Murder at Newstead Abbey Page 2

  “Villier, the new Weston today, I think.” Many of his possessions had names. His jackets were “Westons”, from London’s premier tailor. His hats were “Baxters” and his boots were “Hobys”. “But first a shave.”

  Prance’s toilette could take upwards of an hour, but that day he was so eager to be about his research that he left his room in half that time. As he strolled down the stairs, he heard raised voices coming from Byron’s study.

  “We’ll not put up with it. This is a decent parish, or was, until you brought your debauched friends here. You’re as bad as murdering Mad Jack, and so I tell you,” an angry voice shouted. It was followed by some soothing words from Byron. The door opened, and Prance scuttled along the hall to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Prance was astonished that anyone would have the gall to treat a lord so harshly, and in his own home. His mind immediately darted to what Byron was best known for, other than his poetry; namely, womanizing. Was it an outraged husband? The father of some innocent maiden Byron had got in the family way? Did those conciliating murmurs from Byron mean he was going to marry some nobody? Surely not! He had often called himself a romantic agnostic, unfit to wage domesticity.

  Prance’s astonishment rose a notch when he learned the shouting gentleman was a mere vicar. A hireling, in other words.

  “Pay no heed to old Ruttle,” Byron said with a sheepish face after he had got rid of his caller and was leading Prance toward the breakfast room. “I daresay you overheard that harangue. The locals elected the vicar to represent their concerns.”

  “The vicar!” Prance exclaimed. “He sounded more like an irate husband.”

  “He may be that as well, but I assure you not one ounce of his wife’s two hundred pounds has been molested by me. He tells me that when the parish heard I was entertaining gentlemen friends they were afraid I was repeating my youthful folly of carrying on what he chose to call ‘orgies’ with the local girls. I had Matthews and a few of the fellows down here after graduation. We managed to scandalize the neighbors with our foolish carrying on. Staying up late and sleeping in till one o’clock. Of course we indulged in the usual juvenile delinquencies, with the innovation of dressing up in monks’ robes to lend it an air of diablerie. We drank too much, et cetera. I daresay it was the et cetera that really bothered him, for Ruttle wouldn’t object to drinking. He likes his bottle as well as the rest of us. The best we could do in the way of women was two skinny house maids and one married woman of uncertain character, but certainly not chaste.”

  “Now I have the gentleman’s character. You’re speaking of a parson squire, I take it?”

  “Just so. Spends his days astride a monstrous bay mare which rather resembles his wife, and his nights with his crones, drinking and gambling, while a curate does his work for him. Except, of course, for such occasions as baptisms and weddings, when there’s likely to be a pourboire involved.”

  “Why not be rid of him? Isn’t the living yours to give — or take away?”

  Byron assumed an expression of mock horror. “Oh lord, I’m unpopular enough without making changes, Prance. You must know changes are anathema in the provincial backwoods. I explained that I had reformed, and was entertaining the crème de la crème at a perfectly respectable house party. Pray don’t tell Luten and Lady deCoventry he was here. He already thinks me a fool, and I wouldn’t want her to think any worse of me than she already does.

  “I’ve braced myself to behave like a proper gentleman for two whole weeks. I’ve even given orders to keep my animals out of the main rooms. No flirting with Corinne, no carrying on with the housemaids. In fact I’ve hired the ugliest ones I could find especially for the occasion. I can do without the girls but I do miss Abu and Nelson.” Abu was his favorite dog, an ugly yellow hound, and Nelson his one-eyed cat.

  Prance adored secrets and always enjoyed anything in the way of mischief. He was also delighted to hear himself described as the crème de la crème. “Fear not, Byron. Your secret is safe with me. These country folks are Mrs. Grundys, one and all.”

  “I expect it was the skull cup that set him off. That seemed to be a major bone of contention. He wanted me to give it a decent burial.”

  “What, bury a cup?”

  “A skull cup, skull being the offending word. I found a monk’s skull in the grounds and had it set in silver to use as a drinking cup in that orgy I spoke of. Luten would no doubt think it blasphemous and you, I expect, would find it vulgar. I was careful to hide it away before you worthy folks arrived.”

  “I’ve heard of it. May I see it?” Vulgar or not, his mind was already scurrying around to think where he could get hold of a skull, without rifling a graveyard.

  As they talked, they continued down dim corridors and around corners, finally arriving at a sunny paneled room with a cozy fire blazing in the grate. The aroma of coffee, toast and bacon hung appetizingly on the air. A round table was set for five. Two young maids with mobcaps over their curls and white aprons that emphasized their curves were just setting the dishes on the sideboard. Both bobbed a curtsey. If these were Byron’s idea of ugly, he would like to see the ones he didn’t hire. The beauty with black curls and liquid black eyes with, perhaps, a glint of appraisal in them, smiled shyly before darting out of the room. The blond one with bold green eyes lingered, casting the leer of invitation at them, until Byron said, “Thank you. That will be all, Sally.”

  “If you need me later, just let me know, your lordship,” she said, and bobbed off with her rump swaying.

  Prance gave him a knowing smirk and said, “Where do you find these ugly wenches? But we were speaking of the skull cup.”

  Before Byron could reply, Coffen came shambling into the room, looking like an unmade bed.

  “How did you find the breakfast room?” Prance asked.

  “Just followed my nose.”

  Prance and Coffen were a study in opposites. Prance was tall and lean, with a face that bore some resemblance to a greyhound. His toilette was not the most important thing in his life, but it accounted for a good deal of his time and money and artistic talent. Although he didn’t really care for country life, he liked dressing up and had indulged in a frenzy of preparations for the visit. He wore a new jacket of a rougher material than his customary superfine, made up in a heather shade for this visit. His usually flowered or striped waistcoat had been replaced by one in a solid mustard color. He had also brought along a stout blackthorn walking stick and walking shoes.

  It was impossible for a short, stout gentleman with mud-colored hair to look elegant, but Prance saw no reason that Coffen must put a scarecrow to shame. As usual, his mud-colored hair was unkempt, his cravat badly tied, his jacket wrinkled and his topboots dusty. To judge by the cut on his jaw he had shaved at least. That was something.

  “You were imagining things, Prance,” Coffen said, lowering his eyebrows over his sharp blue eyes. “There wasn’t a sign of a ghost in that room. I slept like a dog.”

  “Like a log, you mean.”

  “That as well. Time for fork work, is it?” he asked, lifting his nose like a hunting hound and sniffing the air.

  Byron led them to the sideboard, where Coffen heaped his plate with gammon and eggs and potatoes, and Prance poked about for the smallest piece of gammon and one piece of toast. Byron took only the toast.

  Before long, the other members of the party joined them. Luten was as elegant as ever, even in country clothes. His cravat was immaculate, his jacket freshly pressed and his top boots shone like a mirror. Corinne wore a new scarlet riding habit that Prance had talked her into. She looked like the illustration of Little Red Riding Hood in his book of fairy tales. He wasn’t sure he had chosen the color wisely but as he was responsible, he had to compliment her on it. There was no counting on Luten to do it, which was a dangerous lapse for a fiancé, in Prance’s opinion.

  “Byron, you mentioned you have a lady’s mount in the stable,” sh
e said. “I thought I might have a ride this morning, as it’s such a lovely day.”

  “I also have two mounts for gentlemen,” Byron said. “Why don’t I accompany you and Luten? I’ll show you the local sights, such as they are.”

  Luten, a slave to the Whig party, had some work he wanted to do and suggested that Prance or Coffen accompany her and Byron.

  “I planned to have a look around the place. P’raps I’ll spot a ghost,” Coffen said.

  “You’ll not see ghosts in the day time,” said Corinne.

  “I know, but I mean check out the cloisters and all that, so I’ll know where to look tonight. I believe I spotted some sort of a ruin in the lake as well.”

  “Two, actually, in the upper lake,” Byron said. “You might want to have a look at the larger one. It has no reputation of being haunted but I wouldn’t want to go there alone after dark. The fifth baron built a fortress on the island there, reputedly for the purpose of holding orgies. I’ll have one of the footmen row you over. It’s not far.”

  “Thankee kindly. I’ll give her a try,” Coffen said, and squaring his elbows, he lit into his food.

  The two maids returned to perform some largely imaginary chores at the sideboard. The blond kept darting coy smiles at the table, but it was the black-haired one who caught the interest of two of the gentlemen. Prance studied her sweet, pale face and realized he had found the heroine for his gothic novel. He could always write better when he had a real character to base his imaginary ones on. That, he thought, was half the trouble with his Rondeaux. He had no clear image of Arthur, dux bellorum. He would befriend the maid and learn her little mannerisms, to lend authenticity to his tale. The Countess Chamaude, alas, grew dim in memory.

  Coffen also found the maid pretty. He liked the dainty, ladylike way she moved about, not brass-faced like the other one. He was frightened of bold girls, but a shy one like the raven-haired beauty would just suit him. He cocked an ear and heard her called Grace. A nice name, it suited her. All this watching and planning in no way interfered with his breakfast, though it was responsible for the smear of egg yoke on his cravat. Byron was careful to ignore the two beauties and concealed his pleasure that Luten would not be accompanying his fiancée on the outing.

  The three riders set out immediately after breakfast. The weather was cool and crisp, with a clear blue sky overhead. Corinne had been hoping for a good hard ride in the country. That was something she missed in London. She had been raised on a farm in Ireland, where she had been discovered at seventeen years of age by Lord deCoventry, who was exactly three times her age. He bought her from her papa for five thousand pounds, took her home to London, decked her out in finery, polished up her country manners and made her the belle of the season. His hope was to secure an heir, but in this one respect his young bride failed him. In all other ways, the four years of their marriage were successful. DeCoventry died when she was twenty-one. She was now a widow of twenty-four, the Dowager Countess deCoventry, a quarter of a century younger than the new countess.

  Prance claimed an interest in visiting Nottingham to see some of the sights of Byron’s youth, which did indeed have some interest for him, but he also wanted to go on the strut to show off his new jacket to the provincials. As Nottingham was some eleven miles away, it looked like being a long ride, whatever about a fast one. They set a good pace, however, and as the roads weren’t busy, they made good time.

  “You’ll want to visit the shops,” he said as a sop to Corinne. “No need to worry about walking alone in the provinces, eh?”

  “I do need a new shawl,” she said, with a memory of last evening’s chill.

  “I suggest a woolen one,” Byron said with an apologetic smile. “Contrary to popular belief, God does not temper the wind to the shorn lamb at the abbey.”

  While Byron took Prance on a tour to show him Griddlesmith Gate on Pelham Street where he had lived briefly with his mother, and St. James Street where he stayed in a dusty red brick building close to the hospital where he was receiving treatment from a quack for his club foot, Corinne dismounted and visited a few shops in search of a shawl to ward off the arctic drafts of the abbey.

  She found none ready-made but discovered a beautiful length of fine mauve wool and a matching silk fringe. The fringe could be sewed on with little trouble to dress the wool up as a stylish shawl. She bought enough for herself and Mrs. Ballard, and rather regretted that she hadn’t bought a few ells for a suit while she was at it. The price was half what she would pay in London.

  Lady deCoventry’s pockets were not so deep as her friends’, as her late husband could not leave her his entailed estates. He had bought her the little house on Berkeley Square, a cottage in the country and left twenty-five thousand pounds, the interest on which provided her enough to live comfortably, if she watched her pennies.

  As she left the drapery shop, she spotted a dressmaker’s sign in a window on the corner and took the material there to have it hemmed and the fringe added, to save the bother of sewing it herself. Mrs. Addams told her she would have it ready the next day but she couldn’t deliver.

  “For I’ve no gig, you see, and to hire one would cost as much as the work’s worth.”

  “If I can’t get back myself, I’ll send a footman for it,” Corinne said, and left, happy with her bargain.

  She met up with the gentlemen as she came out of the dressmaker’s shop. The visit had taken so long that they feared they’d be late home for luncheon.

  “We can take a short cut, if you don’t mind rough riding,” Byron suggested.

  “I’d like a good country run,” Corinne said at once, before Reg could suggest they stop and eat at an inn to show off his new country finery. When Byron expressed enthusiasm for the ride, Prance held his peace.

  They were nearly home, actually on Byron’s property, when it happened. Byron led the way through a spinney that cut a few miles off the trip. It would be a lovely spot in spring. Even in late autumn, with only a few yellowed leaves clinging to the branches, it had some beauty. There were enough evergreens and densely-limbed shrubs to give that air of rustic solitude that is half the charm of a spinney. Sunlight filtering through the trees dappled their shoulders with dancing sequins of light. The rustle of vegetation spoke of woodland creatures gathering provisions for the coming winter. Birds perched on branches, looking down on them. In the distance, a stream gurgled. The scent of pine and mold and decay took her back to Ardmore, her home in Ireland.

  The calm was shattered by a loud blast, and a bullet whined in the air. It lifted Byron’s hat from his head. After an instant’s stunned silence, Byron bellowed, “Don’t shoot, you fool! You nearly killed me!” He peered off into the direction from which the shot had come. It was impossible to get a horse into such dense vegetation, but he dismounted and pushed a few yards forward on foot, shouting as he went. In the distance, the rustle of dried bushes and snap of branches told him his attacker was too far ahead to bother giving chase.

  He came back, scowling. “Poachers, and in broad daylight,” he grumbled. “Damme I don’t mind if they help themselves to an occasional rabbit or pheasant, but to be so careless. He might have killed us.”

  “You don’t look like either a rabbit or pheasant to me,” Prance said, with a meaningful lift of an eyebrow.

  “Oh I hardly think he’d go that far,” Byron said, and remounted.

  “Who are you talking about?” Corinne asked. “Do you think someone was shooting at your deliberately, Byron?”

  Byron shot a commanding look at Prance. “No, of course not. Prance was referring to an irate neighbor I mentioned to him,” he said, and quickly led them off again. As they were going single file, further conversation was impossible, but Corinne had seen that look, and knew she didn’t have the whole story. Surely no one was trying to kill Byron! No, it was an accident, a poacher who didn’t look where he was shooting.

  But as she considered it, she knew perfectly well there had been no bird nor wild game anywhe
re near them. A bird would be in the air or in a tree, and a rabbit would be on the ground. Of course the gun could have gone off by accident if the poacher tripped. Naturally he would take to his heels to avoid being chewed out and possibly have a charge laid against him by Byron. That was surely the explanation.

  It was Coffen who discovered the real murder that morning, on the island in the lake.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  > Coffen felt chilled to the bone on the lake despite the sun. He had to keep one hand on his hat or that nasty, raw wind would have made off with it. The water leaking into the old boat and soaking his boots didn’t help either. He wouldn’t have minded taking the oars himself to warm up, but the young footman who was rowing him seemed to know what he was about, and Coffen had never rowed a boat in his life. Very likely there was some trick to it. He put the time to use by quizzing the tall, gawky young fellow with red hair and freckles about Grace.

  From Stanley he learned, “She’s the youngest and best looking of the Hyslop girls. Her pa’s dead and her ma raises rabbits. You can buy them live or dead and skinned. She sells the pelts as well. Grace hasn’t got a fellow. Not that she couldn’t have her pick but she’s too perticuler. She ain’t a regular maid, his lordship just hired her for the visit.”

  Coffen stored all this up for future cogitation. He liked rabbits himself. A young rabbit in onion sauce was a toothsome ragout. His more immediate interest was centered on the island, which was fast drawing nearer. The larger fortress, when he got there, was a dandy one, of old stone like the Abbey, and with those cut out squares along the roof-line like a real fort, or some old castle. It looked old as the hills, but he knew it couldn’t be that old as Byron had mentioned the fifth baron built it. It was built to look old, like Walpole’s gothic heap called Strawberry Hill, which was a funny name for a gothicy place. Too cheerful by half. Mrs. Radcliffe would have done better.