Sir Henry had the civility to wait for their departure before coming to enquire after the health of his unexpected guest and to ask several searching questions about the incidents of the previous night.
Underwood, aware that Sir Henry was in pursuit of his duty, bore this interrogation with fortitude until Sir Henry initiated a line of questioning which he found deeply offensive.
“Tell me, Underwood, do you possess a gun?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I think you heard the question.”
“Indeed I did!” Underwood managed to retain evenness in his tone; “May I inquire why you ask it?”
“Why not simply answer the question? Have you something to hide?”
Underwood’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave no other indication of his rapidly rising irritation “No, I do not possess a gun.”
“Do you have anyone who can vouch for that?”
“Yes, my brother. I assume the word of a clergyman is satisfactory?”
“Brothers have been known to lie for each other,” answered Sir Henry, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
“That may well be so, but I should like to remind you that you are not dealing with Cain and Abel.”
“I don’t think you fully appreciate the seriousness of your situation, Underwood. The woods have been searched and there is no evidence that there was ever anyone else there last night, that leads only to one conclusion.”
“Are you trying to suggest that I killed Blake?”
Sir Henry’s colour rose a little at the implied criticism contained in Underwood’s tone.
“I am not suggesting anything – yet!”
“I think you ought to try and remember that I was injured by the same shot which killed Blake.”
“We have only your word for that. Self-inflicted injuries are not uncommon in such cases as this.”
“That is ridiculous; and so is the suggestion that I might have killed Blake. What possible reason could I have? I met the man for the first time yesterday.”
“Again we have only your word for that – and you pledged a great deal of money.”
“You imagine I committed murder to avoid paying the reward?” Underwood was incredulous, and growing more heated with every passing moment.
Sir Henry rose, evidently well pleased with the outcome of their discussion,
“You may go back with your brother, Underwood, but as local magistrate, I must ask you not to attempt to leave Bracken Tor.”
Underwood was so shocked by this turn of events that he could scarcely leave his bed, let alone the district and it was a very subdued man who climbed into the carriage beside his family, aided by the silent Abney.
*
Gil had acted swiftly when he knew of his brother’s imminent return to the vicarage. Pollock had to be removed, of that there was no doubt. Underwood was barely managing to hold his own in the face of the young man’s relentless cheerfulness, but now that he had been through this most horrific of experiences, Gil knew it would be nothing less than cruel to continue to subject him to more Pollock. Therefore an express letter was sent to Lady Lavinia Pollock, who replied with a letter delivered by hand by one of her own grooms. Her precious boy was to come home at once. She could not possibly risk him staying where there was an armed madman running loose with a gun. Pollock protested loudly that he was making distinct progress with Miss Charlotte Wynter, and that the whole thing was a plot by Underwood to get his main rival off the scene, but Gil was implacable. Pollock caught the next stage to his family’s country retreat in Cheshire, set on his way with a sigh of relief from the vicar.
During the next few days, time hung heavily on Underwood’s hands. The inquest was opened and in the absence of any evidence or suspects, was adjourned. His mother insisted he rest and recover from his wound, and Charlotte had apparently been banned from seeing him - unless she simply did not wish to see him on her own account – a thought which gave him no cause for merriment.
Blake was searched, but no information about next-of-kin was found upon him, so he was buried in the grave beside Mary Smith, just in case he should have been telling the truth and she was indeed his wife. It rained the day of the funeral, which created an aura of depression and misery with which Underwood could barely contend. The more so when he saw that Tom Briggs was the gravedigger. He was haunted by the knowledge of what Tom probably did to the body that night, when the village lay sleeping.
He felt morally obliged to pay for the funeral expenses and for Blake’s shot at the inn, since his pockets proved to hold very little money, but he could not help feeling this did nothing to redeem him in the eyes of the village gossips. They were convinced he was responsible for the young man’s death, and his actions pointed to a guilty conscience. Conversely, had he refused to pay, he would have been condemned as tight-fisted and insensitive, after all, had the man not come all the way to Bracken Tor to see him? In a no-win situation, Underwood generally disappeared for a few days until the event had passed from collective memory, but on this occasion he had no choice but to remain and face the recriminations.
The reaction of the villagers and his mother’s worried expression convinced Underwood that a sojourn in the vicar’s study was called for, but how to occupy his mind?
The sudden notion of examining the church records proved to be a happy one. Gil, seeing no harm in this particular pastime, was delighted to bring several large and dusty tomes from the vestry, and Underwood spent a good deal of time happily tracing the family trees of several generations of villagers.
It was when he was thus engrossed that he came across a very interesting piece of information which he found particularly puzzling. At first he was inclined to thrust the memory of it to the back of his mind, having decided that the investigation must cease, but again and again he heard Verity’s contemptuous voice castigating him for his cowardice. It did occur to him to wonder why her opinion mattered so much to him, but that was another unpalatable thought which was also pushed determinedly aside.
Still the troublesome snippet refused to lie dormant. At odd moments when he was resting or reading, it would drift across his mind, taunting, coaxing, a will-o-the-wisp, tempting him to tread on the unsteady bog-like terrain of other men’s secrets.
When Verity finally arrived to see him, shame-faced and repentant, he found himself telling her about it almost before he knew what he was about.
“Are you going to see him and confront him with his lie?” she asked breathlessly.
“I don’t know,” he replied quietly, “After all, it is the man’s own business. I had no right to demand he tell me the truth about his family’s affairs.”
“But why should he lie at all? Why did he simply not tell you not to meddle in his life? There is a reason for his lie, but I cannot imagine what it is.”
“Can’t you?”
They exchanged a look. Verity did not know what he meant, but something in his expression told her that whatever it was he thought he knew, it was murky, unpleasant and very probably dangerous. She shivered slightly, “Do you want me to come with you?”
“How did you know I intended to go?”
“Because I know you - better than you think.” She met his eyes again and for the first time Underwood knew that everyone had spoken the truth to him. Verity was in love with him. The knowledge gave him no pleasure, it merely confused him. In order to cover that confusion, he responded to her original question, “I don’t think it would be a very good idea for you to become publicly involved. There may be serious consequences and I don’t wish to bring trouble upon your head.”
“I’m not afraid of trouble,” she assured him swiftly and seriously.
He smiled softly at her; “Cowardice is not an insult I should ever be able to throw at you.”
She blushed deeply, almost painfully; “I should not have said that to you. I ought to beg your pardon.”
“Please don’t. It was your anger which convinced me I ought t
o carry on. Without it, I should have taken the easy road and known for the rest of my life that I had let poor little Mary Smith down.”
She was saved from having to frame a reply by Gil, who looked in and informed them that tea was waiting in the parlour.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
(“Justum Et Tenacum Propositi Virium” - A man upright and firm in purpose)
A terse missive requiring his presence at Wynter Court in order to reconstruct the events of the night of Blake’s murder was delivered into Mr. Underwood’s hands by an uncomfortable Abney. He shifted from one foot to the other, as though itching to be away, his face creased by a worried frown. Underwood took pity on him and asked, “Is there anything wrong, Abney?”
The groom took a deep breath, as though making a momentous decision, “Well sir, it’s like this. I’m not happy, not happy at all. It seems to me Sir Henry is asking you all these questions, and the time he’s wasting, the young rapscallion who did the killing is getting clean away.”
“But Sir Henry thinks I may be the culprit,” pointed out Underwood, with a gentle smile. This remark caused an explosion of annoyance in the normally phlegmatic Abney, “That’s just nonsense, sir. You wouldn’t kill anybody. Why, you’re the vicar’s brother.”
Underwood’s smile spread into a full grin, “My dear fellow. If only life were as simple as that. But thank you for your faith. It is nice to know there is at least one man who believes me innocent. That will be a great comfort as I climb the steps to the gallows!”
Abney shuddered and raised his hand as though to ward off ill-omen, “Don’t joke about it, sir. It’s no laughing matter.”
“No, I do apologise, Abney,” he said and his smile was replaced by a suitably solemn expression, “I’m sure Sir Henry is simply being thorough. In no time at all I shall be crossed off his list of suspects and the search will continue. I am, after all, his only witness.”
“I certainly hope you are right. It gives the village a bad name, does this sort of thing. Two murders in a twelvemonth and one suspected.”
“Suspected? Oh, you mean Hazelhurst. Tell me, Abney, what do you think of that?”
“I don’t hold with gossip,” said Abney sanctimoniously, which, as Underwood very well knew, was always a prelude to an outpouring of other people’s business.
“Nor do I,” he responded gravely, “But if one is to find the truth one must, unfortunately, ask a great many searching questions.”
“That’s true enough.” Abney quickly overcame any qualms he might have about discussing his neighbours, “Well, it’s no secret that it weren’t a love match – Hazelhurst and his wife, I mean. Her father owned a piece of land that Hazelhurst’s father was eager to get his hands on. The parents arranged the wedding and the two youngsters went along with it, but it’s my opinion they were never suited. She couldn’t get along with his mother or his sister, and when Harriet got in the family way, it gave her the perfect excuse to throw her out. I don’t think Hazelhurst ever forgave his wife for that, or himself either, for letting her do it. He’d always been close to Harriet, fighting the other boys for her when they were children, doing the heavy chores, so she didn’t have to. Anyway, things grew really bitter after Harriet went away. Then Mrs. Hazelhurst died. Frankly it could have been any of the reasons given. She could have killed herself because of the misery of her marriage, but equally Hazelhurst could have pushed her because of her constant nagging, whining and complaining. She was an antidote, that woman!”
“And could it simply have been an accident? Could she have wandered too near the edge and fallen over?”
“Have you ever been up there?” asked Abney. Underwood shook his head and the other man continued, “Then I suggest you go up there yourself and see if you think it a pleasant place to take a stroll. That should answer your question.”
Underwood thoughtfully agreed to do just that, then hoisted himself into the gig beside Abney.
Sir Henry and a couple of men were waiting on the drive, at the spot where Blake had breathed his last, so Abney drew the pony to a halt and both he and Underwood jumped lightly down.
Underwood bade them all a cheery good morning, determined to show the magistrate he was not in the least disturbed by this meeting. Sir Henry returned the greeting pleasantly enough, but his companions muttered unintelligibly and shuffled their feet, obviously discomfited.
“Now, Underwood,” said Sir Henry, without further preamble, “Can you tell us exactly what happened?”
Mr. Underwood walked slowly to the place where he thought he had been standing when the shot was fired, “As I recall, we had reached about here. Blake had been complaining how tired he was, and had begun to flag a little. He must have been three or four paces behind me when we reached this point.” Underwood stopped and narrowed his eyes as he peered into the trees ahead and to the right of the path as he faced it, “Blake was on my left and, as I said, slightly behind me.”
Sir Henry indicated that one of his men stand in the position which had been Blake’s.
“If the bullet winged me then hit Blake, the shot must have come from over there,” Underwood raised his arm and pointed to a clump of willow which grew along the banks of the stream which ran through the estate, and under a small bridge almost by the gates.
“From Tam brook, you mean?” asked Sir Henry, surprised.
“Tam brook? Is that the stream that feeds the Tambrook Falls?” inquired Underwood, with sudden interest, “Do you know, I had no notion that river had its origin here.”
“Yes, it does,” snapped his companion impatiently, “What the devil has that to do with anything?”
“Nothing at all,” was the mild reply, “I was just interested.”
“Well, kindly confine your interest to the matter in hand.”
“Very well.”
There was a long pause, during which Sir Henry stared in the direction indicated by Underwood, and which finally prompted the latter to comment, “Do you have any conclusion to draw?”
“No,” snapped Sir Henry, “I’m just wondering why any poacher should be in that particular spot. It is too marshy for rabbits, and there is not enough woodland to hide a man shooting deer.”
“It does, however, give a very clear view of the drive,” added Underwood quietly.
“Are you still trying to suggest someone was intent on murdering you or Blake?”
“I have no idea; I only know Blake is dead, and it might very well have been me.”
Sir Henry ignored this remark. He began to walk towards the trees and the rest of the party silently fell into line behind him.
Underwood felt irritation rising steadily as the magistrate ordered his men to begin searching the area for evidence of recent occupation. As far as he was concerned, this was a week too late. It should have been the morning after the killing; the notion that anything would be left there when a sennight had passed, giving the ground time to expunge any footprints left behind, was ludicrous.
He was wrong though. Abney called them to witness a broken branch on a bush and a dottle from a pipe under the bush, miraculously preserved by the very fact that under the thick foliage was a patch of earth which was as dry as a bone. Sir Henry was inclined to dismiss these pieces of evidence, but Abney insisted there could be no other conclusion than that Mr. Underwood had been correct; someone had hidden here amidst the trees in the recent past, and was probably the person who had fired the shot which had killed Blake. Therefore Mr. Underwood was entirely innocent of the accusation. He had not fired the shot, had not murdered Blake, and had not injured himself in order to cover the crime.
All the men shambled over and gathered about Sir Henry as though waiting for him to speak. He knew exactly what they wanted, and with a very bad-tempered look on his face he snarled, “Very well, Underwood; I was wrong about you and I apologize. Is that satisfactory to all?” He glared around at his assembled men, who were now looking a good deal happier, and almost dared them to say
him nay. They, naturally, did nothing of the kind, so he added briskly, “All right, you can go.” They drifted slowly away, after having shaken Mr. Underwood warmly by the hand. Sir Henry escorted Underwood back to the gig, followed by a ridiculously grinning Abney. He rather reminded Underwood of a great, lumbering hound, unexpectedly forgiven for some misdemeanour and unable to stop wagging its tail.
“Now my name is cleared, do you think I might be allowed to see Charlotte?”
Sir Henry looked shifty and ill at ease; “She isn’t at home. I sent her to stay with Maria for a few days.”
Underwood correctly assumed Charlotte had caused her father some considerable inconvenience when refused permission to see her betrothed. He smiled slightly, God bless the girl! It did his heart good to know she had fought for him. Well, he would simply follow her to Maria’s, it was the least he could do in the circumstances. Perhaps he ought to take her a gift? But what did one buy for a young lady? He had not bought a present for a woman for years. He always gave his mother handkerchiefs – she must have drawers full of the things by now. Especially since he discovered Gil gave exactly the same thing.
It was whilst he was pondering this problem that Sir Henry spoke again,
“Dashed fine looking woman, your mother, Underwood. How old did you say she was?”
Underwood eyed his future father-in-law with an expression bordering upon abhorrence, “I didn’t – and she is engaged to be married.” Underwood never imagined he would ever have reason to be grateful to General Milner!
Abney told him how to get to Maria’s house on the way back to the vicarage and since it was only about ten miles away, he went at once to hire a hack from Tom Briggs, and was riding out of Bracken Tor within the hour.
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 27
