a farming village, between rows of tied cottages.”
“Good Heavens, Pollock! Lower your voice, our hosts will hear you. And I’ll thank you not to refer to this as God forsaken! My brother is doing his utmost to ensure that never happens.” Underwood was being quite serious when he made this remark, but Pollock evidently thought it a grand joke and guffawed appreciatively.
Naturally the Renshaws chose this precise moment to enter the room, then stood bemused in the doorway as the booming laughter rang about the room. Mr. Underwood frowned at Pollock and crossed the room swiftly, “Good morning. Pray excuse the intrusion, but Mr. Pollock and I were most eager to introduce ourselves to my brother’s parishioners.”
With difficulty both Mr. and Mrs. Renshaw withdrew their startled gaze from Pollock and looked at Underwood. He hastily thrust his hand into Mr. Renshaw’s and shook it vigorously, upon which the elderly gentleman managed to summon a smile,
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Underwood. My wife and I have heard a great deal about you.”
“Yes, indeed,” murmured his tiny wife, who was almost hiding behind him, “Your brother has made a great impression, sir. Such a charming man, so kind!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Renshaw. Shall I tell him you said so?”
Pollock was astounded to hear his erstwhile tutor speaking almost teasingly to the woman, who in her turn giggled shyly and blushed, “Oh dear me, no! I’m a married woman. You must not tell him I said anything of the kind.” Her husband was gazing fondly down at her, and he smilingly took her hand and pulled it possessively through the crook of his arm, “Shame on you, Bess, for being such a flirt!”
Since the couple could not be a day less than seventy, Mr. Pollock found this interchange rather puzzling, and it did not occur to him that Mr. Underwood had handled an awkward introduction with considerable aplomb. His intuition told him that this devoted pair were rarely apart and that the way to the man’s confidence was through his wife’s happiness. She had obviously been an attractive woman and in her youth a little mild flirtation would probably have been her sole source of excitement, middle class girls were so carefully guarded. Nothing pleased a woman more than to believe she was still capable of a little mild wickedness, no matter what her age. Mr. Underwood employed the same trick, very successfully, with his mother. He found he could make her agree to almost anything if he assured her that everyone would think her terribly daring and reckless.
He saw nothing at all odd in the fact that he could flirt quite charmingly with elderly ladies, but was crippled with inferiority and shyness when confronted by young, attractive women. Mr. Pollock thought it very peculiar indeed, but now was not the time to mention it.
The initial difficulties over, they were invited to sit and take tea, an offer which Mr. Pollock would have been happy to accept, but which his companion firmly declined. Conversation flowed easily after that, though Pollock found it extremely difficult to interject, for almost every time he opened his mouth, Underwood skilfully interrupted.
When he felt the Renshaws were sufficiently at ease with him, Underwood risked a few pertinent questions, “You have a lovely home, Mr. Renshaw, but what made you build here in Bracken Tor? Surely somewhere nearer to town would have been more convenient?”
“Oh, but Mr. Renshaw was born here, Mr. Underwood. Did you not know?”
“Really? I had no idea you were a local man.”
“Yes. I’ve always felt the need to visit at regular intervals, even after my parents were long dead, so it seemed natural to return here, when I sold my businesses.”
“I can imagin
e it is a place which possesses one, body and soul. I have been here only a short time, but already I find it fascinating. When one is born in a town or city, one tends to think of the countryside as being terribly dull, but nothing could be further from the truth. I understand you have had your share of excitements and tragedies here in Bracken Tor.”
“Oh, we manage to keep ourselves occupied.” Was it his imagination, or did the older man seem suddenly wary?
Mrs. Renshaw had no such reservations, “Mr. Underwood, you’ve no idea. Quite, quite dreadful! Poor Mrs. Hazelhurst.”
“Mrs. Hazelhurst?” Since Underwood had been expecting to hear of a very different tragedy, this rather threw him off balance.
“Yes. Had you not heard?”
“Now, now, my dear,” intercepted Mr. Renshaw hastily, “You know I don’t like gossip!”
“Well, neither do I, George. But Mr. Underwood did ask.”
Everyone in the room was well aware that not only had Underwood not asked, he did not even know what she was talking about, but they all kindly refrained from pointing this small matter out to her and allowed her to continue, “She was killed by her husband.”
Underwood had no interest in a case of domestic violence which had already been resolved, but he listened politely.
“Now, Bess! That was never proved. He said it was an accident and the court believed him.”
“Well, I don’t! And frankly I thought she provoked him into it, such a bitter, evil-minded woman she was. Never a good word to say for anyone – especially not her husband - and he such a hard worker, too! I felt sorry for him, I really did. But one should not speak ill of the dead,” she added piously, and a little late in Underwood’s opinion.
“When did all this happen?”
“A few months ago,” she said vaguely, “Hazelhurst went back to live at Hill Farm after the trial, but no one ever sees him now. He rarely comes into the village, I think he imagines everyone is pointing and staring.”
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
