A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (17 page)

“You must understand that though I have been here for nearly a year, I cannot say I know her well, and can only give you my personal opinion.”

“There is no man whose opinion I value more, Gil.  Pray give it.”

“Well, she is a little … spoiled,” he began diffidently.

“She is horribly spoiled,” stated Underwood brutally, “But will she grow out of it?”

“I expect she might well do so,” Gil could not repress a smile.  Now he knew his brother was smitten.  He would have noticed nothing about Charlotte at all, had his interest not been very firmly engaged, “She is essentially a pleasant, bright, vivacious girl.”

“You sound as though you were giving an end of term report,” complained the love-lorn Underwood.

“What else do you expect me to say?  You can see for yourself that she is beautiful.”

“That is a vastly over-used word.”

“So is love,” suggested Gil with a grin, “Are you disputing that it could be applied to Charlotte?”

“Beauty?  I did not say so,” Underwood sounded testy and his next comment told his brother why, “But if I can see her beauty, so can every other young buck in the County!  Harry intimated that she has no shortage of heart-broken swains dying for love of her – is she a flirt, Gil?  Or worse still, a jilt?”

Gilbert considered this question carefully before answering, “I have noticed no particular evidence of it, but it would be a girl of unusually high standards who did not allow her popularity to go to her head a little!”

Mr. Underwood waved his hand impatiently, “That is not what I mean.  Dash it all!  I don’t mind her enjoying her loveliness.  Who am I to stop her?  She can trample on the heart of every man she meets, if it pleases her – but the question which plagues me is this; does she mean to trample on mine too?”

“How can I possibly answer you?  I have no idea how she feels about you.  Love is about taking a risk, Chuffy.”

Underwood returned his attention to his ring.  He twisted it on his finger and for a moment Gil thought he was about to wrench it off his hand.  He almost reached out to prevent such an action, knowing it had never been removed since the day it had been placed there.

“I can’t do it, Gil.  I can’t risk my heart again; I have to be sure.”

Now Gil did reach out his hand, but it was only to place it briefly on top of his brother’s, “Then you will have to stop now, my dear fellow.  There are no guarantees in life and certainly not in love affairs!  You will have to decide whether or not you can trust Charlotte, and then take the consequences.”

Underwood drew in a deep breath, “Of course you are right, Gil.  Thank you.”

Rev. Underwood rose to his feet, “It’s getting late.  Shall we have some tea?” he asked rousingly.  His brother managed to summon a smile to his solemn countenance, “Only if you make it.”

*

As they trod the path which led to the vicarage, Mr. Underwood spoke again, but on an entirely different subject, “Gil, what do you know of the circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs. Hazelhurst?”

“Now, Chuffy,” Gil stopped and turned to confront his brother, “Hazelhurst was tried and acquitted by a Court of Law. You cannot mean to go dragging all that up again too?”

“Calm yourself, Gil.  Why must you always place the worst possible complexion upon everything I say or do?  I know Hazelhurst was found not guilty and it never occurred to me that he would have any connection with our other little problem, but his name was mentioned and I should like to know what happened.”

The vicar looked unconvinced, but he fell back into step beside his brother,

“There is a steep, craggy outcrop of rock near the Hazelhurst farm and Mrs. Hazelhurst apparently fell over it and broke her neck.  Her husband found her.  It was one of those occasions when truth was obscured by gossip and conjecture.  Unfortunately for Hazelhurst, it was well known that he and his wife did not get on, so to speak.  In the absence of any witnesses, there were three possible conclusions; one that it was a genuine accident and the woman had fallen – but in that case, what was she doing up there?  She had never shown any interest in walking before, and certainly not to Boar’s Hollow!  Two, that her husband, or another, unknown, person had pushed or thrown her to her death, either there, or elsewhere, such as the stairs in her own home, then moved the body – but then you have the problem of how she was lured to her death.  Thirdly that she had gone to the cliff with the express intention of throwing herself onto the rocks below.  Hazelhurst swore he knew nothing about it, and was convinced himself that it was an unfortunate accident.  Sir Henry, as local magistrate, believed him innocent and had the case against him dismissed.  Since there was no proof she had committed suicide, I was able to prevent those who wished to have her body buried at the crossroads from having their request fulfilled.”

“Good God!  Do they still do that?”  Underwood was slightly shocked and his brother smiled slightly, “Not in my Parish.  But I fear it has not been easy to wean country people away from some of the age-old superstitions they have lived by for centuries.  Those who live by the soil tend to have a rather primitive outlook on occasion.”

“Gil, this conversation has given me a worrying notion,”

The vicar’s smile slid swiftly into a frown, “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps I have been entirely wrong about the reason for the girl’s murder.”

“In what way?”

“Fool that I am, I was so sure I was right, I had not left my mind open to other possibilities.  I have been assuming the head was removed to prevent identification – but what if there were quite a different reason?”

“Such as?  I do not see what other reason there could be – aside from my own theory that it was the work of a madman.”

“You used the word yourself – Superstition!  Was she killed as some sort of a sacrifice?  Did the ancients not believe that the soil had to be fed with human blood?”

Gil hesitated for a few moments, before shaking his head in firm denial; “You have been too long steeped in the lore of ancient Greece and Rome.  No!  I refuse to believe any such nonsense.”

“Why?”

That was a question the cleric in Gil found very hard to answer.  He looked into his brother’s eyes, his own clouded with worry, “Chuffy, if I had to imagine something like that could happen in my parish, could be carried out by people I know and respect, I would have to leave the ministry.”

This was not quite the reaction Underwood had been expecting, for in his own excitement at finding an alternative motive, he had been blinded to his brother’s very different approach to life.  His own expression became very troubled as he watched a suddenly stoop-shouldered Gil walk away from him.

*

Even Septimus Pollock’s famed good humour was wearing a little thin by the time the irrepressible Underwood had dragged him unwillingly around the entire village.  The older man refused to rest until every home had visited and Pollock was awash with tea, his head buzzing with the accumulated gossip of the parish.  He began to wonder what the devil was driving Underwood, for he could see nothing remotely interesting in anything which had been said or done, but Underwood was evidently riveted, his evening spent poring over complicated diagrams and maps of the surrounding district, making copious notes in his neat writing and generally being infernally secretive.

Unknown to Pollock, Underwood had gleaned almost as little information as his companion, but he tried his best to discover what he could and to draw the most tenuous of connections between the village and the girl.

He came up with nothing.  No one admitted to knowing her, no one admitted to having seen her and, not entirely unexpectedly, no one admitted to having murdered her.  Either the villagers knew everything and were protecting their own, or they knew nothing and were genuinely as puzzled as himself.  It seemed it had been a rainy evening early on, though the skies had cleared later, and as a result, no one was out in the street, except, it would seem, the girl herself and her killer.

His greatest hope had lain with Toby Hallam and Abney – the gamekeeper who had found the body, and the groom who had told Verity Chapell that he had passed the spot where she had been found only hours before and had seen nothing.

Toby Hallam seemed exceptionally embarrassed to have to admit he had discovered the body, and rather to Underwood’s disappointment he had a perfectly valid reason for being in the woods at five thirty in the morning.  Underwood, who was largely ignorant of country ways, was astounded to learn that a gamekeeper was a stranger to regular hours.  Poachers kept odd hours and therefore so did the man whose job it was to catch them.  This dedication to duty was a revelation to Underwood, who would not dream of wandering about in the dead of night in the service of anyone but himself – and then under duress!

Hallam was not a squeamish man – no one who trapped and culled could be, but he did not scruple to tell Underwood that he had been physically sick when he had seen the mutilation inflicted upon the corpse.  Very clumsily done, was his verdict.  Underwood, who was a squeamish man, found himself feeling decidedly nauseated and hastily changed the subject.

Abney was even less use.  He had been in the Wynter Arms until eleven thirty, having had angry words exchanged with his wife, and had taken rather more than was good for him.  Yes, he had passed the place, and no there had been no body, nor sign of anyone about.  He had failed to notice the presence, or indeed absence, of any vehicle which might have contained the body.  He had, in short, failed to notice anything at all, including the ditch into which he had fallen head first, and out of which he had sheepishly dragged himself, giggling inanely and hoping he had not been seen to fall.

Soon there was only the Dame school, run by the two Misses Dadd, left to visit, and at this point Underwood took pity not only on the long-suffering Pollock, but, he felt, also upon the two Misses Dadd.  He understood from his brother that they had already met Pollock and had been inexpressibly shocked by his candid and emphatic mode of might be able to confide, Underwood decided to grant himself a short rest from his labours and visit them at some later date.

All that remained now was to sift the interviews and decide which, if any, of the villagers warranted a second, and more pressing, questioning.

*

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

(“In Partibus Infidelium” - In heathen places)

Ellen Herbert scanned the letter in her hand with incredulous delight.  It would seem that her plan was working beautifully.  Verity could not keep her appointment for tea on Saturday afternoon because she was studying Latin with Mr. Underwood.

“Francis, my dear, what do you think of this?” she asked as she handed the missive to him across the breakfast table and was surprised when he seemed to be quite unmoved by the contents, “Did I not tell you that Mr. Underwood and Verity are made for each other?”

Dr. Herbert tossed the piece of paper disdainfully into the centre of the table,

“My love, I should not read too much into that, if I were you.”

“Why ever not?  Verity must have some reason for this sudden interest in Latin.”

“Well, what ever it may be, it is not to facilitate the carrying on of an intrigue with Underwood.  I assure you his interest lies in an entirely different direction, and Miss Chapell is well aware of the fact.”

His wife was at once agog for more information, “Oh Francis, who is it?  Do tell, pray!”

“It is no secret, so I see no harm in voicing popular opinion.  It would appear that he and Charlotte Wynter have engaged each other’s affection – though for some strange reason they are both being extremely coy about it.”

“Charlotte!  I don’t believe it.”

“Why should you be so astonished?  Charlotte is a remarkably attractive girl.”

Ellen was irritated that he should think so, and even more annoyed that Underwood should prefer the superficiality of a pretty face above the myriad virtues she knew her friend possessed.

“I would not go so far as to say ‘remarkably’ attractive,” she argued, with a haughty lift to her chin, “And though I can perhaps understand Mr. Underwood being attracted to her physically, I question whether she has the mental equipment to inspire him in the years to come. What on earth does she see in him, I wonder?  Oh, I admit he is a charming creature,” she added, as though the doctor had made some protest, which he had not, “That smile of his quite melts one bones, but I should have expected Charlotte to admire the knight-in-shining-armour type of a man, all brawn and very little brain!  One has to face facts, Francis, and the truth of the matter is that Mr. Underwood has a great deal more to offer intellectually than physically, and Charlotte is quite the opposite.”

Dr. Herbert did not feel there was any onus upon him at all to face these facts, or indeed any others – and certainly not at breakfast!  But he was a kindly man and indulged his wife by answering her cogitations, “Perhaps, my dear, that is precisely what they are both searching for?” he suggested with a knowing smile.

“Nonsense!”  Ellen gave a short and, for her, a rather unkind laugh, “Charlotte has not the faintest notion of the erudite.  I don’t suppose she has opened a book since the day she was released from the schoolroom.  If they were to marry it would be an unmitigated disaster.  Within months they would find they had not the least thing in common.”

“As I recall, dearest girl, that is exactly what was said about you and I,” Dr. Herbert reached across the table and laid his hand affectionately upon hers.  Her face, which had been marred by a bad-tempered frown, softened into a loving smile, “Yes, I believe my Mama did think you were far too clever for me.”

“Neither she nor I ever suspected that you would turn out to be far too clever for me!” he said candidly.

              Ellen giggled appreciatively.

“Anyway, I expect he melted her bones with his smile,” he added teasingly, returning his attention to his newspaper.  Ellen tapped him playfully, “Oh, you!” she exclaimed.

*

Perfect peace reigned in the study of Bracken Tor vicarage, kindly lent by the long-suffering Gil to expedite the learning of Latin by Miss Verity Chapell.  Mr. Pollock had been dispatched to Beconfield in a hired hack to execute various errands for the inmates of the parsonage and was not expected to return for several hours.

A selection of Latin textbooks lay spread upon the desk and Miss Chapell’s head was bent industriously over a sheet of writing paper, but regretfully she was not engaged in conjugating verbs, but in studying Mr. Underwood’s resume of the last known movements of ‘Mary Smith’ – or at least as much as he had been able to piece together.  It was unfortunately very short.

The problem which faced them was to discover where she had gone when she left the coach at Beconfield.  Until someone came forward and admitted to having seen her, they could not know even the general direction she had taken.  How, and with whom, had she spent the day and evening prior to her brutal death?  As far as Verity and Underwood were concerned she had stepped off the stage and into a cloud of mystery, only to emerge as a headless corpse in a wood.

Mr. Underwood was continually frustrated by this enigma.  Whilst the whole affair was shrouded by the silence inflicted upon him by his brother, the task of tracing her movements was an impossible one.  Miss Chapell looked anxiously at him, for his mood seemed very low indeed, “You are not going to withdraw now, are you, Mr. Underwood?”

He managed to summon a bracing smile, despite his fear that his investigation was doomed to failure, “Certainly not, Miss Chapell.  ‘
Dum spiro, spero’
while I breathe, I hope!  I am not yet utterly defeated, but it is tedious, all these politely framed, careful questions.  I cannot help wishing I had not promised Gil I would preserve secrecy.  Some awkward questions to frighten the culprit into rash action would be most useful.”

“I suppose it does rather slow us down, but perhaps it will work in our favour – anyone with something to hide must surely be taken off guard by our cover.”

“I hope you prove to be correct.  To quote another Latin phrase, ‘
Gutta cavat lapidem’
, the constant drip of water wears away stone.  May our perseverance be rewarded – even if we have to spend the rest of our lives badgering the residents of the district, we will solve this crime!”

“Of course we will,” she assured him warmly, “We owe it to poor little ‘Mary’ don’t we?”

“Indeed we do.”

“So what is the next step?”

“Well, I intend to follow very closely the four rules given by the great Rene Descartes for true, scientific enquiry.”

“And they are?”

‘“One; never accept as true anything that cannot be seen as such: Two; divide difficulties into as many parts as possible: Three; seek solutions to the simplest problems first and proceed step by step to the most difficult: Four; review all conclusions to make sure there are no omissions.’”

Verity was most impressed, and showed it, “That sounds wonderful,” she enthused, “But how do we implement it all?”

“I have absolutely no idea – but I’m sure it is most excellent advice.”

She was obliged to laugh, though she was rather disappointed he had nothing more helpful to say.  Presently, to give a touch of authenticity to their assignation they laid ‘Mary Smith’ aside and turned their attention to Latin.

Underwood was under no illusions as to the more unpleasant aspects of character to be found in his fellow man.  Men of Edwin Wynter’s ilk would not hesitate to read evil into the situation, besmirching Miss Chapell’s name and his own – though he was, at that moment, more concerned for her than himself.  It would give Edwin enormous pleasure to test Verity’s knowledge of Latin in order to prove her ignorant of the language.

They worked solidly for over an hour and Mr. Underwood was startled when he heard the long case clock in the hall strike four.  He could scarcely believe the time had passed so swiftly.  Of late he had begun to find teaching a chore, tedious and unrewarding, but Verity’s quick mind and superior understanding had made tutoring her a rare pleasure.  He wanted to tell her so, but the memory of Charlotte’s accusation of partiality towards the governess prevented him.  If Charlotte had noticed evidence of favour, then it was possible others had also, and he had quite enough to contend with in his life without adding further complications.

Instead he determinedly closed the books and allowed himself the luxury of a full stretch, “Enough now, Miss Chapell. ‘
Nunc est bibendum’
”

“I’m afraid I am not yet able to translate, Mr. Underwood.”

He gave his most boyish grin and folded his hands behind his head, “I merely remarked, ‘Now is the time for drinking’ and though a glass of
‘aqua vitae’
would be most welcome, I fear the shock of my asking for it would kill my brother!  We shall have to settle for tea, though thanks to the care taken by Gil, it is a most superior brew.”

“Tea would be most welcome.”

Gil was already in the parlour, in the throes of the tea-making ritual.  Verity watched him in amused fascination; “Does he always go to so much trouble?” she asked her companion in a low voice.

“He does,” asserted Mr. Underwood, as he gently guided her past the overcrowded furniture and found her a comfortable chair by the fire, “However, it is well worth the wait.”

Verity, upon tasting the beverage, was inclined to agree, and there followed a most convivial half-hour, during which much tea was drunk, many sandwiches and cakes were consumed, and the conversation was bright and amusing.

It was with much regret that the young lady rose at last to take her leave and when Mr. Underwood returned from escorting her to the vicarage gate, he spoke thoughtfully to his brother, “Do you know, Gil, she is an excessively charming girl.  You could do much worse for yourself than to court her.”

Gil looked both startled and mildly annoyed, “Miss Chapell? Good heavens, Chuffy!”

“Now, what is wrong with that suggestion?  She may not be classically beautiful, but she is far from plain.  And besides, no vicar wants a dashing wife – causes too many problems!”

Gil relaxed back into his chair, his lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval,

“There are times, my dear brother, when you are incredibly obtuse.”

“Dammit!” protested the sorely-abused Mr. Underwood, “What the devil have I said to deserve that?”

“Not a thing.  Pray do not tax your intellect any further.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that anyone with half an eye could see that Miss Chapell’s affections are already engaged.”

“Do you really think so?”  Underwood was unconvinced.

“I know it for a fact!”

“You seem very sure.  Has Verity told you so herself?”

“Hardly!  It is not the sort of thing young ladies confide.”

“Well, since you seem so certain, perhaps you know who the fellow is?  Could you not have a chat with him and hasten the calling of the banns?”

The vicar sighed heavily and closed his eyes, as though driven beyond endurance, “Pray forget I ever mentioned the matter, Chuffy.”

“Certainly, if that is what you want – but I should not let this fellow, whoever he is, discourage you.  Verity cannot be so very taken with him as you imagine, for she has never mentioned him to me.”

“Perhaps not.  Thank you for the advice.”

“Think nothing of it, Gil.  What are brothers for, if not to offer each other help when it is needed?”

*

By the following Monday both brothers stood in need of all the help they could get, from whatever quarter.  Gil had received one of their mother’s closely written, rambling, much crossed epistles and with barely disguised panic he exclaimed, “Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!”

Underwood was on his way out of the door, but this outburst gave him cause to hesitate, “Anything amiss, Gil?”

“That rather depends upon your point of view.  Mother has written to say she is intending to come on a visit.”

“Mother?  Here?”

“Yes, here!  Where else?  She arrives in Beconfield the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh my God!  When is the next coach back to Cambridge?”

“You are not leaving now.  You are going to stay here and face her with me.”

“Gil, have a little compassion!”

The vicar was completely unmoved by his brother’s plea for mercy and shook his head, “Chuffy, you stay right here,” he said firmly.

“But you know Mother is only coming here to take advantage of the fact that she has both of us under one roof, making her task of foisting marriage upon us that much easier.”

“Well, you will be able to give her some good news in that direction, won’t you?”  Rev. Underwood smiled pleasantly, but there was a determination in his tone which his brother recognized and dreaded, “Gil…”

“There is nothing more to be said.  If you want Mother to cease her campaign to marry us off, you will have to tell her that you have an understanding with Miss Wynter.”

Mr. Underwood was not amused, “That would be more than convenient for you, wouldn’t it?  And I must say that I find that remark in distinctly poor taste.  The subject of marriage has never been raised between Miss Wynter and myself and it is doubtful that it ever will be.”