Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3)

BEHIND THE

HORSEMAN

by

Suzanne Downes

“Post Equitem Sedet Atra Cura”

Behind the horseman sits black care – One of the thoughts from Horace’s Odes – though one may appear to have everything, no one is free of anxiety.

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

CHAPTER ONE

(“De Pilo Pendet” – We’ve reached the critical stage – Literally, “It hangs by a hair”

“Whoa, there!”

Underwood, not the keenest of horsemen at the best of times, hauled on the reins, then mopped a sweat-bedewed brow, silently thanking the Maker he had long been vociferous in denying, for their safe arrival.  He had thought their end was in sight as he had struggled to control the plunging hysteric when a pheasant had darted up under the creature's nose from a wet and fragrant hedge.

An autumnal mist was still curling and clinging in moist tendrils about the tops of the trees in the valley as Underwood and Verity stepped gratefully from their hired gig.  It had not been a comfortable journey.  The vehicle itself was old and unreliable – though not as old and unreliable as the horse, a toothless and contrary nag, with a mouth like leather and a disquieting tendency to shy at the slightest thing.

Verity, once out of Hanbury, where her condition occasioned no particular comment, was suddenly ashamed to be out in public and tried desperately to hide her bulk beneath her cape, just in case there might be some hidden observer.  She need not have worried, for they were quite alone.

Their search for a suitable abode was proving fruitless and she was growing quietly frantic, fearing that her child might be born at the vicarage, or worse still, that they would be forced to return to her mother-in-law, for she knew that once away, Underwood would probably leave the North country behind forever.  She knew that it was only the presence of his brother and her own enthusiasm which had prompted the notion of settling down in Hanbury at all.  Now a home which suited them both could not be found, he was growing restive.  Only this dread could have made her risk a premature labour by driving out to view Windward House.

Having assured himself of his wife’s safety, Underwood took the opportunity to look towards the house at whose gate they now stood.  The feeling of coming home struck them both forcibly and simultaneously.

Large enough to be roomy, small enough to be homely, it stood in a large and unkempt garden, built of golden stone which radiated warmth even on this misty morn.  The roof was also of stone flags, green with moss and lichen, which a hundred winters had tried and failed to dislodge.  Deep set, diamond paned windows which would never allow a draught through, sparkled in a sudden burst of watery sunlight – and most charmingly of all, there was ivy snaking its way, steadily, stealthily, across the frontage and above the studded oak door.

Without a word they walked up the path, unconcerned that the dew-damp, tasselled heads of the uncut grasses wet their clothing as it brushed against them.

The key turned silently in a well-oiled way, but the door gave the slightest groan as they pushed it open.

Their pleasure and excitement grew as the explored.  Soon the old house was ringing with raised voices and the sound of Underwood’s steady tread and Verity’s light pattering – joy had lent wings to her feet, her pregnancy momentarily forgotten.

The room to the left of the front door was lined with dusty oak bookshelves, the one to the right, south facing, with large windows which let out onto what would be the lawn, had perfect lighting for Verity’s painting.  Two more rooms at the back would serve as parlour and dining room.  The kitchen and scullery were incredibly old-fashioned, with iron hooks and spits hanging like medieval instruments of torture, the purpose of which Underwood dreaded to imagine.

Upstairs there were four bedrooms – one already possessing the barred window required in a nursery.

Verity turned pleading eyes upon her husband, but there was no need.  He was already seeing his precious – and very large – collection of books filling those waiting shelves, after they had been dusted and bees-waxed, of course, with his desk and leather wing-chair resting on the broad, uneven floorboards, looking as though they had always been there.  For a man who defied convention as a matter of principle, he had extremely staid taste in furniture.

Verity’s vision of the future was very different; a golden-haired boy child, toddling on plump and unsteady legs towards the orchard, his happy laughter startling the birds into sudden silence.

Windward House, Lower Hanbury, in the county of Derbyshire, was to be the new address for Mr. and Mrs. C. H. Underwood.

*

Thankfully the journey back to Hanbury was rather more sedate, their steed having tired himself out with nervous skittering on the outward trek.  The vicar was delighted to hear the news that his brother and sister-in-law would soon be vacating the parsonage, thus facilitating his own nuptials.  Catherine Pennington had shown great patience, but even she was growing fretful, fearing that her Catholicism might cause Gil Underwood to change his mind.  In this she did him a great injustice, for his mind had never been more firmly set on anything in his life before, despite the very real problems the marriage would create for him.  To look upon his serious, faintly handsome countenance, one would never imagine the maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions which had assailed him over the past six months, though never for a moment had Catherine been privy to these doubts – for they were not about her, no, never her - but his own calling and his future in the church.

Of course, with typical sibling callousness, Underwood had been entirely heedless of his brother’s heart searching, and even the usually intuitive Verity had only vague inklings of his fears, though to view the matter fairly, it had been an intensely busy time, with little time for introspection.

Verity felt sure they must have visited every empty house within a radius of twenty miles, but until they had happened upon Windward House, not one had recommended itself to them.  Underwood, surprisingly, had been even less easy to please than his wife, for he could not bear the thought of being too far away from civilisation, but equally adamantly he refused to live in too close a proximity to their neighbours.  This meant that although he wanted to live in Hanbury, he refused to consider any of the town’s streets since there were, at best, merely yards of space between each house.

Windward was perfect in all respects.  Being the last house in the village of Lower Hanbury, it had only one near neighbour, and the village itself was only a mile and a half out of Hanbury – far enough for Underwood to pretend the country gentleman, until the theatre, library or a concert called to him.

The mystery of why they had not seen it sooner was easily solved, as it had only just been vacated by the elderly lady who owned it.  She had wearied of living alone and had moved to be nearer to her newly married son.  How the son and his bride felt about this arrangement was to remain unrecorded!

Underwood had always tended to be rather careful with his money – unless it was to buy books – not from parsimony, but from an awareness that though his father had left him a goodly sum, soundly invested, any expansiveness could result in him having to return to a career he had – in retrospect – detested.  He had tutored at Cambridge quite happily for the best part of twenty years, but he had only discovered he had not really cared for the task since leaving it behind him.  This house, however, had won his heart, and he paid the asking price without a second thought – and would probably have paid more.

Express letters were hastily sent to his mother, with instructions for the transportation of his crates of books and the small amount of furniture he owned.  As he sealed the missives, he hoped fondly that his mother would not be too devastated at the loss of these precious reminders of her elder son, little suspecting that she would drink two celebratory glasses of claret at the notion of finally freeing herself of the encumbrances he had so thoughtlessly dumped in her hall, parlour and spare bedrooms so many months before.

Verity was happier than she had ever been.  She had spent so many years drifting aimlessly, without a family or home to call her own, now suddenly she was to have both.  Even the few weeks’ delay before they could move was not enough to sink her buoyant spirits.  She flitted about the vicarage like an autumn leaf borne on a frisky breeze, busily making her preparations and plans, for all the world as though she were still a lithe young thing and not an increasingly broadening matron.  Underwood was inclined to enforce a regime of rest and relaxation, but Gil stopped him, “She won’t do herself any harm, leave her whilst she’s happy.”

This advice was sound in its way, but Underwood was presently to regret passionately that he had even heeded it.

The vicarage was a vast house, set in large grounds – poor Gil always seemed to be granted huge livings, as though to emphasise his own unmarried state and lack of offspring – and it included, on the periphery, an overgrown orchard, bounded by a small copse, which in its turn let out onto the open countryside.  A high stone wall surrounded the property, but it was breached in many places at the back.  The wall which bounded the road was kept pristine, due to its visibility, but not so the less obvious structure, with Gil feeling the Bishop out to contribute to its upkeep, and the Bishop fondly imagining Gil was taking care of the matter.

Verity often wandered about the grounds, feeling perfectly secure and at peace in the privacy of the garden, with its added hint of wildness.  On his last visit, Dr. Herbert had stressed the need for regular exercise, and though she was free to stroll in the town, she really preferred to hide herself away in the vicarage grounds.  She knew the restraints of convention were strong in other places, and the sight of a pregnant woman would be considered the height of bad taste in places like London and Manchester.  In Hanbury, full as it was of the sick and injured, the carrying of a child was thought to be of no especial interest, the assumption being that the waters were being taken for the health of both mother and baby.

So it was that two days after the visit to Windward House, Verity took it into her head to gather some windfall apples.  Sudden hunger which nought could assuage but apples was laughingly attributed to her condition, but there was much more to it.  Verity fully intended to be initiated into the mysteries of the kitchen and the still-room.  Mrs. Trent had promised to teach her, but she was determined Underwood should not know of the lessons.  His first inkling of her newly-acquired talent would be their first meal in the new house.  She was not, by any means, a complete novice in the duties of a housewife, but her father had considered education to be of far more importance than domesticity, so consequently she had never run a house single-handedly, even though he had been a widower for many years.  She feared that she and Underwood might easily starve if left to their own devices!  He knew less of the contents and uses of a kitchen than she did, and she doubted he could even make a cup of tea, despite his brother’s preoccupation with the art of correctly brewed tea!

The thought of apple pies was very quickly driven from her mind, however, for as she strolled amongst the trees, seeking the fruit in the over-long grass, humming softly to herself, she found herself being grabbed from behind, one hand was clamped over her mouth, the other about her ribs.  The trig and the few apples she had already collected flew through the air in a graceful arc.  Her first thought was that Underwood, in some reckless and insensitive moment of inappropriate horse-play, had crept up on her, but this was quickly dismissed.  The hands which held her were inflicting discomfort which bordered upon pain.  She felt herself being dragged backwards towards the woods and to her utter terror she realized she was unable to resist the strength of her assailant.  Thoughts flashed across her mind as she feverishly tried to plan her escape.  She knew she could not been seen from any window of the house, especially not now they were even more deeply in the cover of the trees, so she might just as well not bother wasting her energy trying to wave her arms.  Her best defence would be to make herself go limp, forcing him to bear her full weight, that way the distance he was able to drag her would be lessened.  Accordingly she drooped in his arms and had the satisfaction of hearing his breathing become still more laboured as he struggled to hold her dead weight.  She was frightened, had never in her life been more frightened,, and as the blood pounding in her ears became louder, she knew she was going to faint.  She had no idea what he intended to do, but whatever it was, she knew she had to keep herself fully conscious in order to fight him off.  All she could think of now was her baby.  She could feel its protesting movements within her, evidently it did not care for the rough handling any more than she did herself.  It was that tiny flutter of movement, more than anything else, which concentrated her mind.

After what seemed like hours, but was in reality only seconds, the man sank to the ground, dragging her with him, so that she half-sat, half-lay across his thighs.  She had been right in thinking he would not be able to haul her far if she gave him no help.  Slowly the crushing arm about her waist was withdrawn and she drew in a grateful, shuddering breath, though the hand was still over her mouth and she could barely breathe through her nose.  The fingers bit cruelly into her face, numbing the flesh, and pressing her head uncomfortably backwards against his chest.  She had relaxed very slightly when the unbearable pressure of his arm around her body was removed, but she stiffened with renewed terror as she felt the cold prick of a knife pointing against her throat.

“I could easily kill you now!”  She heard his voice in her ear, a guttural whisper which sent a chill straight to her heart.  She sensed the blood draining from her face and knew she could no longer fight it, she was going to lose consciousness.  She closed her eyes and tried to drive the overwhelming blackness back.  He was speaking again, his voice quiet, but incredibly vicious, and she attempted to listen to him, if only to stop the faintness overtaking her.