by Joan Smith
“I’m not interested in no carrying on,” she said firmly.
Prance assumed what he considered his wounded expression, which bore a remarkable resemblance to a pout. “Nor am I, Grace. Only in having company on my excursion tonight, for to tell the truth, I dislike to go alone. Join me, do.”
“But if I’m too tired to do my work in the morning, I might be turned off, and Ma would kill me. We need the money.” Her smile was sweetly apologetic, but a glint in her liquid eyes spoke of slyness.
With this clue, he promptly offered a generous reimbursement for her time, and it was arranged that she would meet him outside the kitchen door at eleven thirty that night.
It was some time later that Mr. Eggars arrived in a hooded gig, followed by a wagon equipped with blanket, shovels and a litter. He was a lugubrious little man with gooseberry green eyes tilted down at the corners to give him a sad air, and a fringe of white hair around a large tonsure. Twilight had already fallen and a fine rain was coming down. Luten and Byron had just returned and led him to the boat, where Stanley was waiting to make another trip. When the party had all returned and reassembled in the salon for tea, Corinne and Prance were eager to hear what had been discovered.
“I’m famished and frozen to the marrow and crushed like a lemon with five of us in a boat that only holds four,” Coffen said, as he snatched up his tea and headed to the grate to defrost his fingers and dry his boots. He was wet and disheveled, his trousers and boots splattered with mud. Eggars was also damp, but had avoided the mud. Luten and Bryon had both made a fresh toilet.
“Well, what did you find?” Corinne asked.
“It was the body of a young girl, milady,” Eggars replied in a sorrowful voice. “I’ve sent for men to have the body taken to the coroner for examination, but there’s no doubt it was murder. The poor girl had been shot through the forehead. The weapon was not there.”
“Could you judge anything about her age or social position from her clothing?”
“No, milady,” he said, and lowered his eyes to examine his teacup.
“At least you could tell whether she wore long or short skirts, which would tell you her age,” she persisted.
“No, we couldn’t tell,” he said. “She was blond, and smallish but not a child, to judge by the looks of her.”
Corinne looked a question at Luten, who said, “The body was unclothed.”
She frowned. “Completely ? You mean stark naked?”
“She was wrapped in a sheet, but naked as the breeze beneath it,” Coffen said, “and there were no clothes buried anywhere near her either. Not so much as a button or a ribbon, for we dug up the whole dashed mud pile.”
“And look it,” Prance murmured.
“How very strange,” she said, frowning. “It looks as if someone took her to the island on purpose to molest her, poor thing.”
Prance pondered this a moment, then spoke. “The fact of her being wrapped in a sheet does suggest premeditation, but it’s odd he’d carry away her clothing and leave the body behind.” He turned to his host and asked with in a voice suspiciously innocent, “Have you any idea who the girl might be, Byron?”
Byron met his gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, and I know who she is not; viz. any of the girls who attended the party I held at the fort three years ago. Do you think there wouldn’t have been a ruckus raised if any of them had been harmed, to say nothing of having vanished? Those girls were willing to attend, and left as happy as they arrived.”
Prance assumed an expression of the utmost astonishment. “My dear Byron, I hope you didn’t think I was intimating — Really, it was the farthest thing from my mind! I just thought you might have some idea if some local girl disappeared in the past few years. I shouldn’t think the actual time of her death could be discovered within a year or so. Coffen mentioned a Minnie Vulch.”
“Oh yes, Vulch’s wife, who took off on him. No, it wasn’t her. Her hair was mousy, not blonde. Though perhaps if she’d ever washed it ... But she was altogether bigger than the little body we saw.”
“There wasn’t much flesh left, though,” Coffen pointed out. “Hard to tell from the bones.”
“Was she wearing any jewelry?” Corinne asked. “A wedding ring?”
“No, but the hands looked like a lady’s hands,” Byron said. “The nails were daintily shaped, not broken or uneven. Or she might have been a higher class of maid. A lady’s maid, a parlor maid, a dresser. Certainly not a scullery maid.”
“It’s possible she’s not from this neighborhood at all,” Luten said. “The girl might have been shot somewhere else and the body concealed on the island. It’s an out-of-the-way place with little traffic. The removal of the clothing suggests a wish for concealment. She could have been someone’s wife, for that matter. Easy enough to slip off a wedding band. Or she could be that tragic thing, an unwed mother-to-be. It will be interesting to see if she is with child. That could hint at an affair which the father didn’t wish to acknowledge. A married man, perhaps.”
Eggars listened, shook his head and emitted a mournful sigh. “So many possibilities. It promises to be an exceedingly difficult case. I can contact the magistrates within a fifty mile or so radius and see if a girl has gone missing in the past few years, but I doubt we’ll ever discover who she is after all this time. I’ll think about it tonight and return tomorrow to begin making queries.”
“I suggest you bring a bag with you and plan to stay a few days,” Byron said.
Eggars gazed into the grate. “I could put up at the inn,” he said.
“You’re welcome to stay here,” Byron offered. Prance blinked in astonishment at such democratic carrying on.
“Thank you, milord, but I find inns a good place for making queries. The lads will sometimes say more than they mean to, after a few pints. Now about this attempt on your own life, milord. Have you any notion who might have it in for you?”
“It was an accident,” Byron said firmly. “The woods hereabouts are full of poachers.”
Eggars stared at him with his disconcertingly suspicious eyes. “In broad daylight, milord?”
“I haven’t spent much time at the Abbey. The poachers have obviously become careless. My woods aren’t posted. The locals know I don’t allow man traps and take it as an invitation to make free with my game.”
Eggars nodded, but there was still a question in his gooseberry eyes. “I must be off. Thank you for your hospitality, milord. I’ll keep you informed as to my progress.” Byron nodded.
“And we’ll let you know what we find out,” Coffen said.
Eggars said, “I don’t encourage amateurs to dabble in such matters, Mr. Pattle. It could be dangerous.” On this speech he bowed all around and trudged at a weary gait from the room.
“Amateurs!” Prance scoffed. “I daresay we are a deal more experienced than Mr. Eggars at solving murders.”
Byron shook his head in frustration. “Leave it to Eggars, Pattle. Let’s not destroy this visit with such misery. I want to have some sort of Christmas party, and you must give me your advice. Now, shall we make it a dancing party, or a simple dinner party with perhaps some singing of Christmas carols?”
Prance was always easily diverted by arranging a party. “We must gather fir boughs and mistletoe to decorate the great hall. And perhaps we could practice some carols. Corinne plays a little. Have you a pianoforte, Byron?”
He had. They went off to examine the great hall and the pianoforte, and the murder was not spoken of again before dinner. But though it was not spoken of, it was not forgotten either. The murder of a young girl, possibly a mother-to-be, saddened Corinne, who had hoped, during her marriage to deCoventry, to become enceinte herself. She had seen more than one murder victim in her work with the Berkeley Brigade, and was glad she had not gone to see this one. Putting a human face on the victim would give her nightmares.
Coffen was also thinking of the murder. He planned to take Eggars’ hint and visit the closest tavern that night. H
e had learned from Stanley that the Green Man was the closest one. Vulch might be there, and if he wasn’t, the other lads would be bound to know him. He’d see what he could pick up about the Richardsons as well, and that maid of theirs. Any number of leads, and he couldn’t see why Eggars was so pessimistic about solving the case.
* * *
Chapter 5
After dinner, Prance scrounged up some tattered sheet music and set Corinne to practicing tunes on the pianoforte while Luten and Mrs. Ballard dutifully sat with her, letting on their ears didn’t ache. Corinne had a lovely voice. Sang like a thrush, but she couldn’t play the pianoforte for toffee. Coffen ducked out and joined Prance and Byron in a tour of the great hall, where Prance was suggesting decorations for the party. To do it up the way he wanted would take every fir tree in Sherwood Forest, and every branch of mistletoe on the thirty-eight thousand acre estate. Tarsome fellow.
“And of course a kissing bough over the doorway,” Prance said archly. “I trust you’ll be inviting all the local belles, Byron. We must get busy designing invitation cards. Angels singing on high, perhaps. Or the Magi. Do you know, we could make up some dummies and dress them as the Magi. Pity we don’t have access to my collection of costumes. I have some lovely velvet capes and things from a production of Love’s Labour’s Lost. Don Adriano’s red velvet trimmed in ermine was the hit of the show.”
At least he didn’t suggest building a manger in the great hall and putting a live baby and sheep in it. “Gifts,” Coffen said.
Prance considered it a moment and said, “A petit party favor for the ladies, perhaps.”
“No, but I mean the Magi. They brought gifts.”
“Gold, frankincense and myrrh,” Prance murmured.
“Where would you get them last two?” Coffen asked.
“Or the gold, for that matter,” Byron added.
“Let us not get tied down in minutiae,” Prance said, and went to examine the window hangings to see where he could add greenery.
Coffen gave Byron’s elbow a nudge and said, “Thought I’d slip down to the local tavern and fish for clues. Could I borrow a mount from you?”
“Take my carriage if you like.”
“I’d rather ride. Easier, in case I want to follow someone.”
“In that case, take Jessie Belle. My groom will saddle her up for you.”
“Good. Where would I be apt to find Vulch?”
Did he imagine that Byron gave a start at the name? “What on earth do you want to see that wretch for?” Byron asked.
“Stanley, the lad who does the rowing, mentioned Vulch’s wife could be the woman on the island. You didn’t think it was her but it’s hard to tell with such an old corpse. I just want to nose around a bit, see what I can dig up.”
Byron said, “The Green Man is the most infamous tavern in the parish, and the likeliest place to find Vulch,”
“What road’s it on?” He must have been imagining that Byron flinched at the first mention of Vulch. He didn’t seem concerned now, but if he heard at the tavern that Vulch wasn’t a customer, he’d think about it some more.
“It’s two or three miles along the road to Mansfield. He’ll probably be at a card table, if he can find anyone fool enough to sit down with him. I don’t advise it.”
“Thankee for the tip. A Captain Sharp, is he? Uses a shaved deck?”
“No one’s ever caught him at it, but one way or the other he always ends up with the money. Anyone who beats him has the misfortune to encounter a highwayman on his way home.”
“What does he look like?”
“He wears a mask, but other than that, he looks like Vulch, and rides a bay gelding like Vulch’s, but with the blaze on his forehead blacked out.”
“No, but I mean what does Vulch look like when he ain’t wearing a mask?”
“Ah. Ugly as sin. Tall, dark with unkempt black hair, wears a moleskin waistcoat and talks loud. Smiles while he talks, no matter what he’s saying. In fact the nastier he’s being, the more he smiles. I wouldn’t mind getting my leg over that bay gelding he rides. Don’t say anything to rile him. And he riles easily.”
“Sounds like a good person to stay away from," he said, and watched Byron like a weasel watching the hen house for a reaction. He looked relieved. No other word for it.
“That would be a wise course.”
“I’ll go have a look about all the same. Will you leave a door open for me? I may be late. The kitchen door will do fine, since I’ll be coming in from the stable.” It would also make it easy for him to cadge a snack. He’d be hungry after riding in the cold.
“Consider it done. I’d go with you, but I fear Prance would sulk.”
“For days. A word to the wise, put a rein on him with the decorating or he’ll have you in the poor house — if you weren’t already, I mean. He’s planning a Venetian carnival for himself this winter, and speaks of building a Grand Canal in his little ballroom.”
“I’m counting on the weather to save my forest from his depredations. My man Fletcher says there’s snow in the air.”
“Pity. That’s bound to put more ideas in his head. You want to draw the line at snow when you’ve got the place fixed up so dandy, Byron. There’s limits after all. Snow melts — though it would take a while in — heh heh. A word to the wise.”
There was no snow in the air but a brisk wind as Coffen jogged along through the dark night to the Green Man. He didn’t consider himself an imaginative man, but he would have welcomed some company to distract him from the shadows that seemed to leap out at him along the way. Jessie Belle was a frisky goer, despite her morning exercise, and he soon found the Green Man with no trouble. It was a small brick tavern with a thatched roof, set in a semi-circle of cedars. The lighted windows lent it a cozy air. The stable held a dog cart, a donkey and half a dozen mounts, one of which was a handsome bay gelding with a white blaze on its forehead. Looked like Vulch was there.
As Coffen handed the reins to the stable boy, he said, “That gelding, does it belong to a fellow called Vulch?”
“That’s right. You a friend of Vulch, Mister?” the boy asked, with an air of wariness.
So Vulch did come here. Byron wouldn’t have told him about the place if he had anything to hide about him and Vulch. “I’ve never met him. I expect you’ve known him a while? I just wanted to ask a few questions.”
The boy looked over Coffen’s shoulder, his face blanched and he drew back a step. “Ask him yourself,” he said, and turned away to tend to Jessie Belle.
Coffen felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked at a moleskin vest drawn over a dark shirt. He looked up and saw hovering above him a man just matching Byron’s description of Vulch. He was smiling, if you could call that crocodile leer a smile. His voice was loud and unpleasant.
“You looking for me, Mister?” he asked.
Vulch looked like a man best questioned at pistol point. As he was leaving and wasn’t likely to take him up on it at that time, Coffen said the only thing he could think of. “I heard you might be interested in a game of cards.”
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 w
as 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.