“Eh?”
“Shakespeare, Coffen,” Prance explained, to obviate confusion by calling the bard William.
“Ah,
him.”
“That feud is long forgotten,” Byron continued. “I actually had a romance with Miss Chawton when I was much younger. And she is the one who broke it off -- she had no use for a crippled boy — so there are no hard feelings on the Chawton side. She’s married now.”
“How about the husband?” Coffen asked. “P’raps he’s jealous, now that you’re back, and so famous. Do you ever see his wife?”
“Not in any amorous way. I’ve met her in Nottingham once or twice. The
esposo
is no prize, but he’s a rational fellow. I can’t believe he’s out to kill me.”
“Well, it looks as if somebody is. Think about it and let us know if you can remember who you’ve turned against you.”
“According to the vicar, my enemies are the pillars of the parish, who presumably know their Ten Commandments, including the fifth. Their Christian duty is to reform us sinners, not shoot us.”
“Did you have any luck finding those letters the Richardsons are looking for?” Luten asked Byron.
“Nothing of account. There’s a scrap of paper indicating that before he went to Jamaica Joshua Redley bought a nag from my grandfather for five guineas. I doubt that’s book-worthy.”
“Give it to her,” Prance said. “I expect what she really wants is an excuse to sprinkle the work with the name of Byron, to add a little lustre. She’s obviously a climber. She’s been here twice, and we haven’t visited her once.”
“I disagree,” Corinne said. “If she were socially ambitious, she’d take Sir William to London to make a splash.”
“What, and let the cows run dry!” Prance joked. “But enough ill nature. What is it about country life that brings out the shrew in one?” It was on the tip of his tongue to quote Sydney Smith’s opinion, "I have no relish for the country; it is a kind of healthy grave," but upon consideration he thought it would be rude to his host, especially as the word “grave” occurred. He said instead, “You were after clues, Coffen. What have you discovered?”
“I haven’t got anything real,” Coffen admitted, and told them about his visit with Tess. “I have an idea I’d like to try on you, though. What if Vulch is the fellow Nessie fell in with in London? He was there at the time, and came home a few months after the Richardsons got here. Nessie might have left him and he followed her, or he might even have come home with her. They had some falling out, he killed her and buried her.”
The others exchanged a questioning look. “It’s entirely plausible,” Luten said.
“But how would Vulch have met Nessie in London?” Prance asked.
“How did anyone meet her?” Coffen replied. “She was there, he was there, the rest is up to chance.”
“I wonder what he was working at there,” Luten said. “He worked at an hotel, did he not?”
Coffen said, “Stanley, your boatman, Byron, told me he worked as an ostler at some inn in Nottingham. He might have been doing that, but he’s nosey, he’d find out if notables were there, and investigate. P’raps Tess could find out for me.”
“Ask her next time you see her,” Luten said. “And we should also ask Lady Richardson what hotel she and Sir William stayed at.”
“And if they hired a rig,” Coffen added. “Vulch could have been working at a hiring stable. Newman’s or some such place. We might find out if their paths crossed. And if Nessie wore any jewelry that Vulch could have taken. I thought we could get into Vulch’s shack tonight and search for clues. It should be safe for he’s supposed to be seeing Tess tonight He’s sweet on her.”
“I thought he was seeing the Richardson’s maid,” Prance said.
“He is. It seems he can handle more than one girl at a time. One of those ambidexter fellows you told me about, Prance. Mind you, he’s not getting anywhere with Tess. So who’s coming with me? He’s not the kind of fellow you’d want to tackle alone.”
“I’ll go,” Byron offered at once. “Since it’s my reputation that’s at stake in all this, I want to be in on it. I wonder —"
“If it was Vulch that shot at you?" Coffen finished. “I was wondering the same thing. Can you think of any reason?
Byron hesitated a moment before answering. “Only that I refused to hire him to help with the harvest, but if that’s a reason for murder, he’d have to kill half the neighborhood.”
“I’ll join you and Coffen tonight,” Luten said.
Prance disliked to see Byron go off without him, but on the other hand, this Vulch character didn’t sound like someone he’d want to meet, especially under such adverse circumstances as breaking into his house. And as he was actually staying under Byron’s roof, there was no shortage of opportunities to be with him. He murmured something about wanting to get to work on his gothic novel, and three of them should be able to handle even a Vulch.
They soon parted to dress for dinner. Prance managed to waylay Grace as she was bringing hot water to the serving dishes to keep dinner warm. She looked quite ravishing with a sparkling white cap on her black curls and a white apron tied tightly around her lithe waist. It would be amusing to teach her proper English and take her to London to act as his parlor maid. He would play Pygmalion to her Galatea. He asked her if she’d accompany him on another ghost hunt that evening.
She pursed her lips, flashed her dark eyes at him and said with an air of injury, “You never paid me the last time, sir.”
He dropped a coin into her hand. “You ran off on me,” he reminded her with a chiding smile. “I thought you might misunderstand if I went seeking you out in your bedchamber.”
She slid the coin into her apron pocket and stared at him a moment with those large, liquid eyes, with just a trace of slyness flashing in their depths. This only added to her allure. What was it William said, “Some faults to make us men.” Or of course women. Prance found a few twists in his friends made them more interesting. He had endless amusement from Luten’s pride and jealousy, and Corinne’s jealousy. Coffen’s frequent solecisms gave him ample chance to show off, which he readily acknowledged as a weakness in himself. And he was coming to suspect that Byron’s pose of never being impressed by anything was just that — a pose. No twenty-four year old could be as cynical and world-weary as he pretended to be.
Grace opened her lips and said, “I nearly got kilt last night. I’m not up to going out there again.”
“There are said to be ghosts inside the house as well.”
She peered up at him from the side of her eyes. “How much?”
“Same as last night. No discount for working indoors.”
She cocked her head and considered it. “Well, if you say so, but there’ll be no carrying on, mind.”
“None of the sort you mean,” he agreed, and she nipped off, happy with her bargain.
Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were both wrapped up in their new shawls. Corinne realized the mauve didn’t go with her blue gown, but she wanted to keep her dark green gown for the party, and she refused to shiver and freeze all evening. Over another lavish dinner, they all discussed their day’s doings. The gentlemen made quick work of their port and joined the ladies in the salon before taking their leave.
“It looks like it will be just you and I and Mrs. Ballard tonight,” Corinne said to Prance, after the others had left.
“Actually I plan to work. The novel, you know.”
“Oh yes. Then it’s just you and I, Mrs. Ballard. Would you like a game of cards, or would you rather read?”
“Just as you like, milady,” said her obliging companion, who was on thorns to get back to her novel.
“Why don’t you have a look through the archives and see if you can find any stories of ghosts?” Prance suggested.
Mrs. Ballard was never happier than when she was being useful. “Or we might find out something for the Richardsons,” she mentioned.
“The fire will have gone out in the library. It’s nice and warm by the fire here,” Corinne said.
“I’ll bring you each a box of papers to examine here,” he said, and went to the library to root through boxes of boring business ledgers until he came to a box containing journals and letters, which he carried back to the salon and placed on the sofa table. When he saw Grace loitering outside the door, he excused himself and joined her. The ladies were alone in the salon when the rock came hurtling through the window and smashed on to the table, missing Mrs. Ballard by inches.
Mrs. Ballard squealed and leapt up from the sofa, upsetting the box of papers that fell in a heap on the floor. Corinne hollered, “Murray!” and the butler came into the room, dragging his feet like a lame racehorse.
He looked in the direction of her ladyship’s pointing finger, saw the gaping hole in the window, cried, “Gorblimey!” and hurried forward to look out into the darkness. Seeing no one, he snatched up the poker, shouted, “Down, ladies,” over his shoulder and went limping out the door.
Mrs. Ballard took him at his word and crouched behind the far end of the sofa. Corinne stood a moment, frozen with shock, then ran out after Murray. From the open front doorway she could hear the sound of retreating hoof beats echoing in the distance. A cold, white moon shone down on the grounds. Swaying shadows of the tall trees suggested movement, but she could see no sign of either horse or man, except for Murray. She went out to speak to him.
“He got clean away, the bounder,” he said, scratching his head. “What’s all this about, I wonder? You’ll take a chill, milady. Best nip back inside. I’ll have a look about out here.”
It was indeed perishingly cold. The wind whistled through her woolen shawl. “Come inside, Murray,” she said. “He was on horseback. You won’t see him. You can send some footmen out to have a look, but I fear it’s pointless.”
“Fear not, milady. I’m up to it,” he said, and limped off into the shadows.
Corinne went back inside, where Mrs. Ballard was just peeking up from behind the sofa. Her face was milk white and her whole body was trembling.
“We should never have come to this horrid place!” she cried. It was the first complaint Corinne had ever heard her utter, in the seven years they had been together. She always confined her disapproval to a tightening of the lips, or at most a frown. Mrs. Ballard looked surprised at her own daring. “Lord Byron is not — not the sort of man you should associate with, milady.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Corinne scoffed, and looked about for the rock which had come hurtling through the window. She found it, rolled into a corner of the sofa. It was the size of a coconut, and there was a note tied to it. She pulled it off and read, “The curse of the Byrons is on this house. You are not wanted here. Go, or take the consequences.” It was printed in childish letters.
She passed it to Mrs. Ballard, who accepted it reluctantly, read it, tsk’d and handed it back.
“This is the work of some lunatic,” Corinne said, and put the note aside to show the others. A stiff breeze was now whistling through the window, sending the flames in the grate dancing sideways. She went out to call Murray, who was just returning from his search.
“Not a sign of him,” he said, shaking his head in frustration.
She showed him the rock and the note but he had no idea who could be responsible. “Can you do something to the window?” she asked. “It’s very cold.”
“I’ll put an oilskin over it and draw the curtains. If he comes back, the rock won’t go through the curtain. You ladies might he more comfortable in the morning parlor.”
“Oh my yes,” Mrs. Ballard said, holding her hand to her palpitating heart.
Corinne felt a stab of pity for her. “You go on up to your room, Mrs. Ballard,” she suggested. Her companion was not slow to heed this suggestion. She scuttled from the room, peering over her shoulder to see if another rock wasn’t coming at her.
Murray trudged off and returned with two footmen and a sheet of oilskin, which he tacked on to the window frame, then drew all the curtains.
“Has this sort of thing happened before?” Corinne asked him.
“There were a few eruptions when his lordship was here with his friends some years ago. Memories are long in the countryside, milady. P’raps the local folks fear more of his carrying on, but when they see he’s in good company, it will pass.”
“How very unpleasant for him,” she said. Byron seemed to be an absolute magnet for trouble. He had nearly drowned in a shipwreck, he had been with the Prince Regent a month before when a shot was fired at one of their party. His affair with Lady Caroline Lamb had turned into a saga that was half farce and half tragedy. And even in the country trouble sought him out. If they didn’t solve the mystery of the corpse found on his island, that would be laid in his dish as well, to brand him a murderer. The irony of it! Byron, who had such a love of women, and who was so ingenuously honest. He was rash and foolish to be sure, but he never denied his wrong doings. He bragged about them.
If he had inadvertently killed someone, he would have run to the nearest constable to turn himself in — and written a poem about it. Wouldn’t he? Very likely it was finding the corpse that had got the locals upset, because Byron hadn’t done anything to bother the strictest member of the parish on this visit.
She remembered that Prance was in the house, and asked Murray to send a maid up to his room to ask him to come down. Sally was soon back without him. “He’s not there, milady. And he’s not in the liberry, for I had a peek on my way past. He’s
gone,”
she said, in an ominous voice.
“He can’t be gone. He must be in some other room. You’ll have to search for him.” When the maid just stood staring at her, she said, “At once,” and the maid scuttled off, muttering under her breath.
Corinne sat on by the fire, thinking. This rock through the window was a primitive stunt, the sort of thing the locals would do, to try to frighten Byron away. No doubt they feared he meant to corrupt their daughters. Or did it have something to do with the body found on the island? Did they think the woman had died — or been killed — during that orgy on the island? Byron had already said all the girls were present and healthy after the orgy. And how could she word such a question anyway? “You didn’t happen to kill any of those young girls you had on the island?” She couldn’t do it. She would have to ask Prance. And where the devil was Prance?