by Joan Smith
The fortress was big for a folly and small for a fortress. It was pretty well gone to ruin inside. If there had ever been furniture there, it was gone now. A whole flock of pigeons were roosting in the rafters, making that cooing sound and leaving generous reminders of their presence below. Some small bird had either built a nest on the ground or it had fallen from the roof. Probably fallen. Even a bird wouldn’t be bird-brained enough to build on the ground. The place might be scary at night but in broad daylight it was just another old ruin, of which he’d seen enough to last a lifetime that year Prance was interested in them. He was always interested in something weird. His ruins phase wasn’t as bad as his Japanese phase, when he’d destroyed a part of his garden and made them drink awful tasting tea in a cold shack, without even a chair to sit on.
Coffen took a last look around and decided to leave before the pigeons splattered him. Outside the fort there was a pile of uneven earth, likely left when the foundation for the fort was dug. Wild grass had grown over it, along with nettles and some bushes. And just at the edge of the mess, one nice yellow flower grew in a depression where the earth was damp and soft. Coffen wasn’t much for the names of flowers but he’d seen this one before in real gardens. He reached over to pick it but the stem was thick and the earth was soft so that the whole thing came out, root and all. He stood a moment staring into the hole, wondering if he should shove the root back in and try to save the flower.
He pulled a bit of the earth away with his fingers and was about to stuff the root into the hole when he saw what looked like a decaying thumb. He stared, thinking it must be a grub. Except grubs didn’t have fingernails. He pulled more earth away and found some moldy old cloth, all turned gray. It fell apart in his fingers, revealing a human hand. The flesh was rotting away on it, but it was a human hand all right, with four fingers curling inward and the thumb sticking out through a hole in the cloth. It was a small hand, maybe a youngster’s, or at least a woman’s. Certainly not a man’s hand.
He stared at it a moment in disbelief, with his breakfast churning uncomfortably inside him. Then he pulled away more of the soft earth and cloth and saw the hand was attached to an arm. Stanley sat on a rock by the boat, sunning himself and chewing on a straw. Coffen called him and he came running.
“Yessir, can I help you, sir?” he said.
“What do you know about this?” Coffen asked in a hollow voice, pointing at the hand.
Stanley looked, gasped and turned pale. “Crikey, it’s a skeliting,” he said, in a voice pitched high in disbelief.
“This place ain’t used as a burial ground, is it?” He looked around but saw no sign of tombstones. And in any case, the body would be in a coffin.
“Good lord, no. Who can it be?”
“Any unexplained disappearances hereabouts the last few years?”
Stanley applied his hand to his chin and rubbed, all the while staring at the little hand. “Old Ned Harper took off, leaving his wife and six kids behind, but we heard he run off to Birmingham, living with another woman. It don’t look like a man’s hand.”
“No, more like a youngster’s, or a small woman’s. The nails are well cared for. Filed, I mean, not cut off rough.”
Stanley looked up at the sky and thought some more. “There was some talk of Lady Richardson’s maid disappearing, but she was never really here.”
“Eh?”
“She was to come here, but never made it. She disappeared in London. She might of come here and got herself kilt. We’d ought to speak to his lordship about this.”
Coffen couldn’t bear to leave till he found out more about this hand, and who it was attached to. “We will, but before we go, do the Richardsons live near here?”
“Aye, at Redley Hall, north towards Mansfield. They’re a branch of the Redley family, from Jamaica. They come here about four years ago when Sir John Redley stuck his fork in the wall, and his niece — that’s Lady Richardson — inherited the Hall. She has the money and her husband has the title, but it seems like a love match right enough. Sir William was a neighbor in Jamaica. He took over running her da’s sugar plantation when the old boy fell sick. They got married, and stayed on in Jamaica when the old geezer turned up his toes. Then when she inherited Redley Hall, they come here and stayed. They say Sir William wants their lad raised in England.”
“What’s all this got to do with the maid?” Coffen asked, pointing to the hand sticking out of the earth.
“Well, Lady Richardson didn’t bring no maid with her. It seemed odd like that she’d travel without one, her being such a grand lady. Anyhow, what folks say is that she did bring her maid from Jamaica and the girl took off on her in London without so much as a by your leave. But unless the maid found her way here, it ain’t likely her. We’d best be getting back to the Abbey.”
“Hold your horses. Do many people come here, to this island?” Coffen asked. “Is it used by locals for picnics or what not?”
“Nay. I doubt anyone’s been here since his lordship’s house party three or four years ago. They say he brought a bunch of lads over, had a wild orgy here, but I wouldn’t know. I was over to Nottingham working in my uncle’s wagon shop at the time.”
Coffen felt a chill ripple up his spine. Just last night Byron had been speaking about the madness in his family. In fact, he boasted about that ancestor called Mad Jack killing a neighbor. Had his orgy got out of control, and one of the girls ended up here, buried under this mud pile?
“No girls disappeared around that time?” he asked.
Stanley studied the rippling lake a moment to aid thinking, then said, “Now that you mention it, it must’ve been about that time that Vulch’s wife took off on him. Minnie was famous for her round heels,” he finished, with a knowing leer.
“Might she have been at Byron’s orgy, then?”
“I doubt it. She’s not what you’d call a looker. Beef to the heels like a Muenster heifer, and squint-eyed along with it. We always figured she’d took off with another fellow, and who would blame her? Vulch is a bad lot.”
“Who and what is this Vulch?”
Stanley hunched his narrow shoulders. “Just a fellow what does a bit of everything and not much of nothing. That’s Vulch. He used to be a pretty good rat catcher but then he took a fancy to Minnie Whyte and married her. Folks say her uncle dying and leaving her that little cottage they lived in had something to do with it. Anyhow she didn’t care for the rat catching. He worked as an ostler at the George Inn for a spell, then Minnie left him and he took off for London to work in some hotel there. He come before long, more’s the pity. Shouldn’t we be getting back home?”
“Lord Byron’s out riding. There’s no rush. What does Vulch do now?”
“Odd jobs, whatever needs doing. Helps out at harvest time, if anybody’s fool enough to hire him. Does a bit of rough carpentry. Has the little cottage that rightly belongs to Minnie, where he keeps a couple of hens and a milcher. Hangs about the Green Man. That’s a local inn. He don’t seem to want for money. Throws his leg over a gelding that’s as good as anything in his lordship’s stable. Says he won it at cards, but I’d like to know who from. That gelding was never in this parish and he didn’t ride it back from London, for he come on the stage.”
Coffen looked all around. It wasn’t likely there’d be any clues here after all the time that had passed, so he finally left. He felt sorry for whoever was buried on the island, but some part of his mind was more excited than sad. There was little he loved more than a good mystery, and if it came with a murder attached, so much the livelier. He knew the girl buried under the mud hadn’t died any natural death, or she’d be buried properly. It was either an accident or murder. He could rule out suicide. Suicides don’t bury themselves. And he even had a few suspects to start with. He’d have to find out about this Vulch fellow, and the Richardsons. At this rate, he’d hardly have time to check up on the ghosts. The lovely Grace had already faded from his mind.
As Byron and the others hadn’t returned yet, Coffe
n went in search of Luten, who had finished his work and was just about to go out for a look around the estate.
“You won’t believe it, Luten. I’ve found a body,” he announced.
Luten knew by Coffen’s glowing eyes that he spoke the truth. Death, especially violent death, acted on him like catnip on a cat. Luten’s thin eyebrows rose a millimetre, which was his manner of expressing astonishment. “A dead body?”
“That’s right. A corpse.”
“You’re sure it was dead?”
“The flesh was falling right off the bones.”
“Good lord! Where was this?”
“On that island in the lake.”
“What kind of a body? Man, woman, child?”
“Not a man, by the looks of the hand, which is all I really saw, but it’s attached to an arm right enough. The rest of it’s buried. We’ve got to get over there and dig it up.” Coffen was always first over the fence when it came to chasing clues.
Luten drew out his watch. “The others should be back any minute. Best wait for Byron. It’s his island, after all.”
“So it is, but it’s my murder. I found the corpibus delectibus.”
Unlike Prance, Luten never paid any attention when Coffen mangled the King’s English, or any other language. “Why do you leap to the conclusion it was murder? Probably some trespasser took ill and died.”
“Use your head, Luten. A woman or child trespassing all alone on that island? And who buried her? It may not be murder, but there’s something havey-cavey about it.”
“Tell me all about it while we wait.”
Coffen described what he’d seen, and what he’d learned from Stanley.
Luten listened closely, then said, “It’s hardly likely Lady Richardson’ maid found her way here from London and got herself killed. Vulch’s wife seems a more likely victim.”
“Or it might be someone else altogether.”
Coffen peered out the door to see they weren’t overheard, then said in a low voice, “You don’t suppose it’d be a girl from one of them orgies Byron had here? You mind yesterday he was boasting about that uncle who’d killed his neighbor over who had the most rabbits. No denying there’s lunacy in the family. He might have caught it.”
“Would he have sent you over there if he knew there was a corpse buried so poorly?”
“It wasn’t buried all that bad. I’d not have found her if it wasn’t for the earth being soft from rain, and the yellow flower coming out by the roots. The thing to do, we’ll watch him like a hawk when we tell him, and see if he looks guilty.”
“Well, I don’t believe for a moment that Byron is involved, but he might have some idea who the girl is.”
He became less certain of Byron’s innocence as lunch time came and still the riders didn’t return. His real fear was that Corinne was having such a good time with the handsome poet that she might decide to break their engagement. There was certainly no counting on that wretch of a Reg to keep them in check. He reveled in romantic intrigues.
“An odd way to treat company,” he said, when the hour for lunch passed and still there was no sign of the three miscreants.
But when at last they arrived, the story of Byron’s being shot at was enough to banish Luten’s fit of pique.
“He might have been killed!” Prance said. “The bullet actually took his hat off his head. Show them, Byron.”
Byron held out his curled beaver, poking a finger through a hole in the rim.
Coffen could no longer hold in his announcement. “You was luckier than the body on your island. It’s dead.”
An excited clamor of voices rose, demanding an explanation, which Coffen gave, with full details. Nor did he forget to keep a close eye on Byron to gauge his reaction. All he could see was shock. No guilt, unless he was a good actor. Which he was, of course.
He was always acting. Letting on he ate nothing but biscuits to make himself interesting, when you could see by the size of him that he ate like a horse.
“We had better go and investigate, n’est-ce pas?” Prance said, looking all around.
“We will, as soon as we’ve eaten,” Coffen replied.
Byron gave a disparaging frown. “What a charming appetizer! I had no intention of involving you all in such unpleasantness. Let us hope there’s no murder involved.”
Coffen just smiled. He had high hopes there was not only a murder but an attempted murder on Byron as well. No poacher would be out in broad daylight. Nossir, someone had taken a shot at Byron. And two murders in one place suggested that the two were linked somehow, with Byron right in the middle of it. Pity, really. He liked the fellow better than he had thought he would. He was pretty sensible, for a poet.
* * *
Chapter 4
Cook's excellent luncheon was wasted on all but Coffen and Mrs. Ballard. It would take more than a corpse to destroy his appetite, and Mrs. Ballard considered it immoral to waste good food. Corinne feared that this visit was going to turn into another case for the Berkeley Brigade, Prance never ate much, and Luten and Byron were busy discussing what ought to be done. If Byron was innocent, and Luten believed he was, then Luten’s job was to protect his reputation, for the party’s sake.
“There’s a police magistrate in Nottingham. I expect we ought to call him in,” Byron said.
“The sooner the better,” Luten agreed. “Is he a good man?”
“I’ve had no contact with him thus far. I know only that his name is Eggars,” Byron replied. A footmen was immediately dispatched with a message to Eggars.
After a hasty lunch the group was eager to get to the island. “The boat will only hold four, and even then one of us would have to row,” Byron explained.
Coffen had no intention of being left out. “I have to go to show you the place,” he said.
“Corinne won’t want to go. The four of us can fit into the boat,” Luten said.
“I do so want to go!” she announced at once.
“The boat leaks pretty bad,” Coffen said, in an effort to deter her. It also deterred Prance.
“Someone must be here to meet Eggars,” Prance pointed out. “The boat will have to be brought back to ferry him over. I fancy that means you’ll want to take a footman. You three go. I’ll stay here with Corrie.”
Those who were going to the island went to don warm clothes. Mrs. Ballard nipped off to the morning room, the warmest room in the house, while Prance and Corinne remained behind.
“You don’t suppose that shot at Byron could have anything to do with the corpser Coffen discovered?” he asked her.
“No, that shot was surely an accident,” she replied. “The two aren’t related. The body on the island has been dead for ages.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” But as he thought about the angry vicar who had come to read Byron a lecture that morning, he wondered if the shot had been an accident, or a warning. “It will be a while before Eggars arrives. I’m going to do a little research while we wait. I haven’t told the others yet, Corrie, but I plan to write a gothic novel using Newstead as my setting.” He waited for excited exclamations.
“That’s nice,” she said, with a distracted smile.
Undeterred by her lack of interest — and she was an enthusiastic reader of gothics — he rushed on with details. “The ghosts at the cloisters, the phantom choir — I mean to familiarize myself with them all. I’m going to see about one of the servants giving me a tour.” It was Grace he planned to ask for. “I expect you’ll want to spend a little time with Mrs. Ballard.”
“Perhaps she’d like to join us. I’ll ask her.”
“I’ll do it while I’m summoning a servant.”
He couched his offer to the dame in phrases designed to deter her, speaking of the wretched wind and rough walking over rubble. “Perhaps you and Corinne would prefer a nice chat by the fire.”
“Oh yes indeed, but if Lady deCoventry wishes to accompany you, I’m be fine by myself. You mustn’t worry about me, Sir Reginald. So very
kind of you.”
“Mrs. Ballard isn’t interested,” he told Corinne. “She looks so lonesome and bored, sitting all alone. Why don’t you stay with her, then you’ll be here to greet Eggars?”
“Oh very well. I have a few letters to write. I forgot to tell Lady Spencer I shan’t be attending her Christmas do after I had accepted, and I really should write to my sister.”
Byron’s butler, Murray, gave Prance a knowing look when he casually mentioned that perhaps Grace could accompany him on his tour. She looked frightened out of her wits when she joined him a few moments later.
“I’m not the best one to give you a tour, sir,” she said. “I only come to work here two days ago.”
“Oh but you’re a local girl. I’m sure you know all the stories of hauntings.”
Her great dark eyes shadowed in fear. “You mean about them ghosts!” she asked, and after much prodding, obliged him with the same tales Byron had told last night. Prance wouldn’t have cared if she had recited the alphabet. He was taking note of her dulcet tones, and the shy way she averted her gaze when he tried to flirt with her. His heroine would have these characteristics, along with the pretty way she had of tucking in a curl over her ear. Of course Lady Lorraine would not drop her aitches so flagrantly, nor abuse the King’s English so egregiously.
Prance, usually a regular Tartar in such things, not only forgave her but found some charm in hearing that, “Them there branches tapping on my window of a night near sent me into a fit, I was that scared. Besides, I have my work to do, helping cook.”
“Later, then. Are you too frightened to meet me here around midnight tonight?”
“Oh I never could, sir. Really I’d die of fright.”
“I’d be here to protect you,” he enticed, with his best smile, which appeared to frighten her more than the ghosts.
Grace’s mama was not such a villainess that she had sent her daughter off to Newstead to be seduced, but she had pointed out the possibilities of bettering herself in a noble home if she made herself useful to the visitors in a proper way. A mother raising four daughters on the avails of her rabbit hutches had to be realistic.
