*
Edwin Wynter would have liked to deny Underwood access to his sister-in-law, but he did not quite have the courage. The best he could manage was to leave his guest kicking his heels in the hall whilst he sent the butler to ask Miss Charlotte if she was at home to a Mr. Underwood.
Charlotte answered this by flying down the stairs and straight into Underwood’s arms, leaving no one in any doubt that she was indeed home. Edwin turned away from the lovers with a sneer of distaste on his weak-chinned visage.
He went to report to Maria that her sister had a most unwelcome visitor, and was stunned when she too hurried off to greet Mr. Underwood. What did the fellow have, that all the ladies gathered about him, like flies around a dead horse? He smiled grimly to himself, rather pleased with this very uncomplimentary metaphor.
Underwood immediately released Charlotte when he saw Maria approach. She looked paler than ever, her eyes more troubled than he had ever seen them, even when the announcement of Blake’s death had been made. When she gently asked that Charlotte leave them alone so she could have private speech with him, he quickly stemmed all Charlotte’s protests and followed his hostess into the drawing room.
“Please be seated, Mr. Underwood.” He obeyed, though he had no desire to remain in this house any longer than it would take him to persuade Charlotte to leave with him.
As though she read his thoughts, she began, “I know you have come to fetch Charlotte, but I beg you not to take her from my care.” Her voice trembled as she spoke and he could barely discern the words, so quiet was her tone. It occurred to him how much trouble he would cause for her, both from her father and her husband, if he took Charlotte now, so he replied, “For your sake, Maria, I will wait until she returns to Bracken Tor.”
She leaned forward as though to impress her sense of urgency upon him,
“Please believe me, Mr. Underwood, I do not ask this for my own sake. You cannot know, nor ever understand, what has happened in the past, and I could not begin to tell you. But you will find out, I feel it; and when you do, nothing will ever be the same again.”
There was a strangeness about her that deeply concerned him. He wondered briefly if she was losing her mind. Scarcely surprising, of course, married against her will to the odious Edwin.
“I don’t know what you mean, Maria,” he said softly, but his very kindness seemed to distress her, “Oh God,” she groaned, “Why did it have to be you?” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob harshly. He was astounded and more than a little distraught. He had never known how to deal with tears, and to hear her cry was extremely painful. There could be no doubt that she was broken-hearted about something, but what?
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked gently. She raised her tear-ravaged features and looked into his eyes, “There is only one thing; take Charlotte away from Bracken Tor and never bring her back. Elope with her now and never think of us again, forget everything that has happened.”
His expression was severe as he replied, “I have something to finish in Bracken Tor and I cannot leave until it is done.”
“If you love Charlotte, do not go back,” she pleaded.
“It is because I love her that I must finish what I have begun – or have her think I am a coward who was frightened away by the threat of death.”
She rose wearily, as if she was too tired to argue any further, “What will happen will be worse than death for all of us.”
He looked at her, a frown creasing his brow, wondering if she really were on the verge of a mental collapse, but she seemed not to notice, “I shall send Charlotte to you. You may stay for an hour, no more. She will be back at Wynter Court within the week. I shall travel with her.”
Underwood spent his hour with Charlotte, talking of their future, making plans, discussing where they would like to live and what each would do. He did not notice her distinct lack of enthusiasm when he told her of the plays and concerts they would attend, and the books he would have her read. Charlotte had been educated to her limits and she had no intention of returning to the schoolroom. He was happy in that hour, forgetting all the problems that beset him, but the familiar cloud of melancholy began to descend as he rode away.
He knew why, he had known for days, possibly even weeks. He had been trying to convince himself that he was wrong in his suspicions, that everything was going to be resolved happily, but he now knew with dreadful certainty that he had been right all along – and the cost was going to be the greatest he would ever be called upon to pay.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
(“Magna Est Veritas, Et Praevalebit” – The truth is great and shall prevail)
Hazelhurst was in the courtyard when Underwood arrived. He glanced up with very little interest when the dog barked its warning, but when he recognized his visitor, his expression became both belligerent and fearful, “What the devil do you want?”
“To speak to your sister,”
For several seconds the two men stared at each other, Underwood noting the familiarity of the other’s features which had so troubled him on his first visit. At last Hazelhurst appeared to make a decision. He jerked his head towards the house,
“She’s in the kitchen, I expect.”
She was. And she too looked startled when Underwood knocked then entered without waiting to be invited.
“Well, I knew you’d be back, but I admit I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”
“I trust my presence is not inconvenient?”
“I have a feeling your presence is going to be very inconvenient indeed, but come in anyway,” she answered wryly.
She had been scrubbing the surface of the table, but now laid down her brush and began to dry her hands on the coarse, and grubby, apron she wore. She gestured him to take a seat and offered him tea in the same breath, and neither spoke again until she had accomplished the task and joined him on the settle.
She sipped her tea, then glanced covertly at him, “I suppose you are recovered from your injury?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“You were a lucky man.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“What do you want with me?”
“The truth.”
She laughed, not particularly convincingly, “Who knows the truth about anything?”
“I think you know the truth about this.”
“Very well, Mr. Underwood, ask away.”
“What was the sex of the child you had by Sir Henry Wynter?”
Was he mistaken of did she react with subdued violence to that question?
“You are forthright, sir! You realize I should throw you out of my brother’s house for that insult?”
“Why bother? You know I will only come back again – and again, until you answer me.”
“Very well, it was a girl – and she is dead. Are you satisfied now?”
“Not really. You see, I happen to know that your child was a boy – and he is very much alive.”
She went white, but kept her serenity admirably, “What makes you think that? Surely a woman knows the gender of her own child?”
“I looked it up in the church register. Your child was a boy.”
“I have a very bad memory. It was all such a long time ago.”
Underwood drank his tea and when he spoke again, it seemed he had changed the subject, “Sir Henry’s son Harry made a remarkable recovery, didn’t he? From such a sickly baby into a strapping boy – one could easily believe that he is a year or even more, older than his true age – according, that is, to the record of his birth in the church books.”
“I suppose so,” she said sulkily, “I really have very little interest in either Sir Henry or his family.”
“But he came up here to visit you, didn’t he? You are not one of his tenants, so why should he put himself to the trouble of bringing Harry up here?”
“I have no idea. You will have to ask Sir Henry that question.”
“I fully intend
to do so.”
“He’ll kill you, if you do,” she said harshly, then bit her lip, aware that she had said too much.
“Perhaps he has already tried,” he murmured and rose to leave.
“Wait!”
He turned back to confront her. Her face was deathly white now and he hand trembled so violently that her tea spattered on to the flags at her feet, “He’ll pay you. Is that what you want? He’ll pay you anything you ask, just go away and don’t come back.”
“I don’t want his money, Harriet. I want him to pay for the crime he committed – and if you have any sense, you’ll tell me everything you know. What you did was wrong, but understandable in the circumstances. I don’t suppose you ever imagined it would end with murder.”
Suddenly she threw the cup across the room, so that it smashed against the fireplace, then flung herself to her knees, her arm resting on the settle and her head dropped onto it. He left her to sob for a few seconds, then crossed the room to her side. Placing his hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet, turned her to face him and put his arms around her. She held onto him as she wept, her face buried in his shoulder, and he patted her back and whispered words of comfort, as though she were a child.
“You don’t know what it was like, Mr Underwood. This house was full of poison. My brother hated his wife, she hated us all and my mother was dying and took to drink to drown the pain. I had to get out, any way I could...”
“There can be no excuses, Harriet, but try and make me understand, if you can.”
Then she told him everything.
*
Sir Henry thought it odd that the Underwood brothers should write and demand a private interview with himself and his daughter Maria, but he acquiesced, there seemed little else he could do.
The brothers were prompt and were shown immediately into the library, where the Master of the house and his eldest daughter were waiting for them. Sir Henry had already drained his brandy glass, but Maria held hers in her hand, never raising it to her white-edged lips. Her father was worried that she looked so ghastly, “Pull yourself together, for God’s sake!” She looked at him with utter loathing, “Shut up and leave me alone. When all this is over, I never want to see your face again.”
He was stunned by the vitriol in her voice. She had never spoken thus to him in her life before, and it made him at once conciliatory, “Now, now, Maria! There is no need for this. We need only keep our heads and nothing will come of it.”
At that moment the door opened to admit the Underwoods and Sir Henry never glanced in his daughter’s direction again.
“Well, gentlemen, what can we do for you?”
The brothers took the proffered seats. Underwood seemed perfectly calm, though a little pale; Rev. Underwood was also pale, but he demonstrated none of his brother’s stoicism. He was extremely agitated and he showed it.
Underwood spoke first, “Sir, I believe I have solved the mystery of the death of the young woman found in your woods last year.”
Sir Henry gave every indication of being delighted to hear this news. He smiled expansively, “Well done, young man. You have done what all my men failed to do. Perhaps you would like to enlighten us further?”
“Certainly. The girl was your youngest daughter. I believe she would have been named Adela had your wife lived to name her.”
The smile slid from the older man’s face, “What nonsense is this? Everyone knows my youngest child is my son Harry.”
“That is not the story Miss Hazelhurst tells, sir,” responded Underwood coldly.
“Bitch!” Sir Henry spat the word and made ready to rise from his seat, then just as quickly regained his composure and fell back in his chair, “The woman is mad. There can be no other explanation. The loss of her child all those years ago has clearly unhinged her mind.”
“That, of course, is a possibility, but I own I find myself believing her. You see, her brother bears a quite remarkable resemblance to young Harry.”
“What story has she been telling you? I’ll have her in court for this.”
“I think not. Miss Hazelhurst’s tale is quite simple. She says she bore you a son, and that you persuaded her to take the child to London – though she told everyone she was going to Manchester. Your wife had just told you that she was to have another child and you decided this should be the last attempt. You were desperate for a legitimate son, so your plans were carefully laid. Should your wife fail on this occasion, you were going to take the child immediately away, to London, where you would substitute Harriet’s son for your daughter.”
Sir Henry interrupted harshly, “This is the most fantastic nonsense I have ever heard. How could I possibly prevent anyone from knowing the sex of the child as it was born? My wife would have been the first to ask.”
Underwood was unmoved by this passionate interjection, he continued with his story, “As I said, your plans were carefully laid. The only other person present at the birth was the local midwife – Harriet Hazelhurst’s mother. I don’t know if you were merely fortunate in your wife’s death – I suspect you may have been, for she must have been totally exhausted by repeated pregnancies and births – but there is the definite possibility she was your first victim.”
Sir Henry was ashen-faced and speechless. His mouth opened and closed as though to protest, but no sound issued from him.
“Once she was dead, it was easy enough for you to act the grief-stricken widower, unable to bear spending another night beneath the roof which sheltered your dead wife – and then there was the child. The excuse you gave was that it was born sickly and near death, and needing the immediate attention of the best doctors - doctors only to be found in London. No one would be surprised that you should make such efforts to save the life of your son – and one new-born infant looks much like another, once wrapped in a shawl.”
Underwood paused, almost hoping that Sir Henry would have some sweeping explanation for all these accusations, but he said nothing.
“Your error was to leave Harriet short of money. She raised the girl as her own, only too grateful to know that her precious boy was getting everything money could buy, but London seemed a very long way away, didn’t it, Sir Henry? Harriet had a hard time of it and by the time Adela was thirteen, they had both been forced into prostitution. It was either that or starvation. Then Harriet was badly beaten by a dissatisfied customer and almost died. As Adela was nursing her back to health, the true story came out. Harriet told her everything. Adela insisted on coming back her to confront you, so Harriet wrote to her brother, to arrange for the meeting. Hazelhurst acted as go-between and you agreed to see the girl, but only if she came at night and in strict secrecy. Foolishly she agreed to your terms. She came here that night, and did not leave alive. You dumped her body in the woods, satisfied that she would simply be dismissed as an unknown vagrant, since she had even been given different clothes than those she had worn in London. Then you realized your fatal error. She was a redhead, just like your other daughters, who all inherited their colouring from their mother. Possibly she bore more than a passing resemblance to one of them.”
A strangled sob came from Maria and Sir Henry licked his dry lips before saying, “She looked just like Charlotte – she even had her temper.”
It was Underwood’s turn to be shocked, for of all possibilities, strangely enough, that one had not occurred to him. It was like a blow in the stomach to hear it, imagining Charlotte living such a life, and ending with such a death. For weeks he had fought to avenge a faceless girl, now he knew every line and curve of that face and he found the knowledge horrifying.
He had to gather every scrap of courage he possessed to continue, “What did you do with her head, Sir Henry?”
Maria rose to her feet, “My father knows nothing about that, Mr. Underwood. You see, you have almost everything else right, but that. My father did not kill the girl. He was quite happy to give her money and send her on her way. She wanted to take it. She knew we would have to keep her in
comfort for the rest of her life. She did not want to come here and take her place as his child. She hated him for what he had done. She told him as much, in this very room. It was I who could not risk her returning and telling what she knew.”
“You killed her?” asked Underwood incredulously, his throat dry.
“Yes, I killed her. I struck her on the head with a brass candlestick.”
“But why? What possible reason could you have for such an action?”
Maria began to twist the wedding ring on her finger, “You can have no notion how much I hate my husband. I hated him before I married him, but I have learned to hate him much more since. If Harry fails to reach his majority, or is proved to be an impostor, Edwin will inherit this house, the estate, everything. Do you think I would allow that despicable little toadeater to walk over the threshold of this house as Master? I’ll see him dead first!”
Underwood ignored this threat, though he had learned, to his cost that the Wynter family seemed quite capable of carrying out any such deed, “Then tell me what you did with her head. The girl deserves a full burial, if nothing else.”
“Oh, it’s buried all right. I put it in my saddlebag, wrapped in a shawl, and the next morning, when everyone was preoccupied with the body, I went for a ride on the moors. I cast it as far as I could into a peat bog. It is beyond even your ingenuity, Mr. Underwood, to reunite Adela with her head!” She laughed, sounding on the edge of madness and Gil closed his eyes in pain, his head resting on his hands.
“C.H., does this mean that Mrs. Hazelhurst’s death was not an accident either?” he asked, unable to disguise the despair in his voice. Underwood shook his head, aware of his brother’s distress, but not able to offer very much in the way of comfort.
“I’m sorry, Gil, but I very much doubt it. She must have seen the girl suddenly everything became clear to her. To preserve the secret, Hazelhurst must have pushed her over the cliff.”
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 28
