Byron gave a derisive snort. “And who is Sir William? Is he Jack Ketch?”
“No, but he might provide fodder for the hangman before this is over. Wait till you hear this.”
Prance loved having the floor. He made a good rant of it, reminding them that the Richardsons had arrived without servants, that they would know of the island, describing the gowns that didn’t fit the soi-disant Lady Richardson when she arrived in England, her efforts to keep Corinne away from Mrs. Addams, her pretext for not going to London, her first acceptance that the body was Nessie as it settled the matter, and when Vulch threatened to tell the truth, her suborning of his testimony at an undetermined price.
“A lot of it makes sense, but how did Vulch find out?” Coffen asked. “And on top of that, why not just pay him to let on the body was Nessie’s?”
“That was the quid pro quo. He wants to marry Tess, and for that Minnie has to be dead,” Prance said. “It would also give him the deed to Minnie’s cottage.”
“There’s a dandy
kooey bono
but it don’t tell us how he found out it was Nessie in the grave,” Coffen persisted.
“He was in London at the time,” Prance explained. “He might have seen the real Lady Richardson with Sir William. He worked at an hotel, possibly the one the Richardsons were staying at.”
“It would explain their eagerness to get hold of my family archives as well,” Byron said. “If letters were exchanged, they might make some mention of the real Lady Richardson that would reveal the impersonation.”
“Like Lady Richardson having that tooth out,” Coffen said. “Still, the whole story hangs on a dress that didn’t fit.”
“But the theory, you must own, fits exceedingly well,” Prance said.
Luten, who had been listening with interest, finally spoke. “It’s an interesting idea, but a theory is only a theory until it’s been tested and proven,” he said. “The law won’t listen to theories. How do we prove it?”
“There must be a picture somewhere of the real Lady Richardson,” Coffen said. “I wonder now if that’s what she was after in the archives, looking for one of them little ivory miniatures or some such thing.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Prance crowed. “It must be something important for her to have actually broken into the abbey to look for it. Perhaps she found it. There were a few papers burned in the grate, you recall. I am assuming she or Sir William is the culprit?” He looked around for agreement and saw heads nodding.
“Ah, the lady’s footprint!” Coffen said. “It explains that as well. Hers.”
“There must be family portraits at Redley Hall,” Luten said. “Why don’t we call on the Richardsons tomorrow?”
“If there was ever one of the real Lady Richardson, they would have burned it,” Coffen told him.
“A family resemblance can often be traced, though. If the Richardsons are all dark complexioned, for instance, when the lady calling herself Lady Richardson is a blonde, that would — No, that doesn’t work. The body on the island had blond hair, like the impostor.”
“We’ll go anyhow,” Coffen said. “I want to check out her feet. And tonight I mean to have a rifle through the boxes in the library to see if I can find anything about the Richardsons. For all we know, Sir William’s an impostor as well.”
“Pray don’t complicate things any further,” Prance said. “It wasn’t Sir William whose clothes didn’t fit.”
“We don’t know that,” Coffen said.
The company ignored his idea. “I doubt they would have written that the daughter was having a tooth drawn,” Prance said, “but by all means do look.” He turned to Byron. “Did Eggars have anything interesting to say?”
“He tramped us through the woods in the cold for an hour and confirmed what Coffen knew at a glance, that the body had been dragged or carried to the forest and chucked under the tree where it was found. He was going to Vulch’s place, where he will no doubt discover a bullet hole and blood smear on the sofa and an empty chest, if he remembers what Luten told him.”
“And two ale glasses on the table,” Coffen added. “That looks like Sir William was the one who called on him. A lady don’t usually drink ale. Well, it stands to reason it took a man to drag Vulch to a wagon and haul him under the tree. He’d need a rig, or at least a mount. Likely a mount, in fact, so his groom wouldn’t see what he was up to. I’ll make an excuse to visit their stable and see if he left any clues. Blood, or what have you.”
“The stable hands could tell you if he was out last night, if they haven’t been bribed to silence,” Byron mentioned.
“I don’t like to tip them off by asking. I’ll think of something.”
“Don’t bother,” Luten said. “My groom will do that while we visit tomorrow. The questions will come more naturally from another groom."
Dinner was another feast. It deserved a better topic of conversation than murder, but no one could seem to think or speak of anything else. Even Prance forgot his choir and his robes and his fir boughs.
Byron had a fire built in the library, and after dinner the whole group went there to rummage through boxes looking in vain for letters from Jamaica, and finally concluding that if there had ever been any there, the thief had either got away with them or burned them in the grate before leaving.
They all agreed, as they discussed the visit to Redley Hall over breakfast the next morning, that Byron, as their host, must be of the party. Prance, the lover of art, was to request a visit to the gallery to compare Lady Richardson’s features to those of her forebears. It would be rude for Corinne, the only lady, not to participate, and Luten had no intention of sending her off with Byron while he stayed at home. As to Coffen, you might as well try to keep a dog from a roast as to try to keep him away from potential clues.
“Then you shan’t be needing me,” Mrs. Ballard said with relief, and slipped quietly from the room.
“That makes a manageable five in all,” Prance said. “It’s not as though we were landing a regiment in on them. Though it does mean two carriages, which makes it seem like a crowd.”
“I’ll be riding,” Coffen said. “Gives me a chance to snoop about the stable.”
* * * *
As the carriage swept up the drive to Redley Hall, it was difficult to believe the occupants of such a house could be murderers. Its square stone bulk reeked of solid respectability. It boasted no French architectural flourishes, no porte cochère, no Italian columns or dome, no statuary or crest making unlikely boasts in Latin. It was a rectangular building three stories high with heavy quoins on the corners, a lead roof and five large chimneys, three of them puffing smoke into the crisp winter air.
The graveled forecourt crunched under the wheels as the carriage drew up to the old oak door. The butler who answered the first rattle of the big brass stirrup knocker was equally unpretentious. He wore a dark suit and bowed respectfully as he ushered them into a long, paneled entranceway smelling of beeswax and turpentine. He took Byron’s card off to “see if madam was at home.”
She could hardly claim otherwise as she was playing the piano loudly enough to be heard in the hallway. Nor did her delighted smile when she rushed forward to greet them suggest for a moment that she was anything but thrilled to see them.
“Lord Byron! And Lady deCoventry — do come in, all of you. So charming of you to call. Sir Reginald, and Lord Luten,” she continued, smiling and shaking hands. “Go fetch Sir William, Harkins,” she said to her butler as she helped Corinne from her pelisse and led them to the drawing room, where the fire in the grate took the worst chill from the air.
The room, like the exterior, was more than genteel, less than elegant. No delicate Adam fireplaces or plasterwork on walls or ceilings lightened the severe geometry of the paneled room. Heavy furnishings, the work of Kent, warred with a few lighter touches Lady Richardson had instituted. Prance felt the window hangings ought to have been an aged, dark velvet, but they were actually gold brocade, with heavy pelmets above. One graceful Regency chaise longue in striped satin stood out like a brooch on a shroud, to emphasize the heaviness of the rest.
“I do hope this is a friendly visit, and not some more horrid news of mayhem or murder?” she said. “I heard about Vulch, of course. I wonder who he was fleecing at cards. A pity his body was dumped on you, Lord Byron. Newstead is becoming quite a necropolis.”
Corinne thought she seemed a trifle nervous, but the unexpected arrival of so many prestigious visitors might account for it. She had slid in that hint that Vulch was killed as a result of his cards tricks rather neatly.
“No murder today. If you’ve heard of Vulch’s murder, then we have no new horrors to report,” Byron said, taking a seat by the hostess. “I was showing my guests about the neighborhood and took advantage of your kind offer to drop in, any time. I hope we haven’t come at an inopportune moment?”
“No indeed. I was just practicing my scales. It’s quite shocking how I’ve let my music go since leaving Jamaica. Pray don’t ask me to play for you. Poor William is the only one I subject to my wretched performance.”
She called for tea, which soon arrived. After a little conversation, Sir William was heard coming in the front door. A young, piping voice suggested that Willie was with him. “But I am old enough, Papa,” it said. “I can ride the donkey, and Jennie is bigger than a pony.”
“In here, William,” Lady Richardson called. “We have company. Bring Willie in to say hello.”
Willie bolted in in front of his father. His cheeks were red from the cold and his golden curls were tousled from the hasty pulling off of his hat. He was a handsome boy and wore all the hallmarks of being not only well looked after but pampered. His suit was of fine wool, with a sparkling white shirt peeping out at the top.
“Can’t I please have a pony, Mama?” he begged. “Papa says it’s all right if you agree.”
“Later, dear. We have company.”
“I know,” Willie said, examining each of the guests in turn. “I’m William Richardson,” he said, his gaze lingering on Corinne. “Who are you?”
“These are our friends, Willie,” his mama said, glancing fondly at the boy. “Remember your manners and bow properly. And remember what Nanny told you. Children don’t speak until spoken to.”
“You’re speaking to me, so can I talk? I would like some cocoa. I’m perishing cold.”
The visitors smiled and expressed their admiration of Willie, who was indeed a handsome boy.
“Run along now,” his mama said. “Tell Nanny I said you may have some cocoa. But no buns. They’ll spoil your appetite.”
Sir William also smiled fondly on his son. Once Willie was out of the room, he resumed his usual sad and worried expression, but trying to put a polite face on to greet the callers.
“I didn’t know you had taken Willie out,” Lady Richardson said to her husband. “I thought you were doing the monthly accounts.”
“I was, but Willie wanted to show me how he could ride the donkey.”
“It must be the accounts that explain your moroseness,” she said. “Not that we are in dun territory!” she added hastily.
“I’m just a little worried about getting Willie a pony,” he explained. “He wants it so badly I hate to deny him, but if he fell off and hurt himself...”
“This after you convinced me the boy must learn to ride? Get him the pony. Don’t you agree, Lord Byron?”
“If he’s old enough to want to ride, then I would let him, but he’s your son, Sir William. The decision must be yours.”
To lead the conversation to art, Prance began praising the room. “Is that a Titian on the far wall?” he said, rising to examine what his knowing eye recognized as a quite inferior Italian painting.
“Alas, no,” she said. “But we have some rather fine portraits in the gallery. My grandfather was painted by Gainsborough. Would you care to see it, Sir Reginald?”
“Lead on! I’m a positive glutton when it comes to art.” This was true, but he did not share the English passion for Gainsborough, whom he called an illustrator, not an artist. His models looked as if they had been treated by a taxidermist and propped up under a tree. Van Dyke made the rest of them look like amateurs.
Lady Richardson rose and looked around. “Would any of you care to join us? Lady deCoventry?”
Byron and Corinne went with her. Luten remained behind to see what he could discover from Sir William.
Lady Richardson seemed to know what she was talking about. She could ream off the names of the various gentlemen and their ladies and give some details of their background. She knew the names of the artists as well, and spoke of the family history as she led the tour.
“This is old Jeremiah Redley,” she said, stopping at one portrait of a gentleman in a military uniform from the period of Queen Anne. “He could have won the family a title if he had played his cards right. He was a close friend of Marlborough, but he left the army and married a widow lady from the provinces, so we remained mere commoners.
“And here are my papa and mama, done just before they left for Jamaica. Only an inferior local artist, as he was a younger son,” she said, as they neared the end of the long gallery. The mama was a fairly nondescript lady who more closely resembled Sir William than Lady Richardson. But when Prance looked at the portrait of her papa, his heart sank. Remove that idiotic tricorne hat, set a blond wig on the man, and he could pass for Lady Richardson. The same blue eyes, the same strong, arched nose that recurred in the paintings through the centuries. Lady Richardson had quite obviously been born a Redley. And if she wasn’t an impostor, why the devil would she have murdered anyone? The whole case against her rested on her being an impostor.
“Quite a noticeable resemblance to your papa,” he said weakly.
“Ah, the Redley nose!” she laughed. “I fear it is one of those characteristics that endures, like the Hapsburg jaw. No doubt Willie will have it when he’s a little older. It suits the males better, I think.”
After assuring Lady Richardson that her nose was unexceptionable and praising a few more portraits, they returned to the salon, where Luten was having uphill work getting anything useful out of Sir William, who preferred to speak of his son. The man was well informed on local matters. He volunteered that he had attended a meeting of the parish council two evenings before to discuss the rates for the next year, which did not constitute an alibi. He might have killed Vulch after the meeting. He expressed little interest in politics and none in becoming an MP.