by Joan Smith
* * *
Chapter 27
The library was in such disarray from the break-in that Coffen found it impossible to find anything useful. Plans from the sixteenth century for something called an impluvium lay cheek by jowl with receipts for oak cut from the forest by Mad Jack at the latter part of the eighteenth century. That’d be the fellow Byron mentioned had chopped down the forest.
By three in the morning the candles had guttered out. The dark room was lit only by the dying embers in the grate. A draft from the flue set a flame dancing, causing long, flickering shadows to leap out at him. After watching them for a few minutes, his eyelids slid shut and he was soon asleep It was Abu, the old yellow hound he had brought in with him for company, that roused him half an hour later. Abu had risen from his position in front of the grate and was stalking toward the door, growling. Coffen shook his head and massaged the crick in his neck.
“You need to go out to do your business,” he said, and rose to let Abu out. He took a step toward the door, and that’s when he saw it. The Black Monk, as plain as day. The cowl pulled over the head, with dark eyes staring out of a blur of white face, the long, black robe. For a split second that seemed an eternity, those dark eyes stared into his. Coffen froze to the spot. Not so Abu. He was pawing at the doorway, his hackles rising, barking his head off.
Coffen watched, too stunned and frightened to let Abu out, while the apparition fled. If he opened the door, the dog would not only go out, but the ghost might come in. One minute it was there, the next it was gone, disappeared in a whirl of black cape. His heart was pounding so hard he had to sit down, before he fell down. It wasn’t just the ghost; it was the fact that the ghost was brandishing a pistol in one hand. Abu’s barks subsided to whines of disappointment. He cast an accusing eye on Coffen and resumed his position by the grate with a thump and a wag of his tale to denote forgiveness.
Coffen hastily reviewed what he knew of the Abbey ghosts. None of them had ever been known to carry a pistol. He doubted such a thing existed hundreds of years ago, when that fat-bellied king who wore silk stockings stole the abbey from the monks. Nossir, it was no ghost. It was the intruder trying to get back into the library! He admitted he had been shocked into fear by the sight of the ghost staring at him, but he wasn’t afraid of a live person dressed up like a ghost. One of the Richardsons, very likely. He picked up the poker from the grate and ran out, with Abu at his heels. He’d stick to the shadows to avoid being shot.
Abu ran off after the visitor but was soon back. They were too late. There was nothing to see but shadows and trees, nothing to hear but the wind soughing through the branches, and the echo of hoofbeats as the rider made his getaway. The night was cold and he had on only his evening jacket. He went back into the library, threw a few logs on the fire, found new candles, drank a cup of cold coffee and searched for another hour, but the only letter from Jamaica he found was one from Jacob Redley to Lord Byron about sending some seeds to the Abbey to be tried in the garden. The date was 1773, too early to have anything to do with the daughter of the house.
He thought perhaps the little black pebbles like peppercorns wrapped up in paper were the very seeds mentioned. Obviously never planted. At four o’clock he gave up and went back to sleep, leaving Abu to guard the archives.
* * * *
Black was in some confusion the next morning as to where he should present himself for breakfast. He knew perfectly well he should go to the servants’ table, but with his plan as a wedge, he waited until he heard Luten’s door open, and stepped out.
“A word, your lordship,” he said, and broached the plan he had thought out the night before.
Luten listened, thought for a moment, then clamped his hand on Black’s arm. “You’re a genius, Black!” he said. “Let us go downstairs and discuss it over breakfast.”
That easily it was done. He was to take breakfast with a marquess, a baron, a countess, a gentleman (Mr. Pattle), and a toplofty baronet — the only one likely to give him trouble. Prance, Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were already there. Prance lifted his eyebrows an inch to see Black stroll into the breakfast room. Corinne smiled, Mrs. Ballard clenched her lips and ignored him. As he was chatting to Luten as if they were old friends, Prance limited his reaction to the raised eyebrows. He actually liked Black, an extremely good butler, but Prance was always amused at pretension — including his own -- and would have his little jokes at the perpetrator’s expense. Byron soon joined them, and before they were finished, a bleary-eyed Coffen ambled in, looking extremely frowsy.
He heaped his plate with gammon and eggs and took a seat. “The reason I look even worse than usual,” he said, “I slept in the library. The ghost came back, Byron. Me and Abu frightened it away. It had a gun. I mean to say, not a real ghost at all, you see, but dressed up like the Black Monk. I tried to chase it, but it had vanished. Not that it would have found anything. The place is a mess.”
Byron leapt up. “I wish you’d called me, Pattle.”
“It’s all right. He didn’t get in. I slept there, and had a look about after I woke up. The lock hadn’t been damaged. Abu would have woke me if he’d come back. A good hound, that.”
“I thought you had men watching the place, Byron?” Prance said.
“I didn’t think it was necessary after we decided it was Vulch who had thrown the rock in the window. I’ll put them back on duty tonight. And put the hounds out as well.”
“That might not be necessary,” Luten said, with a smile at Black. “The estimable Black has come up with a plan.”
“Good man!” Coffen said. Black nodded modestly in acknowledgment of the compliment.
Luten outlined Black’s idea of pretending Minnie had passed on incriminating information to him. “What we have to decide,” he said, “is how he should get word to the Richardsons that he knows things, and is willing to negotiate the price of his silence. Once that is arranged, of course, we have to ensure his safety during the charade of the transaction. Any ideas?”
“A rendezvous arranged by note to a spot chosen by us?” Byron suggested.
“Who would you send the note to, Sir William or Lady Richardson?” Corinne asked.
“They’re both involved, so I would think to Sir William,” Prance said.
Luten nodded, then said, “We should make sure first that they know it was Black who brought Minnie here.”
“Minnie introduced me to half a dozen folks when we stopped in Hucknall,” Black said. “She told them I was putting up at the abbey.”
“Then you may be sure everyone knows by now,” Byron said.
“Eggars will have been spreading the story as well,” Corinne added.
“I do hope all this isn’t going to interfere with the party tonight, Byron?” Prance said. “You haven’t forgotten Miss Challoner is coming today? I had hoped we might have a rehearsal with the choir.”
“We don’t need a whole regiment to deal with the Richardsons,” Coffen said. “You handle the party. You’re good at that.” He ruined the compliment by adding, “It’ll keep you out of our hair.”
“You are forgetting who solved the mystery of Lady Richardson’s nose,” Prance sniffed.
“There never was any mystery about her nose,” Coffen replied. “It’s the Redley nose, plain as the nose on her face.”
“How it got there is the mystery I was referring to.”
“Where else would it be? Tarsome fellow,” Coffen muttered and turned away. “Now about this note. You’ll hardly want to ask them to meet you here, Black. Some quiet spot where they think you’re alone.”
Black shook his head imperiously. “Only a flat would make such an arrangement as that, Mr. Pattle. It’s asking for a bullet. A public place, that is where any crook worth his salt would arrange the meeting. And a quick, safe means of escape, if you want to make it look like a genuine piece of dirty work.”
“We must accede to your superior knowledge in these matters, Black,” Prance said, with a meaningful lit
tle smile that was half a smirk. “It almost sounds as if you’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“I’ve been around a while longer than the rest of you, Sir Reginald,” Black replied, unfazed.
When Prance earlier mentioned the word, “party”, Black’s sharp mind had immediately set to work to figure how he could include himself amongst the guests. Perhaps even to dance with her! “Now what I was thinking, is that the do here tonight would be as good a place as any for them to hand over the blunt. If I get the note off to them early this morning, they should have time to raise the wind. We’ll make it a reasonable sum. Say five hundred pounds.”
“They already have the blunt,” Coffen said. “Stole it from Vulch when they poisoned Minnie.”
“Yes, but if the plan is for them to attempt to murder Black,” Corinne said, “a party is hardly the place they would try it.”
“An attempt to murder Black isn’t a vital part of the plan,” Luten said. “If they pay up, then they’re obviously guilty.”
“But will it stand up in court?” Byron asked.
“I’ll get them to acknowledge their guilt, and some of you folks will be hiding about to stand as witnesses,” Black said. “How about that?”
“That should work,” Coffen said. “But mind you don’t let them slip some poison into your drink. Where are there some good hidey holes, Byron?”
“That smallish room between the baronial hall and the salon provides easy access from the hall where the party is to be held, yet it’s quite private.”
“Not many places to hide there. It’s virtually empty,” Prance mentioned. He had made himself familiar with all the nooks and crannies of the abbey.
“It has good thick curtains to hide behind, though, and we can stick a bit of lumber in it for the night. A desk and a cabinet, and call it an office,” Byron said.
“So who, besides me, will be there as a witness?” Coffen asked. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be there.
“It might be noticed if the host disappeared for any length of time,” Luten said to Byron. “I’ll do it. We don’t need more than two. Now, about the note. What should it say, and how should we deliver it?” No one answered immediately, and he continued. “We’ll use your crested paper, Byron, and just say enigmatically that Mr. Black is in possession of certain information from Mrs. Vulch that he would like to discuss with the Richardsons. If they wish to keep this private, they might bring five hundred pounds with them to the soirée here this evening. We shan’t use one of your liveried footmen, but just have a groom drop it off at Redley Hall, preferably when no one’s about.”
Luten dictated the words and Black wrote the note in an unsteady hand on Byron’s stationery. Prance, glancing over his shoulder, said, ‘“Crede Biron’ ought to read ‘Crede Sable’, n’est-ce pas? That is the word for black in heraldry, I believe.”
Black gave him a snide grin. “I think you know my family isn’t noble, Sir Reginald. If I had a crest it would read ‘A man’s as good as his deeds.’ " Prance couldn’t think of a snappy comeback.
The note was sent off. Sir Reginald went abovestairs to see that all was arranged to his satisfaction in Miss Challoner’s bedchamber. He also went to the cellars with the butler to choose wines, oversaw the laying of the table for the midnight supper, the setting up of the refreshment table where wine and punch would be served during the party. Then there were the robes for the choir, arrived that morning, to examine for wrinkles and to harry Sally into pressing them. It was the bustling sort of day he thoroughly enjoyed, despite Grace’s cool treatment. He’d been ignoring her recently.
The household was thrown into consternation when Byron received a note from Sir William saying that Willie was ill, and he was afraid he and his wife could not attend the dinner party. Perhaps, if the doctor approved, they might drop in later to hear the carols.
“They can’t just leave it like that!” Prance exclaimed, and the others chimed in to wonder whether they hadn’t understood Black’s note. Or was it possible they were perfectly innocent, and the note didn’t mean anything to them?
“I would have been surprised if they hadn’t tried this stunt,” Black said. “They’re trying to force the meeting on to their ground, you see. They’ll be in touch with me suggesting I go there. Since they take me for a crook, they’ll not expect me to tell you I’m going. Easier to finish me off on their own turf, and no one any the wiser that I was ever there.”
“You’re a wonder, Black,” Coffen said, shaking his head in admiration. “You think you’ll hear from them today, then?”
“A little later today,” Black said, with the air of a man who knew what he was talking about. “I shan’t answer, of course. My silence will frighten them into coming here tonight. You notice they left the door open to come after dinner, if I don’t go along with them. Oh yes, I fancy we’ll see them trot in for the carols after dinner.”
* * *
Chapter 28
Black’s star sank as the hours passed and no further note from Redley Hall arrived at Newstead Abbey.
“They’re playing a game of nerves,” he declared, still with that air of a man who knew whereof he spoke. “Now I come to think of it, the note is more likely to be slipped to me during the little do this evening. One of their servants bringing it to the house in broad daylight would be spotted, but after dark, with folks milling about the place, it could be done unseen. I fancy they’ll try to lure me out to some isolated spot on the grounds. We’ll play it by ear.”
The house had that fevered air of excitement that inevitably precedes a party. Tantalizing aromas wafted through the great rooms. Servants bustled about carrying piles of dishes to the dining room, trays of glasses to the refreshment parlor, and giving the furnishing a last, quick dusting. The fires were built up to create a welcoming warmth, and as the afternoon drew to a close, the house guests went abovestairs to make their toilettes.
Prance remembered to send his carriage for Miss Challoner, who duly arrived and went straight to the hall to be put through her musical paces with him. If Byron noticed any resemblance to Lady Caroline Lamb, he didn’t show it. He was busy overseeing the placing of a few odd pieces of furniture in the room chosen for Black’s rendezvous, and consulting with his cook and butler over the last minute party arrangements.
Some twenty-four guests sat down to dinner. The local worthies were on their best behavior. No one drank to excess, or tried to steal anyone else’s wife or husband, though Miss Challoner made a set at the local MP and appeared to be making some headway.
Lord Byron, that famous rake, behaved with all the decorum of an archbishop. Luten had the sense that Byron scarcely knew his guests. He had asked the people he thought he should befriend, such worthies as local squires and their ladies, the MP, the vicar and a professor home for the holiday. The talk inevitably turned to the murders. The general consensus was that Vulch had earned the wrath of some unspecified roughian who, not satisfied with killing Vulch, had killed his wife for good measure. They didn’t seem to connect the body found on the island with the new murders.
When Coffen learned that his dinner partner was a neighbor of the Richardsons, he inquired for Willie’s condition.
“Why, what’s the matter with him?” Mrs. Enright asked, her eyes wide at this hint of news.
“I understand he’s too sick for the Richardsons to leave him. They were invited but couldn’t come.”
“I wondered why they weren’t here, as Lady Richardson is forever running on about her new friends at the abbey. Well, that is odd. He was fine this very morning. I saw him being walked by his nanny as I drove into town. I do hope it’s not measles! My boys haven’t had them yet.”
The suddenness of Willie’s illness tended to confirm that it was merely a pretext for missing the party. Coffen agreed that it would indeed be horrid if measles should become rampant during the holiday.
“Lady Richardson will be sorry she couldn’t come,” his partner continued. “She do
es love company so, and we don’t have many parties, here in the country. I know she was having Mrs. Addams make her up a new gown and was sure she’d wear it here.”
The ladies left the gentlemen to their port and cigars at the dinner’s end and retired to the salon. The men were just beginning to trickle in when the carolers arrived, and everyone flocked to the doorway to hear them. They stood, huddled together against the cold wind, while the carolers entertained them with the traditional Christmas songs. The singers made a charming picture, with the light from their lanterns glowing on red cheeks and open mouths. Snow was beginning to fall, not a heavy storm, but enough to create a mood. Veils of whirling flakes spun and eddied through the air like phantom wraiths. The flakes settled on mufflers and toques, sparkling like diamonds in the lamplight. When the music was finished, the singers were invited in for mulled wine, and apple cider for the youngsters.
A tow-headed youngster of eleven or twelve years approached Corinne and asked, “Can you tell me which one is Mr. Black, milady?”
Black was chatting to a neighboring squire, giving his views on farming, of which he knew virtually nothing. Corinne, her heart pounding, pointed him out and said, “Why do you ask?” Why would he ask, unless hired by the Richardsons?
“I have a note for him.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Who gave it to you?” she asked, barely able to control her excitement. “When?”
“Nobody, milady. I found it stuck under the door as I came in. It says Mr. Black on the outside. I can read,” he said proudly, holding out the folded paper.
“I’ll see that he gets it,” she said, and took the note. “Did one of the singers drop it?”
“Oh no, milady. I was the first one in. It was just laying on the floor, like it was slipped under the door. Must be a billy doo, eh?” he asked with a raffish grin.