Murder at Newstead Abbey

by Joan Smith

  It was hard to see many details through the trees in the park, but the place was large, about half the size of Newstead Abbey, built of the same kind of stone, though not in the gothic style. The windows weren’t pointy. Coffen had only the scantiest notion of architectural styles but he knew a place wasn’t gothic if it didn’t have pointed windows. Oh gee arches, Prance had called them when they went to see Strawberry Hill. A funny name for a window, oh gee, but easy to remember. The windows in this place were square, like the house itself. It looked old and had big heavy stones at the corners where the sides met. There was probably a name for them. Prance would know.

  He tethered Jessie Belle to a tree across the road and crept after Vulch on foot. He figured he’d be going to the stable, and was surprised when a gentle whickering caught his attention and he saw Vulch’s gelding tethered to a tree. A welcome visitor would ride to the stable, so Vulch was on some secret business. Coffen crept forward, keeping to the side of the graveled road to deaden his footfalls and to gain concealment from the bushes. He had lost sight of Vulch but as he watched, a young girl wearing a white apron came flying down the road. Vulch stepped out and caught her.

  “Oh Vulch,” she said. “Don’t leap out at me like that. You scared me.”

  Vulch didn’t say anything. He just grabbed her into his arms and began kissing her with enthusiasm. Coffen watched only long enough to see the girl wasn’t being forced, then he turned to creep away. Even Vulch deserved privacy for his cuddling. Odd that any girl would fancy that monster.

  When Vulch stopped kissing the wench long enough to say, “Well, what are they saying in there?” Coffen waited, ears cocked.

  “You’re daft, Vulch,” the girl said. “Lady Richardson isn’t talking about nothing except wondering if she’ll be invited to Newstead to meet the company. I smell ale on your breath! Have you been chasing after that Tess at the Green Man again?”

  “Can’t a man have a pint without you jawing at him?” he said, not angrily but in a wheedling way. “You know you’re the only one for me, lass. About them at the big house, they didn’t say nothing about the girl what was found on the island?”

  “He didn’t say nothing. He never does. She says she thinks it’s Minnie. That’s what everyone thinks. It ain’t her, is it, Vulch?”

  “I doubt it. She left town, didn’t she? Sounds to me they’d like Eggars to think it’s Min. So where can we go for a bit of featherbed jigging?”

  “It’ll have to be your place. It’s too cold for the field and I can’t get you into my room again. They’ve landed Jennie in with me. I think milady knows you was there last night.”

  “Jealous, that’s what she is.”

  “Her jealous of the likes of you? She don’t chase nobody unless they have a title.”

  When they began snuggling again, Coffen made good his escape, reviewing the clues he had overheard. Vulch already knew about the body, and had some reason to think the Richardsons would be interested. Why? He either thought they’d be wondering if it was that maid of theirs that went missing in London, or he was afraid they suspected it was Minnie. Or there could be some other girl he hadn’t learned about yet.

  Since Vulch wasn’t at the Green Man, Coffen decided to save that visit for another time and go back to the Abbey to look for ghosts. It was a good night for it. The fuzzy outline of a half moon cast a pale light as it moved behind a tattered tail of cloud. A cool December wind lent an eerie, creaking sound to the swaying branches above. It also caused a dull ache in his knee, which he had wrenched in a tumble from his mount a few weeks before in London.

  The tea tray was just leaving the kitchen when he arrived back at the abbey. He didn’t stop to grab a bite but just washed his hands and hurried upstairs. The others were going into the salon when he got there. The ladies were always complaining behind Byron’s back about how cold the salon was, but it felt nice and warm to him after being outside. Very cozy, with the fire leaping in the grate and the silver vessels from the tea tray twinkling in the lamplight.

  The tray was placed before Corinne, who poured for them without spilling a drop. Mrs. Ballard never poured when she could get out of it. Coffen was surprised to see her there at all. She was jumpy as a grasshopper in such high company and usually slipped away as soon as she could. Prance must have put her to work with his decorating. She did undertake to pass the plates holding bread, cold cuts and sweets, murmuring that it all looked delicious, as indeed it did.

  Byron lifted his eyebrow in a mute question to Coffen. The others didn’t seem to notice he’d been gone. Prance was jawing away about Corinne’s playing. It wasn’t up to his high standard. Nothing ever was.

  “Of course I’m out of practice. I haven’t touched a pianoforte since I moved to Berkeley Square,” she said rather angrily. “If you don’t like my playing, you can play yourself.”

  “And who will lead the singers?” he replied, in the same snipping way.

  While Luten was trying to pacify them, Byron brought his cup over to Coffen’s chair. “Any sign of Vulch?” he asked.

  Prance, as jealous as a lover, noticed them and said, “What plan are you two hatching?”

  “It’s already hatched,” Coffen said, and told them where he’d been, and what he’d seen and overheard. “Vulch seems to think Lady Richardson would be interested in the body, but according to his girlfriend, she’s more interested in meeting us.” Having finished his tale, he dug into the plate he’d heaped with food.

  His last sentence pleased Prance. He was always eager to meet anyone who admired him. “Will you oblige the lady, Byron?” he asked.

  “They’re on the list of guests for the Christmas party.”

  “It’d be interesting to pick their brains before that,” Coffen said.

  “Are you on calling terms with them?” Corinne asked. “We could pay them an afternoon visit as a courtesy to local worthies.”

  “Is the man a Whig?” Luten asked. “From what Coffen says, his pockets are deep. He might make us a useful M.P. one of these days.”

  “Yes, I am on calling terms with them, Corinne,” Byron said. “They paid me a visit the last time I was here. As to their politics, Luten, the Redleys were always dyed in the wool Tories. They’d vote for a jackass if his hide was blue. Sir William may be his own man, however. We only discussed forestry. Sir William was planting a windbreak behind his house. We can call and deliver cards to the party if you like.”

  “I shall make up a card for them tomorrow,” Prance said, and it was settled that they would call on the Richardsons.

  When Coffen rose and took his cup for a refill, Corinne said, “You’re limping again, Coffen. Did you hurt your knee?”

  “It’s the raw weather,” he said. “The sawbones warned me it would cut up for a while in the damp.” Mrs. Ballard murmured something about a bandage. “It’ll not slow me down,” he continued. “I’ll nip into the Green Man tomorrow and see what I can ferret out about Vulch. And the Richardsons,” he added, to cover all bases.

  As the long case clock struck eleven chimes, Corinne stifled a yawn and said, “I’m turning in now. All this fresh country air ..."

  Mrs. Ballard shot out of her chair to accompany her, nearly upsetting her tea in the process. She would as soon be alone in a roomful of tigers as with four gentlemen. The ladies said their goodnights and left.

  Prance kept an eye on the clock. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Grace. Coffen had his own plan to be at the Monks’ Avenue at midnight. The two of them left, and Byron and Luten remained behind, discussing politics.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Prance’s valet, Villier, wrapped a warm muffler about his master’s throat in preparation for the tryst with Grace. Villier was his master’s confidant in more matters than his toilette. He knew all about the gothic novel, about Grace being Lady Lorraine, about his master’s unstated longing for fame. Prance had often thought, when browsing through Plato’s Symposium, that Villier was the
other half of himself that man searched for. They even looked somewhat alike. Indeed their physiques were so similar that, in a pinch, Villier could be sent to Weston to be measured for a new jacket for Prance. He was the recipient of all Prance’s cast-offs. This was no small perquisite, for Prance bought many jackets, and did not wear them into the ground.

  He had never had such a close relationship with anyone else, even his beloved Comtesse Chamaude. There was nothing homoerotic in it, but the relationship went miles beyond the usual servant-master one, past friendship to something rare and necessary to their mutual happiness. All this, without Prance ever quite losing sight of the fact that Villier was his servant.

  “You have the guinea for Grace?” Villier asked as Prance headed to the door.

  Prance patted his pocket. “Right here. You needn’t wait up for me, Villier.” The look that passed between them spoke volumes — that of course Villier would wait up, that a warming pan would be in his bed and a posset waiting for him after his vigil in the cold, that Prance knew all this and appreciated it.

  Coffen had no such loving ties with his gentleman’s gentleman. His dark-visaged man, Raven, had been foisted on him by his groom. There was no sign of Raven when Coffen went abovestairs. Likely playing cards somewhere with the other servants, or seducing one of the pretty maids. Coffen’s afternoon buckskins were thrown across the seat of the chair, unbrushed, with the jacket on top. His nightshirt had not been laid out. His bag had been unpacked, his jackets hung up, and his shirts and small clothes dumped in a heap in the dressers drawers. Lord Byron’s servants were better trained. A half empty decanter of wine and a glass sat on the bedside table. Coffen was grateful that Raven had left him half the bottle. Pity he hadn’t rinsed out the glass. He wiped it off with his handkerchief, poured himself a glass and sat a moment, rubbing his aching knee and thinking about the best place to find a ghost. The Monks’ Avenue seemed a good bet.

  Grace had asked Prance to wait for her outside the kitchen door so the others servants wouldn’t see him, “For that lot’d be bound to think the worst. Especially that Sally.”

  He left by a side door and after a long and rather frightening circuit in the dark around the enormous building, his heart jumping in fright at a dozen spectral shadows and moving branches, he spotted a lighted window which indicated the kitchen. He didn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately a dainty figure wrapped in a dark shawl came slipping out the door.

  “Lord, I thought Cook would never leave the kitchen,” Grace complained. “I’ve been crouching behind the door at the bottom of the back stairs till me knees ache. I don’t know how I’m to get back in without her seeing me.”

  “We shall contrive something, never fear,” Prance said, and taking her elbow, he said, “Lead on. You are my Cicerone this evening, my dear.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, casting a suspicious eye at him.

  “My guide, Grace.” He flung out a hand. “Lead me to the ghosts of Newstead Abbey.”

  “Where folks see the monk is along this way,” she said, and set off at a quick pace, as if she were eager to have it over with.

  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.”