Murder at Newstead Abbey (16 page)

“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.”

“A nuisance. I feel somehow as if it were all my fault,” Prance said, with an air of apology.

Byron patted him on the shoulder. A pleasurable warmth surged through Prance at the intimacy. “It’s nothing to do with you, Prance. I’m just glad you weren’t here when the wretch came, or he’d have knocked you on the head. That’s all I need to make this the perfect party, someone assaulting my guests. Let us leave this depressing chaos.”

No one was surprised when Coffen said, “I’ll stay a while and have a look about for clues.” To everyone’s surprise, not least his own, he found one. The earth beyond the window, perhaps warmed by seepage from the heat of the library, was damp, and the invader had been in a hurry. He had left a footmark on one of the papers scattered on the floor. A small footprint. So small he thought Corinne might have left it that morning.

He sought her out and beckoned her into the room. “Let’s see your slippers,” he said.

“What for?”

“Just lift your foot.” She lifted her kid slipper, which showed no sign of earth. “You don’t wear these outdoors?”

“In this weather? No, of course not.”

“Take a look at this,” he said, and showed her the sheet with the footprint on it.

“It’s very small,” she said. “You think it was a woman who was here?”

“This don’t look like a man’s footprint. Certainly not Vulch’s, which is who I’ve been suspecting. He has feet the size of mackerels. Bigger.”

“Who could it be? I wonder if some lady was writing mash notes to Byron and wanted to get them back.”

“Romantic shenanigans leap to mind, of course, with Byron, but why would she be rooting in these old boxes? They’re from the last century, when Byron was only a lad. What was he at the time, ten or less? For the same reason, I don’t think it has anything to do with the body found on the island. The letters are too old, I mean.”

“You’re right. It can’t be that. Maybe it was some lady who wrote to his uncle.”

“Why would she care now, when the uncle is long dead? She must be ancient herself, if she’s still alive.”

“Do you think that’s who our ghost was last night, Coffen? Just an ordinary intruder wearing a black mask?”

“I hate to say so, but it looks like it. It was small enough to be a woman. She got away with something in that bag all right. I wonder if she got what she was after. I’m going out and have a look outside. More footprints, or maybe with luck she dropped a glove.”

Corinne got her shawl and joined him. There was no glove, nor could they distinguish footprints in the cold earth. But enough had clung to her shoes to leave that one print inside. Coffen found a pair of scissors, took up the soiled sheet of paper and cut out the pattern while the mark was still visible, for the earth had dried and was beginning to flake off.

“That letter might be valuable. You shouldn’t have destroyed it,” Corinne said.

“I’ll keep the two pieces and he can glue them back together after. I want to see who has a foot this size. Put yours down and let me see how it fits.” A rim of paper about a quarter of an inch protruded beyond the sole of her shoe on all sides. “A little bigger than your foot,” he said.

“I’ll tell you who was interested in those files is Lady Richardson,” Corinne said.

“Does she have big feet?”

“I didn’t notice, but she’s asked about those letters twice, and even went into the library once. She might have wanted to find out exactly where the library is, and if it could be got at from outside.”

“She just wants something to put in that book her husband’s writing. She wouldn’t have drawn attention to it if she’d been planning to steal them. Byron said she could have them, for that matter. No, I fancy it’s something to do with the busted window and Fletcher’s visit to Vulch. I’m going to follow the route the ghost took last night — from here to the cloister, and off into the park.”

Corinne went reluctantly to give an hour’s practice to the Christmas carols.

When Corinne returned to the salon the latest journals had arrived and the gentlemen were seated around the grate, catching up on the news. While Luten read with dismay of Napoleon consolidating his grip on power in Paris after his disastrous Russian failure, Prance scanned the social columns and was happy to see their visit to Newstead rated a few lines. Byron, glancing over the local journal, read that the musicians he had planned to hire were performing at an assembly in Mansfield on the night of his party.

He had best get hold of that other group in Nottingham or his party, like the rest of the visit, would be a disaster. He decided to do it that day, even before he reported the vandalism to Eggars. Prance immediately volunteered to accompany him. He was always eager to involve himself in anything of an artistic nature.

Luten was also going to Nottingham, but in his own carriage as he was uncertain how long his business might take him. He wanted to meet with some Whig party faithfuls. They always worked more eagerly and dug more deeply into their pockets if they occasionally met with the leaders of the party to air their concerns and hear praise of their efforts.

“Come with us, Corrie,” Prance said. “You can help me select the linen for the choir gowns while we’re there. You know that modiste who made your shawl — she can run them up for us.”

She agreed at once as this sounded infinitely more amusing than practicing the pianoforte. Indeed washing dishes or scrubbing floors would be more amusing. She had never taken music lessons until she married Lord deCoventry, and did so then only under duress. She played by ear, had a good singing voice and was famous for her light feet on the dance floor, but Prance would not allow her to rely on “chording” to accompany his choir. He wanted “a minor chord for its lovely elegiac effect in this passage”, “a flatted fifth just here,” and other musical mysteries beyond her ken.

Luten foresaw that his fiancée would be spending the morning and perhaps half the afternoon in Byron’s company. He more or less trusted them, but with the mischievous Prance along, there was no saying what might develop.

“Why don’t we meet for lunch?” he suggested.

“Won’t you be treating the faithful party workers to lunch?” Prance asked, with a knowing smirk.

“As we’re getting such an early start, we may be finished with our business by then.”

Byron, careful not to glance within a right angle of Corinne, said, “Why don’t we agree on a spot, and if you’re available, you join us, Luten? If not, we’ll meet back here later.”

They arranged to meet at the Flying Horse, an unpretentious old hotel with a reputation for good food. Corinne suggested they invite Coffen along, or he’d be left alone. But when she ran him to ground at the cloister walk, he said he’d give it a pass, thankee very much.

Luten had the pleasure of his lady’s company for the trip to Nottingham, and Prance the pleasure of Byron’s in a separate carriage. Prance was in his element, smiling through the window as a few mounted riders, pedestrians, a farmer driving a dung wagon and a country buck driving a curricle turned to watch the two elegant crested carriages bowling along the road.

Though the scenery was not spectacularly beautiful, the trip was enlivened by a few handsome private estates and busy hamlets, forests and fertile dales. The clean, fresh air of the country was always welcome after London’s perpetual smoke and fog. The weather was unsettled. Long, gray clouds loomed ominously overhead, with intermittent bursts of brilliant sunshine that turned the forests into a patched quilt in shades of green, gold and brown.

Nottingham was a busy industrial city built on a rocky hill that sloped down to the River Trent. Like Bath, the city would provide poor riding and hard walking with all those hills. They had arranged to meet and stable the carriages at the Flying Horse for convenience’s sake.

“You wouldn’t know it to look about, but you’re standing in the very middle of England,” Byron said, as they regrouped outside the hotel.

“The Civil War also began here,
n’est-ce pas?”
said Prance. “I seem to recall the royal standard was unfurled at Nottingham.”

“Just so, with my ancestors in the thick of it,” Byron said. “A Lord Byron led a cavalry regiment against the Roundheads. I come from a long line of hotheads. According to the records, the Lord Byron in question distinguished himself by outstanding bravery, matched only by stupidity in leading the charge prematurely at Edgehill and Marston Moor. Prince Rupert reported at the time that ‘by the improper charge of Lord Byron, much harm was done.’ "

Prance said consolingly, “That’s water over the bridge now, as Pattle would say. I had an uncle hung for stealing a horse in the sixteenth century, and I daresay Luten could shock us with tales of his ancestors’ less than illustrious past, if he weren’t so shy. The sins of our ancestors don’t prevent us from demanding legal protection when we have been sinned against. Lay your charge, milord. It is every man’s duty to see that law and order are enforced. We shall meet you back here any time after noon.” He had intended to go along for the hiring of the musicians, but when he saw the rows of shops beckoning, he couldn’t resist them.

“I’ll arrange for a private parlor before I go. I do hope you can join us, Luten,” Byron said, and went into the hotel.

He was surprised to discover that he meant it. Byron knew his reputation had suffered after his flamboyant affair with Lady Caroline Lamb and was eager to restore it to dignity. He didn’t mind being considered a romantic threat, but when the tenacious lady’s shenanigans reduced the affair to farce, his pride felt the sting. Being accepted by Lord Luten and his friends would go a long way toward re-establishing him, and he was determined to keep the visit on an entirely proper footing. He also enjoyed the diversity of the group — Luten’s intelligence, political expertise and sterling character provided sensible conversation. Prance’s orations on artistic matters varied the talk. Pattle’s making fritters of the king’s English provided comic relief, and not least there was Corinne to keep them all from sinking into masculine coarseness. And of course her beauty was a feast for the eyes. He always felt better when there was a lady nearby. He quite forgot Mrs. Ballard, as people were inclined to do.

As Eggars’ office was close by, he decided to go there first and lay his complaint. It was a spartan, one-room affair on the High Street, set between the post office and a chemist’s shop. A much battered oak desk, a pair of hard-back chairs and a mismatched pair of cabinets provided its furnishings and a picture of the king, Farmer George, on the wall its decoration. One of the visitors’ chairs was occupied. Eggars was behind his desk, jotting down notes.