A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1)

by Suzanne Downes

  Once he was brought to death and burial, Tom waxed positively lyrical and Underwood wondered anew at people’s fascination with the hereafter. It was a theme he personally avoided with a vengeance.

  He had started to fade away again when Tom mentioned something which brought him briskly to his senses, though he showed no physical change of attitude.

  “… of course, the vicar frowned on the idea of burying the Hazelhurst woman at the crossroads, but murdered or suicide, either way she was going to walk, wasn’t she?”

  “Walk?” enquired his sleepily puzzled audience, “How could she ‘walk’ if she was dead?”

  “Ah!” commented Tom, as though his companion had made a deeply profound remark, “There you have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “The age old problem. How do you discourage the spirit from walking after death?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea. How do you?”

  “Well, of course, the best way is to bury them at the crossroads – causes confusion, you see. They rise up, but then don’t know what road to take.”

  Mr. Underwood resisted the temptation to point out that if the crossroads was known to the person in life, it followed that there was no sensible reason why the way should be suddenly forgotten after death. He was more interested in hearing what other gems of folklore might issue from Mr. Briggs.

  “Failing the crossroads – since it seems to upset the clergy so much – what other methods are there?”

  Tom looked shifty as he glanced about, apparently to ensure they were not overheard, “This must go no further – especially not to your brother.”

  “You have my word,” Underwood assured him, leaning conspiratorially closer.

  “You drive an iron spike through the body into the earth below.”

  This Underwood had not been expecting and he was taken aback for several seconds, during which time Tom slaked his thirst and held up his tankard to Jonas to be refilled. When he recovered sufficiently he asked, “Was that really done to Mrs. Hazelhurst?”

  “Aye – and others. Murdered or suicides.”

  “But why those in particular?”

  “Two of the strongest emotions in life – and death, my friend. The murdered come back looking for revenge, the suicides from remorse. It’s a mortal sin, you see.”

  Of course, thought Underwood, a mortal sin meant immediate and permanent banishment from Paradise. That being the case, there was not much else to do but return to earth and wander about scaring the wits out of simple country folk! He knew his private thoughts were unkindly cynical and mocked at strongly held beliefs, but he felt that as long as he never voiced them to the credulous Tom, they were harmless enough.

  He now felt rather inclined to leave the matter well alone, but having come this far, it seemed a pity to abandon the line of questioning, “So the murdered girl would have been similarly treated?”

  Tom did not bother to feign ignorance and enquire to which girl his companion referred. He merely glanced shrewdly at Underwood over the rim of his tankard before lowering it and replying, “Not just her, my friend!”

  “Who else?” Underwood’s voice was a barely discernible whisper, but Tom heard him.

  “Lady Wynter, for one,” was his equally quiet reply. At the sound of the familiar name every muscle and sinew in Underwood’s body stiffened, as though preparing for flight, “What?”

  “You heard me well enough, I think.”

  “What possible reason could there be in her case? I understood she died in childbirth.”

  “That’s the story Sir Henry would have everyone believe, but there were those who didn’t believe it then, and they don’t believe it now. He made no secret of the fact that he was tired of her, and was sick of her constantly giving him daughters instead of the son he longed for.”

  “But she had had a son, finally.”

  “Aye, but too late. He had taken a strong fancy to a flighty young piece from over Beconfield way and he was out of his mind to marry her. She wouldn’t give in to him, see, and he wasn’t used to being refused.”

  The Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn story, thought Underwood, suddenly realizing how easy it was to believe all this of Sir Henry. He had been aptly named.

  Underwood dragged his attention back to Tom, who was still deep in his reminiscences, “Of course, he was not short of mistresses, and there are several children born the wrong side of the blanket, but she would not even look his way, so he thought he could persuade her if he promised marriage. He thought she hankered to be a lady.”

  “But he never did marry her?”

  “No, the minute the boy was born, he became the centre of his world. The girl was nothing compared to his precious son. The minute Lady Wynter was dead, he took off to London with the child. He said he wanted the best care for the boy. Said he was born sickly and needed special treatment. He didn’t even stay for the funeral. He left the girls in the charge of the housekeeper and a governess and didn’t show his face here for over two years. When he came home the boy was the bonniest little lad you ever saw, already steady on his feet. Whatever the London treatment was, it certainly seemed to work, for the lad hasn’t ailed a day in his life since.”

  “He is a remarkably fine specimen,” admitted Mr. Underwood thoughtfully, “What happened to the young lady from Beconfield?”

  “Ran away to marry a soldier. We never saw her again.”

  “She could not possibly be the corpse in the wood, I suppose?”

  “No, too old. The doctor said the girl in the wood was probably under twenty. All this happened fifteen years ago. Alice Mills would be more than thirty now.”

  “Tell me something about the Renshaws. I understand Mr. Renshaw was born here. Did you know him as a young man?”

  “Oh aye. He did very well for himself. He inherited a small farm from his uncle, sold it to Hazelhurst’s grandfather and took the money to start a business in Manchester. I hear he could do no wrong where business was concerned and was worth a fortune by the time he was forty. They had one child – a son, but he died of the consumption when he was only in his twenties.”

  “Was the son ever married? Were there any grandchildren?”

  “Well, he never married, but that doesn’t mean there were no children, does it? Not if Sir Henry is anything to go by!” Tom laughed wickedly, but Underwood found it hard to even raise a smile. He had been given a suspect for his murder and he did not particularly like it. Could Renshaw’s son have left an illegitimate child who had come to demand her rights of the wealthy Mr. Renshaw? Was that why the man had been so uncomfortable at the mention of the girl?

  Tom watched Underwood as he sipped from his glass, his rheumy eyes slightly narrowed as though in deep thought, “You seem mighty interested in that young girl, Mr. Underwood.”

  “It is an intriguing story,” acknowledged Underwood, feeling that to deny the fact now would simply fire more interest in the old man.

  “Intriguing? Aye, I suppose that’s the word. It certainly intrigued the hell out of us here in Bracken Tor! To be left with that hanging over us for all eternity, just because one man hated another enough to try and smear his reputation.”

  If he had wanted Underwood’s full attention, Tom could not have said anything more contentious. It was a minute before Underwood gathered his thoughts enough to ask softly, “Are you trying to tell me you know who the girl was, and who killed her?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  Underwood knew a moment of gut-wrenching disappointment. Suspicion meant nothing at all. He pursued the subject though – he would hear the theory first, then judge its merit, “Go on.”

  “I reckon the girl was a nobody – a prostitute probably – but she was dumped in Sir Henry’s estate for a good reason.”

  “And that reason would be?”

  “Revenge, sir – a dish, they say, best served cold.”

  “And who in particular do you think might have hated Sir Henry enough to try and smear his
reputation with an unexplained corpse?”

  “You should ask a man you’ll find living in Beconsfield. Seb Gray is his name – one-legged Seb.”

  “Are we talking of one-legged Seb, who might perhaps be a poacher, who fell foul of one of Sir Henry’s traps?” asked Underwood, his intellect not quite as clouded by ale as he had feared.

  “Ex-poacher. You don’t hobble about muddy ground with a peg-leg when you might have to make a quick get-away. Sir Henry didn’t only take Seb’s leg with one of his confounded traps, he took three years of his life and his livelihood. I reckon Seb bided his time and dumped the body when it would make most mischief. Sir Henry was about to entertain the local gentry at his daughter’s wedding.”

  “Would you happen to know where exactly I can find Seb Gray?”

  “Happen I might know which inns he frequents the most.”

  Mr. Underwood had desired to tax his brain, and had been amply supplied. All that remained was for him to sift what he had heard and decide what was true, what was conjecture, what was malicious gossip and – the truth must be faced – what might be Tom Briggs’ idea of a joke. He was the sort who would probably think it highly amusing to fool a gullible town-dweller with his fanciful tales.

  When he had accomplished that Underwood must decide where it left him with his self-inflicted little riddle.

  He thanked Tom for his time and the entertainment he had provided, and then rose rather unsteadily to his feet.

  Tom watched him stagger towards the door with an affectionate smile on his face, “I see you gave him the unwatered, Jonas!” he called across to the landlord. Jonas was swiftly on the defensive, spluttering indignantly, “You’ll find no watered ale here, Tom Briggs and I’ll thank you to mind your tongue!”

  Mr. Underwood stumbled, blinking, into the sunlight, to the sound of a hearty quarrel issuing from the dark doorway behind him. He leaned against a convenient post for a few moments until his head ceased to swim, then began to make his unsteady way back to the vicarage.

  *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  (“Mater Familias” - The mother of a family)

  Mrs. Underwood was blond like her eldest son, but had the calm demeanour of the younger. She alighted from the London stage with not a hair out of place and seemingly completely unaffected by the long hours of rocking and bumping over largely unmade road, and a night in a posting house, which now lay behind her.

  She kissed both her sons with equal affection, but the very observant might have noticed an especially worried look in her grey eyes as the scanned her elder child’s face. She had heard of his troubles through letters from Gil and it was this alone which had brought her to Bracken Tor just then, though she had been planning the trip for quite a while beforehand.

  “How lovely of you both to come and meet me. Such an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Nothing could have kept us away,” asserted Mr. Underwood, unblushing and with his most charming smile. Now that he was with his mother, he had entirely forgotten his determination to avoid her. His mother, however, knew quite well that she was being flattered and tapped his cheek in mock annoyance, “Behave yourself!”

  There was a loud thud on the ground behind them as the luggage was heaved from the top of the coach and unceremoniously dropped to the floor, raising a cloud of choking dust. Rev. Underwood ran to retrieve it, throwing an irritated glance in the direction of the unheeding coachman.

  Whilst his attention was thus distracted, Mrs. Underwood took the opportunity to have a private word with her eldest, “Are you well, my son? I have been worried about you.”

  Underwood put a comforting arm about her shoulders, “No need, I do assure you. I have told you often enough not to waste your thoughts on me. I should concentrate on Gil, if I were you. Now there’s a man in need of solace. You have sent him almost to the point of apoplexy with your little announcement!”

  “Oh dear,” said his mother absently, not sounding in the least concerned, “Which announcement was that, my love?”

  Underwood was well aware that his mother’s apparent abstraction served exactly the same purpose as his own – it was a very useful device for drawing attention away from a subject which was inconvenient or unpleasant. Being a master of this particular trick, he was not about to be taken in by his mother.

  “The news of your forthcoming nuptials,” he explained patiently.

  “Oh that,” she declared dismissively, drawing on her gloves and fixing them firmly by the simple expedient of pressing her index finger between each other finger, “I really don’t see why that should have upset Gil, my dear. It is not as though either of you lives at home any longer, now is it? My marriage will have little effect on your daily lives.”

  Gilbert rejoined them at this moment and asked brightly – rather too brightly, thought Underwood, “Shall we be on our way? There is still some distance to travel, and I know Mrs. Selby will be eager to welcome you, Mother.”

  From this Underwood assumed, correctly, that the vicar had known exactly what their conversation entailed and felt it entirely inappropriate that it should take place on the public highway.

  Presently, all the luggage safely stowed; the family was bound, at a sedate trot, towards Bracken Tor in the dilapidated carriage owned by the vicarage, drawn by one of Tom Briggs’ hired horses. The Rev. Underwood did not keep a horse of his own, though the vicarage did boast a stable, for he could not justify the expense of an ostler when he so rarely found himself needing transport. He was fond of walking, and there were very few of his parishioners who lived beyond his range. That his brother was not fond of walking and was finding the lack of transport an inconvenience was of no concern to him.

  Gil was handling the reins, very inexpertly in his brother’s opinion, but he kindly no comment and turned his attention to their mother, “How are the family, Mother?” This question was prompted, not by filial devotion, but from an awareness that Mrs. Underwood could happily discuss her family for hours on end and once started, no further input would be required from her sons.

  “Uncle George is suffering badly with gout,” she answered.

  “Serves him right,” intercepted the vicar, in a most unchristian tone of voice, “He drinks too much. I have told him often enough that his over-indulgence would end in some such way.”

  “As I recall, he called you a ‘priggish young puppy’ when you delivered that particular sermon,” said Underwood, with a wry grin.

  “Now, now, boys! Enough of that, thank you, kindly remember that Uncle George is my favourite brother,” said Mrs. Underwood calmly.

  “Uncle George is an outrageous old rip, and if you knew half the things he had done in the past…”

  “Tut, tut!” interjected Underwood hastily, “Gil, I don’t know if these details are fit for a ladies ears – and you really should try to remember you are a man of the cloth.”

  The reverend gentleman had the grace to blush and subside into a rather sulky silence.

  Underwood, recalling that there were very of their relations of whom Gil approved, decided that it was altogether too unsafe a topic and guided his mother’s conversation along other lines, “Are we to be allowed to know to whom you have plighted your troth, Mother? Your rather cryptic missive held no hint.”

  When he felt, rather than saw, his brother stiffen beside him, he realized he had made yet another tactical error, but it was too late to withdraw from the fray now – and it was something which was going to have to be faced sooner or later, so let it be sooner, by all means.

  To the surprise of the brothers, Mrs. Underwood began to laugh heartily, “Oh dear me!”

  “Perhaps you would care to share the jest, Mother,” said Gil testily, “I own I see nothing in the situation to laugh at myself.”

  “You would if you had witnessed General Milner struggling up off his knees after he had made his proposal,” she answered, taking her handkerchief from her reticule and wiping her eyes.

  “Good God! General Miln
er must be ninety if he’s a day,” exclaimed Underwood.

  “Nonsense, Chuffy. Don’t be unkind,” chided Mrs. Underwood, with great dignity, “He is exactly the same age as your dear Papa would have been, had he lived.”

  Since the brothers always thought of their father as the relatively young man he had been at the time of his death, this came as rather a shock and they both needed a few moments to digest this information.

  “So, you actually intend to go through with this folly?” said Gil presently, in a sarcastic tone which he tried hard to disguise, and which he immediately regretted when he heard the hurt gasp of his mother’s intaken breath, “Gil!”

  In his anguish he simply dropped the reins and turned to his mother, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Dash it all, Gil!” yelled Underwood, “Are you trying to tumble us all into a ditch?”

  Gil was too busy trying to take Mrs. Underwood’s hands in his own to take any notice of his struggling sibling, “Mother, I apologise and retract. That was unforgivable.”

  “Yes, Gil, it was, but I do forgive you. I understand this had all come as a terrible shock to you both, but I think you ought to try and see my own dilemma,” said Mrs. Underwood reasonably, “I rarely see either of you – you have your own lives after all, and that is how it should be, but I do feel terribly lonely sometimes, and General Milner has always been exceedingly kind – and I have to say – constant.”

  “But you know you are more than welcome to come and live with me,” protested Gil, “I have asked you often enough.”

  His mother smiled gently and patted his cheek, “Now, my dear boy, you know how I despise women who hang onto their son’s coat-tails. And if I was to be there to look after you, you should never feel the need to find yourself a wife. No, I’m quite determined to see my grandchildren out of short-coats before I die – though you two are making it less and less likely.”