Murder at Newstead Abbey (7 page)

Prance took careful note of the lugubrious details as they hastened along. He might begin his tale with just this setting — the half moon playing hide and seek behind tattered clouds cast a watery light on the perishing battlements of St. Justin’s Abbey. Perhaps he’d re-arrange the geography of the place to make use of that ruined west wall, and let the moon shine through the open ogee arch. The wind would sough through dripping oaks and elms, just as it was doing. Lady Lorraine would have been ordered to meet her persecutor there to retrieve some necessary article. A letter, perhaps, that would prove her lover innocent of some dastardly crime? No, that was too trite. Some important document or object must be invented.

Around the corner, a cloistered walk suddenly appeared. Lovely the way the moonlight cast long, menacing shadows against the inner wall. Who would have thought moonlight strong enough to cast such shadows? He mentally added
Shadows in the Moonlight
to his list of possible titles. Or were those elongated dark marks on the wall just the accumulated grime of centuries? No matter, in his novel they would be shadows, streaking the weathered walls like the bars in a cell, to indicate the castle was a prison to Lady Lorraine. He stopped to watch and listen. No choir sounded through the cloister but only the moaning wind, which was probably what the ignorant and superstitious had mistaken for a choir. He looked all around, soaking up the atmosphere.

His contemplation was interrupted by that soft voice, whose language grated on his nerves. “Creepy, innit?” Grace said, huddling closer to him. It was not the way Lady Lorraine would phrase it, and certainly not in that accent, but the emotion was right.

“Vastly creepy,” he agreed, gazing down at her pale face and the moonlight reflected in her great dark eyes. Really it was unfair that this enchanting creature had been born into the lower classes. She ought to be wearing a tiara, not a shabby shawl clutched around her head and shivering shoulders. She should smell of violets or
muguet des bois,
not onions. A definite odor of onions came from her when she opened her rosebud lips, which was sufficient deterrent to any danger of romantic advances.

“Well, you can see plain as day there’s no ghosts here,” she said. “Do you want to go back, or look somewheres else?”

“Where else do you suggest?”

“Rose, the scullery maid, said she once seen a ghost down by the lake, but she’s ignorant as Paddy’s pig. Everybody knows there’s mist off the water when it’s cold out.”

“I don’t relish a trip to the lake tonight. Let us just stroll about and see where fate takes us.” He took a step forward.

“Wait!” she said, and clutched his elbow. “Did you hear that?”

He stopped and listened. At first he heard nothing, but when the moaning of the wind subsided, he heard in the distance the muffled sound of footsteps. He looked down the length of the shadowed cloister, but saw no one. It was phantom footsteps!

“There!” she said, pointing ahead. “Don’t you see that dark shape. It’s
moving!”
He looked, but saw only the shadowy streaks against the wall. “Not there,” she scolded, and pointed to the end of the cloister. “Gorblimey, it’s got red
eyes.
It’s coming right at us!”

Prance looked where she pointed and froze to the spot. She was right! There was some dark, spectral form there. An amorphous shape, moving. He stared, and saw not two red eyes but one large yellow one. As he looked, the eye blinked and disappeared.

At the same moment, the phantom footsteps grew louder, advancing at a fast pace. Panic seized him. He grabbed Grace’s hand and was about to dart off when the shot rang out. Grace wrenched her hand free and fled. Prance hesitated when he realized that, whatever else ghosts did, they had never in the history of ghost lore been known to fire a shot.

He leapt behind one of the cloister columns, heart banging against his ribs, and listened. The footsteps moved again. Not phantom footsteps, but the ordinary sound of flying feet. But who was fleeing? Was it the man who had fired the shot, or his intended victim? If the victim, then the man with the gun was still there. Oh dear lord, was
he
himself the intended victim? Prance stood in a panic, trembling behind the safety of the pillar, praying as hard as he could, though in daylight he believed himself to be an agnostic.

Before he made up his mind, he heard a door being flung open and running footsteps coming from the building. The household had heard the shots and help was on its way! Emboldened by this rescue, and wanting to appear a hero in case Byron was one of the rescuers, he strode forth from his place of concealment.

“Put that gun away. Don’t shoot, you fool.” He recognized some echo of Byron’s phrases from the shot in the spinney had popped unbidden into his head.

He spotted a dark hump on the ground. It moved, and a head rose from what looked like a pile of leaves. “It’s me, Reg,” Coffen said. “Someone took a shot at me. He turned tail and ran when he heard you coming. What the deuce are you doing here anyhow?”

“Are you shot?” Prance asked, kneeling down to offer assistance.

“No. He missed me by inches. I heard him and jumped down just in time. I gave my shoulder a bang against the post but I’m all right. Let’s go after him.” He massaged his shoulder and tried to stand up.

Byron and Luten came pelting forward. Byron cried, “Was that a shot? Is anyone hurt? Prance — did you see him?”

“Alas, no. Just a shadow. And for a second, the light from a dark lantern.” That, of course, was the explanation for that one yellow eye that had blinked open. The fellow had opened the window of his lantern a moment, perhaps in an effort to locate his victim in the shadows.

“Which way did he go?” Luten demanded.

Coffen pointed back toward the rear of the cloister. Luten and Byron headed off while Prance helped Coffen up. “They’ll not catch him,” Coffen said. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here, Reg.”

“Ghost hunting.”

“Me too. We could’ve come together if we’d known. It’s not like you, prowling about in the cold and damp. You must be writing something, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have a little something in mind.”

“Something to do with ghosts, is it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I thought one was after me. That’s why I ran. I heard a rustling sound in the leaves behind me. Thought I wanted to see one, but all of a sudden my heart took to thumping like a rabbit’s, and first thing I knew, I was running like a hare. I should’ve known a ghost wouldn’t make any noise.”

Luten and Byron soon returned. “He got clean away,” Byron said. “Are you all right, Coffen?”

“Just banged my arm. I’ll live.”

“I suggest you get inside, my friend. He might try again,” Luten said, putting a friendly arm around Byron’s shoulder. Prance was annoyed that Luten assumed Byron was the target. He was even more annoyed at the familiarity of that arm over Byron’s shoulder. He considered Byron his own private preserve, yet he had never been so forthcoming as to put an arm around him. Nor was Luten at all prone to such physical displays. Luten had been no competition when he feared Byron was after Corinne but since Byron had begun behaving himself, they were growing close. It might be necessary to institute some new romance between Corinne and the poet.

“He certainly wasn’t shooting at me this time,” Byron pointed out.

“I expect he thought he was,” Luten parried. “Coffen was limping. In the darkness, he might have mistaken him for you. One shot might have been an accident. Two shots on successive days, both on your property, begin to look like a concerted attack. Come inside and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

Byron just glanced at Prance, then said with a boyish, almost sheepish smile at Luten, “As a matter of fact, there is something, but I can’t believe they’re trying to
kill
me.”

Prance was seized by a jet black fit of jealousy. It was clear as a pikestaff that Byron was transferring his affection to Luten. It was easy enough to understand. Luten, although not quite thirty, had always acted older. Prance couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t behave in a thoroughly adult, responsible manner that conferred some moral authority on him. Byron had never known a real father. It was a role waiting to be filled, and even in the heat of his jealousy, Prance could think of no one better than Luten to fill it. He would steer Byron down the path of rectitude. One really shouldn’t interfere, which didn’t mean one wouldn’t. The rogue in him delighted in such intrigues. And of course he would repair any animosity he stirred up between them.

They all returned to the saloon and had a glass of wine. “If you insist then, I daresay I must reveal my cloven hoof,” Byron said, bracing himself for confession.

“No need, Byron,” Coffen said. “We know all about the club foot.”

Prance glared at him. “It is a reference to the devil, Coffen.”

“What is?”

“Cloven hoof.”

“Eh? I never heard that. Horns and a tail is what he has.”

“Pay him no heed, Byron. Proceed,” Prance said.

Prance realized, as Byron opened his budget, that he was only telling Luten what he had already told himself earlier — the relatively innocent nature of the infamous orgy with his friends, the black robes, the skull cup, and the vicar’s warning.

Luten listened with interest, nodding but in no very condemning way. A few tsk’s and a tolerant shake of the head were his only chastisement. Prance felt he would not have accepted the orgy so mildly if it had been anyone but Byron confessing. It would be interesting to see which gentleman ended up leading the other. Perhaps the surrogate son would lead the father astray.

“Well, as you say your wild oats are sown, let’s not harp on it,” Luten said, when the confession was done. “But it’s hard to believe a vicar is leading a hunting party against you.”

“I don’t believe either shot was meant for me,” Byron said.

Coffen listened, with a frown creasing his brow. “I don’t either,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the fellow got a look at my face. He flashed the lantern right at me before he shot, and it’s not likely he’d mistake me for Byron. Just to make sure all our p’s and q’s are crossed, let’s not rule out the shot could’ve been aimed at me. Now the only person I can think of that’d want me dead is Vulch. He knows I’m staying here. He knows I was asking about him at the Green Man, and he didn’t like it. It don’t explain that shot in the spinney, but that could’ve been an accident.”

After a little more discussion, they all agreed this was possible. Luten warned Coffen to be careful in future.

“I will,” Coffen said, “but it’s good news in a way.”

“No really! We don’t dislike you that much, Coffen,” Prance said in a joshing way.

Coffen glared. “How sharper than a serpent’s tongue it is, as you would say, Prance.”

“I assure you I would never misquote William in such a well-known phrase.”

To put an end to the squabble, Luten said, “I trust you didn’t mean you’re eager to die, Coffen?”

“Of course not. What I mean is, it looks like Vulch is worried I’ll find out something about that body we dug up this morning, which means he’s involved. Lady Richardson thinks it’s Vulch’s wife. If it is, who’s likelier to have killed her than Vulch, for carrying on with some other fellow? Shot her, stripped off her clothes that might give away it’s her if she was found, buried her on the island and let on she’d run off on him. The timing seems about right. It happened long ago, but not long ago enough to completely destroy the corpse. And there’s a kooey bono in it as well, for it was her that owned the cottage, and now it’ll be his.”

“I’ll report this attack to Eggars in the morning,” Byron said.

“I'd rather you not,” Coffen said at once. “If he goes badgering Vulch, Vulch’ll know we’re on to him. What we’ll do is spread some red herrings, let on we think the body is somebody else to put Vulch off his guard.”

“I’d like to get it cleared up as soon as possible, before it turns into another legend of the mad Byrons,” Byron said.

“We will,” Coffen assured him. “Rome wasn’t burnt in a day, and neither will your name be.”

“I don’t think the body was Minnie’s, though,” Byron said. “The hair was too light, and the teeth — “ He paused a moment, frowning in memory.

“Well, p’raps it’s some other girl Vulch shot,” Coffen said. “He’s a wrong one, and to judge by what I saw and heard when I followed him, he likes the petticoat brigade. He’s mixed up in it somewhere, or my name’s not Jack Robinson. I say we let him think he’s safe, so as to catch him off his guard.”

Byron looked a question at Luten. “I’ll go along with Coffen,” Luten said.

“I daresay you’re right, Mr. Robinson,” Prance added, peering about to see if anyone smiled. They didn’t. It did not escape Prance’s attention that Byron had agreed at once with Luten. They didn’t even glance at him to see his opinion. It was Coffen who said, “You’ll keep it quiet as well, Prance?” Prance didn’t reply. He was too busy sulking.

“Why didn’t someone call me?” Corinne demanded over breakfast the next morning, after she had been told the exciting happenings of the previous night. There was a polite mumble of “nothing you could have done,” and “didn’t want to waken you.”

She turned a wrathful eye on Coffen. “And why didn’t you tell me you were going ghost-hunting? I would
love
to see a ghost. Let me know the next time and I’ll go with you. What are we doing today? Don’t plan to leave me out of all the excitement.”

“We thought you and Mrs. Ballard might write up the cards for Byron’s Christmas party,” Luten replied. “We plan to deliver one to the Richardsons, you recall.”

“I thought Prance was doing the cards.”

“You write them and I’ll paint a sprig of holly or some such thing in one corner,” Prance said. “There’s not time for anything more elaborate. We still have the decorations to attend to.”

“Do the card for the Richardsons first and we’ll deliver it this afternoon,” Luten said, to keep her in curl. He had good reason to know a bored Lady deCoventry could create mischief.

“I’ll draw up a list of the names,” Byron offered.