by Joan Smith
“I thought he was seeing the Richardson’s maid,” Prance said.
“He is. It seems he can handle more than one girl at a time. One of those ambidexter fellows you told me about, Prance. Mind you, he’s not getting anywhere with Tess. So who’s coming with me? He’s not the kind of fellow you’d want to tackle alone.”
“I’ll go,” Byron offered at once. “Since it’s my reputation that’s at stake in all this, I want to be in on it. I wonder —"
“If it was Vulch that shot at you?" Coffen finished. “I was wondering the same thing. Can you think of any reason?
Byron hesitated a moment before answering. “Only that I refused to hire him to help with the harvest, but if that’s a reason for murder, he’d have to kill half the neighborhood.”
“I’ll join you and Coffen tonight,” Luten said.
Prance disliked to see Byron go off without him, but on the other hand, this Vulch character didn’t sound like someone he’d want to meet, especially under such adverse circumstances as breaking into his house. And as he was actually staying under Byron’s roof, there was no shortage of opportunities to be with him. He murmured something about wanting to get to work on his gothic novel, and three of them should be able to handle even a Vulch.
They soon parted to dress for dinner. Prance managed to waylay Grace as she was bringing hot water to the serving dishes to keep dinner warm. She looked quite ravishing with a sparkling white cap on her black curls and a white apron tied tightly around her lithe waist. It would be amusing to teach her proper English and take her to London to act as his parlor maid. He would play Pygmalion to her Galatea. He asked her if she’d accompany him on another ghost hunt that evening.
She pursed her lips, flashed her dark eyes at him and said with an air of injury, “You never paid me the last time, sir.”
He dropped a coin into her hand. “You ran off on me,” he reminded her with a chiding smile. “I thought you might misunderstand if I went seeking you out in your bedchamber.”
She slid the coin into her apron pocket and stared at him a moment with those large, liquid eyes, with just a trace of slyness flashing in their depths. This only added to her allure. What was it William said, “Some faults to make us men.” Or of course women. Prance found a few twists in his friends made them more interesting. He had endless amusement from Luten’s pride and jealousy, and Corinne’s jealousy. Coffen’s frequent solecisms gave him ample chance to show off, which he readily acknowledged as a weakness in himself. And he was coming to suspect that Byron’s pose of never being impressed by anything was just that — a pose. No twenty-four year old could be as cynical and world-weary as he pretended to be.
Grace opened her lips and said, “I nearly got kilt last night. I’m not up to going out there again.”
“There are said to be ghosts inside the house as well.”
She peered up at him from the side of her eyes. “How much?”
“Same as last night. No discount for working indoors.”
She cocked her head and considered it. “Well, if you say so, but there’ll be no carrying on, mind.”
“None of the sort you mean,” he agreed, and she nipped off, happy with her bargain.
Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were both wrapped up in their new shawls. Corinne realized the mauve didn’t go with her blue gown, but she wanted to keep her dark green gown for the party, and she refused to shiver and freeze all evening. Over another lavish dinner, they all discussed their day’s doings. The gentlemen made quick work of their port and joined the ladies in the salon before taking their leave.
“It looks like it will be just you and I and Mrs. Ballard tonight,” Corinne said to Prance, after the others had left.
“Actually I plan to work. The novel, you know.”
“Oh yes. Then it’s just you and I, Mrs. Ballard. Would you like a game of cards, or would you rather read?”
“Just as you like, milady,” said her obliging companion, who was on thorns to get back to her novel.
“Why don’t you have a look through the archives and see if you can find any stories of ghosts?” Prance suggested.
Mrs. Ballard was never happier than when she was being useful. “Or we might find out something for the Richardsons,” she mentioned.
“The fire will have gone out in the library. It’s nice and warm by the fire here,” Corinne said.
“I’ll bring you each a box of papers to examine here,” he said, and went to the library to root through boxes of boring business ledgers until he came to a box containing journals and letters, which he carried back to the salon and placed on the sofa table. When he saw Grace loitering outside the door, he excused himself and joined her. The ladies were alone in the salon when the rock came hurtling through the window and smashed on to the table, missing Mrs. Ballard by inches.
* * *
Chapter 10
Mrs. Ballard squealed and leapt up from the sofa, upsetting the box of papers that fell in a heap on the floor. Corinne hollered, “Murray!” and the butler came into the room, dragging his feet like a lame racehorse.
He looked in the direction of her ladyship’s pointing finger, saw the gaping hole in the window, cried, “Gorblimey!” and hurried forward to look out into the darkness. Seeing no one, he snatched up the poker, shouted, “Down, ladies,” over his shoulder and went limping out the door.
Mrs. Ballard took him at his word and crouched behind the far end of the sofa. Corinne stood a moment, frozen with shock, then ran out after Murray. From the open front doorway she could hear the sound of retreating hoof beats echoing in the distance. A cold, white moon shone down on the grounds. Swaying shadows of the tall trees suggested movement, but she could see no sign of either horse or man, except for Murray. She went out to speak to him.
“He got clean away, the bounder,” he said, scratching his head. “What’s all this about, I wonder? You’ll take a chill, milady. Best nip back inside. I’ll have a look about out here.”
It was indeed perishingly cold. The wind whistled through her woolen shawl. “Come inside, Murray,” she said. “He was on horseback. You won’t see him. You can send some footmen out to have a look, but I fear it’s pointless.”
“Fear not, milady. I’m up to it,” he said, and limped off into the shadows.
Corinne went back inside, where Mrs. Ballard was just peeking up from behind the sofa. Her face was milk white and her whole body was trembling.
“We should never have come to this horrid place!” she cried. It was the first complaint Corinne had ever heard her utter, in the seven years they had been together. She always confined her disapproval to a tightening of the lips, or at most a frown. Mrs. Ballard looked surprised at her own daring. “Lord Byron is not — not the sort of man you should associate with, milady.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Corinne scoffed, and looked about for the rock which had come hurtling through the window. She found it, rolled into a corner of the sofa. It was the size of a coconut, and there was a note tied to it. She pulled it off and read, “The curse of the Byrons is on this house. You are not wanted here. Go, or take the consequences.” It was printed in childish letters.
She passed it to Mrs. Ballard, who accepted it reluctantly, read it, tsk’d and handed it back.
“This is the work of some lunatic,” Corinne said, and put the note aside to show the others. A stiff breeze was now whistling through the window, sending the flames in the grate dancing sideways. She went out to call Murray, who was just returning from his search.
“Not a sign of him,” he said, shaking his head in frustration.
She showed him the rock and the note but he had no idea who could be responsible. “Can you do something to the window?” she asked. “It’s very cold.”
“I’ll put an oilskin over it and draw the curtains. If he comes back, the rock won’t go through the curtain. You ladies might he more comfortable in the morning parlor.”
“Oh my yes,” Mrs. Ballard said, holding her hand
to her palpitating heart.
Corinne felt a stab of pity for her. “You go on up to your room, Mrs. Ballard,” she suggested. Her companion was not slow to heed this suggestion. She scuttled from the room, peering over her shoulder to see if another rock wasn’t coming at her.
Murray trudged off and returned with two footmen and a sheet of oilskin, which he tacked on to the window frame, then drew all the curtains.
“Has this sort of thing happened before?” Corinne asked him.
“There were a few eruptions when his lordship was here with his friends some years ago. Memories are long in the countryside, milady. P’raps the local folks fear more of his carrying on, but when they see he’s in good company, it will pass.”
“How very unpleasant for him,” she said. Byron seemed to be an absolute magnet for trouble. He had nearly drowned in a shipwreck, he had been with the Prince Regent a month before when a shot was fired at one of their party. His affair with Lady Caroline Lamb had turned into a saga that was half farce and half tragedy. And even in the country trouble sought him out. If they didn’t solve the mystery of the corpse found on his island, that would be laid in his dish as well, to brand him a murderer. The irony of it! Byron, who had such a love of women, and who was so ingenuously honest. He was rash and foolish to be sure, but he never denied his wrong doings. He bragged about them.
If he had inadvertently killed someone, he would have run to the nearest constable to turn himself in — and written a poem about it. Wouldn’t he? Very likely it was finding the corpse that had got the locals upset, because Byron hadn’t done anything to bother the strictest member of the parish on this visit.
She remembered that Prance was in the house, and asked Murray to send a maid up to his room to ask him to come down. Sally was soon back without him. “He’s not there, milady. And he’s not in the liberry, for I had a peek on my way past. He’s gone,” she said, in an ominous voice.
“He can’t be gone. He must be in some other room. You’ll have to search for him.” When the maid just stood staring at her, she said, “At once,” and the maid scuttled off, muttering under her breath.
Corinne sat on by the fire, thinking. This rock through the window was a primitive stunt, the sort of thing the locals would do, to try to frighten Byron away. No doubt they feared he meant to corrupt their daughters. Or did it have something to do with the body found on the island? Did they think the woman had died — or been killed — during that orgy on the island? Byron had already said all the girls were present and healthy after the orgy. And how could she word such a question anyway? “You didn’t happen to kill any of those young girls you had on the island?” She couldn’t do it. She would have to ask Prance. And where the devil was Prance?
He came sauntering in a moment later, trying not to look guilty.
“Where have you been, Reggie? We’ve been looking all over for you. We’ve been attacked!”
“I heard all about it,” he said. “The maid told me. You weren’t hurt?”
“No, but where were you? You weren’t in your room and you weren’t in the library.”
“I was upstairs in a part of the house that hasn’t been fixed up yet. Looking for ghosts, for my novel, you know.”
“Did you find any?”
“Alas, no, but I heard things.”
“You probably heard the window breaking. It was loud enough to wake the dead.”
“No, it wasn’t that sort of sound. More otherworldly, an eerie sort of spectral moaning. Very likely it was only the wind. Which window did the rock come through?”
She pointed to the spot, now covered by the drawn curtain, and showed him the note. He read it and nodded. “Childish printing, but the spelling is correct. No simple country bumpkin would spell consequences without a w. I see the fame of the Berkeley Brigade has spread. Someone here doesn’t want us to discover the secret of the body found on the island. That makes it look like a local job.”
This was a welcome alternative to her lurid imaginings. “Do you really think we’re known this far afield?”
“Oh my dear Corrie! Our fame has spread well beyond London. Do you not recall Lady Richardson mentioned the Berkeley Brigade? The journals made a meal, in fact several feasts, of our case at Granmaison. And then when the Prince himself asked for our help — I daresay we’re known from Land’s End to John O’ Groats. Someone out there fears we will ferret out his identity and see him brought to justice. Well, in my mind, this goes a long way toward proving that Byron is innocent. Not that I ever thought otherwise!”
“I was wondering if it didn’t suggest just the opposite, Reg, that some girl was killed during that orgy. Oh not by Byron himself, but by one of his friends. I don’t think he would lie to cover his own crime, but he might do it for a good friend. Perhaps some excuse was made locally, that she’d run off with one of the guests or some such thing, and now when this body turned up, public opinion has turned against him.”
“I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” he scoffed. “That so-called orgy was just a bout of boyish pranks. He mentioned two skinny housemaids and a married woman. No, I believe I have hit on the solution. Someone is trying to drive the Berkeley Brigade away before we solve this mystery.”
She saw that Prance was still too enthralled with Byron to even consider that he might be involved. She would ask Coffen to find out from Tess if any local girl had disappeared around that time. In fact, they already knew Minnie Vulch had. Could she be the married woman? Was that why Vulch, if it was Vulch, had taken a shot at Byron?
* * *
Chapter 11
While this was going forth at the Abbey, the other three gentlemen saddled up and rode north to Vulch’s cottage. In deference to his guests, Byron rode the lady’s mount, which was more than up to his weight. Each was glad of the others’ company. Passing alone through a desolate countryside at night awakens some primitive fear. On such a night, with a pale moon shining wanly on black trees that rustled in the wind, it was easy to understand how early man had found a need to invent gods to protect him. In the distance a fox barked.
“That’s Redley Hall ahead,” Byron said, as they approached it.
Luten peered through the darkness to get an idea of its size and shape. “An impressive heap,” he said. “What were Sir William’s circumstances before he married? Is he a local fellow?”
“From Northants, I believe. There’s some connection between the families. He’s the eldest son and inherited the baronetcy. He went to Jamaica to make his fortune when his own family fell on hard times. His papa went bankrupt and lost the family estate. This is local gossip. I don’t know how reliable it may. Lady Richardson will be happy to answer any questions, if you really care. I fancy she liked being called Lady Richardson and he, of course, was too sensible to let mere vulgarity stand in the way of a good marriage.”
“She’s not a bad looker either,” Coffen added.
“Yes, they seem satisfied with their respective bargains,” Byron agreed. “They treat each other with the usual conjugal disdain that we call a happy marriage.”
“We have to look sharp here,” Coffen said. “Vulch’s place is down a lane, next neighbor to the Redleys. Isn’t that a path going up behind that nest of trees? Aye, that’s it. See the house up ahead? You’ve got to peer around the trees. No light burning. Here we are. Here’s the road in.”
They followed Coffen’s lead up the lane, slowing to a walk to lessen the sound of the horses. When they confirmed that no windows were lit save by the reflected gleam of moonlight, they assumed Vulch was not at home. It was a small, square building of local stone with a sagging thatch roof, more than a shack but less than a proper cottage. Its height suggested one story and its size suggested two or three rooms. As there were only two outbuilding, one a chicken coop, they assumed the small stable shed behind the house, tilting perilously to the left, housed Diablo and his milcher.
“I wonder if he locked the door,” Coffen said. They dismounted,
tethered their nags and went to the front door. “I’ll knock on the off chance that he’s home and asleep,” Coffen said, and applied three sharp knocks.
When there was no answer, he tried the door. The ill-fitting and peeling door was locked with a stout lock that would need more than a hasp knife to be pried open. They picked their way around to the back through a rubble of broken crockery and bottles, discarded bits of broken furniture and house garbage, to find the back door also locked with a stout lock. It didn’t seem likely there would be anything worth stealing inside. Strange that Vulch had such good locks.
“Any chance he left a window ajar, I wonder,” Coffen said, and began trying them.
Byron found a kitchen window that had been left open an inch to keep the jar of milk on the window ledge from going bad. He heaved it up, pushed the milk aside and called the others.
“One of us ought to go out front to keep an eye on the road, in case Vulch comes back,” Byron suggested. “I’d go but for my dragging foot. If he does return, the watcher will have to rush back and call through the window.”
Luten knew well enough that Coffen would insist on going inside and volunteered to stand watch. The window was close enough to the ground to allow Coffen and Byron to scrabble inside. Once in, it was clear Vulch had another reason to leave the kitchen window open. The place smelled like a pigsty. Coffen peered around and found a candle, and nearby a tinderbox. He lit the candle and beamed it all around at dim walls, a dusty and stained wooden floor, a table littered with dirty dishes, a sink similarly laden, food left out on a side table. The scamper of light feet suggested that mice or even rats were sharing Vulch’s meals.
“Good lord,” Byron said with disgust, “how can a man live like this? I wonder he hasn’t died of ptomaine poisoning.”
“I fancy he eats most of his meals at the inn,” Coffen said. “He’d not keep anything valuable here. Let’s find the bedroom.”
They passed through a narrow hallway into a parlor with one window covered by tightly drawn dark curtains. The floor had a scrap of carpet of some garish pattern, a horsehair sofa covered with discarded clothing, a desk, a few tables and chairs holding journals, gloves and assorted debris. A few embers glowed in the grate.