A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

“May I join you, Miss Chapell?”

“Of course.” She shifted along the bench, tucking her skirts out of the way at the same time, “Is Charlotte not receiving visitors?”  she asked presently, when he had settled on the seat beside her.  She could not help but wonder why he was in the garden alone, and not in the house, talking to the invalid.

“Oh, yes.  I left her deep in conversation with my brother.”

Miss Chapell was an astute young woman, though inclined to say very little, and there was nothing which escaped her notice.  She had seen Charlotte’s behaviour the previous evening, and was under no illusions as to that young lady’s readiness to fall in love with her rescuer - albeit he was somewhat more mature than the other young bucks who were currently wooing her.  The governess could only be amazed that he had managed to effect an escape from her headstrong charge, leaving her alone with the vicar, instead of being alone with her himself, and the vicar wandering in the garden with Miss Chapell.

It would have been too blunt and impolite to frame the question “How did you manage it?” which sprang to her mind, so she was forced to change the subject completely, “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

Mr. Underwood was not about to be drawn on the weather, so he answered, “Quite delightful,” in a rather cursory manner, before adding, “Tell me about yourself, Miss Chapell.  Have you been in Sir Henry’s employ for long?”

She was not to know it, but the purpose of his question was to find out if she knew anything of the murdered girl, so it was with some surprise that he met her eyes and found her looking both flattered and confused by his interest. 

“Do I look as old as all that?”

Mr. Underwood looked baffled, as he always did, when women tried to flirt with him.  He was never quite sure of the rules of the game.  Was he required to be heroically witty and send her off into paroxysms of laughter, or be strictly truthful, and risk her wrath?

“I have no idea,”  he eventually replied, aiming for honesty, but apparently achieving witty, for she did indeed laugh very heartily, and it was some moments before she was able to recover herself and wipe her eyes, “I do apologise, Mr. Underwood.  That was unforgivable.”

Underwood had been watching her amusement in bemused silence, but was prompted to sketch a gesture of denial, “Not at all, pray think nothing of it.  I don’t recall having caused such merriment before – except on the occasion I mistook the Dean for the college scout, who had left open a window and caused rain damage to some of my most precious books, and berated him soundly before half my students.”

“Oh dear!”  Miss Chapell was well aware how serious such an error could be and was immediately solemn, “What happened?”

              “I am a fortunate man, Miss Chapell.  The Dean is rather deaf, and also very short-sighted.  He simply thought I was a raving madman and ordered my immediate removal from the college grounds.  I grew military-style moustaches until I felt he had forgotten the incident.”

Miss Chapell went off again into whoops of laughter, not least at the idea of her companion with a moustache, military or otherwise, but this time Underwood joined her.

Isobel, passing the end of the avenue at that moment, was surprised to see her rather shy little governess and the vicar’s brother enjoying each other’s company so much.  She hoped, mostly for Miss Chapell’s sake, that Charlotte would not come to hear of it.

Oblivious, Mr. Underwood and Miss Chapell were just recovering themselves, “I told you yesterday that you are an extraordinary man, Mr. Underwood.”

“Too kind,” he murmured, rather embarrassed by such candour, “Now, you were about to tell me about yourself.”

Miss Chapell bent to retrieve her book, which had fallen from her lap, “I’m afraid it is a very dull story.  My father was a clergyman, who died ten months ago.  My mother has been dead since I was quite small, so about eight months ago I had to find some sort of employment.  Only Sir Henry was prepared to take someone so relatively young and inexperienced, so here I came.”

Underwood did not voice the thought, but he was prepared to wager that her salary was far lower than it ought to be.  He did not believe that Sir Henry had a magnanimous bone in his body.  It also took her out of the area at the time of the murder, but he naturally did not mention this fact either.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.  “It is particularly hard to lose someone close, especially when losing them also means the loss of your home and livelihood.  You must have had a difficult time adjusting to life as an employee.”

For some reason she felt she could not meet his eyes and continued to stare steadfastly at the book in her hands, “I was miserable when I first came here, but I have grown used to things now.”

In a swift and fluid movement he patted her hand comfortingly, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth his snuffbox, “I assume you do not imbibe?” he asked, proffering the box, which he had already flicked open with a casual thumbnail.

“No, thank you.”

“I trust you have no objection to my doing so?”  She shook her head, fascinated by the swift and expert way he handled the container.  It was the action of a dandy – and indeed he had learned the trick from an accomplished member of the dandy set, one who now set London Society aflame, but who had been a mere student in the days when Underwood had known him – but there was nothing else dandified about him.  She was glad, for she despised dandyism, feeling it to be a thoughtless indulgence of the very rich, which mocked the misery of the poor.  It was nothing less than scandalous that young men could pay fortunes to their tailors, boot makers and jewellers, whilst children starved on the streets and men and women sank to the depths of degradation through poverty and ignorance.

Naturally she said nothing of this to him.  Such beliefs would only be regarded as subversive and hostile, and she had no idea how her companion might feel about such things.  Since her father’s death, and the subsequent loss of his protection, her own politics had inclined towards the Radical movement, especially after the massacre of the innocents a year before on St. Peter’s Field in Manchester.  She had been appalled that the wealthy and powerful men of that City had felt no compunction at turning the military loose with sabres upon the poor protesters, including women and children.  What had they done but begged for bread?  She never discussed her feelings, for two reasons.  Charlotte and her sisters would have less interest in the subject than they had in learning French, drawing and music – they were not an academically gifted family; and Sir Henry would bear no Radical to live beneath his roof.  Miss Chapell might not enjoy her work, but unfortunately she had to keep it, at least until she found something else.  Even the most ardent socialist had to eat! It was yet another reason for her indecision regarding her position in the Wynter household.  By remaining there, she felt she was betraying every tenet she held most dear.

She simply watched Underwood as he took his snuff, snapped shut the box – a plain silver one, bearing only his initials – and returned it to his pocket.  Very cleanly done, she thought admiringly, for, though he automatically dusted the front of his coat, there was not a speck to be seen.

“You do that beautifully,” she heard herself saying, then blushed painfully when she realised she had spoken aloud.

He smiled, a slow, warm smile which made his eyes glitter teasingly and showed his crooked tooth to advantage, “Thank you.”  He did not tell her that his snuffbox was merely a device – one which he used often – and for a number of different reasons.  It was a useful means of diverting attention, mainly from emotions which he did not wish to display; it also served to distract other parties from their own feelings.  Quite often by the time he had taken his snuff and returned his box to his pocket the dangerous moment had passed, and he was able to pretend he had forgotten the thread of conversation and begin a new one - as had happened on this occasion.  Miss Chapell had quite overlooked the fact that she had been speaking of unpleasant things and Mr. Underwood’s equanimity was restored.

Miss Chapell, who did not consider herself to be at all susceptible, was quite overwhelmed by the power of his smile and for the first time fully understood why Charlotte had been so dreamily preoccupied the evening before.

“Do you…” her voice caught in her throat on a curiously high note and she had to swallow deeply before she could try again, “Do you ride at all, Mr. Underwood?” 

She couldn’t imagine why she had asked the question, except that riding was the main occupation of everyone in the Wynter household.  She herself had, in the past, enjoyed riding, having been lent a mount by a kind hearted parishioner of her father’s, but she had not ridden since her arrival in Bracken Tor, simply because she had never been asked.

She had to admit that she was treated really rather well by the family – certainly much better than she had been led to believe was the usual lot of governesses.  By the older girls, even Charlotte in her better moods, she was viewed more as a friend than a paid companion, and her only real charge was Isobel, who utterly adored her.  Had she spoken of her desire to ride, it would have been instantly gratified, if not with prime horseflesh, then a passable nag, but her pride refused to allow her to ask favours, and it never occurred to the family that someone they considered to be of the servant class might be able to ride, so she waited in vain for an invitation.

“I have not ridden for many years – there is not much need in college, and I have neither the time nor the mount – but I used to be fond of a sedate trot around the London parks.”

She laughed, “I fear you should not get a ‘sedate trot’ here, Mr. Underwood.  The Wynters are all neck or nothing riders!”

“It’s the red hair,” he replied, quite seriously, and she laughed again.

*

CHAPTER SEVEN

(“Fiat Justinia Ruat Caelum!” - Let justice be done though the Heavens fall!)

Luncheon was rather a strained affair, with the vicar still silently seething at his brother’s cavalier attitude towards Miss Wynter, and Mr. Underwood refusing to be in the least concerned.

He was deeply immersed in the problem he had chosen to solve, and was scarcely aware that Gil was annoyed – a fact which served to irritate the vicar even further.

Faced with almost monosyllabic conversation Mrs. Selby hastily retreated into the kitchen and left the brothers to serve themselves.

Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Underwood seemed to stir himself out of his reverie and looked directly at his companion for the first time since the meal began,

“Where does the nearest doctor live, Gil.”

The vicar gave his brother a glance of sharp enquiry, “Why do you want to know?”

“Just out of interest.”

“Calden,” answered Gil tersely.  Mr. Underwood appeared to find nothing amiss in his tone, “Oh, so you have no doctor living in the village, then?”

“Somewhere as remote as this is lucky to have a doctor as near as Calden.”

“And how far away is Calden?”

“About four miles.”

“Rather a long walk.  Is there any carriage available to take me there?”

Gil began to frown, “Why do you want to go to Calden?”  Mr. Underwood was surprised that he felt the need to ask, “To speak to the doctor, of course.  I assume he was the one who was called to examine the body?”

A sudden and most uncharacteristic loss of temper assailed the vicar.  He rose so swiftly to his feet that his chair was thrown backwards and landed with a clatter on the wooden floor, his napkin was slammed fiercely onto the table, “Good Heavens!  You are not still intent on this madness, are you?”

Mr. Underwood raised a quizzical brow, but gave no other indication that he felt his brother’s behaviour was anything other than normal, “My dear Gil, you seem upset.  Is something amiss?”

“Yes Chuffy, something is very much amiss!”

“My dear fellow, why didn’t you say so?  What is it?”  The voice full of compassion, overflowing with gentle concern, almost sent the vicar into a frenzy.  He found it very difficult to believe that his own brother could so infuriate him.  None of his parishioners would recognize their calm and diffident priest at that moment.  He drew in a deep breath and attempted to elucidate, “You simply cannot come here, a complete stranger, and begin to stir up the past.  Many people were exceedingly distressed that such a terrible thing could happen in their village.  You will cause considerable unhappiness if you insist upon reminding them of the incident.”

Mr. Underwood slowly shook his head, more in sorrow than anger, “Gil, I must say I am intensely disappointed in you.  Would you rather that poor girl lay unavenged in her grave, than people were disturbed by a few simple questions?”

Feeling strongly that he was being manipulated, but unable to frame a reasonable reply to this, Gil Underwood was forced to capitulate, “Very well, you have my blessing – but please, I beg of you, do not go about this thing in an insensitive fashion!”

“Insensitive?  I?”  Underwood seemed genuinely appalled at the very suggestion,

“Gil, I am the very soul of sensitivity and discretion.  Half the people I question will not even know they have given me information.”

“I hope you are right.”

Nothing further was said and the two gentlemen left the dining room of one accord.  As they entered the hall the front door bell jangled and before either of them could approach it, Mrs. Selby, with unwonted alacrity, dashed by and flung the door dramatically open, “Why, it’s Miss Chapell.  Do come inside, Miss.”  The lack of surprise in her voice led them to correctly deduce that she had observed the young lady’s approach from the study window, where she was supposed to be dusting, and which overlooked the village street.

Miss Chapell entered, drawing off her gloves as she did so, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Selby, how are you?”  She smiled at the housekeeper, then noticed the two gentlemen standing in the dimness of the hall, “Good afternoon,” she added, including them in her smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Chapell,” answered the brothers in unison then glanced at each other in irritation, aware that they had sounded like a couple of schoolboys.

“Can we do something for you, Miss Chapell?” asked the vicar politely, gesturing that she should enter the parlour before them.

“You must forgive my arriving unannounced,” she said, as she obeyed the invitation and walked past him and into the room, “But I am the bearer of a message from Sir Henry.”

“Oh dear, nothing wrong I hope?”  As he spoke, Gil was forced to reach out and grasp his brother firmly by the coat tails to stop him from wandering out of the front door, “In here,” he hissed.

“Did you say something?”  asked Miss Chapell, turning toward him.

“No,” replied Gil, releasing Underwood hastily, and smiling brightly, “Not a thing.  Now, the message..?”

Underwood stood awkwardly in the doorway and the vicar was forced to push him into the room and enter after him.

“Merely an invitation to dinner tomorrow evening,” said Miss Chapell, gazing curiously at the pair and wondering what on earth was happening.  There seemed to be a lot of undignified pushing and pulling going on, which was hardly the behaviour she had grown to expect from the Rev. Underwood.

“From Sir Henry himself?”  The vicar’s voice was sharp with disbelief, so much so that Underwood looked at him in surprise and Miss Chapell was forced to hide a smile, “Well, the actual order came from Miss Jane Wynter.”  She did not add that it had been at Charlotte’s insistence, since the rest of the family had deemed it politic that the visitor and the squire be kept well apart!

“Oh.”  Gil suddenly remembered his manners; “I do beg your pardon Miss Chapell.  Won’t you be seated, perhaps I could offer you some tea?”

Underwood’s heart sank – that would ensure his escape would be delayed by at least another hour.

“Thank you, but no. I have only just finished luncheon, and it is my free afternoon, so I am rather eager to be on my way.”

“Then let us detain you no longer.  Thank you for delivering the invitation.”

“I trust I am not included in it,” said Mr. Underwood suddenly.  Miss Chapell had been endeavouring to keep her eyes upon the vicar whilst she conversed with him, but upon hearing this remark, her glance flew to Underwood’s face, “Oh dear…” she faltered, “Do you have some other engagement?  I was asked most particularly…”

“No, no, Miss Chapell,” interrupted Gil hastily, “We have no other engagement.  My brother and I will be delighted to accept Sir Henry’s kind offer.”

She looked very relieved and began to pull her gloves back on again, “I really must go.  Poor old Noble hates to be left standing, especially when he is coupled to the gig.  As an old hunter, I think he feels it is beneath his dignity.”

Mr. Underwood became very interested when he heard the word ‘gig’.

“Am I to understand you are in possession of a vehicle, Miss Chapell?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be very much out of your way to give me a ride into Calden?”

“We must not encroach upon Miss Chapell’s free time,” intercepted the vicar, and the lady thought she heard a note of warning in his tone.

“As a matter of fact, I was planning to drive through Calden.  About a mile outside the village there is a very pretty waterfall.  I thought I might go there and do a little sketching.”

“Then would you be kind enough to take me to Calden?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Underwood.”

He thanked her charmingly, gave his brother a triumphant smile, then offered her his arm and led her from the house, “Goodbye Gil.  Don’t wait dinner for me, I may be late.”

Miss Chapell managed to restrain her curiosity until they had mounted the rather rickety gig and were bowling along at a brisk trot, leaving Bracken Tor far behind them.  Since it would have been unforgivably rude to ask her companion outright what his plans were, she was forced to employ considerable cunning and tact.  Had she but known it, Underwood had no inclination to hide his destination from her, and he would have been vastly amused to know how her feminine wiles were stretched to their utmost.

“I had not realized you were acquainted with anyone living in Calden.”

“I’m not.”

She could see he was not being deliberately obstructive, it simply never occurred to him that anyone should be, in the slightest degree, interested in his actions, and so he made no attempt whatsoever to explain or justify them.

She gave a laugh, which even to her own ears sounded false, “Then I can’t imagine what takes you there.  It is not a very interesting place – similar to Bracken Tor, but without even the benefit of a church.  I don’t think it is the sort of place to attract visitors.”

“Oh, I’m not going to see the village.  I intend to visit the doctor.”

She knew a moment of intense disappointment.  She recalled with painful clarity, the conversation with the vicar regarding his brother’s supposed hypochondria, and since meeting him, she had hoped it wasn’t true.  Such a glaring defect of character was not particularly attractive in a man.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she asked tentatively, glancing sideways at him.

“Never better,” he asserted heartily, “Why do you ask?”

Miss Chapell began to feel that they were not communicating on quite the same level, “But…” she foundered in a morass of confusion, “the doctor.  You said…”

Mr. Underwood laughed; his head thrown back, his golden hair glistening in the sunlight, for he invariably went hatless.  She thought it rather strange that he did not wear a hat, when almost everyone else did, even the poorest people covered their heads when outside.  The truth was he constantly lost anything which was not physically attached to his person, hats, gloves, walking sticks – he left them in shops, circulating libraries, carriages.  To simplify his existence, he abandoned the use of anything which could be misplaced.

“I said I was going to visit the doctor, not consult him.”

“You also denied knowing anyone in Calden,” she countered, mildly irritated that she should be laughed at, when it was he who had caused the confusion, “Why visit a man you don’t know?”

Underwood was suddenly silent.  He realized, too late, alas, that he had said too much.  His promise to Gil not to discuss the murder unless strictly necessary was in danger of being broken less than twenty-four hours after being made.  His abrupt change of expression made Miss Chapell feel unpleasantly excluded.

“I don’t think I ought to confide that.”

“Oh.”  She was hurt and sounded it.  Mr. Underwood was acutely aware that he had disappointed her.  It was not an emotion he cared for, and it was many years since he had allowed himself to be swayed by the guilt others tried to thrust upon him.

“Miss Chapell…” he began, but she cut viciously across his attempt at reconciliation.  She was not only hurt, but humiliated that he had found her intrusive,

“Please don’t say any more.  I quite understand that you think me impertinent and not to be trusted!”

Damn it all!  Why must women always bring every issue to the personal?  Had he spoken thus to any man, he would merely have shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject.

“My dear child, I never suggested I thought you impertinent – and it is not a question of trust. I have been asked to keep this thing quiet, therefore my first deed cannot be to tell you all about it!”

“I may not have attained your great age, but I am not a child – dear or otherwise!”  she countered swiftly, “And I would not dream of asking you to break a confidence – in fact, I insist you do no such thing!”

“By all that’s holy, give me a woman for contrariness!”  Miss Chapell was not to know it, but she was witnessing a rare circumstance – Mr. C. H. Underwood in a state of extreme irritation.

As he grew more ruffled, she became more serene – a stratagem usually employed by himself – and all the more annoying for that.

“There is no need to insult my gender, Mr. Underwood.  I quite understand the male code of honour.  You cannot tell me your silly little secret – let that be an end to it!”

“Silly little secret!”  He was painfully aware that he was beginning to sound insufferably pompous, “My good girl…”

“Woman,” she corrected calmly, unsettling him to such a degree that he quite forgot the gem of a rebuff which he had been about to use.

They subsided into silence, which was maintained until Calden was reached, and Miss Chapell hauled on the reins and Noble came to a standstill outside the gate of a large stone-built house, the walls of which were festooned with rather unkempt ivy.

“Dr. Herbert’s residence,” she announced formally, waiting for him to vacate the seat beside her.  He did so, but instead of walking away from her as she expected, he went to the horse’s head, grasped his bridle and began to lead the creature in through the gateway.

“What are you doing, Mr. Underwood?” she asked sweetly, determined not to spoil her previous victory by becoming rattled now by his odd behaviour.  Her only answer was the pleasant scrunch of the gravel beneath feet, hooves and wheels.