Murder at Newstead Abbey (27 page)

“It’s still on,” Byron said, “I haven’t the energy to cancel it.”

“You’d best go have a word with Corinne, Luten,” Prance said. “She’s been wondering how things went.”

Luten left, and Prance said to Byron, “I’m so happy to see you and Luten are hitting it off. There was a time when you two were scarcely speaking.”

“Yes, when I coveted his fiancée. I’ve got over that, Prance. I haven’t admitted it to Luten, but I’ve adopted him as my Mentor. He’s what I should wish to be. He’d make a wonderful papa.”

“Good gracious, he’s only half a decade older than you!”

“In years, perhaps, but at least a generation in common sense and wisdom.”

Prance wasn’t much interested in either of these intangibles. If Byron’s relationship with Luten was of that sort, it was all right. They all looked to Luten for common sense and wisdom.

“What was Luten saying about the date on some note when I came in?” he asked. “Has it something to do with the case?”

It was Luten that Byron had dreaded confronting. He was less concerned what Prance thought of him, and showed him the note. He explained his involvement with Vulch.

“You actually struck that beast? You’re brave as a lion, Byron. I would have hired a gang of thugs to do it for me. It’s utter nonsense, of course, trying to drag you into the murders. I would just toss that scrap of paper in the grate if I were you and forget about it. I’m glad you told me all this, for I did wonder at Ruttle calling on you that first morning, shouting like an auctioneer.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Virtually nothing — from you. I was surprised you took the verbal thrashing so mildly. I only heard that there were rumors you were planning a repeat of your former naughty ways, but his anger did give one pause.”

“I’ve been at my wits’ end, Prance.   I was sorry I had invited you all down here. It’s been quite a visit, hasn’t it?”

“Fear not, Byron. When I invited the group to my place, my neighbor was murdered, and my aunt was the chief suspect. We’re used to it. ‘Dammit, we’re the Brigade!’ — with apologies to the Guards. Oh, I must tell Luten! I do believe I’ve solved the mystery of Lady Richardson’s nose. A by-blow,” he explained. “An illegitimate daughter sired by Redley.” He added a few details to bolster this idea.

“You could be right. Now we have only to prove it.”

Byron and Prance returned to the baronial hall and helped with the decorating until Coffen and Black returned around midnight. As Black had been involved in the doings with Minnie, he was invited to remain, and had the pleasure or rubbing elbows with all those he usually served, and being served tea, instead of serving it. He fit in amazingly well, too. Even Prance so far forgot himself as to pass a plate of sandwiches to Black, and recommend the ham.

Luten had told Corinne about the note found in Minnie’s bandbox, Byron had told Prance and Black had told Coffen, so although it was supposedly a secret, they all knew it. It was Coffen who inadvertently mentioned it, and revealed their mutual knowledge.

He ambled over to Byron and said in a low voice, “I wouldn’t mind having a look at that scrap of paper Black found for clues.”

“I believe we left that note in the study, didn’t we, Prance?” Byron replied in a normal voice.

“I wouldn’t leave it lying around,” Corinne advised, and Black said, “I’ll go fetch it.”

He brought it to Byron who handed it to Coffen, who read it two or three times, then said. “It don’t incriminate you, Byron. Nothing of the sort. Do you happen to know what plans he had for your island?”

Byron explained his long-running involvement with Vulch.

“That would explain the rock through your window, then,” Coffen said.

“And the bullet through my hat,” Byron added. “He’s a good enough shot to avoid killing me.”

“Seems pretty childish stunts for a murderer. I shouldn’t wonder if Vulch is nothing but a red herring in it all. A murdered red herring. That’s what confused us."

When the note had been discussed to everyone’s satisfaction, Prance made his announcement regarding the possibility of Lady Richardson being Redley’s illegitimate daughter. They all listened in silence, and continued thinking in silence for some moments after he had finished. To his astonishment, no one argued against his theory.

“It would explain her knowing so much about the family, if she’d been there all her life, and taking care of the simple wife when she was older,” Corinne said.

“It explains everything,” Prance said comprehensively.

“Yes, by the living jingo,” Coffen agreed. “And it explains why she was rooting about your library as well, Byron. Looking for any letters hinting that the real Lady Richardson was a moonling. I wonder if she found anything, or if there might still be something there. I was planning to nip over to the island tomorrow to look for clues as to what plan Vulch had in mind, but now that we know, I’d be better off searching in the library. In fact, I’ll start tonight. I’ll ask Murray for a pot of coffee to keep me awake. And a dog for company.”

He rose and ambled off. The others soon went up to bed. Black was thrilled to discover he had been given a room in the same wing as the guests, instead of below the eaves with the servants. He gazed at the canopied bed, hung in dark blue velvet, the brocade curtains, the oil paintings on the wall, the fancy carpet on the floor, the decanter of wine and glass on the bedside table, and felt he had come home. But for an accident of birth, he would be living amidst such grandeur as this every day. He had heard the expression “nature’s gentleman” somewhere, and felt that it described him perfectly. He knew his mama was only a servant maid, but like many fatherless children, he harbored the dream that his unknown papa had been an aristocrat.

The servants at the Abbey obviously weren’t aware of just who he was, and Black had no intention of telling them. He would enjoy this brief respite from servantdom until someone, probably Prance, revealed the fraud being perpetrated. He poured himself a glass of wine, and lay on top of the counterpane to scheme how he could continue this life of a gentleman for the duration of the visit. He was not long coming up with an answer. It was as clear as glass to him that someone, very likely the Richardsons, were killing anyone who had glommed on to their stunt of killing off the wife and putting the servant,of this Nessie, into her slippers. They had killed Vulch because he knew, and his wife because she might have known, although Black was pretty sure she didn’t.

But if she had known, the one person she might have told was himself, during that long trip from London. All he had to do was pretend she had told him, and he’d be their next intended victim. Of course he’d have to take precautions to make sure they didn’t succeed. What he’d do, he’d arrange in some manner, a note seemed safest, to dun them for money to keep quiet. That’d bring them hopping! Yessir, that’s what he’d do. Luten was the one to take it up with, first thing in the morning.

The library was in such disarray from the break-in that Coffen found it impossible to find anything useful. Plans from the sixteenth century for something called an impluvium lay cheek by jowl with receipts for oak cut from the forest by Mad Jack at the latter part of the eighteenth century. That’d be the fellow Byron mentioned had chopped down the forest.

By three in the morning the candles had guttered out. The dark room was lit only by the dying embers in the grate. A draft from the flue set a flame dancing, causing long, flickering shadows to leap out at him. After watching them for a few minutes, his eyelids slid shut and he was soon asleep It was Abu, the old yellow hound he had brought in with him for company, that roused him half an hour later. Abu had risen from his position in front of the grate and was stalking toward the door, growling. Coffen shook his head and massaged the crick in his neck.

“You need to go out to do your business,” he said, and rose to let Abu out. He took a step toward the door, and that’s when he saw it. The Black Monk, as plain as day. The cowl pulled over the head, with dark eyes staring out of a blur of white face, the long, black robe. For a split second that seemed an eternity, those dark eyes stared into his. Coffen froze to the spot. Not so Abu. He was pawing at the doorway, his hackles rising, barking his head off.

Coffen watched, too stunned and frightened to let Abu out, while the apparition fled. If he opened the door, the dog would not only go out, but the ghost might come in. One minute it was there, the next it was gone, disappeared in a whirl of black cape. His heart was pounding so hard he had to sit down, before he fell down. It wasn’t just the ghost; it was the fact that the ghost was brandishing a pistol in one hand. Abu’s barks subsided to whines of disappointment. He cast an accusing eye on Coffen and resumed his position by the grate with a thump and a wag of his tale to denote forgiveness.

Coffen hastily reviewed what he knew of the Abbey ghosts. None of them had ever been known to carry a pistol. He doubted such a thing existed hundreds of years ago, when that fat-bellied king who wore silk stockings stole the abbey from the monks. Nossir, it was no ghost. It was the intruder trying to get back into the library! He admitted he had been shocked into fear by the sight of the ghost staring at him, but he wasn’t afraid of a live person dressed up like a ghost. One of the Richardsons, very likely. He picked up the poker from the grate and ran out, with Abu at his heels. He’d stick to the shadows to avoid being shot.

Abu ran off after the visitor but was soon back. They were too late. There was nothing to see but shadows and trees, nothing to hear but the wind soughing through the branches, and the echo of hoofbeats as the rider made his getaway. The night was cold and he had on only his evening jacket. He went back into the library, threw a few logs on the fire, found new candles, drank a cup of cold coffee and searched for another hour, but the only letter from Jamaica he found was one from Jacob Redley to Lord Byron about sending some seeds to the Abbey to be tried in the garden. The date was 1773, too early to have anything to do with the daughter of the house.

He thought perhaps the little black pebbles like peppercorns wrapped up in paper were the very seeds mentioned. Obviously never planted. At four o’clock he gave up and went back to sleep, leaving Abu to guard the archives.

* * * *

Black was in some confusion the next morning as to where he should present himself for breakfast. He knew perfectly well he should go to the servants’ table, but with his plan as a wedge, he waited until he heard Luten’s door open, and stepped out.

“A word, your lordship,” he said, and broached the plan he had thought out the night before.

Luten listened, thought for a moment, then clamped his hand on Black’s arm. “You’re a genius, Black!” he said. “Let us go downstairs and discuss it over breakfast.”

That easily it was done. He was to take breakfast with a marquess, a baron, a countess, a gentleman (Mr. Pattle), and a toplofty baronet — the only one likely to give him trouble. Prance, Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were already there. Prance lifted his eyebrows an inch to see Black stroll into the breakfast room. Corinne smiled, Mrs. Ballard clenched her lips and ignored him. As he was chatting to Luten as if they were old friends, Prance limited his reaction to the raised eyebrows. He actually liked Black, an extremely good butler, but Prance was always amused at pretension — including his own -- and would have his little jokes at the perpetrator’s expense. Byron soon joined them, and before they were finished, a bleary-eyed Coffen ambled in, looking extremely frowsy.

He heaped his plate with gammon and eggs and took a seat. “The reason I look even worse than usual,” he said, “I slept in the library. The ghost came back, Byron. Me and Abu frightened it away. It had a gun. I mean to say, not a real ghost at all, you see, but dressed up like the Black Monk. I tried to chase it, but it had vanished. Not that it would have found anything. The place is a mess.”

Byron leapt up. “I wish you’d called me, Pattle.”

“It’s all right. He didn’t get in. I slept there, and had a look about after I woke up. The lock hadn’t been damaged. Abu would have woke me if he’d come back. A good hound, that.”

“I thought you had men watching the place, Byron?” Prance said.

“I didn’t think it was necessary after we decided it was Vulch who had thrown the rock in the window. I’ll put them back on duty tonight. And put the hounds out as well.”

“That might not be necessary,” Luten said, with a smile at Black. “The estimable Black has come up with a plan.”

“Good man!” Coffen said. Black nodded modestly in acknowledgment of the compliment.

Luten outlined Black’s idea of pretending Minnie had passed on incriminating information to him. “What we have to decide,” he said, “is how he should get word to the Richardsons that he knows things, and is willing to negotiate the price of his silence. Once that is arranged, of course, we have to ensure his safety during the charade of the transaction. Any ideas?”

“A rendezvous arranged by note to a spot chosen by us?” Byron suggested.

“Who would you send the note to, Sir William or Lady Richardson?” Corinne asked.

“They’re both involved, so I would think to Sir William,” Prance said.

Luten nodded, then said, “We should make sure first that they know it was Black who brought Minnie here.”

“Minnie introduced me to half a dozen folks when we stopped in Hucknall,” Black said. “She told them I was putting up at the abbey.”

“Then you may be sure everyone knows by now,” Byron said.

“Eggars will have been spreading the story as well,” Corinne added.

“I do hope all this isn’t going to interfere with the party tonight, Byron?” Prance said. “You haven’t forgotten Miss Challoner is coming today? I had hoped we might have a rehearsal with the choir.”

“We don’t need a whole regiment to deal with the Richardsons,” Coffen said. “You handle the party. You’re good at that.” He ruined the compliment by adding, “It’ll keep you out of our hair.”

“You are forgetting who solved the mystery of Lady Richardson’s nose,” Prance sniffed.