Free Murder at Newstead Abbey by Joan Smith Page B

thin smile, taking note of the fact that the creature had never heard of his opus. Lady Guinevere indeed! He had not put that wench into his poem.
    “And what are you writing now?” she asked.
    He saw his chance to collar the conversation and took it. “A gothic novel,” he said. “It takes place at St. Justin’s Abbey, a fictionalized version of Newstead.”
    “A gothic novel? You didn’t tell us, Reg!” Byron exclaimed.
    Luten nodded. “So that’s what your ghost-hunting last night was all about. I wondered what got you out in the cold.”
    Before Prance could expatiate on the perils of Lady Lorraine, Lady Richardson was off again.
    “Ah, a gothic novel! I adore them. Mrs. Radcliffe is my idol. My positive idol. The woman is a genius. I read her ten times a year, don’t I, William? You can say what you like about Fanny Burney, give me a nice spine-tingling gothic every time. And you’ve chosen the right setting for it, Sir Reginald. You want to get into the archives here and see what went on at this place in the old days. Those orgies on the island.” She came to a sudden halt and glanced uncertainly at her husband.
    Sir William cleared his throat, pulled at his cravat and spoke. “Speaking of the island, I hear a body was discovered there yesterday, Byron. Have you heard anything about it?”
    “Pattle here actually discovered it,” Byron replied. “Luten and I helped to dig it up.”
    “A young girl, I hear?” Sir William said. That Lady Richardson expressed no amazement was a good indication that she already knew this.
    “Yes, a blond girl.”
    “Vulch’s wife, I heard,” Lady Richardson said, looking all around. “Minnie Whyte that was.”
    “That possibility has been suggested,” Byron said, and waited to hear if she might mention her maid.
    When she didn’t, Coffen said, “There was some talk the body might be your maid that went missing in London, Lady Richardson.”
    “What, Nessie Landers?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing under her curls. “You mustn’t pay any heed to that. The neighbors love to talk about us. I don’t see how it could be Nessie, do you, William? How would she get here? She’d never been outside of Jamaica before.”
    “But she did disappear around that time?” Coffen persisted.
    “Yes, but not from here. It was from London. We were there two weeks all told. She took off and left me to pack my own clothes,” Lady Richardson said, with a snort. “There was certainly a man involved. She had met some no-account fellow in London.!Unfortunately I never got his name. She was such an innocent she’d be easily misled. A pretty little thing, but not too bright, I fear.”
    “A nice girl withal,” Sir William said, with one of his vague smiles that was half a frown.
    “Almost simple really,” his wife added, “but a good enough worker for all that.”
    “Of course you reported her missing to Bow Street?” Coffen said.
    Her eyebrows rose in astonishment again. “No, why would we call in the police? She wasn’t a slave, Mr. Pattle. She could leave us if she wanted, though I must say she took a shabby way of going about it. She had our address here and knew she could look to me in any time of trouble. I’m sure I wish her well. No, it’s Minnie Whyte that was who was buried on the island.” She turned a raffish smile on Byron. “Was she one of your ladies, Byron?”
    “I never actually met her,” he replied. “She came here looking for work, but my housekeeper turned her off her because her husband is a trouble maker.”
    “And because she was plain of face, to put it nicely,” she added with a knowing smirk. “Very wise, milord. The man she married is nothing else but a hooligan.” She turned to Corinne and with one of her swift changes of topic, began complimenting her on her gown. “If you’re wanting anything made up while you’re here, I recommend Madame Blanchett, in Mansfield.”
    “I brought any gowns I’m likely to need with me.