Murder at Newstead Abbey by Joan Smith

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,