Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Lex Talionis” – The law of retaliation – an eye for an eye

News travelled quickly in Hanbury and the morning was only half gone before Jeremy James Thornycroft was being wheeled over the threshold. Underwood had retired to bed, but he was forced to come downstairs again, despite his exhaustion, because, of course, Jeremy could not climb the stairs to him. Since the rest of the household was now awake and going about their daily routine, Underwood invited the Major into his study so that they might talk in peace.

The delighted expression on his friend’s face, however, was compensation enough for the inconvenience. Underwood had never seen a grin so broad on any face, and Jeremy’s habitual demeanour was one of desperate jollity, hiding pain and frustration. Deep grooves marred his handsome features from years of discomfort from his missing limbs, which he once admitted still ached even though they no longer existed.

“My dear Underwood, I knew I could rely on you to save the day.”

Underwood could not help but smile back, though his own tired grin was a poor reflection of the Major’s overwhelming joy and satisfaction, “I was glad to be of assistance – and you shall have my bill forthwith,” he joked.

“It will be worth every penny of my poor Army pension,” said Jeremy, unable to resist teasing despite his undying gratitude to the older man.

“You had better have more resources than a pension, my friend,” said Underwood, mock gravely, “Stage fares to West Wimpleford are not cheap, and I doubt I can get my money back on the return ticket which I did not use.” A sudden thought struck him, “A name on a Waybill! That might be the way to find out who the mysterious widow is.”

“What?”  demanded Jeremy, “What the devil are you talking about now?”

“Never mind – just another mystery for me to solve.”

“Don’t you think you have enough on your plate just at the moment?”

Underwood shrugged, “Perhaps you are right, but I do owe her my life.”

The Major shook his head in bewilderment, “Now you really have lost me,” he said with a touch of exasperation, “Since when did some old widow-woman save your life? Does Verity know about this?”

“No, and she must never find out – and the widow in question was far from old.”

Jeremy gave a lascivious smirk, “You’re a dark horse, Underwood!”

“Not dark at all, my friend, the acquaintance was brief, if memorable.”

“I should think it was. Enough about your adventures. Tell me what will happen now, with Rutherford. I presume you have set the legal mills a-grinding?”

“Indeed I have – though God knows how long it will take to have the man’s name cleared and word sent to Australia to have his release secured. There’s a long way to go, yet, Jeremy.”

“Please God the poor fool keeps alive until we can get word to him,” said Jeremy, suddenly serious, “I understand the situation out there is grim to say the least.”

“So I believe, but let us not meet trouble half way, my friend. Rutherford Petch seems to me to be a resilient sort of fellow – he survived Waterloo whole, which is more than you can claim!”

“Thank you for the reminder,” said Thornycroft, with a grimace, “You can be confoundedly insensitive at times, Underwood.”

“So I’ve been told – many times. Now take yourself off so I can get some sleep. I had an appallingly bad journey home.”

Thornycroft obligingly did as he was asked and ‘took himself off’, wondering if he could possibly find an address to write to his old comrade himself – Rutherford deserved to know that he was about to be a free man and who knew how long it would take lawyers to bother to inform him?

*

With careful nursing Underwood returned to his usual health within a few days and when the memory of his illness faded, he began to question whether he had really been poisoned by Attridge – or indeed Brodie – in the first place. It seemed such an unlikely coincidence that both men should choose the same method of disposing of him – or that indeed either man should wish to risk the gallows merely to be rid of him. He knew he had thwarted the plans of two very avaricious men – but was the urge for revenge really strong enough to prompt either of them to murder? For revenge it would be – he alone stood in the way of neither of them. He had simply shone a light on their wrong-doing. Others were actually preventing them from inheriting what was not theirs by right.

He began to feel that he had simply been unfortunate enough to encounter a particularly virulent malaise which others had been lucky to avoid picking up.

The week following his return from Midmickle and West Wimpleford was a busy one for both Lydia’s twenty-fifth birthday and his and Verity’s anniversary fell within three days of each other.

After much heart-searching and deliberation, Lady Hartley-Wells had decided that it was time to bring Lydia and her mother back together to celebrate the day, which if true, meant a great deal to them both. She would host Lydia’s birthday party and invite all her new found friends, everyone of any note in her life, in fact, except her ‘father’ Thomas Brodie.

However, this was a doomed enterprise for, on the morning of Lydia’s birthday the letter came from Barbados that they had all been expecting and Sir George called all those concerned together to reveal its contents.

Lydia listened white-faced while Sir George read aloud the words of the Governor.

“...As to the persons of whom you required information.  I can confirm that Silas Woodforde resided just outside Bridgetown for some twenty years.  He arrived destitute but was fortunate enough to win a sugar plantation in a card game.  The authorities were inclined to view this matter with some suspicion, but since no foul play could be proved, the transaction had to be allowed.  Since that time he has hardly been an exemplary citizen but has not actively broken the law.  As to the daughter Lydia.  The only L Woodforde to which I can find any reference in the church register is a six-year-old child who lies in the Bridgetown graveyard.”

Every eye in the room was upon Lydia, but she rose superbly to the challenge.

“I suggest you write back to the gentleman and request that the child be exhumed.  You will find that the body that lies in that grave is a Negro by-blow of my father and a slave woman.  Her name was Lucinda.”

There was a long silence, then Sir George spoke quietly, “Of course, I shall do so immediately, but I must emphasise that I cannot allow the release of the Brownhill Fortune until the matter is fully resolved.”  

In the stark silence that followed this pronouncement Lydia stared defiantly around.  Most of the assembled company refused to meet her fierce gaze and Mrs Woodforde dropped into a chair, her hand covering her eyes.

Verity, as always, went swiftly and deftly to the rescue, “My dear Lydia,” she said, taking the younger woman’s arm and drawing her away from the silent crowd, “how unfortunate for you to have lost a little half-sister.  You must have been devastated.  Do, pray, come over here and let us talk of happier things.  You know I have almost finished your portrait and you must view it soon. I am aware that I have been strict in not allowing you a peep until now, so I shall value your opinion.”

As she guided her young friend across the room, she gestured with the slightest wave of her hand that Underwood should go to Mrs Woodforde and offer her some comfort and counsel.

Underwood was, as always, most reluctant to offer his shoulder to a weeping woman, but since his wife had done her part in smoothing over the awkward moment, he could hardly neglect his own duty.  He went and took a seat next to the distraught Mrs Woodforde.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs Woodforde?” he asked solicitously, if somewhat unimaginatively.  She lifted her head and he was surprised to see not a trace of tears but rather a look of utter determination on her face, “Yes, Mr Underwood, there is something you can do for me.  Take that girl away from me. It will now be a court case, even if it breaks what little is left of my spirit.  I must allow the law to decide if my Lydia is alive or dead and Brodie is now the only person left on God’s earth who can tell me.  I don’t care if I have to threaten him or fall on bended knees to plead with him, but I must know the truth.”

Underwood looked at her for a long time, as though assessing her ability to cope with this new trial, and she never wavered from looking right back at him.  At last he nodded curtly, “Very well, I will take her home – I presume you wish her to stay in Hanbury?”

“Oh yes, if she is a liar and a fraudster, I want her to face the full force of the law.”

They all saw troubled waters ahead and wondered how many friendships and kinships would be rent asunder before this sorry mess was resolved. The town was going to split into two factions and no one quite knew which side they would be obliged to take. There were those who liked Lydia and felt it was no fault of hers that she had been so used by her father and later her step-father. Most sympathized with Mrs Woodforde for her years of suffering and her lack of satisfaction now, when all should have been happily ended for her. The fact that is was money which divided them was something that the more sentimental amongst them could not quite accept. They would have admired Mrs Woodforde more if she had been less concerned with the inheritance and more with knowing the truth for its own sake. They could not understand her determination to prevent Thomas Brodie from benefitting from his deception – let him have the money and go to perdition with it, was their view. The money did not belong to Mrs Woodforde, anyway. It had been willed away from her by her father and her own competence was enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her life – why should she care if Lydia inherited a fortune and then lavished it on the man who had raised her? Was it really worth losing her daughter again for such besmirched riches?

For his own part Underwood was happy to hand the case over to the courts. He had no talent for comprehending the minds of women and he was content to admit that he had no idea if Lydia was an imposter or the real child of Mrs Woodforde. He doubted she knew herself what the truth was and he supposed that with careful questioning and expert analysis her true nature would eventually be revealed.

In the meantime he had troubles of his own.

He had been reminded by Toby, Lady Hartley-Wells and several other well-meaning friends that it was his anniversary and his wife was expecting a gift which would encapsulate the high regard in which he held her.

A posy of limp flowers would not do. He was obliged to find something – preferably expensive, since he had taken advantage of her perseverance several times in recent weeks – which would sweep her off her feet with delight.

What on earth he could find at short notice which would fulfil all these criteria he had no notion at all.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Ius Est Ars Boni Et Aequi” – Law is the art of the good and the just

Ironically enough the one sphere in life in which Mr Underwood was decidedly
not
gifted was in purchasing gifts.

He did not particularly relish receiving presents and he positively detested buying them as he had no imagination whatsoever, as his mother could confirm. She possessed an entire drawer filled with handkerchiefs – years of birthday and Christmas offerings from her two sons. She had been immensely relieved, for more than one reason, it must be said, when they had both, albeit rather late in life, decided to marry two thoughtful women. Opening packages had suddenly become rather more exciting.

So it was with reluctance that he asked Toby to drive him into Hanbury to find an anniversary present for his wife.

Asked for an opinion, the Wablers had been less than helpful. It would appear that these self-proclaimed ‘ladies’ men’ had less idea than himself about what women wanted.

Freddie Meadows declared that you couldn’t go wrong with hankies – women were always weeping about something; if it wasn’t how cruel a man had been to them, it was over some mongrel dog injured next to the road or a sick child. Elliott treated this with the contempt it deserved and suggested flowers. Dickson suggested a kitten or a puppy and seemed astounded when Underwood remarked that he thought perhaps Verity had enough to do without having to lavish care on a young animal.

Swann and Thornycroft both told him roundly that he needed to be thinking of gewgaws – and expensive ones at that.

“You need diamonds for a woman of the first water like Verity,” said Jeremy James with emphasis, “Nothing else will do, my friend. And since I paid you a king’s ransom for that little task you did for me, I know damn well you can afford it!”

Though he resented the implication that he had overcharged his friend, said in jest or not, Underwood recognised the truth of this but he shied away from the very idea of jewellery.

“After the trauma of the past few weeks, I never want to set eyes on another diamond for as long as I live,” he retorted, “You must have another suggestion.”

“I do,” said Swann, “Pearls for a pearl. Whether you like it or not, Underwood, you are going to have to enter the most expensive jewellers shop in Hanbury.”

Much as he wanted to ignore the advice, Underwood found himself at a loss to think of anything else, so it was to the goldsmith he eventually found his way. It turned out to be an inspired notion, for the first thing his eye lighted upon as he walked through the door was a silver locket, which had a cunning device so that it could be opened and tiny pictures could be stored inside. Unfortunately Verity would have to provide her own paintings, as Underwood had neither the time to find an artist to perform the task nor the talent to do anything about this lack himself. Fortunately he happened to know that one of her lesser utilised skills was for miniatures. If she could make the children sit still for long enough, a tiny portrait of her two daughters could be carried forever next to her heart. He did not know it at the time, but it was his own likeness which would occupy one of the frames, with the two little girls in the other, their arms around each other and angelic smiles upon their faces.

The party was a small affair, with only the Underwood’s closest friends invited and the gifts exchanged amidst much joviality and good-natured teasing. Horatia was particularly proud to be bestowing presents on her parents and both greeted her kindness with expressions of delight and gratitude. Underwood was particularly touched that his little girl had spent her own money on him and her mother. He promised that he would faithfully use the toiletries she had given him every morning when he performed his ablutions. The snuff he was delighted to tip into the small silver snuff-box in the shape of a book, which Verity had given him.  In place of a title on the cover, the date of their nuptials and their initials intertwined.  He was charmed and it seemed especially significant that they had both chosen gifts of silver.

It was as well that he enjoyed the party for the next day saw a recurrence of the sickness which had dogged him for several weeks and as the autumn faded into winter he grew steadily worse. Soon he was confined to bed almost permanently and though Dr Herbert was consulted, he could find no solution to the problem.

All the indications pointed to the fact that Underwood was being slowly poisoned but no method of administration could be discovered. Francis Herbert was forced to the conclusion that the original toxin must somehow remain within the body and continue its deadly work, but study of every tome on poisons he could find gave no known poison which could act in this way. The only other inference which could be drawn was that Underwood was suffering from some malignancy in his own body which would eventually prove terminal, something that no one wished to suggest to his loving wife.

Letters flew across the countryside, spreading the news of Underwood’s strange ailment and family gathered, aware that they could be making their last pilgrimage to see their much loved Cadmus.

Even Sir George Gratten was prompted to put pen to paper, informing his friend in Parliament of the events in Hanbury and begging him to use his influence to get the matter of Rutherford Petch brought forward so that Underwood could at least see his last case happily resolved before he passed away.

‘My dear Robert,

You will recall that I wrote to you several weeks ago regarding the case of Rutherford Petch and whilst I know you are tremendously busy I must beg once again that you intercede on his behalf with the Attorney General. We need to have this matter resolved as quickly as possible.

I have just returned from a visit to Underwood and have to record that he grows no better.  Poor Verity is frantic with worry, though she tries to show him a calm and happy face.  None of us can understand how he can still be ill when both Toby and Mrs Woodforde recovered swiftly enough from their illness.  There can be little doubt that the scoundrel Brodie slipped some poisonous substance into the wine that they all drank that evening in the Walnut Inn.  If it was not so, why then has he disappeared, leaving his daughters to face the full force of the law whilst he escapes unscathed?

Lydia is defiant, but I think she realises now how serious the matter has become.  Lawyers have been consulted and Court dates arranged.  The atmosphere between mother and daughter is decidedly icy and poor Toby is completely torn by the turn of events.  It is obvious now he has fallen deeply in love with Sabrina, but she has firmly allied herself to her half-sister – if, indeed that is their relationship!  In this dreadful tangle, who can possibly know?

I must confess it concentrates the mind wonderfully to see one’s contemporaries facing death – for Underwood is undoubtedly sick unto death.  I am a man not much given to thinking of his mortality, but if it can happen to Underwood only in his mid-forties, then I must face the fact that one day it will happen to me too.

By God, I had not realised the depth of real affection I feel for the man!  He drives me to distraction with his insouciant air and inner certainty – it always seemed to me that he found us all terribly amusing and placed on this earth merely for his entertainment, but for all that he is a good man, honest, trustworthy and endlessly kind.  I shall not know how to contain my sorrow if Thomas Brodie has succeeded in killing him.

Letters are winging their way across the country, calling Underwood’s brother, mother and Uncle to his bedside.  Verity has refused to let anyone other than Dr Herbert attend her husband.  Hanbury is slowly filling with a host of people who wish to bid farewell to Underwood, while Toby and Dr Francis frantically seek a solution to the mystery.  Toby has searched in vain for Brodie and has begged Sabrina to tell him whither Brodie has gone so that the source of the poison can be found, while Francis vets every morsel of food and drink that passes the threshold of Windward House to try and stop the poison reaching his old friend, all it seems, to no avail.

Francis Herbert visited me this afternoon and we talked long into the evening.  He is completely mystified by Underwood’s continued illness.  It seems that a day or two after the sojourn in West Wimpleford, Underwood recovered from yet another about of sickness, which whilst it had been thoroughly unpleasant, had not seemed to endanger his life. He was well enough and seemed on the mend until the anniversary of his marriage when he fell ill again. After a couple of days, Underwood managed to leave his bed, perform his ablutions and join his family downstairs, but within hours he was taken again by the sickness.

Since no other member of the household fell ill again with him, it is beyond understanding how he is being poisoned – if, indeed, poison it is!  Francis is sure that it cannot be food nor drink that is adulterated for if that were the case, one would expect the young children in the house to be first to succumb.

Something is killing Underwood and until we discover how the poison is being administered, we can do nothing to halt its progress.

I suggested to Dr Herbert that perhaps we were dealing with some unknown toxin from the Indies since Brodie and Lydia Woodforde have recently arrived from Barbados.  He agrees it is possible, but lacks enough expertise to discover the source.

“The devil of it is, Sir George,” he told me as he paced the floor in frustration, “I would swear it was arsenic.  The symptoms match exactly – but how is it arriving in Underwood’s system?  I never heard of another poison that could continue to act so many weeks after being administered – and if it is some mysterious dose from the Indies, then why are Mrs Woodforde and Toby now fully recovered?”

“You are sure, beyond any shadow of doubt, that no one is able to feed Underwood the poison whilst he is unattended?” I asked, as puzzled as he.

“That’s the whole point – he never is unattended.  Poor Verity has scarcely left his bedside and tastes every morsel of food and drink that passes his lips.”

“He’s not been left with anyone else – even someone Verity imagines she can trust?”

“No one.  Sabrina offered her services and was politely rebuffed.  Even Toby has been prevented from waiting on Underwood, though it broke Verity’s heart to suspect him.  It is obvious to all now that he is madly in love with Sabrina and whilst she holds him in her thrall, we all agree that we cannot allow him near Underwood.”

“Dear God, Toby will be heart-broken by that!  He has always felt he owed Underwood his life.”

Francis had shaken his head in despair, “Verity wept when I advised her to keep Toby from her husband.  She refuses to believe that the man could ever harm Underwood, but even she could not deny that every care must be taken.  Underwood is so weakened by his sufferings that one more bout must see the end of him.”

“Is it really so serious?” I asked him, still unable to believe that Underwood is so near death.

“I fear he will not last to the end of the week, Sir George.”

I was left very lowered by Dr Herbert’s visit and in an effort to cheer myself I took myself off to join Major Thornycroft and his cronies for a drink, which, as you know, my old friend, I am not normally inclined to do. The only service I can offer Underwood now is to see that Petch is brought back from Australia before he dies. Do what you can, Robert, and let me know as soon as you have news for me on that front. In the meantime I intend to find Thomas Brodie if it takes every man I have, and the militia too, if I need them. That blackguard knows what is killing Underwood and I’ll get it out of him if I have to resort to violence to get him to talk.

Don’t fail me, Robert.

Your affectionate friend,

George.’

*