Murder at Newstead Abbey (8 page)

The ladies and Prance spent the morning working on party preparations. Luten had some correspondence to write. His own estate, Southcote Abbey, was not far away. He planned to stop on the way home and had some instructions for his staff.

Coffen was more interested in the murder. He went in search of clues at the scene of last night’s shooting. Deducing was all well and good but he liked a tangible clue, something you could see, could pick up and examine and ferret out who it belonged to and how it got where it was. Vulch, if it had been Vulch, hadn’t left any such clues behind, but Coffen did find a fresh score mark on the pillar where he had been shot at, so at least that was real. He roamed through the park, searching for signs of where Vulch had tethered Diablo. The ground was too cold to hold horse shoe marks and the horse hadn’t been thoughtful enough to leave any droppings.

He was wandering about from tree to tree, eyes down, when he heard the rumble of carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves coming from the roadway into the abbey. Looking up, he saw through the trees a stylish chaise, dark blue with silver trim glinting in the sunlight as it dashed through the park. It was drawn by a matched team of bays, with a liveried footman sitting beside the coachman on the box. No crest on the panel to denote a noble caller, but the rig suggested someone from the upper realm of society. With luck the Richardsons! He darted back to the abbey to hear what they had to say.

It was indeed Sir William and Lady Richardson who were soon being announced. Corinne was disappointed that they had come, thus depriving her of a call on them that afternoon. But of course she was curious to meet them, and rose from the desk near the fire where she was writing invitations when they were announced.

Her attention, like everyone else’s, was on Lady Richardson. Sir William was merely a stately gentleman who followed behind her. The sort of man who said, “Yes, dear,” and carried his wife’s parcels. His dark hair was silvered at the temples and the lines on his high forehead suggested middle age, but at closer range she thought he was not really much older than his wife. Forty to her thirty or thereabouts. Nothing in his toilette stood out. He wore a well-tailored blue Bath cloth jacket with no extremes of padded shoulder or nipped waist or stylishly large brass buttons. His cravat was as unassuming as his expression.

His wife, on the other hand, was a riot of excesses and pretensions. Her bonnet wore too many feather, the fox trim on her suit was too large, her suit too bright a blue, and her talk was too loud. Other than these lapses in taste, she was an attractive lady. The body the blue suit covered was perhaps just a shade more fulsome than the ideal, though by no means fat. Her blond hair was fashionably arranged around a well-proportioned face with blue eyes, a strongly arched nose and a mouthful of straight white teeth.

She acknowledged the introductions with smiles and curtseys all around, and with much flouncing of furs and moving of her reticule from hand to hand, chose a seat between Byron and Corinne before taking over the conversation.

“Don’t even think of ordering tea for us,” she said. “We can’t stay a minute. You must forgive our country manners, my dear Byron, calling at such a farouche hour, but you must know we are
starving
for decent company here in the provinces. I seldom hear a sentence that hasn’t something to do with cows or coal.” She turned to Corinne and explained, “This is coal country you must know, milady. I don’t know how many acres we have being mined. Though not so many as his lordship, I daresay,” she added with a winsome smile at Byron. “Let us talk about poetry,” she said, and proceeded at once to entirely unpoetic matters.

“And where is your husband, Lady deCoventry? I don’t believe I heard a Lord deCoventry introduced.”

“I’m a widow, actually.”

Her fingers, flashing an array of gemstones, flew to her mouth. “Oh dear! And so young! But I’m sure you’ll find someone else. London is a great place for making matches. Mrs. Elbrook’s youngest girl nabbed herself an earl. She’s no beauty, and has only five thousand. Imagine! I, with Redley Hall and an income in five figures couldn’t do any better than my William here. Not that I’m complaining. Mind you I hadn’t inherited Redley yet when William married me, though I knew it was coming to me. Why, you might land this handsome rascal if you play your cards right.” She gave Byron’s arm a playful tap at this suggestion.

“Lady deCoventry’s fiancé might have something to say about that,” he said.

She turned to Corinne. “Ah, nabbed someone already have you, milady? There’s no moss growing under your feet. You London ladies are up to all the rigs. Is he anyone I might have heard of?”

“I have the honor, madam,” Luten said modestly.

She ran her sharp eyes over Luten and said, “Hmm,” in a considering way. Without stopping to draw breath, she turned back to Byron. “How long are you here for, Byron? You must bring your charming company to us for dinner one evening. I insist.”

“We would be delighted,” Byron replied. “But first you must come to us. In fact, we had planned to visit you this very day and invite you to a little Christmas party.”

“Lovely! You can give us the card now and save yourself a trip. Not that we don’t want you to call. Do drop in any time. We’re starving for decent company, aren’t we, William?” William smiled and nodded vaguely.

She chattered on, asking questions of all the company but seldom waiting for an answer. On the surface she was merely a vulgar chatterbox, but Corinne sensed some uneasiness in the woman. She spoke with the forced bravado of someone not quite sure of her social position but determined not to be condescended to.

Having discovered that Luten was “Oh, that political fellow,” and Coffen was no one to bother with, she turned to Prance.

“And you, Sir Reginald, what is your claim to fame?”

“Why Sir Reginald is the author of
The Round Table Rondeaux,"
Byron said, feigning astonishment at her not knowing of this obscure work. “Have you not read it? He put my poor scribbling quite out of the book shop windows.”

This was true, but it had taken a deal of finagling on Luten’s part to achieve it. Without Prance’s knowledge, he had bought a hundred copies of the
Rondeaux
from a prominent bookseller, on the understanding that the book be displayed in the window for a short time.

“Of course,” Lady Richardson said at once, and turned her smile on Prance.
“The Round Table
poem. I adored it. So exciting, Sir Arthur and Lady Guinevere.”

“Why thank you,” Prance said with a thin smile, taking note of the fact that the creature had never heard of his opus. Lady Guinevere indeed! He had not put that wench into his poem.

“And what are you writing now?” she asked.

He saw his chance to collar the conversation and took it. “A gothic novel,” he said. “It takes place at St. Justin’s Abbey, a fictionalized version of Newstead.”

“A gothic novel? You didn’t tell us, Reg!” Byron exclaimed.

Luten nodded. “So that’s what your ghost-hunting last night was all about. I wondered what got you out in the cold.”

Before Prance could expatiate on the perils of Lady Lorraine, Lady Richardson was off again.

“Ah, a gothic novel! I adore them. Mrs. Radcliffe is my idol. My positive idol. The woman is a genius. I read her ten times a year, don’t I, William? You can say what you like about Fanny Burney, give me a nice spine-tingling gothic every time. And you’ve chosen the right setting for it, Sir Reginald. You want to get into the archives here and see what went on at this place in the old days. Those orgies on the island.” She came to a sudden halt and glanced uncertainly at her husband.

Sir William cleared his throat, pulled at his cravat and spoke. “Speaking of the island, I hear a body was discovered there yesterday, Byron. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Pattle here actually discovered it,” Byron replied. “Luten and I helped to dig it up.”

“A young girl, I hear?” Sir William said. That Lady Richardson expressed no amazement was a good indication that she already knew this.

“Yes, a blond girl.”

“Vulch’s wife, I heard,” Lady Richardson said, looking all around. “Minnie Whyte that was.”

“That possibility has been suggested,” Byron said, and waited to hear if she might mention her maid.

When she didn’t, Coffen said, “There was some talk the body might be your maid that went missing in London, Lady Richardson.”

“What, Nessie Landers?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing under her curls. “You mustn’t pay any heed to that. The neighbors love to talk about us. I don’t see how it could be Nessie, do you, William? How would she get here? She’d never been outside of Jamaica before.”

“But she did disappear around that time?” Coffen persisted.

“Yes, but not from here. It was from London. We were there two weeks all told. She took off and left me to pack my own clothes,” Lady Richardson said, with a snort. “There was certainly a man involved. She had met some no-account fellow in London.!Unfortunately I never got his name. She was such an innocent she’d be easily misled. A pretty little thing, but not too bright, I fear.”

“A nice girl withal,” Sir William said, with one of his vague smiles that was half a frown.

“Almost simple really,” his wife added, “but a good enough worker for all that.”

“Of course you reported her missing to Bow Street?” Coffen said.

Her eyebrows rose in astonishment again. “No, why would we call in the police? She wasn’t a slave, Mr. Pattle. She could leave us if she wanted, though I must say she took a shabby way of going about it. She had our address here and knew she could look to me in any time of trouble. I’m sure I wish her well. No, it’s Minnie Whyte that was who was buried on the island.” She turned a raffish smile on Byron. “Was she one of your ladies, Byron?”

“I never actually met her,” he replied. “She came here looking for work, but my housekeeper turned her off her because her husband is a trouble maker.”

“And because she was plain of face, to put it nicely,” she added with a knowing smirk. “Very wise, milord. The man she married is nothing else but a hooligan.” She turned to Corinne and with one of her swift changes of topic, began complimenting her on her gown. “If you’re wanting anything made up while you’re here, I recommend Madame Blanchett, in Mansfield.”

“I brought any gowns I’m likely to need with me. Actually I’ve already arranged with a modiste in Nottingham to make shawls for Mrs. Ballard and myself. They’re to be picked up today.” She turned to Byron. “If you will lend me a footman, that is to say.”

“Mrs. Addams, is it?” Lady Richardson asked. “I don’t recommend her, dear. Madame Blanchett at Mansfield is much better. French, of course. I happen to be going into Nottingham myself this afternoon. I’ll pick your shawls up for you and send them over.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it. What are friends for, milady? You and I will be great friends. I can always tell. Do let me know if there’s any way I can help with your party. I adore parties. I am a bit of a dab at it, if I say so myself. William will tell you. The provincials are still talking about my garden party, only because I put up a tent and a marquee. One never knows it if will rain. It’s not the weather we were used to in Jamaica.”

“A very nice party,” Sir William agreed. Then he turned to Byron. “About the body of that girl, milord — where, exactly, was she found? Someone said it was behind the fort.”

“No, it was in front, just at the bottom of that heap of dirt that came from the foundations of the fort.”

Sir William’s frown deepened. “Ah yes. I know where you mean. Was the body exposed, or how did Mr. Pattle come to discover it?”

“It was the flower that did it,” Coffen said “I yanked out a flower and saw her hand.”

“Flower? What flower, at this time of year?” he asked.

“A yaller one.”

“Curious,” Sir William said.

Lady Richardson tsk’d impatiently and said, “What difference does it make, Willie?” Then she turned her charms on Byron. “We have a little confession to make, milord. William and I took a picnic over to your island last year. When was it, William? About April, I think. I remember the daffodils were out.”

“The yellow flower wouldn’t be a daffodil in December,” Sir William said.

“How you harp on it! Did you know you have daffodils there, Byron? ‘A host of yellow daffodils,’ as Wordsworth says. I adore Wordsworth.”

Prance noticed that her fondness for the poet didn’t extend to memorizing him correctly. “Golden daffodils” was what she meant. “Mrs. Radcliffe and Wordsworth. You have catholic taste, Lady Richardson,” he said.

“Not Roman Catholic, I hope! We’re not Papists,” she informed him and laughed loudly. “Well, I see William drawing out that great old turnip watch he got from his papa, which means it’s time to be going. He won’t let me buy him a more stylish time piece.” She rose, adjusted her bonnet and tidied her skirt.

“Come along, dear,” Sir William said.

She rose immediately with an apologetic smile at her husband. But she couldn’t resist one last volley of talk. You’ll get plenty of ideas in Byron’s archives. Where do you keep them, Byron? I hope they’re stored away safely under lock and key. “

“In the library cupboard,” he said.

“Oh yes, with your lovely poems to keep them company. All right, I’m coming, William." With a flurry of curtseys and smiles she took hold of Sir William’s arm and he led her out.

The group exchanged glances, each wondering whether it would be too ill-natured to say something disparaging about the chatter box.

“The lady is an Original,” Prance said. “So starving for company I feared she might eat us up.”

Coffen said, “Pretty too, with a good color and a bit of flesh on her bones. I like that in a woman.” Coffen liked his steak and his women well-marbled. “A good talker as well.”

“Her monologues might be tolerable, if only she knew whereof she spoke,” Prance said dismissingly.

“I rather liked him,” Corinne said.

“Yes,” Byron agreed, “Sir William is quite universally liked.”

“Or perhaps pitied,” Prance added.