A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (26 page)

Charlotte seated herself on a footstool at Underwood’s side and alternately held his hand and bathed his brow with cold water whilst occasionally waving
sal volatile
under his nose.  He kept his eyes firmly closed; hardly aware of his loved one’s ministrations.  A dull ache had set into his arm and he was suffering from severe shock, brought on not only by his injury, but also by the increasing certainty that he had brushed as close to death as he was ever likely to without succumbing.  A matter of inches had saved him and condemned Blake.

He fully realized that it had been his startled movement when he heard the shot which had probably saved his life – but had it been an accident?  Some poacher who had seen the unexpected movement in the moonlight and assumed he was seeing a deer?  Or was his own sinister suspicion the truth, that someone had meant to kill him and the unlucky Blake had received a shot meant for him?”

He sat bolt upright as another thought struck him, making Charlotte jump nervously before recovering herself and gently pressing him back into a prone position.

Had the shot been meant for Blake?  Had he known more than he had told?  Had he perhaps known all along who had killed the woman who called herself Mary Smith, and had that murderer killed again to ensure his secret was never revealed?  Where had Mr. Renshaw gone after he had left the vicarage?

Underwood allowed his features to relax into the serenity of sleep, but behind the expressionless mask his mind was a swirling, bubbling eddy of confused thought, with the occasional piece of flotsam thrown to the surface, to be caught, retained and examined further at a later date.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

(“Littera Scripta Manet” - What is written is permanent)

Though he would never have thought it possible, Underwood did fall into a light doze and was wakened only by the sound of Dr. Herbert’s voice breaking through the veil of sleep.

“What have you been doing to yourself?”  he enquired, in the hearty tone that is supposed to instil confidence and take the patient’s mind off their ills.  The glance which Underwood cast him left him in no doubt that this was the wrong approach for this particular sufferer.  He hastily sent Charlotte to fetch water and cloths and carried a chair to the side of the sofa.

“I assume I made no mistake and the man was beyond help?” asked Underwood, as the doctor sat beside him.

“You made no error, my friend, I’m sorry.”

“For me, or for him?”

“For both of you, if you must have it.  He may be dead, but your experience cannot have been altogether pleasant.”

“Not altogether.”

Francis bade him shift into a sitting position and helped him remove his coat, saying as he did so, “You are a lucky man, Underwood.”

“More fortunate than Blake, certainly,” agreed Underwood bitterly.

The doctor deftly cut away the material of his shirtsleeve, exposing the injury to view, “A mere scratch. Nothing to concern you there.”  Underwood forced himself to look and was humiliated to see that the wound was indeed a scratch.  To have fainted on account of it was mortifying, but the circumstances were rather exceptional, and he had no way of knowing it had been so minor.

“I understand you heard only one shot, so the bullet must have brushed past you before it hit poor Blake.”

“I imagine so.”

“What a damnable thing!  A tragic accident.  No doubt it was some half-witted poacher who mistook you for a deer.”

“Francis,” protested Underwood, “It was almost as bright as day out there this evening.  I could see the individual leaves on the trees.  And I have yet to see a deer carrying a lantern.  Any man who was a good enough shot to hit a man in the heart, in moonlight, was blessed with sight good enough to know the difference between men and beasts.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe it was an accident?”

“I have my doubts.” 

Further conversation was halted by the arrival of Charlotte, bearing a basin and ewer filled with hot water.  Dr. Herbert relieved her of her burden and said, “You may wait outside, Charlotte.  It would be unseemly for you to remain here with Underwood stripped to the waist.”

“Oh, what nonsense!  We are to be married soon, and I have seen Harry thus hundreds of times.”

“And when you are married, Underwood will be your business – until then OUT!”  She went sulkily away, but not before flashing a pert smile in Underwood’s direction.  

              Francis said nothing more until he had helped his patient out of his shirt, then he began to clean the wound with the hot water Charlotte had brought him, ignoring Underwood’s winces, “I don’t know what to say, Underwood, except that it seems highly far-fetched to think anyone would make an attempt on your life.”

“What other explanation is there?  Blake lies dead and but for a chance movement, it might have been me.”

“But who could possibly have known you would be out there, and at what time?”

“Unfortunately, any number of people.  Sir Henry sent Abney to collect us from the inn.  He didn’t find us there, but who knows who heard him ask for us?  As you can imagine the inn was particularly lively, due to the success of the cricket match.  It is going to be almost impossible to prove or disprove anyone’s knowledge of my whereabouts – as for time, well, they need only hide amongst the trees, knowing that sooner or later we must pass.  Only one thing puzzles me, they ought to have been expecting us to return in the carriage – I certainly was.”

“Sir Henry did not offer you a carriage in which to return to the vicarage?”

“On the contrary, he took great delight in telling us he had sent Abney to bed and we would have to walk.”

“So, Sir Henry was the only man who knew you were on foot?”

                Underwood stared at Francis for several minutes, a faint frown creasing his brow.  At last he shook his head, as though to dislodge an unworthy thought, “Sir Henry was drunk when we left him.  He couldn’t have hit a barn door.  Also Abney knew, and anyone in the house might have overheard the conversation or known of Sir Henry’s plans.”

“True enough.  Of course we are assuming that this is all connected with Mary Smith.  We might be quite wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was more than one man lusting after your blood this afternoon.”

“Charlotte’s disappointed suitors, do you mean?  No, I refuse to believe any one of them feels strongly enough to commit murder.”

“That may not have been the intention.  Perhaps they hoped to frighten you into leaving Bracken Tor.  It is the sort of hot-headed recklessness for which young men are renowned; a warning shot which tragically found a target.”

Underwood had to admit his friend had found a plausible theory, but he was tired and could not find the necessary energy to even think about it just then.  He winced as the doctor tied the final knot in his bandage, “Thank you,” he said, deeply sardonic.  Francis grinned, “I suggest you accept Sir Henry’s hospitality for the night.  Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning.  I shall call to make sure there are no unexpected problems and that you have no fever, then you can go back to the vicar.”

“God!  My mother will have an apoplexy when she hears of this.”

“I’ll drop in a note on my way home, assuring them of your safety.”

“Thank you once again.”  This time his voice was sincere and Francis gripped his good shoulder with an affectionate hand, “I’m very glad to be of service, my friend.”

Reluctantly Underwood allowed Charlotte to arrange for a bed in the ‘blue room’ to be made up and warmed, then accepted her assistance in climbing the stairs.  He tried not to think that whilst he was enjoying the warmth of a feather bed, Blake was laid on a sheep hurdle in an empty stable, a hole in his heart and his lifesblood staining the fine embroidery of his new waistcoat.

He wished now that he had given the man his purse of money and sent him back to London on the first available coach.

*

Charlotte allowed him to sleep late the next morning, then brought him a tray piled high with cold meats, bread and a pot of coffee.  Underwood did not have the heart to tell her that he had never felt less like eating, and anyway, he always started his day with tea.  He was making a valiant effort when the lightest of tapping sounded on his bedroom door.

It was Verity Chapell, who entered like a thief, looking about her as though she expected hidden observers in every corner.  Mr. Underwood watched these actions with some amusement before asking, “What exactly are you doing, Verity?”

“I need to speak to you,” she told him in hushed tones.

“Then speak, and stop looking about you like that.  You have a most unpleasant cunning expression on your face.”

“I don’t want to be caught in here.  It would be unseemly, to say the least.”

“Unseemly for one of my friends to come and enquire after my health?  For heaven’s sake, sit down.”

She did as she was asked, but still seemed ill at ease.  He looked at her, suddenly realizing he had not laid eyes on her since their interview with Seb Gray.  She had even missed her Latin lesson, though he had not been overly concerned at the time.  She was a little pale and tired looking.  He wondered if Edwin Wynter had been bullying her again.

“What did you wish to see me about?”

“Last night.  I’m so relieved you were not badly hurt.”

“Thank you, but I cannot help wishing Blake had been as fortunate.  I feel responsible for his death.”

“You cannot blame yourself for that,” she protested, “Blake was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yes, but it was I who brought him here.”

“Nonsense!  Greed brought him here, nothing more.  I don’t believe for a moment that he was married to our girl, do you?”

Underwood admitted that he did not, “But he paid a very high price for his avarice!” he added rather bitterly.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked, ignoring his last remark.

“I’m not sure we go anywhere, Verity.  I cannot help feeling that we may have reached the end of the road.”

Verity was appalled, “You cannot mean that, Underwood.  Whoever killed Mary Smith probably killed Blake too.  You said yourself that we needed them to make an error so that we could trap them.  This could be that error.”

He held up a calming hand, “Hold hard, Miss Chapell.  We have no proof that Blake’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.”

“Do you believe it was?” she retorted disdainfully.  Underwood gave a rather more careful answer than was his wont, “What I believe does not matter.  I cannot prove it.”

Verity looked into his eyes, but his glance dropped away and he began to scan his breakfast tray, as though to spot a tasty morsel.  She rose to her feet; “You know who committed both murders, don’t you?”

“No,” his answer was short, but still he would not meet her gaze.  Anger made the blood drain from her face, “You snivelling coward,” she hissed, “It has grown too dangerous for you, so you are going to give up.  I thought I had met a man with more backbone than that.”

That made him look up and though his voice was even when he responded, she knew he was suppressing a burning fury, “If you think it was because I was shot at, you are wrong.  I’m not afraid of injury or death, when right is at stake, but I am very afraid of the hurt I could cause to the innocent in all this. Blake is dead!  How many more lives will be ruined if we pursue this matter?  Gil was right; I should never have interfered in things I knew nothing about.”

“You did not feel that way when we began.  I suppose it is your precious Charlotte who has changed your mind.  Did she throw a tantrum because you have upset her darling papa?”

Underwood folded his lips as if he could stem the flow of words he longed to throw back at her.  He had never expected to hear such vitriol pouring from her puritanical little person and he was shocked and distressed by it, as well as stinging beneath the lash of her unfair criticism.

“Verity…” he started to plead with her, but she had gone beyond being placated.  For a whole year she had borne abuse, bullying, criticism, unkindness and condescension.  Underwood had inadvertently opened the floodgates of her repressed emotions and now he would have to bear the consequences.

“Be damned to you!  Don’t make your pathetic excuses to me, I don’t want to hear them.  You go and play the lover with your pretty mistress and I shall find Mary’s murderer alone!”

With that she stormed out and slammed the door behind her, little caring that she was drawing attention now to her presence in his room.  She hoped Charlotte came to know of it and sent him about his business with a flea in his ear.

Underwood was left with even less appetite for his breakfast than before and with even more to think about when he returned to the vicarage.

*

A procession of visitors followed, effectively preventing him from getting out of bed and dressing himself, which was all he really wanted to do.  Charlotte was accompanied by Dr. Herbert, who declared him fit enough to go home – but more importantly, not quite well enough to attend the inquest on the death of Blake, which was to be opened that afternoon in the Wynter Arms.

Underwood held up his hand, “Don’t tell me any more.  Sir Henry is also the local Coroner, isn’t he?”

“He is.” 

He said nothing more, in deference to the presence of his betrothed.

Just then his mother and brother arrived and after exchanging pleasantries, the doctor and Charlotte left them together. 

Gil looked suitably grave, in the light of the tragic death of Blake, and Mrs. Underwood was bravely tearful, immensely relieved that her boy had not been the fatality, but trying hard not to show it, since any such display of emotion was bound to embarrass her elder son.

Sir Henry had the civility to wait for their departure before coming to enquire after the health of his unexpected guest and to ask several searching questions about the incidents of the previous night.

Underwood, aware that Sir Henry was in pursuit of his duty, bore this interrogation with fortitude until Sir Henry initiated a line of questioning which he found deeply offensive.

“Tell me, Underwood, do you possess a gun?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think you heard the question.”

              “Indeed I did!”  Underwood managed to retain evenness in his tone; “May I inquire why you ask it?”

“Why not simply answer the question?  Have you something to hide?”