Murder at Newstead Abbey (28 page)

“There never was any mystery about her nose,” Coffen replied. “It’s the Redley nose, plain as the nose on her face.”

“How it got there is the mystery I was referring to.”

“Where else would it be? Tarsome fellow,” Coffen muttered and turned away. “Now about this note. You’ll hardly want to ask them to meet you here, Black. Some quiet spot where they think you’re alone.”

Black shook his head imperiously. “Only a flat would make such an arrangement as that, Mr. Pattle. It’s asking for a bullet. A public place, that is where any crook worth his salt would arrange the meeting. And a quick, safe means of escape, if you want to make it look like a genuine piece of dirty work.”

“We must accede to your superior knowledge in these matters, Black,” Prance said, with a meaningful little smile that was half a smirk. “It almost sounds as if you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“I’ve been around a while longer than the rest of you, Sir Reginald,” Black replied, unfazed.

When Prance earlier mentioned the word, “party”, Black’s sharp mind had immediately set to work to figure how he could include himself amongst the guests. Perhaps even to dance with
her!
“Now what I was thinking, is that the do here tonight would be as good a place as any for them to hand over the blunt. If I get the note off to them early this morning, they should have time to raise the wind. We’ll make it a reasonable sum. Say five hundred pounds.”

“They already have the blunt,” Coffen said. “Stole it from Vulch when they poisoned Minnie.”

“Yes, but if the plan is for them to attempt to murder Black,” Corinne said, “a party is hardly the place they would try it.”

“An attempt to murder Black isn’t a vital part of the plan,” Luten said. “If they pay up, then they’re obviously guilty.”

“But will it stand up in court?” Byron asked.

“I’ll get them to acknowledge their guilt, and some of you folks will be hiding about to stand as witnesses,” Black said. “How about that?”

“That should work,” Coffen said. “But mind you don’t let them slip some poison into your drink. Where are there some good hidey holes, Byron?”

“That smallish room between the baronial hall and the salon provides easy access from the hall where the party is to be held, yet it’s quite private.”

“Not many places to hide there. It’s virtually empty,” Prance mentioned. He had made himself familiar with all the nooks and crannies of the abbey.

“It has good thick curtains to hide behind, though, and we can stick a bit of lumber in it for the night. A desk and a cabinet, and call it an office,” Byron said.

“So who, besides me, will be there as a witness?” Coffen asked. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be there.

“It might be noticed if the host disappeared for any length of time,” Luten said to Byron. “I’ll do it. We don’t need more than two. Now, about the note. What should it say, and how should we deliver it?” No one answered immediately, and he continued. “We’ll use your crested paper, Byron, and just say enigmatically that Mr. Black is in possession of certain information from Mrs. Vulch that he would like to discuss with the Richardsons. If they wish to keep this private, they might bring five hundred pounds with them to the soirée here this evening. We shan’t use one of your liveried footmen, but just have a groom drop it off at Redley Hall, preferably when no one’s about.”

Luten dictated the words and Black wrote the note in an unsteady hand on Byron’s stationery. Prance, glancing over his shoulder, said, ‘“Crede Biron’ ought to read ‘Crede Sable’, n’est-ce pas? That is the word for black in heraldry, I believe.”

Black gave him a snide grin. “I think you know my family isn’t noble, Sir Reginald. If I had a crest it would read ‘A man’s as good as his deeds.’ " Prance couldn’t think of a snappy comeback.

The note was sent off. Sir Reginald went abovestairs to see that all was arranged to his satisfaction in Miss Challoner’s bedchamber. He also went to the cellars with the butler to choose wines, oversaw the laying of the table for the midnight supper, the setting up of the refreshment table where wine and punch would be served during the party. Then there were the robes for the choir, arrived that morning, to examine for wrinkles and to harry Sally into pressing them. It was the bustling sort of day he thoroughly enjoyed, despite Grace’s cool treatment. He’d been ignoring her recently.

The household was thrown into consternation when Byron received a note from Sir William saying that Willie was ill, and he was afraid he and his wife could not attend the dinner party. Perhaps, if the doctor approved, they might drop in later to hear the carols.

“They can’t just leave it like that!” Prance exclaimed, and the others chimed in to wonder whether they hadn’t understood Black’s note. Or was it possible they were perfectly innocent, and the note didn’t mean anything to them?

“I would have been surprised if they hadn’t tried this stunt,” Black said. “They’re trying to force the meeting on to their ground, you see. They’ll be in touch with me suggesting I go there. Since they take me for a crook, they’ll not expect me to tell you I’m going. Easier to finish me off on their own turf, and no one any the wiser that I was ever there.”

“You’re a wonder, Black,” Coffen said, shaking his head in admiration. “You think you’ll hear from them today, then?”

“A little later today,” Black said, with the air of a man who knew what he was talking about. “I shan’t answer, of course. My silence will frighten them into coming here tonight. You notice they left the door open to come after dinner, if I don’t go along with them. Oh yes, I fancy we’ll see them trot in for the carols after dinner.”

Black’s star sank as the hours passed and no further note from Redley Hall arrived at Newstead Abbey.

“They’re playing a game of nerves,” he declared, still with that air of a man who knew whereof he spoke. “Now I come to think of it, the note is more likely to be slipped to me during the little do this evening. One of their servants bringing it to the house in broad daylight would be spotted, but after dark, with folks milling about the place, it could be done unseen. I fancy they’ll try to lure me out to some isolated spot on the grounds. We’ll play it by ear.”

The house had that fevered air of excitement that inevitably precedes a party. Tantalizing aromas wafted through the great rooms. Servants bustled about carrying piles of dishes to the dining room, trays of glasses to the refreshment parlor, and giving the furnishing a last, quick dusting. The fires were built up to create a welcoming warmth, and as the afternoon drew to a close, the house guests went abovestairs to make their toilettes.

Prance remembered to send his carriage for Miss Challoner, who duly arrived and went straight to the hall to be put through her musical paces with him. If Byron noticed any resemblance to Lady Caroline Lamb, he didn’t show it. He was busy overseeing the placing of a few odd pieces of furniture in the room chosen for Black’s rendezvous, and consulting with his cook and butler over the last minute party arrangements.

Some twenty-four guests sat down to dinner. The local worthies were on their best behavior. No one drank to excess, or tried to steal anyone else’s wife or husband, though Miss Challoner made a set at the local MP and appeared to be making some headway.

Lord Byron, that famous rake, behaved with all the decorum of an archbishop. Luten had the sense that Byron scarcely knew his guests. He had asked the people he thought he should befriend, such worthies as local squires and their ladies, the MP, the vicar and a professor home for the holiday. The talk inevitably turned to the murders. The general consensus was that Vulch had earned the wrath of some unspecified roughian who, not satisfied with killing Vulch, had killed his wife for good measure. They didn’t seem to connect the body found on the island with the new murders.

When Coffen learned that his dinner partner was a neighbor of the Richardsons, he inquired for Willie’s condition.

“Why, what’s the matter with him?” Mrs. Enright asked, her eyes wide at this hint of news.

“I understand he’s too sick for the Richardsons to leave him. They were invited but couldn’t come.”

“I wondered why they weren’t here, as Lady Richardson is forever running on about her new friends at the abbey. Well, that is odd. He was fine this very morning. I saw him being walked by his nanny as I drove into town. I do hope it’s not measles! My boys haven’t had them yet.”

The suddenness of Willie’s illness tended to confirm that it was merely a pretext for missing the party. Coffen agreed that it would indeed be horrid if measles should become rampant during the holiday.

“Lady Richardson will be sorry she couldn’t come,” his partner continued. “She does love company so, and we don’t have many parties, here in the country. I know she was having Mrs. Addams make her up a new gown and was sure she’d wear it here.”

The ladies left the gentlemen to their port and cigars at the dinner’s end and retired to the salon. The men were just beginning to trickle in when the carolers arrived, and everyone flocked to the doorway to hear them. They stood, huddled together against the cold wind, while the carolers entertained them with the traditional Christmas songs. The singers made a charming picture, with the light from their lanterns glowing on red cheeks and open mouths. Snow was beginning to fall, not a heavy storm, but enough to create a mood. Veils of whirling flakes spun and eddied through the air like phantom wraiths. The flakes settled on mufflers and toques, sparkling like diamonds in the lamplight. When the music was finished, the singers were invited in for mulled wine, and apple cider for the youngsters.

A tow-headed youngster of eleven or twelve years approached Corinne and asked, “Can you tell me which one is Mr. Black, milady?”

Black was chatting to a neighboring squire, giving his views on farming, of which he knew virtually nothing. Corinne, her heart pounding, pointed him out and said, “Why do you ask?” Why would he ask, unless hired by the Richardsons?

“I have a note for him.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“Who gave it to you?” she asked, barely able to control her excitement. “When?”

“Nobody, milady. I found it stuck under the door as I came in. It says Mr. Black on the outside. I can read,” he said proudly, holding out the folded paper.

“I’ll see that he gets it,” she said, and took the note. “Did one of the singers drop it?”

“Oh no, milady. I was the first one in. It was just laying on the floor, like it was slipped under the door. Must be a billy doo, eh?” he asked with a raffish grin.

“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.”