Yield Not To Misfortune (The Underwood Mysteries Book 5) (9 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Qui Fugiebat Rursus Proeliabitur” – He who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day

The younger woman interested Underwood the most, but unfortunately he could not get a really good view of her without turning his head to a noticeable degree, which would have rather given away his inquisitiveness. He managed to shift himself slightly sideways in the pretence of getting more comfortable, so that his back was half against the seat back and half against the side panel of the carriage, as though in preparation for sleep, though in reality he had intended to close his eyes for one reason only; so that he could give his thoughts over to the two problems which beset him – namely Rutherford Petch and Lydia Woodforde.

However he was prepared to set aside his cogitations for a short while and allow the woman passenger to distract him – not that his altered position gave him a much improved view of her, for she wore widow’s weeds which consisted of not just a black dress and slightly shorter pelisse, but a high crowned bonnet with a black lace veil, partially obscuring her face. From the little he could make out she seemed young to be a widow, perhaps mid-to-late twenties, though that, of course, was not unknown in a dangerous world full of illness and violent crime. However one thing struck him as extremely curious and it was not her face or her garb that attracted his attention, but her hands. She had removed her gloves so that she could more easily turn the pages of the book she had begun to read when the rocking of the coach had eased a little and he noted with some surprise that she wore no wedding band.

She could, of course, be in mourning for a close relative, perhaps a father or a brother, but it would be most unusual for a young woman to wear full mourning for anyone but a husband once the funeral was over – ambitious mamas were only too aware that the first bloom of youth was the optimum time to catch a husband in an over-crowded market, and would hardly encourage the loss of an entire year dedicated to the memory of a deceased relation, no matter how fondly recalled. It was also true that unmarried girls would never be allowed to travel on the common stage in the company of only a female servant. Underwood surmised that this was a young woman very much in charge of her own destiny and he wondered if the weeds were in fact a protective measure – they would, indeed, have prevented most men from making inappropriate advances, which might have been forthcoming to a pretty young girl travelling without a male escort.

The weeds might have been an extremely clever ruse, for the abigail did not appear to be very much older than her mistress and had her expression been less forbidding she would have been very attractive. Hers was a strong face, with a determined chin and unwavering blue eyes which observed much and gave nothing away. The pair of them together would have presented a tantalising challenge to many a young buck.

As with his other observations he had no way of verifying his ponderings without getting involved in unwanted conversations, so he finally closed his eyes and gave himself over to his musings.

He was sure now that his summation of the situation in the Greenhowe household was correct. Ormund Luckhurst needed to marry Cressida Petch to finally get his hands on Rutherford’s inheritance; otherwise, since he was very obviously not in love with her, he would almost certainly have turned her out in the aftermath of her brother’s disgrace. He could not risk her remaining in her Great Aunt’s company and possibly persuading the old lady to change her will once more. Of course the simplest solution for him would be to kill Miss Greenhowe, probably with an overdose of laudanum, but Underwood accepted that not everyone had the stomach for murder – though he was sadly aware that it seemed to be all too easy for some – and he had no high opinion of Luckhurst’s morals. However, it needed more than his poor estimation of the man’s character to accuse him of fraud and planning a murder.

He was also more and more convinced that unless robbers really had taken advantage of Rutherford’s drunken stupor to enter the house and steal the diamonds, then they had been hidden by an old lady rapidly entering her second childhood. He hoped Cressida and Miss Fettiplace would be able to smuggle him in so that he could speak to Miss Greenhowe, preferably when she was less fuddled with drugs than she had been for the past few months.

Lydia Woodforde was in a similar position to Luckhurst and he thought it odd that both his present cases should be so alike, and yet so different. Lydia’s task was to prove her identity so that she could claim an inheritance which was already hers for the taking. In theory the Woodforde case should be solved easily. Once the letter came from Gratten’s old friend in Barbados confirming Silas Woodforde’s death and the fact that he had a daughter with him for the past twenty years, the matter should be over. But Underwood had grave misgivings. He was sure that Silas Woodforde was still very much alive and intended to benefit from his daughter’s good fortune, and whilst this, in effect, should have no bearing on her claiming the money, he felt sure Mrs Woodforde would not give the rogue who had ruined her life an easy ride. Her revenge could very well be to deny her daughter – if indeed she was her daughter! He saw many months of court wrangling ahead.

He was just hoping that Toby had followed his instructions and had been shadowing Lydia and if so, what had he discovered, when the coach was thrown into disarray by the startling sound of a shot fired, angry voices shouting and the vehicle stopping with a sudden lurch which threw them out of their seats.

“What the devil is going on?” asked the older gentleman irascibly and the clerk bravely let the window down stuck his head out, only to hastily withdraw it, “I do believe we have been held up by highwaymen,” he said, his voice ascending to a high squeak with fright, “There are two horsemen in the road and I think the shot they fired was at the driver’s guard. He won’t have had chance to fire back, I’m afraid.”

His words were soon confirmed when the door was wrenched open and a pair of broad shoulders and a masked face blocked out the light, though it was not sufficiently dark to miss the long barrelled flintlock pistol he held in his hand and pointed directly at them.

“No need for panic, ladies and gentlemen. No one will get hurt if you all do as you are told. I’ll hand this young lady,” he gestured towards the abigail, ”a hat which I will thank you all to fill as quickly as you like with your valuables.”

He turned his head slightly so that he could speak over his shoulder to his still mounted companion, “Which name did you say?”

The man behind him muttered something and the highwayman returned his attention back to the interior of the coach, “Is there a Mr Underwood here?”

To say Underwood was startled was an understatement, but he hesitated only a moment before he said, “I’m Underwood. What do you want with me?”

“Someone has a gift they’d like me to give you,” was the gruff reply.

Underwood had a sudden notion of exactly what the ‘gift’ might turn out to be and from whom. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume that murder was beyond Luckhurst, though typically the man would not be dirtying his own hands. Underwood leant forward in preparation to rise, “Let me out then. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”

He never knew why he did it, the action made no sense whatsoever, but he was unnerved by the sight of the gun and wanted to hide it; he began to get to his feet and as he did so, he felt his hat slide off his knees, so he casually picked it up and reaching out he hung it on the end of the pistol, “Stand aside, man,” he said, “or I cannot get out.”

The man was so startled by the action that he allowed the muzzle of the gun to drop slightly, exclaiming as he did so, “What the hell? If you think that will stop a bullet, my friend, you are sadly mistaken!”

“At least I won’t have to watch it coming towards me,” Underwood replied tersely, amazed that he was so unemotional in the face of what he now felt sure was his impending demise. His thoughts flew to Verity and his children, to his brother and his mother, but after that he allowed himself no other distraction. Fear now was a useless emotion and he refused to die a coward.

The fact that his victim knew somehow of his intention seemed to throw the man and he glanced sharply at the other passengers to gauge their reactions. He noticed then that the ‘widow’ had her hand, wrist-deep, in her reticule, “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“You told me to put my valuables into the hat,” she said calmly, “I’m just finding them, look,” she lifted the bag so that it was level with his face.

A sudden explosion shocked them all, but none more than the brigand, who had a fleeting moment to look utterly astounded before the bullet which had entered his forehead flung him backwards out of the carriage door, leaving him sprawled on the road.

His criminal companion looked down in horror at the body before kicking his horse hard and swinging its head around roughly so that it galloped in a panic away from the scene of the death.

Underwood was aware of sudden discomfort on his skin, as though he had been showered with a handful of sand, then pandemonium broke out, with everyone talking at once and the driver and his wounded guard climbing down from their seats and looking at the body and everyone asking what had happened.

Only Underwood and the ‘widow’ were calm, she was looking ruefully down at the shredded, slightly smoking, black beaded reticule in her hand, “That’s a great pity,” she said, withdrawing the smallest pistol Underwood had ever seen from the remnants of the bag, “I was very fond of that reticule – and it was ridiculously expensive.”

Underwood, though he now understood that it was sharp little shards of the shattered beads which had stung his face, had still had not quite assimilated the fact that it wasn’t his chest in which the bullet had found its final resting place and he found himself laughing, with a very slight edge of hysteria, “A formidable weapon, madam,” he remarked.

“In formidable hands, if I may say so myself,” she answered, “Are you going to faint on me?” she added, noticing his pale face.

“Probably not,” he said, “I may however, ‘flash the hash’ as the odious boys I used to teach would have said.”

“Then I suggest you step down,” she said in return, smiling at his candour. She liked the fact that he could still joke after having just stared down the wrong end of gun.

“Stepping down and seeing the dead man close up will almost certainly have an unpleasant effect,” he said wryly, “All things considered, I think I’ll stay right where I am.”

“Then it looks as though I will have to take charge.”

With that she scrambled past the legs of her fellow travellers and began to issue her orders.

“Drag the body to the ditch and then get on with the journey,” she said to the driver, “There may be more of the gang on their way here right now.”

“Shouldn’t we go back to Wimpleford and report the incident?” asked the clerk, needled at being ordered about by a woman, as only a man who spends his life being subject to orders could be.

The ‘widow’ rounded on him, “To what purpose? He’s just as dead if we go on or go back, and I have been delayed long enough.”

“But ...” he started to protest, but she cut savagely across him.

“But nothing. I’ve told you there may be more of them and they’ll expect us to go back, so the chances are we would be riding into an ambush. We go on – and we go on now!”

The driver needed no second bidding, but he insisted his wounded companion enter the carriage with them. The abigail obligingly tore strips off her petticoat without any instruction from her mistress and deftly stripped off his coat and bound the gory hole in his arm.

Underwood thought vaguely that it was odd that the two women should have been so calm when it really ought to have been them in hysterics and falling into the vapours, but he was too shocked to wonder any further at their expertise with gunshot wounds and indeed with guns.

As they rumbled away as fast as the coachman dared drive, he turned to his fair rescuer, “Madam, you saved my life.”

“I suppose I did – but you helped by distracting him from my actions. That was a neat trick, putting your hat over his pistol. You baffled him enough to give me time to get to my gun.”

“There was no sense to it,” he admitted, “I merely dislike having guns pointed at me.”

“Happens to you often, does it?” she asked, a half smile adorning her features.

“Thankfully not.”

“He knew your name, Underwood, is it? You’ve been upsetting someone, Mr Underwood.”

He ignored the implied question and asked one of his own instead, “Might I know your name?”

“What is your mother called?” she asked.

“Annabella,” he answered, puzzled.

“What a coincidence, that is my name too. That’s two Annabellas who have delivered you, Mr Underwood.” And she laughed softly.

He didn’t believe her, but with that he had to be satisfied.

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Qui Nescit Dissimulare Nescit Vivere” – He who doesn’t know how to lie, doesn’t know how to survive

Their next stopping place was the small town of Midmickle, fortunately not many miles further on, since horses drawing the stage needed frequent changes, due to the heavy load they pulled. The guard was now bleeding profusely, despite the makeshift bandages and it was with great relief that they clattered into the stable yard of the inn and handed responsibility for the man over to the landlord, who shocked and angry, sent at once for the constable and a doctor.

Manners seemed to have been forgotten, for all the gentlemen bar Underwood, scrambled as quickly as they could out of the carriage and swarmed into the inn, ordering brandy and coffee for their shredded nerves.

The two ladies kept their seats, so Underwood also climbed down, but turned to assist them out, only to find the opposite door swinging open and the two women walking swiftly away. He opened his mouth to call them back, but realized that he had no name to use and by the time he had decided that though discourteous, he would simply have to yell, “Hey, you!” they had disappeared into the milling crowd.

Odd behaviour, but there was little he could do, for the constable came up at that moment, puffing and blowing from having run so hard to answer the summons. Nothing this exciting had happened to him in a twelve month and he had no intention of letting it pass him by.

He ordered that all the passengers from the stage should gather in the private parlour so that they could be questioned about this unprecedented event. Highwaymen had grown scarce since all the stagecoach companies and the Mail Coaches had begun to use armed guards on every trip so it was difficult to understand why this coach had been held up in broad daylight and so near to a town.

“They knew that fellow’s name,” said the clerk maliciously, nodding towards Underwood, “And those two women he was with have taken themselves off without a by-your-leave!”

The constable turned a stern eye on Underwood and his expression grew even more officious and menacing than it had on hearing the news of the hold-up, “Is this true, sir?”

Underwood, who was imbibing a large brandy, nearly choked on it, so shocked was he to suddenly have all attention trained on him. The injustice of the implied criticism was such that he took several seconds to gather his thoughts – which accusation to answer first?

“The ladies were not with me, I never saw either of them before today – and, not being their keeper, I can hardly be held responsible for their departure,” he said testily, throwing an icy glance at the clerk. Why should the stupid fellow make difficulties for him when all he wanted to do was get home?

“But the men did know your name? How do you account for that?”

Underwood had absolutely no doubt that the men had been sent, not to rob the coach, but to either kill him, or scare him out of his investigation into the matter of Rutherford Petch, but he certainly had no intention of making that suspicion public.

“I have no idea, but I understand that it is a habit of these men to hang around while the coach is being loaded so that they can decide if the risk of robbery is worth taking. I can only assume that they heard someone use my name.”

This seemed a tissue thin excuse to the sceptical constable and his sneer showed just how flimsy he thought it, “Umm. It seems more likely to me that you were in on the plot – you and those two women who have so conveniently absconded.”

Underwood had been holding his temper with what he thought was admirable self-restraint, but now he snapped. He had been frightened out of his wits, nearly killed, saved by a woman, which no man with any self-esteem wanted, and now he was being delayed from returning home by this pompous fool.

His voice was frigid as he replied, “Really, this is utterly ridiculous! To what end do you think I would plan this abortive robbery? Nothing was taken, a man was killed and another injured and my supposed cohorts inconveniently provided you with my name. I’d like to think that if I did plan any such venture, it would not end in such a procession of disasters.”

The constable took deep offence at Underwood’s tone, but he could not but admit to the truth of the statement.

“Very well, I accept – for the moment – that you were merely unfortunate, but I will need a signed statement from you all, with your full names and addresses and you must expect an investigation into both the incident and yourselves. If you have someone who can vouch for you, that would be useful too.”

“You may send word to Sir George Gratten, Constable of Hanbury, for a reference,” said Underwood with great dignity, but secretly very annoyed that he was going to have to ask Gratten for confirmation of his good name.

Even after the doctor came and declared the guard was merely winged and no bullet was lodged in his flesh, there still followed another tedious hour of the same questions, differently worded until Underwood had a pounding headache and began to dread getting back onto the stage instead of passionately wishing for it, as he had at the start.

Finally they were allowed to go on with their journey, though Underwood was now tempted to delay his return to Hanbury until the following day. The constable, however, showed no sign of leaving the inn and was surrounded by a gang of his cronies, who looked to be set in for the night, discussing the dreadful incident, so Underwood boarded the stage with never a backward look. If he never saw Midmickle again, it would be too soon.

Thank goodness, he reflected, as he was tossed hither and thither over the cobbled square on his way out of town, that he had not given Verity a definite time of arrival, for she would now be frantic with worry at his tardiness.

The violent rocking eased as they reached the high road and Underwood closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his thoughts kept returning to the ‘widow’ and her companion. Why had they slipped away? Presumably to avoid answering questions, but why? What had they to hide? They could hardly have been partners in the crime, or the highwayman would not have been despatched with such ruthless efficiency. And who were they? No names had been given – the pretence that the ‘widow’ shared his mother’s was an obvious lie.

He fell into a weary doze wondering if perhaps he now had three mysteries to solve.

*

Surprisingly Underwood agreed to attend the welcome party at Lady Hartley-Wells’ mansion the very evening after his return from West Wimpleford. In truth he was in no mood to do any such thing, but he now had a pressing need to dispense with at least one of his cases and in the great scheme of things, Lydia’s seemed the least complicated.

Verity greeted her with a warm smile and an embrace. Lydia looked somewhat bemused to be thus accosted, but she recovered herself swiftly and returned the embrace with a shy smile.  Either she was genuine, or a consummate actress and only time would tell which it might be, thought Underwood, observing this exchange from a distance.

He was more circumspect, as indeed were the other gentlemen, merely bowing over her hand and bidding her welcome.

The ladies took their lead from Verity and cheeks were kissed whilst pleasantries were exchanged.

Lady Hartley-Wells had wisely left all pretence of entertainment aside so that before dinner there was no music and no offer of cards or other games.  She had intended that all would mingle and chat, and of course that was precisely what occurred.

Underwood held back and made no attempt to speak to the young woman alone, merely contenting himself to loiter nearby and listen to her exchanges with the other guests, which surprised Sir George, as his own inclination was to speak to the girl as soon as possible and try and trap her into some false declaration.  That way the whole sorry mess might be over and done with in one evening.

“You must tell us all about Barbados, Lydia,” said Verity. It was noticed by very few people present that Underwood raised an expressive brow in Sir George’s direction. The older man suddenly realized that she had been primed to say something of the sort by her husband and of course it would be the swiftest and simplest way to prove young Lydia a liar and an impostor.  It would be the ultimate error for her to know nothing of the country where she was supposed to have been raised.

She looked nonplussed for a moment then said decidedly, “There is very little to tell.  It is much like any other place – with good and bad together.  The sun shines hot and glorious, but when it rains the heavens open.  Sometimes it is so hot that one can do nothing but lie in a shaded room and pray for evening to fall.”

“And the people?  Are they pleasant?” pursued Verity, “I’ve often wondered how people react to leaving England.  I suppose quite a lot are forced to go abroad for some reason or another and would really rather have stayed at home.”

Lydia shook her head in swift denial, “Oh no, nothing could be further from the truth.  I think you underestimate the spirit of adventure and the wanderlust that infects those who travel.  There is an excitement, a sense of living on a knife edge. Society does not have the same rigid barriers that I have grown aware of here.  The upper classes would prefer to maintain the status quo – but of course they would, since it works entirely in their favour!  But they are such a small group when compared to all the other classes that they find it almost impossible to remain aloof.”

Underwood felt it was his moment to show his hand, “That is all very fascinating, but I should be interested to know in which echelon of society you and your father found yourselves.  The infamous reason for your self-imposed exile cannot have been a secret, even in the far-flung destinations you chose to visit.”

She tried to hide her annoyance, but her face stiffened. Only Verity and Gratten were privy to his plot so others in the party wondered why he had chosen to be contentious so early in their acquaintance.  It was unlike him to be unsubtle.

“Silas Woodforde’s a well-respected man. His reasons are not to be questioned.  It is not for you or anyone else to judge him.”

“No, we shall leave that to his maker,” said Underwood calmly, “I have not been misinformed, have I?  I understand he has passed away?”

Lydia threw him a look of pure poison from beneath demurely lowered lids, “You were not misinformed, sir – and I’m surprised you feel justified in speaking ill of his memory to a loving and beloved daughter.”

Underwood acknowledged the chastisement with a slight bow, “I intended no offence, Miss Woodforde, but you must understand how strongly we all sympathise with your mother.  She has been sorely tried by these events.”

He spoke perfectly fairly and all who heard him felt the same, but Lydia merely cast a disdainful glance in his direction and turned away.

Underwood joined Gratten and spoke in an undertone, “She shows remarkable loyalty to a man who dragged her screaming from her mother’s arms.  That is usually the stuff of which nightmares are made to small children.”

“He was the only parent she has known for the past twenty years.  I suppose it is not beyond comprehension that she would cling to him. Did Mrs Woodforde confide if he was a particularly fond parent before the marriage broke down?”

“No, she said he was always too busy with his money-making schemes – usually gambling - to pay much attention to either of them.  She is utterly convinced that he did what he did from spite and for no other reason.” 

They both looked at Lydia, who was now moving about the room with grace and assurance, greeting the people to whom her mother introduced her.

“How does she strike you, George?”

“Confident – a little arrogant.  Very pretty, of course.”

“Do you see any resemblance, however fleeting, to Mrs Woodforde?”

“Not so far – but we cannot judge on that alone.  Many children favour one parent more than the other.”

“True, but not many children would refer to a dead parent by their name and in the present tense,” he murmured wryly.

“Did she really?  I hadn’t noticed. That might be interesting in the light of your own theory.”

Underwood gave a brisk nod, “I was thinking the same thing.  I have not yet asked Toby how his shadowing went.”

“That seemed a little underhand,” Gratten told him, a little wary of testing the law in such a manner.

“So is passing one’s self off as a lonely woman’s long-lost daughter,” he said grimly in return.

With that Gratten could not argue.

*