A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (18 page)

“Stuff and nonsense!  It is obvious to everyone that Charlotte is utterly infatuated – you need only speak the words and she would agree to marry you tomorrow.”

Underwood could not suppress his natural vanity and there was rather an inane smile on his face as he asked diffidently, “Do you really think so, Gil?”

“Yes!  So why not put an end to the misery of all and ask her?”

“In the main, because I would have to face her father first,” he admitted frankly.  The vicar’s usually serene expression was marred by a scornful look which momentarily passed across his face, “Sir Henry Wynter would gladly give any of his daughters to passing gypsies, so I can scarcely see him objecting to your suit,” he sneered, with a cynicism which was most uncharacteristic.  Underwood reached for his snuff box whilst he considered this remark, “I would have to resign from the University,” he commented, almost to himself, which Gil was inclined to regard as a hopeful sign, since his brother had never before even entertained the vaguest possibility of leaving Cambridge for pastures new.

“Well, father did not leave any of us penniless, did he?  And there are plenty of excellent schools looking for masters.  You might even start your own school – persuade Sir Henry to fund a charitable institution.”

“Very droll!” answered Underwood dryly, but he appeared to be considering the suggestion with interest, “I suppose there would be a life for me outside the hallowed walls of the University – but what of Charlotte?  Would she be content as a mere school-master’s wife?”

“There is only one way to discover the answer to that question, brother, and that is to ask the lady!”

Underwood inhaled deeply of his pinch of snuff and replaced the box in his pocket, “Would you like me to go and meet Mother?” he asked.

“We will go together, I think,” replied the vicar, well aware that this swift change of topic was Underwood’s tacit way of ending a conversation which he no longer wished to pursue.

*

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

(“Casus Belli” - Justification for making war)

              Mr. Underwood’s investigation now took on a somewhat feverish intensity.  He was desperate to gather as much information as he could before the arrival of his mother, who, he knew, would be entirely undemanding, thereby engendering a degree of guilt in her offspring which would ensure their undivided attention throughout the length of her visit.  He was determined to at least have something to think about, if not to do, whilst engaging in his filial duties.

He asked Mrs. Selby, who had lived all her life in Bracken Tor, who, in her opinion, was the greatest gossip in the village, and was surprised, though he should not have been, to be given the name of not a woman but a man – old Tom Briggs, the former blacksmith.  From his bench outside the forge, which his son now utilized, he sucked on a clay pipe and watched the world go by, missing little and storing much for future reference.  When the seat was empty, it could be safely surmised that he was occupying his regular spot by the inglenook of the Wynter Arms.

Mr. Underwood, unaccompanied, for once, by Pollock, who had been set several tasks by the vicar, among which was the instruction of write a sermon suitable for the ears of the Reverend gentleman’s mother, sallied forth in search of the redoubtable Mr. Briggs.

It was, as always, dim and smoky in the tap room, due, no doubt, to the foul smelling tobacco which seemed to be the universal favourite, and to the fact that summer or winter, a fire always burned in the huge grate.  It was the landlord’s boast that the fire had never been allowed to go out in four hundred years, and that was probably not very far from the truth.  The stone flagged floor, the thick walls and the tiny windows ensured daylight never pierced the interior, leaving it always chilly.  The fire was a necessity, not a luxury.

Underwood approached the landlord, whom he recognized from his previous visit and, handing him a goodly selection of silver coins, asked to be directed to Tom Briggs, adding that he desired neither his own glass nor Tom’s be allowed to stand empty for the duration of their conversation.

Jonas Blackett made a swift calculation of the sum he held in his hand then raised his head to smile toothlessly at this obviously well to do customer, “Certainly sir.  That’s old Tom, over there by the fire.”  He nodded his head in the direction of the inglenook and its solitary occupant.  Underwood wasted no further time but crossed the room swiftly and in the same breath introduced himself and invited himself to join the older man.

Tom raised shrewd blue eyes to his face and gave a friendly grin, “You’re the reverend’s brother.”  Underwood had long since ceased to struggle against the inevitable and merely acknowledged the truth of this statement with a swift nod of his head.

“I’m told you are the foremost authority on life in Bracken Tor, Mr. Briggs.  Would you care to share a flagon of beer and swap stories?”

“Nothing would please me more – but why should a gentleman like you be interested in the likes of us?”

“The countryside always fascinates town-dwellers, Mr. Briggs.”

“Well, you’d be the best judge of that – and the name is Tom.”

The landlord, seeing Underwood sit down, came from behind the counter and filled Tom’s tankard, then placed a glass in front of Underwood.  The beer looked very dark and strong and Underwood had to gather all his courage to make himself take the first sip.  Surprisingly he found it rather pleasant, so he took a deeper draught and settled himself to listen to Tom.

The first half-hour passed quickly enough, for Tom, given a free rein for the first time in months, was verbose.  The ale was strong and Underwood found the combination of the old man’s voice, the alcohol and the heat of the fire extremely soporific.  It was with great difficulty that he dragged himself back from the brink of sleep and begin to throw in comments and questions which would eventually bring the conversation round to the subjects he required.

Once he was brought to death and burial, Tom waxed positively lyrical and Underwood wondered anew at people’s fascination with the hereafter.  It was a theme he personally avoided with a vengeance.

He had started to fade away again when Tom mentioned something which brought him briskly to his senses, though he showed no physical change of attitude.

“… of course, the vicar frowned on the idea of burying the Hazelhurst woman at the crossroads, but murdered or suicide, either way she was going to walk, wasn’t she?”

“Walk?” enquired his sleepily puzzled audience, “How could she ‘walk’ if she was dead?”

“Ah!” commented Tom, as though his companion had made a deeply profound remark, “There you have it.”

“Have what?”

“The age old problem.  How do you discourage the spirit from walking after death?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.  How do you?”

“Well, of course, the best way is to bury them at the crossroads – causes confusion, you see.  They rise up, but then don’t know what road to take.”

Mr. Underwood resisted the temptation to point out that if the crossroads was known to the person in life, it followed that there was no sensible reason why the way should be suddenly forgotten after death.  He was more interested in hearing what other gems of folklore might issue from Mr. Briggs.

“Failing the crossroads – since it seems to upset the clergy so much – what other methods are there?”

Tom looked shifty as he glanced about, apparently to ensure they were not overheard, “This must go no further – especially not to your brother.”

“You have my word,” Underwood assured him, leaning conspiratorially closer.

“You drive an iron spike through the body into the earth below.”

This Underwood had not been expecting and he was taken aback for several seconds, during which time Tom slaked his thirst and held up his tankard to Jonas to be refilled.  When he recovered sufficiently he asked, “Was that really done to Mrs. Hazelhurst?”

“Aye – and others.  Murdered or suicides.”

“But why those in particular?”

“Two of the strongest emotions in life – and death, my friend.  The murdered come back looking for revenge, the suicides from remorse.  It’s a mortal sin, you see.”

Of course, thought Underwood, a mortal sin meant immediate and permanent banishment from Paradise.  That being the case, there was not much else to do but return to earth and wander about scaring the wits out of simple country folk!  He knew his private thoughts were unkindly cynical and mocked at strongly held beliefs, but he felt that as long as he never voiced them to the credulous Tom, they were harmless enough.

He now felt rather inclined to leave the matter well alone, but having come this far, it seemed a pity to abandon the line of questioning, “So the murdered girl would have been similarly treated?”

Tom did not bother to feign ignorance and enquire to which girl his companion referred.  He merely glanced shrewdly at Underwood over the rim of his tankard before lowering it and replying, “Not just her, my friend!”

“Who else?”  Underwood’s voice was a barely discernible whisper, but Tom heard him.

“Lady Wynter, for one,” was his equally quiet reply.  At the sound of the familiar name every muscle and sinew in Underwood’s body stiffened, as though preparing for flight, “What?”

“You heard me well enough, I think.”

“What possible reason could there be in her case?  I understood she died in childbirth.”

“That’s the story Sir Henry would have everyone believe, but there were those who didn’t believe it then, and they don’t believe it now.  He made no secret of the fact that he was tired of her, and was sick of her constantly giving him daughters instead of the son he longed for.”

“But she had had a son, finally.”

“Aye, but too late.  He had taken a strong fancy to a flighty young piece from over Beconfield way and he was out of his mind to marry her.  She wouldn’t give in to him, see, and he wasn’t used to being refused.”

The Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn story, thought Underwood, suddenly realizing how easy it was to believe all this of Sir Henry.  He had been aptly named.

Underwood dragged his attention back to Tom, who was still deep in his reminiscences, “Of course, he was not short of mistresses, and there are several children born the wrong side of the blanket, but she would not even look his way, so he thought he could persuade her if he promised marriage.  He thought she hankered to be a lady.”

“But he never did marry her?”

“No, the minute the boy was born, he became the centre of his world.  The girl was nothing compared to his precious son.  The minute Lady Wynter was dead, he took off to London with the child.  He said he wanted the best care for the boy.  Said he was born sickly and needed special treatment.  He didn’t even stay for the funeral.  He left the girls in the charge of the housekeeper and a governess and didn’t show his face here for over two years.  When he came home the boy was the bonniest little lad you ever saw, already steady on his feet.  Whatever the London treatment was, it certainly seemed to work, for the lad hasn’t ailed a day in his life since.”

“He is a remarkably fine specimen,” admitted Mr. Underwood thoughtfully, “What happened to the young lady from Beconfield?”

“Ran away to marry a soldier.  We never saw her again.”

“She could not possibly be the corpse in the wood, I suppose?”

“No, too old.  The doctor said the girl in the wood was probably under twenty.  All this happened fifteen years ago.  Alice Mills would be more than thirty now.”

“Tell me something about the Renshaws.  I understand Mr. Renshaw was born here.  Did you know him as a young man?”

“Oh aye.  He did very well for himself.  He inherited a small farm from his uncle, sold it to Hazelhurst’s grandfather and took the money to start a business in Manchester.  I hear he could do no wrong where business was concerned and was worth a fortune by the time he was forty.  They had one child – a son, but he died of the consumption when he was only in his twenties.”

“Was the son ever married?  Were there any grandchildren?”

“Well, he never married, but that doesn’t mean there were no children, does it?  Not if Sir Henry is anything to go by!”  Tom laughed wickedly, but Underwood found it hard to even raise a smile.  He had been given a suspect for his murder and he did not particularly like it.  Could Renshaw’s son have left an illegitimate child who had come to demand her rights of the wealthy Mr. Renshaw?  Was that why the man had been so uncomfortable at the mention of the girl?

Tom watched Underwood as he sipped from his glass, his rheumy eyes slightly narrowed as though in deep thought, “You seem mighty interested in that young girl, Mr. Underwood.”

“It is an intriguing story,” acknowledged Underwood, feeling that to deny the fact now would simply fire more interest in the old man.

“Intriguing?  Aye, I suppose that’s the word.  It certainly intrigued the hell out of us here in Bracken Tor!  To be left with that hanging over us for all eternity, just because one man hated another enough to try and smear his reputation.”

If he had wanted Underwood’s full attention, Tom could not have said anything more contentious.  It was a minute before Underwood gathered his thoughts enough to ask softly, “Are you trying to tell me you know who the girl was, and who killed her?”

“I have my suspicions.”

Underwood knew a moment of gut-wrenching disappointment.  Suspicion meant nothing at all.  He pursued the subject though – he would hear the theory first, then judge its merit, “Go on.”

“I reckon the girl was a nobody – a prostitute probably – but she was dumped in Sir Henry’s estate for a good reason.”

“And that reason would be?”

“Revenge, sir – a dish, they say, best served cold.”

“And who in particular do you think might have hated Sir Henry enough to try and smear his reputation with an unexplained corpse?”

“You should ask a man you’ll find living in Beconsfield.  Seb Gray is his name – one-legged Seb.”

“Are we talking of one-legged Seb, who might perhaps be a poacher, who fell foul of one of Sir Henry’s traps?” asked Underwood, his intellect not quite as clouded by ale as he had feared.

“Ex-poacher.  You don’t hobble about muddy ground with a peg-leg when you might have to make a quick get-away.  Sir Henry didn’t only take Seb’s leg with one of his confounded traps, he took three years of his life and his livelihood.  I reckon Seb bided his time and dumped the body when it would make most mischief.  Sir Henry was about to entertain the local gentry at his daughter’s wedding.”

“Would you happen to know where exactly I can find Seb Gray?”

“Happen I might know which inns he frequents the most.”

Mr. Underwood had desired to tax his brain, and had been amply supplied.  All that remained was for him to sift what he had heard and decide what was true, what was conjecture, what was malicious gossip and – the truth must be faced – what might be Tom Briggs’ idea of a joke.  He was the sort who would probably think it highly amusing to fool a gullible town-dweller with his fanciful tales.

When he had accomplished that Underwood must decide where it left him with his self-inflicted little riddle.