by Joan Smith
“Thank you. Why don’t you go and have some cider?”
She caught Black’s eye and he came trotting to her. “The note has come,” she said.
“As I expected,” he said, concealing his relief. He would have looked no-how if it hadn’t.
They moved together away from the revelers. He read the note and passed it to her. She read: “Mr. Black: Impossible to attend party. Meet me in the Monks’ Cloister at midnight. I have the money.” The note was not signed but there was no doubt from its contents who had sent it.
“You mustn’t go, Black,” she said. “It’s a trap. They’ll kill you.”
“They’re cagier than I thought,” he admitted, but with no air of concern. “They’ve no intention of being lured inside the house.”
Luten, seeing them together, strolled over to join them. “What’s happened?” he asked, and was shown the note.
“He’s not going, of course,” Corinne said. “It’s a trap.”
Black had no keener wish in the world than to appear a hero before his mistress, and it was not likely a better chance would ever come his way. “On t’other hand,” he said, “if I meet them outside they’ll feel free to take a shot at me. We just might catch them red-handed.”
“It’s too dangerous,” she said at once.
“We could go early and arrange our trap at the cloister,” he countered. “There’s that row of columns, plenty of places to hide. We’ll be there before them. Mr. Pattle and his lordship here will be armed, as well as myself. If they so much as lift a finger, we’ll be all over them, like barnacles on a ship’s bottom. They could shoot me as quick inside as out, come to that. I’m willing to take the risk.”
“It seems risky, Black,” Luten said doubtfully.
“When they plan to do me in is when they see me, waiting for them. They’d shoot from a little distance and run. But they’ll not see me. I’ll hide in the shadows to force them to come into the cloister. I’ll step out of the shadows with a gun in my hand and have them at pointe non plus. A little polite chat to get them to confess, with his lordship and Mr. Pattle as witnesses, and the thing is done.”
Luten said, “No, they won’t come unarmed. There’s no saying who will have whom at pointe non plus. You’re probably right about their shooting you from a little distance, though. If they see a man standing in the cloister, they’ll likely take a shot at him. That will show us where they’re hiding and we can go after them.”
“Yes, and meanwhile Black will be dead!” she pointed out.
“No, no. It won’t be Black they shoot at, but a dummy. We’ll have a stuffed dummy wearing a hat and greatcoat, prop it up in clear view between the columns.”
“That will never fool them,” she scoffed.
“On a night like this, with the snow to interfere with vision, it should work,” Luten pointed out.
“Aye, and that wind will move the coat about, to make the dummy look alive,” Black added.
“Well, if Black won’t be in real danger,” she conceded. “The one to make the dummy is Prance. He’s excellent at that sort of thing. We’d best get at it.”
But when they went inside, Prance was busy getting the servants into their robes for his concert. He was vexed that the carolers should have come on this night. Listening to two concerts so close together was bound to try the audience’s patience. After having had the robes made up and hiring Miss Challoner, however, he had no intention of not performing.
The audience, happy to be seated in a comfortable, heated room instead of shivering at the doorway, seemed to enjoy the concert. The gentlemen certainly enjoyed ogling Miss Challoner, who wore a low cut gown of burgundy velvet that displayed her charms to great advantage, and both ladies and gentlemen enjoyed Prance’s bravura performance with baton. “A regular little acrobat,” one gentleman described his writhings and squirmings. “Just the way Rover wiggles when the fleas get at him.”
When the concert was finished, bows taken and compliments duly received, Prance was told of the need of a dummy. In good curl from the success of his concert, he said merrily, “No rest for the wicked.”
“Can I help?” Corinne asked.
“Not necessary. My man, Villier, will be my assistant.”
The two of them immediately set to work, while the others went back to the baronial hall for the dancing.
Although the musicians played only country dances, the one dance Black felt capable of performing without disgracing himself, he did not achieve his aim of standing up with Lady deCoventry. She stood up first with her fiancé, then with a neighbour, next Pattle and for the last sets, with two country squires whom Luten was trying to coerce to join the Whigs. But Black had the pleasure of watching her, and imagining.
Prance sent Villier to the attic for a lady’s dress form he had seen there, which they used as the base for the dummy. The head was contrived from a porcelain wig stand tied to the dress form, covered with one of his own linen cravats. They even drew eyes, nose and mouth on the linen. With a hat on the wig form, a great coat down nearly to the floor and two umbrellas attached to the dress form as legs, they had only to pull a pair of trousers over the umbrellas, stick an old pair of topboots on the ends and the thing was done. They stuffed the arms of the great coat with towels and pillow cases and pinned one arm to the coat front, the other tucked into the coat pocket. To make sure the wind had something to blow about, they tied a long muffler around the dummy’s neck.
The guests took an early departure due to the snowfall. Miss Challoner left with the M.P., to save Prance the trouble of driving her home the next day and Mrs. Ballard went to bed. By eleven-thirty the last carriage had driven off, and the dummy was carried out to the cloister, where it was placed between two columns for easier viewing. Coffen, Black and Luten took up their positions behind the pillars. Byron and Prance waited farther away, to catch the villain as he fled. They hid beyond the cloister, where nature had been allowed to run riot. Trees, interspersed with bushes, grew freely. They all listened, ears and pistols cocked, for the first sound of approach — a rustle of branches, the clop of hooves, the jingle of a harness. Richardson would surely be riding, as Redley Hall was too far away to walk.
Byron was the first to hear a sound, not of a horse or harness, but soft footsteps, cautiously advancing. He peered into the darkness and saw through the intervening bushes, what appeared to be the Black Monk. It was a spine-tingling sight, even though he knew it wasn’t a real ghost. The man — or woman — was all in black, with some shawl-like thing over his head and wearing what looked like a black cassock . He moved like a shadow from tree to tree, drawing ever closer to the cloister. Byron let the man get four or five yards ahead of him, then began cautiously following, with his gun raised and cocked. At the edge of the wilderness his quarry stopped and stared into the cloister a moment. Byron also looked, to see if the dummy looked enough like Black to fool anyone.
It was of more or less the right size and shape, and the curtain of snow concealed any crudity of construction. It was the stillness of the dummy that gave him pause. No one would stand so still for so long in such cold, windy weather. Only the muffler moved, when caught by a breeze. No shot shattered the silence. It wasn’t going to work. Should he charge and capture the man now, before he took flight?
He didn’t see the stuffed arm of the dummy move, but the watcher saw it and raised the hand holding the pistol. The pin Prance had used to hold the arm to the chest had given way and the sleeve fell. The next instant a shot rang out. Byron watched in bewilderment as the person he had been watching emitted a howl of pain, stumbled and fell to the ground.
Prance, on the other side of the little wilderness, hadn’t heard anyone approach. His first awareness was a shadow moving to his right. He stared through the eddying, swirling snow and ascertained that the shadow had very much the size and shape of Sir William. It was hard to be frightened of that lamb. His heart hardly raced as he quietly followed behind as the man inched toward the cloister.
Strangely, he didn’t seem to be looking at the cloister, but to his right, through the bushes. Following the line of his gaze, Prance espied another intruder. Both of the Richardsons had come! Now his heart was racing. This was going to be more difficult than they had envisaged.
His orders were to not shoot until the other man had fired at the dummy, and even then he was not to shoot to kill, but only to aim at an arm or leg. Prance was no prime shot like the others. He abhorred the notion of shooting innocent wild creatures. Even the noise and smell of Manton’s Shooting Gallery gave him the megrims. He had occasionally shot at bottles for practice in his youth, but that was a decade ago. Any shot that left his pistol was as likely to kill as to miss entirely. Perhaps if he got closer, much closer.
He crept forward more hastily, but it was soon apparent that his prey was not even looking at the cloister. He was watching someone else. Had he spotted Byron! Oh dear, he couldn’t let the villain shoot Byron. Even as the realization dawned, the shot rang out. He rushed forward pell-mell toward the sound of the shots and saw, to his infinite relief, Lord Byron not only alive but wrestling most capably with Sir William.
“Don’t let him get away!” Byron called, and rushed off toward the near edge of the wilderness, leaving Prance to guard the prisoner. Not sixty seconds later, Prance heard Byron shout, “Here, Luten! This way.”
Prance’s moment of terror at being left alone with a murderer was short-lived. He could see at a glance that Sir William was not going to be any trouble. His pistol dangled from his fingers as he stood with his head on his chest, sobbing. “I didn’t want to do it,” he said. “I never wanted to do it.”
Prance felt a nearly irresistible urge to pat his shoulder and say, “There, there.” Before he gave in to the urge, Luten, Pattle and Black came pelting from the cloister, shouting. They joined Byron first, engaged in some excited talk, then the four of them joined Prance.
Sir William looked up and asked, “Is she dead?”
Luten nodded. “We’ll take her inside. You come along, Sir William.”
“Let me take her,” Sir William said.
The next moments rivaled anything Prance had contrived in the way of ghoulishness for his gothic novel. The grieving husband, with tears running down his cheeks, plodding through the swirling snow bearing the corpse of the wife he had shot, both of them swathed in black from head to toe, with a bodyguard of confused gentlemen and a butler exchanging mournful, questioning glances.
* * *
Chapter 29
They placed the mortal remains of Lady Richardson on a table in the small room arranged for the meeting. The shot had gone through her heart. Her handsome face with the proud Redley nose pointed at the ceiling was unmarred. She appeared, almost, to be smiling. Luten closed the staring eyes and covered her face. Sir William was led to the salon, placed in a chair before the grate, and a glass of brandy was put into his trembling fingers. He took a few sips, shuddered, and turned his hound dog eyes to the waiting group.
“You’ll be wondering why I killed her, who I loved better than life itself,” he said in a soft, faraway voice, as if trying to come to terms with the horror of it himself. “I hardly know where to begin. Did you discover our secret, that we were never married? It all began with Helen, my real wife. She was simple. It wasn’t noticeable at first. She was young, and I took her behavior for the foibles of youth. It was when she miscarried our child that her condition could no longer be ignored. After we sold the plantation, I brought her to London to consult a specialist. Nessie came with us to look after her, of course. She was Helen’s companion. Nanny, to use the proper word. They were half-sisters, you see. Nessie was illegitimate. I always felt sorry for her. Her papa, Jacob Redley, was a hard man. The family didn’t treat her well at all. She was just an unpaid servant.
“Well, I did consult Sir Jeremy Ferran. He’s considered the top expert in cases like Helen’s. He gave me no hope, no hope at all, for her recovery. The estate, Redley Hall, and the income are entailed. Helen was the last of the bloodline. If she died childless, I would have the use of it during my own lifetime, but my children couldn’t inherit it. It would revert to the crown on her death. It was Jacob’s way of deterring fortune hunters. And there was no hope of Helen having a child in her condition. Even if she did, it might well turn out to have her weakness of mind.”
He looked around at his listeners, saw various degrees of sympathy, and drew another deep sigh. “The next part of this sad tale does no credit to anyone, least of all myself. Nessie and I became — lovers. We were both so very lonesome and feeling helpless, you see. The outcome was just what you might expect. She became enceinte. We learned it on the journey from Jamaica. It was Nessie who first gave voice to the idea, but I own it had occurred to me as well. Let her have the child and claim she was my wife. Helen would never know the difference. The estate would be safe. As we were making arrangements for our trip home to Redley Hall, folks naturally assumed that Nessie was Lady Richardson. She borrowed one of Helen’s nicer pelisses to cover her plain gown. Nessie reveled in the role, and I own I enjoyed having a “wife” who was not mad. We might have fooled everyone here that it was so, but then what were we to do with Helen? How could we explain her? Her condition was deteriorating rapidly. It seemed the kindest thing to put her out of her misery.”
That is when Sir William lost the sympathy of his audience, but no one interrupted him. It was an evil plan, a rationalization, but not beyond human comprehension. He continued, “We had to make up our minds on the spur of the moment. We arrived at Redley Hall earlier than expected, around midnight, and Nessie put Helen to bed. We had hired the carriage and driver, who returned to London. None of the servants were at the house. No one in the neighborhood knew us, never so much as seen any of us. ‘If we’re ever going to do it,’ Nessie said, ‘let us do it now, while she sleeps, before anyone sees her. I gave her a dose of laudanum. She’ll never know.’“
“Which of you pulled the trigger?” Luten asked in a voice like iron.
“Both of us. It was a pact. One of us missed. We don’t know to this day which of us killed her, but in our hearts, we were both guilty of murder. Then there was the problem of disposing of--of the remains. We thought it best not to bury her on the estate. Nessie, who knew all the history of the Hall, suggested Byron’s island as an isolated spot. She thought it a good idea to undress her, in case she was ever found, as she was. We removed her clothing and wedding ring and wrapped her in a sheet. It was a wretched job, bringing the body here. We had no horses, we put her in a wagon and drew it ourselves down the road in the dark of night. Then we rowed it to the island. No one saw us. It was the middle of the night, and cold. We dug the grave and went back home, exhausted. We were covered in mud and there was blood on our hands. We had to burn our clothes.”
During his ghastly tale he had grown pale, as he relived in memory that awful night. He no longer met his listeners’ eyes, but spoke into the grate. He stopped and fortified himself with a sip of brandy before proceeding. The only sound in the room was the soft shifting of the logs in the grate.
“The next spring I planted flowers over the grave, but they died. It was as if--like a judgment. You’ve no idea how it has weighed on my conscience.” He shook his head, as if relieved to finally let it all out. After a moment he drew yet another deep sigh and continued his tale.
“No one questioned us. Nessie was accepted as Lady Richardson. Our child was a son, Willie. All seemed smooth sailing. And then one day Vulch turned up at the door. He had been to our rooms at the hotel in London, asking for work. He failed to mention that he was from this part of the country. Well, one look at him told me he wasn’t the sort of person I wanted about the Hall. I turned him off pretty roughly. Helen came into the room, carrying a doll in her arms.
“Vulch, the brute, took one look at her and said, ‘Is this your little girl? Pity she’s simple.’ ‘She is my wife,’ I said, angered at his tone. Those four words were my undoing. Nessie cam
e in and led Helen away, as she began crying at the very sight of Vulch. When he returned to Nottingham, he soon learned that the lady calling herself Lady Richardson wasn’t the one I called my wife in London, and since Helen was nowhere around, he must have wondered where she was. He came to me, demanding work. My bailiff, he suggested, would suit him. I wouldn’t have the creature about the place, but I had to pay to keep him quiet.
“When Helen’s body was discovered on the island he soon figured out what we had done and his demands rose to ridiculous heights. Nessie feared there might be letters in your library, Byron, revealing something about Helen — her appearance and so on. She went there to search, but she found nothing. Vulch’s next demand was that we bring money to his house. It was the night of the parish council meeting. I had to agree to it. Nessie met me on the road after the meeting and we went together. We went in and I had a drink with him, trying to talk him into reason. ‘Twas Nessie who shot him, but with my foreknowledge that she meant to. I hadn’t the fortitude for it, but I did haul his body here and hide it in your forest, Lord Byron, for which I am truly sorry. We felt no one would look our way if the body was found on your land.
“Then no sooner had we got rid of him than Minnie turned up. I had had enough of murder. We didn’t know for sure Vulch had told her about Helen, for she had left him before we arrived here, but having gone that far, Nessie —" He stopped and shook his head. “It was because of Willie, you see. If he were proved illegitimate, he wouldn’t inherit Redley Hall. And as Nessie said, they had a right to it. Redley blood flows in their veins.
“But I was weak. I fear I simply drank myself into a stupor that night. While I slept, Nessie paid a visit to Minnie. She walked all the way, so that the stable boys wouldn’t know she was out. As it was only a woman, Nessie didn’t fear to tackle her alone. She would claim it was just a visit to welcome Minnie back. She took a bottle of laudanum with her. We had heard Minnie liked her gin, and it seems she had already had a few glasses when Nessie arrived. When Minnie went to the kitchen to get another glass, Nessie slipped the laudanum into the bottle, and was careful not to drink more than a sip herself. Well, you know the result. And to this day I still don’t know if Vulch had told his wife what he was up to.”
