Murder at Newstead Abbey (26 page)

“It was a liver-shaped embroidered bag,” Black said. “Plus she carried a bandbox with her.” They made a hasty search and found the reticule in the kitchen, where Minnie had gone to fetch a glass for her gin. There was a bottle of laudanum in the reticule, unopened and filled to the top. No other bottle or packet was found. Common sense told them that if she had wanted laudanum, she would surely have used her own bottle.

“So her caller brought it,” Coffen said. “Wonder if he left any clues.”

“Her bandbox is in the bedroom. I had a look around whilst I was waiting,” Black said, and went into the bedroom to show him. He noticed that Byron followed closely after them. The bandbox lay open on the unmade bed, with the contents strewn over the blankets. “It was already emptied like that when I saw it.” A gaudy array of silk scarf in peacock blue, a few handkerchiefs, underclothing, gloves with the fingertips worn and smudged, an assortment of ribbons, combs and cheap brooches, cream, rouge, powder, scent, and various toiletries necessary to keep her in looks lay jumbled together in a pathetic heap.

Byron looked at the sad, tawdry remnants of the woman’s life and felt a pang of sorrow for her, and anger at whoever had done this to her. “The bastard,” he growled.

Black said, “If there was anything of importance here, it’s long gone. My own feeling is that Minnie wouldn’t have emptied her bag in this careless way. She hadn’t much to work with, but she was tidy about her little place in London. It’s a smallish bandbox, as you can see. I don’t know what could have been in it to take, other than p’raps a letter. She had no money.”

Coffen began pawing through the objects. It was Black who noticed the tip of a piece of paper protruding beneath the peacock scarf, and reached for it. Byron’s hand reached out, then withdrew as Black clamped his fingers on the torn fragment of paper. It was about six inches wide and hardly an inch in length, torn off at an angle. It was the beginning of an undated letter.

He read, with Byron leaning over his shoulder, “Minnie: I can’t send you anything right away. Money’s tight, but if the plan I have in mind for Byron’s island —" That’s all that could be read. The paper was neatly torn away at the word “island”. Black lifted his eyes to Byron, who stood staring at the paper, with his jaw clenched.

“What plan for my island, I wonder?,” Byron said. “There’s nothing there but the fort.”

“You’ve no idea yourself what it means?” Black prodded. “What I’m thinking, there was a body found buried there recently.”

Byron’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils quivered, and his whole body stiffened. “I resent the implication, Black,” he said, and snatched the scrap of paper, which he crumpled in his hand and strode from the room, while Coffen, who had been listening, searched for the remains of the letter amidst the jumble on the bed, then followed him, lest he destroy the bit of letter.

Black stayed behind a moment, his mind scampering to figure out the importance of that scrap of letter. It was well worn and yellowing. It must be one Minnie had received before the one she had showed him. She claimed to have no notion what Vulch’s latest plan to make money was, and he believed her. He felt, however, that Byron knew all about that plan for his island. Was that why there was no love lost between him and Vulch?

When Black returned to the parlor, Byron shot him a warning glare. “We’d like someone to stay here until Eggars arrives,” Byron said. “Pattle will certainly want to stay. We thought you might stay with him, Black, as Eggars will want to speak to you about Minnie and what she told you. I have something private I’d like to discuss with Luten.”

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.

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.