The constable turned a stern eye on Underwood and his expression grew even more officious and menacing than it had on hearing the news of the hold-up, “Is this true, sir?”
Underwood, who was imbibing a large brandy, nearly choked on it, so shocked was he to suddenly have all attention trained on him. The injustice of the implied criticism was such that he took several seconds to gather his thoughts – which accusation to answer first?
“The ladies were not with me, I never saw either of them before today – and, not being their keeper, I can hardly be held responsible for their departure,” he said testily, throwing an icy glance at the clerk. Why should the stupid fellow make difficulties for him when all he wanted to do was get home?
“But the men did know your name? How do you account for that?”
Underwood had absolutely no doubt that the men had been sent, not to rob the coach, but to either kill him, or scare him out of his investigation into the matter of Rutherford Petch, but he certainly had no intention of making that suspicion public.
“I have no idea, but I understand that it is a habit of these men to hang around while the coach is being loaded so that they can decide if the risk of robbery is worth taking. I can only assume that they heard someone use my name.”
This seemed a tissue thin excuse to the sceptical constable and his sneer showed just how flimsy he thought it, “Umm. It seems more likely to me that you were in on the plot – you and those two women who have so conveniently absconded.”
Underwood had been holding his temper with what he thought was admirable self-restraint, but now he snapped. He had been frightened out of his wits, nearly killed, saved by a woman, which no man with any self-esteem wanted, and now he was being delayed from returning home by this pompous fool.
His voice was frigid as he replied, “Really, this is utterly ridiculous! To what end do you think I would plan this abortive robbery? Nothing was taken, a man was killed and another injured and my supposed cohorts inconveniently provided you with my name. I’d like to think that if I did plan any such venture, it would not end in such a procession of disasters.”
The constable took deep offence at Underwood’s tone, but he could not but admit to the truth of the statement.
“Very well, I accept – for the moment – that you were merely unfortunate, but I will need a signed statement from you all, with your full names and addresses and you must expect an investigation into both the incident and yourselves. If you have someone who can vouch for you, that would be useful too.”
“You may send word to Sir George Gratten, Constable of Hanbury, for a reference,” said Underwood with great dignity, but secretly very annoyed that he was going to have to ask Gratten for confirmation of his good name.
Even after the doctor came and declared the guard was merely winged and no bullet was lodged in his flesh, there still followed another tedious hour of the same questions, differently worded until Underwood had a pounding headache and began to dread getting back onto the stage instead of passionately wishing for it, as he had at the start.
Finally they were allowed to go on with their journey, though Underwood was now tempted to delay his return to Hanbury until the following day. The constable, however, showed no sign of leaving the inn and was surrounded by a gang of his cronies, who looked to be set in for the night, discussing the dreadful incident, so Underwood boarded the stage with never a backward look. If he never saw Midmickle again, it would be too soon.
Thank goodness, he reflected, as he was tossed hither and thither over the cobbled square on his way out of town, that he had not given Verity a definite time of arrival, for she would now be frantic with worry at his tardiness.
The violent rocking eased as they reached the high road and Underwood closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his thoughts kept returning to the ‘widow’ and her companion. Why had they slipped away? Presumably to avoid answering questions, but why? What had they to hide? They could hardly have been partners in the crime, or the highwayman would not have been despatched with such ruthless efficiency. And who were they? No names had been given – the pretence that the ‘widow’ shared his mother’s was an obvious lie.
He fell into a weary doze wondering if perhaps he now had three mysteries to solve.
*
Surprisingly Underwood agreed to attend the welcome party at Lady Hartley-Wells’ mansion the very evening after his return from West Wimpleford. In truth he was in no mood to do any such thing, but he now had a pressing need to dispense with at least one of his cases and in the great scheme of things, Lydia’s seemed the least complicated.
Verity greeted her with a warm smile and an embrace. Lydia looked somewhat bemused to be thus accosted, but she recovered herself swiftly and returned the embrace with a shy smile. Either she was genuine, or a consummate actress and only time would tell which it might be, thought Underwood, observing this exchange from a distance.
He was more circumspect, as indeed were the other gentlemen, merely bowing over her hand and bidding her welcome.
The ladies took their lead from Verity and cheeks were kissed whilst pleasantries were exchanged.
Lady Hartley-Wells had wisely left all pretence of entertainment aside so that before dinner there was no music and no offer of cards or other games. She had intended that all would mingle and chat, and of course that was precisely what occurred.
Underwood held back and made no attempt to speak to the young woman alone, merely contenting himself to loiter nearby and listen to her exchanges with the other guests, which surprised Sir George, as his own inclination was to speak to the girl as soon as possible and try and trap her into some false declaration. That way the whole sorry mess might be over and done with in one evening.
“You must tell us all about Barbados, Lydia,” said Verity. It was noticed by very few people present that Underwood raised an expressive brow in Sir George’s direction. The older man suddenly realized that she had been primed to say something of the sort by her husband and of course it would be the swiftest and simplest way to prove young Lydia a liar and an impostor. It would be the ultimate error for her to know nothing of the country where she was supposed to have been raised.
She looked nonplussed for a moment then said decidedly, “There is very little to tell. It is much like any other place – with good and bad together. The sun shines hot and glorious, but when it rains the heavens open. Sometimes it is so hot that one can do nothing but lie in a shaded room and pray for evening to fall.”
“And the people? Are they pleasant?” pursued Verity, “I’ve often wondered how people react to leaving England. I suppose quite a lot are forced to go abroad for some reason or another and would really rather have stayed at home.”
Lydia shook her head in swift denial, “Oh no, nothing could be further from the truth. I think you underestimate the spirit of adventure and the wanderlust that infects those who travel. There is an excitement, a sense of living on a knife edge. Society does not have the same rigid barriers that I have grown aware of here. The upper classes would prefer to maintain the status quo – but of course they would, since it works entirely in their favour! But they are such a small group when compared to all the other classes that they find it almost impossible to remain aloof.”
Underwood felt it was his moment to show his hand, “That is all very fascinating, but I should be interested to know in which echelon of society you and your father found yourselves. The infamous reason for your self-imposed exile cannot have been a secret, even in the far-flung destinations you chose to visit.”
She tried to hide her annoyance, but her face stiffened. Only Verity and Gratten were privy to his plot so others in the party wondered why he had chosen to be contentious so early in their acquaintance. It was unlike him to be unsubtle.
“Silas Woodforde’s a well-respected man. His reasons are not to be questioned. It is not for you or anyone else to judge him.”
“No, we shall leave that to his maker,” said U
nderwood calmly, “I have not been misinformed, have I? I understand he has passed away?”
Lydia threw him a look of pure poison from beneath demurely lowered lids, “You were not misinformed, sir – and I’m surprised you feel justified in speaking ill of his memory to a loving and beloved daughter.”
Underwood acknowledged the chastisement with a slight bow, “I intended no offence, Miss Woodforde, but you must understand how strongly we all sympathise with your mother. She has been sorely tried by these events.”
He spoke perfectly fairly and all who heard him felt the same, but Lydia merely cast a disdainful glance in his direction and turned away.
Underwood joined Gratten and spoke in an undertone, “She shows remarkable loyalty to a man who dragged her screaming from her mother’s arms. That is usually the stuff of which nightmares are made to small children.”
“He was the only parent she has known for the past twenty years. I suppose it is not beyond comprehension that she would cling to him. Did Mrs Woodforde confide if he was a particularly fond parent before the marriage broke down?”
“No, she said he was always too busy with his money-making schemes – usually gambling - to pay much attention to either of them. She is utterly convinced that he did what he did from spite and for no other reason.”
They both looked at Lydia, who was now moving about the room with grace and assurance, greeting the people to whom her mother introduced her.
“How does she strike you, George?”
“Confident – a little arrogant. Very pretty, of course.”
“Do you see any resemblance, however fleeting, to Mrs Woodforde?”
“Not so far – but we cannot judge on that alone. Many children favour one parent more than the other.”
“True, but not many children would refer to a dead parent by their name and in the present tense,” he murmured wryly.
“Did she really? I hadn’t noticed. That might be interesting in the light of your own theory.”
Underwood gave a brisk nod, “I was thinking the same thing. I have not yet asked Toby how his shadowing went.”
“That seemed a little underhand,” Gratten told him, a little wary of testing the law in such a manner.
“So is passing one’s self off as a lonely woman’s long-lost daughter,” he said grimly in return.
With that Gratten could not argue.
*
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Quidquid Agas Prudenter Agas” – Whatever you do, do with caution
The evening was far from over, though Underwood could happily have gone home to bed, once Lydia had been thoroughly offended by him, which was his purpose. In the face of his cynicism, he wanted everyone else, most especially Verity, to look as though they were supporting her. She was a canny Miss and it would not be easy to break through her protective shell. She had been trained by the best – Silas Woodforde was obviously the puppet master and it would take some ingenuity to outwit him, Underwood was sure.
He saw Jeremy James bearing down on him, pushed across the room by his wife, Adeline, and he realized he was going to have to talk at length about Rutherford Petch and his sister.
Thankfully it did not take quite as long as he had feared, for Jeremy was a good listener and interrupted very little. He looked thoughtful when Underwood had finished his tale.
“Do you think you are going to be able to get into the house and speak to the old lady?” he asked, “This Luckhurst fellow sounds slippery.”
“Not just slippery, very possibly murderous,” admitted Underwood, almost without thinking. He had cause to regret is thoughtlessness for Jeremy James was not a man to take threats of any kind lightly.
The major was at once alert, “What do you mean by that? Is Cressida in danger?” he demanded, a thunderous frown marring his usually genial face.
Underwood stretched out a calming hand, “Cressida is the safest person in that house, Jeremy, don’t concern yourself with that. I’m more worried about Miss Greenhowe.” He did not mention the suspicion that Luckhurst had arranged for an attempt to be made on his own life. The less people who knew about that, the better. He had no wish for Verity to hear of it.
The old soldier still looked murderous, “Can we catch the devil out, Underwood? I’d like to see him in shackles on his way to Van Diemen’s Land.”
“I sincerely hope so, my friend; my only misgiving is that I am relying on too many other people to help me on this case. I need the Apothecary, Will Jebson, to weaken the bottle of laudanum, Cressida to spill the existing medicine, the two women to get me into the house, the old lady to agree to speak to me and the whole lot of them to keep it secret from Luckhurst – I don’t like to have so many variables. If one link in the chain breaks, I’m done for.”
“Ask your brother to pray for a miracle,” suggested Jeremy James, and Underwood was not entirely sure he was joking.
*
After he finally found an opportunity to have a discussion with Toby the following day, regarding his discoveries, Underwood sent a note requesting an urgent meeting with Sir George, who was glad enough to accommodate him, since it saved him the tedium of the regular card party. Underwood was never invited to Lady Hartley-Wells’ card evenings because of his aforementioned lack of skill at cards, which she strongly suspected was deliberate, so she refused to indulge him by showing her annoyance, though she had yet to forgive him the lost bet with Sir George. She knew, as indeed did all his acquaintance, that he was perfectly capable in every way, but he imagined everyone was fooled by his pretence of ineptitude.
He arrived promptly and they retired to Gratten’s study, bidding the ladies farewell in the hall as they prepared to go out. Lady Gratten tried to signal her disapproval of her spoiled evening, but Underwood resolutely refused to pick up on any of her hints and merely bowed low over her hand with a beautifully worded compliment. Of course she instantly forgave him, making Gratten wish, rather bitterly, that he had such powerful charm.
Gratten was mildly irascible with him – but who could blame him? He had endured at least an hour of complaints when he cancelled his part in the evening, then Underwood had thrown a few pretty words at his wife and been welcomed back as a prodigal.
“Well, Underwood, I hope you have not ruined my evening to no avail,” Gratten told him sternly.
Underwood seated himself and stretched his long legs towards the fire, accepting a glass of brandy with a nod of thanks, “Have I ruined your evening, Sir George? I do apologise. I had the notion you viewed an evening with Lady Hartley-Wells’ cronies with a horror equal to my own. If I inconvenience you pray tell me so and we can arrange some other time for our chat.”
Of course he was fully aware that Gratten would no more delay this meeting than miss a meal.
“It’s done now, so think no more about it,” he murmured, irritated that he should have been so neatly wrong-footed, “What do you have to tell me?”
“Only that I did as I promised and set Toby to follow Miss Woodforde whenever she might find herself unchaperoned by her mama. He now has a report on her wanderings.”
“Am I to conclude that this was a frequent occurrence?”
“More frequent than you might imagine. The young lady insists upon, and is allowed, a surprising amount of liberty due to the fact that she has brought a maid-servant with her from the Indies – a dusky maiden whom Toby has quietly befriended.” He grinned in fond remembrance of his faithful friend, “An undertaking, I might add, that he has accomplished with great ease and at no personal expense whatsoever.” Which went to show how little Underwood really knew of his friend, for Toby was entirely torn both by his task and his growing feelings for Sabrina.
Gratten was aware that this was an unforeseen piece of good fortune. Valuable information could be gleaned from any servant, but especially a personal maid. There was not much that escaped the attention of the serving classes.
“Are there any conclusions to be drawn at this juncture, Underwood? Has Toby
discovered anything of interest?”
“After much sneaking about and being led a merry dance by the two young ladies, I believe he has found the hotel where the late, lamented Mr Woodforde is presently residing. I don’t know if Lydia and Sabrina finally wearied of trying to evade him – for they must know by now who he is and of his connection to me, or whether Woodforde himself gave them leave to show Toby his hiding place, for some perfidious reason of his own, but they did in the end grow careless and Toby succeeded in his mission – though, oddly, he did not seem particularly happy about it.”
Gratten was astounded, “By Gad! You were right then, my friend. The scoundrel is no more dead than you or I.”
“I think not. But I felt it only right to consult you before going to confront the man. I suspect he is not only devious, but very possibly dangerous. He has much at stake here and he may not be pleased to be unmasked.”
“Very true,” Gratten said thoughtfully, “but it will be difficult to arrange protection with no proof of wrong-doing. I can’t imagine any magistrate allowing us to harass a private citizen without adequate cause.”
“Quite,” agreed Underwood grimly, “In fact, even if we prove indisputably that he is Woodforde, I fail to see that he has committed any crime. As far as I am aware, there is no law against allowing one’s estranged wife to think one is deceased – unless of course she tries to remarry. Then there might be an accusation of accessory to bigamy. Woodforde, however, has gained nothing yet from the deception.”
“As always Underwood, you make perfect sense. What then do you suggest our next move should be?”
“Therein lies the difficulty. As you know I am not a man who relishes physical violence, and under normal circumstances I would take Toby with me to ensure my own safety. He is well able to take care of himself and of me! However, on this occasion, I wish to keep Toby’s association with myself as quiet as possible, though that may already be moot. He is too valuable a source of information.”
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 11