Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (12 page)

Inside the carriage the atmosphere suddenly lightened, as Verity realized that this was her dream coming true.  At last, after so long and tedious a wait, she was to have her own home.  She was at once joyous and excited, and she could not restrain herself from reaching for Underwood and kissing him heartily, “Oh, my dearest, if you only knew how happy I am!”  He returned her unexpected embrace, then patted her gently and pressed her back against the squabs, terrified that she might bring on labour if she made any sudden moves, “I do know it, my dear, but we don’t want to over-excite ourselves, do we?”

She grinned wickedly, “You must know, Cadmus, that this baby will come one day soon, no matter how calm you force me to be.”

He looked shocked, unaware how very transparent were all his motives to his loving wife, then he ruefully returned her smile, “Vixen!”

“Are the rats really all gone?”  she asked tremulously, after a moment’s silence.

“Rats?  Oh, rats!  Yes, yes.  I have Toby’s word upon it, have no fear.”

She shuddered with remembered horror, “Thank Heavens!  I can’t abide rats – and one hears such horrible stories of them climbing into cribs and nibbling new babies.”

He observed her with an expression of utter horror and disgust, “Dear God!  Where did you hear such a tale as that?  Is this what ladies discuss over tea?”

“You know, Cadmus, you would be painfully bored if I were to tell you what ladies discuss at tea – or indeed any other time.”

“On the contrary, I should be fascinated.”

“Very well, we shall see.  There are many different topics, of course, but they are strictly divided depending upon the age and marital status of the ladies present.”

“Really?  Men talk about the same things all the time – drinking, wenching, and sporting pursuits – especially hunting and gambling.”

“Tell me about wenching,” she prompted naughtily.

“Certainly not!  You were saying?”

“Young, unmarried ladies discuss fashion and their suitors – who is handsome, and most importantly rich!”

“And the married ladies?”

“Husbands’ bad habits, having babies, raising children, servants and women’s problems,” she listed, counting off on the fingers of her gloved hand.

“Problems?  I thought the four former were their problems?”

“Not that sort of problem!  The sort men know nothing about.”  She laughed at his evident discomfiture as the truth dawned, “I don’t think I need pursue that any further, need I?”

“Emphatically not!”

“Mostly they talk about their various confinements.  It is very fortunate that unmarried ladies are not privy to these conversations, or the population would be decimated!”

“I really don’t think we need pursue that either,” he intercepted hastily.

“Then it is fortunate we are here,”  she said, leaning forward to better see the vision of Toby standing by the garden gate waiting to carry her inside the house.

Underwood barely waited for the vehicle to stop before he sprang energetically to the ground and rapidly approached Toby before he could reach Verity, “I suppose there really are no rats?”  he asked in an under voice.  Toby looked into his face, obviously puzzled, “Of course not!  What the devil put that into your head?”

“Never mind.  Will you take Verity or the luggage?”

“The luggage of course.  I suppose I will have to remind you that though you are far from being newly-weds, this is your first home together and Mrs. Underwood ought to be carried over the threshold – by her husband.”

Underwood looked much struck, “God bless my soul!  So it is.”  He turned back to the carriage, “Verity, come to your husband’s arms.  I am about to be uncharacteristically romantic!”

When she realized what Underwood intended to do, Verity began to laugh helplessly, “Oh no, Cadmus.  I cannot possibly take this seriously.  Let Toby carry me – or better still, let me walk.  I am not an invalid.”

“Certainly not!  Do as you are bid.”

He took her up and staggered into the house, almost cracking her head on the door frame, and very nearly dropping her when he tripped over the step.  Their ringing laughter was the first sound the old house heard from them.

Verity, when she had recovered herself sufficiently to look about her, was delighted and astounded by the changes wrought over the past few weeks.  Toby, in his limited spare time, had worked incredibly hard.  He could not have lavished more care had the place been his own.  A pleasant aroma of beeswax overlaid even the smell of cooking drifting from the kitchen.  The windows sparkled, the floors and panelled walls shone with a dull warmth.  A fire had been lit in every room in honour of the great occasion.

Mrs. Milner, previously Mrs. Underwood, had made a gift of the curtains for the entire house.  Her taste was impeccable and Verity ran loving fingers over the brocades and velvets.  Underwood’s books had arrived safely and had been carefully dusted and placed upon the shelves by his own hand – it was the one thing he had found the time to do.  His desk and chair stood by the window, glowing in the sunlight which shone directly in at this time of the day.  In Verity’s room across the hall stood her easel, the almost finished portrait of Mr. Gratten still secured upon it.  There was a small chaise longue, a davenport, and several small tables and cupboards which held her drawing and painting equipment.  Shelves held her own, rather smaller collection of books.

The parlour, drawing room and kitchen were all equally cosy, though just as sparsely furnished.  It took more than a few weeks to fill a house the size of this one.

Verity was enticed upstairs for a rest on the promise that she might look around the bedrooms first.  The master bedroom held a four-poster which was probably two centuries old, but it had been left in the house, and was without woodworm.  It seemed rather fitting that they should keep and use it – besides which, what could one do with it, always supposing one could get it dismantled and out of the house? 

Apart from a clothes press, a dressing table and a wash stand, they had little else in their room, but the nursery held a wooden crib, tiny table and chairs made by Toby and Alistair’s old rocking horse, donated by the boy himself.  Verity burst into happy tears when she saw it.  This display of weakness brought on Underwood’s most masterful of moods and he severely ordered her to bed for a rest.

*

CHAPTER TWELVE

(“Vitam Regit Fortuna Non Sapientia” – Chance, not wisdom, governs human life)

The first visitor to the Underwood residence proved to be Mr. Gratten – bearing bad news, as was beginning to be his forte.  Underwood was growing to dread the sound of his name being announced, much as old countrymen abhor the sight of a single magpie.

When he entered the hall, his gaze was very naturally drawn to the open doorway of Verity’s studio and thereupon lighted on his own portrait.  His sombre expression, as befitted the bearer of ill tidings, quickly faded into a proud and delighted smile, “It looks very well, don’t you think, Underwood?”  he said, with a gesture towards the picture, “Mrs. Gratten will be delighted.  Your wife is a talented woman.  When do you think she will be able to finish it?”

“Soon, I trust,” was the curt reply, “Tell me, sir, is this a social visit, because if so, I must deprecate your timing of it.  We have barely entered the house ourselves, and there is much still to be done…”

The smile slid away as Gratten was thus brought back to the purpose of his visit, “No, no, my dear Underwood.  Grant me some sensibility please.”

Underwood silently reflected that such a task was not an easy one.

“No,” continued the older man, “I merely came to warn you that the investigation is likely to be delayed further.  I have a message from Mrs. Herbert.  It seems the doctor had already moved lodgings when she sent her missive, and unfortunately missed it.  One of his old friends has invited him to weekend in Edinburgh, so we cannot hope t see him here before the middle of next week.”

“You still insist that we should wait on him to perform the examination of Rogers’ body?”

“I’ve no objection to waiting a little longer – after all, we know the basic story.  The boy was shot by person or persons unknown – what more can the doctor really tell us?”

Underwood shrugged non-committally; he had learned long ago never to take anything for granted – but if Gratten, in his arrogance, had failed to learn a similar lesson, it was not for Underwood to teach him.

“If there is nothing else?”

Gratten, for once, took this summary dismissal very well, “Forgive me, Underwood, but I mustn’t stay.  I hate to keep the horses standing, and Mrs. Gratten expects me for tea.  We are to meet the young man who wishes to court my eldest daughter today.  I want my wits about me when I ask him about his future prospects.  Take my word upon it, if he is a pauper, he can forget his aspiration with regard to my girl.”

Underwood had a sudden, and extremely unwelcome, vision of himself making similar remarks in twenty years time.  Please God let the coming child be a boy.

*

He awoke the following morning, early, and with an unfamiliar feeling of guilt.  The room was flooded with light, for they had neglected to draw the curtains the night before, and the day was one of those crisp, sunny winter days, with high blue skies and frost rimed fields, which stirred vague desires to achieve something of note.  Verity seemed untroubled by similar thoughts, for she was still deeply asleep, a tendril of dark hair resting against her cheek and her lashes curled against her faintly pink skin.  Underwood smiled slightly at the vision she presented, then slid out from the bed beside her.  His toes contracted in protest at contact with the cold floorboards, and he hastily felt about for his slippers, whilst pulling on his brocade dressing gown.  He went to the casement and gazed out upon the new day.  It was quite as glorious as he had imagined from the warmth of the bed.  The sky was a cold, hard blue, and the wheeling rooks cawed a greeting which sounded amused and insulting as they fled untidily from the trees behind the house in search of breakfast.  It had probably been the noise from the rookery which had woken him so early, and he briefly toyed with the notion of having the birds cleared away, as most other landowners would not hesitate to do, for rooks were considered a pest in the countryside, feeding, as they did, on young pheasants and attacking lambs, but he quickly dismissed the idea.  Underwood would never be a killer – not even of vermin.  Every creature, in his opinion, had the right to life – which was why he dedicated much of his time to seeking out those who took the lives of others – but he fervently wished the hangman’s rope was not their ultimate fate.  It troubled his conscience to send a murderer to the gallows, but while that was the law, there was little he could do about it.

He feasted his eyes for a few moments longer on the view of his own meagre acres, white with hoarfrost and glittering in the sunlight, then came away from the window.  It was decidedly chilly, though the now almost dead fire had kept the ice patterns on the panes at bay.

What should he do with his day?  He felt the need to do something and presently his thoughts turned to the riddle of Rogers’ death, whereupon he found the source of his guilt.  He had done very little about Rogers.  The boy, no matter how wicked, ill-mannered, cruel and thoughtless,
had
been murdered, and Underwood had been too busy indulging in his own feelings of relief at his demise, to make any proper investigations into the mystery.

He resolved there and then to cure the lapse.

It was only a step across the fields to Hanbury Manor, and the farm lane upon which the body had been discovered. 

Verity would be perfectly safe left in the large and capable hands of Toby.

Underwood had rediscovered his
raison d’etre.

*

The Broadstones were, conveniently for Underwood, all seated around their kitchen table, eating what he imagined was breakfast.  It later transpired that the meal was nearer to their equivalent of luncheon – he had failed to appreciate just how early a farmer’s day began.

Mrs. Broadstone, four foot ten, and dwarfed by her strapping six-foot sons, bustled him into the house and before he knew what he was about, he held a cup of strong tea in his hands and was facing a plateful of home-cured ham, oatcakes and eggs.

He quickly discovered that conversation was not a priority in this family.  They had been up and working since five and they were hungry – those simple facts reduced everything else to nothing; including the civilities due to a guest under their roof.  Food was shovelled into mouths and the only comments concerned the farm.

“Milk yield was a little down this morning,” remarked the elder Broadstone, after several minutes of a silence broken only by the sound of champing jaws.

“Bound to be now it is getting colder – but keep an eye on which of the old girls is stinting.  Market waits for those who don’t pull their weight.”

Underwood allowed the talk to continue in this vein until he felt the worst pangs of their hunger must surely have been assuaged, then he intercepted.

“I fear this is not suitable conversation for the table, Mr. Broadstone, but I must ask you some questions about the death of Godfrey Rogers.”

“Ask away, sir.  Me and my boys will answer anything we can, but I don’t see how we can help.”

“The most innocuous …” Underwood hesitated, their blank faces telling him the word meant nothing to them, “the most simple and innocent information can sometimes have great importance.  Allow me to be the judge of the value of your testimony.”

“As I said, we’ll tell you all we can.”

“Thank you.  When was the last time you saw Mr. Rogers?”

“Before his death, you mean?”

“Yes – I know you found his body, but we will come to that presently.  When was the last time you saw him alive?”

“The Sunday before last.  We were just coming back from church – your brother had given the most rousing sermon, quite set me up for the week, it did.  You probably remember it.”

Underwood did no such thing.  He attended services merely to spare his brother embarrassment, and because Verity insisted he should, but his mind was rarely focused upon the rites of the church.  He usually took the opportunity to marshal his thoughts upon other things – quite often his writing.  He was published and well-thought of in the world of academia, and found the small income a useful source of pin money.

“Umm…” he murmured non-committally, “And the circumstances of that meeting?”

“He had come to tell us of his intention to sell Hanbury Manor.  I was upset and begged him to reconsider.  Three generations of my family have worked these fields and who knows what a new owner might want to do.  I wanted to hand this land onto my boys, and God willing, live to see my grandsons striding our acres.  Rogers cared nothing for that.  He laughed in my face and offered to sell me the farm if I could raise the money.  He knew I could never find his sort of price.  Cruel, I call it!  Taking a man’s livelihood then mocking his despair.  The old gentleman would never have behaved in such a fashion, and would turn in his grave to see his son doing so.”

“Cruelty was Rogers’ speciality, Mr. Broadstone.  If it is any consolation, you were far from being his only victim.”

“I don’t suppose, Mr. Underwood, you know who is to inherit now Mr. Rogers is dead?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea – but you have both presented me with an alibi and produced an interesting tangent for me to follow in asking that question."

The old man, not unreasonably, looked extremely puzzled by this remark, “I don’t quite understand …”

“It is quite straightforward,” said Underwood, smiling kindly, and with a modicum of relief – he instinctively admired the honesty and simplicity of the farmer, and had no wish to see him embroiled in the death of the odious Rogers, “You and your sons were, most unfortunately, suspects in the murder.  The body was found on a road which leads to your farm, and it was universally known that you were disgruntled, to say the least, with the late Mr. Rogers.  In asking who your new landlord is to be you have ably demonstrated that it would be foolish of you to kill Rogers without knowing if your new master might not be even worse than the previous one.”

“I see – and the tangent thing – what does that mean?”

“It means we have a new suspect.  Men have been known to kill for a much less magnificent inheritance than Hanbury Manor.”

“You think it is the new owner then, who killed the boy?”

“No, not at all.  I don’t even know the man.  But I certainly need to know who he is, and where he was on the night of the murder.”

“You believe me and my boys didn’t do it?”

“Sir, I can say that I do not hold you in any particular distrust, but you were treated very badly by Rogers, and for the moment that must stand.”

“I understand.  Thank you, sir.  You’ve been more than fair with us.  I trust in God to prove me and my boys innocent.”

“And I trust your belief in Him will be justified,” Underwood said nothing more, but thanked his hostess for his meal and left the family, for the present at least, in peace.

*

By virtue of his position as Mr. Gratten’s unofficial deputy, Underwood was shown directly into the drawing room where Mrs. Rogers sat.  She was not reclining upon a sofa,
sal volatile
in hand, as Underwood had half expected, but was on a high-backed chair by the window, ramrod straight, her tambour frame before her.  A needlepoint design was stretched upon it, but it was evident to Underwood, who knew little of such feminine pursuits, that she had not laid even one stitch upon the cloth.  She was clad, as was her wont, in deepest black, and her gaze was fixed unseeing upon the panorama viewed through the long windows.  It seemed she had not heard the butler announce him, though that was hardly surprising, so softly spoken was the servant, in deference to his mistress’s sorrow.

“Forgive the intrusion, madam,” said Underwood quietly, as he approached her, loath to break the heavy silence, but aware he must make his presence known.

She turned startled eyes upon him, “Oh, Mr. Underwood!  I did not hear you come in.”

“I’m sorry.  I was announced, but your thoughts were far away, I think.”

“They were indeed.  I have been tormented by my thoughts ever since Godfrey died, Mr. Underwood.  Pray do whatever you can to distract me from them.”

“I regret very deeply that you have had to go through all this, Mrs. Rogers.  Though I have never experienced the loss of a child, I can imagine the pain it must cause.”

She gave him a wan smile, gesturing that he seat himself, “Would to God that losing the boy was the source of my distress, sir.  I know you thought I spoke in the passion of grief the other day, and you imagined it was merely shock which drew such harsh words from me – words I could not possibly really mean.  But you were wrong.  I meant every word.  Godfrey did not grow into the fine young man I hoped he would be.  He was wicked and his sins found him out, but still I must take my share of the blame.  Other mothers do not bring forth such monsters!”

“Pray put these thoughts from your mind, Mrs. Rogers,” pleaded Underwood, genuinely distressed on her behalf, “Along that road lies madness.  No parent raises a child deliberately to the pursuit of evil.  Some quirk of nature shaped your son’s character, it was not through any fault of yours.”

“I hope you are right, my dear Mr. Underwood.  I could not live with myself if I thought all those ruined lives were due to flaws I created in my son.”