A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1)

  A NOBLE PAIR

  OF BROTHERS

  by

  Suzanne Downes

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of any of the characters to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental

  Also by Suzanne Downes

  The Underwood Mysteries

  A Noble Pair of Brothers

  Food for the Gallows

  Behind the Horseman

  An Aria Writ in blood

  Yield Not to Misfortune

  (Out soon) A Place for Repentance

  Other Titles

  The Devil Drives a Jaguar

  Blood and Stone

  An Empty Handed Traveller

  A Troublesome Woman

  Children’s Books

  Cassie’s Quest

  PROLOGUE

  The relief at dropping the burden was almost overwhelming. Breath came in short, laboured gasps, heart pounded, sweat poured.

  The remission was short-lived though, for now she lay on her back, unseeing eyes directed upwards at the gently swaying trees. The reality of the next move was driven home as her head fell slightly back, resting on a flat rock, her throat conveniently exposed, as white in the leaf-shadowed moonlight as a bluebell stalk just drawn from the earth. They were surrounded by the woodland flowers - which had probably prompted the comparison - looking as black as her dried blood, the earthy scent released as her prone body crushed them.

  Trying to grip the hatchet was terrifyingly frustrating, it slipped and slithered between nerveless, fear-dampened fingers, making the task of raising it and bringing it down on the neck an impossible one. Time was running out. Every second of delay increased the danger of discovery.

  Get a hold! Think of her not as a human being, but a lump of meat, a carcass. Butchery wasn’t difficult. The veriest half-wit could master it. Do it! Do it now, without further thought. Aim the hatchet and bring this whole sorry mess to a swift conclusion. There would be no blood – or at least none to speak of. She was dead already, and had been for some time. She had lain there lifeless where she had fallen whilst wild plans for deliverance had been thought of and rejected. Only when her head had been lifted off the floor had the raw and dark-blooded wound on the back of her cranium been visible. Even then it had not been a large gash, her hair had matted across it, covering the worst of the injury. Astounding really that it should have killed her, but kill her it had and now the evidence must be disposed of - and swiftly.

  Don’t look at her face. It was the face that made her human. A body was just a body and God knew there were enough of those in the world.

  Too great a task to get rid of a whole corpse, the head must suffice. An anonymous girl in a deserted wood. That was the only way to safety.

  *

  CHAPTER ONE

  (“Hoc Opus, Hic Labor Est” - This is the toil, there is the difficulty)

  “Afternoon, Rev. Underwood!”

  A sudden gust of wind tugged at the Reverend Mr. Underwood’s cape and he was forced to grasp the edges of it before he could frame a reply to this greeting, “Good afternoon, Tom. Rather blowy today!”

  “It is indeed, vicar. You waitin’ on the Carrier’s cart, then?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Expectin’ a visitor are you?” pursued the old man, with more determination than tact.

  Rev. Underwood kindly hid a smile and bowed to the inevitable. He was obviously not going to be allowed away until Tom knew every detail, “My brother,” he replied.

  “Ah, your brother, eh?” Tom was able to add no further rejoinder, for at that moment they were approached by Miss Charlotte Wynter, her younger sister Isobel and their governess Miss Chapell. Miss Charlotte was a vivacious young lady who seemed, this day, even more spirited than usual, due, no doubt, to the blustery weather, which seemed intent on tugging her bonnet from her auburn locks and thereby forcing her to hold it tight against the crown of her head. Her sandy-haired sister was hatless and had drawn up the hood of her cloak instead. This afforded her little advantage over her sister, however, as her cape was quite as uncontrollable as Charlotte’s hat and she was, like the vicar, holding it against her body. Miss Chapell’s smaller and more demure hat was fastened securely under her determined little chin and showed no inclination to fly away in the breeze.

  “Good day to you gentlemen!” said Charlotte with a bright smile, “Do we intrude?”

  Neither man could resist returning her smile, though one was of a serious demeanour and the other inclined towards irascibility, and they immediately replied in the negative.

  “Vicar’s just waitin’ for his brother to arrive on the carrier’s cart, Miss Charlotte,” Tom informed her helpfully. Charlotte and the vicar exchanged glances of subdued amusement, for Tom was notorious for his incorrigible gossiping.

  “Really? How very nice for you, Mr. Underwood – but I had no idea you have a brother.”

  The vicar smiled slightly, “Oh yes, I have a brother. I should imagine most people have siblings, Miss Wynter, if one only took the time to enquire.”

  She and her sister giggled appreciatively at this sally, for their own family was a large one, “I expect you are right. Is he to stay with you for very long?”

  “I really have no idea. His visit is somewhat in the form of a convalescence.”

  “Oh dear! I trust he has suffered from nothing serious?”

  “I’m afraid the affliction from which my brother suffers is totally incurable!”

  Miss Wynter and her sister looking suitably sympathetic, “How dreadful!”

  “Not really,” replied the vicar with a comforting smile, “I merely refer to his acute hypochondria!”

  The girls looked bemused but Miss Chapell could not stifle her slight giggle, mostly due to the fact that she knew that neither the Wynter sisters nor Tom had any idea that the reverend gentleman was making a joke – or at least she hoped he was! Poor old Tom looked appalled, “Here now! There’s no call for that, young miss! It doesn’t do to mock the afflicted!” When Mr. Underwood and the young lady seemed to find this even more amusing, Tom shuffled off rather disgustedly, muttering to himself about the heartlessness of the gentry.

  “Oh my goodness,” said Miss Chapell, gazing ruefully after his retreating figure, “I fear we have mortally offended poor Mr. Briggs!”

  “It would seem so,” answered the vicar, “But I’m sure he will recover presently. I’ll explain all to him when I see him later, for bell-ringing practise.”

  “What is going on?” demanded Charlotte rudely, “What did you say that upset Tom so much?” she hated the thought that she was being left out of any conversation and hated even more the suspicion that her governess and the vicar were somehow mocking her.

  Miss Chapell laid a soothing hand upon her arm, “Mr Underwood was just teasing us a little, Charlotte, that is all. His brother is not in the least ill; is he, Mr Underwood?” she directed the latter part of this speech at the vicar and he grinned in a way which the young ladies rarely saw, “He is perfectly fit and well, ladies and I apologise for suggesting otherwise; it was indeed a small joke.”

  Charlotte glanced sideways at the vicar, noticing for the first time that when he smiled he seemed a little younger. She hadn’t quite realized he had such a wicked sense of humour and the knowledge made her see him in quite a different way. The thought also made her intrigued to see the expected visitor, and she now desired nothing more than to await the arrival of the carrier and see the vicar’s brother for herself, but she could think of no reason to loiter which would not make her unmannerly curiosity obvious. Added to this, her young
er sister was beginning to tug fretfully at her sleeve and Charlotte was well aware that this was Isobel’s way of reminding Charlotte that her crippling shyness made meeting new people a torture not to be endured unless unavoidable.

  The elder Miss Wynter had no choice but to take pity on her sibling and wish the vicar another cheery ‘good afternoon’. Even as she did so, the awaited vehicle swept around a curve in the road, raising a cloud of dust and a volley of barking from the Inn’s guard dog. Though she hesitated momentarily, the expression of sheer panic on her sister’s face forced her to speed her pace a little. Her longing backward glances afforded her no satisfaction, for by the time the solitary passenger had alighted, she was too far away to observe him clearly and she told herself wistfully that she supposed she would have ample opportunity to meet him since his stay would appear to be protracted.

  It would be difficult to say whether or not Charlotte would have been disappointed by her first view of the stranger, for the figure which descended from the cart was not precisely a young girl’s idea of romantic manhood. He was tall, and his hair, uncovered by a hat despite the current fashion, was fair, but after his arduous journey he had little else to recommend him. Even his age would not have pleased her, for his was actually the elder of the brothers. He informed the vicar that he felt ‘like a limp rag’ and it was not an inaccurate description, for he had the sort of slim physique which did not stand up well to exhaustion. A good night’s sleep would make all the difference to his pale-faced, heavy-eyed lethargy. He moved with a languid grace which bordered upon the foppish, but his clothes, being of a rather sombre colour and cut, denied the suggestion. In fact, his dress was not unlike his clerical brother’s, and it is doubtful that Miss Wynter would have approved of anything about him.

  The brothers greeted each other with a swift handshake, both being unwilling to make a public spectacle of their mutual affection, then the newcomer proceeded to vilify coach travel in general, and his own journey in particular, “Why don’t you accept a living somewhere along the coaching routes, Gil? I have rarely experienced a more appalling journey than on that rickety old cart! Could you not have come to Beconfield to meet the stage?”

  “My dear fellow, you look exhausted! After such a tiring journey, I trust you have the strength to walk to the vicarage. Since it is so near, I hardly thought it worthwhile to hire the gig from Mr. Briggs.” The vicar cut across his brother’s complaints with such aplomb that the latter was immediately side-tracked and began to object strongly to this new inconvenience – much to the vicar’s relief, since the carrier was glowering angrily at the previous derogatory remarks regarding his own handling of horse-flesh. Gil had begun to have visions of long treks into the nearest town to fetch his own essentials!

  “But my dear Gil! In this wind! And what about my trunk?”

  “Oh,” said the vicar, rather absently, “Have you a trunk? Well, it can be left at the Inn and called for later – but I had not quite realized you were staying long enough to require a trunk!”

  His brother gave his charming and disarming smile – a smile which lifted the weariness from his eyes and might have caused a mild flutter in the female breast, “How could I resist the warmth of your invitation, Gil?” he asked.

  “You resisted it for almost a year!” remarked the vicar tersely, then repented, “Of course you could not! Nor could you resist a good long separation from your dreadful boys! Come then, brother, let us be on our way. Tea awaits us and I know how you detest your crumpets cold!”

  Mr. Underwood gave an eloquent shudder of distaste and closed his eyes as though against a vision too painful to be endured, “Ugh! A fate not to be borne – afternoon tea, like women, should never be left to stand about!”

  “Huh! What do you know of women?” asked the Rev. Mr Underwood, as he slipped his arm through his brother’s, gave his instructions to the carrier over his shoulder, then guided their steps towards he vicarage.

  “Quite enough, thank you!”

  As they walked along, blissfully unaware that their lively conversation and contrasting appearance were causing much comment behind the twitching curtains which lined their route, they fell easily back into their childhood habit of good-natured ribbing.

  The vicar was well-known and liked among his flock, having achieved a happy balance of gravity and humour when the occasion warranted it. His chestnut hair and dark brown eyes made him seem both warm and trustworthy to the older members of the congregation, and his not infrequent little puns, so diffidently delivered, endeared him to the younger. He little knew how honoured he was to have been thus welcomed by the close-knit community. His year of residence made him a positive newcomer and it was only his own warm personality which had caused him to be thus accepted, when his predecessor had earned no such concession, despite a twelve year stay. The unexpected advent of this tall, blond-haired, grey-eyed visitor, so delicate-seeming and wan, provided much good-natured speculation in the village and if the elder Mr. Underwood was surprised that the street should be so empty, he made no comment upon it.

  They rapidly approached the vicarage, which was, indeed, only a few yards away from the inn, nestling in its traditional spot on the far side of the squat-towered, part Norman church.

  It was, of course, far too large, cold and ancient for real comfort, but it was of picturesque appearance, being stone-built, like the church, stone-lintled, diamond paned and making no hash lines against the heather covered hills behind.

  The Southern-bred brothers were united in finding the Northern landscape rather harsh, but staggering in its rough beauty. The vicar had had a year in which to accustom himself to the ragged hills, rock-strewn and windswept, but his brother was still suffering from a slight sense of shock that anywhere in England could contain so alien an environment. Even the village itself, despite the protection offered by those same hills, gave the appearance of weather-beaten hardiness. All the houses and cottages were of stone, and those with gardens were surrounded by walls, in an attempt to protect the vegetation within from the whistling Pennine winds. Trees were scarce at this level, but lower in the valley there was a large copse and it was to this that visitor pointed, “Trees can grow here then, Gil?” he enquired good-humouredly.

  The vicar glanced down to the area indicated, “Oh yes. But mostly in the valleys. Any saplings foolhardy enough to attempt to grow on the hills turn out to be stunted excuses for trees, bent almost to the ground by the wind. That particular wood belongs to Sir Henry Wynter, a local landowner and Magistrate. His house is hidden amongst the foliage. He has six daughters and one son – born, as you can imagine amidst great rejoicing – tempered by the fact that the mother died in childbirth.”

  “Great Heavens! Six girls!”

  The vicar, knowing his brother’s avoidance of the fair sex, with the exception of their mother, could not help but be amused by the emphasis placed upon these words, “Yes, six – and every one of them a red-head, just like their late mother.”

  Mr. Underwood’s expression was pained, “Red-heads! Good Lord! I can only hope that you are not going to thrust me too much into their society! Women terrify me at the best of times, but add the legendary fire of the red-head and my soul quakes!”

  Even though he knew his brother was exaggerating, the vicar had a brief, but graphic, vision of Sir Henry’s female progeny and he reflected silently, but with some amusement, that Underwood had little fire to fear, except perhaps from Charlotte.

  “My dear brother, you have been locked up in that University for far too long. Don’t you think it is about time you ceased trying to din Greek and Latin into the heads of young men who desire nothing more than to be allowed to drink, gamble and wench away their youths?”

  Mr. Underwood looked rather stunned, as if the thought had never occurred to him before, “Stop teaching? And what, pray, do you suggest I do instead?”

  “You need not sound quite so appalled! It was merely a suggestion. You seem to detest your existence so! I simply th
ought it might be time to call a halt to the misery on both sides and find yourself another occupation. Perhaps a wife and children of your own would renew your faith in human nature?” Gilbert knew he was taking a risk speaking thus to a brother who was private in the extreme about all such matters, but he was frustrated by years of skirting round an awkward subject and decided, on a whim, to call his brother’s attention to it.

  Underwood, still fending him off, shuddered delicately, “Gil, I pray you, have a little compassion! Have I not suffered enough without your foisting a family upon me?”

  Whilst this conversation was progressing, they had traversed the village street, passed the church and were approaching the front door of the vicarage. The vicar lifted the latch then heaved his shoulder against the old oak door and burst unceremoniously into the gloomy hallway, “I think you take an unnecessarily dim view of matrimony,” he said rather breathlessly, but as though nothing untoward had occurred to interrupt the flow of conversation.

  Mr. Underwood was bemused and raised a quizzical brow, but made no mention of this odd method of entry, merely following his brother into the house, “I notice that whilst you advocate the institution, you have thus far managed to avoid committing yourself!”

  The vicar chose to ignore this remark and led the way into the drawing room,

  “Make yourself at home. I shall go and see if Mrs. Selby has managed to salvage your meal.”

  *

  CHAPTER TWO

  (“Lapis Linguae” - A slip of the tongue)

  Charlotte, having been annoyed by missing out on an introduction to the newcomer, and being unaccustomed to having her desires thwarted, took it into her head to decide that the vicar and Miss Chapell had indeed been mocking her and sulked all the way back to the house.