“I cannot encourage you to visit Woodforde alone, Underwood,” Gratten told him severely, “Verity would never forgive me should any harm come to you.”
He smiled at the mention of his wife’s name, “Verity knows me well enough, George. I’ll be the first to run at any hint of a threat, but I do think it would be wise to tell a number of people of my whereabouts. Woodforde may be desperate, but he is not, I think, a fool.”
“You are prepared to pay him a call, then?”
“I think it must be our first step. If he realises that he has been out-witted, he may throw in his chips. As a life-long gambler, he must know when to fold.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Underwood – and be careful!”
“I will, naturally. There is one other thing, George, and I must ask you to keep this strictly between ourselves. Verity, especially, must never hear about this.”
Gratten cleared his throat, half embarrassed to be asked to keep something from Verity – not that he objected to secrets, but he astounded himself by being reluctant to deceive a woman who had grown so much in his estimation that he felt guilty about doing anything to hurt her, “Depends on what it is,” he muttered gruffly.
Underwood smiled, instinctively understanding the other man’s dilemma – he hated lying to Verity himself, but he would rather protect her than worry her, so there was no choice, “Don’t fret yourself, George, it’s nothing so very bad. There was an incident when I was travelling back from ... Well, never mind where from. All you need to know is that you will presently receive a letter from the Constable of Midmickle and I require you to assure him that I am not the leader of a gang of cutthroats.”
Gratten could not have looked more mystified if he had tried, “I beg your pardon?”
“Something and nothing, I assure you,” soothed Underwood, “Just send a letter of reference for me, there’s a good fellow.”
“Very well,” said the Constable resignedly. He had learnt over the years that sometimes, with Underwood, it was better to just bend in the wind like a reed than to try and withstand his overpowering personality, “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact there is,” said Underwood, suddenly recalling his other task, “To whom do I apply to report a possible fraud by a lawyer in partnership with a crooked relation with vast expectations which shouldn’t be his?”
“The Attorney-General, I suppose, but my dear fellow, this is a terribly serious accusation. I hope you are not going to get yourself into any trouble over it.”
“That remains to be seen, but I shall take care, don’t concern yourself with that for the moment. Let us concentrate on Miss Woodforde for the time being. I suppose you did write to the friend of yours in Barbados?”
“I did. But it will be many weeks before we hear anything back.”
“Of course. Ah, well, let us see what Silas Woodforde has to say for himself, shall we. I will let you know as soon as I have seen him.”
“Do that, Underwood, and in this also, please take care!”
*
The Walnut Tree Inn in Beconfield had a name which sounded salubrious and perhaps even cosy, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was in the roughest part of the town and was much frequented by those with nefarious intentions. Underwood had certainly never entered its portals before, and after one glance around the interior, he was quite sure he never wished to again. However he had a task to perform so he gritted his teeth and approached the bar where he asked to be shown into the presence of Mr Thomas Brodie – an alias which Toby had discovered – by what means, Underwood had no idea, but guessed it would involve excessive amounts of drink and carefully artless questions aimed at employees of the tavern.
Once he was directed, Underwood went into the coffee room of the inn at once, eager to get away from the less than friendly gaze of the other patrons, and there he found the man calling himself Thomas Brodie, with a brandy glass in his hand despite the early hour.
Underwood greeted him by saying, “Good afternoon, Mr Woodforde.”
Brodie laughed, not in the least abashed and replied, “I think you must be after a different fellow, sir.”
“I think not.”
“As you wish. Take a seat, my dear sir, and I shall order a couple of brandies, which you will pay for, then we can talk.” Underwood sat, and paid for the drinks, almost admiring Woodforde’s brazenness. Brodie then asked Underwood for his name and how he had managed to find him. Underwood saw no reason to lie and Woodforde looked piqued, “I told the girls to be careful, but one should never trust women with anything important. Still, even though you have found me, my dear fellow, it changes little. Lydia is entitled to the inheritance, however much my presence might stick in her mother’s craw.”
“Very true, but it may, however, change your wife’s mind about taking this matter to court. I suspect she had more or less decided to take Lydia’s word that she is indeed who she says she is – that will probably not now be the case.”
“Why should she do so?” asked the man, still trying to maintain his calm demeanour, but Underwood thought he detected an undercurrent of panic in his tone.
“Revenge, sir, is a dish best served cold. Mrs Woodforde has waited a long time to punish you for your many misdeeds. You knew that, or so I believe, or you would not have pretended to be dead.”
“Does she know that I am here?” asked the man swiftly, and Underwood could almost see the machinations and calculations which whirred in his brain. Like a rat in a trap he was trying to find a way out of his dilemma.
“Not yet. I wanted to see you for myself first, before I report back to her.”
“Why? What interest is all this to you? If it is money you want ...”
“Mrs Woodforde is my employer and my loyalty is to her. I shall tell her that I found you, that nothing has changed in the twenty years you have been gone. Then as now, your only motivation is greed and if she has any sense at all she will make it as difficult as possible for you to steal your daughter’s inheritance.”
“Then you must persuade her otherwise, Mr Underwood, for I sense that you are a fair man and would not see Lydia suffer for my sins.”
“But Lydia will not suffer, Mr Woodforde. If she is the real Lydia, then she will live under her mother’s guardianship, but without access to the full inheritance, which Mrs Woodforde will apply to have taken under the protection of the courts until such time as Lydia can be persuaded not to allow you access, or until she marries, in which case the money will become the property of her husband – and I can’t see any man being willing to share that with you.”
Underwood had no idea if any of this was possible, or that Mrs Woodforde would implement it, but he had taken a real dislike to Silas Woodforde. He realized now why he had mentally compared the man earlier to a rat in a trap, for that was exactly what he resembled, with a long thin face, a sharp nose, and small, mean eyes. His scanty mousey hair was unkempt and barely covered ears set close to his head. Even his teeth, when he showed them in an unpleasant grin, were yellowish and misshapen.
He smiled now, “But you have no proof, Underwood, that you ever met me. If asked, the staff here know me only as Brodie. Neither the court nor my wife have the power to deprive Lydia of her birthright. Whichever way this goes, I still win. Lydia is wholly mine, and if she does not inherit, then she leaves with me and her mother will never see her again. Tell her that, and see if she is still willing to go to law!”
Underwood inclined his head to show that he had understood the message, then he turned and left, without tasting the brandy he had paid for – to drink with Woodforde or Brodie, or whatever he wanted to call himself, would have choked him.
*
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Anguis In Herba” – A snake in the grass
This promised to be the most difficult conversation Underwood had ever had. The fact that Mrs Woodforde looked at him so expectantly, with such hope shining in her eyes, made it even more painful than he had been i
magining. She was hoping for good news, and he was about to deliver a hammer blow.
“You have something to tell me, Mr Underwood. Your note was cryptic, asking to see me alone, so I am hoping the tidings are not unpleasant.” He could see she was babbling aimlessly, trying to put off the evil moment, for the hope had died the instant she saw his grim expression.
“I thought it best to keep this between ourselves, madam, for the decision must be yours alone, and I want no one interfering.”
“Tell me, for God’s sake, I cannot bear the suspense,” she gasped, her hand to her throat as though to control the scream which he felt must be near.
“Toby followed Lydia and found her visiting her father in a nearby town.”
She looked perplexed for a moment, “Her father..?” she faltered, then added more strongly, as anger began to replace confusion, “Silas is still alive?”
“Very much so. I have spoken to him.”
“What did he have to say for himself?” she asked coldly. Underwood admired her self-control, but nevertheless she had grown frighteningly pallid and he gestured to a passing waiter and ordered a brandy.
“I’m afraid we don’t serve alcohol, sir,” answered the young man and Underwood recalled that he had arranged to meet the lady in the Pump rooms, thinking that the crowds would afford them a sort of privacy.
“The lady has sustained a shock,” said Underwood briskly, “here’s a crown, be a good fellow and run across the street and buy her a brandy. You may keep the change.”
The young man hesitated, but when he looked at Mrs Woodforde, the decision was made for him. He had never seen a woman who looked more in need of a restorative.
He was back within a few minutes, “They were reluctant to let me bring a glass so I’ve promised faithfully I will return it in a few minutes.”
He need not have fretted, for Mrs Woodforde drained the glass in one swallow and handed it back to him. He went off, astounded.
“Now tell me what that devil said,” she whispered to Underwood, “for I know he had some sort of message for me – he would not have been able to resist twisting the knife!”
Underwood considered briefly the notion of sugaring the pill, but on reflection he realized that she was of stronger stuff than he gave her credit for; she needed to know exactly what she was up against. He told her in clipped tones the threat Silas had made, that if she took the matter to court, he would take Lydia away and she would never see her again.
She turned anguished eyes upon him, “He truly is Satan incarnate. What on earth do I do now? If I challenge him, I lose Lydia, if I do not, I could be harbouring a viper to my breast and delivering a fortune into the hands of an evil trickster.”
Underwood felt more sympathy for her than he could ever hope to articulate, but he knew that it was of no consequence just then. She did not want consolation, she wanted advice, but that was the one thing he could not deliver. This was her decision alone, as he had already told her. He could not allow himself to be held responsible for any future disasters. The guilt would be crippling for one such as he – and Verity would never forgive him for ruined lives and the damage to his own psyche.
“I cannot tell you, Mrs Woodforde. Only you know with what burden you can bear to live.”
She looked down at her hands, clenched, white-knuckled, in her lap. She was silent for a long time and when at last she lifted her head and looked into his eyes, he saw a new expression there – one of cold, hard determination.
“Take me to him. I need to see him for myself and speak to him. I will know if he is lying when I ask him about Lydia.”
This was the one consequence which Underwood had been dreading. He hoped she would never ask, for it seemed to him that it would be the very last straw in a very heavy bundle. He feared for her mental stability if she had to confront the evil little toad of a man he had seen the day before.
“That is a great deal to ask of yourself, madam. Remember this is the man who deserted you and wrenched your child from you, leaving you bereft for over twenty years. Do you really want to see him again?”
“Take me to see my husband. I don’t care if the meeting destroys the possibility of a court case, or breaks what little is left of my spirit. I must know if my Lydia is alive or dead and he is now the only person left on God’s earth who can tell me. I don’t care if I have to fall on bended knees to plead with him, but I must know the truth.”
Underwood looked at her for a long time, as though assessing her ability to cope with this new trial, and she never wavered from looking right back at him. At last he nodded curtly, “Very well, I will arrange a meeting forthwith.”
“No,” she replied brusquely, “That will merely give him the opportunity to run away again. We must go now, before Lydia or Sabrina have had time to warn him.”
“But the hour grows late and I think you have had nothing to eat,” said Underwood, desperate now to dissuade her. He began to worry that no good would come of this meeting.
“I shall eat at some inn or other on the road when we come back. I could not bear a bite to pass my lips until I have seen him for myself anyway.”
“Very well,” said Underwood, “Toby will drive us. He brought me into town. I’ll send word to Verity and tell her of our journey, and ask her to ensure that Lydia and Sabrina hear nothing of our intentions.”
Within minutes he had sent a message to Toby in the inn across the street and despatched a boy with a note for Verity. Toby was with them before he had finished scribbling, and had the harnessed horses outside. Underwood was soon helping Mrs Woodforde into the carriage.
The lamps were being lit when they reached The Walnut Tree and as Underwood led Mrs Woodforde through the rear entrance from the stable-yard, he spoke quietly to her, “Wait here for a moment. Silas has been hiring the coffee room as his personal sitting room for the duration of his stay. I’ll just check with the landlord that he is in there. It would be pointless to burst into an empty room and would merely distress you more.”
She nodded her assent, but Underwood indicated with a lift of his eyebrow that Toby should stay with her, just in case she decided to enter the room alone.
A serving girl came out of one of the doors that lined the dark passageway and glanced curiously at them as she used a taper to light a candle in a sconce on the wall above Mrs Woodforde’s head, “Can I help you, madam?” she asked.
“Yes, which way is the coffee room?”
The girl jerked her head away down the passage, “Last door on the left, but you’ll find it occupied.”
Mrs Woodforde waited for the girl to go away and then started down the corridor. Toby tried to stop her by saying, “I think we should wait for Mr Underwood, ma’am.”
“Why? We know he is in there. The girl said so.”
Without physically restraining her, Toby could hardly impede her progress, so he reluctantly followed her.
She did not bother to knock, but thrust the door open and stood in the doorway, a little shocked to find a roomful of people. Silas was evidently occupying himself in his customary manner, for he and his companions all held playing cards in their hands and he grinned as he reached to pull yet another pile of golden guineas towards him.
The advent of Mrs Woodforde arrested all action and conversation and for several seconds the two parties stared at each other in silence.
Underwood arrived at that very moment and spoke smoothly, “Ah, Silas, I see your wife has found you before I could direct her.”
Silas rose to his feet and Mrs Woodforde gave a small gasp of shock, “Mr Underwood,” she said firmly, “You are mistaken. That man is not my husband. I have never seen him before in my life.”
No one said anything for a full minute whilst this shocking announcement sank in, then Silas recovered himself enough to turn to his visitors and say briskly, “Well, my friends, I think we can safely say the game is over. Perhaps we can reconvene at a later date?”
It took a little while for them to pic
k up their stakes, drain their glasses and shrug themselves into their coats, but presently they slunk from the room, passing the white-faced Mrs Woodforde in the doorway and sheepishly doffing their hats to her. It was obvious they all desired to stay and hear the rest of what promised to be a very interesting conversation.
Once the four were left alone, Silas invited them in and offered them seats, very much the genial host and apparently in total control. He never wavered for a moment, though it could not have been easy to maintain his calm demeanour for Mrs Woodforde did not take her eyes from his face for a second and he must have found her scrutiny unsettling.
“I think some wine might be in order,” he said as he approached the fireplace and rang the bell for service. No one argued with him.
The same girl they had met in the passageway came in and took his order for a bottle of claret and four glasses, with which she returned remarkably swiftly. She had probably been appraised of the interesting situation by Silas’ departing guests and was also hoping to eavesdrop on something scandalous, but in that she was destined to be disappointed. No one said a word until the wine was poured and they each held a glass.
“Now,” said Silas – or whoever he might be! – taking a great swallow and emptying half his glass, “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”
“That is something of an understatement,” commented Underwood wryly, “Shall we start with your real name?”
“Thomas Brodie will do,” answered that gentleman with a knowing grin. Underwood lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment.
“Why have you been impersonating my husband?” asked Mrs Woodforde, apparently somewhat revived from her shock by her first sip of wine, “And where is he now?”
“I trust it won’t distress you too much to know that he is dead. He lies in Bridgetown graveyard with the name of Brodie over his head.”
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 12