“Which of course, they are,” intercepted Mr. Renshaw with a cynical smile.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” countered his wife reasonably.
“Well, it would certainly appear that you are no stranger to sudden death. My brother pointed out a poignant little grave to me the other day.”
“Do you mean the girl they found in Shady Copse?” Mr. Renshaw’s tone was sharp, and Underwood was no longer under any illusions. The older man was definitely uncomfortable discussing this murder, when he had been quite calm discussing the other – but why?
“Yes, I believe that was where they discovered her. My brother tells me the culprit was never caught.”
“Not for that crime, no. But who is to say he did not do something similar elsewhere, and has long since been hanged for his crimes? I dare swear he swings on a gibbet as we speak!” Mr. Renshaw gave the curious impression that he was trying to convince himself as well as his listeners.
“Doubtless you are right, my dear sir. And now Pollock and I must take our leave. Thank you for your time.”
“The pleasure has been entirely ours, Mr. Underwood. Pray call again – and do give my warmest regards to your brother. You must all come for dinner some evening.”
“That would be delightful, thank you, Mrs. Renshaw.”
Renshaw gestured to his wife to remain seated, “Don’t tire yourself, my love, I shall see our guests to the door.”
Underwood guessed that the old gentleman had something to say which he did not wish his wife to hear, and he proved to be correct.
“You’ll forgive me for being so direct, young man, but I must ask that you never discuss the girl’s murder before my wife again. She has a very vivid imagination, and I don’t wish her to be upset all over again as she was last year.”
Mr. Underwood hid the smile which was prompted by his being referred to as ‘young man’ and his face could not have been more grave as he said humbly, “Sir, pray accept my deepest apologies! Not for anything in the world would I distress your charming wife. I can’t imagine how I allowed the conversation to touch upon so unsavoury a subject. I hold myself entirely responsible, and can only promise that nothing of the kind will ever occur again.”
The old man’s face cleared, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, “Pray think nothing more about it. Good day to you, sir.”
The vicar’s brother walked thoughtfully down the path towards the gate, the smile wiped from his face as soon as the door closed upon himself and the curate. He had instinctively liked George Renshaw and his wife, and he had half-believed the old man’s tale about the lady’s nerves on the subject of unknown murderers, but there was something wrong, something did not quite fit. She had been more than happy to discuss a man whom she knew to be a wife-killer, so why should the other murder frighten her? Mr. Underwood should have liked to strike the names of the Renshaws from his mental list, but he was sorry to have to place a question mark beside them.
Renshaw openly admitted he had been born in Bracken Tor, and that he had visited regularly over many years. Would a man of his age have the strength to fell a young, healthy woman? Underwood did not know, but he had begun to realize that in this situation, anything was possible.
Mr. Pollock was inclined to be sulky as they traversed the few yards to the first of the cottages which were to be their next destination, “Dammit all, Snuff, I thought this little excursion was designed to introduce me to Bracken Tor.”
“Well, of course it is, Septimus,” said his companion soothingly.
“One would never know it!”
*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
(“Patris est Filius” - He is his father’s son)
Mr. Underwood now proceeded to display a degree of tact never suspected by his brother. At the next two cottages he made no mention of murders, corpses or even woods. He simply sat back, observing his hosts and allowing Mr. Pollock to dominate the conversation.
In the row of five small houses, which ended in the village shop, there were only two men at home, the others being at work in the fields of either Sir Henry, one of his tenants, or Farmer Hazelhurst, who, it appeared, was quite a substantial landowner.
Their first stop was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Field, an apt name for a man who had been a farm labourer all his life, as had generations of his family before him. He now spent his days at housebound, riddled with arthritis, and cared for diligently, though bossily, by his elderly wife.
Next along were the Masons, also too old to work and living on the generosity of Sir Henry. Much as Underwood disliked the man, he had to give him credit for caring well for his pensioners – it was a great deal more than could be said for many other landowners, who thought nothing of using their men until they were worn to the bone, then casting them onto the mercy of the Parish. Workhouses were overflowing with the old and the infirm. Of course such philanthropy meant that Sir Henry was constantly surrounded by his adoring old retainers, and for a man with an ego the size of his, it could only be pleasant to know that wherever he went he was likely to be met with doffed caps and affectionate and respectful greetings.
Since the Fields’ and the Masons’ mutually detested each other, the only information Mr. Underwood managed to glean from each was about the other, and even Mr. Pollock could not compete with the verbose wives.
When they finally escaped, Septimus drew his handkerchief from his pocket and ostentatiously mopped his brow, “Phew! Have you ever met anyone who could talk so much, Snuff? I declare my head is spinning.”
Mr. Underwood shrugged elegantly and made no reply. His own opinion was that it was high time someone had managed to outdo Pollock in the talking stakes. It would be nice to imagine he had been taught a valuable lesson, but the older man had to regretfully admit to himself that such an eventuality was extremely unlikely.
The visit to Mrs. Knowles was necessarily brief, since it was her washing day and she was surrounded by five children, all under four years old. Mr. Knowles, it transpired, was a shepherd and his visits home were usually short-lived and infrequent. Mr. Underwood, gazing, bemused, at the toddling, crying, crawling horde about his feet, could only assume that Knowles was a man who made the best of his few opportunities – but he doubted he had either the strength or the inclination for murder. Having thought this, Underwood, seeing a small and exceedingly dirt hand reaching towards his pristine breeches, was forced to recant. Perhaps the very idea of another mouth to feed, and one more voice to add to the others, was enough to drive any man to the edge of despair. Underwood decided that he might like to speak to Mr. Knowles.
As they left the cottage Pollock said thoughtfully, “In country parishes when they bury shepherds, they place a little tuft of wool in their hands, you know.”
Underwood looked suitably startled at this unlooked for piece of information,
“No, I didn’t know. Why should they do so?”
“So when he reaches Heaven’s Gate he can prove to St Peter that his poor attendance at church is entirely due to his profession.”
Underwood digested this in silence and decided, after some thought, that it was rather a charming, if somewhat pointless, tradition.
Mrs. Hadley, at the next house, was a widow, and apparently the local gossip. There was nothing which passed her window which did not excite her interest and Mr. Underwood made a mental note to return and question her more fully at a later date. There was every possibility that she had seen the girl, if she had passed this way, and if she had been travelling in a recognizable carriage, there would at least be a new lead to follow.
Miss Wright lived in the next cottage, and ran the village shop next door, which is where the gentlemen found her, when knocking at her front door elicited no response. There was little time for chatting, since the lady was continually called upon to serve in the shop – which was unusually busy for the time of day. Mr. Underwood purchased some comfits as a gift for Miss Wynter, and the two adjourned to the inn.
There was just time to consume one glass of ale each before Mr. Underwood consulted his very handsome watch and exclaimed, “Oh dash it all! I shall have to hurry if I am not to keep Miss Wynter waiting.”
“Don’t you mean ‘we’?” asked Pollock, with a grin.
“Most certainly not!” said his companion emphatically, “You were not invited, and most definitely not wanted.”
“How do you know? Miss Wynter may be, even as we speak, cursing herself for having the ill-luck to miss an opportunity to see me again.”
“I take leave to doubt it, sir!”
“Well, if you are afraid to put it to the test…” Pollock allowed the rest of the sentence to fade away and cast a covert glance at his erstwhile tutor. A slight clenching of his jaw was the only indication Underwood gave that he was indeed rising to the bait.
“You had better drink up, Pollock. We have only fifteen minutes in which to reach Wynter Court.”
Pollock drained his glass with no apparent effort, but having gained one point, he could not resist a further taunting remark, “I had never before noticed in you any particular regard for punctuality, my dear Snuff. As I recall, it was not uncommon for you to be late, or even miss giving lectures entirely!”
Mr. Underwood glared at the younger man, and answered in his most repressing tone, “I am never tardy, Mr. Pollock, when I remember where I ought to be. Unfortunately I have a poor memory and frequently forget I have an appointment.”
“Not forgotten this one, I notice!”
“Quite - but then Miss Wynter has considerably more charm than you or your fellow students are ever likely to acquire! Shall we go?”
Pollock, with his long legs and athletic build, strode forth at a pace which would have felled a lesser man, but Underwood had his pride to sustain him, besides being intensely irritated, which alone would have spurred him to greater efforts than would normally been within his reach.
He was breathless when they reached the Court, but delighted to realize that they had arrived with three minutes to spare. It would appear that Pollock did have his uses after all, for at his usual walking pace, he could have expected to be at least ten minutes late.
As they walked up the drive, they met young Harry, riding a magnificent black stallion. He reined in and rudely ignoring the curate, he spoke to Mr. Underwood,
“Good morning, Underwood. Looking forward to your ride?”
It was with great difficulty that Mr. Underwood prevented himself from chastising the boy for his casual use of his surname without the civility of prefixing it with Mr., but he felt quite sure that the rudeness was deliberate and he refused to draw attention to his annoyance. Instead he turned to his companion, “Pollock, would you be kind enough to go on up to the house and tell Miss Wynter I shall be with her presently?” Pollock obligingly strode on and Underwood returned his attention to Harry.
“Good morning, Harry. I hope you haven’t chosen anything that large for me. I find the taller the horse, the farther the fall to the ground tends to be!” He nodded his head towards Harry’s mount, which was decidedly skittish, dancing and blowing in a thoroughly bad-mannered and bad-tempered way. Harry controlled the creature with no difficulty at all and Underwood noticed, not for the first time, but with greater awareness, how very well built the boy was. He was bridging the chasm which divided boyhood and manhood with little trouble. Not for him the pathetic, skinny body of the average fifteen year old. He was not particularly tall, but stocky and self-assured. He sat the animal with confidence, his thighs well muscled, his hands broad and blunt-fingered, his arms quite strong enough to hold his mount in check. Underwood had to admit that he was quite a horseman for his age, and was rather glad that he appeared to be going off on his own business and would not be on hand to witness his own rusty efforts in the saddle.
“No,” Harry laughed, not unkindly for once “Charlotte put herself in charge of selecting your mount and has chosen a quiet old mare.”
“Good,” said Underwood with candour, not much caring that he was showing a decided lack of spirit.
“You are not interested in impressing my sister with your skills as a horseman, then? Wouldn’t you like to borrow Sabre here, and gallop round to the stables?”
Mr. Underwood looked at Sabre, who chose that moment to shake his head, then turn a rolling eye upon him. Underwood needed no discouragement of that sort, for he had already made a silent vow to not even try and pat the creature, let alone sit astride it.
“Thank you for the kind thought, Harry, but I shall just have to risk your sister not being impressed by me at all. Better that than break my neck in the attempt!”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” replied Harry sympathetically, “Charlotte has left the countryside littered with broken-hearted swains.” He gazed down thoughtfully at Mr. Underwood, before added tentatively, “Would you be offended if I offered you a little friendly advice, Underwood?”
Mr. Underwood summoned a smile, imagining the advice was going to consist of some secret knack of handling the horse he was due to ride, and answered, “Not at all, pray continue.”
“This is not easy to say about one’s own sister, but I think you should be very wary. Of course, Charlotte is the sweetest little thing ever born, and I adore her, but she really is the most heartless tease. In the usual run of things, I keep out of her affairs and let the chaps find out for themselves – but I can’t help feeling you are different.”
“Different?” There was a coldness to his tone, which Harry affected not to notice,
“I presume by that you mean older?”
“Well, not just older, but more serious. I think you may read more into her actions than she intends and you will end by being wounded. It is only fair that someone warn you.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, and I think I am old enough to make my own decisions, but thank you for the thought, Harry.” There was no hint of gratitude in his voice, quite the contrary, but Harry took no offence. He was more than delighted with the outcome of their chat. He was wise enough to know that no matter how hard he tried, Underwood would not easily forget his words. The relationship was doomed before it ever began.
He said nothing more and without bothering to bid Underwood farewell, he suddenly let Sabre have his head, leaving the older man in a swirling cloud of dust.
Underwood stared thoughtfully after him, then drew his snuffbox from his pocket and slowly inhaled a pinch. When he replaced it, he not only dusted his front, but his sleeves and breeches too. Black was not a good colour to wear when one was likely to be covered in dust. He thought he might have some new clothes, and resolved to ask Gil if he knew of a good local tailor.
It was unbearably hot in the courtyard, as it had been when Underwood first saw it, several days ago now. Charlotte stood beside Mr. Pollock, laughing up at him. She turned her head swiftly when she saw Underwood and waved cheerily at him,
“Good morning. Isn’t it a delightful day?”
“Lovely,” he responded, “Are we ready to leave?”
“In a moment. Abney is still saddling up and I have sent Miss Chapell indoors to change into her riding habit. Papa would suffer an apoplexy if he thought I was out alone with two such eligible bachelors!” She laughed again, but he vivacity had little effect on Underwood, who experienced a sudden feeling of deep melancholy. Such loveliness did not come to a man in his fortieth year – or at least not without a heavy price – and would he really be prepared to pay it?
He was spared further dismal thoughts by the arrival of Miss Chapell, who smiled shyly at him and greeted him warmly. There was an air of subdued excitement about her which made him square his shoulders and mentally shrug off his negative attitude. Her life was hardly bearable, but she was prepared to simply enjoy a ride in the sunshine, without reference to past or future. He should do the same. Nothing unpleasant had happened, nothing had changed, so why not leave the worrying until something did occur?
As Harry had predicted, Char
lotte had chosen a quiet bay mare for him, with four neat little socks and a resigned look in her eye. Miss Chapell’s mount was of a similar ilk, but Pollock had elected to take on a stallion which was nearly as wild looking as Harry’s mount had been, and Charlotte was again mounted on Merryman, who was evidently her particular favourite.
Only Underwood used the mounting block, the others all settling for a swift leg up by the obliging Abney, then they walked the horses out of the courtyard. Charlotte led the way around the side of the house, along the gravelled drive and towards the highroad. As soon as the path had widened sufficiently to allow it, Pollock spurred his horse until he was beside Charlotte. Mr. Underwood noticed the manoeuvre, but did nothing. He was not about to involve himself in an unseemly scuffle for prime position next to their hostess, feeling he was far too old for such infantile games. He was unaware that Miss Chapell had performed a similar trick and now her mare fell into step beside him, watching him covertly as he observed Charlotte and Pollock happily chatting and laughing in front of them. Verity was struck by an almost physical pain as she saw the expression of desolation in his eyes. Damn Pollock and Miss Wynter, did they have no thought at all for the feelings of others? She decided to distract Mr. Underwood if she could, so that he might be spared the distress of witnessing their junketings. As it happened she had been wanting to see him, because she had several things of interest to disclose.
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.”
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
