by Joan Smith
Black directed a questioning eye at him and said, “Oh yes?”
Byron nodded his head imperceptibly. Black read into the nod that Byron wanted privacy to confess whatever the note referred to. Black knew Byron hadn’t killed Minnie, and didn’t believe that whatever was in that note was at the root of the three murders.
From what he had learned about Vulch from his widow, it more likely referred to some petty scheme of using Byron’s island for some illicit purpose.
“I’ll see you back at the abbey then, milord,” Black said.
They were no sooner out the door than Coffen said, “Did you get a look at what was in that letter Byron snatched from you, Black? It wasn’t women’s dainties that turned his face white. He’s seen his share of them. You might as well tell me for I know it’s something that points a finger at him. I’ll only be imagining worse if you don’t tell me.”
“Since he plans to tell Luten, I might as well tell you. It was a piece of a letter in Vulch’s handwriting to Minnie. An old letter, from the looks of it. It mentioned Byron’s name. I told her ladyship and I might as well tell you, nearly the first thing Minnie said when I told her Vulch was dead was that Byron would be pleased.”
“There was something between the pair of them. We knew that much. He managed to beat us to another letter when we first searched the place. One he’d written Vulch himself.”
“Is that so? And you didn’t ask him what was in it?”
“Luten’s trying to reel him into the Whig camp. He was afraid he’d bolt if he mentioned it. He’s been treating Byron with silk gloves. We know he’s up to something, but we don’t think it’s murder.”
“From the note, I figured Minnie had been after Vulch for money, and he said he had none, but if his plans for Byron’s island — that’s where it stopped, right there. The rest of the note had been torn off very carefully. It looked as if someone wanted to draw Byron into it.”
“To steer the blame away from himself,” Coffen said, nodding. “I don’t know what all Lady deCoventry told you in that letter, Black, but the fact is, someone’s been trying to get Byron involved from the start. He was shot at, had a rock thrown through his window, his library was broken into, Vulch’s body was found in his forest, though it wasn’t killed there. In any case, Byron didn’t kill Minnie, and in my mind, it’s all a part of the same tangle. Do you plan to tell Eggars about that note?”
“Not till I’ve spoken to his lordship. Lord Luten, I mean.”
“Fair enough. If Luten ain’t satisfied, you can tell Eggars. I wonder, now, what Vulch had in mind for the island. I’ll take a nip over tomorrow and scout about. I’d be happy for your company, Black. It’s getting so a fellow don’t like to go off alone.”
“I’d be honored, Mr. Pattle,” Black said.
They both looked at the gin bottle. “Pity it’s been doctored,” Coffen said. “I could do with a gargle.”
Black drew a flat leather-bound bottle from his inner pocket, keeping his thumb carefully over Lord deCoventry’s crest, for he had “borrowed” the flask for the trip. “It happens I travel with a wee friend. Brandy. There’s a pump in the kitchen. I’ll just get us some water and a glass.”
“Dandy,” Coffen said, smiling.
* * *
Chapter 26
Luten waited until they were settled in the carriage, beyond the coachman’s ears, before tackling Byron. “Something happened in that bedroom,” he said. “Is that what you wanted to discuss with me?”
“It’s the last thing in the world I want to discuss. It’s being forced on me by all these — happenings.” He handed Luten the crumpled scrap of paper. “Minnie’s bandbox had been dumped out on the bed. Someone obviously searched it. This was left amidst the rouge and rubbish. It’s part of an old letter to her from Vulch. It’s too dark to read this till we get home, but I can tell you what it says. That Vulch can’t send any money immediately, but if his plans for Byron’s island — and there it stops, carefully torn away. Another effort to draw me into this morass. I swear I had nothing to do with any of these awful murders, Luten. Why the devil would I kill any of them?”
“From what you say, the note doesn’t suggest that you killed anyone,” Luten said. “What it says is that Vulch had some plan, no doubt illicit, for your island. You said an old note. Was it dated?
“No, but it was worn, crumpled.”
“Have you any idea what his plan could be, or have been?”
“Taking paying parties of men there to re-enact my youthful orgies comes to mind. God, I feel such a fool saying it.”
“I hardly think that’s it. Vulch wouldn’t have so easy a time attracting willing females as Lord Byron had. And the weather, too — although we don’t know when the note was actually written. Any other ideas?”
“Digging for buried treasure, perhaps.”
“Possible, but pretty long odds of success, unless he had got hold of a map.”
Byron drew a deep sigh and said “I might as well make a clean breast of it while I’m in a confessing mood. When I first returned to the Abbey after university, Vulch approached me about holding a badger-baiting contest on the island, payment to be made in the form of smuggled brandy. I wouldn’t have minded the brandy, but I disapprove strongly of cruelty to animals, and told him if he tried it, I’d have him run in. I left on my travels shortly after, and he left for London. Then I learned just before your arrival that he’s now holding cock fights on my property. Not on the island.”
“One way and another, he’s led you a merry dance. What did you do about the cock fights?”
“I wrote Vulch a pretty stiff note telling him to stop, or else.”
“That would be the note you — recovered from Vulch’s house the night we broke in?”
“So you knew about that! How did you find out?”
“Pattle has his ways.”
“But why on earth didn’t you tell me? It would have been a relief to get it off my mind. That’s what the note referred to, of course.”
“We didn’t think you were involved in the murders,” Luten said, not entirely truthfully. “So what happened after you wrote him to cease and desist?”
“He ignored my warning. I called on him and told him not to do it again. I would have set Eggars on him then, but I knew you folks were coming and I didn’t want —" He stopped, drew an exasperated sigh and tossed up his hands in vexation. “Oh damme, Luten, I wanted to be respectable. I didn’t want police running to me, and certainly not Vulch. And here I’ve landed you into the middle of a triple murder.”
“That’s all there was to it?” Luten asked quietly, for he sensed that Byron was holding something back.
“Not quite. When I called on him at his cottage — it was the day you arrived actually — I wanted to have the thing settled once for all. I fell into a passion and I — I gave him a sound thrashing. I fancy the shot in the forest and broken window were his idea of revenge. He wasn’t trying to kill me, he wouldn’t have missed his target. He’s an excellent shot. It was just spite.”
A snort of laughter escaped from Luten’s lips. “You’re brave! Raising a fist against that monster.”
“He’s all swearing and swagger. Can’t fight worth a damn, no science. I work out at Jackson’s Parlour in London. Vulch is just a blustering bully who prefers beating up women. You’ve seen the type at school, no doubt. If they yell loud enough, everyone’s frightened of them. He threatened to lay a charge against me, which he couldn’t very well do, of course, since the reason for my attack would come out, and on top of his trespassing, cockfighting is illegal. Since he couldn’t tell Eggars, he did the next best thing — went running off to the vicar with tales of my drunken ferocity, inciting him to call and warn me of the local unrest at my bringing a party of rakes and rattles to the abbey. If a creature like Vulch was outraged, Ruttle would assume the rest of the parish was armed and ready for rebellion. It was all petty spite and nonsense. I wouldn’t have given a tinker’s curse if
you folks hadn’t been coming.”
“You overestimate our love of respectability,” Luten said, smiling in the darkness.
“That’s not quite the end of the story. Knowing Vulch’s resentful nature, there was no counting on him to stop, so I sent Fletcher off to bribe him to behave himself until you had left, at which time I meant to settle his hash once for all.”
“I see.” This explained it all, the note Byron had taken the first night they visited Vulch’s cottage, and his sending of Fletcher off after Vulch. “Vulch has obviously made a great nuisance of himself, but the important point is, who has been trying to tie you to the murders? Not Vulch. His body was dumped in your woods, and your name left on that note.”
“Whoever killed Vulch and Minnie is the one doing it,” Byron said. “And he didn’t necessarily know of my run-ins with Vulch either. The body being found on my island already involved me. So, what do you think, Luten? Am I tarnished merchandise? Does the party want such a troublesome addition to its ranks?”
“Sterling silver can be polished, Byron, and we still consider you the real thing, not plate. We’ll just have to polish your reputation up a bit before we leave. Or at least see that it isn’t further besmirched by seeing you locked up on suspicion of murder.”
When they reached the Abbey, Prance had had the boughs brought into the house and had drawn Corinne into the baronial hall to help him with the decorating. The place looked like a forest that had been hit by a cyclone. Boughs were strewn over the floor and on chairs, while servants wandered about, their arms laden with more severed branches, as if Birnham Wood had come to Newstead Abbey.
Luten and Byron slipped quietly past the doorway and into the study to examine the fragment of note. Its well-worn condition did suggest it had been handled for some time. “I daresay this was written before you denied him the use of the island for the badger-baiting,” Luten said. “You remember those notes from Minnie we found at Vulch’s place. She had asked him for money. This might be his reply.”
“Pity he didn’t bother to date his notes.”
Prance, having seen them pass the doorway, soon went in search of them, and was annoyed to find Byron having a tête-à-tête with Luten. “Was it very bad?” he asked, damping down his annoyance.
“Not too messy,” Luten said. “She’d been poisoned, not shot. Black and Coffen are staying there until Eggars arrives.”
“Did Coffen find any clues?”
“He’s still there, looking.”
“The Christmas party is still on, I hope?” Prance said, turning to Byron. “Sad as murder is, Minnie Vulch is no relation to you, nor even a friend. We all need something to cheer us up and put us in the Christmas mood after this orgy of death.” It didn’t escape Prance’s Argus eye that Byron looked to Luten for his opinion. As Luten nodded, however, Prance contained his ire.
“It’s still on,” Byron said, “I haven’t the energy to cancel it.”
“You’d best go have a word with Corinne, Luten,” Prance said. “She’s been wondering how things went.”
Luten left, and Prance said to Byron, “I’m so happy to see you and Luten are hitting it off. There was a time when you two were scarcely speaking.”
“Yes, when I coveted his fiancée. I’ve got over that, Prance. I haven’t admitted it to Luten, but I’ve adopted him as my Mentor. He’s what I should wish to be. He’d make a wonderful papa.”
“Good gracious, he’s only half a decade older than you!”
“In years, perhaps, but at least a generation in common sense and wisdom.”
Prance wasn’t much interested in either of these intangibles. If Byron’s relationship with Luten was of that sort, it was all right. They all looked to Luten for common sense and wisdom.
“What was Luten saying about the date on some note when I came in?” he asked. “Has it something to do with the case?”
It was Luten that Byron had dreaded confronting. He was less concerned what Prance thought of him, and showed him the note. He explained his involvement with Vulch.
“You actually struck that beast? You’re brave as a lion, Byron. I would have hired a gang of thugs to do it for me. It’s utter nonsense, of course, trying to drag you into the murders. I would just toss that scrap of paper in the grate if I were you and forget about it. I’m glad you told me all this, for I did wonder at Ruttle calling on you that first morning, shouting like an auctioneer.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Virtually nothing — from you. I was surprised you took the verbal thrashing so mildly. I only heard that there were rumors you were planning a repeat of your former naughty ways, but his anger did give one pause.”
“I’ve been at my wits’ end, Prance. I was sorry I had invited you all down here. It’s been quite a visit, hasn’t it?”
“Fear not, Byron. When I invited the group to my place, my neighbor was murdered, and my aunt was the chief suspect. We’re used to it. ‘Dammit, we’re the Brigade!’ — with apologies to the Guards. Oh, I must tell Luten! I do believe I’ve solved the mystery of Lady Richardson’s nose. A by-blow,” he explained. “An illegitimate daughter sired by Redley.” He added a few details to bolster this idea.
“You could be right. Now we have only to prove it.”
Byron and Prance returned to the baronial hall and helped with the decorating until Coffen and Black returned around midnight. As Black had been involved in the doings with Minnie, he was invited to remain, and had the pleasure or rubbing elbows with all those he usually served, and being served tea, instead of serving it. He fit in amazingly well, too. Even Prance so far forgot himself as to pass a plate of sandwiches to Black, and recommend the ham.
Luten had told Corinne about the note found in Minnie’s bandbox, Byron had told Prance and Black had told Coffen, so although it was supposedly a secret, they all knew it. It was Coffen who inadvertently mentioned it, and revealed their mutual knowledge.
He ambled over to Byron and said in a low voice, “I wouldn’t mind having a look at that scrap of paper Black found for clues.”
“I believe we left that note in the study, didn’t we, Prance?” Byron replied in a normal voice.
“I wouldn’t leave it lying around,” Corinne advised, and Black said, “I’ll go fetch it.”
He brought it to Byron who handed it to Coffen, who read it two or three times, then said. “It don’t incriminate you, Byron. Nothing of the sort. Do you happen to know what plans he had for your island?”
Byron explained his long-running involvement with Vulch.
“That would explain the rock through your window, then,” Coffen said.
“And the bullet through my hat,” Byron added. “He’s a good enough shot to avoid killing me.”
“Seems pretty childish stunts for a murderer. I shouldn’t wonder if Vulch is nothing but a red herring in it all. A murdered red herring. That’s what confused us."
When the note had been discussed to everyone’s satisfaction, Prance made his announcement regarding the possibility of Lady Richardson being Redley’s illegitimate daughter. They all listened in silence, and continued thinking in silence for some moments after he had finished. To his astonishment, no one argued against his theory.
“It would explain her knowing so much about the family, if she’d been there all her life, and taking care of the simple wife when she was older,” Corinne said.
“It explains everything,” Prance said comprehensively.
“Yes, by the living jingo,” Coffen agreed. “And it explains why she was rooting about your library as well, Byron. Looking for any letters hinting that the real Lady Richardson was a moonling. I wonder if she found anything, or if there might still be something there. I was planning to nip over to the island tomorrow to look for clues as to what plan Vulch had in mind, but now that we know, I’d be better off searching in the library. In fact, I’ll start tonight. I’ll ask Murray for a pot of coffee to keep me awake. And a dog for company.”
He
rose and ambled off. The others soon went up to bed. Black was thrilled to discover he had been given a room in the same wing as the guests, instead of below the eaves with the servants. He gazed at the canopied bed, hung in dark blue velvet, the brocade curtains, the oil paintings on the wall, the fancy carpet on the floor, the decanter of wine and glass on the bedside table, and felt he had come home. But for an accident of birth, he would be living amidst such grandeur as this every day. He had heard the expression “nature’s gentleman” somewhere, and felt that it described him perfectly. He knew his mama was only a servant maid, but like many fatherless children, he harbored the dream that his unknown papa had been an aristocrat.
The servants at the Abbey obviously weren’t aware of just who he was, and Black had no intention of telling them. He would enjoy this brief respite from servantdom until someone, probably Prance, revealed the fraud being perpetrated. He poured himself a glass of wine, and lay on top of the counterpane to scheme how he could continue this life of a gentleman for the duration of the visit. He was not long coming up with an answer. It was as clear as glass to him that someone, very likely the Richardsons, were killing anyone who had glommed on to their stunt of killing off the wife and putting the servant,of this Nessie, into her slippers. They had killed Vulch because he knew, and his wife because she might have known, although Black was pretty sure she didn’t.
But if she had known, the one person she might have told was himself, during that long trip from London. All he had to do was pretend she had told him, and he’d be their next intended victim. Of course he’d have to take precautions to make sure they didn’t succeed. What he’d do, he’d arrange in some manner, a note seemed safest, to dun them for money to keep quiet. That’d bring them hopping! Yessir, that’s what he’d do. Luten was the one to take it up with, first thing in the morning.
