Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  Verity had to admit the theory was not without foundation, but there was still a large part of her that resented Underwood’s freedom to take himself off on a whim, leaving her with the day-to-day cares with which he rarely concerned himself. However, she reflected ruefully, she was fully aware of his nature when she married him and there was very little point in expressing dissatisfaction now – and, after all, his good traits far outweighed the bad – well, most of the time.

  “Oh, very well, Cadmus, I have no further objections to offer, but be aware that this had better not be a wild goose chase or you will be required to pay a forfeit.”

  He smiled and kissed his wife, who pretended to push him away, but made sure the rebuff could not be taken as genuine, “Your wish shall be my command, my sweet,” he promised, “Now, what about packing a valise for me?”

  “You play a very dangerous game, Underwood,” she warned, giving him a darkling glance, “I dare swear that there never was a man more inclined to push his luck to the limit!”

  *

  Since the post travelled the same way that people did, it was hardly surprising that Major Thornycroft’s letter of introduction for Underwood to Miss Petch arrived at its destination only a very short time before the man himself rumbled into West Wimpleford on the over-filled, but handsomely resplendent green and gold, if somewhat mud-spattered, stage coach. They pulled into the yard of the ‘Black Bear’, an old building, like many in the vicinity, built of old red brick at the base but half-timbered above. The many, crooked chimneys and gable-topped windows told him that he would have little difficulty in finding a room vacant. The church, Underwood had noticed as they swept around the corner from the high road, was of red sandstone, so unlike the limestone and millstone grit of the Derbyshire buildings.

  Underwood was a poor passenger so his first action was to stagger into the coaching inn and bespeak himself a room, a hot meal and a large brandy ‘to settle his shredded nerves’.

  “Would you care to share a room, sir, to save on the expense, if you are only staying the one night?” asked the publican, with an eye to making a little more money himself, if he could fill not only his rooms, but also the dining room and the tap room later.

  Underwood looked suitably horrified at the very idea, “Certainly not,” he said forcefully, “I require your best room – and to myself. And I shall probably be staying several days, if that is convenient?”

  “Most convenient, sir,” answered the man, with an obsequious bow, “Allow me to send the boy to your room with your luggage and I’ll fetch your ‘ball of fire’ into the coffee room, if that suits?”

  “It will suit very well, thank you,” said Underwood, quite restored by his sudden spurt of irritation. Amazing how a shock could get the blood pumping again. He also smiled to himself to hear the use of ‘thieves cant’ from the lips of the innkeeper – London mannerisms were spreading rapidly – due, no doubt, to the increasingly improving roads, which meant more people than ever were risking journeying farther afield than their own home village. He could remember a time when a man might be born, live his entire life, marry, produce children and die in old age, never having set foot more than a couple of miles from his own front door.

  The brandy finished the job that the landlord had begun and by the time Underwood had eaten a really quite passable meal, he was ready to start his quest for the whereabouts of the address he had been given for Miss Petch.

  It was far too late in the evening to actually go searching for her, but asking directions and making a note of them was quite within his power and once the landlord had provided the information he was happy to drink another small brandy – to help him sleep in a strange bed and without his life’s companion by his side, and retire for the night, content that he would find the lady easily enough in the morning.

  After a cursory inspection – his vision had been somewhat blurred by the unaccustomed alcohol – he was relieved the find the room appeared clean, the sheets pristine, with no trace of dreaded dampness, and smelling faintly of lavender, to repel the moths, a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth; though it was not yet autumn, the nights could still be chilly.

  The water in the ewer was still warm and the towels provided proved to be rough to the touch but unsullied. Underwood happily undressed, washed and climbed between the sheets, preparing himself for a restless night of tossing and turning in a strange bed and was delighted when the next thing he knew was the sunlight shining directly into his eyes because he had forgotten to draw the curtains across the small, square-paned window the night before.

  He lay for a few moments looking about him, pleased that his impression of the previous evening had not been mistaken. The inn was evidently an old one, with exposed beams which had been fashioned by an adze and still bore the marks of the tool in their uneven surface. In one or two places there were the worrying drill holes of woodworm, but Underwood doubted the roof would cave in just yet. The floor was of a similar nature, great oaken planks, shaped by hand many years ago and covered in strategic places by rugs, intended to keep bare feet from contact with cold boards. The fire had long since fallen from embers into dead ashes, but the painting of a pretty milkmaid and her large bovine companion cheered the chimneybreast and various bits and pieces of highly decorated china brightened the dark furniture and the mantelpiece.

  Altogether not an unpleasant place to spend the next few days, he reflected. Then roused himself to have a shave and get dressed and he went in search of breakfast.

  Suitably refreshed he walked out into the sunlit street, hesitating only for a few moments to breathe deeply of the fresh air – which he was disappointed to find was not so very fresh at all. He was used to the clear atmosphere of the hill town of Hanbury and had forgotten that other places might not be quite so salubrious. Trying not to recognise too many of the vaguely unsavoury smells which assailed his nostrils, he set off following the directions he had been given by the landlord, whom he had discovered was called Witty – “Witty by name and witty by nature” he had been assured, but somehow doubted, since no sparkling repartee had yet been exchanged.

  West Wimpleford was a busy little town and the source of the various odours soon became clear. It was obviously a popular stopping place for stagecoaches, for there was a constant stream of horse-drawn vehicles on the road, which was doubtless a morass of mud in the winter months, but currently was ridged with wheel tracks, but not impossible to cross without miring ones boots too disgracefully. Underwood did so, taking care to avoid the piles of manure which had not yet been claimed by the enthusiastic horticulturists who could be relied up to gather it up in any town or village. Roses tended to be plentiful and resplendent in gardens which lay along posting routes.

  A short walk of perhaps half a mile brought Underwood to the imposing gates of Pershore House, held within stone pillars topped with carven pineapples. Underwood wondered vaguely if these had any hidden meaning or if they had simply been chosen for their decorative quality, but he quickly dismissed the idle thought and made his way up the drive to the house. This was a largish country house, old enough to have once stood in splendid isolation, but the encroaching town had grown to meet the edges of the estate and now it was very definitely part of the community. It was fashioned of the same stone which most of the houses thereabouts were built, a reddish-coloured sandstone, very attractive and much decorated, since it was so easy to carve. The doors and window frames were grooved and fluted to an astonishing degree, and the steps up to the front door bore a balustrade of intricate design.

  An elderly butler, white-haired and stooped, answered the summons of the bell and allowed Underwood into the hall whilst he went to inform Miss Petch that her visitor had arrived. This was more than Underwood had expected, for Thornycroft had sent his letter of introduction only a day or so before his departure, so he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to be sent from the door on this first attempt and made to wait for an interview.

  Miss Petch came herself
to find him instead of sending the butler back to show him into the drawing room, explaining, “Poor old Brimblecombe does find his duties onerous these days, but my Great Aunt won’t hear of retiring him.”

  Underwood could find no suitable response to this blithe announcement, so he smiled and nodded, then said, “Good morning. Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Cressida Petch?”

  “You do, sir, and I think you must be Mr Underwood? I had news of your coming only yesterday from Major Thornycroft, who knew my brother well.”

  “I am indeed Underwood, but I am surprised you knew at once who was calling – surely you would not have expected me so soon?”

  “Take my word on it, there are rarely any visitors at all,” she said, with a sad little smile, “My Great Aunt is housebound and the only callers we ever encounter are my cousin and tradesmen – all of whom I know well. You could not have been anyone other than Mr Underwood.”

  Underwood looked at the young woman before him. She was perhaps, thirty years old, certainly no more, she was unmarried, he knew from her title of ‘Miss’, she was far from plain, with dark hair and eyes, and a pleasing countenance, and yet was trapped in this house with an elderly invalid and servants who were evidently nigh on as aged as their mistress. Something was very awry with the situation and he suddenly felt that perhaps Thornycroft had a point. There was more to all this than he had imagined, though he was loath, at such short acquaintance, to make hasty judgements.

  “Please come into the drawing room, Mr Underwood. From what the Major tells me, we have much to discuss.”

  *

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Quare Impedit?” – Why does he obstruct?

  As he followed Miss Petch into the morning room, Underwood took an opportunity to look about him. The place was a substantial Jacobean manor house, not much updated since it had been built, but meticulously maintained. It would seem that there was a large and hard-working staff, evidently not all quite so old and infirm as the butler, for there was not a smidge of dust to be seen, no curtain bore a rent, none of the panelling showed a chip. The mistress might very well be bed bound but she was a formidable presence.

  “May I offer you some refreshment, Mr Underwood?” asked the young lady, when they were settled into weighty, and rather uncomfortable, chairs.

  “Thank you, no; I have only just broken my fast. I came to see you as soon as I was able. Major Thornycroft was most distressed to hear of your brother’s plight and despatched me at once to see if there is any aid I can proffer.”

  She looked distressed at the mention of her sibling, but Underwood saw no point in prevarication. He had come here to try and help Captain Rutherford Petch and he was not going to do that by avoiding the matter out of misplaced courtesy.

  “Oh, Mr Underwood, if only you could help, but I fear it is beyond anyone to save my poor brother. I have heard the conditions in Australia are so harsh that he is unlikely to survive the fourteen years to which he has been condemned.”

  “Perhaps if you told me the full story, Miss Petch, then I would be in a better position to judge?” he answered, soothingly. The very last thing he needed now was a weeping, hysterical woman.

  She drew in a deep breath and began her tale.

  “Rutherford was accused of stealing a very old, very valuable diamond necklace belonging to my Great Aunt. He had been drinking with some cronies in town and says that he fell asleep on the settee in the drawing room, unfortunately that meant he had forgotten to lock the front door when he came in. When the jewels were found to be missing, the Constable said that he had deliberately feigned drunkenness, taken the necklace and hoped that everyone would think that robbers had entered the house when all were asleep.”

  This seemed to Underwood to be very slight evidence on which to transport a man for fourteen years. Obviously more questions needed to be asked and answered.

  “Were the jewels ever traced?”

  “Not a sign of them. They said that Rutherford would have broken them up and sold them separately.”

  “Surely they would have been worth more as a whole?”

  “I don’t know. I know nothing about these things.”

  “Did your brother suddenly seem to have more money than before? Was there any evidence he profited from the crime?”

  “He did have a sudden turn of luck, but he swore it was because an old friend had repaid a debt – but the “friend” could not be traced to appear in court for him.”

  “Had he been in financial difficulties before the theft took place?”

  She looked a little shame-faced, “Rutherford enjoyed life to the full, Mr Underwood. He had faced death and seen terrible things when he was in the Peninsular. He came home determined to make the best of his life.”

  “You are telling me that he spent money like water, caroused with no thought for tomorrow and was very nearly always on his uppers?”

  She could not help but smile at these vulgarisms issuing from this staid middle-aged man – she was not to know that Underwood had spent twenty years as a tutor at Cambridge and his youthful charges had ensured that he was as well versed in the language of the Underworld as he was in Latin and Greek.

  “I could not have put it more neatly myself, but he would never have resorted to stealing from his own family!”

  “No, I can believe that, but his story of the robbery through the unlocked door may be more accurate than you wish to acknowledge. It is not unheard of for those to whom a debt is owed to request some assistance in the commission of a crime.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then the truth dawned, “You think that he might have allowed robbers into the house in exchange for the payment of a debt?”

  “It is a possibility we have to look at, much as it pains me to suggest that your brother, whom I have been assured by Major Thornycroft is nothing less than a hero, might have been involved, however nebulously.”

  So intense had been their conversation that they both started when a voice from the doorway spoke in frosty tones, designed to chastise them both, “Miss Cressida! Have you entirely taken leave of your senses? Sitting alone in a room with a MAN!” this last word was spoken with such venom that Underwood turned to look for the depraved monster to which the newcomer referred. It was only when he met the icy gaze that he realised that this personification of evil to which she alluded was himself.

  To his amazement he heard Miss Petch give an irrepressible giggle, “Oh, pish, Matilda! Poor Mr Underwood is old enough to be my father. You cannot possibly object to my having a conversation with him.”

  Underwood was not entirely happy to be thus dismissed as harmless – and old enough to have fathered a woman of thirty summers, but looking at the grim visage of the dragon in the doorway, he rather suspected that his ‘great’ age might be the saving of him.

  “You should have sent for me, Miss, and well you know it. This is not fitting at all.”

  “Well, you are here now,” said Miss Petch in a conciliatory manner, “Come, sit down and meet Mr Underwood. He’s here to help Rutherford.”

  To Underwood’s astonishment the woman’s attitude altered dramatically as soon as she approached the settee and sat beside her charge, “Miss Cressida, I beg you will keep your voice down. You know what fuss and bother the mere mention of your dear brother’s name causes in this house.” Her voice was lowered to a whisper and Underwood strained to hear her words, and she threw a wary glance over her shoulder as though she expected to be overheard.

  “But darling Matty, if Mr Underwood could but prove Rutherford innocent,” said Miss Petch, holding clasped hands to her breast as though vouchsafed some miraculous event already.

  The lady referred to as Matty waved her hands in alarm, “Hush, oh pray hush, my dear!”

  Underwood was mystified, and lowering his voice, as seemed to be required, he said, “My dear ladies, could someone please tell me what is going on?”

  Miss Petch gave a tiny shake of her head, “I do apologise, Mr
Underwood, you must think that Miss Fettiplace and I have quite taken leave of our senses.”

  He assumed, correctly, that Miss Fettiplace must be the elderly newcomer and nodded towards her in acknowledgement, since the moment to perform formal introductions seemed to have passed. She gave him a tremulous smile, which robbed her earlier fearsome expression of any veracity.

  “Miss Petch is quite right, Mr Underwood, you must think us terribly wanting in manners, but things have gone awry in this house since Mr Rutherford was sentenced.”

  “I gather the mistress of the house is something of a tartar?” he asked, keeping his own voice low, though he failed to see who could possibly be eavesdropping, or indeed what harm their conversation could do.

  “Old Miss Greenhowe? Lord bless you, sir, not her! She barely knows what day of the week it is.”

  Miss Petch tutted and said mildly, “Really, Matty, you do exaggerate. My Great Aunt is not quite that mindless.”

  Miss Fettiplace gave her a sympathetic look, “My dear Cressida, it is you who deludes yourself. Your Aunt is well beyond mindless and if you were honest you would admit it. Do you really think she would have prosecuted dear Rutherford if she had been in her right mind? If he had needed money she would have given it to him with no questions asked. Since she grew so forgetful other people have taken full advantage of her.”

  Underwood began to realise that his initial concerns were probably about to be proved accurate. There was something very dark going on in this house.

  “Could you be a little more explicit, Miss Fettiplace?”

  She again glanced fearfully towards the door and shook her head, “Not here,” she whispered. “Are you staying at The Black Bear Inn?”

  “I am.”

  “Then as soon as I can I will to come into town and see you. I can make some excuse and be there around four o’clock. Would that be convenient?”