Underwood was equally determined that he should fail in his task.
His next action was something which he would only ever have contemplated in the most extreme circumstances, but after a quick review of everything that had happened since his arrival in Wimpleford, he felt justified in feeling a degree of danger. Miss Fettiplace’s very obvious fear of eavesdropping servants and the fact that Luckhurst arrived within less than twenty minutes of his own advent and had then made it abundantly clear that he was not welcome, despite the innocuous reason for his visit, all signalled an underlying motive which he felt very sure was connected with the arrest and transportation of Rutherford Petch. All this ran through his mind as he pretended to look at the goods in the shop window. He was a man who abhorred violence of any kind, but he also had a very lively sense of self-preservation.
The man drew near enough for Underwood to catch the stench of gin on his breath and it was then he made his move, knowing that the other’s reactions would probably be marred by his over-indulgence. It had been a bad mistake to send a man who had already been indulging to an alehouse in order to do a job which needed a keen eye and steady nerves.
Underwood turned suddenly, lifting his elbow as he did so ensuring that it ‘accidentally’ made violent contact with the bridge of the fellow’s nose.
The man’s head flew backwards, his nose exploding in a shower of blood, which fortunately Underwood managed to swiftly sidestep before taking a half hearted pace towards his victim, saying, with becoming sincerity, “My dear sir, I do apologise, I did not see you there. Pray let me help you.” He drew his pristine handkerchief from his coat pocket and proffered it but the man was bending over, groaning and holding his face and did not see the gesture.
Underwood ensured that the man was indeed momentarily blinded by the injury and then swiftly stepped into the shop, telling the proprietor that there had been an accident outside. The man rushed to be of assistance and Underwood walked swiftly towards the back of the shop. He found a room with one young man, seated at a table and rolling some sort of mixture with a clever little wooden contraption, which produced a row of small, perfectly formed pills. He looked startled as Underwood explained he had been the victim of an attempted robbery outside and asked if he could leave by the back way, but he obligingly and somewhat trustingly, rose and unlocked the door. Underwood found himself in a yard which he left as quickly as he was able, since it housed the privy, which smelled rather high at this time of the year, when the heat of September was still enough to simmer the contents of the midden.
It occurred to him at this point that the man could quite easily have been a harmless, albeit bracket-faced, clunch, but he seriously doubted it. Even if he had not been set to follow Underwood, he had certainly been standing near enough to him to pick his pocket, so whichever way one thought about it, he probably still deserved to have his cork drawn, as Toby and the rest of the boxing fraternity would have described it.
Into the back lane he went, then swiftly found his way back to the High Street and thence back to the Black Bear, where he bespoke a private parlour and ordered that when Miss Fettiplace arrived she should be brought directly to him without delay.
She entered the room very shortly after four and was delighted to see that he had kindly thought to procure tea and cakes.
She settled herself and tucked into her repast, listening with growing disquiet as he told her of his recent adventure. It was not normally something he would confide to a lady, but he felt she needed to be fully aware of just how serious matters were becoming – and he also required her confirmation that there was the possibility that the man had been following him – he still harboured a vague guilt that he might have been mistaken and given the man a bloody nose for nothing.
“Did you say he had a scar which dissects his eyebrow, running like a white line through it?”
“That’s right. Am I to assume you know the man?”
“Miss Petch’s cousin Mr Luckhurst has a man answering that description working for him. He’s supposed to be an ostler, but he seems remarkably inept with horses – in fact he spends more time in The Ram Inn than he does in the stables.”
Underwood could well believe it, but he decided it was time to turn the conversation. It was vital that he did not allow Miss Fettiplace to veer off the subject until he had discovered exactly what was happening in Pershore House. If he had learnt anything in the past few hours it was that someone was trying very hard to circumvent his investigation. On previous experience it would not be very long before they were interrupted.
“Miss Fettiplace, I require you to be as succinct as possible when you answer my questions. Can you explain what is going on with Miss Petch and her brother?”
“I wish I knew, Mr Underwood, I really do. All I have are vague and uneasy feelings – except of course for the fact of Mr Rutherford’s misfortune. None of it makes any sense to me. I know Mr Rutherford would never steal, but the necklace went missing and can’t be found.”
He realized she spoke nothing but the truth. Though her instincts were warning her of ill-doing, she did not really know how or why. Underwood had the notion that, as usual in these cases, it was all going to come to money, but he knew too little of the situation to make sense of who benefitted, or how they intended to twist events to their own purposes. All he could do at this moment was to try and second-guess the villain and ask this elderly lady the right questions – or the questions he supposed might be the ones which would give him the answers he needed. Not easy when he was almost as clueless as his companion.
“I do understand, it is all very confusing and distressing. Suppose we begin with Captain Petch. My friend and his, Major Thornycroft, assures me that he believes, as you do, that Rutherford would be incapable of stealing from his Great Aunt.”
Miss Fettiplace drew her handkerchief from her embroidered velvet, though somewhat shabby, reticule and wiped her chin, which had a small dribble of melted butter upon it. She sat slightly forward in her seat, as though to give extra emphasis to her words.
“Oh, I do most sincerely believe it, Mr Underwood! I am a distant cousin on their father’s side and of course, have known them both since birth, but I grew to know them well when their parents died and I offered to help care for them.” She blushed a little and Underwood wondered if she was perhaps, one of those impecunious female relatives which abound in most families, who never marry and have no means of support other than relying on the kindness of those to whom they often bear the slightest of connections. He understood from Verity – who had faced a similar horror when her own father had passed away – that the lot of those poor souls was unenviable, to say the least. They had been gently raised, with no discernible talents or skills with which to earn a living, so drifted from household to household, trying to make themselves useful, until their welcome was outworn, whereupon they would throw themselves on the mercy of another branch of the clan, usually ending up as unpaid governesses or companions to the elderly, in genteel slavery until death claimed them.
“Are you also related to Miss Greenhowe then?”
“Oh no, she is their maternal Great Aunt.”
Underwood struggled to get the various connections straight in his mind, “And Mr Luckhurst? You said he was also a cousin of the Petches? And that Rutherford was Miss Greenhowe’s heir until he blotted his copy book, so to speak.”
“That’s right – and I must say that I was surprised that Cressida was then overlooked too. There is no entail, Miss Greenhowe can leave her property to whom she pleases, but she has changed so much since ...” She shook her head sadly and Underwood took this as an indication of the old lady having begun to lose her faculties.
He frowned as something occurred to him, “Just one moment; tell me, how do you know Miss Petch is not the heir? Is it something Miss Greenhowe has discussed with you?” This seemed unlikely, if, as she maintained, the woman had been descending into feeblemindedness for some considerable time.
&nb
sp; “Why Mr Luckhurst told us. He came in and took over the running of the house and estate whilst the Captain was away with the army. He found excuses to let most of the staff go and before long almost all the servants were his own people. Only myself and the butler survived the cull and that was only because Miss Greenhowe and Miss Petch both stood their ground and insisted on our retention. He brought in his own man of business and dismissed Miss Greenhowe’s lawyer, who had dealt with her business for many years. There was an unpleasant scene in which Mr Luckhurst and his man, Attridge, intimated that they thought funds were being misappropriated. Poor old Mr Toft almost had a seizure, he was so shocked and angry, but Miss Greenhowe believed everything Ormund Luckhurst told her and so he was gone. When the Captain came home, he had the most dreadful set to with Mr Luckhurst, but his Great Aunt would not hear a word said against him and within weeks the necklace was gone and Rutherford was accused and found guilty.”
“This is all very convenient for Mr Ormund Luckhurst, is it not?”
“I suppose it is, but he has tried to set it right.”
“How has he done that?”
“He has offered marriage to Cressida, knowing that she will be penniless and homeless when her Great Aunt dies, but I’m afraid Miss Petch is currently withholding her answer. She has no notion of how unkind the world can be to the lone female.” The wealth of sadness held in those last few words told Underwood that his assessment of the elderly lady’s situation was very probably correct.
“Perhaps she finds that prospect more palatable than marriage to Mr Luckhurst?” he suggested gently.
“That is because she has never experienced true poverty. My last wish is to see her safely settled. When Rutherford was his Aunt’s heir, I had no qualms for her future, knowing that even if no man ever offered for her, she would always have a safe home with him and any family he might have, but now she is to be cast out into the world with no one to care for her and I’m frightened what fate has in store for her.”
Underwood comfortingly patted her hand and then moved swiftly on, “Tell me about the necklace. How did Rutherford come to be blamed for its loss?”
“That I do not understand either. As I explained, Miss Greenhowe had grown very strange and forgetful and she had, several times, hidden the necklace about the house, saying she feared it would be stolen. Mr Luckhurst tried to persuade her to put it in the bank, but she would not hear of it. It was a very old family heirloom, going back, I think to before poor King Charles lost his head.”
“But each time it was found again?”
“Oh yes, she had put it in odd places, but quite obvious – under her mattress, in amongst her clothes, and once in a jar of flour in the kitchen. Each time the house was searched and the necklace found. Then Captain Petch came home on leave and he sat up late drinking with his friends every night or going into to town and carousing with them. Mr Luckhurst remonstrated with him and I’m afraid Rutherford was very rude to him and they had a dreadful row, with accusations flying in both directions.”
“And then?”
“Rutherford came in very late and fell asleep on the settee in the drawing room, forgetting to lock the doors. When we woke in the morning the necklace was gone. Of course we imagined Miss Greenhowe had hidden it again, and she kept giggling and saying that they would never find it this time – and of course, as you know, we did not. Mr Luckhurst came and asked her why she thought we wouldn’t find it – she told him that a man had come and put it somewhere safe.”
“And Mr Luckhurst jumped to the conclusion that the man was Rutherford?”
“That was not mentioned at first, but then the Captain suddenly came into a lot of money, when his pockets had been let before for many months. The case began to build up against him. The jewels could not be found, he had money, and he had left the house unsecured so that anyone might have walked in. It did not take long for Mr Luckhurst to persuade Miss Greenhowe that the boy had either taken the necklace, or had allowed robbers into the house deliberately, in exchange for a goodly sum.”
Underwood looked thoughtful, “Captain Petch ran his head into a noose, didn’t he, Miss Fettiplace?”
She shuddered, “It would indeed have been a noose if they could have found the diamonds and proved he sold them on, but they have never been seen since.”
“You realize that if we could find the jewels, it would prove Rutherford innocent?”
She sighed, “Do you think Miss Petch and I haven’t thought of that? Every opportunity we have to search we have done so, but to no avail.”
“Ah, but you did not then have me on the case,” he told her with a smile. She looked at once more cheerful, “Do you really think you can help, Mr Underwood?”
“I can only do my poor best,” he answered modestly, “And if I can’t help, then at least we will all know that I did my best, for I assure you I will. Rutherford Petch saved the life of a man I hold very dear. He will not be deserted now in his hour of need.”
She grasped his hand and held it tight, “I think you are an angel sent from Heaven, Mr Underwood.”
At that he laughed heartily, “I wish my wife, brother and the rest of my acquaintance had heard that description of me, Miss Fettiplace, for I should very much like to see the look on their faces!”
*
CHAPTER NINE
“Aura Popularis” –Temporary Celebrity
There were gasps of shock when Lydia walked into the Pump Rooms in Hanbury Spa, but it was not her face or figure which caused the flutter, nor her notoriety due to the gossip which had swept the town when her possible imposture had been postulated. In a place already ripe for scandal, Lydia Woodforde gave the populace plenty to talk about, for in her wake came an abigail, which was only right, as the young woman was alone in the world, but this was not just any personal maid, but a stunningly beautiful black girl who was very obviously a Barbadian slave.
Slavery in England had been illegal for some years, but was still the norm in the colonies and whilst cosmopolitan cities such as London and most major sea ports were used to seeing all creeds, colours and nationalities of people walking their streets, in provincial little Hanbury, black faces were as rare as hen’s teeth. Underwood’s manservant Toby had also caused a stir, but he had been with the family several years now and Hanbury was used to him, but this girl was very different. It was not her loveliness, nor her downcast eyes and palpable air of discontent; it was the way in which Lydia treated her that most astounded the appalled citizens. The young woman did nothing for herself. With a flick of her hand and a curt order, the slave was directed to do her mistress’s bidding, otherwise she was completely ignored. It gave pause to some who treated their own servants with less than civility or even humanity – they could salve their consciences by at least knowing that they paid for the service they so carelessly received – poor Sabrina did not even have that consolation.
It had been Verity’s idea that Mrs Woodforde bring her daughter straight into the lion’s den, otherwise known as the Pump Rooms, as soon as she had rested from her journey. The notion that they get the first impression over and done with as quickly as possible and in front of as many people as could be reasonably expected in the spa early in the day, was a good one in theory, but in retrospect Verity rather wished she had been more circumspect. Lydia was giving a very bad impression indeed, though Mrs Underwood kindly put that down to nerves. Scarcely surprising that the girl was behaving so oddly, so stiff and unfriendly, in the light of her recent loss and the fact that she must know she was being judged and found wanting by almost every person in the room.
The Wablers wasted no time in crossing the room to join the ladies as soon as they saw two new faces, one of them pretty, one very lovely indeed, and Verity was almost relieved to see them, though she knew they could be rowdy, given half the chance. She did not, naturally, confide their rather vulgar nickname to Lydia. She was not supposed to know it herself, as a matter of fact, since it was not fit for a lady to use, or so U
nderwood assured her. His own knowledge of the language of the underworld sprang from his time as a tutor at Cambridge University, since it was “all the crack” for fashionable young gentlemen to use it on every possible occasion, but naturally not in the presence of mothers, sisters or sweethearts. All she knew was that it was a soubriquet given to foot soldiers by the superior cavalry and had been mockingly applied to Thornycroft and his cronies when their injuries had robbed them of the ability to ride into battle with their former comrades-in-arms. They seemed to find it a grand joke, but Verity thought it tragic and could not see anything faintly amusing, but she accepted that perhaps the black humour was something only men who had experienced the horror or war could share.
The ladies had all seated themselves comfortably on chairs, except Sabrina, who was standing behind her mistress, her eyes downcast. The Wablers arrived in time to hear Verity offering to fetch her companions a glass each of the healing waters. Lydia at once spoke up, her voice imperious, “Nonsense Mrs Underwood, Sabrina will fetch it, you stay where you are.”
Verity was so shocked at being thus ordered that she immediately sank back on to her seat without voicing the protest which hovered on her lips. Thornycroft saw her face and understood at once how distressed she had found the incident.
“Nonsense, yourself, Miss! I shall fetch the water,” he said decisively.
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 6
