Murder at Newstead Abbey (6 page)

Vulch’s dark eyes bored into him. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh — around. I don’t recall the fellow’s name.”

Vulch looked off toward the row of horses. “That there’s Lord Byron’s nag you came in on. What are you doing with it?” Interesting that he recognized Byron’s nag. But then folks did tend to keep a close eye on the local lords.

“I borrowed it. I’m a guest at the Abbey,” Coffen replied in a careful tone that displayed neither fear, friendliness nor hostility. “You’re a friend of Byron’s, I take it?”

Vulch made a sneering sound that was halfway between a grunt and a snort. “That’s a new word for it. Mind you don’t lame Jessie Belle.” Interesting that he not only recognized the mount but knew its name.

Vulch looked Coffen up and down as he spoke, assessing him as a likely prospect for fleecing. His saturnine smile never left his face, but his tone was contemptuous. “A friend of melord’s, eh? I might give you a game one night,” he said, and swaggered off toward his mount without a backward look. “Thought I told you to rub him down,” he said to the stable boy.

“I did, sir,” the boy said, pointing to the gelding’s sleek hide. “Just like you told me.”

“Why didn’t you put a blanket on him? He’s a valuable bit of blood. Not like the rest of the cattle you got here.” He cast a contemptuous glance at Jessie Belle.

“You didn’t ask for a blanket, Mr. Vulch, sir. Diablo was in the stable. He didn’t catch cold.”

“I hope you’re not expecting a tip for not doing your job.” On this rude speech, he threw a leg over his mount and rode off.

Coffen was undecided whether to follow Vulch or go into the tavern and ask questions. He could do the latter any time. He decided to follow Vulch at a careful enough distance that he wouldn’t be discovered. He gave the stable boy a tip and mounted Jessie Belle.

Pleased with his tip, the boy said, “What did you want to know about Vulch, Mister?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“I only been here a month, but he comes here most nights. He’s never given me a penny yet, and usually finds fault, though I take special care with Diablo. The fellows don’t like to play cards with him. He lives in a shack just past Redley Hall, down the lane.”

“Did you ever see him about with Lord Byron, from the abbey?”

“Nah, no love lost there, folks say.”

“Did you ever hear why?”

Peter shrugged. “Most folks don’t care for Vulch.” And who could blame them?

“I’ll be talking to you again. Keep your eyes and ears open and there’ll be something in it for you. What’s your name, lad?”

“Peter, but folks call me Pete.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

He led Jessie Belle out to the road and looked to see which direction Vulch took. As he headed north toward Mansfield, Coffen figured he was probably going home. A good chance to find out where he lived. Coffen kept a distance behind him, concealed in the shadows. When Vulch turned in at a private road into a large, prosperous estate Coffen realized he wasn’t going home after all, and was curious to discover what worthy he was calling on.

It was hard to see many details through the trees in the park, but the place was large, about half the size of Newstead Abbey, built of the same kind of stone, though not in the gothic style. The windows weren’t pointy. Coffen had only the scantiest notion of architectural styles but he knew a place wasn’t gothic if it didn’t have pointed windows. Oh gee arches, Prance had called them when they went to see Strawberry Hill. A funny name for a window, oh gee, but easy to remember. The windows in this place were square, like the house itself. It looked old and had big heavy stones at the corners where the sides met. There was probably a name for them. Prance would know.

He tethered Jessie Belle to a tree across the road and crept after Vulch on foot. He figured he’d be going to the stable, and was surprised when a gentle whickering caught his attention and he saw Vulch’s gelding tethered to a tree. A welcome visitor would ride to the stable, so Vulch was on some secret business. Coffen crept forward, keeping to the side of the graveled road to deaden his footfalls and to gain concealment from the bushes. He had lost sight of Vulch but as he watched, a young girl wearing a white apron came flying down the road. Vulch stepped out and caught her.

“Oh Vulch,” she said. “Don’t leap out at me like that. You scared me.”

Vulch didn’t say anything. He just grabbed her into his arms and began kissing her with enthusiasm. Coffen watched only long enough to see the girl wasn’t being forced, then he turned to creep away. Even Vulch deserved privacy for his cuddling. Odd that any girl would fancy that monster.

When Vulch stopped kissing the wench long enough to say, “Well, what are they saying in there?” Coffen waited, ears cocked.

“You’re daft, Vulch,” the girl said. “Lady Richardson isn’t talking about nothing except wondering if she’ll be invited to Newstead to meet the company. I smell ale on your breath! Have you been chasing after that Tess at the Green Man again?”

“Can’t a man have a pint without you jawing at him?” he said, not angrily but in a wheedling way. “You know you’re the only one for me, lass. About them at the big house, they didn’t say nothing about the girl what was found on the island?”

“He didn’t say nothing. He never does. She says she thinks it’s Minnie. That’s what everyone thinks. It ain’t her, is it, Vulch?”

“I doubt it. She left town, didn’t she? Sounds to me they’d like Eggars to think it’s Min. So where can we go for a bit of featherbed jigging?”

“It’ll have to be your place. It’s too cold for the field and I can’t get you into my room again. They’ve landed Jennie in with me. I think milady knows you was there last night.”

“Jealous, that’s what she is.”

“Her jealous of the likes of you? She don’t chase nobody unless they have a title.”

When they began snuggling again, Coffen made good his escape, reviewing the clues he had overheard. Vulch already knew about the body, and had some reason to think the Richardsons would be interested. Why? He either thought they’d be wondering if it was that maid of theirs that went missing in London, or he was afraid they suspected it was Minnie. Or there could be some other girl he hadn’t learned about yet.

Since Vulch wasn’t at the Green Man, Coffen decided to save that visit for another time and go back to the Abbey to look for ghosts. It was a good night for it. The fuzzy outline of a half moon cast a pale light as it moved behind a tattered tail of cloud. A cool December wind lent an eerie, creaking sound to the swaying branches above. It also caused a dull ache in his knee, which he had wrenched in a tumble from his mount a few weeks before in London.

The tea tray was just leaving the kitchen when he arrived back at the abbey. He didn’t stop to grab a bite but just washed his hands and hurried upstairs. The others were going into the salon when he got there. The ladies were always complaining behind Byron’s back about how cold the salon was, but it felt nice and warm to him after being outside. Very cozy, with the fire leaping in the grate and the silver vessels from the tea tray twinkling in the lamplight.

The tray was placed before Corinne, who poured for them without spilling a drop. Mrs. Ballard never poured when she could get out of it. Coffen was surprised to see her there at all. She was jumpy as a grasshopper in such high company and usually slipped away as soon as she could. Prance must have put her to work with his decorating. She did undertake to pass the plates holding bread, cold cuts and sweets, murmuring that it all looked delicious, as indeed it did.

Byron lifted his eyebrow in a mute question to Coffen. The others didn’t seem to notice he’d been gone. Prance was jawing away about Corinne’s playing. It wasn’t up to his high standard. Nothing ever was.

“Of course I’m out of practice. I haven’t touched a pianoforte since I moved to Berkeley Square,” she said rather angrily. “If you don’t like my playing, you can play yourself.”

“And who will lead the singers?” he replied, in the same snipping way.

While Luten was trying to pacify them, Byron brought his cup over to Coffen’s chair. “Any sign of Vulch?” he asked.

Prance, as jealous as a lover, noticed them and said, “What plan are you two hatching?”

“It’s already hatched,” Coffen said, and told them where he’d been, and what he’d seen and overheard. “Vulch seems to think Lady Richardson would be interested in the body, but according to his girlfriend, she’s more interested in meeting us.” Having finished his tale, he dug into the plate he’d heaped with food.

His last sentence pleased Prance. He was always eager to meet anyone who admired him. “Will you oblige the lady, Byron?” he asked.

“They’re on the list of guests for the Christmas party.”

“It’d be interesting to pick their brains before that,” Coffen said.

“Are you on calling terms with them?” Corinne asked. “We could pay them an afternoon visit as a courtesy to local worthies.”

“Is the man a Whig?” Luten asked. “From what Coffen says, his pockets are deep. He might make us a useful M.P. one of these days.”

“Yes, I am on calling terms with them, Corinne,” Byron said. “They paid me a visit the last time I was here. As to their politics, Luten, the Redleys were always dyed in the wool Tories. They’d vote for a jackass if his hide was blue. Sir William may be his own man, however. We only discussed forestry. Sir William was planting a windbreak behind his house. We can call and deliver cards to the party if you like.”

“I shall make up a card for them tomorrow,” Prance said, and it was settled that they would call on the Richardsons.

When Coffen rose and took his cup for a refill, Corinne said, “You’re limping again, Coffen. Did you hurt your knee?”

“It’s the raw weather,” he said. “The sawbones warned me it would cut up for a while in the damp.” Mrs. Ballard murmured something about a bandage. “It’ll not slow me down,” he continued. “I’ll nip into the Green Man tomorrow and see what I can ferret out about Vulch. And the Richardsons,” he added, to cover all bases.

As the long case clock struck eleven chimes, Corinne stifled a yawn and said, “I’m turning in now. All this fresh country air ..."

Mrs. Ballard shot out of her chair to accompany her, nearly upsetting her tea in the process. She would as soon be alone in a roomful of tigers as with four gentlemen. The ladies said their goodnights and left.

Prance kept an eye on the clock. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Grace. Coffen had his own plan to be at the Monks’ Avenue at midnight. The two of them left, and Byron and Luten remained behind, discussing politics.

Prance’s valet, Villier, wrapped a warm muffler about his master’s throat in preparation for the tryst with Grace. Villier was his master’s confidant in more matters than his toilette. He knew all about the gothic novel, about Grace being Lady Lorraine, about his master’s unstated longing for fame. Prance had often thought, when browsing through Plato’s
Symposium,
that Villier was the other half of himself that man searched for. They even looked somewhat alike. Indeed their physiques were so similar that, in a pinch, Villier could be sent to Weston to be measured for a new jacket for Prance. He was the recipient of all Prance’s cast-offs. This was no small perquisite, for Prance bought many jackets, and did not wear them into the ground.

He had never had such a close relationship with anyone else, even his beloved Comtesse Chamaude. There was nothing homoerotic in it, but the relationship went miles beyond the usual servant-master one, past friendship to something rare and necessary to their mutual happiness. All this, without Prance ever quite losing sight of the fact that Villier was his servant.

“You have the guinea for Grace?” Villier asked as Prance headed to the door.

Prance patted his pocket. “Right here. You needn’t wait up for me, Villier.” The look that passed between them spoke volumes — that of course Villier would wait up, that a warming pan would be in his bed and a posset waiting for him after his vigil in the cold, that Prance knew all this and appreciated it.

Coffen had no such loving ties with his gentleman’s gentleman. His dark-visaged man, Raven, had been foisted on him by his groom. There was no sign of Raven when Coffen went abovestairs. Likely playing cards somewhere with the other servants, or seducing one of the pretty maids. Coffen’s afternoon buckskins were thrown across the seat of the chair, unbrushed, with the jacket on top. His nightshirt had not been laid out. His bag had been unpacked, his jackets hung up, and his shirts and small clothes dumped in a heap in the dressers drawers. Lord Byron’s servants were better trained. A half empty decanter of wine and a glass sat on the bedside table. Coffen was grateful that Raven had left him half the bottle. Pity he hadn’t rinsed out the glass. He wiped it off with his handkerchief, poured himself a glass and sat a moment, rubbing his aching knee and thinking about the best place to find a ghost. The Monks’ Avenue seemed a good bet.

Grace had asked Prance to wait for her outside the kitchen door so the others servants wouldn’t see him, “For that lot’d be bound to think the worst. Especially that Sally.”

He left by a side door and after a long and rather frightening circuit in the dark around the enormous building, his heart jumping in fright at a dozen spectral shadows and moving branches, he spotted a lighted window which indicated the kitchen. He didn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately a dainty figure wrapped in a dark shawl came slipping out the door.

“Lord, I thought Cook would never leave the kitchen,” Grace complained. “I’ve been crouching behind the door at the bottom of the back stairs till me knees ache. I don’t know how I’m to get back in without her seeing me.”

“We shall contrive something, never fear,” Prance said, and taking her elbow, he said, “Lead on. You are my Cicerone this evening, my dear.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, casting a suspicious eye at him.

“My guide, Grace.” He flung out a hand. “Lead me to the ghosts of Newstead Abbey.”

“Where folks see the monk is along this way,” she said, and set off at a quick pace, as if she were eager to have it over with.