The party was a small affair, with only the Underwood’s closest friends invited and the gifts exchanged amidst much joviality and good-natured teasing. Horatia was particularly proud to be bestowing presents on her parents and both greeted her kindness with expressions of delight and gratitude. Underwood was particularly touched that his little girl had spent her own money on him and her mother. He promised that he would faithfully use the toiletries she had given him every morning when he performed his ablutions. The snuff he was delighted to tip into the small silver snuff-box in the shape of a book, which Verity had given him. In place of a title on the cover, the date of their nuptials and their initials intertwined. He was charmed and it seemed especially significant that they had both chosen gifts of silver.
It was as well that he enjoyed the party for the next day saw a recurrence of the sickness which had dogged him for several weeks and as the autumn faded into winter he grew steadily worse. Soon he was confined to bed almost permanently and though Dr Herbert was consulted, he could find no solution to the problem.
All the indications pointed to the fact that Underwood was being slowly poisoned but no method of administration could be discovered. Francis Herbert was forced to the conclusion that the original toxin must somehow remain within the body and continue its deadly work, but study of every tome on poisons he could find gave no known poison which could act in this way. The only other inference which could be drawn was that Underwood was suffering from some malignancy in his own body which would eventually prove terminal, something that no one wished to suggest to his loving wife.
Letters flew across the countryside, spreading the news of Underwood’s strange ailment and family gathered, aware that they could be making their last pilgrimage to see their much loved Cadmus.
Even Sir George Gratten was prompted to put pen to paper, informing his friend in Parliament of the events in Hanbury and begging him to use his influence to get the matter of Rutherford Petch brought forward so that Underwood could at least see his last case happily resolved before he passed away.
‘My dear Robert,
You will recall that I wrote to you several weeks ago regarding the case of Rutherford Petch and whilst I know you are tremendously busy I must beg once again that you intercede on his behalf with the Attorney General. We need to have this matter resolved as quickly as possible.
I have just returned from a visit to Underwood and have to record that he grows no better. Poor Verity is frantic with worry, though she tries to show him a calm and happy face. None of us can understand how he can still be ill when both Toby and Mrs Woodforde recovered swiftly enough from their illness. There can be little doubt that the scoundrel Brodie slipped some poisonous substance into the wine that they all drank that evening in the Walnut Inn. If it was not so, why then has he disappeared, leaving his daughters to face the full force of the law whilst he escapes unscathed?
Lydia is defiant, but I think she realises now how serious the matter has become. Lawyers have been consulted and Court dates arranged. The atmosphere between mother and daughter is decidedly icy and poor Toby is completely torn by the turn of events. It is obvious now he has fallen deeply in love with Sabrina, but she has firmly allied herself to her half-sister – if, indeed that is their relationship! In this dreadful tangle, who can possibly know?
I must confess it concentrates the mind wonderfully to see one’s contemporaries facing death – for Underwood is undoubtedly sick unto death. I am a man not much given to thinking of his mortality, but if it can happen to Underwood only in his mid-forties, then I must face the fact that one day it will happen to me too.
By God, I had not realised the depth of real affection I feel for the man! He drives me to distraction with his insouciant air and inner certainty – it always seemed to me that he found us all terribly amusing and placed on this earth merely for his entertainment, but for all that he is a good man, honest, trustworthy and endlessly kind. I shall not know how to contain my sorrow if Thomas Brodie has succeeded in killing him.
Letters are winging their way across the country, calling Underwood’s brother, mother and Uncle to his bedside. Verity has refused to let anyone other than Dr Herbert attend her husband. Hanbury is slowly filling with a host of people who wish to bid farewell to Underwood, while Toby and Dr Francis frantically seek a solution to the mystery. Toby has searched in vain for Brodie and has begged Sabrina to tell him whither Brodie has gone so that the source of the poison can be found, while Francis vets every morsel of food and drink that passes the threshold of Windward House to try and stop the poison reaching his old friend, all it seems, to no avail.
Francis Herbert visited me this afternoon and we talked long into the evening. He is completely mystified by Underwood’s continued illness. It seems that a day or two after the sojourn in West Wimpleford, Underwood recovered from yet another about of sickness, which whilst it had been thoroughly unpleasant, had not seemed to endanger his life. He was well enough and seemed on the mend until the anniversary of his marriage when he fell ill again. After a couple of days, Underwood managed to leave his bed, perform his ablutions and join his family downstairs, but within hours he was taken again by the sickness.
Since no other member of the household fell ill again with him, it is beyond understanding how he is being poisoned – if, indeed, poison it is! Francis is sure that it cannot be food nor drink that is adulterated for if that were the case, one would expect the young children in the house to be first to succumb.
Something is killing Underwood and until we discover how the poison is being administered, we can do nothing to halt its progress.
I suggested to Dr Herbert that perhaps we were dealing with some unknown toxin from the Indies since Brodie and Lydia Woodforde have recently arrived from Barbados. He agrees it is possible, but lacks enough expertise to discover the source.
“The devil of it is, Sir George,” he told me as he paced the floor in frustration, “I would swear it was arsenic. The symptoms match exactly – but how is it arriving in Underwood’s system? I never heard of another poison that could continue to act so many weeks after being administered – and if it is some mysterious dose from the Indies, then why are Mrs Woodforde and Toby now fully recovered?”
“You are sure, beyond any shadow of doubt, that no one is able to feed Underwood the poison whilst he is unattended?” I asked, as puzzled as he.
“That’s the whole point – he never is unattended. Poor Verity has scarcely left his bedside and tastes every morsel of food and drink that passes his lips.”
“He’s not been left with anyone else – even someone Verity imagines she can trust?”
“No one. Sabrina offered her services and was politely rebuffed. Even Toby has been prevented from waiting on Underwood, though it broke Verity’s heart to suspect him. It is obvious to all now that he is madly in love with Sabrina and whilst she holds him in her thrall, we all agree that we cannot allow him near Underwood.”
“Dear God, Toby will be heart-broken by that! He has always felt he owed Underwood his life.”
Francis had shaken his head in despair, “Verity wept when I advised her to keep Toby from her husband. She refuses to believe that the man could ever harm Underwood, but even she could not deny that every care must be taken. Underwood is so weakened by his sufferings that one more bout must see the end of him.”
“Is it really so serious?” I asked him, still unable to believe that Underwood is so near death.
“I fear he will not last to the end of the week, Sir George.”
I was left very lowered by Dr Herbert’s visit and in an effort to cheer myself I took myself off to join Major Thornycroft and his cronies for a drink, which, as you know, my old friend, I am not normally inclined to do. The only service I can offer Underwood now is to see that Petch is brought back from Australia before he dies. Do what you can, Robert, and let me know as soon as you have news for me on that front. In the meantime I intend to find Thomas Brodie if it takes
every man I have, and the militia too, if I need them. That blackguard knows what is killing Underwood and I’ll get it out of him if I have to resort to violence to get him to talk.
Don’t fail me, Robert.
Your affectionate friend,
George.’
*
CHAPTER THIRTY
Port Macquarie, New South Wales, Australia
February, 1828
Despite his utter weariness, Rutherford Petch couldn’t sleep. It was not for want of trying because he knew that in less than three hours he was going to be roughly wakened and set to work for another long weary day under a sun so hot that it blistered any skin left exposed to it, and made a man so thirsty that he was glad to swallow the stinking, slimy water from the bottom of the communal bucket.
He had been thinking of home again – a fatal and stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t help it. He had just endured his first Christmas away from home – even the army had given him furlough in December, though he knew that this was due to his officer status – the poor lads in the infantry were not often that lucky.
Oddly it had not been the heart-tearing experience he had feared it would be, but that was mainly due to the fact that it was hot and sunny and didn’t feel like Christmas at all, though the other prisoners and even the guards had tried to mark the day with a decent meal for once and the singing of carols as the sun set. It didn’t make sense, singing about the ‘deep mid-winter’ when the only escape from the heat was a breeze which was as hot as a dragon’s breath, but they had sung the age old songs anyway and pretended to be jolly.
He wondered how Cressy was faring, with only two old ladies for company, one of them out of her mind, more or less. He almost felt more sorry for his little sister than he did for himself. At least he had no one but himself to think of and if he was honest he knew she was no more free than he was. She might not have shackles on her wrists and ankles, nor had she been sold like an animal in a market place to a free settler who used him to help clear the scrub and bush so that he could begin to farm, but she was as chained to her dreary life as surely as every convict in the colonies. At least he could look forward to the day, another six years hence, when he would have served his time – if he survived it.
He turned over on his thin straw mattress trying to find the sleep that eluded him. It was not particularly discomfort that was keeping him awake. He had slept on the ground before now, when campaigning in the Peninsular. It was not the heat, though sweat was rolling off his body, tickling as it trickled.
He listened to the sounds of the night, giving up any idea of slumber. He did not know half the creatures which called and scuttled in the darkness. He recognised the constant high-pitched whirr of some insect he supposed to be something like the cicadas he recalled so well from hot nights in Spain, and the endless croaking of the frogs in a reed-fringed pond not far from the shack in which he and the other five men who worked with him slept – and which when daylight came, they were expected to wash in. There was an occasional bark, but he did not know if it was from the wild dogs who wandered the bush, or if it was the two fierce bulldogs that the farmer used to keep not only his sheep and cattle in order, by nipping their heels, but similarly bit any convict who thought about making a break for freedom.
The man who had bought him in the New Year was a free settler, but Rutherford suspected, he was an ex-convict himself who had decided to stay – and why would he not? Here he was a landowner, a farmer and a respected member of society. Back in England he would probably be reduced to stealing again in order to survive, and be shipped back to the colonies for his pains – and this time he would find himself in Van Diemen’s Land, where death was almost certain if not from the country and all its dangers, then from floggings and starving, punishments fit for those who were found to be ‘incorrigible’. Taggart also had a wife – an ex-convict – who had given herself in marriage to escape bondage, but had simply found another form of hell in the shape of a man who expected her to work like a dog and give him a child a year. Rutherford had been astounded when she admitted she was only five and twenty – she looked at least twice that. But she had been kind to him. It was due to her that they all had a ticking mattress filled with fresh straw and when she could she gave them a bit of meat to go with their coarse bread. Taggart had cursed her when he found out, but she had stood up to him and pointed out that he’d get more work out of healthy men – after that he had allowed them to do a bit a trapping when they weren’t slaving for him and they had soon learned which of the native animals tasted good and which to leave well alone. When they could catch one, kangaroo meat was good, as was emu, but the furry little bear-like koalas were too tough and smelled too strong to be palatable, as were the rotund, nocturnal wombats, which looked like solid meat but were as tough as old boots.
Clearing the bush had presented him with the most deadly of the Australian creatures, snakes which showed no fear of man but struck out, as though daring them to try and steal their territory. Spiders big and small. He had been more afraid of the ones that were larger than his outspread hand, but he’d soon been told that it was the tiny fierce ones that could kill a man with one bite.
All the men had backed off hastily when one of them had prodded what he took to be a dead branch with his billhook. It had turned out to be a lizard, but on being disturbed it had opened its mouth with a threatening hiss and its neck had suddenly flicked out in a weird collar of stretched, scaly skin, like a lady’s parasol, making it look twice its size and deadly as well. As soon as it realized they were afraid it had taken to its heels and fled into the brush, leaving them all sweating and laughing nervously at their own foolishness.
Rutherford found the place fascinating. The animals were like nothing he had ever seen before, despite the fact that he had travelled more widely than most people he knew. The seasons were all the wrong way about, with July cold enough for the occasional frost, and January so blazingly hot that it had been torture to work, and made it impossible to sleep. Fires had spontaneously broken out and were so fearsome that they swept across the country in seconds, and ate everything in their path – forest, scrub, animals and men alike, leaving blackened bones and scorched earth – and yet when the rains came, the green began to show through within days and within weeks the undergrowth was as thick and plentiful as before.
He and his fellow convicts were supposed to clear the land for farming, but it seemed that as fast as they chopped away at the weeds, they grew up as fast behind them. He despaired of ever getting to the end of the task, but he knew that if weeds could grow so fast and strong, how much better would tended crops flourish? One day this land was going to be a wonderful place, but the tedium of taming it was going to beat most men. It would take exceptional souls to stay and see this right through to the end. He wondered if he was going to be one of them or if this land would either kill him or break him.
Much later in the morning, just as the heat was building to an intolerable level, they heard the sound of horses galloping along the dusty trail which led into town, but they all knew better than to stop work to gawp. Taggart was handy with a bullwhip – and who was there to stop him?
When Taggart saw that the men were uniformed militia, he did stop work and walked up to the wooden shack in which he lived with his wife and three children, the youngest yet a babe in arms. Florrie Taggart had also heard the new arrivals and came out to greet them, the baby in a sling across her belly, so that she could carry on with her work in the house at the same time as feeding him – Taggart would allow no slackers on his land. She had been back in the kitchen, such as it was, within hours of giving birth.
“Mr Taggart?” asked the captain, dismounting as he spoke.
“That’s me. What’s the trouble?”
“Can we talk inside? My men would be grateful for a drink of water.”
“I suppose so,” said Taggart, gesturing to the two other soldiers where they would find the water trough.
The cap
tain followed them inside, glancing from side to side in horror at the living accommodation. He was almost sorry he had asked for a drink now, but he need not have worried, the lean-to on the back of the shack was as clean as Florrie could make it and when she offered him tea, he gladly accepted.
“So, what’s this all about?” asked Taggart, when they were all seated on the roughly hewn stools, which he had made himself from the first tree he had felled when he took this piece of unpromising land and began the seemingly endless task of turning it into a farm.
“You have a prisoner here by the name of Rutherford Petch?”
“Damned if I know,” said Taggart, with a malicious grin, “why would I need to know their names?”
“Then we had better go out and ask the men,” said the captain, not about to be outwitted by this ignorant hick.
“Not until I know why you want him,” said Taggart hastily, aware that he was giving away the fact that he did indeed know the names of his slaves, but also wary of letting them know anything before he knew himself.
“He’s wanted in town. The Governor has sent for him.”
“Why?”
“Funnily enough, he hasn’t confided the reason to me,” said the captain sarcastically, “And I doubt he’ll confide it to you either.”
“That’s not good enough. I paid hard earned cash for those men and they are mine to use as I see fit. Sending them gallivanting into town is not in my interest. You are going to have to give me a better reason to part with Petch than that the Governor wants to take tea with him.”
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 21