Read Online Murder at Newstead Abbey by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

— did you see him?”
    “Alas, no. Just a shadow. And for a second, the light from a dark lantern.” That, of course, was the explanation for that one yellow eye that had blinked open. The fellow had opened the window of his lantern a moment, perhaps in an effort to locate his victim in the shadows.
    “Which way did he go?” Luten demanded.
    Coffen pointed back toward the rear of the cloister. Luten and Byron headed off while Prance helped Coffen up. “They’ll not catch him,” Coffen said. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here, Reg.”
    “Ghost hunting.”
    “Me too. We could’ve come together if we’d known. It’s not like you, prowling about in the cold and damp. You must be writing something, are you?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do have a little something in mind.”
    “Something to do with ghosts, is it?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “I thought one was after me. That’s why I ran. I heard a rustling sound in the leaves behind me. Thought I wanted to see one, but all of a sudden my heart took to thumping like a rabbit’s, and first thing I knew, I was running like a hare. I should’ve known a ghost wouldn’t make any noise.”
    Luten and Byron soon returned. “He got clean away,” Byron said. “Are you all right, Coffen?”
    “Just banged my arm. I’ll live.”
    “I suggest you get inside, my friend. He might try again,” Luten said, putting a friendly arm around Byron’s shoulder. Prance was annoyed that Luten assumed Byron was the target. He was even more annoyed at the familiarity of that arm over Byron’s shoulder. He considered Byron his own private preserve, yet he had never been so forthcoming as to put an arm around him. Nor was Luten at all prone to such physical displays. Luten had been no competition when he feared Byron was after Corinne but since Byron had begun behaving himself, they were growing close. It might be necessary to institute some new romance between Corinne and the poet.
    “He certainly wasn’t shooting at me this time,” Byron pointed out.
    “I expect he thought he was,” Luten parried. “Coffen was limping. In the darkness, he might have mistaken him for you. One shot might have been an accident. Two shots on successive days, both on your property, begin to look like a concerted attack. Come inside and tell us what you’ve been up to.”
    Byron just glanced at Prance, then said with a boyish, almost sheepish smile at Luten, “As a matter of fact, there is something, but I can’t believe they’re trying to kill me.”
    Prance was seized by a jet black fit of jealousy. It was clear as a pikestaff that Byron was transferring his affection to Luten. It was easy enough to understand. Luten, although not quite thirty, had always acted older. Prance couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t behave in a thoroughly adult, responsible manner that conferred some moral authority on him. Byron had never known a real father. It was a role waiting to be filled, and even in the heat of his jealousy, Prance could think of no one better than Luten to fill it. He would steer Byron down the path of rectitude. One really shouldn’t interfere, which didn’t mean one wouldn’t. The rogue in him delighted in such intrigues. And of course he would repair any animosity he stirred up between them.
    They all returned to the saloon and had a glass of wine. “If you insist then, I daresay I must reveal my cloven hoof,” Byron said, bracing himself for confession.
    “No need, Byron,” Coffen said. “We know all about the club foot.”
    Prance glared at him. “It is a reference to the devil, Coffen.”
    “What is?”
    “Cloven hoof.”
    “Eh? I never heard that. Horns and a tail is what he has.”
    “Pay him no heed, Byron. Proceed,” Prance said.
    Prance realized, as Byron opened his budget, that he was only telling Luten what he had already told himself earlier — the relatively innocent nature of the infamous orgy with his friends, the black robes, the