“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.
Underwood had a sudden notion, one that he had no compunction in using, even though he knew it to be false, “Damn it all!” he cried, as though impatient with himself, “I had quite forgotten the birthmark. Naturally, if you can tell me where the young lady’s birthmark was situated, there can be no doubt that you knew her intimately – though, unfortunately for you, it would be no proof of marriage. It would appear Mary Smith was very free with her favours, when you were away at sea.”
He added that shot deliberately, and knew it to be unforgivable. If Blake really was the husband, that information could only be painful, and would leave an indelible stain upon his wife’s memory, but Underwood was tired, irascible and sick of the smooth manner of his adversary.
For the first time Blake’s grin slid from his face, and stayed away.
An imperious hammering on the front door caused a look of relief to pass over his features; at least he would be allowed a little time to think whilst Underwood answered the summons.
Mr. Underwood was more than content to leave him for a few minutes, now being quite sure he had asked a question which the arrogant young buck could definitely not answer.
Abney stood on the doorstep, breathless and troubled, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Underwood. I hate to disturb you, but Sir Henry sent me to fetch you and the young gentleman. He’s in a
rare fury; I daren’t go back without you. I went to the inn, but they told me you were here.”
“He wants to see us now?” asked Underwood incredulously.
“Yes, sir. I have the carriage waiting.”
Underwood desired nothing more than to ask Abney to tell his master to go to the Devil, but it was not in his nature to cause trouble for those who could not defend themselves, so reluctantly he caught up his coat, which he had discarded in the pursuit of comfort on so warm an evening, then went to fetch Blake from the study, “We have been summoned to Wynter Court for a meeting with the local magistrate,” he informed the seriously discomfited Blake.
“Magistrate? What the devil for? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Nobody said you had. Now stop whining and come along. Sir Henry is not a patient man.”
Underwood was already beginning to see how the situation could be turned to his advantage in breaking Blake’s story, and he was now looking forward to this tardy visit to Wynter Court.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
(“De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum” – Speak only well of the dead)
It was after eleven when the carriage came to a halt outside the front door of Wynter Court. Most of the household appeared to be in bed as the house was in almost complete darkness. Sir Henry had chosen his time for their interview well, there would seem to be little chance of their being disturbed. Underwood had at first been inclined to think that the magistrate had called the meeting so late in a deliberate attempt to annoy him, but on reflection decided that it was only sensible to avoid having Blake cross the paths of Charlotte and her sisters.
Abney himself showed them to the library then prepared to leave them to face his drunk and furious employer.
“What the devil do you mean by it, Underwood?” he growled in greeting, causing Abney to skip swiftly to the door and shut it hastily behind him; he had no desire to see Sir Henry castigate the unfortunate man. Underwood never thought to see him move so fast.
Underwood, for his own part, refused to be intimidated and walked casually across the room, settled himself in a chair and motioned Blake to do likewise.
“I assume we still live in a free country?” he asked in a conversational tone, helping himself to a pinch of snuff.
“What the hell has that to do with anything?”
“Quite a lot.” Swiftly Underwood rose to his feet and leaned menacingly across the desk, his face thrust within inches of the older man’s, “It means I am free to do precisely as I wish, and I certainly do not have to answer to you. You may be God Almighty to the peasants, but believe me; you do not frighten me. Now if you wish to discuss this problem in a civilized way, I am quite prepared to do so, but I swear if you speak to me in that manner again, I'm going to punch you right on the nose!”
It would be difficult to say which of the gentlemen present was most stunned by this outburst. Underwood was a peace-loving man, who lost his temper only rarely and he had never before felt the desire to strike another human being, let alone voice a threat to do so. Blake sat with a silly grin on his face, between amusement and astonishment, but for once speechless, unable to judge which man he considered the more insane. He could know nothing of their previous meetings, and knew only that Underwood had just offered violence to a magistrate.
As for Sir Henry, he grew exceedingly red and spluttered inarticulately for several seconds before subsiding back into his chair. Underwood took this deflation as tacit surrender and drew himself up to his full height, “I think we now understand each other. Perhaps you would like to tell Mr. Blake and myself exactly why you felt you had the right to drag us here at this ungodly hour?”
Sir Henry still seemed to be recovering himself and did not immediately answer; instead he hoisted himself out of his chair and headed for the decanter of brandy which stood on a tray with several glasses on an occasional table. He poured a very large tot with an unsteady hand, slopping more onto the salver than landed in the glass. He drank it greedily, watched with longing by Blake and disgust by Underwood. The latter could not help but notice the young man’s expression of yearning and silently crossed the room, poured two more glasses and handed one to his companion. He tossed his own off in one swallow, feeling rather in need of sustenance since the magnitude of his actions began to come home to him.
Sir Henry stood by the fireplace, his feet planted firmly apart, his back to the flames, and the interview began. Underwood was called upon to explain his behaviour and he briefly described how he had become interested in solving the mystery of the unknown murder victim (though he gave no reason for that interest; a man of Sir Henry’s insensitivity was hardly likely to identify with his own feelings of pity for the poor girl) and how he had traced her coach journey from London. He told of the newspaper advertisement and the promise of monetary reward for information. He then turned to Blake, as did Sir Henry, and both gentlemen waited patiently for him to add his portion of the story.
Blake had been seriously disconcerted by the events of the past few minutes so when he attempted to speak, his voice was a hoarse croak. He choked, took a sip of brandy and tried again; “I don’t know what you expect from me. I’ve told you the woman you call Mary Smith was my wife, what more do you want?”
“A wedding license would be helpful for a start,” said Sir Henry, making no attempt to disguise the contempt in his tone. Underwood almost dashed a hand against his forehead; what a fool he was. Why had he not thought of that? It might not prove who ‘Mary Smith’ was, but it would certainly prove whether Blake had ever been married.
“I don’t carry it around with me,” answered Blake smoothly.
“Then I suggest you go back to London and when you have it, you can bring it back here and show us.”
Blake’s voice took on an unpleasant whining quality which Underwood found even more odious than his previously arrogant one.
“That’s hardly fair. It has cost me a small fortune to get here. You can’t mean to send me back without the money.”
“Then you had better come up with some much more convincing proof, my friend.”
“I’m tired,” protested the young man, “I can hardly think straight. I have travelled for two days, barely sleeping in all that time.”
“Very well. We will continue this conversation in the morning. Be here at half past eleven.”
Assuming themselves to be dismissed, Blake and Underwood set down their glasses and made for the door. Sir Henry allowed Blake to enter the hall before laying a restraining hand upon Underwood’s sleeve, “I think you will find,” he said confidentially, “that young man will have skipped back to whatever cesspit he rose from, by eleven in the morning.”
For Underwood it seemed to be going against nature to not only agree with Sir Henry’s judgement, but to be grateful for his intervention, but on this occasion he was forced to concede that the magistrate was probably correct. He nodded, then followed Blake into the hall.
Sir Henry, however, had one last shock to release upon them, for as his two unwilling guests approached the front door he said maliciously, “You’ll forgive me, gentlemen, but I told Abney he could retire, since it is so late. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back to the village.” With that he walked back down the passageway and firmly shut the library door upon them.
The stow men exchanged stunned glances, “Does he mean it?” asked the exhausted Blake bleakly.
“I’m very much afraid he does,” sighed a resigned Underwood, “Damn the old goat!”
Abney had evidently not dared to disobey his master and bring the carriage around to the front door, but he had kind-heartedly left a horn lamp on the table by the front door. There was a short delay whilst they teased the wick into life from a nearby candle, then they left the house.
Underwood would have much preferred, from a distance point of view, to have taken the short-cut through the woods, but knowing Sir Henry’s predilection for protecting his property with man-traps, he decided t
hat, though longer, the drive was infinitely safer.
They began the long tramp in silence, their way lit by a magnificent full moon, which rather made Abney’s lamp redundant. Blake was growing more and more despondent. He could plainly see his thirty guineas drifting further and further from his grasp, added to which he had already spent considerable sums on clothes, travel and lodgings. To say that he was disillusioned by his first foray into fraud was to vastly understate the matter.
Underwood could only be grateful that his companion showed no inclination to talk, and in fact had fallen slightly behind, presumably to discourage conversation. He abhorred violence of any kind and the strain of the past twenty-four hours was beginning to play on his nerves. He could scarcely believe he had played in such a bloodthirsty cricket match, and then offered to strike his future father-in-law. He wondered vaguely how Charlotte would greet that gem when it was relayed to her – as it most assuredly would be. Sir Henry was hardly likely to miss such an opportunity for mischief.
Despite everything, though, slowly the tension began to leave his body. He could not have found anything better to relax him had he tried, for the combination of peace and beauty which surrounded him, added to his physical weariness, blended to dull the edges of the worst of his fears. It was a glorious evening, with a clear sky and all manner of fragrant odours wafting to him on the warm breeze from the still damp earth. He breathed deeply of the clean air and contentedly looked about him, seeing the world in a very different way than was usual for him. He was rarely to be found strolling outdoors in the evening, being more inclined to hug the fireside and read a good book.
It was full moonlight, with not even the occasional wisp of cloud draping itself across the face of the moon and though he still held Abney’s lantern aloft, it was not really necessary, for it was amazing to him how much could be discerned in the silvery haze. The lightest of winds soughed amongst the leaves above their heads and Underwood smiled slightly; he had always considered the sound of wind-stirred foliage to be the most cheerful of noises, bestowing the same feeling of joy and well-being as the burbling of a brook or the distant echo of children’s laughter.
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 25
