Murder at Newstead Abbey

by Joan Smith

  “Did Nessie take the money from Vulch’s chest?” asked Coffen, who liked all the details cleared up.

  “She did. She waited until Minnie fell asleep and searched the place for incriminating letters or what not. When she found the chest, she emptied the money into Vulch’s poaching bag and dragged it home. She felt it was hers by rights. Well, more hers than Minnie’s.”

  “About that part of a letter she left on the bed ...”

  “Something to do with Byron, wasn’t it? She mentioned it. Truth to tell, I was hardly listening. I knew then I must do something about her.”

  “And tonight?” Luten prodded, when Sir William stopped talking and stared into the fire with an expression like death on his face.

  “We had the note from Black. Nessie took one look at it and said, ‘We’ll have to handle him.’ I knew what that meant, which is why I wrote that note declining the invitation. Nessie didn’t speak a word to me from that moment until after dinner, but I knew she wouldn’t let it go at that. I didn’t know what she had planned, but after what happened to Minnie, I feared the worst. When she told me after dinner that I looked fagged, and why didn’t I have a posset and go to bed, my worst fears were confirmed. I pretended to agree. I have no doubt the posset, which I poured out the window, was laced with laudanum. Oh not enough to kill me, but to keep me quiet while she finished the job she had set herself.

  “I followed her when she left the house, dressed all in black. She went to the stable, where she had already drugged the stableboy so he wouldn’t see her take her mount out. When she rode here, I knew she had made some arrangement with Mr. Black to meet him. Then I saw him waiting in the cloister, and I saw her raise her hand to shoot. It was too much. I could see there would be no end to it. So I shot her, God forgive me. And that is God’s truth. My only regret is that Willie will suffer for our sins.” He turned a tearful eye to Luten. “Is there no way to spare him? He is innocent of any wrongdoing. He is a Redley by blood. He has an uncle, my younger brother Allan, in Surrey, who would take him in. A good man.”

  Luten thought of the tow-headed little tyke with the trusting smile, and with Redley blood flowing in his veins. He had done no harm. His life would be blighted forever if the whole truth came out — his parents murderers, his father hung on the gibbet.

  It might very well propel him into a similar fate. What harm to let him and the world believe that he was legitimate? He had some right to the estate, whereas the crown had none. At the rate the Prince of Wales was emptying the national treasury, the money would end up some gaudy ornament in one of his palaces.

  After a long moment, Luten said, “What have you in mind? How can he be spared?”

  Sir William gave a rueful shake of his head. “You outwitted Nessie. You’ll think of something, milord. About Nessie — she was not as black as I’ve painted her. A kindly creature, really. Always good to Helen and a regular angel with Willie. It was watching her half-sister being treated like a princess while she was a mere servant that made her bitter. Nessie was clever. She soon figured out who her papa was. She looked quite like him, actually. I think that was why he hated her, because she was so like him — handsome and clever, while his legitimate daughter was — as she was. She told me once that even if Willie was illegitimate, he would never suffer as she had. It was her revenge on the Redleys.”

  Luten nodded, acknowledging the cause of Nessie’s rancor as having some justification, though of course it did not cover murder.

  Sir William said, “That is my story, unless you have any questions?” When no one spoke, he said, “You will want to think over what I have said. I wonder if I might lie down a moment? I am not feeling at all well. It will give you a moment to make your decision.”

  “Very well.” Only Luten noticed the pistol resting by Sir William’s left hand.

  The others turned in a group and followed Luten from the room, into the baronial hall.

  “Despite all, I can’t help feeling sorry for the blighter,” Byron said, looking a question at Luten. “I don’t think he got much pleasure from his ill-got gains.”

  “Nessie led him by the nose, but he’s too much the gentleman to say so,” Prance said. “I wager it was his bullet that went astray when the wife was shot.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Coffen said. “He managed to kill Nessie tonight with no trouble.”

  “That is exactly my point,” Prance said impatiently. “He missed on purpose.”

  “That’s something we shall never know,” Corinne said, “but it’s Willie I feel sorry for.” She directed a trusting gaze at her fiancé.

  Prance gave a rueful shake of his head. “I don’t see how he can expect to be spared the gibbet.” At that moment a shot rang out in the next room, causing the group to start in alarm.

  “That’s how,” Byron said. He looked at Luten, whose grim face revealed no sign of surprise, but only a sad resignation.

  “It’s for the best,” Luten said. “We’ll go and make sure he did a proper job of it.”

  He and Byron went back to the room, with Coffen Pattle a step ahead of them. There was no doubt he had done a proper job of it. Not much chance of the bullet going astray when he had held the muzzle to his temple. The gun lay on the floor, where it had dropped from his fingers.

  Prance came in, took one glance, and hastily averted his gaze. He thought for a moment, then said, “Could we arrange it to look like a murder-suicide pact? We would have to come up with something to account for it. Some dreadful, incurable disease for one of them, I expect, and the other unable to face life alone.”

  Luten unfolded his handkerchief and placed it over Sir William’s face, then they returned to the baronial hall.

  Corinne asked in a small voice, “Is he--" Luten just nodded.

  “What about all the other murders?” Coffen asked. “Who do we say killed them?”

  “Surely that is not our concern?” Luten said, with a haughty stare. “We’re merely visitors, here for a holiday.”

  Coffen nodded. “I daresay we could pull it off. Someone will remember hearing of Vulch fighting with someone. Someone else will remember seeing a rough looking stranger hanging about Minnie’s cottage. Not much danger of Eggars ever tumbling to the truth. Right, then, we move the bodies. Where to?”

  “Off my property,” Byron said firmly.

  “They both rode here,” Coffen said. “Thing to do, round up their mounts. They must be about somewhere. Take the Richardsons and their horses back to Redley Hall before the groom wakes up and arrange the bodies in some loving way.”

  “How do we get them into the house without alerting the servants?” Byron asked.

  “We don’t. We leave ‘em outdoors. They don’t want to be firing shots in the house to waken Willie. We’ll arrange them with his arm around her, and the gun in his hand.”

  “Shouldn’t there be a suicide note?” Byron said.

  “That would clinch it,” Prance agreed. “He wrote the note declining your invitation to the party, Byron. If you can find it, I can imitate his fist.”

  “No,” Coffen said. “Let on she wrote the note. She’s the one would do it, if it was real. He could never talk her into killing herself, but she could talk him into anything.”

  “And did,” Byron added. “But would anyone believe she’d kill herself?”

  “She might,” Corinne said. “She did love him, I think. You remember how she always jumped to do his bidding.”

  “We have no sample of her writing,” Byron said.

  Black produced her note to him, given by the caroler, and Prance set himself the task of composing a note explaining the cause of the suicide murder, with Coffen hanging over his shoulder to stop him from becoming too flowery. It proved impossible to find a convincing fatal disease for the hardy Lady Richardson, so he gave the wasting disease to Sir William, who looked the part. He decided to address the note to Willie, which would engender sympathy to its real readers.

  He wrote: “Willie: You w
on’t understand all this now, but when you are older, try to forgive us. Your papa is very sick. I cannot face watching him die by inches, and I cannot face life without him. We both love you very much. Your uncle Alan will look after you. Be a good boy, and we will see you some day in heaven. Love, your mama.”

  “I doubt they’ll be seeing him in heaven,” Coffen said.

  “What’s one more lie, when the whole thing is a fabrication?” Prance said.

  “True. I wonder if it will fool the uncle in Surrey.”

  “That depends on whether he’s ever met the wife. Nessie, I mean. In any case, he won’t be eager to reveal that his brother was a murderer,” Prance replied, and folded up the note, to be placed in Nessie’s hand after the bodies had been moved.

  Black, Coffen and Lord Byron volunteered to remove the bodies. They found the horses tethered half a mile away from the cloister and arranged the transfer of the mounts. The bodies were moved in a wagon. The falling snow soon covered their tracks. It was brutish work for a cold, snowy night, but eventually they returned, red of cheek and nose, with their mission accomplished. The others were waiting for them in the salon.

  “I’m ready for fork work,” Coffen announced, as he poured himself a shot of brandy and moved toward the grate to warm his freezing hands.

  “We foresaw the need and asked Murray to prepare something,” Prance said. “I hope you don’t mind, Byron?”

  “Mi casa, su casa,” he replied, and took the brandy bottle from Coffen, poured himself a glass and passed it to Black. “Well, have we taken care of all the details?”

  “I believe so,” Luten said, looking around.

  “One little item comes to mind,” said Black, pouring himself a tot of brandy. “You’d ought to let someone know where the bodies are. The servants will be wondering, come morning.”

  “Good lord!” Luten cried. “How did we forget that?”

  “Black never forgets anything,” Corinne said, with an approving smile at her butler, whose breast swelled in pleasure. “What should we do, Black?”

  “We took care to place them under a tree so they won’t be covered by snow, nor will they rot in such chilly weather as this. I suggest one of you ride over to the Hall tomorrow morning early to see how Willie’s coming along — they claimed he was ailing you recall — and discover the bodies.”

  “But to leave them there all night!” Byron exclaimed.

  “They’ll not mind the cold,” Coffen said.

  “It does seem cruel to bring Eggars out at this hour of the night,” Prance added.

  “I’ll ride over to the Hall tomorrow to ask after Willie and make the discovery,” Byron said, and the thing was settled.

  The sandwiches arrived and were consumed as they went over the details one more time to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. Eventually, they went to bed.

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  The Berkeley Brigade, Byron and Black were in the salon the next morning discussing whether anyone should accompany Byron on his visit to Redley Hall. Corinne had volunteered, thinking she might be of some help with Willie. Their conversation was interrupted by a call from Eggars, come to announce the sad deaths of Sir William and Lady Richardson.

  “Good God!” Byron exclaimed, with a well-simulated air of astonishment. “I was just going to visit them. What on earth happened? Was it the same illness that Willie was suffering yesterday?”

  “No, the child seems well enough today. It was a death pact. Sir William had the wasting disease. I suspected as much, he was fading away to a shadow. And she, poor lady, couldn’t go on without him. I wouldn’t have judged her to be such a sentimental creature. Well, you never can tell about married folks. She had a softer heart than anyone realized.”

  Silence greeted this speech. After a moment, Coffen said, “Died in their beds, did they?”

  “No, they were found in their park by Tom Gratton, who was bringing a pony Sir William had bought for his son. She was cradled in Sir William’s arms under a tree. Very romantic, it must have looked. Like something you would write about, milord,” he said to Byron. He stared at the poet an uncomfortably long moment, long enough to make them all wonder if he suspected the truth.

  “Love and death are certainly two of the great romantic themes,” Byron said with a sad, pensive gaze into the grate. “But I wouldn’t set it in winter. It requires gentle breezes and soft moonlight. I wonder why they chose to do it out of doors.”

  “We think they didn’t want to do the deed under their own roof, lest it give little Willie a disgust of the house,” Eggars said. “They were both so fond of the lad. Poor tyke. Ah well, he’s rich at least. That will help ease the pain.”

  “That and the pony,” Coffen added.

  “At his age, I daresay the pony will help console him. I’ve sent for Sir William’s brother in Surrey. Sir William often spoke of him. I expect it will be for him to arrange things.”

  “Has there been any progress in the murders of Vulch and his wife?” Luten asked with an air of grave concern.

  “I’m following up a few things, milord. It seems he was seen talking to a stranger outside the Green Man the day before he was murdered. He tried to pull off one of his stunts, I expect. No doubt the fellow took off as soon as the deed was done. It will be difficult to find him.”

  “Indeed. And Mrs. Vulch?”

  “No one hereabouts had any grudge against Minnie. And no one profits from her death. She had no relatives and left no will. Her little cottage will go to the King. We’re pretty sure her murderer followed her from London. I will send word along to Bow Street to look into her acquaintances there. It might very well be some fellow she was seeing who fell into a fit of jealous rage when she left him.”

  “So difficult when these cases involve someone from another parish,” Luten said with a nod of sympathy.

  “It is indeed. It’s not the sort of thing we are used to here in the peaceful countryside. I have noticed our victims are invariably killed by someone from beyond the parish. Some stranger followed the girl found on your island, Lord Byron, and murdered her, the same as happened to poor Minnie Vulch. And it was a stranger who killed Vulch. I trust that will be an end to it. A pity your little holiday was marred by all this unpleasantness. I hope it doesn’t give you a disgust of the place.”

  “Not at all,” Luten said.

  “Who is taking care of young Willie?” Corinne asked.

  “His nurse will stay with him until his uncle arrives. Willie is used to her and seems to like her. I shouldn’t be surprised if the uncle keeps her on. I daresay he will remove here to Redley Hall. His son can take over his own little place in Surrey for him. Someone must look after Willie’s estate. It will be a full time job.

  “I shall call on the vicar to let him know he has two more funerals to perform. An odd thing he told me, t’other day.” A tension crept over the listening group, but Eggars didn’t notice. “Sir William and Lady Richardson have asked their lawyer to have the body found on your island buried in their family plot, Lord Byron. When they learned it was not Minnie Vulch, they believed it may be Nessie, Lady Richardson’s maid who disappeared. She must have had that molar extracted after she ran off on them. That was kind of them. I expect death was weighing heavily on their minds even then, knowing Sir William was so ill. There will be just room to slip her into a small grave on Sir William’s left side, with Lady Richardson on his right. We shan’t put any name on the tombstone, however. What a start it would give Nessie Landers if the body is not hers, and she ever came this way and saw her name on a tombstone!”

  After a little more conversation, Eggars rose to leave. “Thank you for informing us about all this, Eggars,” Byron said, and accompanied him to the door.

  When he returned he tossed up his hands. “Voila! The thing is done. I had no idea this is how the Berkeley Brigade goes about solving murders. Lying yourselves blue in the face, moving bodies, concealing evidence, creating evidence. I feel right a
t home. “

  “Our leader is not a politician for nothing,” Prance said, with a smirk at Luten, who acknowledged the hit with a shrug and a smile.

  “One does what one must to see justice done,” he said.

  Coffen expanded on this. “We don’t so much just solve murders as try to see that justice is done, especially to the innocent. It ain’t always the same thing. Nice of Sir William to have arranged for his real wife to be buried alongside him. Just as well she’s simple, or she might resent Nessie being on his right side. So when are you and Corinne going to tie the noose, Luten?”

  “Knot, Coffen,” Prance said with a shake of his head.

  “Eh?” Coffen gave a wild look. “You mean it’s off again? What the deuce happened?”

  “Not the noose, the knot.”

  “Of course you have to knot it or it don’t work. Tarsome fellow.”

  Prance lost his patience. “Of for goodness sake! Why can’t you say what you mean?”

  “ 'Cause there’s a lady present,” Coffen glared back. “Now let’s get down to more important business.”

  “He’s hungry — again,” Prance explained to their host.

  “Nothing of the sort,” Coffen objected. “About them ghosts, Byron. I ain’t sure I’ve seen a real live one yet. There’ll be a few more about if Vulch and Minnie and Nessie and the rest of them decide to perform. I’ll take a stroll about the grounds tonight.”

  “By all means,” Byron said, “but please don’t find any more dead bodies.”

  “Don’t worry. Ghosts don’t have bodies. Prance tells me they’re incorporated.”

  “Ah, going into business, are they?”

  “Incorporeal, Pattle,” Prance said. “The word is incorporeal.”

  Coffen nodded. “A dandy word, but don’t go putting it into that book you’re writing. It was all them big words that spoiled your Rondeaux." He stopped, rubbed his stomach and frowned. “Was you saying something just now about eating, Prance? I believe I could do with a nibble.”