Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  “That makes sense with what we know now, for he did not dare to let her find him or he would be undone and all his schemes come to nothing. She would have known at once Silas Woodforde was dead and she could take her child back.” Another thought struck him, and he exclaimed, “Good God, that means you are only nineteen! It never occurred to me that you were so young.”

  For the first time she looked apprehensive, “You think me too young, sir?” she asked hesitantly.

  He grasped her hand under the table, “The problem is not your youth, but my age! I am five and thirty – far too old for you, sweeting!”

  She looked at him with those huge brown eyes, “They say it is better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave!” she joked, “Though in my case, it would of course be the other way around!” Toby could not help laughing, though in truth he was still more than a little concerned. Perhaps he was wrong to pursue her when she had youth on her side. She sensed his hesitation and looked more melancholy than he had ever seen her, “Would you abandon me simply because I had the misfortune to be born too late?” she asked softly. Toby glanced at the children to make sure they were fully occupied, then turned back to her and kissed her on the lips, “I will never abandon you,” he promised and he meant every word.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Hoc Volo, Sic Jubeo, Sit Pro Ratione Voluntas” – The fact that I wish it is reason enough to do it

  Underwood reached the hall and wondered which direction to take. His initial instinct told him to head for the front door and leave the house with all possible despatch; however, he knew that, sooner or later, he was going to have to face the lawyer Attridge, so it might as well be now.

  Fortunately, at that moment, a maid came through the green baize door at the far end of the hall, tucked away under the stairs, and as she was bearing a heavily laden tray, he guessed she was bringing the promised tea, so he followed her into what he now presumed was the drawing room.

  Attridge did not rise to his feet when the servant entered, but he rose when he noticed Underwood in her wake, and held out his hand, “Mr Underwood, I gather?”

  He was a younger man than Underwood was expecting, probably less than thirty, which spoke volumes of his ambition and determination, for at his age it might be expected that he would still be working towards becoming a partner in an established firm, rather than running his own offices, as would seem to be the case. Underwood admitted that he was an extremely good-looking young man, with dark hair and the sort of saturnine looks which evidently cause a flutter in the female breasts, certainly if one could take the evidence presented in novels. His smile was disarming but Underwood was on his guard, as advised by Miss Greenhowe. She might very well be befuddled, but Underwood had found her to be curiously shrewd.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Attridge, is it?”

  “It is. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Underwood took leave to doubt it, but he merely nodded in acknowledgement, then took a seat, obeying a gesture by the other man.

  “You have been to see Miss Greenhowe, I understand?”

  “I have. A very interesting lady.”

  Attridge raised a quizzical brow, “Really? I’m surprised you found her so. For my own part I have always seen her as a decrepit body and a destroyed mind, but perhaps you have experienced one of her ‘good days’, of which I confess I have been told, but have always assumed to be mythical.”

  “Not mythical at all, sir, I do assure you. Miss Greenhowe and I had a most illuminating chat.”

  “How intriguing,” Attridge began to pour the tea, “milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk,” said Underwood, “thank you.” He took the proffered cup and saucer and sat back in the chair, prepared to make himself comfortable. He had the feeling that this might be a long conversation. Attridge was going to try and extract information and Underwood fully intended to block him at every opportunity.

  “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask the content of discussion?”

  “It would be presumptuous in the extreme,” said Underwood pleasantly, “Miss Greenhowe may be elderly and confused, but she still has the right to privacy. Something which seems to be oddly absent in this house.”

  The younger man smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly expression, “Of course she does, but you must understand, sir, that I have no idea who you are and I have a duty to protect my client.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that you have her welfare at heart.”

  “First, last and always,” Attridge assured him, “and with that in mind, I must ask you to desist from questioning Miss Greenhowe on subjects that can only distress her.”

  “Since you have no way of knowing the content of my discussion with Miss Greenhowe, then I would suggest that yet again you are being presumptuous, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I mind very much, Mr Underwood. I am doing my best to remain pleasant, but I must own you are getting dangerously close to annoying me – and I may warn you that is not a particularly good idea.”

  Underwood looked thoughtfully at him, “What exactly are you and Mr Luckhurst afraid of, Mr Attridge? I venture to suggest that either you or he have already tried to scare me away from my investigation, but if you both believe Rutherford Petch is guilty and has been transported justifiably, then why all these threats?”

  Attridge displayed two spots of high colour in his cheeks, but he admirably kept his demeanour unruffled, “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.”

  “Do you not? Ah, well, perhaps I am wrong, but it tends to foster suspicion when one is looking down the barrel of a pistol.”

  For the first time Attridge gave himself away, “Those blithering idiots!” he snapped, then closed his lips into a thin, grim line when he realized what he had said.

  Underwood smiled, “As I suspected, you and your friend Luckhurst were behind that particular little adventure. I really do seem to be worrying you both. I wonder why? Could it be that poor Rutherford has been the subject of a gross miscarriage of justice?”

  “That was Luckhurst’s doing and I have no reason to believe that he was not being truthful. It had nothing to do with me. I’ve merely done my duty by Miss Greenhowe. Toft was defrauding the estate. I have proof.”

  “No, you do not!” said Underwood harshly, “You may have fabricated evidence, but I have met Toft and I believe him to be another victim of your greed. I don’t know what sort of a deal you have with Luckhurst, I suspect you both plan a profitable future, running this estate, probably with no compassion at all towards the poor souls who rely on you for fairness in your dealings.”

  “There is no law against making a profit, Mr Underwood,” said the lawyer, with an unpleasant smirk, “And good luck to you in proving that both Toft and Rutherford are innocent. I think they are them both firmly in the frame!”

  “Not that firmly, or you would not be concerned by my activities. Take fair warning, Attridge, I fully intend to find the diamonds and bring Rutherford back from Australia – and when I do, you and your partner will be taking his place on a prison ship!”

  With that Underwood put his empty cup on the tray and took his leave.

  He debated going straight back to his lodgings in Midmickle, but after some thought he decided to ride first into West Wimpleford to the apothecary shop, which turned out to be a convenient move, for he was overtaken by sickness again, though not with such virulence as before, and he wondered if it were simply a rather extreme reaction to the tension engendered by the unpleasantness of the clash with Attridge. Verity had warned him that he was not fully recovered and it would seem she was right.

  When he walked into the shop, green about the gills, Jebson looked at him with some concern, “Are you sure this is just the remnants of your previous illness, Mr Underwood? You look very pale indeed.”

  “Queer as Dick’s hatband,” asserted the young apprentice from behind the counter. Jebson quelled
his presumption with a severe glance, “You, boy, hold your tongue and take care of the shop while I take the gentleman into the back room.”

  Once seated Underwood began to feel a little less queasy and gratefully accepted the offer of tea, “The stuff Attridge served up was quite unpalatable. It had obviously been left to stew for far too long.”

  Jebson frowned, “Tell me, did Attridge drink any of the brew?”

  Underwood took a moment to think about it, “Now you come to mention it, I don’t believe he did.”

  “Umm. That doesn’t sound good to me.”

  Underwood forced a laugh, “Come now, my dear fellow, you can’t seriously believe that he dosed me? Really, you are as bad as my wife. She was convinced Brodie had slipped something noxious into my wine. What are the chances of two men trying to poison me within the space of a week?”

  “Considering what they have at stake, I think the chances are fairly high, Mr Underwood. In both cases you stand between them and a very great deal of money. You must know that men have killed for much less. I would be very careful what I eat and drink from now on if I were you.”

  “I shall do so, I assure you. If that was poisoning, I have no wish to experience it again. Quite apart from feeling dreadful, the loss of dignity is mortifying!”

  Jebson smiled at his melodramatic visitor and the emphasis he placed on these last words, “I’m sure it is. Now will you take some advice from me and accept an emetic? The result won’t be pleasant, but it will clear any residue.”

  “I think not, thank you all the same. I’m feeling much better – and the ditch just outside Pershore House can attest to the fact that there can be very little residue!”

  Miss Fettiplace arrived before Underwood had finished his tea, fluttering as usual with agitation and excitement, “My dear Mr Underwood, I am so sorry that I was not at the house to meet you. At the very last moment my poor nerves could not take the strain of all the subterfuge. I’m such a goose that I ran away, pretending I had shopping to do for Miss Greenhowe, but of course, there was no such errand.”

  She was breathless and red in the face and Jebson was seriously concerned for her heart, so he gently persuaded her into the only other chair in the room and put a cup of tea into her hands, “Take some deep breaths, Miss Fettiplace, and try to calm down.”

  She did as he requested and presently she had recovered enough to sip her tea and ask Underwood what had occurred in her absence. He gave her a shortened version of his conversation with Miss Greenhowe and his later confrontation with Attridge, at which she gasped in horror, “Oh dear, oh dear, he is such a bad man! I knew he was behind all this. Ormond is far too stupid to have planned all this alone.”

  Underwood doubted Luckhurst’s stupidity, but believed sincerely in his cupidity.

  “Tell me, Miss Fettiplace, did the search for the diamonds include the stables?” he asked, when she had calmed enough to think clearly.

  “I believe so, but I doubt Miss Greenhowe could have ventured outdoors without being seen. She hid the necklace somewhere within easy reach of her room, I am sure. She can walk a little, but not far enough to descend the stairs and make her way out side and across the stable yard.”

  Underwood pondered this. Miss Greenhowe had very definitely mentioned horses, in fact she had done so twice. If not in the stables, where else might one find a horse in a grand house?

  “Miss Fettiplace, can you give me a comprehensive description of every room in the house? Start with the first floor and travel upwards. I need to know what is in every chamber, paintings, ornaments, furniture.”

  She looked suitably daunted, “It is a very large house, Mr Underwood,” she ventured diffidently.

  “I know that, but it is very important. Tell me everything you can remember.”

  Jebson looked from one face to the other and sighed, “I’ll make more tea, shall I?” he said.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Extinctus Amabitur Idem” – How quickly we forget

  Miss Fettiplace had reached the third floor before Underwood stopped her, clapping his hands together and smiling triumphantly, “I’ve got it! I believe I know where the diamonds are.”

  The elderly lady stared at him; unable to fathom what on earth she had said which could possibly have led him to this astounding conclusion, “Are you sure? Where then? Do tell!”

  “I’m as sure as I can be. But I need to tread carefully. It is vital that Luckhurst and Attridge are given no chance to remove the stones before I have exposed their perfidy.”

  “We must go to the house now, right this very minute and get them,” declared Miss Fettiplace firmly, “Poor Rutherford must not be allowed to wait another moment for his freedom.”

  Underwood was amused by her enthusiasm and held up a calming hand, “My dear lady, with the best will in the world, it will be some months before Rutherford is freed and sets foot back on English soil.”

  “But still, we can start the process right this very moment,” she argued, trying to rise to her feet, but staggering slightly. She felt quite faint with the shock of his pronouncement on top of the dashing about she had done that day.

  “I’m sorry, but that is the last thing we should do. If you and I were to go into that house now and produce the diamonds, Luckhurst and Attridge would find some way of turning it upon us and blaming us – more especially you, as you are in the house all the time – for their theft. Don’t you see that for us to know where they are hidden can only point to us putting them there in the first place? No, I’m afraid we must play the game much more subtly than that.”

  “Then what do we do now?”

  “You shall go home; I shall go back to Midmickle. Leave this to me, Miss Fettiplace – and for God’s sake, do not mention to anyone that I know where the diamonds are! My life would certainly be forfeit if that was known before I had brought them forth in front of witnesses.”

  She looked horrified, “Oh dear, oh dear,” this seemed to be the most extreme expression she knew and Underwood was secretly amused that she was such an innocent that this mild exclamation was the limit of her vocabulary.

  Jebson also looked worried, “Mr Underwood, I really fear for you. Please let me come and see you safe back to Midmickle. I don’t trust Attridge not to try something. I fear he already has.”

  His reward was a smile and a pat on the back, “I’ll gladly accept your company, Will. I believe I’m safe enough for the moment, but one can never be too careful and it would be a sad mistake for anyone to attack two of us.”

  It did not take long for Jebson to go across the road to the inn and hire a hack for the day. Within the hour he and Underwood were travelling at a sedate pace towards Midmickle, enjoying the mild September weather and conversing as they went.

  “Tell me, Mr Underwood, do you really think you know where the necklace is?”

  Underwood, who had now had time to consider his position, was rather regretting his hasty words. The truth was, he was convinced he had solved Miss Greenhowe’s riddle and knew where she had hidden the necklace – or at least the vicinity in which she had stowed it, but as to whether the jewels were still there was an entirely different matter. Miss Greenhowe, in her confused state, could very well have moved it again – possibly even several times. Luckhurst may have found it and disposed of it in the twelve months or more since its disappearance. Any one of the servants might have come across it when cleaning or tidying things away; and who could blame them if they had kept hold of an item which in the eyes of everyone, was already lost.

  “I’m less confidant now than I was,” he admitted, “I know where it ought to be – but what if someone else has also listened to the old lady’s ramblings and taken heed of them as I have, instead of dismissing them as the product of a deranged mind? We may be too late, Will, that is my real fear.”

  “We can only go and look. We have no other choice, but I agree with your comments to Miss Fettiplace – how can we go into the house and b
ring out the jewels without Luckhurst and Attridge beating us to the goal?”

  “I have the beginnings of a plan, but I need some information first. Tell me, does the Constable of Midmickle have the same close relationship with Mr Luckhurst or Mr Attridge as that of the authorities in West Wimpleford? I need a lawman I can trust but at this rate I’ll be going home to Hanbury and dragging Sir George Gratten back here with me.”

  Jebson shook his head, “I don’t think so. Luckhurst seems to confine his interests to Wimpleford and the three small villages on the other side of the estate. Midmickle belongs to another family entirely and I don’t believe there is any love lost between the two families. There are always disputes over land going back hundreds of years in these little county towns. It is quite often the only excitement on offer.”

  “The man prefers to be a big fish in a little pond then, rather than the reverse,” said Underwood, thinking that perhaps the man’s ego might, for once, work in his favour. “I wonder, then, if the Constable of Midmickle can be persuaded to witness the finding of the Greenhowe necklace. Well, there’s only one way to find out and that’s to ask him. I can only hope he doesn’t still hold me under suspicion of being accessory to a highwayman.”

  His companion looked suitably startled, “I beg your pardon? Did you say highwayman? Don’t tell me you were involved in that hold up a week or so ago? I must say that now you mention it, it was on the day you left but I foolishly never connected the two events.”

  “I suspect they were deliberately sent to warn me off,” said Underwood, and gave Jebson a graphic and somewhat exaggerated description of his brush with death. With hindsight he was more aware of his mortality than he had been at the time, and more than ever convinced that the highwayman had intended to shoot him down in cold blood, rather than the more probable explanation that he would simply be threatened if he didn’t immediately drop the Petch investigation. Surely though, if the man had really intended to assassinate him, he would simply have shot him as he sat in the coach, unprotected and unable to defend himself or even run, rather than invite him to step out onto the road? Underwood, of course, had no notion of the man’s real intention and veered between the two scenarios with alarming regularity. It still chilled him to the bone knowing that it was by the merest chance that the ‘widow’ had also been taking the coach and had defended herself and Underwood in the most brutal but effective way imaginable.