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

by Suzanne Downes

  Underwood had easily knocked up his promised half century before it was borne upon him that this was rather aggressive play for a simple village match. When his opening partner was lost and Harry joined him at the stumps, Underwood hoped things would calm down a little, but he was destined to be disappointed. Harry’s first action was to slash viciously at a ball, then yell, “YES!” at the top of his voice. Since only an idiot would attempt a run at that juncture, Underwood, with years of experience at his back, wisely ignored the instinct to obey the call and held his ground. Harry was livid to find himself run out on his first ball. Since his intention had been to run Underwood out, his fury knew no bounds and the entire village had the pleasure of seeing Sir Henry’s spoiled boy grow red in the face and throw his bat deliberately in the general direction of the vicar’s brother. That gentleman neatly side stepped the missile, then stood with one foot crossed negligently over the other and elegantly helped himself to a pinch of snuff whilst his new partner hurried across the field. The crowd went wild.

  Things calmed down a little when Abney came in to bat and Underwood was able to have a well earned rest, since the groom was one of those shy batsmen who would not dream of tapping anything beyond the odd single.

  Sir Henry scored a very respectable twenty, then it was Gil’s turn to join his brother. He waited until the last moment before shedding his coat and caused quite a stir when he walked across to the stumps, dressed in pale biscuit-coloured breeches and his shirtsleeves. For a year he had preserved his dignity, careful never to be caught out in anything other than his severe clerical garb. This casual outfit showed him to possess a figure even better than his brother’s, broader of shoulder and thighs well-muscled and clearly defined in his tight breeches. The light breeze ruffled his hair as he walked and many a feminine heart was felt to flutter. Suddenly Gil seemed very much more man than clergy, and even Charlotte was prompted to give him a second glance.

  To make his transformation even more complete, he was quite as good at cricket as was his brother and soon had thirty five to add to the rapidly rising score.

  By the time the first innings were over, Underwood could look forward to his tea with a stunning ninety three under his belt, closely followed by Gil’s forty eight.

  Charlotte flew across the field to meet and congratulate the brothers, whilst Pollock, Harry, Lithgoe and Radcliffe glowered from the sidelines.

  “Have you any idea, Charlotte, why not only Calden, but half of Bracken Tor were trying to kill me out there?” asked Underwood, smiling down at the young woman who was positively bouncing as she clung to his arm. She had the grace to look a little shame-faced, “Well, I believe Mr. Radcliffe and Mr. Lithgoe had both cherished a hope that I might accept their offers of marriage, and even Mr. Pollock had grown most particular in his attentions before you swept me off my feet.”

  “I do think you might have warned me that I was going to be facing half a dozen rejected males.” he complained, “Jealousy is a terrible thing.”

  “Do you think they are jealous?” she asked ingenuously, her green eyes peeping mischievously sideways at him. Underwood looked at her lovely face, the burnished thickness of her shining hair, “Oh, yes,” he murmured, “I think they are very jealous indeed – and with every good reason.”

  A magnificent repast had been laid on trestles under the trees which skirted the green. Sir Henry had not stinted, and there was not one female in the village who had not added a pie, cake or savoury to the haunches of roast meat Sir Henry had provided. It was a merry gathering, with food to spare and barrels of ale for any who wanted it.

  Underwood was just downing his glass of ale when a voice behind him almost made him choke; “I’m looking for a Mr. Underwood.” The voice was loud and boisterous, the voice of a young man who was vain and arrogant and well used to getting his own way. Confidence oozed from every syllable. Underwood turned, “I am Underwood,” he said shortly, “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I can do for you that counts, my friend,” answered the young fellow, grinning and making no attempt to lower his tone, “You advertised in the London papers for information concerning a young woman who was murdered here last year.”

  Underwood inwardly cringed, but there was nothing he could do to stem the flow. He did not look about him, but was even so was painfully aware that complete silence had fallen over those who were near enough to hear what was being said. He made no reply, but waited for the man to continue – useless now to try and silence him.

  “I’m here to claim the reward you offered. You see, Mary Smith was my wife.”

  There was a ripple of bemused comment, but Underwood refused to be shocked, “You have taken a great deal of time to come forward and claim her,” he said evenly. The man who claimed to be the husband of poor dead Mary was not in the least put out to be thus challenged, his grin remained firmly in place, “I’m a sailor,” he replied, “I’ve been at sea for over two years. A friend presented me with the newspaper on my return and I came straight here on the overnight mail coach.”

  Underwood decided that the interested listeners had heard quite enough and hastily brought the conversation to a close, “Very well. We cannot discuss this here and now. Are you planning to stay at the inn?”

  “I wasn’t planning to stay at all. I came to collect my money and go.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple – and nor am I! Do you think I am such a gull as to hand over large sums of money to the first man who tells his tale? I suggest you bespeak a room and I shall meet you at the inn later this evening; shall we say nine o’clock?”

  “Certainly.” The man turned and looked about him, “Do you object to my staying and watching the rest of the match?”

  Underwood objected strongly, but could hardly say so. He nodded curtly, offered food and drink, then turned his attention back to Charlotte, who, he found, had watched the whole scene unfold with astonishment and was now looking at him with worried eyes. He silently led her to a spot some distance from the crowds and invited her to sit upon his spread coat.

  “What was that man talking about?” She asked quietly. He did not immediately answer her, but addressed himself to his full plate. He chewed methodically for some moments then swallowed and spoke almost casually, “It was just as he said. I advertised in the London newspapers for information.”

  “But why? I don’t understand. What has all that to do with you?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. I merely found it untenable that anyone should be murdered and little or no attempt made to find the culprit.”

  Though she did not move a muscle, he nevertheless felt her withdraw from him, “Are you suggesting my Papa did nothing to bring the murderer to justice?” she asked icily.

  He glanced down at her stiff, white face and hastily reviewed the response he had been about to offer, “I make no such suggestion. I was not here to see what efforts were made, I only know they were unsuccessful.”

  “My father prides himself upon his sense of justice. If there had been any way of finding that girl’s murderer, he would have employed it.”

  “I have no reason to disbelieve you,” he said, determinedly taking another mouthful of food, as though hoping that the action would cut short any further discussion. For several seconds the ploy seemed to work, for she fell silent and he ate.

  “Is that why you have been asking so many questions in the village?” She had evidently used the few minutes for quiet reflection.

  He nodded curtly.

  “And Verity Chapell has been helping you, hence her sudden interest in the doings of the Court staff?”

  “Yes.”

  “You beast,” she spat viciously, “You absolute villain! How dared you?” She leapt to her feet and he was forced to grasp her wrist to prevent her from running away from him, “Come, Charlotte! Be reasonable. How have I deserved this abuse? Surely my actions have been laudable?”

  She stared contemptuously down at him, her cheeks a furious red, �
��Laudable? You have used us all. We welcomed you into our community, we gave you hospitality and respect, invited you into our homes, and all the time you were seeing each and every one of us as a potential murderer!”

  “Not you, my dear,” he protested. She wrenched her hand from his, “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

  The hurt look on his face gave her cause for hesitation, as did his next words,

  “I’m sorry you choose to see things in this light. Since you have obviously made up your mind to hate me, there is little I can say in my defence.”

  Her anger receded as quickly as it had risen. She was confused. She had lived her life with a family who repaid anger with greater anger; whoever shouted the loudest usually won the argument. She did not understand his submission, and she did not like the feelings of guilt it engendered in her. She found it was impossible to fight with one who did not fight back.

  “I suppose I should hear your defence,” she conceded gruffly, “If you think you have one.”

  He did not speak for a moment and she waited in silence for him to begin, trying not to be distracted from her fury by the way the sunlight glinted on his bright hair and how dark his eyes seemed when they looked deep into her own.

  “It was her grave, so small, overgrown and neglected. It wrung my heart to see it. No one should die like that, Charlotte, forgotten, unmourned, uncared for. I simply found I could not rest until I had righted a wrong and discovered a name to carve upon the stone. As for my secretive behaviour – that was at Gilbert’s request. He thought I should not investigate the matter for fear of rousing unpleasant memories, so I had no choice but to keep the reason for my questions to myself.”

  “Not quite to yourself,” she said harshly, “You confided in Verity.”

  “I needed her help, there was nothing more to it than that.”

  The sadness in his eyes told her that he was speaking the truth and she felt herself, almost unwillingly, sinking back onto the ground beside him.

  “Does this mean I am forgiven?”

  She looked steadfastly at her hands, intertwined in her lap, “I don’t know. Half of me can understand what you have done, the other half is still angry that you should have so deceived us all.”

  “That is not unreasonable.”

  “Do you have nothing else to say? Nothing to make me forget my anger?”

  “No.”

  His honesty was unassailable and suddenly Charlotte felt laughter welling up inside her, “You are impossible,” she said, but the laughter burst through and she could not control it, though her head told her that she had never been less amused in her life. He put his arm around her to support her lolling body, his own seriousness fading slowly as he watched her helplessness. As he looked at her, feeling her body sink against his own, he was suddenly overtaken by a desire he had never experienced before. Her laughter ceased abruptly when he kissed her and she found herself responding to his passion. In that moment she forgot everything and it was several dizzying seconds before she realized they were in plain view of the entire village and that her behaviour was that of a hoyden. She pushed him weakly away, but fortunately he too had come to his senses and he released her, hoping she didn’t notice that his breathing was faster and deeper than normal.

  “I do beg your pardon, Charlotte.”

  “Pray don’t. I was quite as much at fault. Now you must finish your tea. You have to prove yourself as good a bowler as you were a batsman.”

  He took a deep, refreshing breath, then picked up his neglected plate and began to eat the rapidly staling food. Charlotte offered to go and fetch him another glass of ale and he hoped a second glass would not prove to be an error. He could not afford to let his bowling become a thing of amusement, too many young bucks were hoping and praying to see him fail.

  As Charlotte departed, Dr. Herbert took the opportunity to join Underwood and have a quiet word, “Congratulations on your innings, Underwood. I don’t think we have ever had a higher score to chase.”

  Underwood found himself suddenly ravenous and was making up for lost time. Since his mouth was full he could not answer, but he nodded in acknowledgement of the other man’s compliment. Francis settled himself on the grass beside his friend and added softly, “Devilish unfortunate, that fellow turning up and shouting about his affairs to all and sundry. I’m afraid any attempt at secrecy is now doomed. How did Charlotte react?”

  “Badly, at first,” responded Underwood shortly.

  “You managed to explain it away, then?”

  “No, I told her the truth.”

  “Gad! That was courageous. Are you are still engaged?”

  “Only just. She could not do any other than take my actions as a personal affront to her father.”

  “Well, I suppose in a way, they are.”

  “In every way,” asserted Mr. Underwood wryly, “ and I would be astounded if he did not have something to say to me on the matter too!”

  *

  Mr. Underwood had been hoping for a little peace and quiet, in order to prepare himself for the meeting with the stranger who claimed Mary Smith as his wife, but it was a forlorn hope. No sooner had he entered the house than Mrs. Selby informed him that Mr. Renshaw had been waiting in the study for over half an hour, wanting to speak urgently to him. Underwood could not imagine what the man wanted, but he resignedly entered the room and found an exceedingly agitated man pacing the floor.

  “You wished to see me, Mr. Renshaw?”

  The older man was white and shaking and Underwood immediately took pity on him. He looked ten years older and really quite ill. Without waiting to ask he poured his visitor a brandy from the rarely used decanter.

  “Thank you,” Renshaw took the glass and drained it in one. It seemed to steady him a little for he was able to meet Underwood’s eyes and say, “What I have to tell you is not pleasant or easy, Mr. Underwood and I want you to believe I am not proud of myself, but I overheard what that young man had to say today, and I knew then I could no longer keep my secret.”

  Underwood said nothing, but raised a quizzical brow. He wondered what new revelation was about to shatter his illusions. Mr. Renshaw tried to read his companion’s face, but when Underwood gave no indication of his thoughts, he was forced to continue without the desired encouragement, “I lied when I denied all knowledge of the girl. I met her, only hours before she was killed, and I…” A dull red crept into his cheeks and Mr. Underwood compassionately finished the sentence for him, “If she did not claim you as her kin, then the only other thing she could have done to cause you such embarrassment was to solicit you. Which was it, Mr. Renshaw?”

  The old man looked confused, “How could she make claim of kinship? What gave you that idea?” Underwood waved a dismissive hand, “A theory I had. Never mind. You made love to her?” Renshaw nodded miserably, only too aware how sordid Underwood must think the incident, “I have no excuse, she offered and I could not resist accepting. I must have been mad, but it was as though I had no control over the situation. Please believe me, Underwood, I have been faithful all my life, but this chance to have another woman, just once, with no one to know, no harm done to her or my wife. It was a fumbled exercise, in a dark wood, on the cold ground and I need not scruple to tell you it was largely unsuccessful. I knew as soon as I began that I was going to regret the incident…”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “I overtook her outside the village. I was on my way back from Beconfield and was late, it was growing dark and when I saw her by the road, I stopped to offer her a ride.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Shady copse. We were not far from Wynter Court when I met her, and I knew there was no one living in the lodge at that time. I was able to drive in unchallenged and hide the carriage behind the cottage.”

  “Rather a dangerous undertaking, wandering about Sir Henry’s property. You know he lays traps.”

  “I’m invited on occasional shoots with him. I knew Shady Copse was clea
r – mainly because there is nothing there worth poaching. Too near the road to encourage much wild life.”

  Underwood wondered vaguely what had changed. There had been a trap there recently, as he knew only too well, but he had other more pressing things on his mind just then, so he dismissed the thought, “Did you kill her, Mr. Renshaw?” The question was quietly asked, but its effect was dramatic, “Dear God, no! This is what I was afraid of! The moment I knew she was dead, I knew I would be blamed. That is why I have come here to see you, Underwood. I realize now that I have been a fool to keep quiet, but I was scared witless when they found her next day. Can you imagine how I felt, knowing I was the last person to see her alive? And what would my wife have said, if she knew what I had done. We have had an exceptionally happy marriage, Underwood, despite the tragedy of losing our only son. How could I admit I had been unfaithful with the first little slut who offered herself for a few shillings?”

  “It ill behoves you to call her names, Mr. Renshaw. She had hunger and homelessness to excuse her behaviour – what reason did you have for yours? We are all what life had made us, and she seems to have paid rather heavily for her loose morals.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so. I apologise. But what am I to do now?”

  Underwood was aware that the apology was peremptory and insincere, but he left that to the older man’s conscience.

  “Answer one or two more questions, if you will. What time did you meet her?”

  “It must have been after ten.”

  “And could you describe her?”

  Renshaw shook his head regretfully, “I’m sorry, but it was dark and I was tired. I only ever saw her by the light of a horn lantern. She wore a bonnet which half covered her face – actually, now I look back on the incident, she seemed at pains to hide her face from me.” He seemed much struck by the thought, “Dear God! You don’t suppose I knew her?”