Murder at Newstead Abbey

by Joan Smith

  “I suggest you get inside, my friend. He might try again,” Luten said, putting a friendly arm around Byron’s shoulder. Prance was annoyed that Luten assumed Byron was the target. He was even more annoyed at the familiarity of that arm over Byron’s shoulder. He considered Byron his own private preserve, yet he had never been so forthcoming as to put an arm around him. Nor was Luten at all prone to such physical displays. Luten had been no competition when he feared Byron was after Corinne but since Byron had begun behaving himself, they were growing close. It might be necessary to institute some new romance between Corinne and the poet.

  “He certainly wasn’t shooting at me this time,” Byron pointed out.

  “I expect he thought he was,” Luten parried. “Coffen was limping. In the darkness, he might have mistaken him for you. One shot might have been an accident. Two shots on successive days, both on your property, begin to look like a concerted attack. Come inside and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

  Byron just glanced at Prance, then said with a boyish, almost sheepish smile at Luten, “As a matter of fact, there is something, but I can’t believe they’re trying to kill me.”

  Prance was seized by a jet black fit of jealousy. It was clear as a pikestaff that Byron was transferring his affection to Luten. It was easy enough to understand. Luten, although not quite thirty, had always acted older. Prance couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t behave in a thoroughly adult, responsible manner that conferred some moral authority on him. Byron had never known a real father. It was a role waiting to be filled, and even in the heat of his jealousy, Prance could think of no one better than Luten to fill it. He would steer Byron down the path of rectitude. One really shouldn’t interfere, which didn’t mean one wouldn’t. The rogue in him delighted in such intrigues. And of course he would repair any animosity he stirred up between them.

  They all returned to the saloon and had a glass of wine. “If you insist then, I daresay I must reveal my cloven hoof,” Byron said, bracing himself for confession.

  “No need, Byron,” Coffen said. “We know all about the club foot.”

  Prance glared at him. “It is a reference to the devil, Coffen.”

  “What is?”

  “Cloven hoof.”

  “Eh? I never heard that. Horns and a tail is what he has.”

  “Pay him no heed, Byron. Proceed,” Prance said.

  Prance realized, as Byron opened his budget, that he was only telling Luten what he had already told himself earlier — the relatively innocent nature of the infamous orgy with his friends, the black robes, the skull cup, and the vicar’s warning.

  Luten listened with interest, nodding but in no very condemning way. A few tsk’s and a tolerant shake of the head were his only chastisement. Prance felt he would not have accepted the orgy so mildly if it had been anyone but Byron confessing. It would be interesting to see which gentleman ended up leading the other. Perhaps the surrogate son would lead the father astray.

  “Well, as you say your wild oats are sown, let’s not harp on it,” Luten said, when the confession was done. “But it’s hard to believe a vicar is leading a hunting party against you.”

  “I don’t believe either shot was meant for me,” Byron said.

  Coffen listened, with a frown creasing his brow. “I don’t either,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the fellow got a look at my face. He flashed the lantern right at me before he shot, and it’s not likely he’d mistake me for Byron. Just to make sure all our p’s and q’s are crossed, let’s not rule out the shot could’ve been aimed at me. Now the only person I can think of that’d want me dead is Vulch. He knows I’m staying here. He knows I was asking about him at the Green Man, and he didn’t like it. It don’t explain that shot in the spinney, but that could’ve been an accident.”

  After a little more discussion, they all agreed this was possible. Luten warned Coffen to be careful in future.

  “I will,” Coffen said, “but it’s good news in a way.”

  “No really! We don’t dislike you that much, Coffen,” Prance said in a joshing way.

  Coffen glared. “How sharper than a serpent’s tongue it is, as you would say, Prance.”

  “I assure you I would never misquote William in such a well-known phrase.”

  To put an end to the squabble, Luten said, “I trust you didn’t mean you’re eager to die, Coffen?”

  “Of course not. What I mean is, it looks like Vulch is worried I’ll find out something about that body we dug up this morning, which means he’s involved. Lady Richardson thinks it’s Vulch’s wife. If it is, who’s likelier to have killed her than Vulch, for carrying on with some other fellow? Shot her, stripped off her clothes that might give away it’s her if she was found, buried her on the island and let on she’d run off on him. The timing seems about right. It happened long ago, but not long ago enough to completely destroy the corpse. And there’s a kooey bono in it as well, for it was her that owned the cottage, and now it’ll be his.”

  “I’ll report this attack to Eggars in the morning,” Byron said.

  “I'd rather you not,” Coffen said at once. “If he goes badgering Vulch, Vulch’ll know we’re on to him. What we’ll do is spread some red herrings, let on we think the body is somebody else to put Vulch off his guard.”

  “I’d like to get it cleared up as soon as possible, before it turns into another legend of the mad Byrons,” Byron said.

  “We will,” Coffen assured him. “Rome wasn’t burnt in a day, and neither will your name be.”

  “I don’t think the body was Minnie’s, though,” Byron said. “The hair was too light, and the teeth — “ He paused a moment, frowning in memory.

  “Well, p’raps it’s some other girl Vulch shot,” Coffen said. “He’s a wrong one, and to judge by what I saw and heard when I followed him, he likes the petticoat brigade. He’s mixed up in it somewhere, or my name’s not Jack Robinson. I say we let him think he’s safe, so as to catch him off his guard.”

  Byron looked a question at Luten. “I’ll go along with Coffen,” Luten said.

  “I daresay you’re right, Mr. Robinson,” Prance added, peering about to see if anyone smiled. They didn’t. It did not escape Prance’s attention that Byron had agreed at once with Luten. They didn’t even glance at him to see his opinion. It was Coffen who said, “You’ll keep it quiet as well, Prance?” Prance didn’t reply. He was too busy sulking.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  “Why didn’t someone call me?” Corinne demanded over breakfast the next morning, after she had been told the exciting happenings of the previous night. There was a polite mumble of “nothing you could have done,” and “didn’t want to waken you.”

  She turned a wrathful eye on Coffen. “And why didn’t you tell me you were going ghost-hunting? I would love to see a ghost. Let me know the next time and I’ll go with you. What are we doing today? Don’t plan to leave me out of all the excitement.”

  “We thought you and Mrs. Ballard might write up the cards for Byron’s Christmas party,” Luten replied. “We plan to deliver one to the Richardsons, you recall.”

  “I thought Prance was doing the cards.”

  “You write them and I’ll paint a sprig of holly or some such thing in one corner,” Prance said. “There’s not time for anything more elaborate. We still have the decorations to attend to.”

  “Do the card for the Richardsons first and we’ll deliver it this afternoon,” Luten said, to keep her in curl. He had good reason to know a bored Lady deCoventry could create mischief.

  “I’ll draw up a list of the names,” Byron offered.

  The ladies and Prance spent the morning working on party preparations. Luten had some correspondence to write. His own estate, Southcote Abbey, was not far away. He planned to stop on the way home and had some instructions for his staff.

  Coffen was more interested in the murder. He went in search of clues at the scene of last night’s shooting. Deducing was all well and good
but he liked a tangible clue, something you could see, could pick up and examine and ferret out who it belonged to and how it got where it was. Vulch, if it had been Vulch, hadn’t left any such clues behind, but Coffen did find a fresh score mark on the pillar where he had been shot at, so at least that was real. He roamed through the park, searching for signs of where Vulch had tethered Diablo. The ground was too cold to hold horse shoe marks and the horse hadn’t been thoughtful enough to leave any droppings.

  He was wandering about from tree to tree, eyes down, when he heard the rumble of carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves coming from the roadway into the abbey. Looking up, he saw through the trees a stylish chaise, dark blue with silver trim glinting in the sunlight as it dashed through the park. It was drawn by a matched team of bays, with a liveried footman sitting beside the coachman on the box. No crest on the panel to denote a noble caller, but the rig suggested someone from the upper realm of society. With luck the Richardsons! He darted back to the abbey to hear what they had to say.

  It was indeed Sir William and Lady Richardson who were soon being announced. Corinne was disappointed that they had come, thus depriving her of a call on them that afternoon. But of course she was curious to meet them, and rose from the desk near the fire where she was writing invitations when they were announced.

  Her attention, like everyone else’s, was on Lady Richardson. Sir William was merely a stately gentleman who followed behind her. The sort of man who said, “Yes, dear,” and carried his wife’s parcels. His dark hair was silvered at the temples and the lines on his high forehead suggested middle age, but at closer range she thought he was not really much older than his wife. Forty to her thirty or thereabouts. Nothing in his toilette stood out. He wore a well-tailored blue Bath cloth jacket with no extremes of padded shoulder or nipped waist or stylishly large brass buttons. His cravat was as unassuming as his expression.

  His wife, on the other hand, was a riot of excesses and pretensions. Her bonnet wore too many feather, the fox trim on her suit was too large, her suit too bright a blue, and her talk was too loud. Other than these lapses in taste, she was an attractive lady. The body the blue suit covered was perhaps just a shade more fulsome than the ideal, though by no means fat. Her blond hair was fashionably arranged around a well-proportioned face with blue eyes, a strongly arched nose and a mouthful of straight white teeth.

  She acknowledged the introductions with smiles and curtseys all around, and with much flouncing of furs and moving of her reticule from hand to hand, chose a seat between Byron and Corinne before taking over the conversation.

  “Don’t even think of ordering tea for us,” she said. “We can’t stay a minute. You must forgive our country manners, my dear Byron, calling at such a farouche hour, but you must know we are starving for decent company here in the provinces. I seldom hear a sentence that hasn’t something to do with cows or coal.” She turned to Corinne and explained, “This is coal country you must know, milady. I don’t know how many acres we have being mined. Though not so many as his lordship, I daresay,” she added with a winsome smile at Byron. “Let us talk about poetry,” she said, and proceeded at once to entirely unpoetic matters.

  “And where is your husband, Lady deCoventry? I don’t believe I heard a Lord deCoventry introduced.”

  “I’m a widow, actually.”

  Her fingers, flashing an array of gemstones, flew to her mouth. “Oh dear! And so young! But I’m sure you’ll find someone else. London is a great place for making matches. Mrs. Elbrook’s youngest girl nabbed herself an earl. She’s no beauty, and has only five thousand. Imagine! I, with Redley Hall and an income in five figures couldn’t do any better than my William here. Not that I’m complaining. Mind you I hadn’t inherited Redley yet when William married me, though I knew it was coming to me. Why, you might land this handsome rascal if you play your cards right.” She gave Byron’s arm a playful tap at this suggestion.

  “Lady deCoventry’s fiancé might have something to say about that,” he said.

  She turned to Corinne. “Ah, nabbed someone already have you, milady? There’s no moss growing under your feet. You London ladies are up to all the rigs. Is he anyone I might have heard of?”

  “I have the honor, madam,” Luten said modestly.

  She ran her sharp eyes over Luten and said, “Hmm,” in a considering way. Without stopping to draw breath, she turned back to Byron. “How long are you here for, Byron? You must bring your charming company to us for dinner one evening. I insist.”

  “We would be delighted,” Byron replied. “But first you must come to us. In fact, we had planned to visit you this very day and invite you to a little Christmas party.”

  “Lovely! You can give us the card now and save yourself a trip. Not that we don’t want you to call. Do drop in any time. We’re starving for decent company, aren’t we, William?” William smiled and nodded vaguely.

  She chattered on, asking questions of all the company but seldom waiting for an answer. On the surface she was merely a vulgar chatterbox, but Corinne sensed some uneasiness in the woman. She spoke with the forced bravado of someone not quite sure of her social position but determined not to be condescended to.

  Having discovered that Luten was “Oh, that political fellow,” and Coffen was no one to bother with, she turned to Prance.

  “And you, Sir Reginald, what is your claim to fame?”

  “Why Sir Reginald is the author of The Round Table Rondeaux," Byron said, feigning astonishment at her not knowing of this obscure work. “Have you not read it? He put my poor scribbling quite out of the book shop windows.”

  This was true, but it had taken a deal of finagling on Luten’s part to achieve it. Without Prance’s knowledge, he had bought a hundred copies of the Rondeaux from a prominent bookseller, on the understanding that the book be displayed in the window for a short time.

  “Of course,” Lady Richardson said at once, and turned her smile on Prance. “The Round Table poem. I adored it. So exciting, Sir Arthur and Lady Guinevere.”

  “Why thank you,” Prance said with a thin smile, taking note of the fact that the creature had never heard of his opus. Lady Guinevere indeed! He had not put that wench into his poem.

  “And what are you writing now?” she asked.

  He saw his chance to collar the conversation and took it. “A gothic novel,” he said. “It takes place at St. Justin’s Abbey, a fictionalized version of Newstead.”

  “A gothic novel? You didn’t tell us, Reg!” Byron exclaimed.

  Luten nodded. “So that’s what your ghost-hunting last night was all about. I wondered what got you out in the cold.”

  Before Prance could expatiate on the perils of Lady Lorraine, Lady Richardson was off again.

  “Ah, a gothic novel! I adore them. Mrs. Radcliffe is my idol. My positive idol. The woman is a genius. I read her ten times a year, don’t I, William? You can say what you like about Fanny Burney, give me a nice spine-tingling gothic every time. And you’ve chosen the right setting for it, Sir Reginald. You want to get into the archives here and see what went on at this place in the old days. Those orgies on the island.” She came to a sudden halt and glanced uncertainly at her husband.

  Sir William cleared his throat, pulled at his cravat and spoke. “Speaking of the island, I hear a body was discovered there yesterday, Byron. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “Pattle here actually discovered it,” Byron replied. “Luten and I helped to dig it up.”

  “A young girl, I hear?” Sir William said. That Lady Richardson expressed no amazement was a good indication that she already knew this.

  “Yes, a blond girl.”

  “Vulch’s wife, I heard,” Lady Richardson said, looking all around. “Minnie Whyte that was.”

  “That possibility has been suggested,” Byron said, and waited to hear if she might mention her maid.

  When she didn’t, Coffen said, “There was some talk the body might be your maid that went missing in London,
Lady Richardson.”

  “What, Nessie Landers?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing under her curls. “You mustn’t pay any heed to that. The neighbors love to talk about us. I don’t see how it could be Nessie, do you, William? How would she get here? She’d never been outside of Jamaica before.”

  “But she did disappear around that time?” Coffen persisted.

  “Yes, but not from here. It was from London. We were there two weeks all told. She took off and left me to pack my own clothes,” Lady Richardson said, with a snort. “There was certainly a man involved. She had met some no-account fellow in London.!Unfortunately I never got his name. She was such an innocent she’d be easily misled. A pretty little thing, but not too bright, I fear.”

  “A nice girl withal,” Sir William said, with one of his vague smiles that was half a frown.

  “Almost simple really,” his wife added, “but a good enough worker for all that.”

  “Of course you reported her missing to Bow Street?” Coffen said.

  Her eyebrows rose in astonishment again. “No, why would we call in the police? She wasn’t a slave, Mr. Pattle. She could leave us if she wanted, though I must say she took a shabby way of going about it. She had our address here and knew she could look to me in any time of trouble. I’m sure I wish her well. No, it’s Minnie Whyte that was who was buried on the island.” She turned a raffish smile on Byron. “Was she one of your ladies, Byron?”

  “I never actually met her,” he replied. “She came here looking for work, but my housekeeper turned her off her because her husband is a trouble maker.”

  “And because she was plain of face, to put it nicely,” she added with a knowing smirk. “Very wise, milord. The man she married is nothing else but a hooligan.” She turned to Corinne and with one of her swift changes of topic, began complimenting her on her gown. “If you’re wanting anything made up while you’re here, I recommend Madame Blanchett, in Mansfield.”

  “I brought any gowns I’m likely to need with me. Actually I’ve already arranged with a modiste in Nottingham to make shawls for Mrs. Ballard and myself. They’re to be picked up today.” She turned to Byron. “If you will lend me a footman, that is to say.”