Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) Read Free Page B

towards levity and familiarity, but they had very little success.
    It was, therefore, no surprise to hear his name called across the street on the bright October morning following Verity’s assault.  He turned swiftly to confront the caller, all his suspicions roused when it proved to be a young man, tall, good-looking, and with muscles rippling beneath the broadcloth of his perfectly fitted, obviously expensive, coat.
    “I knew I could not be mistaken,” said the young fellow heartily, as he dashed across the road in front of a farmer’s cart, and held out his hand to the bemused Underwood.
    That gentleman, who had no finesse at all when it came to disguising puzzlement or irritation, ignored the proffered hand and frowned darkly at the newcomer, “Who the devil are you?”
                  The man roared with laughter, evidently not in the least put out by this display of rudeness, “By Jupiter!  You haven’t changed a jot, sir.  Still as blunt as ever.  It is Rogers – Godfrey Rogers.  You surely cannot have forgotten the infamous Rogers?”
      “Rogers?”  Underwood continued to peruse the youth until light slowly dawned, “By Gad!  It is Rogers.  I wish you boys would understand how great a change the years create.  I have yet to meet one of my old boys who does not expect me to immediately recognize the spotty youth in the manly features they now possess.”
    “I resent the implication of skin eruptions, Mr. Underwood.  I swear my skin was as smooth as a peach,” answered Rogers, with great good humour.
    “Balderdash!  All young men have horrible physiognomies.”
    “What, even yourself?”
    “I was never that young,” countered Underwood, with dignity, but a half smile and a twinkle in his eyes, “What brings you to Hanbury?  You look in rude health to be visiting a Spa.”  This was not strictly true, for now the boy was nearer to him, Underwood detected an unhealthy pallor to his skin, and the dark rings under his eyes spoke of excesses which were beginning to take their toll.  Rogers was heading for trouble unless he drew in the reins, judged Underwood silently.
    “Oh, I’m not here for my health.  M’father turned up his toes and I’ve come back to take up the burdens of a landowner.  We have a little place just outside town.”
    Apart from being appalled by this lack of respect and affection in the boy’s reference to his late father, Underwood was also mildly irritated at the dismissive way he spoke of his country seat as a ‘little place’.  To his certain knowledge, the property of the recently deceased Mr. Rogers was a large and successfully run estate, very close, as it happened, to his own newly acquired house, so it was with a rather forced heartiness that he said, “Planning to live the life of a country gentleman, Rogers?”
    Rogers snorted with contempt, “How very amusing, Underwood.  Do you really think I am going to bury myself in this dead and alive hole?  Mater can imagine the return of the prodigal son if it comforts her, but I fear she is in for a sad disappointment.  My only interest in Hanbury Manor is the price it will fetch when I auction it off.”
    “Good God!” the exclamation was wrenched from the genuinely shocked Underwood, who had met Mr and Mrs Rogers some months before, without knowing of their connection with his erstwhile pupil, and thought them a charming pair, much devoted to each other and their lovely home.
    “Oh, please!  Pray don’t show your age by being appalled by my youthful lack of respect for three hundred years of family history.  If that great, ugly pile of stone had housed several generations of Rogers’, then it is high time some other family was given the chance to create their own tiny slice of immortality.  Frankly I need the money far more than I would ever need an architectural monstrosity.”
    Underwood was well aware that far from being a monstrosity, Hanbury Manor was renowned for its beauty,