Murder at Newstead Abbey (17 page)

Eggars rose to welcome him. When the visitor turned around, Byron was astonished to see he was Vulch. As Vulch had removed his hat and sat quite at his ease, Byron assumed he was not under arrest.

Vulch didn’t rise. He was always at pains to show his disrespect of the ‘ristocrats. He did nod in recognition, however. “G’day, melord. Come to lay a charge, have you?” he asked, in a taunting voice, his spiteful smile in place. He didn’t wait for a reply, but said, “You’ll be happy to hear the girl found on your island’s been identified. I was just giving Eggars here the perticulars.”

“Nessie Landers, I hear,” Byron said, directing a look at Eggars.

“They’re wrong. ‘Twas my wife,” Vulch replied, with an air almost of triumph.

Byron directed a long, hard stare at Vulch. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Anger flashed in Vulch’s eyes. “I seen the remains, didn’t I? It were Minnie right enough. I mind now ‘twas about the time she disappeared that the gypsies were camping in the forest. One of ‘em was hanging about the place, fixing pots and what not. Minnie took a liking to him and run off with him. Or he stole her,” he added, still in the same unemotional voice. “Then when she tried to come running back to me, he shot her.”

“It didn’t look like a gypsy death,” Byron said. “They don’t use guns as a rule, but knives.”

“Oh yeah, they got guns now. One of ‘em took a shot at me oncet. We had words over him pestering a girl. Who else would steal the clothes off Minnie’s back?” As he spoke, he held his hat in his two hands, rotating it nervously between his fingers.

“Richardson felt quite sure it was his wife’s maid,” Byron said. “The body looked too small, and the hair too light to be your wife’s.”

“Who’d know her body better, me or you?” Vulch demanded with a challenging stare. “She lost weight there at the end, pore girl.”

“You don’t seem very upset,” Byron said, scrutinizing the ugly, brazen face. The green eyes didn’t blink and the smile was creeping back, but the hat kept twirling in his fingers to reveal his nervousness. What was there to be nervous about — unless he was lying?

Vulch sniffed. “Why should I be? She run off on me, didn’t she? Mind you, I don’t say I didn’t give her cause. I wish now I’d been nicer to her and she might be alive today. I feel bad about that. Anyhow it’s her, right enough. The missing tooth proves it. Minnie had a molar tooth drawn a few years back, same as the corpse. And plus I told Eggars here so before I seen the body, so you needn’t think I’m fudging. It’s Minnie right enough. I want her buried proper and I don’t care what it costs. No pauper’s funeral for my wife.”

This seemed to settle the matter. Unsure what comment to make when the widower showed such scanty signs of grief, Byron said, “I’m sorry to hear it was your wife, Vulch.”

Vulch rose to his full six feet, the smile transmogrified to a stoical grimace as he said, “That’s the way it goes. I’ve lost her for good.” Then he put on his hat and swaggered out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Byron looked a question at Eggars and said, “The body was wrapped in a sheet. Have you ever heard of gypsies using bed sheets?”

“I’ve never been inside a gypsy caravan,” he said in his tired, sad way. “I’ve no idea what they sleep on, but they’ve been known to snatch sheets left out to dry. ‘Twas only a cotton sheet, not linen. He did tell me about the tooth before he saw the body. No one had mentioned it. The coroner certainly wouldn’t have given out the information. I asked him not to reveal any details. No, it seems it’s his wife right enough, but I have some doubts the gypsies had anything to do with it.”

“He might have done it himself,” Byron suggested, looking at Eggars. “He was here at the time. He only left for London after Minnie disappeared. Or was murdered.”

“He did beat her, and of course that bit about wishing he’d been kinder to her was mere window dressing, but I don’t think he killed her, and I’ll tell you why. Why would he pitch himself into the middle of all this if he’s guilty? No one thought the corpse was Minnie.”

“It seemed to me several people thought it,” Byron objected.

“Well, we didn’t
know
it. I thought it was a stranger till the Richardsons claimed it was their Nessie. Then Vulch came to me last night and said he had ‘got to wondering and feeling bad,’ and wanted to see the body. That’s when he told me about the tooth. I daresay it’s possible that guilt has got the better of him and he feels badly.”

Byron gave a snort. “Guilt get the better of that yahoo? You obviously don’t know Vulch very well. He’d kill his mother without batting an eye. I hadn’t noticed the missing tooth when we uncovered the body. It must have been at the back of her mouth.”

“It was, upper back left, just as he told me. No, it must be Minnie, but we still haven’t a line on her murderer. Have you folks at the abbey come up with any ideas?” he asked hopefully.

“No, I’m here on a different matter. Another unwelcome, uninvited, uncivil guest,” he said, and told Eggars about the break-in at the abbey, and the tossing about of the family archives.”

After a rash of “Dear me!” and “What is the world coming to!” Eggars settled down and asked, “Was anything taken?”

“You might as well ask me if a snow flake is missing from a snow storm. I shan’t know what, if anything, was taken until the whole lot’s been gone through. And even then, I won’t really know. I’ve never examined the papers. I’ve no firm idea what’s there. But Pattle said the ‘ghost’ was carrying something away in a sack.”

“I’ll go out and take a look around,” Eggers said, obviously at a loss. “Something might occur to me. You don’t have any idea at all yourself, milord?”

“The only sensible suggestion that’s been put forth — and I’m not sure it’s sensible either — is that someone was trying to discover where the legendary buried treasure is located.”

Eggars considered this a moment but seemed dissatisfied. “Why do it when you’re in residence when you’re away ten months out of twelve? Unless there’s a reason to rush into it? Is that why you’re here yourself, milord, to look for the buried treasure?”

“No, no, it’s just a quiet visit with a few friends,” he said with a weary air. “Or it was supposed to be. I mean to mount a guard outside in future.”

“That might be best. You can hardly lay a charge until we’ve found the culprit. I wonder now if this has anything to do with that shot that was fired at you t’other day? Someone with a grudge against you. There was the broken window as well.”

“How did you hear of that? I didn’t bother to report it.”

“I’ve been nosing around Nottingham. I heard of it at the tavern. It does look like someone has taken against you, milord. It might be safer for you if you went back to London until this matter is cleared up.”

Byron didn’t think there was much chance of its being cleared up if he wasn’t there to keep prodding Eggars. After a little more talk, he left to arrange for hiring the musicians. His butler, Joe Murray, had recommended the Hoskin boys, six brothers who ran Hoskins’ Hostelry by day. They were all six musicians. They took turns, four at a time, of supplying music at private parties.

While Byron attended to his errands and Luten rushed through Whig business with his associates, Prance and Corinne went to the drapery shop to select the linen for the choir robes. There were eight robes to be run up in a simple design, with lavish folds of the finest white linen falling from a straight bib top, the sleeves long and also full. He figured on four ells per member. With eight robes to be made, this meant thirty-two ells.

“That will be very dear!” Corinne warned, when she heard what he had in mind.

“It’s customary to give one’s host a gift on parting,” Prance explained. “The robes will be my gift. And by the by, what are you and Luten giving him?” He didn’t want to be outshone by Luten.

“Luten bought some rare old manuscript of Alexander Pope’s in London. Byron quite dotes on Pope. The manuscript is from both of us, though Luten paid most of the money.”

“Ah, an excellent choice!” Prance wished he had thought of it himself. What could be more appropriate from one poet to another than a work of poetry? And, though one wouldn’t think it, Byron was particularly fond of Pope. He asked to have the linen sent to Mrs. Addams, and went from the drapery shop to the modiste to deliver the sketch of the robes he wished to have made.

Mrs. Addams was tending to one customer and had another waiting, which he took as a good sign of her ability. When she finished with the first customer, she said a word to the other and tended to Corinne and Sir Reginald. The other woman didn’t appear to take offence. She sat listening with wide eyes, as if she were at the theater, while Corinne introduced Prance.

“I hope the shawls were to your satisfaction, milady?” the modiste asked with a worried look.

“Oh, more than satisfactory, Mrs. Addams. Very fine stitching.”

“I was surprised to see Lady Richardson pick them up for you.”

“She kindly offered, to save me a trip.”

“So she said. She was stopping by in any case to collect her new riding habit.”

Corinne blinked in surprise and looked at Prance, whose eyebrows had risen an inch. “I see you’re kept busy,” she said.

“I am, and no mistake. The Christmas assembly — the ladies all want a bit of new finery for that. And what can I do for you, milady?” Prance stepped forward to make the request, in great detail as to the fullness of the robes and the time constraint.

“Oh dear!” She said, clapping her palms against her cheeks. “Eight robes! I doubt I can have them ready before Christmas. Really, it’s a great deal of work.”

“But the sewing is simple,” he said persuasively. “Just straight lines. I could arrange a little bonus ... Do you have anyone who could help you, with your keen eye watching over them?”

She pinched her chin to aid thinking. “I daresay my sister would welcome the money. I wouldn’t trust her with setting in a sleeve, but for a straight seam she’s well enough. And there’s Miss Challoner, who sets a dainty stitch. She can always use a little extra money. She makes do with giving lessons on the pianoforte, but the other folks in the house don’t like the racket.” She firmed her shoulders and said, pink in cheek at her daring in accepting the chore, “Yes, I think I can promise you the robes by the twenty-third.”

Prance grabbed her two hands and squeezed them. “You’re an angel! And I am a the most selfish beast in Christendom to place such a burden on you.”

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Addams, who was not used to such superlatives. She blushed pink as a peony and darted a quick, proud glance to her other waiting customer, who looked as if she wanted to clap.

Prance and Corinne left. “That’s odd,” she said, as they went out to the High Street.

“You’re referring to Lady Richardson having a riding habit made up there.”

“She said she never uses Mrs. Addams. A riding habit is a very complicated thing, Reg. You don’t ask just anyone to make a riding habit. You choose the best modiste you can find.”

“She wanted to give you the notion she has a more stylish modiste. She mentioned that the woman in Mansfield is French,
n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes, she called her Madame something.”

“And I seem to recall she asked you if your modiste in London was French. Her aim was to let you know she was every bit as stylish as you.
C’est tout. “

“Yes, I expect that’s it, though actually riding habits are one area where the English modistes excel. Many French ladies send to London to have theirs made.”

He gave a dismissing smile. “You could hardly expect a provincial to know that.”

They continued on to examine the wares in a few more shops before going to the Flying Horse. Prance adored shopping nearly as much as Corinne did. In an antique shop he found an etching of a dog gnawing on a bone which he was convinced could only be the work of Dürer and bought it, to have transported to his country estate. The subject matter didn’t go with the dainty Watteaus and Fragonards in his London home.

Before it seemed possible it was twelve o’clock, and they hurried on to the Flying Horse.

The tantalizing aroma of roast beef and freshly baked bread wafted toward them as they entered the Flying Horse. The proprietor, recognizing Byron’s guests by their style, rushed forward to personally escort them through the busy entrance hall to the parlor where Byron was waiting for them. It was an unpretentious room, paneled in dark wood, with a window on to the bustling street beyond. The snapping logs in the grate cast a warm glow that was welcome after the raw wind of a December morning. Byron had ordered wine and was sipping a glass while waiting for them. He rose to welcome them and help Corinne with her pelisse.

“Did you hire the musicians?” was Prance’s first question.

“Yes, it’s all arranged. A cello, piano player and two fiddles. Don’t expect waltzes or minuets or actually carrying a tune from them. They favor lively country airs, scraped out with more enthusiasm than talent. You got the linen you were after?”

“We did, and have already arranged with the modiste to run the robes up.”

“I hope you’re having the bill sent to me.”

Prance just smiled. “What had Eggars to say?”

“He’s coming out to the abbey to have a look about, not that it will do any good. But the strangest thing, Prance, Vulch was there.”

“Vulch!” Prance cried, just as Corinne asked, “That’s odd. Was he arrested?”

“No, you haven’t heard the cream of it. It gets odder,” Byron said.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter and before he left, Luten came hurrying in. He was happy to see Byron hadn’t contrived to get Corinne to himself. “Just in time, I see. A beefsteak for me,” he said to the waiter.

Byron asked for the same, Corinne ordered roast chicken and after much discussion Prance felt he could manage a little broth, and peck at a small chicken leg. He wondered if he dare ask for the left leg, as Brummell used to do, claiming it was used less for scratching, and was therefore more tender. But he was afraid of being laughed at and didn’t specify which leg.

“Did I hear the name Vulch as I came in?” Luten asked, taking a seat and accepting a glass of wine. “Has Eggars caught the culprit who vandalized your archives last night, Byron?”