Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

by Suzanne Downes

  Underwood had been prepared to let him off lightly, wanting to believe that any man of the law could not have colluded in sending an innocent man to an unjust punishment. He preferred to think that perhaps Kendrick had been so misled by Attridge and Luckhurst that he had really thought Rutherford was a liar and a thief. The ingratiating and bombastic way in which he spoke these words persuaded Underwood that he was quite as guilty as his fellow conspirators and suddenly he lost his temper, something which Underwood rarely did, but when it happened, all who knew him made themselves scarce for he cared nothing for what he said when the strict control he held over himself was cast aside.

  “No, sir, everyone did not think Rutherford guilty, did they? Many people spoke up for him, but you chose to ignore his previous good character because it suited your purposes. I know now that Captain Petch was a condemned man from the moment he arrived home in one piece. I suspect Luckhurst was praying for his demise in the Peninsular – instead of which he not only survived, he proved himself to be a hero who saved a fellow officer’s life.”

  The flush that spread over Kendrick’s plump cheeks gave Underwood all the proof he needed that the man was a liar and a disgrace to his position, though he blustered and dithered, trying to justify himself, “I don’t know what you can possibly mean by that, sir.”

  “I’ll tell you what I mean! You and your cronies fully intended to defraud Rutherford out of his inheritance, and happily for you he played right into your hands when the diamonds disappeared. I wonder what other crime you would have found to lay at his door had that not happened? With all the power of the law at your fingertips, I’ve no doubt you could have found something. Miss Greenhowe is probably fortunate that she hid the jewels for I dare swear she would have been murdered and her death would have been conveniently been blamed upon poor Rutherford!”

  The older man grew as pale as he had just been puce, “By God, sir, you go too far! This is a scurrilous accusation. I could have you arrested for speaking thus to me.”

  Underwood sneered witheringly, “But of course, you won’t. You will take every word I say and you will know that I think you lower than the meanest pickpocket that you ever condemned to the gallows. You are a disgrace, sir, and if you now have the slightest remnant of honour left, you will speed Rutherford’s release along, and make sure that once that is done, you resign from a position you have shamed. What right do you have to stand in judgement on others, when you have fallen so far below acceptable behaviour?”

  “I ...I never ...”

  Underwood suddenly raised his voice to drown out the man’s pathetic excuses, “Do not attempt to justify anything you have done! A full report of your conduct and that of your friends Attridge and Luckhurst will be submitted to the Attorney General. You will all think yourselves very fortunate if you do not find yourselves on a ship bound for Australia.”

  “Underwood, I beg of you ...”

  “That is Mr Underwood to you, you wretched little man. And do not beg for a mercy that you failed to show Rutherford Petch. Now sit at that desk of yours and write a letter informing the authorities that you fully accept the captain’s innocence and another with your resignation. I will not rest until I have both in my possession, ready to deliver by hand.”

  *

  He would have preferred to take the next stagecoach home, but Underwood found himself too exhausted by his display of passion to do anything but return to the inn at Midmickle and pick at an indifferent meal and drink a brandy to calm his nerves.

  The dining room was empty for all save himself, though the tap room was full to bursting and he contemplated joining the throng when he had eaten, to see if company could dispel the sudden weary melancholy which had overtaken him. This was his usual reaction when a case was concluded. He rarely felt triumph for very long, but rather he pondered on the iniquities of his fellow man which had led them to commit the crime in the first place.

  It was depressing to think of the sufferings of Rutherford and Cressida – and for what? Money. It horrified him to think that greed should be cause of such misery. He was quite convinced now that Rutherford had actually had a lucky escape. If they could find no other way to be rid of him, Luckhurst, Attridge and Kendrick would indeed have happily seen Rutherford hang for murdering his aunt.

  Cressida would probably have married the man, never knowing that he had effectively killed her brother and her aunt.

  Underwood shook his head sorrowfully, thinking again about Cressida’s distress at her abandoned wedding day. He still could not quite believe that women willingly, even eagerly, sold themselves into bondage with men who were not fit to wipe their boots. But what choice did they have? Cressida would literally have been penniless had her cousin’s plotting borne fruit, and what had her life left her fit for, but to be a wife and mother? If she did not marry, her existence would have been similar to Miss Fettiplace, pushed from place to place, an unpaid servant to various family members.

  How, in many ways, was that different to the lot of Sabrina or even Lydia Woodforde? He could see why Lydia was so avid to claim the inheritance, whether it be legally hers or not. What else could she do? Given the choice between a possible lie and spending the rest of his life dependant on a creature like Thomas Brodie, Underwood was not entirely sure he wouldn’t also choose the former.

  He began to feel queasy, but assumed it was his own dreary thoughts which had caused the food to lie heavily in his stomach – that was until he rose and began to make his way towards the stairs.

  Amongst the crowd in the tap room he caught sight of Attridge, obviously there to catch the night mail coach; true to his promise, he was absconding before the law could catch him.

  As Underwood passed the doorway, he saw Attridge staring at him. The man had evidently known he was in the dining room, for as their eyes met, he raised his glass in a mocking tribute to his adversary, “Did you enjoy your meal, Underwood?” he called above the buzz of conversation.

  His first thought was that it was an odd thing to say, then Underwood recalled his bout of sickness after taking tea with the crooked lawyer and his faint feelings of sickness grew to an alarming degree.

  He called the landlord over to him, “Send someone to Apothecary Jebson, as soon as you can. Tell him I am very ill – the same trouble as before, and ask him to come as quickly as he can.”

  The landlord looked at him and became worried when he saw the pale face and the beads of sweat forming on the older man’s brow, “Can I help you upstairs, sir?”

  “No, no, I can manage, but please get Jebson here as quickly as you can.”

  Having forced himself to vomit, Underwood lay on the bed and waited for the dizzying sensation to subside. He wondered if he was a fool to wait for Jebson and not call a doctor who was nearer, but he trusted no one in this god-forsaken town – they were all too close to the magistrate, the local landowner. They were as bound as the slaves in Barbados by their need to keep in well with their landlord and he wanted no one who might have an ulterior motive attending to him.

  Jebson was with him within the hour and taking one look at his ashen face, contorted with pain as spasms griped his stomach, he hastily opened his bag and prepared an emetic.

  Poor Underwood wretched until there was nothing more to bring up. Jebson feared he had fallen into unconsciousness, but at last he opened his eyes, trying to focus on the apothecary, and speaking in an agonised whisper, “My dear fellow, thank you for all you have done, but I think you have to get me home. I need to see my wife.”

  Jebson felt tears burn in his eyes. The only words Underwood had not said, but which hung in the air like circling crows over a corpse, “Before I die.”

  “You are too ill to move, Mr Underwood,” he answered, anguish making him choke.

  “Get me home, Will. I don’t care what it costs, hire a private carriage, but take me home, please.”

  Jebson sent a note to Miss Petch and before another hour had passed, her own carriage was pulling up at th
e door of the inn. She lashed herself into a frenzy of self-reproach. She should have thought of sending Underwood home in her own carriage in the first place, then he would never have been at the inn, nor in danger from Attridge, but she had grown so used to Luckhurst guiding her every movement, it had not occurred to her that she was now her own mistress.

  Underwood, wrapped in blankets, and given a bowl in case of more evacuations, was bundled into the vehicle and orders were given to take the passenger back to Hanbury as fast as the horses could gallop in the moonlight. No matter what the cost, horses were to be changed at every posting house and no other stops were to be made until Underwood was safely delivered to his own front door.

  Jebson climbed in after his new friend, fearful of what the morning would bring, but determined to see his promise fulfilled. Even if he brought Mrs Underwood a dead man, she would have her husband back one last time.

  Attridge, observing all this fuss, went to climb aboard the mail coach with a malicious grin. He might have lost everything, but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Underwood was suffering for it too.

  He was about to hoist himself into the coach when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Constable Hugh Waylett spoke in stentorian tones, “Mr Attridge, I fear I must ask you to delay your journey. I have some questions for you.”

  He turned and looked down at the Constable of Midmickle, “Take your hands off me, you oaf. I have nothing to say to you. Do you know who I am? I’m a respectable lawyer, going about my business, and I suggest you do the same.”

  Constable Waylett smiled grimly, “Oh, I know exactly who you are, sir. Magistrate Kendrick has sent me to fetch you to the town lock up. You’ll appear before him in the morning – his last case, apparently, before he retires. I also understand from Mr Jebson, the apothecary from West Wimpleford, that you might know something about a serious illness which has overtaken a certain Mr Underwood of Hanbury, in the county of Derbyshire.”

  Attridge knew when he was beaten. If Kendrick had turned against him, then all was really lost. He made as if to climb down, but at the last moment he head-butted the unwary constable, who had made no provision for dealing with fisticuffs, thinking he was arresting a gentleman. Before the man knew what he was about, he was nursing a blood-splattered nose and Attridge was running for his life away into the dark streets.

  *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Amicus Usque Ad Aras” – A friend to the end

  Dawn was breaking as they reached the outskirts of Hanbury, the sky every possible shade of red from deep scarlet in the far reaches where the light had not quite driven away the night, to pale rose pink. The first tentative calls from sleepy birds quickly built into a full throated cacophony as a chilly breeze ruffled the leaves of the bushes, finally waking the feathered songsters and the air was soon filled with chirps, whistles and trills.

  Jebson felt oddly displaced and other-worldly, probably due to a lack of sleep, for all through the long night his only company had been the rattle and creak of the carriage and the periodic groan of pain from the sick man. He could hear the muffled huffing and straining of the labouring horses and the occasional muted shout of warning or encouragement from the driver.

  The dark countryside had swept by, lit only by the chasing moon, magically silvering the edges of everything it touched, so that expanses of still water turned to mercury and churches and houses were transformed into fairy palaces, windows eerily lit for brief seconds as though ghosts were within, only to fade back into black emptiness as the carriage moved on.

  As it grew lighter he was aware of looking out on a vastly different landscape than that which he knew at home, and one which rendered him both awe-struck and mildly unnerved. No more gently inclined meadows, lushly green and spangled with wildflowers, the blue cornflowers, red poppies, yellow dandelions; they had given way to vast swathes of open moorland and steep craggy hillsides which were almost mountainous in scale. Instead of pretty hedgerows dividing one farmer’s land from another’s, there were cold grey stones, piled one upon another in endless walls. Brown, ponderous cattle were replaced by dirty white sheep by the dozen.

  In the valleys between these hills there were trees aplenty, but as the land sloped upwards they became scarce and those which did manage to put down roots were ugly, twisted things, beaten down by the relentless winds, like bent old crones, unable to stand upright. The only thing that grew on the moors was heather and bracken, sweeping acres of dark green and purple, only broken by occasional outcrops of limestone, bursting through the earth’s crust like the bleached bones protruding from the slowly rotting carcase of some gigantic prehistoric creature.

  Jebson had never seen anything like it and could almost believe that by some alchemy he had been transported to an alien country that was no longer England, so stark was the contrast to the landscape he knew so well. He reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the view, quietly envying Underwood the stunning place he had chosen to live – it did not occur to him to wonder what this same land might be like when locked in the grip of cruel winter.

  The carriage stopped and he saw that they had arrived. He climbed stiffly down, his back and knees aching in a way they never had before, and it took him a moment to be able to stamp life back into his limbs and set off up the narrow lane which led to the house.

  Jebson hammered on the door of Windward House. Underwood was sleeping fitfully, laid out on the squabs and covered with a blanket. He seemed over the worst but he could not have walked the few yards to the house so the apothecary left him in the charge of the coachman whilst he tried to rouse the house.

  A small but shapely lady answered his summons, her chestnut hair lying unbound on her shoulders, a voluminous shawl wrapped around her, to try and hide the fact that she was still in her nightdress. She looked up at him, concern marring her regular features, “What is it, sir? Is something amiss? Is it my husband?”

  Jebson thought her intuitive, he could not know that when Underwood was not with her, Verity’s thoughts always flew first to him whom she adored.

  “Mrs Underwood?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s me. What is it?”

  “I have your husband in a carriage at the end of the lane. He has been ill but seems a little better now, but he cannot walk. Is there anyone who can help me bring him into the house?”

  “Oh, no! Cadmus ill again? I’ll fetch Toby.” She turned and almost bounced off Toby’s chest, for he too had been awakened by the knocking and had arrived within minutes of her opening the door and now stood behind her, his demeanour both protective towards Verity and threatening towards the unknown man on the doorstep.

  “Toby, thank goodness,” she said breathlessly, “This gentleman has brought Underwood home, but he says he is ill. Could you possibly help him?”

  Toby wasted no time in even bothering to answer this question, he simply moved his mistress gently out of the way and set off down the path at a run. Jebson followed but he needn’t have troubled himself. By the time he reached the carriage, the semiconscious Underwood was already in the black man’s arms and being carried up the path and was taken indoors without further ado.

  Verity took one look at her husband’s white features and seemed ready to faint herself, “Oh dear God, what has happened?”

  Jebson had followed them in, after bidding the coachman to drive back to Hanbury and find lodgings for himself and the horses, assuring him that he would find him later in the day.

  He was now faced with a dilemma. He had known Underwood long enough to be aware that he probably wouldn’t want his wife frightened by tales of poison and attempted murder, but he had to give some account of the illness which assailed the man. He weighed up his options before recalling that Underwood confided that he had already had one bout of sickness before setting off for Midmickle. It would do no harm, he considered, to make light of this latest bout and blame it on the overspill from the last illness.

  “I understand he is not a goo
d traveller and has already been unwell. I think the events of the past few days, coupled with that, have triggered a slight relapse,” he temporized.

  “What events are these?” asked Verity, kneeling by Underwood, who had now been laid on the settee by Toby who had gone off to fetch tea.

  “Mr Underwood found the lost diamonds yesterday,” explained Jebson, and proceeded to give a shortened version of the discovery of the stones and the reactions of all the parties involved, “It was difficult for him, seeing Miss Petch so upset and Luckhurst in a fury. I understand Mr Underwood does not greatly care for public displays of emotion,” he finished awkwardly, wondering if this pretty little lady would take this comment as a criticism of her husband.

  She smiled for the first time since he had met her, “Oh dear me! He would not have liked that one little bit,” she said, casting an affectionate look at the still form on the sofa, “He dislikes women weeping on him even more than he hates bullies shouting at him.”

  “Quite,” said Jebson, not knowing how else to respond to this truism.

  Seeing that Underwood seemed to be sleeping peacefully and a little colour was returning to his cheeks, she was able to regain her equanimity, at least to the degree that she could remember her manners.

  “I’m so sorry. I have not even asked your name or how you came to be my husband’s guardian angel.”

  Toby came in bearing a tea tray and Jebson had never been more delighted to accept a cup of the aromatic brew. He had been true to his promise and had hastily swallowed only one glass of ale on the entire journey, whilst the horses were being changed.

  When he had refreshed himself he introduced himself and explained briefly how he had been called to Underwood when he was taken ill and how Miss Petch had sent the two of them home in her aunt’s personal carriage.