After a short exchange between themselves, the opposing lawyers, Walton and Beard, made an objection. This, they declared, was not evidence but hearsay. Hambleton could not be allowed to give evidence when he had not been present, besides which it was a contentious issue as to whether he could be allowed to give evidence at all. If this was the Americas, declared Beard, no black man would be allowed to speak out against a white man in a court of law.
Mr Chambers, who had sat down during this exchange, now rose to his feet and pointed out that this was not the Americas and besides, Hambleton would not so much be testifying against a white man, as the black woman slave and though he hoped to bring Mr Underwood to court in due course, sadly that gentleman was at present gravely ill and unable to attend. Since the issue of Woodforde’s identity was of minor interest in the case, Hambleton must be allowed to tell his story and it would be confirmed by Mr Underwood when he was able to rise from his sick bed.
Mr Justice Garrett pondered for a few moments, asking why the jury should be subjected to the tale if it had little or no bearing on the case. Chambers replied that he merely wished to illustrate that if Woodforde had lied in this matter, then he could be shown to be dishonest and could not therefore be a reliable witness in the matter of his daughter’s identity either. The judge then nodded, the black man would be allowed to tell his story, but the jury must remember that his testimony had no foundation in law and could be discounted at any point.
Hambleton then went on with his story. Underwood had gone into the coffee room of the inn, where he had found the man calling himself Thomas Brodie. Underwood had greeted him by saying, “Good afternoon, Mr Woodforde.” Brodie had laughed and replied, “I think you must be after a different fellow, sir.” To which Underwood had replied, “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, he later told Toby, 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.”
This had caused yet more of a bustle in the court, with surprised glances being exchanged. It looked very much as though Silas Woodforde was indeed, still alive and was directing the events from the background. But did this really have any bearing on the case?
The jury certainly had no idea and the lawyers were not sure they did either.
Morality was beginning to rear its head and that could not be allowed to happen. Just because every person in that courtroom was beginning to feel utter contempt for Brodie or Woodforde or whatever he wished to call himself, it had no bearing on the rightness of his daughter’s claim. All that mattered here was that the girl was who she claimed to be – what happened to the money after that was not their concern.
But there was not a soul there that day who did not long to deny Lydia so that Silas Woodforde would never get his filthy hands on the Brownhill inheritance.
There was a sudden stir at the back of the court and an usher hurried forward to whisper something in the ear of Mr Chambers. He listened intently to what the man was saying before rising in his usual self-important manner.
“Your Honour, I do beg your pardon, but I would crave a short adjournment. It would seem that some new evidence has indeed come to light which could send this case in an entirely new direction.”
The judge was obviously not happy with the interruption, but he nodded, “Very well, empty the court, ushers and I will hear what this new evidence is.”
When all were gone but the three gentlemen and their assistants, Mr Chambers spoke.
“It would seem your Honour, that two people who can identify Silas Woodforde have recently arrived back from Barbados. They wrote to Miss Lydia Woodforde to tell her of their return, never realizing the problems she has been encountering in establishing her claim to the Brownhill inheritance.”
“And who might these people be, Mr Chambers?”
“Lady Persephone Lovatt and her husband, sir. I understand that she acted as chaperone to Lydia Woodforde and claims to know her and her father well.”
“That would indeed be a useful addition to the evidence, Mr Chambers. I suggest you send for Lady Lovatt at once. Until she reaches us, the case is adjourned.”
*
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Mors Certa, Hora Incerta” – Death is certain, only the hour is uncertain
“Is there really no hope, Verity?” asked Gil, his fingers playing nervously with the long white bands of muslin which hung from his collar, telling the world of his clerical vocation.
Verity raised tear-filled eyes to his face, “Oh, Gil! How will I go on without him? How will I ever explain to my girls how much they have lost in not knowing him?”
Underwood’s brother passed a swift hand across his brow as though to hide his own emotion, “Don’t, sweeting, please! I can hardly bear it.”
She took a handkerchief from the waist-band of her dove-grey dress and wiped away her tears, “I’m better now, I promise. We must not show him sad faces. He is finding it hard enough to die, without us inflicting our misery on him.”
“I want him to find it hard to die,” said Gil, with sudden anger, “I want him to find it the hardest thing he has ever done – so hard that he cannot go through with it!”
Verity managed a small laugh, “I dare swear he is trying hard enough, Gil. He swore he would not die unshriven, will have no one but you to read him the last rites, and refuses absolutely to let his younger brother lead him out of this world and into the next! Take your pick as to which it will be.”
Gil laughed softly, “Contrary as always – that is Underwood for you.”
When they left the room, it was with the tacit agreement that they would do nothing to make Underwood’s passing any more anguished for him than it already was proving.
Never had Verity felt the expression ‘on his deathbed’ to be so expressive or poignant. Underwood was propped up on while pillows that emphasised the sickly yellow of his face. His blond hair was darkened with sweat and his sunken eyes were closed. He had obviously lost weight for every bone in his face stood in sharp relief, yet his loving wife could only see the attraction that lurked there. She knew she had not been wrong to pour so much adoration on this beloved man, no matter how foolish others had sometimes thought her. Underwood had been and was, the love of her life. This handsome man, the jaw strong, the nose aquiline, was all she had ever needed, or ever would. No one would ever replace him.
He roused a little when his brother spoke and opened grey eyes, seeking out Gil and Verity. He managed to smile, but failed to lift his hand to shake his brother’s. Gil went swiftly to his side and took the white and bony fingers in his own warm clasp. Despite the afternoon sun which streamed through the open window, Underwood’s hand was cold, prompting Gil to begin to rub it gently as though to force life into it from his own body.
“My dear Chuffy, I had thought to find you better and here you are sleeping the afternoon away and having your poor wife slaving in your service.”
“Have you brought mother?” asked Underwood, trying to moisten his dry lips so that he could speak more clearly. He knew his voice had lost all its strength and could barely be heard. Verity was beside him at once, lifting a glass of water which he managed to sip.
“She follows with Cara and the boys. I came post,” said Gil, trying to sound as though he took the most expensive mode of travel all the time and was not in the least flurried to have used a succession of horses far harder than he would ever have dreamed of under normal circumstances.
“Don’t let her see me this way, Gil. Give me the last rites so that I can die before she
comes. I can’t bear her pain as well as everyone else’s.”
Gil sent a swift glance towards Verity, who bit her lip so that she wouldn’t sob aloud.
“I haven’t come here to see my only brother die, Chuffy.”
“I’m very much afraid that you have, Gil.”
Verity threw herself on her knees at the side of the bed, “My own sweet darling, please don’t speak of leaving me. I cannot live without you.”
Underwood winced with the effort, but he managed to lift a hand to rest it on her bent head, “My love, if I had any choice, I would never leave you. You have been my happiness, my friend, my lover, my life.”
Verity sobbed in good earnest and Gil felt like joining her.
“Dry your tears, my love, and bring my daughters. I must say goodbye.”
Obedient wife that she was, Verity did as he asked and Gil felt the brush of her dress as she swept past him. He caught her hand in its folds and held it for a moment, trying to send a morsel of comfort to her, a tiny shred of courage to sustain her through the next few hours.
When they were alone Underwood gestured his brother to come nearer, “I realise you have your own family, Gil, but I know I have no need to ask you to care for mine.”
“Consider it done, Chuffy. But I wish you would cease to talk of dying. Is there no hope? Can Francis Herbert not find what the poison is?”
“He thought he had discovered it with a visit to Hartley Grahame’s library, but alas it was a false trail. My only hope was Sabrina Woodforde, but she has stayed resolutely loyal to her father and silent on the matter of his methods and his whereabouts.”
Gil looked thoughtful, wondering if perhaps he could persuade the girl, even though everyone else had failed, “She must be made to speak out, Chuffy. I will go to her myself and beg her to tell us what the poison is and how we can save you. She cannot continue to be so heartless.”
Underwood lifted a hand as if to silence him, “The trouble is, Gil, she may not be at fault here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Verity does not know this, but Thomas Brodie may not be the only man who wishes me dead.”
The clergyman looked astounded, “But I thought there was no question who was responsible for this,” he said, utterly confused, “Who else could it possibly be?”
Underwood managed a small laugh, though it obviously pained him and he winced, “My dear brother, how innocent you are. Do you not think that I might have offended more than one man in my long career?”
“This is not some vague enemy you have concocted, Chuffy. You know something you are not telling, don’t you?”
“Do not tell Verity, Gil. I have sworn to her that I would never keep anything from her, but I have done so only to protect her. There was an incident when I went to West Wimpleford – two in fact.”
“What happened?” asked Gil, keeping his temper with difficulty. He had always feared that his brother would fall foul of someone who would harm him in revenge for his insistence on interfering in matters that did not concern him. It had worried him that Underwood was too quick to interest himself in murder. It stood to reason that if anyone was prepared to kill once, they would find it all too easy to do so twice or more. Every case Underwood had investigated had brought him one step closer to his fate – it was simply a waiting game, wondering which of his ‘victims’ would extract the ultimate revenge. That moment had finally seem to have arrived – and now he was discovering that he could not even be sure which man had killed his brother, so that he could at least have the satisfaction of bringing the murderer to justice.
Underwood told him briefly about the hold-up and how the mysterious widow had shot the highwayman, and how he had suffered a bout of sickness after taking tea with the crooked lawyer, Attridge.
“Dear God, Chuffy,” he said in despair, “Verity would be devastated if she knew you had kept this from her.”
“Therefore you must not tell her,” answered his brother, closing his eyes in weariness. He had felt the need to unburden himself of this secret, but it was unthinkable that he thrust that burden onto his wife. She would have enough to carry in the weeks and months to come, without knowing that he had deceived her, albeit for the best of reasons.
Gil opened his mouth to ask more, but they were distracted by the arrival of the children. The oldest, Horatia, ran to her father’s beside and climbed up to place a kiss on his cheek, “Ouch! Papa, you have not shaved. You should use the stuff I gave you for your birthday. That man said that it would finish you off nicely,” she said proudly.
The words were so oddly said, with such emphasis that everyone in the room was stunned into silence. Underwood looked into his little girl’s eyes and asked softly, “Do you mean the man in the shop, my dear?”
“No. I didn’t buy it in a shop. Sabrina took us shopping, but we met a man she knew on the street and he said that he had just bought snuff, toothpowder and shaving soap for himself, but it would make the perfect present for you. He gave them all to me for the silver three penny piece I had in my purse.”
“Oh my God, that must have been Brodie. There is no other explanation,” whispered Verity, “You’ve been poisoning yourself! Every time you felt a little better you have been shaving and cleaning your teeth with the toothpowder. I knew taking snuff would be your downfall, but little did I suspect in so direct a manner! That’s where the poison is hidden.”
Underwood gave a weak laugh, “You have to admire the man’s ingenuity – and his sheer malevolence. He set my own child to kill me.”
“I’d never kill you, papa,” protested Horatia indignantly, “I love you far too much.”
Underwood drew her into his arms and kissed her. He had finally discovered how Brodie was poisoning him – but was he too late? Had he ingested the final, fatal dose, or was he just in time to save himself from that last rally and relapse?
*
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Similia Similibus Curantur” – Like things are cured by like things
Dr Francis Herbert and Will Jebson arrived at Windward House at almost the same moment and walked together up the path. Francis felt compelled to point out to the stranger that he had chosen a bad time to call on Underwood, but he tried to couch the dismissal in pleasant terms, knowing that Underwood and Verity would never turn away a visitor, no matter what the circumstances. Manners were too deeply ingrained in them both to ever be discourteous.
“I fear Mr Underwood is too ill to receive callers, sir,” he said, “I’m his doctor,” he added hastily, when a raised eyebrow seemed to question the truth of this comment.
“I had heard he was still unwell,” answered Jebson calmly, “I was able to be of assistance to him the last time he was taken ill, perhaps I can give some advice now? My name is Jebson, I’m an apothecary.”
Francis’ worried face creased briefly into a smile, “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to meet you at last. Underwood told me about your help when he was in West Wimpleford. Please come in. I’m sure I can speak for the family when I say that you will be welcome. And I must admit, I would be grateful for your knowledge of pharmacy. Underwood’s case has me foxed and I dread the thought that I may not be able to bring him back from the brink.”
Will’s usually stoic expression slipped for a moment, he frowned in deep concern for a man he had grown to admire greatly, “He really is that bad, is he? I had letters from Mrs Underwood, telling me of his troubles, but I think she deliberately made light of the case so as not to worry those who care about her husband.”
“That sounds like Verity,” said Francis with a grim smile, “always thinking of others and not herself.”
It was Gil who opened the door to them and Francis immediately introduced Jebson to him, knowing that the clergyman must be wondering who he was, but was also too polite to ask. After hands were shaken in greeting, Gil told them quickly about the revelations which had solved the mystery of Underwood’s continued illness.
“Thomas Brodi
e was behind the plot, using his daughter’s servant, Sabrina, as his agent. Once the truth had been discovered and the snuff, toothpowder, shaving soap and brush (with a cunning hidden cavity in the handle, which fed poison into the bristles with each usage) had been looked at and proved to be laced with what we can only assume is arsenic. Toby spoke to Sabrina and she was confronted with the proof of her guilt. She swore she knew nothing of Brodie’s intentions and had merely followed his instructions in giving Horatia the items to present to her father. Toby, as you know, is in love with her and insisted that she was telling the truth. What choice, after all, does a slave have but to obey her master unquestioningly? Surprisingly Underwood is the one who was prepared to allow the matter to fade away. I think his gratitude in finally knowing the truth has eased his mind a little, but he is still gravely ill. I fear we may be too late to save him.”
Jebson examined the fatal items carefully, turning them over in his hands, unscrewing the lid of the badger hair shaving brush and looking into the now empty receptacle, amazed at the work which had gone into its construction, “Ingenious,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“Diabolical is the word I would use,” said Gil bitterly, “And to use his own child to deliver death into his hands. That takes a special kind of sick mind, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does, sir. Might I see Mr Underwood now? I think I can help,” said Jebson, “Or at least I hope I can.”
Gil grasped his hand briefly but fervently, “You would earn our eternal gratitude if you could,” he said and led the way up the stairs.
The yellow tinge to Underwood’s skin worried Jebson, but he refused to show it, or to be disheartened. As he approached the bed, Underwood opened his eyes and recognising the young man, he smiled gently, “Will, how good of you to come and see me. Did Verity send for you to say goodbye?”
Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) Page 24