Murder at Newstead Abbey

by Joan Smith

  “A nuisance. I feel somehow as if it were all my fault,” Prance said, with an air of apology.

  Byron patted him on the shoulder. A pleasurable warmth surged through Prance at the intimacy. “It’s nothing to do with you, Prance. I’m just glad you weren’t here when the wretch came, or he’d have knocked you on the head. That’s all I need to make this the perfect party, someone assaulting my guests. Let us leave this depressing chaos.”

  No one was surprised when Coffen said, “I’ll stay a while and have a look about for clues.” To everyone’s surprise, not least his own, he found one. The earth beyond the window, perhaps warmed by seepage from the heat of the library, was damp, and the invader had been in a hurry. He had left a footmark on one of the papers scattered on the floor. A small footprint. So small he thought Corinne might have left it that morning.

  He sought her out and beckoned her into the room. “Let’s see your slippers,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Just lift your foot.” She lifted her kid slipper, which showed no sign of earth. “You don’t wear these outdoors?”

  “In this weather? No, of course not.”

  “Take a look at this,” he said, and showed her the sheet with the footprint on it.

  “It’s very small,” she said. “You think it was a woman who was here?”

  “This don’t look like a man’s footprint. Certainly not Vulch’s, which is who I’ve been suspecting. He has feet the size of mackerels. Bigger.”

  “Who could it be? I wonder if some lady was writing mash notes to Byron and wanted to get them back.”

  “Romantic shenanigans leap to mind, of course, with Byron, but why would she be rooting in these old boxes? They’re from the last century, when Byron was only a lad. What was he at the time, ten or less? For the same reason, I don’t think it has anything to do with the body found on the island. The letters are too old, I mean.”

  “You’re right. It can’t be that. Maybe it was some lady who wrote to his uncle.”

  “Why would she care now, when the uncle is long dead? She must be ancient herself, if she’s still alive.”

  “Do you think that’s who our ghost was last night, Coffen? Just an ordinary intruder wearing a black mask?”

  “I hate to say so, but it looks like it. It was small enough to be a woman. She got away with something in that bag all right. I wonder if she got what she was after. I’m going out and have a look outside. More footprints, or maybe with luck she dropped a glove.”

  Corinne got her shawl and joined him. There was no glove, nor could they distinguish footprints in the cold earth. But enough had clung to her shoes to leave that one print inside. Coffen found a pair of scissors, took up the soiled sheet of paper and cut out the pattern while the mark was still visible, for the earth had dried and was beginning to flake off.

  “That letter might be valuable. You shouldn’t have destroyed it,” Corinne said.

  “I’ll keep the two pieces and he can glue them back together after. I want to see who has a foot this size. Put yours down and let me see how it fits.” A rim of paper about a quarter of an inch protruded beyond the sole of her shoe on all sides. “A little bigger than your foot,” he said.

  “I’ll tell you who was interested in those files is Lady Richardson,” Corinne said.

  “Does she have big feet?”

  “I didn’t notice, but she’s asked about those letters twice, and even went into the library once. She might have wanted to find out exactly where the library is, and if it could be got at from outside.”

  “She just wants something to put in that book her husband’s writing. She wouldn’t have drawn attention to it if she’d been planning to steal them. Byron said she could have them, for that matter. No, I fancy it’s something to do with the busted window and Fletcher’s visit to Vulch. I’m going to follow the route the ghost took last night — from here to the cloister, and off into the park.”

  Corinne went reluctantly to give an hour’s practice to the Christmas carols.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  When Corinne returned to the salon the latest journals had arrived and the gentlemen were seated around the grate, catching up on the news. While Luten read with dismay of Napoleon consolidating his grip on power in Paris after his disastrous Russian failure, Prance scanned the social columns and was happy to see their visit to Newstead rated a few lines. Byron, glancing over the local journal, read that the musicians he had planned to hire were performing at an assembly in Mansfield on the night of his party.

  He had best get hold of that other group in Nottingham or his party, like the rest of the visit, would be a disaster. He decided to do it that day, even before he reported the vandalism to Eggars. Prance immediately volunteered to accompany him. He was always eager to involve himself in anything of an artistic nature.

  Luten was also going to Nottingham, but in his own carriage as he was uncertain how long his business might take him. He wanted to meet with some Whig party faithfuls. They always worked more eagerly and dug more deeply into their pockets if they occasionally met with the leaders of the party to air their concerns and hear praise of their efforts.

  “Come with us, Corrie,” Prance said. “You can help me select the linen for the choir gowns while we’re there. You know that modiste who made your shawl — she can run them up for us.”

  She agreed at once as this sounded infinitely more amusing than practicing the pianoforte. Indeed washing dishes or scrubbing floors would be more amusing. She had never taken music lessons until she married Lord deCoventry, and did so then only under duress. She played by ear, had a good singing voice and was famous for her light feet on the dance floor, but Prance would not allow her to rely on “chording” to accompany his choir. He wanted “a minor chord for its lovely elegiac effect in this passage”, “a flatted fifth just here,” and other musical mysteries beyond her ken.

  Luten foresaw that his fiancée would be spending the morning and perhaps half the afternoon in Byron’s company. He more or less trusted them, but with the mischievous Prance along, there was no saying what might develop.

  “Why don’t we meet for lunch?” he suggested.

  “Won’t you be treating the faithful party workers to lunch?” Prance asked, with a knowing smirk.

  “As we’re getting such an early start, we may be finished with our business by then.”

  Byron, careful not to glance within a right angle of Corinne, said, “Why don’t we agree on a spot, and if you’re available, you join us, Luten? If not, we’ll meet back here later.”

  They arranged to meet at the Flying Horse, an unpretentious old hotel with a reputation for good food. Corinne suggested they invite Coffen along, or he’d be left alone. But when she ran him to ground at the cloister walk, he said he’d give it a pass, thankee very much.

  Luten had the pleasure of his lady’s company for the trip to Nottingham, and Prance the pleasure of Byron’s in a separate carriage. Prance was in his element, smiling through the window as a few mounted riders, pedestrians, a farmer driving a dung wagon and a country buck driving a curricle turned to watch the two elegant crested carriages bowling along the road.

  Though the scenery was not spectacularly beautiful, the trip was enlivened by a few handsome private estates and busy hamlets, forests and fertile dales. The clean, fresh air of the country was always welcome after London’s perpetual smoke and fog. The weather was unsettled. Long, gray clouds loomed ominously overhead, with intermittent bursts of brilliant sunshine that turned the forests into a patched quilt in shades of green, gold and brown.

  Nottingham was a busy industrial city built on a rocky hill that sloped down to the River Trent. Like Bath, the city would provide poor riding and hard walking with all those hills. They had arranged to meet and stable the carriages at the Flying Horse for convenience’s sake.

  “You wouldn’t know it to look about, but you’re standing in the very middle of England,” Byron said, as
they regrouped outside the hotel.

  “The Civil War also began here, n’est-ce pas?” said Prance. “I seem to recall the royal standard was unfurled at Nottingham.”

  “Just so, with my ancestors in the thick of it,” Byron said. “A Lord Byron led a cavalry regiment against the Roundheads. I come from a long line of hotheads. According to the records, the Lord Byron in question distinguished himself by outstanding bravery, matched only by stupidity in leading the charge prematurely at Edgehill and Marston Moor. Prince Rupert reported at the time that ‘by the improper charge of Lord Byron, much harm was done.’ "

  Prance said consolingly, “That’s water over the bridge now, as Pattle would say. I had an uncle hung for stealing a horse in the sixteenth century, and I daresay Luten could shock us with tales of his ancestors’ less than illustrious past, if he weren’t so shy. The sins of our ancestors don’t prevent us from demanding legal protection when we have been sinned against. Lay your charge, milord. It is every man’s duty to see that law and order are enforced. We shall meet you back here any time after noon.” He had intended to go along for the hiring of the musicians, but when he saw the rows of shops beckoning, he couldn’t resist them.

  “I’ll arrange for a private parlor before I go. I do hope you can join us, Luten,” Byron said, and went into the hotel.

  He was surprised to discover that he meant it. Byron knew his reputation had suffered after his flamboyant affair with Lady Caroline Lamb and was eager to restore it to dignity. He didn’t mind being considered a romantic threat, but when the tenacious lady’s shenanigans reduced the affair to farce, his pride felt the sting. Being accepted by Lord Luten and his friends would go a long way toward re-establishing him, and he was determined to keep the visit on an entirely proper footing. He also enjoyed the diversity of the group — Luten’s intelligence, political expertise and sterling character provided sensible conversation. Prance’s orations on artistic matters varied the talk. Pattle’s making fritters of the king’s English provided comic relief, and not least there was Corinne to keep them all from sinking into masculine coarseness. And of course her beauty was a feast for the eyes. He always felt better when there was a lady nearby. He quite forgot Mrs. Ballard, as people were inclined to do.

  As Eggars’ office was close by, he decided to go there first and lay his complaint. It was a spartan, one-room affair on the High Street, set between the post office and a chemist’s shop. A much battered oak desk, a pair of hard-back chairs and a mismatched pair of cabinets provided its furnishings and a picture of the king, Farmer George, on the wall its decoration. One of the visitors’ chairs was occupied. Eggars was behind his desk, jotting down notes.

  Eggars rose to welcome him. When the visitor turned around, Byron was astonished to see he was Vulch. As Vulch had removed his hat and sat quite at his ease, Byron assumed he was not under arrest.

  Vulch didn’t rise. He was always at pains to show his disrespect of the ‘ristocrats. He did nod in recognition, however. “G’day, melord. Come to lay a charge, have you?” he asked, in a taunting voice, his spiteful smile in place. He didn’t wait for a reply, but said, “You’ll be happy to hear the girl found on your island’s been identified. I was just giving Eggars here the perticulars.”

  “Nessie Landers, I hear,” Byron said, directing a look at Eggars.

  “They’re wrong. ‘Twas my wife,” Vulch replied, with an air almost of triumph.

  Byron directed a long, hard stare at Vulch. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Anger flashed in Vulch’s eyes. “I seen the remains, didn’t I? It were Minnie right enough. I mind now ‘twas about the time she disappeared that the gypsies were camping in the forest. One of ‘em was hanging about the place, fixing pots and what not. Minnie took a liking to him and run off with him. Or he stole her,” he added, still in the same unemotional voice. “Then when she tried to come running back to me, he shot her.”

  “It didn’t look like a gypsy death,” Byron said. “They don’t use guns as a rule, but knives.”

  “Oh yeah, they got guns now. One of ‘em took a shot at me oncet. We had words over him pestering a girl. Who else would steal the clothes off Minnie’s back?” As he spoke, he held his hat in his two hands, rotating it nervously between his fingers.

  “Richardson felt quite sure it was his wife’s maid,” Byron said. “The body looked too small, and the hair too light to be your wife’s.”

  “Who’d know her body better, me or you?” Vulch demanded with a challenging stare. “She lost weight there at the end, pore girl.”

  “You don’t seem very upset,” Byron said, scrutinizing the ugly, brazen face. The green eyes didn’t blink and the smile was creeping back, but the hat kept twirling in his fingers to reveal his nervousness. What was there to be nervous about — unless he was lying?

  Vulch sniffed. “Why should I be? She run off on me, didn’t she? Mind you, I don’t say I didn’t give her cause. I wish now I’d been nicer to her and she might be alive today. I feel bad about that. Anyhow it’s her, right enough. The missing tooth proves it. Minnie had a molar tooth drawn a few years back, same as the corpse. And plus I told Eggars here so before I seen the body, so you needn’t think I’m fudging. It’s Minnie right enough. I want her buried proper and I don’t care what it costs. No pauper’s funeral for my wife.”

  This seemed to settle the matter. Unsure what comment to make when the widower showed such scanty signs of grief, Byron said, “I’m sorry to hear it was your wife, Vulch.”

  Vulch rose to his full six feet, the smile transmogrified to a stoical grimace as he said, “That’s the way it goes. I’ve lost her for good.” Then he put on his hat and swaggered out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Byron looked a question at Eggars and said, “The body was wrapped in a sheet. Have you ever heard of gypsies using bed sheets?”

  “I’ve never been inside a gypsy caravan,” he said in his tired, sad way. “I’ve no idea what they sleep on, but they’ve been known to snatch sheets left out to dry. ‘Twas only a cotton sheet, not linen. He did tell me about the tooth before he saw the body. No one had mentioned it. The coroner certainly wouldn’t have given out the information. I asked him not to reveal any details. No, it seems it’s his wife right enough, but I have some doubts the gypsies had anything to do with it.”

  “He might have done it himself,” Byron suggested, looking at Eggars. “He was here at the time. He only left for London after Minnie disappeared. Or was murdered.”

  “He did beat her, and of course that bit about wishing he’d been kinder to her was mere window dressing, but I don’t think he killed her, and I’ll tell you why. Why would he pitch himself into the middle of all this if he’s guilty? No one thought the corpse was Minnie.”

  “It seemed to me several people thought it,” Byron objected.

  “Well, we didn’t know it. I thought it was a stranger till the Richardsons claimed it was their Nessie. Then Vulch came to me last night and said he had ‘got to wondering and feeling bad,’ and wanted to see the body. That’s when he told me about the tooth. I daresay it’s possible that guilt has got the better of him and he feels badly.”

  Byron gave a snort. “Guilt get the better of that yahoo? You obviously don’t know Vulch very well. He’d kill his mother without batting an eye. I hadn’t noticed the missing tooth when we uncovered the body. It must have been at the back of her mouth.”

  “It was, upper back left, just as he told me. No, it must be Minnie, but we still haven’t a line on her murderer. Have you folks at the abbey come up with any ideas?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, I’m here on a different matter. Another unwelcome, uninvited, uncivil guest,” he said, and told Eggars about the break-in at the abbey, and the tossing about of the family archives.”

  After a rash of “Dear me!” and “What is the world coming to!” Eggars settled down and asked, “Was anything taken?”

  “You might as well ask me if a snow flake i
s missing from a snow storm. I shan’t know what, if anything, was taken until the whole lot’s been gone through. And even then, I won’t really know. I’ve never examined the papers. I’ve no firm idea what’s there. But Pattle said the ‘ghost’ was carrying something away in a sack.”

  “I’ll go out and take a look around,” Eggers said, obviously at a loss. “Something might occur to me. You don’t have any idea at all yourself, milord?”

  “The only sensible suggestion that’s been put forth — and I’m not sure it’s sensible either — is that someone was trying to discover where the legendary buried treasure is located.”

  Eggars considered this a moment but seemed dissatisfied. “Why do it when you’re in residence when you’re away ten months out of twelve? Unless there’s a reason to rush into it? Is that why you’re here yourself, milord, to look for the buried treasure?”

  “No, no, it’s just a quiet visit with a few friends,” he said with a weary air. “Or it was supposed to be. I mean to mount a guard outside in future.”

  “That might be best. You can hardly lay a charge until we’ve found the culprit. I wonder now if this has anything to do with that shot that was fired at you t’other day? Someone with a grudge against you. There was the broken window as well.”

  “How did you hear of that? I didn’t bother to report it.”

  “I’ve been nosing around Nottingham. I heard of it at the tavern. It does look like someone has taken against you, milord. It might be safer for you if you went back to London until this matter is cleared up.”

  Byron didn’t think there was much chance of its being cleared up if he wasn’t there to keep prodding Eggars. After a little more talk, he left to arrange for hiring the musicians. His butler, Joe Murray, had recommended the Hoskin boys, six brothers who ran Hoskins’ Hostelry by day. They were all six musicians. They took turns, four at a time, of supplying music at private parties.

  While Byron attended to his errands and Luten rushed through Whig business with his associates, Prance and Corinne went to the drapery shop to select the linen for the choir robes. There were eight robes to be run up in a simple design, with lavish folds of the finest white linen falling from a straight bib top, the sleeves long and also full. He figured on four ells per member. With eight robes to be made, this meant thirty-two ells.