Gratten shrugged, rather irritated that the doctor should ask the one question to which he could provide no sensible answer, “That we may discover in due course,” he said dismissively, “In the meantime, have you seen all you wish to? I think we might move the body and continue this discussion somewhere warmer.”
Samuel, son of Farmer Broadstone, now spoke up for the first time; “Do you need me any longer? I have to help my brother with the animals. We know there has been a murder, but they don’t.”
Mr. Gratten, irascible as always with those he considered his inferior, asked gruffly, “Why are you here, anyway?”
“I found the body, sir.”
This brought Gratten’s head up with a jerk, “Did you indeed? I find that extremely worrying, young man, since it was your father who found the body of Rogers. What were you doing here?”
“It’s our field,” was the stoic reply, “We had some cattle wandering a few weeks ago, so I thought I would check the hedges whilst it was empty of livestock.”
“How very convenient!” Gratten rejoined cynically, “I think you had better come into town with us, my man, and answer a few questions.”
Samuel hunched his shoulders impatiently, but he did not refuse. He knew there was very little point in doing so, once the constable had the bit between his teeth.
*
Underwood had reached the edge of desperation. Quite apart from the sheer discomfort in which he and Cara were being kept, he was feeling increasingly unwell, and hourly more frantic about his wife. His baby could be born and he knew nothing of it. His wife could be dead, ill or merely fretting about him. Had her own mother not died giving birth to Verity? How did he know she would not be taken the same way? The thoughts and concerns which chased each other across his mind were driving him into a barely concealed frenzy. It was this feeling of horror that he had nothing to lose which prompted him to quietly outline a plan which seemed to Cara to be foolhardy at best, and at worst, positively dangerous. However she was feeling almost as wretched as he; their close proximity had been a torture to her, loving him as she did, and knowing his passion and thoughts were all for another woman. She was quite as eager to escape as he.
Accordingly they lay beside the fire and prepared to sleep, Underwood having extinguished all but one lantern.
Presently their captor returned and he could not resist the temptation to approach closely, the lack of light forcing him to venture nearer than was wise, as Underwood had prayed it would.
The moment he leaned over the ostensibly soundly sleeping Underwood, he found his throat gripped with a strength which made him gasp and struggle for breath. The adrenaline of frustration and pure fury gave Underwood a power which surprised even himself. Almost before he knew what he was about, he was on his feet, grappling with the man who had suddenly become the victim instead of an assailant. He strove to wrest Underwood’s fingers from his neck, gasping in his efforts, and Underwood found himself fading fast. He was never going to be a match for the boy, who had youth and immense strength on his side, so in a last despairing effort, he employed a trick that Toby had once confided to him before he had to let go. He jerked forward with his head down and his forehead came satisfactorily into contact with the other man’s nose and he heard the crack as it broke, swiftly followed by the sound of blood spattering profusely onto the rocky floor of the cave.
The moment Underwood released him, he took to his heels and ran, but not before both Underwood and the now wide awake Cara had taken note of the direction he took. Underwood reached out and grasped her hand, jerking her to her feet, “Come, Cara, Quickly! We mustn’t lose him!” He grabbed the lantern and set off in hot pursuit.
She staggered and stumbled after him, her hair falling over her face, her breath coming in short, frantic, frightened gasps. Why, oh why did men never remember that women wore stays? Perspiration began to pour down her cheeks, her underarms were damp and she felt a trickle run down between her breasts – thank God he did not know of it. She would have been mortified had he known she could sweat like any common labouring woman.
Suddenly they stopped and for a moment she did not care why, merely dropping her head and drawing the air into her lungs with painful heaves.
“Damn!” muttered her companion and she forced herself to lift her head and see the cause of the swearing. It was not good. They had come to a parting of the ways, without any idea which fork was the right one. Underwood strained his ears, but there was no sound, nothing to give them a clue.
He walked an experimental step or two forward, but he was hesitant now, only too aware that the wrong choice could result in disaster. Cara saw something on the floor glisten briefly in the lantern-light and she quickly drew his attention to it, “What is that, Underwood?” He crouched, holding the lantern close as he examined the mystery, then rose with a triumphant grin, “Our friend has carelessly allowed his blood to stain the floor, my dear. I not only managed to give the scoundrel a broken nose, I have also laid a trail for us to follow out of here. Let us pray he doesn’t manage to staunch the flow before we get out.”
Half an hour later she was sobbing with relief as fresh air hit her in the face. It was bitterly cold and the wind brought tears into her eyes, but she drank it in like nectar. He put a comforting arm about her shoulders and she clung to him, half-hysterical, “Thank God, oh thank God! I thought we were going to die in that ghastly place.”
He shook her gently. The last thing he needed now was a fit of the vapours. They still had the moor to traverse before they were truly safe, “Brace up, Cara! We are not out of the woods yet – or should I say, across the moors. You have rather a long walk ahead of you.”
She did not care. How many hours had they been trapped in that stinking hole? To be out side in the air and light, that was all, at the moment, that she wanted. This euphoria was not destined to last for long. She had been wearing riding boots when she had been thrown from her horse and she soon began to regret the footwear. The soles were thin leather and she could feel every pebble and stone under her feet. The bracken, heather and cruel brambles tore at her dress as she staggered after Underwood down a sheep path and her sweat-damp clothes now clung to her body with icy determination. He barely seemed to notice her distress, nor his own discomfort. He was merely thanking providence that he had taken several pleasure jaunts on the moors around Hanbury in the previous summer, and could now be vaguely sure that he was heading in the right direction.
*
Francis Herbert had barely entered his lodgings when he was dragged forth again. The message he received was straightforward enough. Mrs. Milner begged him to attend for Mrs. Underwood had been in labour since the early hours of the morning and the baby now seemed imminent.
He shrugged himself back into his greatcoat, grabbed his bag and followed the bearer of the missive out to the waiting carriage. He was expected by Gratten to perform the post mortem examination upon the body of Barclay Conrad, but they would both have to wait.
The search for Underwood had been exhaustive, but fruitless and Dr. Herbert was beginning to despair. The death of Barclay Conrad was a worrying development, for if he was, in truth, the author of Cara and Underwood’s misfortune, then they could be lost forever in the labyrinth of limestone above the town of Hanbury. All Francis could do for his old friends was to deliver their child safely – and he fully intended to do so, to the exclusion of all other duties.
*
It had just begun to snow when Underwood and Cara staggered through the door of Windward House, their shoulders and hair liberally sprinkled with a dusting of snow which melted at once in the warmth.
She simply sank into the nearest available chair and closed her eyes, the feelings of relief and weariness fought for expression and caused a faintness to attack her. Underwood stood in the hall, frowning slightly against the brightness of the light indoors compared to the rapidly gathering dusk outside. Where was everyone? Why was the house so quiet? Dear God, please don’t let an
ything have happened to Verity!
He heard a footfall upstairs and automatically lifted his head. He saw Dr. Herbert begin to descend, his shirt sleeves rolled up and holding a towel on which he was wiping his hands. When he saw his friend’s strained white face raised to his own, he grinned, “Your timing, as always Underwood, is impeccable. Congratulations, you have a daughter.”
Mr. Underwood said nothing, but continued to stare at the doctor as though petrified. Francis reached his side and punched him good-naturedly on the arm.
“Don’t you want to see your family?” he asked.
“May I?” Underwood seemed to wake from his reverie.
“Of course! Get yourself upstairs man. Your wife has worked hard to present you with a little girl. The least you can do is go and thank her.”
Two minutes before Underwood felt he could not possibly put one foot in front of another; it had been sheer will power which had forced him on, half-carrying the exhausted Cara up to the house, but now he cast his weariness aside along with his sodden greatcoat. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the bedroom, startling Verity and almost sending his mother into a fit of the vapours. Appallingly, he did not even notice her leave the room, for his eyes were firmly fixed upon his wife and the tiny, shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms. She was propped against the piled pillows, her face tired but inexpressibly happy. Her hair clung in dark tendrils to her still damp forehead, but her soft smile was warm and her eyes were bright with a strange excitement, “Dearest one, are you feeling better?”
“Sweetheart …” he could not say anything more, but approached the bed almost apprehensively. Verity offered the child to him and he, after the slightest hesitation, took his little girl into his arms and looked down at her. Too perfect to be described, she waved a plump little hand in protest at being disturbed and yawned broadly.
Verity observed him with loving eyes, “My dear Cadmus, you really have been unwell. You have not shaved for two days at least.”
He never raised his eyes from his daughter’s face, “You cannot begin to comprehend how unwell,” he replied.
*
Cara had watched him run from her to the arms of his waiting wife with a pain she never thought to experience. She felt Dr. Herbert’s eyes upon her, speculative and curiously understanding, and she managed to force a semblance of a smile to her lips, “Dr. Herbert? I am Cara Lovell, perhaps you remember me?”
“Remember you! My dear girl, half of Hanbury had been combing the countryside in search of you. I trust you are unhurt?”
“Not entirely,” she held out her injured hand to show him and he at once became businesslike. He led her into the parlour, calling down the hallway for Mrs. Trent to fetch hot water, tea, brandy, bandages, and anything else she thought he might require. She bustled from the kitchen to grumble in person, “I have the baby to bath, and the mistress to see to – and where do you think I am going to find bandages in this house?” She stopped stock still and stared aghast when she realized who his companion was, “Dear Lord preserve us! Never tell me Mr. Underwood is back.”
“He is – and judging from the view I had of the back of his head as he went up the stairs, he is going to have need of my ministrations too.”
She shuffled off to do his bidding, her instructions to Toby clearly audible to the two in the front of the house, “Toby, stir yourself! We have Lady Cara Lovell in the house and she’ll be wanting a bath and so will the master. Stir up the fire and set the biggest water boiler we have upon it.”
“Mr. Underwood is back!” yelled the joyful Toby, “Where is he?”
“Never you mind. Get the fire going first. There’ll be time aplenty for you to exchange gossip with Mr. Underwood.”
They exchanged a smile as he showed her to a chair by the fire, then began to remove Underwood’s makeshift bindings, “Underwood will never make a doctor,” he observed, “but he has saved you the pain of having the bone reset.”
“Thank heavens for that!”
A short silence ensued and then Francis ventured delicately, “I trust nothing else untoward occurred?” She was rather shocked, for she had completely misunderstood the implication of his words, “I’ll have you know Mr. Underwood behaved with perfect propriety. I find it utterly offensive to both him and myself that you should suggest otherwise!”
Rather too emphatic a denial, thought Francis with a hidden smile, it looked as though the charming Mr. Underwood had claimed another victim. What silly remark had his wife once made about Underwood? Ah, yes – ‘his smile simply melts one’s bones.’ God only knew what these women saw in him.
“I never intended to suggest anything of the kind, my lady. I know my friend to be a gentleman. I was referring to the behaviour of your captor, not Underwood.”
She blushed scarlet, painfully aware that she had probably just given herself away, “Oh…I beg your pardon! Naturally, I assumed…”
“Naturally,” he agreed gravely, “It was a simple error to make.”
“I suppose so – we were…we were thrust into an intimate situation, and not many men would fail to take advantage of that.”
“Of course. Now, is there anything you need to tell me?”
“Are you asking if I was …raped?” Her voice sank to a whisper.
“I’m afraid I am. I do apologise, but I am a doctor and these things do have a bearing.”
“Then I can assure you I was not.”
“Good. Your father will be relieved to have you restored to him, but I don’t think it will be possible for you to travel tonight. His raptures must wait until tomorrow.”
Her face was a picture of astonishment, “My father? My father is in Hanbury?”
“He is – bearing a gun with which he intended to frighten Underwood down the aisle with you, or failing that, shoot him like a dog!”
“Oh, dear God! What idiocy is this?”
“Merely an adoring parent. There is no greater idiocy in the world than that of a man protecting his daughter. Underwood is about to learn that very lesson.”
“I am undone! Who else knows of my disappearance?”
“The whole town, I’m afraid.”
“Could not Mrs. Rogers have kept silent? How could she be foolish enough to spread this story about?”
“My dear girl, you are the daughter of an Earl – do you really imagine your every move is not noted by society?”
She buried her face in her hands and began to weep, the strain of the past few days finding an outlet at last. Francis laid a comforting hand on the bowed head, then went in search of brandy.
*
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
(“Oleum Addere Camino” – To make bad things worse – Literally to pour fuel on the stove)
It seemed that half the inhabitants of Hanbury braved the weather the following morning to fight their way through the door of Windward House, which was proving itself to be aptly named.
Toby and Mrs. Trent made refreshments whilst Underwood battled to remove three days’ growth of beard, resolutely refusing to appear before his guests in anything less than perfect condition.
He had bathed the evening before, despite bone-weariness, a still present chest cold and aching head, but he had been defeated by his beard. Francis had examined his skull and had decided that too much time had passed to make any attempt at stitching the wound. Mother Nature had sealed the cut more cleanly than he could ever have done, and any scar would be hidden by his hair – “Unless you go bald!” he had added, much to Underwood’s chagrin. He washed his hair rather gingerly, just the same, and was immensely relieved when contact with hot water did not re-open the gash. The thought of letting Francis near him with his range of lethal-looking instruments was more terrifying than the original thwack on the head.
Cara slept very late. She too had bathed, but far from relaxing her, the hot water had invigorated her to such an extent that she had lain, unsleeping, for the majority of the night. The strange surroundings, the tiny uncomfortable
bed and most of all the sound of the tiny baby wailing in the early hours had all conspired to leave her utterly drained. She fell asleep just as dawn was beginning to creep over the edge of her windowsill. Mrs. Trent looked in, smiled, and crept away again.
When he was satisfied with his appearance, Underwood donned his paisley dressing gown and wandered downstairs into the parlour, astounded to be confronted by so many familiar faces. He accepted the good wishes of his guests, both for the safe arrival of his daughter and his own deliverance from peril, but was then swamped beneath a deluge of questions and news.
Dr. Herbert, who had spent an uncomfortable night on the settle in the kitchen, thinking longingly of his crisp white sheets, attempted to help him answer all the enquiries regarding the abduction, secretly hoping that by doing so, he might rid the house of at least a few of the visitors.
Mr. Gratten, Dr. Russell, Mrs. Rogers and Jeremy James all wanted to know who had committed the outrage. Underwood shifted uncomfortably in his seat and threw a glance towards the doctor. Francis lifted a quizzical brow. He had been told the evening before and was still trying to come to terms with the knowledge. Underwood had no choice but to tell the truth, “I fear I was quite wrong to blame Rogers for any of the incidents which so distressed Verity. There was only one man behind them all – though I doubt he killed Rogers.”
“Or Conrad?” intercepted Mr. Gratten. Francis had failed to provide this piece of information and so it was a stunned Underwood who asked, “Conrad is dead?”
Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Page 22
