Murder at Newstead Abbey (12 page)

He came sauntering in a moment later, trying not to look guilty.

“Where have you been, Reggie? We’ve been looking all over for you. We’ve been attacked!”

“I heard all about it,” he said. “The maid told me. You weren’t hurt?”

“No, but where were you? You weren’t in your room and you weren’t in the library.”

“I was upstairs in a part of the house that hasn’t been fixed up yet. Looking for ghosts, for my novel, you know.”

“Did you find any?”

“Alas, no, but I
heard
things.”

“You probably heard the window breaking. It was loud enough to wake the dead.”

“No, it wasn’t that sort of sound. More otherworldly, an eerie sort of spectral moaning. Very likely it was only the wind. Which window did the rock come through?”

She pointed to the spot, now covered by the drawn curtain, and showed him the note. He read it and nodded. “Childish printing, but the spelling is correct. No simple country bumpkin would spell
consequences
without a
w.
I see the fame of the Berkeley Brigade has spread. Someone here doesn’t want us to discover the secret of the body found on the island. That makes it look like a local job.”

This was a welcome alternative to her lurid imaginings. “Do you really think we’re known this far afield?”

“Oh my dear Corrie! Our fame has spread well beyond London. Do you not recall Lady Richardson mentioned the Berkeley Brigade? The journals made a meal, in fact several feasts, of our case at Granmaison. And then when the Prince himself asked for our help — I daresay we’re known from Land’s End to John O’ Groats. Someone out there fears we will ferret out his identity and see him brought to justice. Well, in my mind, this goes a long way toward proving that Byron is innocent. Not that I ever thought otherwise!”

“I was wondering if it didn’t suggest just the opposite, Reg, that some girl
was
killed during that orgy. Oh not by Byron himself, but by one of his friends. I don’t think he would lie to cover his own crime, but he might do it for a good friend. Perhaps some excuse was made locally, that she’d run off with one of the guests or some such thing, and now when this body turned up, public opinion has turned against him.”

“I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” he scoffed. “That so-called orgy was just a bout of boyish pranks. He mentioned two skinny housemaids and a married woman. No, I believe I have hit on the solution. Someone is trying to drive the Berkeley Brigade away before we solve this mystery.”

She saw that Prance was still too enthralled with Byron to even consider that he might be involved. She would ask Coffen to find out from Tess if any local girl had disappeared around that time. In fact, they already knew Minnie Vulch had. Could she be the married woman? Was that why Vulch, if it was Vulch, had taken a shot at Byron?

While this was going forth at the Abbey, the other three gentlemen saddled up and rode north to Vulch’s cottage. In deference to his guests, Byron rode the lady’s mount, which was more than up to his weight. Each was glad of the others’ company. Passing alone through a desolate countryside at night awakens some primitive fear. On such a night, with a pale moon shining wanly on black trees that rustled in the wind, it was easy to understand how early man had found a need to invent gods to protect him. In the distance a fox barked.

“That’s Redley Hall ahead,” Byron said, as they approached it.

Luten peered through the darkness to get an idea of its size and shape. “An impressive heap,” he said. “What were Sir William’s circumstances before he married? Is he a local fellow?”

“From Northants, I believe. There’s some connection between the families. He’s the eldest son and inherited the baronetcy. He went to Jamaica to make his fortune when his own family fell on hard times. His papa went bankrupt and lost the family estate. This is local gossip. I don’t know how reliable it may. Lady Richardson will be happy to answer any questions, if you really care. I fancy she liked being called Lady Richardson and he, of course, was too sensible to let mere vulgarity stand in the way of a good marriage.”

“She’s not a bad looker either,” Coffen added.

“Yes, they seem satisfied with their respective bargains,” Byron agreed. “They treat each other with the usual conjugal disdain that we call a happy marriage.”

“We have to look sharp here,” Coffen said. “Vulch’s place is down a lane, next neighbor to the Redleys. Isn’t that a path going up behind that nest of trees? Aye, that’s it. See the house up ahead? You’ve got to peer around the trees. No light burning. Here we are. Here’s the road in.”

They followed Coffen’s lead up the lane, slowing to a walk to lessen the sound of the horses. When they confirmed that no windows were lit save by the reflected gleam of moonlight, they assumed Vulch was not at home. It was a small, square building of local stone with a sagging thatch roof, more than a shack but less than a proper cottage. Its height suggested one story and its size suggested two or three rooms. As there were only two outbuilding, one a chicken coop, they assumed the small stable shed behind the house, tilting perilously to the left, housed Diablo and his milcher.

“I wonder if he locked the door,” Coffen said. They dismounted, tethered their nags and went to the front door. “I’ll knock on the off chance that he’s home and asleep,” Coffen said, and applied three sharp knocks.

When there was no answer, he tried the door. The ill-fitting and peeling door was locked with a stout lock that would need more than a hasp knife to be pried open. They picked their way around to the back through a rubble of broken crockery and bottles, discarded bits of broken furniture and house garbage, to find the back door also locked with a stout lock. It didn’t seem likely there would be anything worth stealing inside. Strange that Vulch had such good locks.

“Any chance he left a window ajar, I wonder,” Coffen said, and began trying them.

Byron found a kitchen window that had been left open an inch to keep the jar of milk on the window ledge from going bad. He heaved it up, pushed the milk aside and called the others.

“One of us ought to go out front to keep an eye on the road, in case Vulch comes back,” Byron suggested. “I’d go but for my dragging foot. If he does return, the watcher will have to rush back and call through the window.”

Luten knew well enough that Coffen would insist on going inside and volunteered to stand watch. The window was close enough to the ground to allow Coffen and Byron to scrabble inside. Once in, it was clear Vulch had another reason to leave the kitchen window open. The place smelled like a pigsty. Coffen peered around and found a candle, and nearby a tinderbox. He lit the candle and beamed it all around at dim walls, a dusty and stained wooden floor, a table littered with dirty dishes, a sink similarly laden, food left out on a side table. The scamper of light feet suggested that mice or even rats were sharing Vulch’s meals.

“Good lord,” Byron said with disgust, “how can a man live like this? I wonder he hasn’t died of ptomaine poisoning.”

“I fancy he eats most of his meals at the inn,” Coffen said. “He’d not keep anything valuable here. Let’s find the bedroom.”

They passed through a narrow hallway into a parlor with one window covered by tightly drawn dark curtains. The floor had a scrap of carpet of some garish pattern, a horsehair sofa covered with discarded clothing, a desk, a few tables and chairs holding journals, gloves and assorted debris. A few embers glowed in the grate.

Byron found a lamp, lit it and went to the desk. He could hardly open the drawer for the welter of papers in it. He began sorting through them to discover a number of bills, paid and unpaid, IOU’s for small amounts signed by names he didn’t recognize. Probably from his partners at cards. There was only one letter, and it was on crested stationery bearing the motto, “Crede Biron.” Byron slid it into his pocket with a sigh of relief and continued searching. There were no other personal letters. Not one. If he was in correspondence with anyone, he didn’t keep the letters, or not in this desk at least. Byron went on to poke around the room, hardly knowing what he was looking for, until Coffen came to the doorway and called him in an excited voice.

He followed Coffen into the bedroom, stumbling over a pair of boots left in the middle of the floor. Nearly half the ill-smelling room was taken up by an unmade bed. A dresser with a tarnished mirror over it was the other major piece of furniture. On the dresser’s surface sat the items of Vulch’s toilette: a razor and shaving cup, a pitcher and a basin of dirty water, a comb, some hair oil, a bottle of Steake’s lavendar water and a used handkerchief.

“Over here,” Coffen said, bending down.

“What is it?”

“A chest, locked with a padlock. The key ain’t here, of course. Let’s have a look for it.” The chest was about eighteen inches long and half as wide and deep. It was of aged and cracking black leather with metal corners

They searched for the keys on the dresser, in the drawers, under the pillow without success. Byron returned to the parlor and made a thorough search, but found no sign of the key.

“Should we try to bust it open or take it with us?” Coffen asked, hoisting one end to see if it could be carried. He grunted and let the corner fall. Something inside it rattled. “Too heavy. We’d need a wagon.”

“If we take it he’ll know we’ve been here. Wait! What’s that?” Byron’s eye caught the glimmer of metal on the floor beneath the corner of the trunk. It had become displaced when he moved the trunk. He reached out and picked up a small key.

“That’ll be it,” Coffen said, seizing the key and inserting it in the padlock. He lifted the lid and emitted a strangled gasp. “Good God, he’s robbed a bank!” he exclaimed. He drove his two hands into a pile of twinkling gold coins and let them fall through his fingers. “Guineas,” he said. “There must be over a thousand guineas here. Now where the deuce did old Vulch get all this loot?”

“Is there anything else?” Byron asked. “Any jewelry that might have belonged to Nessie? A dress, perhaps, beneath the coins?”

They pushed the coins aside. The trunk was less than half full so that they could easily get to the bottom. But it held nothing except shiny golden guineas.

“We’d best clear out,” Byron said. They locked the trunk, slid the key back under it, looked around to see they’d left no trace of their invasion, returned the lamp and candle to their respective places, blew them out, and left, taking care to draw the window down behind them.

“All’s quiet here,” Luten said, when they joined him. “Any luck in the cottage?”

They told him what they’d found, with emphasis on the trunk as they retraced their route home, discussing how Vulch could have amassed such a horde of gold.

“I can’t believe he made all that at cards,” Luten said. “You said the IOU’s were all for small amounts, Byron?”

“Nothing larger than two or three pounds.”

 
“Didn’t you mention he’s a highwayman in his spare time?” Coffen offered.

“That would only be a few pounds from any card partner sharp enough to beat him.”

“If he was a regular highwayman, there’d be jewelry as well,” Luten said, “All those bright golden guineas look more like robbing a bank, or holding up a government caravan carrying money.”

“We would have heard about that,” Byron said. “I wager he’s come by it dishonestly, but I can’t see how.”

“He’s holding someone to ransom,” Luten said. This struck a chord with the others as they had recently been involved in such a case.

“Then the question is, who?” Coffen said.

They were met at the salon doorway by Lady deCoventry, who ran to Luten and pitched herself into his arms. “Thank goodness you’re home! We’ve been attacked, Luten!”

Prance found it impossible to decide whether he or Luten was more surprised by her unusual behavior. Corinne was not the die-away sort of lady to wilt at a rock thrown through a window. There was something in the air of Newstead that changed people. He felt it in himself. He would not have found Grace’s rusticity half so beguiling in London. Luten was not half so chummy with Byron in London either, and Byron was not so careful of his p’s and q’s. The only one of them who hadn’t changed was Coffen Pattle, and it would take divine intervention to change him.

“Attacked?” Byron cried, and turned a shade paler.

“Attacked? What do you mean? By whom, or what?” Luten demanded, holding Corinne at arm’s length and examining her for signs of ravaging. He found nothing more than a slight dishevelment, which only added to her charms. He put an arm around her shoulder and led her to the sofa.

“By rocks! Well, one rock. This one,” she said, and lifted it from the sofa to show him. “This note was wrapped around it. It came hurtling right through the window and nearly hit Mrs. Ballard. Your window is broken, Byron. Murray has patched it up but it will have to be re-glazed.”

Luten read the note and passed it to Byron, who examined it and gave a weary sigh before passing it to Coffen, who examined it minutely for clues .

“I can’t begin to tell you all how sorry I am,” Byron said. “I know apologies butter no parsnips, but I do heartily apologize. I had hoped we might have a peaceful, pleasant little party, and here you’re assaulted with dead bodies and bullets and menaced by pelted rocks. Are you all right, Corinne? You weren’t hurt by flying glass?”

“No, there was just the one rock. Have you any notion who could have done it?”

“The same fellow who took a shot at me yesterday? But as to whom
that
may be!” He threw up his hands. “No idea. I spend very little time here, as you know. Now if we were in London, I could name nine or ten or fifty possibilities.”

Prance paced about the room with his hands hooked behind his back and his head bent forward to aid thinking. He stopped at the grate, turned on his heel to face his audience and declared, “The dunces are in a confederacy against you, Byron. That must be the answer. The same group of malcontents who sent the vicar here to chide you are behind this childish trick of sticks and stones and calling names. The literacy of the note tells us it was no poacher. Pay it no heed. They will soon see we’re bent on nothing more mischievous than holding a polite Christmas party. Invite the vicar, that should do it. I daresay half his spleen is at not being included in the fun.”