Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5)

YIELD

NOT TO

MISFORTUNE

AN UNDERWOOD MYSTERY

By

Suzanne Downes

DEDICATION

For Kate and Martin Robinson for their hard work – I couldn’t have done it without you, kids!

Phil and Vicky, I could have done it without you – but I wouldn’t want to!

Mr David Downes – alright, I admit it, you are my inspiration.

Also Barbara Fagan Speake, Jenny Hanson, Anne Williamson, Cliff Hope and the rest of Bramhall Crime Writers – thanks for the support and advice.

Thanks to Andrew Hilder of Melbourne, Victoria, who suggested I have an ‘Aussie’ in my story, and to Tony Higgs and Angela Simpson who let me use their names (in vain!)

And everyone else who loves Cadmus Underwood as much as I do!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Apologies to Andrew Hilder and the rest of my Aussie family – I’m afraid I had to send Rutherford Petch to New South Wales and not Melbourne, Victoria – the reason was simple; Melbourne wasn’t really settled until Queen Victoria’s reign – hence the name. The nearest place would have been Tasmania (Van Diemen’s Land) but that was a notoriously harsh regime for the worst convicts or those who had tried to escape from captivity – and poor Rutherford didn’t deserve that!

The story of Lydia Woodforde was used in a vastly abbreviated form for the novel
“An Empty-Handed Traveller”
so if you think it might be vaguely familiar, that is the reason, but this is the full story and not the snatches used in that book, so bear with me!

CHAPTER ONE

“Unguibus Et Rostro” – With all one’s might

“You do know, Verity, that you are the loveliest wife any man could wish for?”

Verity Underwood raised a quizzical brow at her husband, “That is a very sweet sentiment, my dear Cadmus, but flattery will avail you nothing!  You are going to Lady Hartley-Well’s dinner party this evening, whether you like it or not.”

Underwood knew when he was beaten. He shrugged elegantly, “It was worth a try,” he said philosophically, “I suppose it is too late to plead ill-health?”

“Much too late. Lady Hartley-Wells is a dear friend and I wouldn’t dream of refusing so kind an invitation.”

“Quite apart from the fact that she is utterly terrifying,” murmured Underwood.

“That too,” said Verity candidly, “It would be a braver woman than I who would turn her down. On a comforting note, she does keep an exceptional table, so at least we will eat well.”

“What can’t be cured must be endured,” said Underwood, “Though I trust she is not going to expect me to play cards.  She knows I detest all card games.”

“I shouldn’t worry, my love, she swore never to sit at a card table with you ever again after you lost so disastrously at whist.  She had five pounds riding on that game in a private bet with Sir George Gratten.”

“More fool her,” said Underwood unkindly, “she should know better than to gamble on a game of chance.”

“Oh, she wasn’t gambling on the cards, Cadmus, but on how long it would take you to learn the rules.  She was sure that, with determination, she could educate you within the hour.  Sir George said you would never take to the game and would throw in your hand before he had smoked his cigarillo. He had barely lit it before you were feigning the headache!”

Underwood laughed, “It would seem George Gratten knows me far better than I ever imagined. I shall have to think of some ruse to win the five pounds back off him. I resent him earning off my vagaries.”

Verity shook her head in disapproval, but made no comment. Any attempt to dissuade her husband when his mind was set on mischief would only end in failure, she well knew.

As it transpired the evening was not the social nightmare that Underwood had been dreading.  They were to be the only guests and instead of the torture of a formal dinner in the vast, chilly and imposing dining room, all gloomy dark wood and heavy, ostentatious silverware, they ate a cold collation in Lady Hartley-Wells own sitting room.

She had lived alone, except for her elderly companion, Miss Cromer and, of course a vast array of servants, in the huge, old house since the death of her husband and only son in a carriage accident thirty years before. She was too bloody-minded, or perhaps canny, to name her successor so that she could rely upon various nephews, nieces and distant cousins dancing attendance on her. Only Verity knew that this was her way of fending off loneliness, for she knew that once she named her heir, she might never see most of them again. She played the martinet to perfection, but the tender-hearted Verity saw through her as easily as she did her own husband and knew that in reality the old lady was as kindly and generous as the greatest philanthropist, and lived to do service to those who she had decided merited it, or whom she had come to hold in affection.

As was her wont, it did not take the elderly aristocrat long to come to the point – she had little patience with prevarication, “I’ll be frank with you, Underwood,” she began.

“When have you ever been anything else?” murmured Underwood and earned himself a rap across the knuckles with her folded fan – sufficiently painful to render him silent, since the sticks were made of ebony, as befitted her widowed status.

“As I was saying, before I was so impertinently interrupted, I have asked you here for a reason, Underwood.  I wish to engage your services – not for myself, you understand, but on behalf of a friend.”

Underwood was mystified and showed it, “You wish to engage my services, Lady H? In what capacity, may I ask?  I dare swear there may be acquaintances of yours who wish me to translate Latin or Greek, but somehow I doubt it.”

She allowed him the liberty of the ‘Lady H’ but only Verity was permitted to call her by her given name.

“Don’t be obtuse, my dear Underwood, what the devil would I want with a translator? I’m referring to your talents as a detective, of course.”

“Ah, well, that is an entirely different matter. And something for which you must first gain the approval of my good lady. Verity has made it quite clear that she finds my interference in the affairs of others to be something of a strain upon her nerves. Since the debacle in Brighton, she has kept a tight rein upon my actions.”

Verity gave a slight shiver at the reminder of the horrifying murder of Lord Peter Lovell in the Earl’s villa in Brighton. The wedding of Underwood’s brother Gil and the Earl’s daughter, Cara, had been somewhat overshadowed by the exotic Italian opera singer who was married to the Earl’s brother and had subsequently captured the fancy of his youthful and somewhat spoiled son. With so many churning emotions running hot and high in those summer months, it was scarcely surprising that death had been the result, but a slashed throat and a blood soaked bed were hardly holiday fare. Underwood had, of course, solved the mystery of the locked room, but the real story would never be generally known, so eager was the Earl to keep scandal away from his son and his dead brother’s name. It did mean, however, that Cara’s father would stand forever in Underwood’s debt and it was no bad thing to have a tame aristocrat to call upon at any time. It certainly meant that the Underwood family never had to worry about postal charges, since franking was just one of the small benefits of having a Member of Parliament in the family.

Everyone in the room also knew that whilst this statement was not entirely unfounded, it would also have very little effect upon Underwood’s future actions, should he decide to ‘interfere’, for he could wrap poor Verity around his little finger with the greatest of ease.

“Very well, then I shall ask permission of your beleaguered wife, but if she grants my request, you realise that I shall hold you to it,” warned Lady Hartley-Wells, not in the least fooled by any of this play acting. She knew Underwood was passing responsibility to his wife as a measure of protection should the task be far too dull for his liking.

Verity, ever the peace-maker, intervened hastily, “Suppose you tell us what this is all about, my dear, then we shall be in a better position to judge.”

“A very sensible suggestion,” said their hostess tartly, “I ask nothing more.”

Another statement which they all knew would have very little bearing on future events, but they all pretended otherwise, as good manners dictated.

Thereupon a tale unfolded which in complexity and drama would not have been out of place in the pages of a novel.  At first Verity and Underwood failed to see how it had anything at all to do with them or how Lady Hartley-Wells imagined they could be of assistance, but they listened patiently anyway.

This friend of their hostess, Mrs Woodforde, it seemed had contracted a marriage in her youth which ended most unhappily.  Her parents deeply disapproved of her chosen groom, but as young people will, they chose to ignore all parental advice and eloped.  The newly-weds were happy enough in the first few months, but gradually, like a slowly rotting tree, the marriage fell apart.  The lack of parental support, both emotional and financial took its toll and forced the young lovers into bitter disagreements and finally a parting of the ways.  Sadly, the child of the marriage, a daughter, had barely reached the age of five years before her father took the decision to quit the house and leave his wife.  However, it seemed he had no intention to similarly abandon his child and she was dragged screaming from her mother’s arms and made away with before anyone could prevent him.  This all occurred some twenty years ago and ever since the mother has searched in vain for her lost child.  The heartless Mr Woodforde lived variously on the Continent, in Ireland and latterly in the Indies, but always he remained one step ahead of the broken-hearted woman.

Understanding suddenly dawned for Underwood, or so he believed, “Ah, I begin to see where I come into this sorry tale – you wish me to find the child, perhaps, for Mrs Woodforde?”

“Not at all,” snapped the older lady grumpily, “kindly let me finish my story, Underwood, without further interruption.”

Recalling the rapped knuckles, Underwood inclined his head in assent, “I do beg your pardon, my Lady, pray continue, but accept my assurance that I am heartily glad that was not the task you intended, for I doubt my ability to do anything of the kind – and certainly not if she is still abroad.”

“Then it is fortunate that I have no such requirement,” she told him tartly, “now if I may continue?”

“Certainly. I wait with bated breath for the commencement of your tale.”

Lady Hartley-Wells frowned at the sarcasm, but continued, telling how the tragic story might yet have a happy ending, for the child – now a grown woman of course – had recently returned to England and at her earliest convenience had written to her mother and requested a reunion.  Mrs Woodforde was only too willing to forget the despair of the past and open her arms and home to the prodigal.

Lady Hartley-Wells had, quite rightly it must be admitted, very different ideas.  She was at pains to point out to her friend, as gently as she was able, that the girl had no proof whatsoever that she was who she claimed to be and whilst the heart may be foolish, the head must never be so.  It seemed that the child’s grandfather, in a determined effort to ensure that the worthless son-in-law should never profit from his appalling conduct, entirely omitted his daughter from his will – for, of course, her money would in law become the husband’s property, no matter how badly he had behaved.  Instead the very considerable fortune had been left in entail to the granddaughter should she attain the age of twenty-five years.

Conveniently this event was about to take place and Lady Hartley-Wells felt that it was a little too coincidental.  She insisted that it must take more than a mother’s love and a pretty face to win a very substantial fortune.

When this convoluted tale was told Underwood was thoughtful for a moment before offering his advice, “Lady H, whilst I understand the dilemma which faces your friend, I fail to see how I can be of assistance.  I can, of course, question this young woman, but I fear I do not have the tools to prove or disprove her story.  The matter must entirely rest with Mrs Woodforde.  Does she feel, in her deepest heart, that her child has returned to her?”

“How can she judge, Underwood? For years her entire being has been centred on finding the girl, torturing herself wondering where she was, whether she was happy or ill-kept; if there was some woman in whose arms she rested, forgetting her mother’s embrace.  On several occasions the cruelty of her husband quite overwhelmed her and she has known much ill-health.  All her heart has desired for twenty years is to hold her own darling girl close to her breast.  What use is she as an arbiter?  She wants the girl to be Lydia.”

“Then you must allow her to accept the girl as her daughter and take the chance that she is an imposter.”

“And perhaps she really is Lydia,” intervened Verity softly.

Lady Hartley-Wells opened her mouth to make some (no doubt cutting) response, but Underwood swiftly intervened, “The fact is I have no right to question the young lady and she would be quite within her rights to tell me to go to the Devil.  I need legal authority to force the issue should the lady be reticent.”

“I feel she would be foolish to refuse you Underwood, for it would merely point to guilt, but as to giving authority, I must insist that we make enquiries – I will not countenance my oldest friend handing all her property to a fortune-hunting Miss. You may, of course, refuse to take on this task, I cannot coerce you, but I know that if any man can find the truth, it is you. We will approach Sir George Gratten, if you insist, and ask for his advice as to the legality of our actions if we were to continue with this, or you may be sure we will find your discoveries challenged in court.”

“It is almost guaranteed that will happen, Lady H. Is Mrs Woodforde prepared for a long, drawn-out Court battle?”

“I think she must face the possibility.”

“But what are they to do in the meantime?” asked Verity, “You cannot ask Mrs Woodforde to wait another moment before meeting the woman who may very well be her long-lost child.”

“I agree. Tell Mrs Woodforde to spend time with the young lady, madam, and try to get to know about her.  She must try to behave quite normally with her – and who knows, perhaps some clue to her true identity will present itself.  She may say or do something which gives her away – in fact she is almost certain to trip herself up if she is a fraud.”

“And what do you intend to do, Underwood?” asked Lady Hartley-Wells.

“I shall consult with Sir George, I promise no more than that.”

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