Murder at Newstead Abbey

by Joan Smith

  Byron found a lamp, lit it and went to the desk. He could hardly open the drawer for the welter of papers in it. He began sorting through them to discover a number of bills, paid and unpaid, IOU’s for small amounts signed by names he didn’t recognize. Probably from his partners at cards. There was only one letter, and it was on crested stationery bearing the motto, “Crede Biron.” Byron slid it into his pocket with a sigh of relief and continued searching. There were no other personal letters. Not one. If he was in correspondence with anyone, he didn’t keep the letters, or not in this desk at least. Byron went on to poke around the room, hardly knowing what he was looking for, until Coffen came to the doorway and called him in an excited voice.

  He followed Coffen into the bedroom, stumbling over a pair of boots left in the middle of the floor. Nearly half the ill-smelling room was taken up by an unmade bed. A dresser with a tarnished mirror over it was the other major piece of furniture. On the dresser’s surface sat the items of Vulch’s toilette: a razor and shaving cup, a pitcher and a basin of dirty water, a comb, some hair oil, a bottle of Steake’s lavendar water and a used handkerchief.

  “Over here,” Coffen said, bending down.

  “What is it?”

  “A chest, locked with a padlock. The key ain’t here, of course. Let’s have a look for it.” The chest was about eighteen inches long and half as wide and deep. It was of aged and cracking black leather with metal corners

  They searched for the keys on the dresser, in the drawers, under the pillow without success. Byron returned to the parlor and made a thorough search, but found no sign of the key.

  “Should we try to bust it open or take it with us?” Coffen asked, hoisting one end to see if it could be carried. He grunted and let the corner fall. Something inside it rattled. “Too heavy. We’d need a wagon.”

  “If we take it he’ll know we’ve been here. Wait! What’s that?” Byron’s eye caught the glimmer of metal on the floor beneath the corner of the trunk. It had become displaced when he moved the trunk. He reached out and picked up a small key.

  “That’ll be it,” Coffen said, seizing the key and inserting it in the padlock. He lifted the lid and emitted a strangled gasp. “Good God, he’s robbed a bank!” he exclaimed. He drove his two hands into a pile of twinkling gold coins and let them fall through his fingers. “Guineas,” he said. “There must be over a thousand guineas here. Now where the deuce did old Vulch get all this loot?”

  “Is there anything else?” Byron asked. “Any jewelry that might have belonged to Nessie? A dress, perhaps, beneath the coins?”

  They pushed the coins aside. The trunk was less than half full so that they could easily get to the bottom. But it held nothing except shiny golden guineas.

  “We’d best clear out,” Byron said. They locked the trunk, slid the key back under it, looked around to see they’d left no trace of their invasion, returned the lamp and candle to their respective places, blew them out, and left, taking care to draw the window down behind them.

  “All’s quiet here,” Luten said, when they joined him. “Any luck in the cottage?”

  They told him what they’d found, with emphasis on the trunk as they retraced their route home, discussing how Vulch could have amassed such a horde of gold.

  “I can’t believe he made all that at cards,” Luten said. “You said the IOU’s were all for small amounts, Byron?”

  “Nothing larger than two or three pounds.”

  “Didn’t you mention he’s a highwayman in his spare time?” Coffen offered.

  “That would only be a few pounds from any card partner sharp enough to beat him.”

  “If he was a regular highwayman, there’d be jewelry as well,” Luten said, “All those bright golden guineas look more like robbing a bank, or holding up a government caravan carrying money.”

  “We would have heard about that,” Byron said. “I wager he’s come by it dishonestly, but I can’t see how.”

  “He’s holding someone to ransom,” Luten said. This struck a chord with the others as they had recently been involved in such a case.

  “Then the question is, who?” Coffen said.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  They were met at the salon doorway by Lady deCoventry, who ran to Luten and pitched herself into his arms. “Thank goodness you’re home! We’ve been attacked, Luten!”

  Prance found it impossible to decide whether he or Luten was more surprised by her unusual behavior. Corinne was not the die-away sort of lady to wilt at a rock thrown through a window. There was something in the air of Newstead that changed people. He felt it in himself. He would not have found Grace’s rusticity half so beguiling in London. Luten was not half so chummy with Byron in London either, and Byron was not so careful of his p’s and q’s. The only one of them who hadn’t changed was Coffen Pattle, and it would take divine intervention to change him.

  “Attacked?” Byron cried, and turned a shade paler.

  “Attacked? What do you mean? By whom, or what?” Luten demanded, holding Corinne at arm’s length and examining her for signs of ravaging. He found nothing more than a slight dishevelment, which only added to her charms. He put an arm around her shoulder and led her to the sofa.

  “By rocks! Well, one rock. This one,” she said, and lifted it from the sofa to show him. “This note was wrapped around it. It came hurtling right through the window and nearly hit Mrs. Ballard. Your window is broken, Byron. Murray has patched it up but it will have to be re-glazed.”

  Luten read the note and passed it to Byron, who examined it and gave a weary sigh before passing it to Coffen, who examined it minutely for clues .

  “I can’t begin to tell you all how sorry I am,” Byron said. “I know apologies butter no parsnips, but I do heartily apologize. I had hoped we might have a peaceful, pleasant little party, and here you’re assaulted with dead bodies and bullets and menaced by pelted rocks. Are you all right, Corinne? You weren’t hurt by flying glass?”

  “No, there was just the one rock. Have you any notion who could have done it?”

  “The same fellow who took a shot at me yesterday? But as to whom that may be!” He threw up his hands. “No idea. I spend very little time here, as you know. Now if we were in London, I could name nine or ten or fifty possibilities.”

  Prance paced about the room with his hands hooked behind his back and his head bent forward to aid thinking. He stopped at the grate, turned on his heel to face his audience and declared, “The dunces are in a confederacy against you, Byron. That must be the answer. The same group of malcontents who sent the vicar here to chide you are behind this childish trick of sticks and stones and calling names. The literacy of the note tells us it was no poacher. Pay it no heed. They will soon see we’re bent on nothing more mischievous than holding a polite Christmas party. Invite the vicar, that should do it. I daresay half his spleen is at not being included in the fun.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Luten agreed. “It will suggest to the parish that you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  Byron gave one of his boyish grins. “You’re just trying to make me respectable so I can be of use to the Whigs,” he said, but he added, “I’ll invite Ruttle if you think it will do any good. Or at least prevent further ructions.”

  “It can’t do any harm.”

  Byron called for tea. When they were settled around the fire Corinne said, “We didn’t ask if you discovered anything at Vulch’s place. Did you?”

  “A trunkful of gold,” Coffen said.

  Her green eyes widened in astonishment. “Really! Now where would he get that?”

  “Robbed a bank?” Prance suggested. Since they had returned unharmed, he regretted he hadn’t gone with them. Was there a place in his novel for discovering a trunk of gold — or a rock through a window for that matter?

  They discussed it, and again came to the conclusion that Vulch was holding someone to ransom. Corinne, harking back to their last case, suggested he had conned some lady into
writing him incriminating billets doux.

  “Anybody smart enough to know how to write would be too smart to write to him,” Coffen said. “I’m surprised he can get a servant girl, let alone a lady, to give him a second look. An ugly fellow. Tess, at the inn, won’t give him the time of day.”

  “Not to disparage the fair sex,” Prance said, “but if he’s inlaid with gold, might that not have some effect on women, or even a lady? Now don’t glare, Corrie. You can’t deny that charmer, Lady Callwood, is married to an ugly old goat twice her age. One could give dozens of examples of gold buying beauty.”

  Corinne glared, taking it for a dig at herself, as she had been sold to a man three times her age for five thousand pounds. They discussed both the rock throwing and the trunk of gold for some time without coming to any conclusions. Coffen, thinking of the note, asked if Vulch could read and write, and learned that, unlikely as it seemed, he could. He even wrote an occasional letter of complaint to the local newspaper.

  “I mind now, there was some journals in his parlor,” he said.

  As they finished their tea, Byron once again expressed his apologies at the untoward goings on.

  Coffen said in a kindly way, “We’re having a grand time, Byron. Bullets and flying rocks and ghosts. More events than any other one of our cases put together. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since I set fire to Lord Deveril’s stable.”

  Byron blinked in bewilderment, saw that he was serious and said, “I’m glad you feel that way, but don’t feel obliged to burn down the abbey to add to our enjoyment.”

  “I won’t, we have plenty of fun without that. Anyhow, the stable was an accident. I think I speak unonymous — er, for us all I mean — when I congratulate you on a dandy party. The food and wine are good too. My compliments to your chef,” he said, picking up another sandwich.

  Corinne wasn’t particularly tired, but due to the broken window the salon, always chilly, had taken on an arctic temperature that defeated even her new shawl. When the tea was finished, she smothered a yawn and said she was ready for bed.

  Prance agreed and Byron, too, began stifling a yawn.

  “Time for the featherbed tick,” Coffen said, and scrambled up from his chair.

  But when he crept down the hall later and into Luten’s room, where his valet was just removing his jacket, Coffen expressed different views on both sleep and the case. Simon, Luten’s valet, didn’t have to be told to remove himself. He helped Luten into his dressing gown of sedate navy blue and vanished into the next room without a word.

  “All that rodomontade about a great visit was just to put Byron off the track, though I am having a dandy time as far as that does.” Coffen said. “What I mean is, do you think it could be Byron himself that Vulch is bleeding? When it comes down to it, who else around here could afford to pay Vulch all that gold? Byron’s always crying poor. P’raps that’s the reason.”

  Luten considered it a moment then said, “The Richardsons are well to grass.”

  “True, but what reason would they have? None, whereas Byron is a byword for lechery. If him or one of his chums accidentally killed some young girl at that orgy and Vulch knows it, well, there’s your reason. A reason with bells on it. And if he’s not able to pay up, that’d tie in with the rock thrown through the window and someone taking a shot at him. For all we know, the neighborhood could be rifled with rumors of some death at that orgy, and I mean to find out. I like Byron. He’s a nice enough sort of fellow, for a poet. Not always quoting at you like Prance, but all the same, there’s bad blood in the family. He not only admits it, he boasts about it, which is pretty foolish right there. As far as that goes, the way he carried on with Caroline Lamb suggests he’s loony.”

  “That was more a matter of bad judgment than lunacy. It was the lady who behaved so badly in the case,” Luten said. “The note, you recall, was directed at us all, telling us to leave." But his frown told Coffen he was concerned.

  “Red herring,” Coffen said. He patted Luten’s arm. “You haven’t got him roped into the Cabinet yet, Luten, so it won’t cast a shadow on the Whigs. You might be wise to back off a little on that business, eh? You wouldn’t want a milestone like that around your necks.”

  “He’s just beginning to express a little interest,” Luten said, still frowning. “It would do the lad a world of good to have something useful to do with his time. Other than his poetry, I mean. He sees that as a hobby. He would be a coup for the party.”

  Coffen just shook his head. “A word to the wise, that’s all. A witch in time saves nine.” He frowned and added, “Saves nine stitches.” Then he ambled off, his duty done.

  He went to his room, undressed himself and tossed his clothing on a chair as there was no sign of his valet. He got into bed immediately as he planned to be up at first light in the morning to search the grounds outside the broken window for clues. He had taken the note and rock up to his room, planning to compare the rock to the sort of rocks around the abbey. If it was of a different kind, he would try to determine where the rock came from. Not that a fellow was likely to carry a rock with him when they were thick on the ground, but since he had a written note tied to it, he might have prepared it at home. It’d be easier than writing a note in the dark and tying it to the rock.

  Next he examined the note. It was printed in grease pencil on rough brown paper that was as common as dirt. He wasn’t much for spelling and grammar, but as far as he could see, there were no mistakes. Prance had said something about literate. But then there were no very hard words in it. He knew every one of them himself. His money was on Vulch, but any half-educated servant or farmer could have written it, or a gentleman. Or a lady for that matter.

  Coffen was not a leaper to brilliant conclusions; he was of the bulldog breed who don’t let go of a problem until they’d gnawed it to death. He blew out his lamp and lay with his eyes open in the dark, thinking of the body in the grave, of simple Nessie Landers, who had run off with some ne’er-do-well, of Minnie Vulch who had vanished around the same time, of the gold in Vulch’s little black chest, of the orgies Byron had once held here, and of the lunacy in the Byron family, trying to arrange these matters into a pattern.

  If Vulch was the fellow who ran off with Nessie and killed and buried her, then it had nothing to do with Byron except that Vulch had buried her on Byron’s island. If the girl had been accidentally killed during Byron’s orgy, then it didn’t have anything to do with Vulch. He hadn’t been at the orgy. Mind you, he was the sort of villain who might have sneaked over and spied, seen what happened and demanded payment to keep his mouth shut. Byron was one of a very few in the neighborhood who could have given Vulch all that gold. Was Vulch back from London at that time? He’d have to find out exactly when Byron had that wild party. Prance would know. Better not ask Byron himself, he might get suspicious. Coffen’s own preference for the villain was Vulch, but he couldn’t let sentiment sway his sleuthing.

  His mind was racing so hard he knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep. Might as well go out and look for ghosts. He pulled on his clothing and went downstairs, carrying his boots so as not to cause a racket. There wasn’t a sound coming from any of the closed doors along the dark corridor where the others slept. He was well impressed that Byron hadn’t put Corinne and Luten across the hall from each other to make it easier for them to carry on, as many of the hostesses they visited did. Nossir, Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were around the corner in adjoining bedrooms. Byron didn’t know Luten if he thought that was necessary. On t’other hand, it showed a nice sense of propriety to give them rooms well apart.

  Once downstairs, he struggled into his boots, put on his greatcoat and crept to the door. Very likely there was some closer exit to the Monks’ Avenue, but he knew the way from outside whereas he might get lost in a rabbit warren of corridors if he tried to find it from inside. He pulled his coat closely around him to block out the keening wind as he walked along the outer wall and around the corner. That looked like the line of pil
lars of the Monks’ Avenue ahead. No sign of a ghost yet. He crept quietly forward, looking all about for rising mists or other spectral signs. Other than his own breaths that were visible in the cold air and a puff of smoke from a chimney, there was nothing. He decided it was too cold for ghosts and went back inside, carefully drawing the bolt behind him. He removed his boots and began tiptoeing toward the staircase.

  As he went, he saw a sliver of light beneath a door down the dark hallway. The door was closed, but the light told him there was someone in the room. Perhaps just a servant — but that was the room Byron used as a study. What would a servant be doing in there at one o’clock in the morning? Maybe writing a note to tie around a rock? It would be risky to eavesdrop. What could he say if the door opened and he got caught? He’d say he feared someone had left a lamp burning, and the house might burn down. The decision was taken from him. Footsteps sounded behind the door and the door opened, throwing a pale path of light into the hall. Coffen knelt behind the stair railing to watch and listen, because there were two people coming out of the room, two men. Byron and his faithful valet, Fletcher, both talking in low voices.

  “He’ll be gone home by now,” Fletcher said in a plaintive tone.

  “It’s not that late. If he’s left the inn, then go to his house. This has got to stop. I have company — important company.”

  “But he won’t stop on my say-so. Not if he’s being paid to do it. You’ll have to bribe him.”

  “Then do it! Whatever they’re paying him, offer him double. The bastard would sell his mother for money. You should have seen the pile of gold he has stashed away.”

  Vulch! He was talking about Vulch!

  “You’ve got the note back. Who’d believe a word he says?”