by Joan Smith
“Very likely some minor personal vendetta,” Luten suggested. “Byron might have sold him a bad horse or some such thing.”
“Or it might have to do with some other girl not related to the island orgy. Tess says Vulch cuts up stiff over other fellows getting the girls he’s after. Stands to reason Byron could cut Vulch out in that line. No contest. Other than that, it seems Vulch does dirty work for gentlemen. Somebody could be paying him, but I shouldn’t think it would be the vicar. I mean to say, it ain’t a vicarish thing to do, hiring the likes of Vulch to throw stones.”
“Ruttle is not a very vicarish vicar though, according to what Prance overheard,” Corinne said.
Luten nodded and considered it a moment. “I dislike to ask Byron outright,” he said. “How does one pose a question like that to his host? Whatever he’s done in the past, I sense that Byron is ready to turn over a new leaf and trod the straight and narrow. It would annoy him if I go poking into his private business. He’s like a nervous filly. Break him in gently, and he’ll perform well. Too much pressure on the bridle and he’ll bolt.”
“I can see you’re trying to tame him,” Coffen said. “You’re a good influence on him and I don’t want to interfere with that. Tess might be able to find out what’s going on for me.”
“Or I might,” Corinne said, earning a sharp look from Luten. “Byron’s more relaxed, more open with ladies. You must have noticed it.”
“I’ve noticed he’s more flirtatious,” Luten said.
“Stands to reason he wouldn’t flirt with men,” Coffen grumbled. “I say you have a go at him, Corrie.”
“If the opportunity arises, I shall,” she agreed, with a pert smile at Luten.
But when Byron joined them later, no such opportunity presented itself. The talk, mostly by Prance, was all of Christmas carols, mistletoe and holly and a kissing bough over the doorway into the grand hall. He urged Corinne to practice the music on the pianoforte and got permission from Byron to assemble the servants to rehearse the carols, as they would form the choir. He would design a suitable costume for the singers, just a loose white robe to slip over their ordinary clothes, to suggest angels. Each would be holding a candle.
Tea was served, and around eleven the group separated, Prance to the library to do some research, Coffen to dress for ghost hunting, while Luten and Byron remained behind to discuss politics. When Corinne learned what Coffen was up to, she included herself in the outing. She was finding the visit less exciting than she had anticipated. Byron was not flirting with her at all.
She bundled herself up warmly for the outing in walking shoes, a woolen pelisse and the shawl to wrap around her head. The breeze blowing through the still unglazed window in the salon told her the night was chilly. It proved to be one of those late autumn nights when the haze in the air gives the effect of a blue halo around the moon. The rags of clouds around it looked indigo in the reflected light.
“Folks say when a candle burns blue, there’s a ghost around,” Coffen said, casting a hopeful eye at the moon. “I daresay it applies to the moon as well.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I plan to make another stab at the Monks’ Avenue. Plenty of people have seen ghosts there.” He led her around the building to the designated spot as they talked.
“It certainly looks eerie,” she said, gazing at the perishing columns, with wraiths of dried vines whispering in the wind. Dead leaves scuttled along the cobblestone floor.
“We’ll settle quietly into the shadows and wait. Keep an ear cocked for a choir singing.” Then he added more practically, “and the sound of a horse, in case that bounder comes back to shatter another window.”
They found shelter from the wind in the lea of a vestigial flying buttress. It broke the severity of the wind, but as their vigil lengthened, their toes and fingers began to grow numb. After an hour, there was still no ghostly vision to reward their patience and Corinne was ready to give up. The only distraction thus far was the soughing of the wind through the branches and columns. It took on an eerie, half-human sound that an active imagination might mistake for a ghostly choir singing some dirge. In the distance a hound bayed.
“I wonder why they do that,” Corinne said with a shiver.
“Unrequired love, I expect,” Coffen replied. “Lonesome. That blue moon makes me feel like howling myself.” He suddenly stiffened and grabbed her elbow. “Here! Did you hear that?”
They both stood rigid, listening. “Footsteps!” Corinne whispered. They peered into the shadows of the cloister. They both saw it, so it was not imagination. The black monk, clothed from head to toe in a black cowled cassock, was running hell for leather. He stopped at the cloister and peered down it, but didn’t enter. The strangest thing of all was that he didn’t appear to have a face. He was just black all over, from head to toe. He took off into the park.
“After him!” Coffen said, and lit out. But with his knee aching like a bad tooth after his vigil in the cold, he was no match for the Black Monk. Corinne took a few steps after Coffen, but soon fell behind, as she had no real wish to catch up with the ghost.
“He got away,” Coffen said, when he returned, panting. “Or p’raps he just decided to disappear. Daresay they can do that if they feel like it. That’s one good thing to look forward to after we stick our forks in the wall, scaring people.”
“Let’s go inside. I’m perishing with the cold.”
“Me too. We’ll see if we can scrounge up some cocoa. And toast,” he added, as he felt the familiar pangs of hunger.
When they went inside, the others had all retired. A few lights were left on, and the fire was still smoldering in the grate. On Coffen’s first call, Murray came forth from the butler’s room.
“Are you in for the night, Mr. Pattle?” he inquired, “or shall I leave the door unlocked for the nonce?”
“We’re in for the night. It’s freezing out there. Something hot would hit the spot. Any chance of some cocoa?” This was the obsequious manner in which he approached his own well-paid servants. He was amazed to receive a smiling affirmative reply from Murray. Encouraged by this, he added, “And if you’d fetch some bread and butter and toasting tongs, we’ll make ourselves some toast over the embers. They’re at just the right point for making toast.”
“I shall bring toast and cocoa, Mr. Pattle.”
“Actually I’d like to make my own. I’m in the mood.”
The cocoa, bread, butter and tongs were brought. “This is nice,” Corinne said, as she held the long fork over the embers. “Something safe and homey, you know, after that horrid thing at the cloister. It’s almost like being back home in Ireland.”
“Reminds me of my nursery days,” Coffen replied. “Me and Nanny used to make toast in the nursery, and she’d tell me stories. We’ll have a story to tell the others tomorrow. Prance will be jealous as a green cow. Not that he’ll believe it,” he added, slathering butter on his toast.
“Did you notice that it didn’t have a face, Coffen?”
“I did. Odd, that. I’ll ask Byron if that’s the usual thing. Odd that it was carrying a bag, too. I wonder what was in it.”
“I didn’t see a bag.”
“P’raps it wasn’t a bag. It might have been something else. Something it was trying to save, like the eagle lectern thing the monks tipped into the lake. I mean to go back tomorrow night and have another look.”
After their toast and cocoa, they went upstairs to bed, still convinced that they had seen a ghost.
* * *
Chapter 15
Luten expressed amused tolerance when Corinne informed him at breakfast the next morning that she had seen the ghost of the Black Monk. She had often seen that expression on his aristocratic face before they were engaged, and it never failed to infuriate her. It was the paternalistic smile of a father for his daughter or some superior being for an obvious inferior whom he liked, despite her foolishness. It was not the attitude one took toward an equal. She almost
preferred his other expression, the haughty sneer when she was making a fool of herself. At least it was honest. If they had been alone she would have called him to account for it. In company, she confined her anger to a glare.
“Did he serenade you?” he asked. “Or is he not the fellow who sings?”
“I don’t know what he may or may not do on other occasions. He didn’t sing last night,” she said stiffly. “He just looked down the cloister and took off into the park.”
“Carrying something,” Coffen added. He turned to Byron. “We thought it might be something he was rescuing from the abbey when it was stolen from them, like the eagle lectern thing they threw in the lake.”
“Perhaps it was a jeweled goblet used in the mass,” Byron said. Corinne was not familiar enough with him to know for sure whether he, too, was laughing up his sleeve at them, but he seemed genuinely interested. “I wish you’d seen where he went. There’s a long tradition of buried treasure from those days. My ancestors each took a turn at looking for it. I shall do the same, if my creditors become too persistent.”
“I’ll try to follow him next time,” Coffen said.
Corinne was still nursing her annoyance at Luten’s reaction. “It was very frightening,” she said. “Especially since he didn’t have a face. Is that usual, Byron?”
He blinked. “No face? I haven’t heard that version before. I shall write it up for the archives. We must tell Prance about that. He might be able to use it in his novel.”
As if summoned by his name, Prance strolled into the breakfast parlor, arrayed in his new country clothes, augmented by a Belcher kerchief in dark green with heather leaves. “What must you tell Prance?” he asked, pleased to know he was being discussed in his absence. He hardly cared what was said of him, as long as folks talked about him. He strolled to the sideboard, examined a tasty array of food, selected a piece of toast and returned to the table to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“About our ghost,” Coffen said. “If you’d come along with me you would have got some dandy stuff for your book.” He continued to tell what he had seen the night before, with frequent additions and interruptions from Corinne.
Prance listened patiently, then turned to his host. “Shame on you, Byron, frightening a lady. Come now, confess it was you with a black mask over your face.”
“It wasn’t Byron,” Coffen said smugly. “You’re forgetting the limp. No offence, Byron. The ghost ran like a jack rabbit.”
Prance turned to Corinne. “You also witnessed this spectral hare?”
“We didn’t see his hair,” Coffen said. “He had a thing over his head, some sort of cow, or whatever they call it.”
“Original,” Prance said, chewing a smile. “One would think a cow would cover more than his face.”
“You know what I mean.”
“One can only guess. Is it too much to hope you’ll say what you mean?”
“I can’t. There’s ladies present.” Mrs. Ballard nodded her approval of this sentiment.
Corinne gave Prance a piercing look. “Was it you, Reg? Is that why you wouldn’t go with Coffen last night?”
“Certainly not! I was in the library working on my research. And I have come across something that may interest you, Byron. In the last century a clergyman named Doctor Arbuthnot wrote your uncle a letter with an interesting suggestion; viz., that the reason the monks haunt the cloister is that they buried the monastery’s wealth there, and are guarding it. So if you plan to go treasure hunting, I suggest you forget the lake and try the cloister — unless you fear bringing the family curse down on your head.”
“I’d like to see that letter,” Byron said.
After breakfast, they all went to the library to view Arbuthnot’s letter. At the doorway, Prance looked into the room, gasped and pointed, rigid with shock.
“You’ve made an awful mess of the place,” Coffen said, peering about. “And you call me sloppy.”
There was no irreparable harm done, but the room was a mess. The cupboard doors hung open, with papers littering the floor. Boxes had been torn open and rifled. The table where Prance had been working was in the same state. The door to the outside was ajar, with the wind blowing papers all over.
“I hope you don’t think I did this!” Prance cried. “I only had one box on the table, and I put everything back neatly when I was finished, with the letter about the buried treasure on top to show you.”
“You must have left the door open and badgers or something got in,” Coffen said.
“It’s news to me if badgers can open closet doors and boxes,” Prance scoffed. “Someone was looking for something.”
“Did you have the door open, Reg?” Luten asked.
“With that wind howling! Of course not.”
Luten went to it and examined the catch. “It’s been pried open,” he said. “I doubt that badgers could do that either.”
Byron was looking through the papers, reading a line here and there. “But who the devil would be interested in this ancient history? It’s another prankster, like the fellow who broke the window. This is appalling. I’ll speak to Eggars about this. It’s gone beyond a joke.”
“Indeed it has,” Prance said at once. “A piece of glass can be replaced, but archives of this sort are irreplaceable — priceless. It’s a sacrilege.”
“I wonder when it happened,” Luten said. “What time did you leave the room, Prance?”
“Not long after eleven. I extinguished the lamp and — Where is the lamp? There was a lamp right there, by my elbow as I was reading.”
They all looked around. There was no lamp. “It was a lamp thief,” Coffen said. Then he espied the lamp on the floor and said, “No, I tell a lie. There it is. A good thing he didn’t knock it over or the place would have gone up like a tinder box with all this paper. I wonder what he was doing with it on the floor.”
“Probably using it to see what was in the boxes,” Byron said. “It would save him dragging each box up to the table. They’re pretty heavy.”
Luten nodded. “It would make it harder to see in the window if anyone happened to pass by as well. This part of the room can’t be seen from the window.”
Coffen thought a moment, then said, “It seems that what we have is a plaguerist. Isn’t that what you call a lowlife who steals someone else’s writing, Prance?”
“Plagiarist, but that only applies if he publishes the work under his own name.”
“We’ll keep an eye out to see if he does. You’d recognize it, eh Byron?” As he spoke, he kept looking for clues. “Did you put any papers on the fire, Reg?”
“Of course not.”
“Well somebody did. There’s ashes from paper right on top of the burnt out logs.”
They all had to examine this, and agreed. It appeared someone had burned a few sheets of paper.
“So it seems this has nothing to do with literature or publishing,” Byron said.
Luten studied him a long moment. “Do you have any idea what it is about, Byron?”
“None in the world,” Byron replied.
“You haven’t had a falling out with a neighbor recently?”
“Only that visit from the vicar.” But Luten already knew he was lying. His tone was aggressive, as if challenging anyone to question him. Anger flashed in his gray eyes, as he looked around at the mess, though perhaps that was natural. It would be a long, hard job to sort out the papers.
Byron turned slowly to Coffen and said, “Prance says he left the room around midnight. At what time did you see the Black Monk, Pattle?”
“It would be about half past twelve, wouldn’t you say, Corrie?”
“About that. It seemed a very long time we waited. I was frozen to death.”
“And the face was covered, you say?” Byron said.
“Yes — and he was carrying something!” she said, as she began to understand the reason for his questions.
“Egad,” Coffen said softly. “You was robbed by your own ghost. There’s a
first for you, Reggie. You beat Mrs. Radcliffe to that one. You can stick that in your book.”
Prance gave much the sort of tolerant smile Luten had bestowed on Corinne. “I believe what Byron is suggesting is that your ghost was no ghost but a flesh and blood man, who took off when he saw you,” he explained.
“He didn’t see us, actually,” Corinne said. “We were hiding behind the flying buttress, but if he had just broken in and made this dreadful mess, then he would be eager to get away.”
Luten looked around at the confusion of papers and said, “Perhaps he began by burning the first few items, then discovered that would take too long and just ran off with papers from one of the boxes. But why? What the devil was he after?”
“I came across that letter suggesting the hiding place of the buried treasure,” Prance said. He looked all around. “It seems to have disappeared. Or it may be buried under all this wreckage. Perhaps he was after something of the same sort, something that would lead him to the hiding place.”
“Then why burn it?” Coffen asked. “He burned something. There’s paper, ashes in the grate.”
“Something may have been blown into the fire,” Prance suggested. “About what was removed, I expect there are rumors of buried treasure adrift in the parish, Byron?”
“It’s one of the legends of Nottingham, like Robin Hood. And with about as much basis in fact, I expect. Hockley is coming to put a glass in the window this morning. I’ll have him put a new bolt on this door while he’s here, and I’ll set a man to guard the room tonight. It will take several eternities to sort out this mess. I’ll hire some impoverished scholar for the job. It can’t be done by just anyone. It will all have to be read and sorted. Perhaps he’ll be able to figure out what’s been taken.”
