Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  Corinne wondered at that lengthy explanation, so unlike Luten. Almost as if he felt guilty. “Well, I am shocked,” she said indignantly.

  “Yes, one would have thought Byron would be available, even in East Grinstead.”

  “I mean shocked that you would send her that book. Very likely that is what incited her to go meeting some rake in the orchard.”

  “We don’t know that she was meeting a beau. For that matter, Camilla contains its share of romantical intrigues. A good deal more than its share. But we are not here to criticize each other’s taste in literature. Let us examine Susan’s room. There might be a billet-doux from this elusive lover hiding in the pages of Childe Harold, or even Camilla.”

  They left breakfast on the table and went abovestairs. While Luten riffled through the desk, Corinne searched the clothespress to see if any of Susan’s gowns were missing. When Luten saw what she was about, he said, “Tobin tells me there is nothing missing save the gown she wore on Monday.”

  “Perhaps there is a billet-doux in one of her pockets.”

  Luten looked as if he wanted to stop her, but he didn’t say anything. She wondered, then, if he had chosen to search the desk by chance, or did he expect to find something—something he preferred that she not see? She watched him from the corner of her eye to determine whether he secreted anything.

  Susan’s pockets held a comb, a small hand mirror, an illustration of a very dashing gown from a lady’s magazine, and advertisements for Austrian foam soap and a violet scent, but no billets-doux. Again Corinne was surprised. Susan had never taken much interest in such things as fancy soaps and scent. To carry a mirror in her pocket suggested a new vanity as well. And that gown in the illustration was a good deal too daring for Susan.

  When she turned toward the desk, she noticed Luten had moved on to a chest in the corner. “That only holds extra blankets,” Corinne said.

  Luten lifted the lid, glanced in, and closed it again. “Let us go and have a look at the meadow,” he said.

  “We haven’t looked in her dresser drawers,” she said, and went to take a quick look. “That’s odd.”

  “What is it?” he asked in a tense voice.

  Corinne held up a ball of wool and knitting needles. Three inches of pink knitting hung from the needles. Its shape left some doubt as to whether it was the beginning of a scarf or was to be shaped into slippers. Half the stitches had slipped off the needle.

  “She seems to have dumped this here in a great hurry. She used to keep her knitting in that big straw sewing basket she took to the orchard.”

  “Let us go to the orchard,” he said.

  Corinne had a sense he was rushing her out of the bedroom. She gave the rest of the drawers a cursory search but found nothing of interest.

  Coffen was at the table, sullenly chewing his way through the burned toast, when they returned belowstairs. He looked like an unmade bed in his wrinkled jacket. His lower face was shadowed in whiskers.

  “You aren’t fit to be seen in public,” Corinne scolded.

  “Sorry, but there was no hot water, you see, and I’ve not been able to find my trunk.”

  “There is no pleasing the wench,” Luten said aside to Coffen. “She chided me for being too neat.”

  Coffen took no interest in sartorial matters. His major concern was always his stomach. “They don’t set much of a table here,” he said. “I spent the night in an armchair, dreaming of beefsteak, and woke up to charred bread. I plan to take a drive into East Grinstead to report the highwayman. I’ll ask some questions about Susan as well and take lunch at the Rose and Thistle.”

  “Do bring us back a crumb,” Luten implored. He told Coffen what they had learned and surmised thus far.

  “Rubbish,” Coffen said. “If she had a beau, she would bring him to the house.”

  “Not if he was ineligible, if Mr. Marchbank disapproved,” Corinne said.

  “The only ineligible gent around is Rufus Stockwell, from Greenleigh,” Coffen said. “We ought to have a word with him, though I think that Blackmore is a likelier customer. Except that he was at the fair. So was Stockwell, come to think of it, and Soames. I wonder if there were Gypsies about the neighborhood.”

  “Now, that is something we did not ask Mrs. Malboeuf,” Corinne said to Luten.

  Luten gave a supercilious smile. “Despite my flighty way of thinking of more than one thing at a time, I asked Tobin when I spoke to him. No Gypsies. I fear Fanny Burney would be quite bored with Susan’s tale. And now, if you will excuse me, I must have a word with my valet.” He bowed and glided off.

  “He is not taking all this very seriously,” Corinne said.

  Coffen pushed aside the charred crusts and said, “He is, really. It’s just his way to show off. He can’t help it.”

  “We were supposed to be going to the orchard to look for clues. I daresay he is arranging his evening toilette instead. Conceited ass. I shall go and examine the orchard myself. And you, Coffen, must make Mrs. Malboeuf boil you some water for a shave before you go to the village.”

  “I will. She can’t burn water.”

  They enjoyed a short gossip. Corinne told Coffen about the notes exchanged between Susan and Luten. “Do you think there is still something between them? You remember he offered for her once.”

  “There’s no knowing with Luten. He’d not say a word until he was sure she’d have him. I always figured it was you he had in his eye, but he didn’t come to the sticking point for Prance’s party. There’s no gainsaying he was very eager to come flying to Susan’s rescue. Do you know what he said to me last night after you left?”

  Corinne felt a little pinching at her heart. “What?” she asked, in a fearful voice.

  “He said, ‘I would give anything to have her back.’ And he sounded as if he meant it. Anything. I was shocked.”

  “They have been writing to each other and exchanging small gifts. She knitted him a pair of slippers.”

  “Slippers, eh? That looks bad.”

  “But she made you handkerchiefs.”

  “Aye, a hankie is more personal, somehow. Mean to say, you put slippers on your feet. Nothing romantic in that, whereas you blow into a hankie.”

  Corinne hardly knew what to say to that. “Well, I am off to the orchard. I cannot wait all day for Luten to join me,” she said, and left.

  Chapter Six

  The warmth and sun were pleasant after the damp gloom of the house. The silence was peaceful, too, after the racket of London. Corinne left by the front door to avoid Mrs. Malboeuf. She skirted the side of the house to the rear, through the walled garden, where tender fruit trees were espaliered against the brick, which held the warmth at night. Beyond was the home garden, with vegetables neatly laid out in rows. At least someone was tending the garden. Carrot tops formed a lacy ruff of green, with peas and beans climbing up their stakes beyond. She and Susan used to pull a handful of baby carrots, wash them in the rain barrel, and take them to the orchard to nibble while they talked.

  They had been happy, carefree days, despite the fact that she was recently widowed—perhaps because of it. After the first shock of George’s death wore off, she felt free of a great burden. She had liked her husband, but romantic love was impossible between people of such disparate ages.

  The apple orchard was to the east. From a distance the trees looked like giant green umbrellas. As Corinne drew closer, she saw that all the blossoms had fallen, forming a withered carpet on the ground. The fruit had not yet set. Susan’s favorite spot was in the middle of the orchard where one tree had died, leaving a grassy oasis. Corinne went slowly into it, looking all around. It was a lovely, peaceful spot.

  “No one can see us here,” Susan had said once. “This is where I hide when Mama is angry with me. If I stay out long enough, she stops being angry and becomes worried instead, then she doesn’t scold.”

  Corinne had smiled dotingly on this artless speech. Susan looked like a little Renaissance angel come to life, with her
crown of golden curls, her blue eyes and dimples. How could anyone scold her or be angry with her for long? But actually there was a streak of slyness even in the child. Had it grown to deceit in the young woman? Had she met some ineligible lover in her secret hiding place in the orchard and run off with him?

  The grass underfoot was long and still damp with dew. After a rain it would have been quite wet. Susan had not come here to read—but she might very well have braved the damp to meet a lover. The long grass had been trampled, suggesting that Susan did still visit this spot. Corinne began a close investigation, pacing back and forth, covering every square inch. She hardly knew what she hoped to find, unless the lover had dropped some small item that could identify him. A cravat pin, a watch fob, even a button would have been welcome. Or better, a needle and thread, to suggest that Susan had actually come here to sew.

  There was an occasional rustle in the branches overhead, but Corinne thought nothing of it. The birds were busy feeding their nestlings in this spring season. One noisy robin in particular made such a racket that she suspected he had a nest close by. She peered up through the branches, wondering if she might spot it, and saw a pair of human eyes staring down at her through the leaves. A strangled scream issued from her throat. Before she could take to her heels, Luten dropped from the tree to land on his feet beside her.

  “You frightened the life out of me! Why are you hiding in trees like a hedge bird?” she exclaimed.

  “Hedge birds do not hide in trees, but in hedges. Like you, I am looking for clues.”

  “You must have seen me here. Why did you not say something?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten robin redbreast any more than I already had. His nest was not a yard from me on the branch. They’re quite aggressive when they have birds in the nest. He might have pecked my eyes out.”

  “Why did you climb the tree in the first place? Surely if there are any clues, they will be on the ground.”

  “Now, there you are mistaken, Countess.”

  “I’m sure you are about to enlighten me.”

  “It doesn’t do to keep one’s eyes forever on the ground. You should raise them higher from time to time.”

  As he spoke, a large rectangular object fell from the branch and hit him on the back of the head. He uttered a mild profanity, but was more annoyed than hurt.

  Seeing this, Corinne said, “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and laughed.

  Luten gave her a foul look and picked up the object. It proved, upon examination, to be a straw sewing basket nearly two feet long and half as deep and wide.

  “Susan’s sewing basket,” Corinne said.

  “Brilliant deduction, Countess. I spotted it in the tree, but it was wedged in the fork of a branch. It seems I managed to work it loose.”

  The lid of the box was open, revealing a pink satin lining. The box was perfectly empty.

  “How did it get up there?” she asked in confusion.

  He turned it this way and that. “It doesn’t appear to have wings. I deduce it was carried up, to conceal it. I further deduce that Susan wouldn’t climb a tree in her best gown.”

  “Perhaps not in a new gown, but she used to scamper up that tree like a monkey. I wonder what happened to her sewing things—needles and threads and cloth. Or was she using it as a knitting basket? That knitting in her dresser...”

  “I deduce that she either carried some other item here in the basket and removed it, or brought an empty basket with her to fool Mrs. Malboeuf as to her reason for coming to the orchard.”

  “How very odd!”

  “Intriguing. As you are a lady well versed in romantic lore— Don’t scowl, my pet. Did your mama never tell you your face might freeze in that mold? I meant only the romantic lore of fiction. What I was about to say was: What do you think a lady might have smuggled out of the house in a sewing basket of this size? If I were writing the book, it would be an illegitimate infant, but one can hardly hope for that.”

  “This is Susan we are discussing, Luten, not one of your ladybirds. She might have used it as a bandbox to carry a change of clothing, but then why leave the box behind?”

  “You are suggesting that Susan ran off voluntarily?”

  “Not really. You asked what the box could contain. It could have contained clothing.”

  “Or it could have contained some item from the house that was too large to hide in a pocket.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.

  “If she was short of money, she might have been arranging to pawn some silverplate.”

  “It is her silverplate. She did not have to hide that she was taking it.”

  “Or she might have been smuggling food out to someone who was hiding for some reason.”

  “She might have been giving the man the silverplate to pawn and not wanted anyone to know about it,” Corinne added.

  “You think it was a man, then?”

  “She did wear her new gown and best kid slippers.”

  “And pearls,” Luten said, “which suggests a romantic interest in the gent. I must have a talk with some of the local folks to discover if the neighborhood has any scandals floating about. Perhaps some young dasher has killed his man in a duel, or an officer might have deserted his regiment. Something of that sort.”

  “But if you’re implying Susan ran off with him, Luten, she would have taken more than would fit in a bandbox.”

  “And any money she could lay her hands on as well, I should think.” He looked around the little oasis.

  “The grass is well trampled,” Susan mentioned.

  “Yes, before I entered I checked and noticed it was flattened where she would have approached from the house. Let us see if we can discover which way she left.”

  “And which way the man came in, if there was a man,” Corinne added.

  They paced the perimeter of the oasis. The grass was disturbed in a few places, due to rabbits perhaps, but the most noticeable place was at the north end. In spots it was possible to see what might have been the actual outline of a shoe in the long grass.

  “It looks as if she was alone,” Luten said.

  “Perhaps the man was carrying her,” Corinne suggested. “The grass was wet, you recall.”

  “Is that how Miss Burney would arrange it? More likely he had knocked her unconscious.”

  “I should like to know what fiction you read, Luten. Illegitimate infants and ladies knocked on the head. It sounds bad enough to be Monk Lewis.”

  “Surely you mean exciting enough?”

  They followed the path out of the orchard, where it ended in a cow pasture.

  “Stockwell’s place is over yonder,” Corinne said, pointing into the distance.

  “So is the closest road, if we eliminate the road in front of Appleby Court,” Luten said. “I am assuming the intention was to avoid being seen from Appleby Court.”

  “This is all conjecture,” Corinne said impatiently. “The wind might have flattened the grass, or rabbits or foxes or dogs or a casual trespasser.”

  “True, but one must conjecture with something. No bricks without straw.” He lifted the straw basket, hoping for a smile, but got none. “The sewing basket tells us she was in the orchard. She left, either voluntarily or otherwise, and one assumes she did not fly, but left some trace of her passing. I shall speak to Stockwell.”

  “He might know about the scandal you mentioned earlier,” Corinne said. “Let us walk. It is not far through the meadow.”

  “Us? Why waste time? You should examine the house, see if silverware or any other valuables are missing. I’ll speak to Stockwell. He is hardly the sort of person you should call on. Not quite a gentleman.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He is nearly a gentleman. He owns five hundred acres, and I have heard nothing against his character.”

  Luten considered it a moment. “As I will be there, I daresay it will not look too farouche. We shall drive, however. I know your habit of trotting over the bogs on foot in the old country, m
y pet, but you are a foin lady now and must try to behave like one.”

  “Faith and bejabbers, laddie, I never seen such a thing as a carriage till I come to England. What a grand treat it will be to sit me poor old bones in one.”

  It was at such moments that Luten felt a pronounced desire to box Lady deCoventry’s beautiful ears. She paid no heed to his satirical digs; she never had, but only exaggerated them—and him—into risibility.

  “Come along, then,” he said curtly.

  “We were supposed to be going to the orchard together, Luten,” she mentioned. “Why did you slip off without me? You said you were going abovestairs to speak to Simon.”

  “I did have a word with him. When I came down, you weren’t waiting in the hall. I thought you had come on without me.”

  “I was with Coffen in the morning parlor.” She hesitated, wondering if she should mention that Coffen had told her what Luten had said about giving anything to get Susan back. She decided against it. Luten obviously had secrets, and she knew the futility of asking him questions. He would only get on his high horse and give her a setdown. She wondered, too, if the word he had had with Simon was to give Susan’s room a good search before they returned. He had been in a great hurry to get her out of the room and to search that desk himself. What did he think was there?

  When they stopped at the stable to have the curricle harnessed, they discovered that Luten’s traveling carriage had arrived.

  “Thank God,” he said. “My trunk and a few footmen will be here. Armand knows his way around a kitchen. We might have a luncheon fit to eat after all.”

  “How did Simon get here?”

  “He rode my mount. I knew I would need his services before the others arrived, and I felt the mount might come in handy.”

  Luten’s sporting carriage and team of grays, like everything he owned, were top of the trees. The couple were soon flying down the road with the wind on their faces and the fresh greenness of spring meadows flashing by. Sleek cattle grazed in Greenleigh’s lush meadows. Greenleigh was a farmstead around an old stone house with a lead roof. It was neither large nor beautiful, but it was in excellent repair. The windows gleamed in the sunlight. Fresh paint shone on doors and window frames.