Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) (23 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Mors Certa, Hora Incerta” – Death is certain, only the hour is uncertain

“Is there really no hope, Verity?” asked Gil, his fingers playing nervously with the long white bands of muslin which hung from his collar, telling the world of his clerical vocation.

Verity raised tear-filled eyes to his face, “Oh, Gil!  How will I go on without him?  How will I ever explain to my girls how much they have lost in not knowing him?”

Underwood’s brother passed a swift hand across his brow as though to hide his own emotion, “Don’t, sweeting, please!  I can hardly bear it.”

She took a handkerchief from the waist-band of her dove-grey dress and wiped away her tears, “I’m better now, I promise.  We must not show him sad faces.  He is finding it hard enough to die, without us inflicting our misery on him.”

“I want him to find it hard to die,” said Gil, with sudden anger, “I want him to find it the hardest thing he has ever done – so hard that he cannot go through with it!”

Verity managed a small laugh, “I dare swear he is trying hard enough, Gil.  He swore he would not die unshriven, will have no one but you to read him the last rites, and refuses absolutely to let his younger brother lead him out of this world and into the next!  Take your pick as to which it will be.”

Gil laughed softly, “Contrary as always – that is Underwood for you.”

When they left the room, it was with the tacit agreement that they would do nothing to make Underwood’s passing any more anguished for him than it already was proving.

Never had Verity felt the expression ‘on his deathbed’ to be so expressive or poignant.  Underwood was propped up on while pillows that emphasised the sickly yellow of his face.  His blond hair was darkened with sweat and his sunken eyes were closed.  He had obviously lost weight for every bone in his face stood in sharp relief, yet his loving wife could only see the attraction that lurked there. She knew she had not been wrong to pour so much adoration on this beloved man, no matter how foolish others had sometimes thought her.  Underwood had been and was, the love of her life. This handsome man, the jaw strong, the nose aquiline, was all she had ever needed, or ever would. No one would ever replace him. 

He roused a little when his brother spoke and opened grey eyes, seeking out Gil and Verity.  He managed to smile, but failed to lift his hand to shake his brother’s.  Gil went swiftly to his side and took the white and bony fingers in his own warm clasp.  Despite the afternoon sun which streamed through the open window, Underwood’s hand was cold, prompting Gil to begin to rub it gently as though to force life into it from his own body.

“My dear Chuffy, I had thought to find you better and here you are sleeping the afternoon away and having your poor wife slaving in your service.”

“Have you brought mother?” asked Underwood, trying to moisten his dry lips so that he could speak more clearly. He knew his voice had lost all its strength and could barely be heard. Verity was beside him at once, lifting a glass of water which he managed to sip.

“She follows with Cara and the boys.  I came post,” said Gil, trying to sound as though he took the most expensive mode of travel all the time and was not in the least flurried to have used a succession of horses far harder than he would ever have dreamed of under normal circumstances.

“Don’t let her see me this way, Gil.  Give me the last rites so that I can die before she comes.  I can’t bear her pain as well as everyone else’s.”

Gil sent a swift glance towards Verity, who bit her lip so that she wouldn’t sob aloud.

“I haven’t come here to see my only brother die, Chuffy.”

              “I’m very much afraid that you have, Gil.”

Verity threw herself on her knees at the side of the bed, “My own sweet darling, please don’t speak of leaving me.  I cannot live without you.”

Underwood winced with the effort, but he managed to lift a hand to rest it on her bent head, “My love, if I had any choice, I would never leave you.  You have been my happiness, my friend, my lover, my life.”

Verity sobbed in good earnest and Gil felt like joining her. 

“Dry your tears, my love, and bring my daughters.  I must say goodbye.”

Obedient wife that she was, Verity did as he asked and Gil felt the brush of her dress as she swept past him. He caught her hand in its folds and held it for a moment, trying to send a morsel of comfort to her, a tiny shred of courage to sustain her through the next few hours.

When they were alone Underwood gestured his brother to come nearer, “I realise you have your own family, Gil, but I know I have no need to ask you to care for mine.”

“Consider it done, Chuffy.  But I wish you would cease to talk of dying.  Is there no hope?  Can Francis Herbert not find what the poison is?”

“He thought he had discovered it with a visit to Hartley Grahame’s library, but alas it was a false trail.  My only hope was Sabrina Woodforde, but she has stayed resolutely loyal to her father and silent on the matter of his methods and his whereabouts.”

Gil looked thoughtful, wondering if perhaps he could persuade the girl, even though everyone else had failed, “She must be made to speak out, Chuffy. I will go to her myself and beg her to tell us what the poison is and how we can save you. She cannot continue to be so heartless.”

Underwood lifted a hand as if to silence him, “The trouble is, Gil, she may not be at fault here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Verity does not know this, but Thomas Brodie may not be the only man who wishes me dead.”

The clergyman looked astounded, “But I thought there was no question who was responsible for this,” he said, utterly confused, “Who else could it possibly be?”

Underwood managed a small laugh, though it obviously pained him and he winced, “My dear brother, how innocent you are. Do you not think that I might have offended more than one man in my long career?”

“This is not some vague enemy you have concocted, Chuffy. You know something you are not telling, don’t you?”

“Do not tell Verity, Gil. I have sworn to her that I would never keep anything from her, but I have done so only to protect her. There was an incident when I went to West Wimpleford – two in fact.”

“What happened?” asked Gil, keeping his temper with difficulty. He had always feared that his brother would fall foul of someone who would harm him in revenge for his insistence on interfering in matters that did not concern him. It had worried him that Underwood was too quick to interest himself in murder. It stood to reason that if anyone was prepared to kill once, they would find it all too easy to do so twice or more. Every case Underwood had investigated had brought him one step closer to his fate – it was simply a waiting game, wondering which of his ‘victims’ would extract the ultimate revenge. That moment had finally seem to have arrived – and now he was discovering that he could not even be sure which man had killed his brother, so that he could at least have the satisfaction of bringing the murderer to justice.

Underwood told him briefly about the hold-up and how the mysterious widow had shot the highwayman, and how he had suffered a bout of sickness after taking tea with the crooked lawyer, Attridge.

“Dear God, Chuffy,” he said in despair, “Verity would be devastated if she knew you had kept this from her.”

“Therefore you must not tell her,” answered his brother, closing his eyes in weariness. He had felt the need to unburden himself of this secret, but it was unthinkable that he thrust that burden onto his wife. She would have enough to carry in the weeks and months to come, without knowing that he had deceived her, albeit for the best of reasons. 

Gil opened his mouth to ask more, but they were distracted by the arrival of the children.  The oldest, Horatia, ran to her father’s beside and climbed up to place a kiss on his cheek, “Ouch!  Papa, you have not shaved.  You should use the stuff I gave you for your birthday.  That man said that it would finish you off nicely,” she said proudly.

The words were so oddly said, with such emphasis that everyone in the room was stunned into silence.  Underwood looked into his little girl’s eyes and asked softly, “Do you mean the man in the shop, my dear?”

“No.  I didn’t buy it in a shop.  Sabrina took us shopping, but we met a man she knew on the street and he said that he had just bought snuff, toothpowder and shaving soap for himself, but it would make the perfect present for you.  He gave them all to me for the silver three penny piece I had in my purse.”

“Oh my God, that must have been Brodie. There is no other explanation,” whispered Verity, “You’ve been poisoning yourself!  Every time you felt a little better you have been shaving and cleaning your teeth with the toothpowder.  I knew taking snuff would be your downfall, but little did I suspect in so direct a manner! That’s where the poison is hidden.”

Underwood gave a weak laugh, “You have to admire the man’s ingenuity – and his sheer malevolence.  He set my own child to kill me.”

“I’d never kill you, papa,” protested Horatia indignantly, “I love you far too much.”

Underwood drew her into his arms and kissed her. He had finally discovered how Brodie was poisoning him – but was he too late?  Had he ingested the final, fatal dose, or was he just in time to save himself from that last rally and relapse? 

*

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Similia Similibus Curantur” – Like things are cured by like things

Dr Francis Herbert and Will Jebson arrived at Windward House at almost the same moment and walked together up the path. Francis felt compelled to point out to the stranger that he had chosen a bad time to call on Underwood, but he tried to couch the dismissal in pleasant terms, knowing that Underwood and Verity would never turn away a visitor, no matter what the circumstances. Manners were too deeply ingrained in them both to ever be discourteous.

“I fear Mr Underwood is too ill to receive callers, sir,” he said, “I’m his doctor,” he added hastily, when a raised eyebrow seemed to question the truth of this comment.

“I had heard he was still unwell,” answered Jebson calmly, “I was able to be of assistance to him the last time he was taken ill, perhaps I can give some advice now? My name is Jebson, I’m an apothecary.”

Francis’ worried face creased briefly into a smile, “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to meet you at last. Underwood told me about your help when he was in West Wimpleford. Please come in. I’m sure I can speak for the family when I say that you will be welcome. And I must admit, I would be grateful for your knowledge of pharmacy. Underwood’s case has me foxed and I dread the thought that I may not be able to bring him back from the brink.”

Will’s usually stoic expression slipped for a moment, he frowned in deep concern for a man he had grown to admire greatly, “He really is that bad, is he? I had letters from Mrs Underwood, telling me of his troubles, but I think she deliberately made light of the case so as not to worry those who care about her husband.”

“That sounds like Verity,” said Francis with a grim smile, “always thinking of others and not herself.”

It was Gil who opened the door to them and Francis immediately introduced Jebson to him, knowing that the clergyman must be wondering who he was, but was also too polite to ask. After hands were shaken in greeting, Gil told them quickly about the revelations which had solved the mystery of Underwood’s continued illness.

“Thomas Brodie was behind the plot, using his daughter’s servant, Sabrina, as his agent.  Once the truth had been discovered and the snuff, toothpowder, shaving soap and brush (with a cunning hidden cavity in the handle, which fed poison into the bristles with each usage) had been looked at and proved to be laced with what we can only assume is arsenic. Toby spoke to Sabrina and she was confronted with the proof of her guilt. She swore she knew nothing of Brodie’s intentions and had merely followed his instructions in giving Horatia the items to present to her father. Toby, as you know, is in love with her and insisted that she was telling the truth.  What choice, after all, does a slave have but to obey her master unquestioningly?  Surprisingly Underwood is the one who was prepared to allow the matter to fade away.  I think his gratitude in finally knowing the truth has eased his mind a little, but he is still gravely ill. I fear we may be too late to save him.”

Jebson examined the fatal items carefully, turning them over in his hands, unscrewing the lid of the badger hair shaving brush and looking into the now empty receptacle, amazed at the work which had gone into its construction, “Ingenious,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Diabolical is the word I would use,” said Gil bitterly, “And to use his own child to deliver death into his hands. That takes a special kind of sick mind, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does, sir. Might I see Mr Underwood now? I think I can help,” said Jebson, “Or at least I hope I can.”

Gil grasped his hand briefly but fervently, “You would earn our eternal gratitude if you could,” he said and led the way up the stairs.

The yellow tinge to Underwood’s skin worried Jebson, but he refused to show it, or to be disheartened. As he approached the bed, Underwood opened his eyes and recognising the young man, he smiled gently, “Will, how good of you to come and see me. Did Verity send for you to say goodbye?”

“No, sir, she did not. I came with news for you from Captain Petch. He arrived home from Australia just yesterday and after hearing from Miss Cressida of my part in your investigation, he asked me to come and tell you that as soon as he is rested, he will be coming to see you himself, to thank you for his deliverance. He also bade me inform you that Attridge the lawyer has been found and arrested. It seems that it was he and not poor Toft who was defrauding the estate – and he also lied about the will. Miss Greenhowe had not written a new testament naming Luckhurst as her heir; that was why they never tried to kill her and why Luckhurst was so desperate to marry his cousin. Captain Petch is, and always has been, the future owner of the Pershore Estate.”

Underwood looked gratified, “That is good news indeed, my friend, but I fear I may never meet the good captain.”

“Yes, you will. You have to. So many people are relying on you, you cannot give in now.”

“I know it, Will, but God, I’m just so very tired. I can’t fight it any more.”

Jebson sat on the edge of the bed and looked earnestly into Underwood’s face, “Listen to me, Mr Underwood, this is not the end. I have looked at the stuff you’ve been taking and I know what I’m talking about when I tell you that you haven’t been fed that much. Not enough to kill you, I swear it. The reason you feel as though you are done for is pure weariness because you have been through so much and have not been able to eat. You think Brodie has won, so your body is letting you down. I promise you that arsenic can be taken quite safely in small doses – in fact I use it in some medicines.” This was not strictly true, but Underwood did not need to know it. It was used on horses, to give them a shiny coat, but Jebson would never have fed it to humans, though others took it of their own accord for its supposed health-giving properties. Jebson had always felt that the results were too hit and miss to be safe; too much depended on the person taking it, their own state of wellness at the time, their height, their weight.

“You are probably right, Will, but if my body has given up, then it is the end, isn’t it?” asked Underwood, his voice cracking at the thought of his own demise. He had been courageous enough up to now, but reality was beginning to take hold and he could no longer convince himself that he had a chance of survival. He had felt his strength draining away which was why he had finally asked for his brother and his children.

“No. There are ways I can help. You just have to believe what I tell you. Brodie must have given you a huge dose at the beginning and that weakened you, but it didn’t kill you, which would have been his intention. He’s never been able to get close enough to give you the killer dose, so he made sure you continued to get small amounts – but they were not ingested, they were absorbed through your nasal membranes in the snuff and your gums when you brushed your teeth.”

“That’s true enough, but it has still been poisoning me.”

“But not sufficient to kill you. I’m not going to lie to you, the cure is going to be harrowing, but there is a cure.”

“What do I have to do?” asked Underwood, his voice a little stronger than it had been before. Gil and Francis realized that even if he could not save Underwood, Jebson had at least given him hope.

“You need to drink, a lot! Milk will help to bind the poison so that it can be expelled, water will help to flush your liver and kidneys.”

“But I can’t keep anything down,” protested Underwood, “I’ve tried to drink and I vomit it straight back up.”

“And that’s why it is going to be harrowing,” Jebson told him firmly, “You are going to have to keep trying, no matter what.”

Underwood closed his eyes, pained at the thought of what he was going to have to go through, but he knew he had no choice. The next few hours were going to either kill him or cure him, he had no idea which, but he knew he owed it to his wife and children to put himself through what amounted to torture.

“Please let the milk be fresh,” he said weakly, “I don’t think I could take the slightest hint of sourness.”

“We’ll have a cow outside,” promised Francis, not sure that the drastic measures suggested by the apothecary were going to work, but determined to give it as good a chance as he could manage. He had to admit he had no better idea.

They made their preparations; buckets and bowls were brought from all over the house, towels and fresh sheets, ready for use when necessary. Then they began. Underwood managed one glass of water before he threw up. Verity bathed his sweating forehead before putting another glass in his hand, “Try some milk this time, my love, please.”

Underwood fell back on the pillows, “Give me a moment,”

“No, I’m sorry, my own dearest one, but we do not have a moment to spare. Drink some more.” She held the glass to his lips and he retched at the smell of the milk, fresh as it was, but he opened his lips and drank. Nothing but his love for his wife could have persuaded him to go on in that terrible moment.

It was going to be a very long day.

*