Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) (3 page)

I trust I have answered your question satisfactorily,

Your ever loving friend,

Serena Hartley-Wells’

Underwood smiled to himself at the thought of the long-widowed Lady Hartley-Wells envying the naughty Lady Love and her Spanish paramour.  The lady was human after all – and her distrust of George Gratten was entirely understandable – he was a man who enjoyed the discomfiture of others when they had shown less than cringing respect for his position. Underwood had a fondness for the Constable, for despite his many faults, he had a fierce determination to see the law upheld and his loyalty was unswerving to those he considered his supporters in his role.

As to his opinion of the woman who was calling herself Lydia Woodforde – well, to his annoyance he still could not quite draw a final conclusion. In this instance, only time would tell.

*

CHAPTER FOUR

“Miles Gloriosus” – A Boastful Soldier

For the second morning in a sennight Underwood found himself accosted in his own hallway by a visitor. He decided there and then to vary his routine – it was becoming all too obvious that every one of his acquaintance was aware that they would not only find him at home, but that he would also be trapped into hospitality by his need to break his fast if they called on him before ten in the morning.

This time it was Jeremy James Thornycroft whom he discovered being aided over the doorstep by Toby, who was one of the few in the household who was strong enough to tussle with the wheeled chair which the legless Waterloo veteran was forced to use.

Jeremy James tended not to visit Underwood at home because it was such a performance getting to Windward House, which stood a mile or so outside Hanbury, so that Underwood could have the isolation he sometimes craved, but near enough to feed his hunger for civilisation when he was feeling sociable.

It seemed the Major had accomplished this journey, not, as Underwood feared, by making his young wife push him over a mile down the rutted lane, but he had hired a carrier’s cart, which could transport the chair as well as the man.

Toby had already sent the carter around to the back door, where he would be entertained in the kitchen until Jeremy was ready to take his leave.

Underwood, who was still ragged at the edges from his enforced child care of the day before, would have very much preferred to have told his friend to take himself off until a more respectable hour, but was compelled to be polite, knowing the effort it had taken to reach the house. With a repressed sigh he swept his hand before him, indicating that Jeremy should precede him into the dining room and his rapidly cooling repast.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, once he and his guest were served with coffee and he beheld a plateful of tempting breakfast delicacies such as devilled kidney and coddled eggs.

“I need you to undertake a mission for me, Underwood,” said the Major, helping himself to bread and honey, though he had already eaten at home in Hanbury two hours earlier. Unlike Underwood he had never been able to shake off the habit of early rising.

“Another one?” murmured Underwood thoughtlessly.

Jeremy raised his brows, “What do you mean, ‘another one’? I’ve never asked you before.”

“No, you have not,” Underwood sounded surprised, but in reality he was cursing his clumsiness in mentioning anything of the kind. It seemed he was incapable of keeping Mrs Woodforde’s secret for anything above twenty four hours, “I do beg your pardon, I must be thinking of someone else,” he added smoothly, trusting that his famed absent-mindedness would account for the slip and he would not be questioned further.

“Who?” asked Jeremy James, who was nothing if not direct and as sharp as a tack.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘whom’?” enquired Underwood, neatly evading the question by exasperating the old soldier with irrelevancies.

“Never mind the lecture on grammar, Underwood,” he said briskly, “We all know of your superior intellect – I want to know if you are going to lend your famed intelligence to aid me!”

“Certainly, if I knew what it is you want me to do,” said Underwood mildly, rather pleased that he had curtailed a dangerous line of enquiry.

“Then allow me to elucidate,” said Jeremy, who couldn’t resist reminding Underwood that he was not a complete dunce, “I have an old friend ...”

“Just the one?” asked Underwood, hiding a smile.

“Very droll,” said the Major with a grimace, “Can we stick to the point?”

Underwood filled his mouth with egg, just to show that he intended to interrupt no more and was all attention.

“As I was saying, before your wit got the better of you, I have an old friend – no, he is more than a friend! I will admit to you, Underwood, as I would to no one else alive, I owe the man my life. It was he who dragged me from under the dead horse which had fallen on my legs – they were already mangled beyond saving by the explosion which had killed the horse, but trapped as I was, I would have died of blood loss within minutes if he hadn’t pulled me free and fixed tourniquets.”

Underwood made no comment, but his mind raced. This was an important moment in his relationship with Thornycroft, who rarely, if ever, spoke of his battle experiences, and certainly he never told anyone the true story of how he lost his legs – though he had several very colourful yarns which could not possibly be true, including Napoleon himself slashing him with a sabre.

Jeremy noted Underwood’s silence and was grateful for it. His bitterness at the loss of his limbs meant that he never admitted weakness of any kind. He had even designed and had made a special saddle so that he could ride a horse, though it tired him beyond measure as he needed all the strength left in his thighs and his upper body to keep him mounted. To tell Underwood now the real story of how he had relied upon another man to save him was galling, but his friend needed to know how important Rutherford Petch had been, and still was, to him.

“Rutherford Petch is a hero in the truest sense of the word, Underwood.  He never alluded to his actions again and refused to listen when I tried to thank him. He insisted he was just doing what any other soldier would do – but I know he went beyond that, far beyond. He risked his life to save mine. This was still the heat of the battle and he could have been forgiven for keeping his head down and charging away, but he didn’t. He dismounted, calmed a panicking horse, secured the reins by tying them around his thigh and saw to me before yelling to two infantrymen to drop their rifles and help him to drag me up and throw me over the saddle on my belly. He yelled in my ear that he’d have me court-martialled if I dared to fall unconscious and that I was to hold on for dear life. I didn’t need telling twice, though how I held on I’ll never know. It’s astounding what you can do when your life depends on it. But I know that if his horse had taken off, he would have been dragged across a battlefield with his head bouncing on the ground like an inflated pig’s bladder. He directed the horse back towards the lines and slapped its rump, frightening it into haring back, carrying me to safety and leaving himself exposed and without a mount. I still don’t know to this day how he survived. Like me he had a dozen different versions of the truth, but I understand from others that he had to stop another galloping, riderless horse, stricken with terror and ready to kill, with flailing hooves, any man that approached it. Oddly enough, we were not even particular friends before the incident, good companions, who trained together and took our ease in the same places, occasionally played cards with each other, but nothing more. Of course, to me, and I believe to him, we were closer than brothers afterwards.”

“I can imagine,” said Underwood softly, “Is he in some kind of trouble now?”

“More trouble than you can conceive of,” said the Major morosely, “You’ll know by now that Adeline is determined to celebrate my fortieth birthday with a huge party?”

Underwood was aware of, and dreading, the event, so he merely nodded.

“She wrote to invite him to attend, not unnaturally, since it is due to him that I’m here to see my fortieth year.”

“You received no word from him?” hazarded Underwood, “And you wish me to find him for you?”

“On the contrary, we had a reply and know exactly where he is,” said Jeremy, “That’s the problem.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” said Underwood, mildly irritated, “Where do I come in to all this?”

“The missive came from his younger, and only, sister. She confided that Petch had been accused of stealing a valuable diamond necklace from their Great Aunt, was found guilty and transported, and now resides in Australia, where he is fully expected to remain for at least fourteen years – that’s if he survives that long.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Underwood, astounded at this twist in the tale, as tragic as it was unexpected, “Either you were vastly mistaken in him, my friend, or there has been a terrible miscarriage of justice.”

For the first time Jeremy James smiled, relieved that Underwood had seen to the root of the problem without his having to employ his most persuasive tactics, “I’m not mistaken, Underwood. Petch is the best man in the world. He would no more steal than cut off his own hand. I need you to prove his innocence and gain a reprieve for him. Are you with me?”

Underwood needed no second bidding. His fondness for Jeremy James was strong but his sympathy for a man so shabbily repaid for service to his country and his fellow man called out to a sense of what was right within him which he could not ignore.

“I’m with you, my friend. Give me the address of young Miss Petch and leave the rest to me. If Rutherford is an innocent man then we’ll just have to find a way to prove it.”

The Major thrust out his hand to shake Underwood’s, “I knew I could rely on you. But will Verity approve? Adeline will flay me alive if I upset her dearest friend.”

“You may safely leave Verity to me. She has as strong a belief in justice as I have myself. She will not see an innocent man suffer.”

As he released his friend’s hand, Underwood looked at his palm with distaste, “Really, Thornycroft, honey and butter! I swear Horatia is a more mannerly eater than you are.”

“Sorry, old fellow,” grinned the Major, able now to laugh again, secure in the knowledge that Underwood was on the case and would not rest until Rutherford Petch was on a ship bound for England.

*

CHAPTER FIVE

“Odi Profanum Vulgus et Arceo” – I stand aloof from the common herd

To Underwood’s surprise, Verity was rather less understanding that he had assumed she would be when he informed her of his proposed visit to see Miss Cressida Petch in West Wimpleford in the County of Shropshire.

“Oh, Underwood, you do make me cross sometimes!” she said testily, amply demonstrating her annoyance by the use of his surname, which she only used when speaking of him to others, or when he had particularly irritated her. She knew he actively disliked his Christian name of Cadmus, so she never used it in company, though personally she thought it rather charming and failed to understand his aversion. He was not much fonder of Horatio, which begged the question as to why he had inflicted it on his daughter – but apparently he did like the female form of the name, or so he claimed. Verity suspected he had just wished his daughter to carry at least one of his names – for if she ever married, or course the Underwood would be gone forever.

“I?” he asked incredulously, “What have I done, pray? One of our dearest friends has requested my aid in a matter which means a great deal to him and I have acquiesced – how can that possibly discommode you, my dear Verity?”

She waved her hand imperiously, dismissing his excuses as she would swat away a noisome fly, “Naturally I’m not angry that you have offered to help Jeremy James – I would expect nothing less. I am, however, put out by the timing of it. Lydia Woodforde is due to arrive in Hanbury any day now and you had pledged your attention first to Lady Hartley-Wells. Now you arrange to leave town just when I need you on hand to help me with the wretched girl.”

“Oh!” the disappointment in his tone made his wife look askance at him.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh’?” she asked suspiciously. So well attuned was she to her husband’s moods that she detected at once an unspoken request – or more likely – demand upon her.

“Well, I rather imagined you would be coming with me,” he ventured, a hint to wheedling in his voice, “You know how I detest solitary travel.”

“Really, Cadmus, you are, on occasion, the most exasperating creature alive. How can I possibly leave town just now? And what exactly do you propose I do with the children? They are far too young to be dragged half way across the country on the off-chance that some unknown woman will agree to be interviewed by you about the humiliating fact that her brother has been transported to Australia for theft!”

Underwood looked thoughtful, “Put that way, I can see the difficulty,” he acceded eventually, “however I beg you will calm yourself, my love. On reflection I shall go alone. I would dare to speculate that you have no immediate need of my presence, you know. In fact, I rather think my absence could very well be a good thing.”

“And how do you expect to justify that assertion?” she demanded, still brusque, but slowly, imperceptibly, becoming accustomed to the notion that Underwood always did exactly as he wished, no matter what her opinion, so she might just as well preserve her dignity and energy.

“You are so very sweet and accommodating, my love, that it will give the young lady time to get used to being in the company of Mrs Woodforde and her friends. She will lower her guard if she thinks she is under no obligation to answer awkward questions or feels that she is not being held in suspicion. By the time I arrive home – and I think I shall only be gone for a few days after all, or so I trust! – she will be lulled into making silly mistakes – if, indeed, she is an imposter. I think you must agree that would save us all a great deal of time and trouble.”

Verity had to admit the theory was not without foundation, but there was still a large part of her that resented Underwood’s freedom to take himself off on a whim, leaving her with the day-to-day cares with which he rarely concerned himself. However, she reflected ruefully, she was fully aware of his nature when she married him and there was very little point in expressing dissatisfaction now – and, after all, his good traits far outweighed the bad – well, most of the time.

“Oh, very well, Cadmus, I have no further objections to offer, but be aware that this had better not be a wild goose chase or you will be required to pay a forfeit.”

He smiled and kissed his wife, who pretended to push him away, but made sure the rebuff could not be taken as genuine, “Your wish shall be my command, my sweet,” he promised, “Now, what about packing a valise for me?”

“You play a very dangerous game, Underwood,” she warned, giving him a darkling glance, “I dare swear that there never was a man more inclined to push his luck to the limit!”

*

Since the post travelled the same way that people did, it was hardly surprising that Major Thornycroft’s letter of introduction for Underwood to Miss Petch arrived at its destination only a very short time before the man himself rumbled into West Wimpleford on the over-filled, but handsomely resplendent green and gold, if somewhat mud-spattered, stage coach. They pulled into the yard of the ‘Black Bear’, an old building, like many in the vicinity, built of old red brick at the base but half-timbered above. The many, crooked chimneys and gable-topped windows told him that he would have little difficulty in finding a room vacant. The church, Underwood had noticed as they swept around the corner from the high road, was of red sandstone, so unlike the limestone and millstone grit of the Derbyshire buildings.  

Underwood was a poor passenger so his first action was to stagger into the coaching inn and bespeak himself a room, a hot meal and a large brandy ‘to settle his shredded nerves’.

“Would you care to share a room, sir, to save on the expense, if you are only staying the one night?” asked the publican, with an eye to making a little more money himself, if he could fill not only his rooms, but also the dining room and the tap room later.

Underwood looked suitably horrified at the very idea, “Certainly not,” he said forcefully, “I require your best room – and to myself. And I shall probably be staying several days, if that is convenient?”

“Most convenient, sir,” answered the man, with an obsequious bow, “Allow me to send the boy to your room with your luggage and I’ll fetch your ‘ball of fire’ into the coffee room, if that suits?”

“It will suit very well, thank you,” said Underwood, quite restored by his sudden spurt of irritation. Amazing how a shock could get the blood pumping again. He also smiled to himself to hear the use of ‘thieves cant’ from the lips of the innkeeper – London mannerisms were spreading rapidly – due, no doubt, to the increasingly improving roads, which meant more people than ever were risking journeying farther afield than their own home village. He could remember a time when a man might be born, live his entire life, marry, produce children and die in old age, never having set foot more than a couple of miles from his own front door.

The brandy finished the job that the landlord had begun and by the time Underwood had eaten a really quite passable meal, he was ready to start his quest for the whereabouts of the address he had been given for Miss Petch.

It was far too late in the evening to actually go searching for her, but asking directions and making a note of them was quite within his power and once the landlord had provided the information he was happy to drink another small brandy – to help him sleep in a strange bed and without his life’s companion by his side, and retire for the night, content that he would find the lady easily enough in the morning.

After a cursory inspection – his vision had been somewhat blurred by the unaccustomed alcohol – he was relieved the find the room appeared clean, the sheets pristine, with no trace of dreaded dampness, and smelling faintly of lavender, to repel the moths, a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth; though it was not yet autumn, the nights could still be chilly.

The water in the ewer was still warm and the towels provided proved to be rough to the touch but unsullied. Underwood happily undressed, washed and climbed between the sheets, preparing himself for a restless night of tossing and turning in a strange bed and was delighted when the next thing he knew was the sunlight shining directly into his eyes because he had forgotten to draw the curtains across the small, square-paned window the night before.

He lay for a few moments looking about him, pleased that his impression of the previous evening had not been mistaken. The inn was evidently an old one, with exposed beams which had been fashioned by an adze and still bore the marks of the tool in their uneven surface. In one or two places there were the worrying drill holes of woodworm, but Underwood doubted the roof would cave in just yet. The floor was of a similar nature, great oaken planks, shaped by hand many years ago and covered in strategic places by rugs, intended to keep bare feet from contact with cold boards. The fire had long since fallen from embers into dead ashes, but the painting of a pretty milkmaid and her large bovine companion cheered the chimneybreast and various bits and pieces of highly decorated china brightened the dark furniture and the mantelpiece.

Altogether not an unpleasant place to spend the next few days, he reflected. Then roused himself to have a shave and get dressed and he went in search of breakfast.

Suitably refreshed he walked out into the sunlit street, hesitating only for a few moments to breathe deeply of the fresh air – which he was disappointed to find was not so very fresh at all. He was used to the clear atmosphere of the hill town of Hanbury and had forgotten that other places might not be quite so salubrious. Trying not to recognise too many of the vaguely unsavoury smells which assailed his nostrils, he set off following the directions he had been given by the landlord, whom he had discovered was called Witty – “Witty by name and witty by nature” he had been assured, but somehow doubted, since no sparkling repartee had yet been exchanged.

West Wimpleford was a busy little town and the source of the various odours soon became clear. It was obviously a popular stopping place for stagecoaches, for there was a constant stream of horse-drawn vehicles on the road, which was doubtless a morass of mud in the winter months, but currently was ridged with wheel tracks, but not impossible to cross without miring ones boots too disgracefully. Underwood did so, taking care to avoid the piles of manure which had not yet been claimed by the enthusiastic horticulturists who could be relied up to gather it up in any town or village. Roses tended to be plentiful and resplendent in gardens which lay along posting routes.

A short walk of perhaps half a mile brought Underwood to the imposing gates of Pershore House, held within stone pillars topped with carven pineapples. Underwood wondered vaguely if these had any hidden meaning or if they had simply been chosen for their decorative quality, but he quickly dismissed the idle thought and made his way up the drive to the house. This was a largish country house, old enough to have once stood in splendid isolation, but the encroaching town had grown to meet the edges of the estate and now it was very definitely part of the community. It was fashioned of the same stone which most of the houses thereabouts were built, a reddish-coloured sandstone, very attractive and much decorated, since it was so easy to carve. The doors and window frames were grooved and fluted to an astonishing degree, and the steps up to the front door bore a balustrade of intricate design.

An elderly butler, white-haired and stooped, answered the summons of the bell and allowed Underwood into the hall whilst he went to inform Miss Petch that her visitor had arrived. This was more than Underwood had expected, for Thornycroft had sent his letter of introduction only a day or so before his departure, so he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to be sent from the door on this first attempt and made to wait for an interview.

Miss Petch came herself to find him instead of sending the butler back to show him into the drawing room, explaining, “Poor old Brimblecombe does find his duties onerous these days, but my Great Aunt won’t hear of retiring him.”

Underwood could find no suitable response to this blithe announcement, so he smiled and nodded, then said, “Good morning. Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Cressida Petch?”

“You do, sir, and I think you must be Mr Underwood? I had news of your coming only yesterday from Major Thornycroft, who knew my brother well.”

“I am indeed Underwood, but I am surprised you knew at once who was calling – surely you would not have expected me so soon?”

“Take my word on it, there are rarely any visitors at all,” she said, with a sad little smile, “My Great Aunt is housebound and the only callers we ever encounter are my cousin and tradesmen – all of whom I know well. You could not have been anyone other than Mr Underwood.”

Underwood looked at the young woman before him. She was perhaps, thirty years old, certainly no more, she was unmarried, he knew from her title of ‘Miss’, she was far from plain, with dark hair and eyes, and a pleasing countenance, and yet was trapped in this house with an elderly invalid and servants who were evidently nigh on as aged as their mistress. Something was very awry with the situation and he suddenly felt that perhaps Thornycroft had a point. There was more to all this than he had imagined, though he was loath, at such short acquaintance, to make hasty judgements.

“Please come into the drawing room, Mr Underwood. From what the Major tells me, we have much to discuss.”

*