There was a knock at the door and Brownsword entered, “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr. and Miss Hazelhurst are outside. They are quite insistent that they must see you and Mr. Underwood immediately.”
Sir Henry glanced at Underwood, who nodded swiftly.
“Show them in, Brownsword. The more the merrier.”
Hazelhurst scarcely waited for the door to close behind the mystified butler before he launched into his previously prepared speech, his words tumbling over themselves in his effort to get them out before he could be interrupted, “My sister told me what she has said to you, Mr. Underwood, and we are here to deny every word.”
“It is too late for that, Hazelhurst,” intercepted Maria wearily, but firmly.
“No it isn’t. You try and take us into a courtroom and you’ll find yourself with two completely silent witnesses.”
Sir Henry grinned maliciously, “Well, Underwood. That puts a rather different complexion on things, doesn’t it? You have lost your two best witnesses, so what are you going to do now?”
“Be quiet, both of you!” Maria cried harshly, and strangely they obeyed her, “There is no use in all this.”
Underwood saw that he was not the only one of the assembled company who was stunned by Maria’s sudden change of character. She was decisive, even aggressive, and Underwood could not help but regret that the alteration had come so late. Had she learnt to control her husband as she was now controlling her father and Hazelhurst, there was a possibility that at least two lives might have been spared.
Gil spoke, unconsciously sparing his brother the necessity of answering Sir Henry’s taunting question – for the truth was, he did not exactly know what he was going to do.
“But who killed Blake - and why? Was he really Mary - Adela’s husband?”
There was a stark silence and since it was obvious no one was going to admit to the crime, Underwood answered his brother himself, “Sir Henry, you were not quite as drunk on that occasion as you would have had me believe, were you? And the long windows in here are easily lifted, allowing access to the garden and thence the drive. You had ample time to run through the trees whilst Blake and I fiddled with Abney’s lantern.”
Sir Henry said nothing, so Underwood continued, “The shot was meant for me, of course. It was too dangerous to let me live. Poor Blake took the shot, but Sir Henry is a resourceful man and he would have been quite as happy to see me hang for Blake’s murder as he would to kill me himself. Naturally he would have taken charge of the trial himself, so there would be no possibility of reprieve! Unfortunately you reckoned without Abney, didn’t you, Sir Henry?”
“Blast his eyes! Was it Abney?”
“It was. He displayed an extremely touching belief in my innocence and saw no harm in providing a little proof that my story of a hidden assailant was true. He broke a branch and dropped the ash from his pipe. It was then you gave yourself away, Sir Henry. There was never a more surprised man than you when Abney found some clues where you knew no clues ought to be.”
“Damn him! I’ll have him off the estate faster than…” began Sir Henry furiously, then realizing the gravity of the situation in which he found himself, he trailed off.
“What are you going to do, Mr. Underwood?” asked Maria, quietly and with great dignity.
“He can’t do a thing, you fool; he has no proof! If the Hazelhursts refuse to testify, there’s no case to answer.” Sir Henry was confident now, gloating over Underwood’s helplessness.
“Is that true, Mr. Underwood?”
He looked at Maria for a long time before he replied, “Yes, I’m very much afraid that it is. You have all managed to live with your consciences thus far, so I see no reason why any of you should now feel the need to confess.”
“I told you,” Sir Henry crossed the room and poured himself another brandy, “He is completely powerless.”
“However, I feel it is my duty to inform the authorities of all I know. I think you will find that Edwin is hardly likely to sit back and allow himself to be usurped by your father’s illegitimate son.”
“You … would not tell Edwin all this?” she gasped.
With all his attention on Maria, it came as something of a shock to Underwood to suddenly hear hysterical laughter behind him. He turned and found that Harriet had sunk into a chair and was rocking backwards and forwards, laughing until the tears rolled down her face.
All eyes were upon her, startled and confused, and it was left to Gil to step forward and slap her sharply on the face. She gasped and lifted her hand to cradle her crimson cheek, “What was that for?”
“I apologize. It was necessary to bring you to your senses.”
“I’m not out of my senses, I’m amused. I’ve never known anything so funny in my whole life before.”
No one said a word. The feeling that she was running mad was general, but if she knew it, she did not care, “Oh Henry!” She shifted her gaze from Gil to the magistrate, who stood with a glass in his hand, frozen by the sound of her laughter. Something about it frightened him though he could not imagine why. What was she? Nothing but a simple little peasant, whom he had used and cast aside with less thought than he would shoot an injured hunting hound.
“You thought you were so clever, didn’t you, Henry? You fathered a son and then you managed to palm him off as your wife’s child. And all along you were the one who was being hoaxed.”
“What do you mean?” There was quiet menace in his voice, and Underwood found his muscles tensing, just in case he should be called upon to leap to Harriet’s rescue.
“Only this, my dearest Henry. Harry is not your son! Do you hear me? Your boy, your precious little boy, is none of your making.”
He did not attempt to reach her, but shrank from her as though he had seen something loathsome and disgusting, “You harlot! You liar!”
“I’m no liar. You’ve lived with lies so long, you simply don’t recognize the truth! Harry is not your son.”
Underwood thought the older man would collapse, but no one went to support him and he was forced to stagger back to his chair and drop into it, gasping for breath. Underwood almost found it in his heart to feel pity for the man. Everything he had done had been for the sake of his son, for the sake of the boy he believed to be his son. For a man to look down the years and see his sins laid before him, and to know that he had perjured his soul for nought, must be a severe trial.
At length the magistrate recovered himself sufficiently to ask, “Who was it? Who is Harry’s real father?” He was still hoping she would take it back, that she would shrug and say, “Of course he is yours. I only said it to hurt you,” but she did not. She glanced at her brother, who looked steadfastly at his boots and refused to meet her eyes.
“He is.” She nodded her head in the direction of her brother, who threw her one pleading glance before dropping his eyes again. “That was why he killed his wife. That was what she had provoked him into yelling one night when he was too drunk to control his tongue, and she had accused him once too often of being no man because he hadn’t fathered a child on her. She knew nothing about Harry or the girl. We had sent her to her sister’s when Mary came here. She threatened to publish his shame throughout the district - and he couldn’t bear the world to know he had fathered a child on his own sister.”
“May God forgive you all,” Gil’s voice was loud and harsh, and it hurt Underwood more than anything else he had heard that night. He knew his brother’s faith had been severely shaken by all these unsavoury revelations and for the first time in his life, he was glad he had no religious feelings which could be so tested by his fellow man.
He glanced around at the faces of the group. Sir Henry’s lined, broken-veined and bloated with years of self-indulgence and debauchery; Maria, self-pitying and bitter, always the victim, refusing even now to acknowledge her own part in her downfall; Hazelhurst, haunted by his youthful folly and hag-ridden by his wife, his mother, his sister, and never quite able to take control of hi
s own life; and Harriet, pretty enough to think she could use men, but finding herself used and abused instead.
Underwood felt suddenly sick and tired of them all.
Apparently Sir Henry felt the same way, for he unexpectedly gathered enough strength to roar, “Get out of my house!” It seemed the order was directed at the Hazelhursts, for he added, “And take your cursed bastard with you.”
Maria was stirred into action, “Father, you can’t do that to poor Harry.” Judging from her past behaviour, Underwood was cynical enough to wonder how much of her real concern was for Harry, and how much she was still hoping to save the situation for her own purposes, “He is the innocent victim in all this – and if you do throw him out, it will merely give credence to Underwood’s story.”
Sir Henry gave a bellow of pure agony and swept his arm across his desk, sending the contents flying across the room, “Do you think I give a damn what that witch’s get feels? Throw them all out, now!”
Maria hustled the brother and sister out of the room. Sir Henry slumped once more into his chair, looking as though he would never rise again. His eyes were fixed on some distant point – probably the mouth of hell, if his expression was to be read correctly. When he spoke it was almost conversational, “You realize that Charlotte will never marry you now, Underwood?”
“I knew I was saying goodbye to Charlotte when I saw her last at Maria’s home.”
“If you had loved her as you claimed, you could not have done this to her.”
Underwood stiffened visibly at these words, but was able to control himself enough to answer unemotionally, “I would have made a poor husband, despising myself for my cowardice."
“I think you would have been a braver man to have protected her from all this.”
“Wondering whether I was right or wrong is the cross I shall have to bear for the rest of my life, Sir Henry.”
He felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder and for a moment knew a sense of comfort, before crushing misery descended on him, like cold, wet earth being shovelled into a grave.
“Let us go home, C.H.,” said Gil softly and without replying his brother followed him out of the room.
He managed as far as the hall, when he staggered and almost fell. Gil reached out and caught him by the arm.
“I’m sorry, Gil I’m afraid I’m unwell.”
“I know. Lean on me.”
Abney stood by the door and Gil asked diffidently, “Do you think we might beg the carriage, Abney?”
“It is waiting outside for you, sir.”
As Abney handed Underwood into the carriage, the latter grasped him firmly by the hand, “Thank you for everything, Abney.”
“The pleasure was all mine, sir.”
*
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
(“Nemo Repente Fuit Turpissimus” – No one ever turned villain all at once)
There were tears in his mother’s eyes as she kissed the vicar goodbye, “You will take care of him and yourself, won’t you, Gil?”
“I will, Mama, don’t fret. You will see us both when you marry the general.”
“And you will perform the ceremony, with Chuffy giving me away?”
“I will – with a grateful heart,” he smiled and she touched his cheek before climbing into the stage.
He waited until the last vestige of dust had disappeared from view before wending his melancholy way back to Bracken Tor.
The village was shrouded in a preternatural silence which was chilling and he discovered that he had no real desire to call the place his home.
His spirits lifted a little when he found his brother out of bed and downstairs for the first time in a week. Underwood still looked pale and shaken, but at least he was up, albeit seated in a comfortable chair, with a rug solicitously wrapped about his legs by the fretful Mrs. Selby.
“Feeling better, Chuffy?”
“A little, Gil, thank you. I presume you saw mother safely on her way?”
“Yes. She is looking forward to our joining her presently.”
“The sooner the better.”
Gil made no attempt to respond to this, but settled himself into a chair opposite his brother and said quietly, “I have received a reply to my letter. Rev. Blackwell says he would be delighted to have you stay for a few days, and he has also agreed to take my place here in performing the funeral ceremony.”
“When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow, if you feel well enough to undertake the journey.”
“I do. Has there been any word from Charlotte?”
The vicar shook his head and Underwood said in a bracing tone, “I did not really expect it.”
Gil was given no opportunity to speak the words of comfort which sprang to his lips, and on reflection he was later rather glad, for Mrs. Selby knocked on the door and announced the arrival of Miss Chapell.
“Show her in, Mrs. Selby,” said Underwood swiftly, before Gil could direct her to inform their visitor that they were not at home.
It was very fortunate that Gil had not been allowed to send her away, for it was a distraught young woman who entered the room. No sooner had the door closed on the housekeeper than Verity abandoned all attempts to control herself and began to sob helplessly. Gil was on his feet and holding out comforting arms to her immediately and Underwood was surprised to find himself feeling extremely hurt at the ease with which she flew to his brother’s arms and buried her face against his chest. It was not a sight to which he had ever had the chance to grow accustomed, his clerical brother tenderly cradling a female in his arms, so perhaps it was for that reason he found the vision so very disturbing.
When she had finally calmed herself enough to explain her extraordinary behaviour, Verity had a tale to tell which infuriated both men.
“I’m so sorry,” she blew her nose and sank into the proffered seat, “You must think me a perfect fool.”
Neither man knew what to think, so both shook their heads in denial and waited for her to elucidate.
“I could not think where else to run – and I had to get away.” She closed her eyes and shuddered, the memory too horrid to be borne, “How I hate that man!”
“Which man?” asked Underwood, only to be frowned at by his brother, who thought Miss Chapell ought to be allowed to tell her story in her own way and at her own pace, without any prompting.
“Edwin Wynter. After all that has happened, how could he?”
“How…” Underwood began to ask, but his brother quelled him with a look.
Verity had been carefully avoiding Underwood’s eye, and even now she could not bring herself to speak directly to him. She addressed herself to the vicar, “I’m making a very poor show of explaining. I’m sorry. It is just that I have never had this happen to me before, and I think I am still a little too shocked to think clearly.”
By this time Underwood was almost out of his mind, wondering what on earth had happened to her, but he kept silent in the face of his brother’s determination.
“He arrived this morning, to take over at the Court, and when he sent for me to go to the library, I expected it would be to hear my dismissal. I was quaking in my shoes, for I have not been in the library since Sir Henry…” she trailed off, wiped away another tear and determinedly began again, “They have managed to clean the blood from the carpet, but the curtains had to be burnt – they took most of the blast.”
Neither brother wished to hear these details, but they understood her need to speak of it. Death by gun was ever a messy affair, especially when wielded by one’s own hand, and she could have no knowledge of their own involvement in this particular death. No one other than themselves and certain members of the Wynter clan knew why Sir Henry had suddenly disowned his son, re-instated Edwin as his heir, then shut himself in his library and taken his own life.
“I thought he would dismiss me there and then, for all the girls are to go to their great Aunt and Maria…” Once more words failed her, for how did one describe the horror of seeing a you
ng woman lose her mind so completely that she was turned into a demented animal. Maria had been dragged, screaming, from the body of her father, which she had been unfortunate enough to reach first, after the gun shot was heard, only to be found an hour later, still drenched in his blood, trying desperately to set fire to the house and herself, muttering she would see it all burn before she allowed her husband to enter into his inheritance. She was destined to spend the rest of her life shut away in a sanatorium – but at least she was to be spared the indignity of Bedlam, though she was probably not aware of it.
Underwood covered his eyes with his hand. Gil saw his gesture of despair and gently encouraged Verity to continue with her story. It was useless and painful to dwell upon these past incidents.
“What did Edwin do, Miss Chapell?”
“That odious little man. He asked me to stay on at Wynter Court. At first I thought he must have decided to bring the girls home again and he wanted me to continue as before, but I have never been so mistaken. He wanted me to be his mistress. As I stood before his desk, too stunned to answer him, he grabbed me and tried to kiss me! I have never been more revolted. I kicked him in the shins and ran out of the house; I did not stop running until I reached here.”
Underwood could bear no more; he leapt to his feet and started towards the door.
“Where are you going?” asked the vicar.
“To teach Edwin Wynter some manners,” snarled the furious Underwood.
“Oh no! Pray do not,” gasped Verity, horrified to have caused this reaction, “You have been so ill. He might hurt you.”
Underwood had never been more humiliated; to have a woman refuse his chivalry on the chance that he might be hurt by a weasel like Edwin was an occurrence he would not soon forget.
“It would take a better man than Edwin Wynter to injure me,” he snapped testily. Gil rose and took his arm, “Come and sit down, Chuffy. There is nothing you can do in defence of Miss Chapell – and she sounds to have protected her honour quite admirably. Besides which, you cannot possibly be seen in the vicinity of Wynter Court. It would be more than tasteless, don’t you agree?”
A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) Page 29
