“That’s possible,” Coffen admitted, “but I doubt if he found a sheet in the tool shed. And if he was right there at the lake with your boat, which he obviously was, why not row out to the middle of the water, tie a rock around her and throw her in the water? Nobody knew who he was. He’d be long gone before the body was discovered, if it ever was. That makes me wonder why he bothered stripping the body as well. Finding out it was Nessie still wouldn’t tell anyone who
he
was. How low does the lake get by summer’s end, Byron? Any chance of the body popping up?”
“No, it’s not shallow, but it’s been drained a few times. There’s a family legend of treasure either thrown in the lake or buried by the monks when Henry VIII took over the abbey in the sixteenth century. The monks did throw the lectern in the lake. My uncle, the ‘Wicked Lord’ had the lake drained and recovered it. A fine brass affair in the shape of an eagle. He sold it, the bounder. There’s a story around that two large chests were also found. They were too heavy to recover from the mud, and apparently the fifth baron had company coming from London and had the lake refilled before the mud dried. In fact I mentioned to a few people that I might drain it again and make my try for the chests. But of course a stranger from London wouldn’t know I had spoken of draining the lake.” He stopped and looked around, frowning. “Does that suggest a local villain? Have I inadvertently pointed a finger at my poor self?”
“Devil a bit of it,” Coffen assured him. “Your fame’s a milestone around your neck. Everybody hereabouts knows every move you make. They even know the names of your nags. At least Vulch does. It’d be big news if you planned to empty your lake. It could be a local sex fiend who met up with Nessie as she trundled toward Redley Hall. She might very well have stopped her killer and asked directions.” He was visited by a sharp memory of Vulch grabbing the maid at Redley Hall for a lascivious kiss. “I wonder if Vulch was back from London by then. I could see him doing it.”
“I’ve no idea,” Byron said. “Vulch’s peregrinations were of no interest to me.” After a little more discussion, they had talked the possibilities out and Prance, who was always more interested in toilettes than murder, said, “Let us see the new shawl, Corrie.”
She opened the parcel and handed one to Mrs. Ballard, who expressed enthusiastic thanks and praise. She immediately wrapped the warm shawl about her shoulders, and was seldom seen without it at the Abbey from that moment on. Prance held the other up to Corinne’s face to judge the appropriateness of the color.
“Very nice,” he said, although he thought the fringe was a trifle long. He found an excess in anything vulgar — too many ribbons on a gown, too much jewelry or rouge. He fingered the hem. “I don’t know what Lady Richardson was complaining about. These stitches are very nicely set.” Corinne examined them and agreed.
“I expect there’s some other cause than poor stitchery for ill feeling between milady and the modiste,” he suggested. “The lady likes her own way. And her way with a toilette is not what a good modiste might approve. Or a milliner for that matter. I wonder how many fowl were slain to feather that bonnet! She’s a veritable peacock, while poor Sir William is the image of the henpecked husband. I am mixing my genera and sexes, but you know what I mean. The woman is vulgar. As to those constant reminders that the estate and money are hers! But I shouldn’t carp. One feels that a sense of inferiority, or at least insecurity, is behind such blatant boasting and self-praise.”
Coffen’s scowl revealed he disagreed, but before he could speak, Byron said, “I expect she’s the force behind this history of her family. I noticed Sir William didn’t express much interest.”
“She’s foisting the job on him, certainly,” Prance agreed. “He’ll be reduced to a footnote.”
Byron continued, “I don’t know what their history might be in Jamaica, but he’ll not find much to write about here. The Redleys were a respectable, genteel family, no more, until old John married a squinty-eyed heiress and bought Upton Hall with her money and changed the name to Redley Hall. And now that we’ve torn our visitors’ reputations to shreds in a most uncivil way, what would you like to do for the rest of the day? Why don’t you and Corinne go for a ride, Luten? I shan’t accompany you, in case someone decides to take another shot at me. One hardly knows which is more unpleasant, to be a murder suspect or potential victim.”
As Prance looked out the window and saw the trees bucketing in the wind, he changed his mind about going to Mansfield. “Come with me to the library, Byron,” he suggested. “You’ll be safe there. You can root amongst the boxes for those letters from Jamaica while I search out ghostly lore.”
“And what will you do, Coffen?” Byron asked.
“I’ll be looking about for clues,” he said and left.
Coffen, like most people, had taken an instant dislike to Vulch. It wasn’t hard to imagine him killing Nessie Landers. If he hadn’t met her by chance here, then could he be the man she had met and run off with in London? He had been in London at some point in the past. Ugly as he was, some women seemed to like him. He would know all about Byron’s island, that it was a good, isolated spot to dump a body. He’d know that the Wicked Baron had drained the lake, and that Byron might do it again, so he wouldn’t take the easier way of dumping the body there. What Coffen had to do was to find out if Vulch was in London at the time Nessie ran off.
Despite the raw wind, he had Jessie Belle saddled up and rode along the lightly traveled road to the Green Man Inn, with his head hunched into his shoulders to keep his neck warm. He met only two mounted riders, a dogcart and a farm wagon along the way.
Everyone he met either lifted his hat, nodded or spoke. Country folks were friendly. He liked that. It was a good road for a race, for it was straight and nearly empty, but unfortunately not well metaled.
At the inn he left his mount with Peter, who informed him that Vulch hadn’t been in since last night but he was keeping his eyes peeled. It was good to get in out of the wind to a warm, smoky tavern reeking of ale, with a fire blazing in a grate big enough to roast a steer, and three old gaffers gathered around it with their fingers wrapped around their flagons. He felt at home the minute he stepped inside. The public room was of the usual sort — bare wooden floors none too clean, half a dozen deal tables, a few yellowed hunting prints on the wall, a sideboard holding a set of dusty pewter dishes as ornaments and grimy windows with glass so wavy you couldn’t see through them, even in daylight.
A saucy, black-haired, black-eyed wench with a fulsome figure and a wide smile was serving in the tavern. He was tempted to join the men around the hearth, for the wind had frozen him to the marrow, but he figured the serving girl might be more forthcoming if he sat alone. Women of a certain class liked Coffen. He hadn’t much success with ladies, but he did better with actresses, maids and tavern wenches. The secret of his success, though he didn’t know it, was his instinct to treat them with respect.
When she brought him his ale, he handed her a coin and said, “Have one for yourself, Miss — ?”
“Why thank you sir. You can call me Tess,” she said, and stood with the tray wedged against her hip, in no hurry to leave.
“Pleased to meet you, Tess. I’m Coffen Pattle. Since it’s not busy, why don’t you bring yourself a glass here and join me?”
“My legs could do with a rest,” she said, but when she returned, she carried only the one glass. She sat down and studied him with open curiosity. “You’re not from hereabouts,” she said.
“No, I’m visiting up at the abbey.”
“Coo! At his lordship’s place!” she said, impressed.
“He’s having a bit of a house party for Christmas.”
She lifted an eyebrow in such a way that he couldn’t tell whether she approved or disapproved. “I’ve heard about them parties!”
“No, no. Nothing like that this time. Just dull politicians and such.” After a little banter and a few sips of his ale, he decided he could now get down to business. “I met a fellow called Vulch outside t’other night. Seemed a rough piece of work.”
“Don’t talk to me about Vulch!” she sniffed. “He hangs around here two nights out of three, pestering me. Henchard don’t like it. That’s the fellow who owns the place, Henchard.”
“Likes the women, does he, Vulch?”
“Likes hisself more, but he’s taken a fancy to me. I’m sure I don’t know why, unless he’s one of them that wants what he can’t have.” She patted her black curls in satisfaction and added, “And him a married man along with it.”
“I daresay he’s taken with your flashing eyes. About him being a married man, his wife left him though, didn’t she?”
“She did in the end, more credit to her.” She looked toward the grate and said, “There, Willy’s glass is empty again. I swear the man’s a sponge.” She left and brought the sponge another glass of ale, then returned to Coffen’s table and sat down.
“How long ago was it that Vulch’s wife left him?” he asked.
She frowned a moment, then said, “It must be over four years ago now.”
And Nessie disappeared about four years ago. “Did he go after her?”
“He’d never say so — too proud — but he did leave the neighborhood before long. She took off just after Mayday, I mind. Then a few months later, he decided to try his luck in London. He didn’t stay long. He was back early the next year.”
So he was in London that November when Nessie ran off! “Was he here when the Richardsons came from Jamaica?”
She puckered her brow and after a moment said, “No, they came in mid-autumn. I had just started here at the Green Man when the Richardsons came. I was sort of wishing I’d waited and tried for a job at the Hall. Vulch didn’t show up till the winter, or he’d have been here with the harvesters. They drink like fish. Vulch never drinks hisself under the table like some of them. Why are you so interested in old Vulch? You don’t want to have much to do with him. A nasty temper he has.”
“That’s what I heard. He offered me a game of cards.”
“I’d not sit down at cards with the likes of him.”
Three farmers came in and Tess rose to welcome them. Coffen sat nursing his ale while he brooded over what he had learned. Vulch came home a few months after the Richardsons arrived. The time was just about right for Nessie to have found out what a mistake she’d made in joining up with him and made good her escape. She might have left London, Vulch followed her, killed her, and decided not to go back to London. He wouldn’t have been fool enough to bring her home, where she’d learn he was married. And as far as Coffen could see, he hadn’t a hope of proving it — unless he could get into Vulch’s shack and find a clue. Maybe some piece of clothing or jewelry belonging to Nessie. Lady Richardson would recognize her things. Not likely Vulch would have kept the clothes, but jewelry — that was a possibility. He wouldn’t throw it away and he’d be afraid to try to sell it locally.
He could find out from Lady Richardson if the girl had any special piece of jewelry she always wore, a locket or ring or some such thing. Before he left, he asked Tess one more question. “Are you expecting Vulch tonight?”
“He said he’d see me tonight.” She rolled her eyes in dismay. “Lucky me!”
Coffen pressed a coin into her hand and said, “Don’t tell him I was asking about him. He might take it amiss.”
She peered at the coin, smiled and said, “Mum’s the word, Mr. Pattle.” Then she directed a long, searching gaze at him and added, “Do you ask this many questions about all the men you sit down to cards with?”
“No, just some of them," he replied so blandly that Tess hardly knew what to make of it.
Coffen posted back to the abbey to find Luten and Corinne just stabling their mounts. “It was so cold we cut our ride short,” Corinne explained, rubbing her gloved hands to restore circulation. “Where were you, Coffen?”
Luten said, “To judge by his smile, he’s been out searching for clues. What have you discovered, Pattle?”
“I’ll tell you inside. I’m perishing here. Where did you two go?”
“I was showing Luten the spot in the spinney where Byron was shot at yesterday,” Corinne said.
“Anyone take a shot at you?”
“No.”
“Find any clues?”
“We think we found where the man was waiting,” Luten said. “We went into the spinney in the direction the shot came from. The grass was well tramped down there, as if someone had been waiting a while.”
“That don’t sound like a poacher!”
“No, it don’t,” Luten agreed. Corinne smiled. Luten was usually very correct in his grammar. It was the young bucks who favored those ungrammatical “ain’ts” and “don’ts”, in an effort to spice up their conversation. He didn’t get that “don’t” from Coffen, because Coffen had been saying it forever. She was amused to see that not even Luten was immune to Byron’s influence.
“I wonder if Byron often takes that short cut,” Coffen said, as they walked toward the house. “We’ll ask him.”
Byron and Prance came from the library and joined the others by the grate for tea. It was pleasant to sit by the roaring fire after the cold and damp. When Mrs. Ballard heard her mistress come in, she reluctantly left the morning parlor and went to join the others. Corinne poured and they each helped themselves from the generously laid tea table.
“You didn’t stay out long,” Byron said, pitching his comment between Luten and Corinne. He was walking a fine line, being polite to the lady without annoying her fiancé.
“Too cold,” Corinne said. “We did stop in your spinney, however. We were wondering if you often take that shortcut.”
“It’s my regular route to town.”
“Would the local people know that?” She asked.
“Of course they would,” Coffen said. “They know the name of his nags, everything.”
“Then that was no poacher who shot at you, Byron. Someone was lying in wait for you.” She continued to describe the trampled down grass.
Coffen asked what was in everyone’s mind. “Any idea who it could be? You mentioned your uncle shot some neighbor. Is there a feud between the families?”
“The Chawtons? No, it’s not a case of Montagues and Capulets. Our English sangfroid, you know.”