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

by Suzanne Downes

  When he heard some animal snuffling amongst the dusty remnants of last year’ fallen leaves, he wondered what it might be. The sight of a badger shambling out on its nightly forage, or a fox darting in the moonlight, its eyes glinting coldly as it stared at them, was something he would have given much to witness. However, logic told him that such an eventuality was unlikely. Sir Henry’s bloodlust must surely have cleared his estate of such vermin many years ago.

  As though the thought had given birth to the deed, a shot suddenly rang out and Underwood instinctively shied. Behind him Blake was not so lucky. He crashed to the ground with a sickening thud; the breath forced from his body in a strangled gasp by the impact.

  It was several seconds before Underwood could gather his shocked wits sufficiently to understand what had happened. Blake lay on the drive, face upward, his arms thrown wide, his eyes open, staring, shining slightly with reflected moonlight, a dark stain spread across his body. Underwood knew he was dead, but still he forced himself to approach the man, to try and find a pulse in the neck, the wrist. There was not even a flutter.

  As he knelt there alone in the moonlight, vainly struggling to find some evidence of life in the young man who had only moments before been complaining of his utter exhaustion, Underwood was struck by a dizzying nausea, which he had to close his eyes against and fight. He could not allow himself the luxury of a faint here; for one thing it was not safe. Whoever had shot Blake might even now be reloading his gun. With a supreme effort he gathered the strength to stagger to his feet and set off at an unsteady run back to Wynter Court.

  With little thought for the sleeping inmates of the house, he raised the great knocker and hammered it against the door with all his might. The crashing reverberated through the building and presently the light of a single candle could be seen through the windows on either side of the door, gliding in a ghostly fashion down the stairs.

  Brownsword, for he it was, his coat drawn hastily over his night-shirt, opened the door to the ashen-faced Underwood, and before he could demand an explanation for the outcry, the man stumbled into the hall and sank into a convenient chair, “Fetch help!” he gasped, struggling for breath; “There’s been an accident.”

  Roused by the noise several members of the family now gathered on the landing, looking over the banisters into the hall below. It was thus Charlotte saw her pale and obviously shaken beau and with a faint scream, she ran to his side, only to recoil in horror when she noticed his blood-soaked sleeve, “My God! What has happened to you, Underwood?”

  “It’s not my blood,” he assured her soothingly, “I must have brushed against poor Blake.”

  She shook her head, “It is yours,” she said breathlessly, “Your coat is torn and I can see the wound.”

  Underwood glanced down and realized she spoke the truth. The material of the upper arm of his coat was jaggedly torn, and blood oozed from the flesh beneath. He had heard only one shot, so the bullet which killed Blake must have skimmed past him first, catching his arm. He had felt nothing at the time, but now his face drained completely of colour, his eyes closed and he slid gracefully to the floor in a dead faint.

  Charlotte shrieked at Brownsword to fetch brandy, a doctor, and anything else he could think of which might be helpful, whilst Jane sensibly hoisted the inert Underwood into a sitting position and gently slapped his cheeks until he opened his eyes.

  Once the situation had been explained, Underwood was led by the solicitous Charlotte to the parlour, where he was persuaded to lie on the sofa to await the doctor’s arrival, whilst Abney and two footmen were despatched to search for the body of the unfortunate Blake. Harry, who had arrived rather belatedly on the scene, was sent to fetch Dr. Herbert on his fastest steed.

  Brownsword was sent to rouse the master of the house, who had, apparently, slept through the whole drama. Knowing him to have been drunk only an hour or so before, Underwood was scarcely surprised that he had heard none of the hysteria which had taken place directly beneath his room.

  Charlotte seated herself on a footstool at Underwood’s side and alternately held his hand and bathed his brow with cold water whilst occasionally waving sal volatile under his nose. He kept his eyes firmly closed; hardly aware of his loved one’s ministrations. A dull ache had set into his arm and he was suffering from severe shock, brought on not only by his injury, but also by the increasing certainty that he had brushed as close to death as he was ever likely to without succumbing. A matter of inches had saved him and condemned Blake.

  He fully realized that it had been his startled movement when he heard the shot which had probably saved his life – but had it been an accident? Some poacher who had seen the unexpected movement in the moonlight and assumed he was seeing a deer? Or was his own sinister suspicion the truth, that someone had meant to kill him and the unlucky Blake had received a shot meant for him?”

  He sat bolt upright as another thought struck him, making Charlotte jump nervously before recovering herself and gently pressing him back into a prone position.

  Had the shot been meant for Blake? Had he known more than he had told? Had he perhaps known all along who had killed the woman who called herself Mary Smith, and had that murderer killed again to ensure his secret was never revealed? Where had Mr. Renshaw gone after he had left the vicarage?

  Underwood allowed his features to relax into the serenity of sleep, but behind the expressionless mask his mind was a swirling, bubbling eddy of confused thought, with the occasional piece of flotsam thrown to the surface, to be caught, retained and examined further at a later date.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  (“Littera Scripta Manet” - What is written is permanent)

  Though he would never have thought it possible, Underwood did fall into a light doze and was wakened only by the sound of Dr. Herbert’s voice breaking through the veil of sleep.

  “What have you been doing to yourself?” he enquired, in the hearty tone that is supposed to instil confidence and take the patient’s mind off their ills. The glance which Underwood cast him left him in no doubt that this was the wrong approach for this particular sufferer. He hastily sent Charlotte to fetch water and cloths and carried a chair to the side of the sofa.

  “I assume I made no mistake and the man was beyond help?” asked Underwood, as the doctor sat beside him.

  “You made no error, my friend, I’m sorry.”

  “For me, or for him?”

  “For both of you, if you must have it. He may be dead, but your experience cannot have been altogether pleasant.”

  “Not altogether.”

  Francis bade him shift into a sitting position and helped him remove his coat, saying as he did so, “You are a lucky man, Underwood.”

  “More fortunate than Blake, certainly,” agreed Underwood bitterly.

  The doctor deftly cut away the material of his shirtsleeve, exposing the injury to view, “A mere scratch. Nothing to concern you there.” Underwood forced himself to look and was humiliated to see that the wound was indeed a scratch. To have fainted on account of it was mortifying, but the circumstances were rather exceptional, and he had no way of knowing it had been so minor.

  “I understand you heard only one shot, so the bullet must have brushed past you before it hit poor Blake.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “What a damnable thing! A tragic accident. No doubt it was some half-witted poacher who mistook you for a deer.”

  “Francis,” protested Underwood, “It was almost as bright as day out there this evening. I could see the individual leaves on the trees. And I have yet to see a deer carrying a lantern. Any man who was a good enough shot to hit a man in the heart, in moonlight, was blessed with sight good enough to know the difference between men and beasts.”

  “Are you saying you don’t believe it was an accident?”

  “I have my doubts.”

  Further conversation was halted by the arrival of Charlotte, bearing a basin and ewer filled with h
ot water. Dr. Herbert relieved her of her burden and said, “You may wait outside, Charlotte. It would be unseemly for you to remain here with Underwood stripped to the waist.”

  “Oh, what nonsense! We are to be married soon, and I have seen Harry thus hundreds of times.”

  “And when you are married, Underwood will be your business – until then OUT!” She went sulkily away, but not before flashing a pert smile in Underwood’s direction.

  Francis said nothing more until he had helped his patient out of his shirt, then he began to clean the wound with the hot water Charlotte had brought him, ignoring Underwood’s winces, “I don’t know what to say, Underwood, except that it seems highly far-fetched to think anyone would make an attempt on your life.”

  “What other explanation is there? Blake lies dead and but for a chance movement, it might have been me.”

  “But who could possibly have known you would be out there, and at what time?”

  “Unfortunately, any number of people. Sir Henry sent Abney to collect us from the inn. He didn’t find us there, but who knows who heard him ask for us? As you can imagine the inn was particularly lively, due to the success of the cricket match. It is going to be almost impossible to prove or disprove anyone’s knowledge of my whereabouts – as for time, well, they need only hide amongst the trees, knowing that sooner or later we must pass. Only one thing puzzles me, they ought to have been expecting us to return in the carriage – I certainly was.”

  “Sir Henry did not offer you a carriage in which to return to the vicarage?”

  “On the contrary, he took great delight in telling us he had sent Abney to bed and we would have to walk.”

  “So, Sir Henry was the only man who knew you were on foot?”

  Underwood stared at Francis for several minutes, a faint frown creasing his brow. At last he shook his head, as though to dislodge an unworthy thought, “Sir Henry was drunk when we left him. He couldn’t have hit a barn door. Also Abney knew, and anyone in the house might have overheard the conversation or known of Sir Henry’s plans.”

  “True enough. Of course we are assuming that this is all connected with Mary Smith. We might be quite wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was more than one man lusting after your blood this afternoon.”

  “Charlotte’s disappointed suitors, do you mean? No, I refuse to believe any one of them feels strongly enough to commit murder.”

  “That may not have been the intention. Perhaps they hoped to frighten you into leaving Bracken Tor. It is the sort of hot-headed recklessness for which young men are renowned; a warning shot which tragically found a target.”

  Underwood had to admit his friend had found a plausible theory, but he was tired and could not find the necessary energy to even think about it just then. He winced as the doctor tied the final knot in his bandage, “Thank you,” he said, deeply sardonic. Francis grinned, “I suggest you accept Sir Henry’s hospitality for the night. Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning. I shall call to make sure there are no unexpected problems and that you have no fever, then you can go back to the vicar.”

  “God! My mother will have an apoplexy when she hears of this.”

  “I’ll drop in a note on my way home, assuring them of your safety.”

  “Thank you once again.” This time his voice was sincere and Francis gripped his good shoulder with an affectionate hand, “I’m very glad to be of service, my friend.”

  Reluctantly Underwood allowed Charlotte to arrange for a bed in the ‘blue room’ to be made up and warmed, then accepted her assistance in climbing the stairs. He tried not to think that whilst he was enjoying the warmth of a feather bed, Blake was laid on a sheep hurdle in an empty stable, a hole in his heart and his lifesblood staining the fine embroidery of his new waistcoat.

  He wished now that he had given the man his purse of money and sent him back to London on the first available coach.

  *

  Charlotte allowed him to sleep late the next morning, then brought him a tray piled high with cold meats, bread and a pot of coffee. Underwood did not have the heart to tell her that he had never felt less like eating, and anyway, he always started his day with tea. He was making a valiant effort when the lightest of tapping sounded on his bedroom door.

  It was Verity Chapell, who entered like a thief, looking about her as though she expected hidden observers in every corner. Mr. Underwood watched these actions with some amusement before asking, “What exactly are you doing, Verity?”

  “I need to speak to you,” she told him in hushed tones.

  “Then speak, and stop looking about you like that. You have a most unpleasant cunning expression on your face.”

  “I don’t want to be caught in here. It would be unseemly, to say the least.”

  “Unseemly for one of my friends to come and enquire after my health? For heaven’s sake, sit down.”

  She did as she was asked, but still seemed ill at ease. He looked at her, suddenly realizing he had not laid eyes on her since their interview with Seb Gray. She had even missed her Latin lesson, though he had not been overly concerned at the time. She was a little pale and tired looking. He wondered if Edwin Wynter had been bullying her again.

  “What did you wish to see me about?”

  “Last night. I’m so relieved you were not badly hurt.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot help wishing Blake had been as fortunate. I feel responsible for his death.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for that,” she protested, “Blake was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yes, but it was I who brought him here.”

  “Nonsense! Greed brought him here, nothing more. I don’t believe for a moment that he was married to our girl, do you?”

  Underwood admitted that he did not, “But he paid a very high price for his avarice!” he added rather bitterly.

  “Where do we go from here?” she asked, ignoring his last remark.

  “I’m not sure we go anywhere, Verity. I cannot help feeling that we may have reached the end of the road.”

  Verity was appalled, “You cannot mean that, Underwood. Whoever killed Mary Smith probably killed Blake too. You said yourself that we needed them to make an error so that we could trap them. This could be that error.”

  He held up a calming hand, “Hold hard, Miss Chapell. We have no proof that Blake’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.”

  “Do you believe it was?” she retorted disdainfully. Underwood gave a rather more careful answer than was his wont, “What I believe does not matter. I cannot prove it.”

  Verity looked into his eyes, but his glance dropped away and he began to scan his breakfast tray, as though to spot a tasty morsel. She rose to her feet; “You know who committed both murders, don’t you?”

  “No,” his answer was short, but still he would not meet her gaze. Anger made the blood drain from her face, “You snivelling coward,” she hissed, “It has grown too dangerous for you, so you are going to give up. I thought I had met a man with more backbone than that.”

  That made him look up and though his voice was even when he responded, she knew he was suppressing a burning fury, “If you think it was because I was shot at, you are wrong. I’m not afraid of injury or death, when right is at stake, but I am very afraid of the hurt I could cause to the innocent in all this. Blake is dead! How many more lives will be ruined if we pursue this matter? Gil was right; I should never have interfered in things I knew nothing about.”

  “You did not feel that way when we began. I suppose it is your precious Charlotte who has changed your mind. Did she throw a tantrum because you have upset her darling papa?”

  Underwood folded his lips as if he could stem the flow of words he longed to throw back at her. He had never expected to hear such vitriol pouring from her puritanical little person and he was shocked and distressed by it, as well as stinging beneath the lash of her unfair criticism.

  “Verity
…” he started to plead with her, but she had gone beyond being placated. For a whole year she had borne abuse, bullying, criticism, unkindness and condescension. Underwood had inadvertently opened the floodgates of her repressed emotions and now he would have to bear the consequences.

  “Be damned to you! Don’t make your pathetic excuses to me, I don’t want to hear them. You go and play the lover with your pretty mistress and I shall find Mary’s murderer alone!”

  With that she stormed out and slammed the door behind her, little caring that she was drawing attention now to her presence in his room. She hoped Charlotte came to know of it and sent him about his business with a flea in his ear.

  Underwood was left with even less appetite for his breakfast than before and with even more to think about when he returned to the vicarage.

  *

  A procession of visitors followed, effectively preventing him from getting out of bed and dressing himself, which was all he really wanted to do. Charlotte was accompanied by Dr. Herbert, who declared him fit enough to go home – but more importantly, not quite well enough to attend the inquest on the death of Blake, which was to be opened that afternoon in the Wynter Arms.

  Underwood held up his hand, “Don’t tell me any more. Sir Henry is also the local Coroner, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  He said nothing more, in deference to the presence of his betrothed.

  Just then his mother and brother arrived and after exchanging pleasantries, the doctor and Charlotte left them together.

  Gil looked suitably grave, in the light of the tragic death of Blake, and Mrs. Underwood was bravely tearful, immensely relieved that her boy had not been the fatality, but trying hard not to show it, since any such display of emotion was bound to embarrass her elder son.