Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  “Has Marchbank received a ransom note?” Corinne asked.

  “No.” A frown pleated Luten’s brow. “That is rather odd.”

  “Then if this man who took her was not after money ...” Corinne stopped as the significance of this sank in. “She is very pretty.”

  “The bounder!” Coffen exclaimed.

  Luten worried his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “There would be any number of pretty girls at the fair, some of them available for a pittance. It is unlikely a lecher would go after a lady, knowing the consequences would be severe. I still hope there will be a demand for ransom.”

  “He had a lot of gall, going right into her orchard,” Coffen said. “And how would he know about her going there? You don’t figure it could be a local lad?”

  They all exchanged a sapient look. “You are referring, I collect, to Baron Blackmore?” Luten asked. “The same thing occurred to me. He would be happy to get his hands on her fortune. If he forced her to spend the night at his house, she would be obliged to marry him, hence the lack of a ransom note. He’d bring her back to Appleby as his bride, a fait accompli.”

  “He’s had her long enough to fait accompli her. Why didn’t he bring her home?” Coffen asked.

  “We must go and rescue her at once!” Corinne said, rising.

  Luten gently pushed her back onto the sofa. “Blackmore was at the fair. The devil of it is, all the local suspects were there.”

  “Who would these chaps be?” Coffen asked.

  “First and foremost, Blackmore. Then there is Soames and that Stockwell fellow from Greenleigh.”

  “Soames wouldn’t kidnap her,” Corinne said. “When she refused to come to London to make her debut, I figured she was going to accept an offer from Soames.”

  Luten’s gray eyes focused on her with bright intensity. “Did she intimate anything of the sort?”

  Corinne noticed his sharp look and felt sure it was jealousy that caused it. “No, but she had no interest at all in coming to London, and you know how she used to talk it up. She could hardly wait to get there.”

  “We shall speak to Soames in the morning. And Blackmore,” Luten said.

  “And Rufus Stockwell,” Coffen added.

  “And Rufus,” Luten agreed. “There is little we can do tonight. I suggest you find yourselves a bolster and a couple of blankets and tuck in. We shall be up and about early.”

  “Up with the fowl,” Coffen said, frowning at the thought. “I could do with a bite to eat before we hit the tick.”

  Luten yawned, covering his lips with his raised hand. A carved emerald glowed on the small finger. “It takes longer than twelve hours to starve to death, Pattle.”

  Coffen frowned at his protruding stomach. “Where are we to sleep?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.” Then he turned a mischievous eye on Corinne. “Unless you would like to share my sofa, Countess?”

  “Is there no bed of nails available? That would be more to my liking.”

  “That is my cue to offer you my sofa and find myself another bolster.” He rose and gestured toward the sofa with a wave of his arm.

  “I wouldn’t dream of discommoding you, Luten, knowing you put your creature comforts above all else— even manners. I expect Susan’s bed is made up. I shall sleep there.”

  On this setdown she left the room, to see her trunk had been deposited in the hallway by Pattle’s groom and footman. To have it taken abovestairs would cause too much racket, so she removed her nightwear and a muslin gown for morning and went upstairs. The stairway was dimly illuminated from the hall below, but once she reached the second story, she was plunged into darkness. Rather than return below for a lamp, she felt her way along the hall, counting doorknobs. Susan’s room, she remembered, was the third one on the left. When she opened the door, a faint ray of moonlight gave enough illumination to show her the lamp and tinderbox. She lit a lamp and gazed around at the familiar room.

  It had not deteriorated as badly as the rest of the house. Although Appleby Court belonged to Susan, she had not removed to her parents’ grander bedchamber upon her mama’s death. Her belongings were still in the room she had used as a girl. It was not part of the nursery, but had been decorated in a manner to please a young girl. The wall was covered in light paper decorated with apple blossoms. The carpet, though worn, still showed a pattern of pink flowers. The furnishings were dainty ladies’ pieces, painted a creamy shade and trimmed with gilt, similar to those in Corinne’s bedchamber in London. Susan had disliked canopied beds. She imagined monsters were hiding in the curtains. Her mama had removed the hangings, leaving the four posts bare. Susan had used the posts at the end of the bed to hold two of her straw bonnets.

  Corinne turned to the desk, thinking there might be some clue there. She smiled to see the volumes of Camilla resting on the desk. She had sent Susan the five volumes for her birthday, thinking she would enjoy the romance. She noticed that volumes one to three were there. Presumably Susan was reading volume four, and it was somewhere about the house. It was odd, though, that she had taken volume five with her as well. Corinne was a little surprised to see Byron’s Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage on the desk. A little risqué for Susan ... She opened the cover and read, “To Susan. Many happy returns on your birthday. Love, Luten.” She might have known! How exactly like Luten to send a young girl such a book. She frowned at the casual “Love.” He usually signed any note to herself “Sincerely” or “Your servant.”

  She was suddenly overcome with fatigue. She turned down the counterpane, happy to see the bed had not been stripped. She undressed and climbed gratefully beneath the covers, where she lay awake for a long time. Hunger gnawed at her, but it was not what kept her awake, nor was it the strange bed. Where could Susan be? Was she even now confined by some lecher such as Blackmore, being forced to give herself to him? Or worse, was she already dead, killed by some raving lunatic? Why had there been no demand for ransom?

  Her mind wandered over her friendship with Susan. The girl was as helpless as a kitten. And a good deal friendlier. If some man who looked like a gentleman asked her for directions, she was as likely as not to go along with him in his carriage to show him the way. It was so dreadfully easy for a trusting girl—child, really—like Susan to be kidnapped. Yet Susan was no longer a child. She was now twenty years old.

  This being the case, it was odd she had allowed Appleby to fall into such disrepair. Was it possible Otto had lost her money in bad investments? He drank a good deal. If that was the case, then a ransom demand could not be met. She and Luten and the others must pitch in and raise the required sum. But perhaps her money was intact. Susan had no notion of household management. Her mama had done all that sort of thing. If they found her—when they found her—she would have a talk with Susan about keeping up Appleby Court.

  Would she marry Blackmore if he was the one who had carried her off? Mrs. Enderton had warned her and Susan away from him during her mourning visit here. “Not fit for decent company,” she had said, so Corinne had very little knowledge of him. What a wretched husband he would make an innocent girl. Would Jeremy Soames have her if she had been ruined? In any case, Susan must not marry Blackmore if she did not care for him. Surely she didn’t care for him—although he was rather handsome, in a horrid, sinister way, like a villain in one of Miss Radcliffe’s gothic novels. That wastrel would squander her estate in no time.

  Susan would be better off a spinster. At least she would be independent. It was lovely being independent, as long as one had enough money for some of life’s little luxuries. Corinne had never thought, when she was at home in Ireland, that she would ever be in her present position—still young, still healthy, and now wealthy to boot. An accepted member of the most Haut Ton group in London, the Berkeley Brigade. If they all hung together, they could get Susan accepted in Society, whatever ill had befallen her. Coffen, for instance, would still marry her. Perhaps even Luten ...

  She frowned and turned over to begin counting
sheep. When she opened her eyes, sunlight streamed in at the window. Dancing sequins of iridescent light reflected from the mirror onto the ceiling. At least the weather wasn’t going to hamper their search for Susan.

  Chapter Five

  From her bedroom window Corinne looked out on a perfect picture of bucolic peace. This picturesque corner of East Sussex, nestled amongst the woods and moorlands, seemed the last place on earth one would expect violence and possibly even murder. The branches of tall trees moved lazily in the breeze. Graceful swallows cut a swath against the brilliant blue heavens. In the distance a raucous daw protested some grievance.

  Corinne turned reluctantly from the window and began to dress for the day in the older blue muslin she’d got from her trunk the night before. After a hasty toilette, eager to get on with the job, she went downstairs.

  She was annoyed to find Luten his usual well-groomed self when she went to the morning parlor for breakfast. There had been no warm water for her to make a toilette. She had pulled the bell cord in vain and finally used the cold water in the basin in Susan’s room. Yet Luten had obviously shaved. He wore an immaculate cravat and had not slept in that jacket he wore either.

  Luten’s cold eyes raked her from head to toe, then lifted again to frown at her hair. He performed an exquisite bow. As he drew her chair, he murmured softly in her ear, “Setting up to play the role of Lady Medusa, Countess?”

  Her temper rose, but she replied coolly, “Has your valet arrived, Luten?”

  He gestured gracefully at his waistcoat. “As you see. If Simon cannot take care of me properly here, I shall remove to the Rose and Thistle. You ought to have brought Mrs. Ballard with you. You look, if you do not mind my pointing it out, as if you had combed your hair with a rake.”

  “Thank you. I did not mistake that ‘Lady Medusa’ for a compliment.”

  “Your gown could do with an ironing as well,” he added, eyeing it with disdain as he took up a chair opposite her.

  “We have more important things to think about than our toilettes.”

  “Surely we are capable of managing two thoughts at a time?”

  “Have you learned anything since last night?”

  “I had no revelatory dreams, if that is what you mean. Since rising, I have learned that Mrs. Malboeuf makes a demmed poor cup of coffee and cannot fry an egg for toffee. Your stormy eyes tell me you are still concentrating on your one thought. Regarding Susan, I have already milked Tobin dry. Otto continues to sleep it off. I have asked Tobin to send Mrs. Malboeuf to me when she finishes burning your toast and bacon. Ah, here she is now. Lucky you!” he added sotto voce, as a plate of scorched toast was slammed onto the table in front of Lady deCoventry.

  “Do yez want eggs?” the dame inquired in a bellicose voice.

  The woman was nothing else but a slattern. Her gray, flyaway hair was nominally held in place by a cap. Her apron, once white, looked as if an artist had used it to clean his brushes. It held all hues, from brown gravy splatters to berry juice to something vaguely green. Mold, perhaps. Her enormous bulk suggested that eating was her major function in the kitchen. Her heavy face was set in a mutinous expression, giving her the air of a bulldog.

  “No, thank you,” Corinne said, “but I would appreciate it if you would make up a bedroom for me.”

  Mrs. Malboeuf placed her hands on her battleship hips and said, “Dora is gone, isn’t she? How am I expected to clean the house and do the cooking?”

  “Gone where? Do you mean she disappeared with Miss Susan?” Corinne asked.

  “Gone two months ago. Run off to Burnham with one of the grooms from Slattery’s stables. She says they’re married. I hope it may be so, for the kiddie’s sake.”

  Corinne refused to follow up this teasing statement. “Why did you not replace her?”

  “I’m not the one holding the purse strings. Servants like to be paid,” was her curt reply.

  “And are you paid for your somewhat minimal services, Mrs. Malboeuf?” Luten inquired, with a civil smile.

  “I was, last quarter day.”

  “Then we can assume dire poverty is not the reason for the state of things here. That can wait until later, however. We want to ask you a few questions regarding your mistress’s disappearance.”

  “I already told Mr. Marchbank and repeated it to Hodden and Mr. Soames. She took her sewing basket out to the orchard right after lunch on Monday and never come back.”

  “How did she seem when she left? Did she behave in any unusual manner?” Corinne asked.

  Mrs. Malboeuf drew a sigh and stood, giving the matter deep thought. “I thought it odd she wore her blue muslin,” she announced, after a long pause.

  Luten blinked in confusion. No color was so becoming to Susan’s blond hair and blue eyes. “Why did you find that odd?”

  “It was brand-new, wasn’t it? Why would she go to sit on the grass—and it had rained the night before, too—in her new gown? Plus she wore her pearls and new kid slippers. If you want my opinion, she was meeting someone. A man,” she added, to make her meaning perfectly clear. “And it wasn’t the first time she’d got herself all dolled up to go out to the orchard either. Made quite a habit of it since the weather hetted up.”

  “She took nothing with her but her sewing basket?” Luten asked.

  “She took a piece of plum cake on a plate. The plate was found, empty, though she told me earlier the plum cake was not to her liking. Pretty sharp about it being a little burnt on the bottom. That stove—”

  “Have you any idea who it was she met there?” Corinne asked hastily, to forestall a litany of complaints.

  “No. I haven’t time to go running after her. That’s not my job. With Dora gone and only Peg to help out, I’ve got my hands full and then some. You’ll find a man at the bottom of it, is all I’m saying. No good comes of a lady loitering about an apple orchard. Look at what happened to Eve.”

  “Surely you misconstrue the Bible, Mrs. Malboeuf,” Luten said. “It was Adam who was so heinously ruined by Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

  “That’s as may be. It’s Miss Enderton as is missing, not Adam. Aye, there was a serpent there waiting for her, mark my words. I’ve no use for an apple, tart it up as you might. I suppose you’ll be wanting linen for the beds?”

  “You spoil us, Mrs. Malboeuf,” Luten replied. “Preferably clean linen, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “I ain’t a laundress. Miss Enderton never replaced the washing dolly when it broke down either, though I asked her a dozen times. Pretty sharp with me about that as well, the last time I mentioned it. I scrubbed her sheets by hand on a washboard. My poor knuckles are raw.”

  “We take your word for it,” Luten said, “but pray do not bother to make the beds up with soiled linen. My valet will make some arrangement with the inn. I understand all the gentlemen of the immediate neighborhood were at the fair on Monday. You did not see any of them lurking about Appleby Court?”

  “No,” she said, somewhat regretfully. “They all say they was at the fair, and it seems innocent folks have supported the story.”

  “Thank you. You have been very helpful,” he said.

  She strode off, her hips jiggling like jelly.

  “I wonder why Susan has let things go so dreadfully,” Corinne said, shoving the cold toast aside. “Do you think Mr. Marchbank has lost her money?”

  “That is the obvious explanation. I shall look into it as soon as Otto comes down.”

  “It sounds as if something was bothering Susan. Mrs. Malboeuf mentioned a few things—you know, about Susan speaking sharply to her, complaining of the plum cake and washing dolly. That is not like her.”

  “She would have to be an angel not to complain of that slattern’s work. She ought to have done more than complain.”

  “But she never used to complain about anything, is what I am saying.”

  “What do you make of her wearing her new frock?”

  “It does sound as if she was meeting a beau, doe
s it not?”

  “I am not a lady, Countess, which is why I am asking for your opinion. For myself, I try to make a pleasing appearance at all times.”

  “You might try to please with more than your appearance, Luten. A gentleman’s manner is also important. It seems odd she would wear a new gown to a damp meadow just to read Camilla.”

  Luten’s fine brows rose in a question. “Why do you assume she was reading Fanny Burney? She was supposed to be sewing.”

  “Susan hates sewing. She did sew a little, just to pass the time, you know. The last two volumes of Camilla are missing from the set I gave her. The first three are in her room. I wager she took the others with her.”

  “That is an odd way to entertain a lover—to read to him. And not even romantic poetry, but one of Fanny Burney’s tedious tomes of overwrought romance in five volumes.”

  “Fanny Burney is more appropriate to a girl of Susan’s years than Byron’s poems. That book you sent her was quite inappropriate, Luten.”

  “She particularly asked me for it.”

  “I didn’t realize you were in correspondence with her,” Corinne replied in a stiff way. “She never mentioned it.”

  “There is no need to wear that Friday face, Countess. I would hardly call it a correspondence. There was nothing clandestine in it, if that is what you imply. She wrote to wish me a happy birthday and was kind enough to enclose a gift.” Corinne looked at him, wondering if he would expand on it. “A pair of slippers she had knitted for me. I was touched, despite the dropped stitches, and asked what I might send her for her birthday. She said I must not even think of such a thing, then mentioned her grief that Byron was not available at the lending library in East Grinstead. You know how cleverly ladies insinuate these things without actually saying them. I took her hint. She never thanked me for the gift, by the by, but perhaps next birthday I shall receive another pair of slippers to keep the blue ones company in my dresser.”