Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  And it still didn’t explain her disappearance. She obviously had not run off with any man other than her intended when she was arranging her trousseau, and her intended must be either some local lad or Luten. If not Luten, then either Blackmore or Soames. She had rejected Blackmore. Stockwell thought she had had an understanding with Soames. The carpets and window hangings might have been destined for Oakhurst. There was no way to know when they had been purchased. Soames was said to be short in the pockets. She might have been planning renovations to Oakhurst.

  There was not much else to be learned here in any case. When Corinne went below, she learned that Sir Reginald Prance had arrived.

  Chapter Eight

  She found Prance alone in the saloon, staring out the window, as elegant as ever after his trip.

  “There you are!” he exclaimed when he heard her approach. “I felt as welcome as a bailiff with a lien on the furniture—no one here to greet me. What the deuce is going on, Corinne? That Friday-faced butler said Luten and Otto had gone to East Grinstead. No sign of Pattle or you. What is being done to find Susan?”

  “Luten and Marchbank are arranging the ransom money.”

  “Then a demand has been made?” he asked eagerly.

  “No, but just in case, you know. Coffen has gone to report the highwayman and—”

  “You were held up again!” Prance’s eyes opened in excitement. He clapped his white hand to his heart. “Dear girl, don’t throw these alarming statements at me. Were you hurt? Did you lose much money?”

  She gave him a brief description of the incident.

  “I warned Pattle. But there, it is beneath me to say, ‘I told you so.’ I always avoid the cliché. You were not molested, and as for the rest—well, it is only money.”

  “Did you have a safe trip?”

  “Utterly boring. I have missed all the fun!” He pouted and demanded an account of what was being done to find Susan.

  She brought him up-to-date on what they had discovered thus far, omitting, for some reason she did not quite understand, the letters to and from Luten, but told him about the trousseau hidden in the blanket chest.

  “Well, you have all been busy, I must say—and so has little Susan. Does a girl accumulate her bridal things without a groom in mind? How does she know he likes peach, par exemple? Personally I despise it on any lady over fifteen. Surely a bride ought to wear white on her wedding night, providing, of course, that she is entitled to, and one assumes Susan is.

  “There is still a deal to be done. We cannot sit on our thumbs while some wretch has his way with little Susan. Let us call on Blackmore. I don’t trust that customer above half. It is not like him to take a refusal lying down. He has been plotting his revenge all these months and provided himself an alibi while ordering one of his henchmen to abduct Susan from the orchard.”

  “He will hardly tell us if he does have her,” Corinne said.

  “I shall know by the looks of him. I am a bit of a dab at reading faces and gestures. I have made a study of it for my work in the theater. Grab your bonnet. I have left my carriage harnessed, ready for action. We’ll have her home for lunch.”

  This, of course, was mere braggadocio, but it was hard to sit still, and Corinne hoped she might find some little clue at Blackmore Hall, as she had spotted the blue slippers at Greenleigh.

  “It is foolishly optimistic of me to ask,” Prance said, “but do they set a decent table here at Appleby?”

  “Far from it.”

  “I feared as much, from the beggar’s velvet on the furnishings. A well-ordered house does not guarantee good mutton, but an ill-run one invariably serves bad food. We shall take lunch at the Rose and Thistle.”

  “That’s a good idea. Coffen plans to do the same. I shall tell Mrs. Malboeuf.”

  He shook his head. “That name alone is enough to indict her.”

  “Shall we leave word for Luten?”

  “By all means. I shall bring you both up-to-date on my party while we eat. Odd you did not inquire,” he added with another moue.

  “Your parties are always stunning successes, Reg. There was no need to ask.”

  “That blatant flattery goes a long way in assuaging my feelings, but you really should have asked. I did it all for you and Luten.” He peered at her closely. “He hasn’t come up to scratch?”

  “No,” she said curtly. “How was the party, after we left?”

  “A howling success, if I may be allowed a little tootle on my own horn. Pity you had to miss it. It went on until four. I cleverly gave all the ladies a bundle of flowers to take home, to save the job of removing them after they had left. The gentlemen jumped for those hanging from the rafters. That knock-me-down fellow, Lord Ponsonby, landed on Miss Gladstone’s skirt. She leapt back like a gazelle, leaving her skirts behind, petticoats and all. Some alert lady—Lady Melbourne, I believe it was— threw a shawl over her, but not before several gentlemen discovered she is knock-kneed. It was rather amusing.”

  Corinne lavished the necessary praise, then left the messages, got her bonnet, and they were off.

  Blackmore Hall was situated at the top of a rise, halfway to East Grinstead.

  “It looks the perfect illustration for a gothic novel, does it not?” Prance asked as they drove up the graveled drive. “It has all the trappings: dripping elms, that age-darkened brick, those lancet windows. All that is missing is the whirling veils of fog. One should not visit a gothic heap by daylight. Except for Strawberry Hill, of course, and it is really only a folly. It is too laughably sublime to require moonlight. That would be gilding the lily—or in its case, I suppose, the strawberry.”

  The carriage drew to a stop at the front of the house and they alit.

  “The knocker has a nice hollow sound, just as it ought,” Prance said when he lifted it a moment later. “I do feel, though, that a skull would be more in keeping with the ambience than this wheat sheaf. If we are not greeted by a hag with bad teeth, wearing a black gown, I shall be greatly disappointed in Blackmore.”

  Prance was destined for disappointment. It was a butler in a decent dark suit who admitted them to a well-ordered house. The paneling was dim enough to please him, but there were neither cobwebs, clanking chains, nor otherworldly groans to welcome them. They were shown into a lofty saloon whose carpet was not so very worn. The windows, while not gleaming, were not so sooted as to completely obscure the view of the park beyond. The worst he could say of the sofa was that it was like sitting on a sack of old bones.

  Within minutes Lord Blackmore came to greet them. Corinne was struck by the physical similarity between the two gentlemen. Both were tall, lean, and saturnine, with skin that seemed to stretch tightly over their faces, lending them a strained air. Yet whereas Prance only looked pompous, Blackmore had a harder edge. Sinister was not too strong a word to use. It was his gray eyes, as cold as ice crystals, that caused it.

  His bow was not quite as graceful as Prance’s. “Countess, Sir Reginald,” he said, strolling in. “Delighted to see you. No need to ask why you have condescended to call on me, after all these years, Countess. Let me assure you I do not have Miss Enderton sequestered in the attic, nor her body concealed in a hogshead of wine in the cellar. Yes, I did offer for her last Christmas. I was ... mildly disappointed at her refusal. The Hall required a new roof, but an obliging aunt died and that took care of that. Now, what would you have to drink? I have a decent claret ... but that is a boy’s drink, eh, Prance? Brandy for you and me. I think for Lady deCoventry ...” He stopped and examined her a moment. “No, you have outgrown Madeira since my last glimpse of you. Sherry, perhaps?”

  “Sherry, thank you,” she said.

  While he poured the drinks and passed them, Corinne was busy subjecting the saloon to a thorough visual search.

  Blackmore’s lips twitched as he handed her the wine. “Do feel free to take a peek behind the sofa, Lady deCoventry,” he said, smiling coolly. “She would not really fit in that little escritoire you have been ogl
ing.”

  “I have been admiring it,” she said, trying to match his sangfroid. “French, I think?”

  “Italian, actually. My using the French name confused you, perhaps. I don’t know the Italian word for a desk. It is Quattrocento, in any case.”

  “Scrivanìa, I believe is the word in Italian,” Prance informed him. “But Quattrocento? Cinquecento, surely, Baron?” Blackmore shrugged his shoulders. “A lovely thing, in any case. Bellissimo!” Prance said, smiling at it. “One would not have thought it would suit so well in a Tudor saloon.”

  Blackmore wafted his hand around the walls. “Flemish paintings, some Italian and some French furnishings, Oriental carpets, and a good old Kent chest to anchor it all. I refer, of course, to Kent the cabinetmaker, not the county.”

  “Ça va sans dire,” Prance said. “It takes a good eye to succeed with the eclectic style,” he added, nodding his head in approval.

  Blackmore’s lips twitched in amusement. “I cannot take credit for the accumulation, but only the current arrangement,” he said. “Each generation adds what it feels is best.”

  “Then this excellent taste must be hereditary,” Prance said, with a bow of his head.

  Blackmore returned the bow with a perfectly straight face, but Corinne noticed his steely eyes were laughing. “I have my heart set on upgrading the family china,” he said. “A set designed with the family crest by Wedgewood, perhaps. I am working on a design.”

  “I should adore to see it,” Prance said at once. “I do hope it will have some black in it, to honor your title. I envisage a creamy background, with black and gold—yes, definitely gold. Griffins would be nice.”

  “Unfortunately, the family crest features lions,” Blackmore said.

  “As does my own, Baron. Three lions passant, gold on sable.”

  “Perhaps you will give me the benefit of your experience, Sir Reginald.”

  “I was hoping you would ask!” Prance was so pleased, he was purring.

  It was the baron’s turn to bow his head. “I have more than enough furnishings. There are some quite decent pieces in the house, but scattered about the two dozen bedrooms. And believe it or not, a mural by Angelica Kauffmann in the attic, of all places.”

  Prance leaned so far forward he nearly fell off the sofa.

  “No!” he exclaimed in rapture. “But I adore Angelica! Which period?”

  “It is done in the Italian style, probably after her visit to Italy. I would love to know how it comes to be there. An affair with one of my ancestors, perhaps. You must come upstairs to see it, Sir Reginald.”

  He turned a mischievous eye to Corinne. “Do join us, milady. You shall have a tour of the whole house. That will give you an opportunity to peek about and assure yourself that it does not harbor any nineteenth-century heiresses.”

  “Oh, I say!” Prance exclaimed, laughing. “Were we that obvious?”

  “Like a pane of glass, Sir Reginald. Speaking of glass...”

  He put one hand on Sir Reginald’s elbow, the other on Lady deCoventry’s, and led them forth.

  Corinne said, when they left an hour later, “I have been given tours before, but that is the strangest visit I ever made! Imagine him opening every chest and making us look into the clothespresses and under the beds.”

  “A marvelous collection. A veritable treasure trove. There is nothing like it outside a royal palace. Prinny would be green with envy if he could see it. Well, we know one thing. The baron doesn’t have Susan. I must say, I liked the chap. I had no idea he was so cultured. To hear the locals talk, one would take him for the original Wicked Baron.”

  “He’s smooth, all right.”

  “Delightful! Perfectly delightful. We need not worry that he had anything to do with Susan’s abduction. He’s a gentleman of refinement. Susan is adorable, but there is no denying her charms are rustic. She wears such modest little gowns. Mind you, I’ve never seen a finer clavicle! But can you see her in that marvelous French bed in the master bedchamber? I cannot! It would take a du Barry to do it justice.”

  Reacting from the nervous tension of the visit, Corinne fell into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry, Reg. I fear I’m having the vapors. It was all so strange.”

  “Well, have them quickly. We must get on to the inn. Civilized conversation awakens other appetites. Now, don’t frown, cara mia. I am referring to lunch. We shall eat—no, dine. On such a fine day it ought to be al fresco.”

  Chapter Nine

  By daylight, East Grinstead was seen to be a pleasant little town with a wide High Street lined with shops and picturesque houses built of timber. Corinne recognized a few of the locals on the street from her former visit and greeted them. Knowing her connection to Susan, they commiserated with her on Susan’s disappearance. None of them had any information to help find her.

  The proprietor of the Rose and Thistle directed Sir Reginald and Lady deCoventry to a private parlor where Luten and Coffen were having a glass of ale while waiting for them. Corinne thought the inn a shabby place, but Prance, who delighted in anything antique and authentic, was enchanted with it. Its termite-ridden wainscoting ran halfway up the wall, where it met smoke-laden stucco and beamed oak. On the groaning sideboard, the dented pewter plates and tankards from the Tudor period lent the proper touch of Olde England. All that was lacking was a wild boar roasting on the spit and sawdust on the floor. At least the proprietor had not tampered with authenticity by covering the discolored old floor planks with a newfangled oilcloth covering.

  Luten was never happy to see Corinne with Prance, who played at being her flirt. “Where the devil have you been?” he demanded when they entered.

  Corinne ignored him. It was Prance who replied, “Is that any way to greet a poor traveler? Naturally we have been looking for Susan.”

  They sat down and summoned a servant. It was well known that Prance couldn’t order a glass of water without wanting to know its pedigree. After a prolonged discussion, he ordered a steak and kidney pudding to go with the setting, and Corinne asked for chicken.

  When they had all been served, Luten demanded what they had learned. “I assume you would have mentioned it if you had found her,” he said.

  “Our luck was not so stunning as that, which is not to say our time was wasted,” Prance replied, picking at his pie with the tip of his fork. He was a finicky eater. “We can tell you for a certainty that Blackmore does not have Susan. By a process of elimination we must eventually discover who does.”

  “If we are to eliminate the more than ten million inhabitants of the island who do not have her, she will die of old age before we find her. More to the point, did you search Blackmore Hall?” Luten asked, thinking he was delivering a leveler.

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” Corinne told him. “Blackmore quite insisted on it. He showed us over the whole house.” To repay Luten for his surly mood, she added, “He is much nicer than I ever imagined. Really very distinguished. I cannot think why he is spoken of so badly.”

  “The place is a veritable treasure trove!” Prance exclaimed. “A mural by Angelica in the attic, Luten. Imagine!”

  “Angelica who?” Coffen asked.

  “Wipe your mouth—with your napkin!” Prance ordered. “Angelica Kauffmann, naturally. Do you know any other artists named Angelica?”

  “Can’t say I do, including Kauffmann. A kraut-eater, is she?”

  “God forgive him, for he knows not what he says. The lady was Swiss-born. That disadvantage was overcome by travel—Italy, naturally, then England. She was a member of the Royal Academy—quite an accomplishment for a lady. But enough art history. Blackmore Hall is stuffed to overflowing with objets d’art. If the baron needed blunt, he would have only to take some of his paintings to London.” He ticked off half a dozen of the artists in the collection.

  “He sounds an acquisitive gentleman,” Luten said. “It is well known that collectors will sink to any ruse when they wish to acquire—”

  Prance just shook his head.
“She is not there, Luten. He even insisted on moving a longcase clock and showing us the priest’s hole.”

  “Did you also examine the cellar?”

  “Certainly we did. And an excellent cellar he has laid down, too. I tell you she is not there. He was perfectly at ease, even playful.”

  “It sounds an odd sort of call, showing you every nook and cranny. Almost as if he were trying to prove something. He would hardly keep her at his own house if he had abducted her,” was Luten’s next try. “She might be in the barn—or even buried nearby.”

  “If he buried her, then he would not get her blunt,” Corinne pointed out. “One would assume he kidnapped her to force her into marriage. Odd that a man like Blackmore would have to force a lady....”

  “Inconceivable,” Prance decreed. “If he would only grace London with his presence, he would be overwhelmed with heiresses.”

  Luten was becoming more vexed by the moment. His real annoyance was that Corinne had spent the time with Prance. She had also praised Blackmore, and her gleaming eyes expressed tacit approval of Prance’s knowledge of art. She had hardly glanced at Luten himself since entering.

  “I see our success has put you in a pelter, Luten,” Prance said. “I shall put the smile back on your face by my report on my party—for which you did not think to inquire, though it was thrown in your honor.”

  “Surely in honor of solving the mystery of Corinne’s stolen pearls,” Luten said. A light flush rose up from his collar at the mention of that party, and the tacit reminder of his not having come up to scratch.

  While Prance lavished praise on his party, Luten listened impatiently, then immediately reverted to the search for Susan. “You are convinced, on very little evidence, that Blackmore is innocent. I feel equally strongly that Otto is innocent.”

  “Surely there was no question of Otto Marchbank having kidnapped her?” Prance asked.