Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  “He was in charge of her monies. I had thought he might have managed to lose it and be using this ploy to account for the loss. Pretend he had paid the kidnapper, I mean, and actually paid his debts. I saw the Consols with my own eyes. He has not only got every penny of the twenty-five thousand but has managed to add ten thousand to it over the years.”

  “Egads! I must pick his brains before we leave. My own investment agent is hopeless. So she is now worth thirty-five thousand!” Prance exclaimed. “A veritable heiress!”

  “You had only to see Marchbank’s distress to know he is innocent,” Corinne said.

  Coffen stopped eating long enough to have his say. “We ain’t much closer to finding her, despite our work. Prance says Blackmore is innocent; you, Luten, say Otto is not to blame. Who is left?”

  “Rufus Stockwell,” Luten replied. Corinne made a pooh-poohing sound. “Or Jeremy Soames,” he added. “Soames is next on our list.”

  “Surely you are omitting the likeliest suspect—a chance passerby, smitten by her beauty. A stranger, in other words,” Prance pointed out. “We have known Jeremy forever. He is her cousin. He likes Susan. If he needed blunt, he would be more likely to turn highwayman than to harm her.”

  Coffen frowned into his ale, then looked a question at Corinne. “You don’t figure it was Jeremy who held us up last night? The constable suspects a local lad. There’s been a rash of thefts in Ashdown Forest and the road north of it.”

  Corinne gave a tsk of impatience. “He could use the money, but I don’t see him as a highwayman. It’s interesting that he had a falling out with Susan when she refused his offer. Revenge is sweet.” She looked around for the others’ views.

  Luten shook his head and said, “Bah.”

  “We should talk to him,” she persisted. “And if he proves innocent, then we must have broadsheets printed and post a reward for her safe return. Someone must have seen her being taken away. The roads would have been full of people on fair day.”

  “I quizzed Hodden,” Coffen said. “No one saw hide nor hair of her, but there were dozens of carts and carriages on the road. She might have been hidden under a load of manure.”

  Prance gave him a scathing look and frowned at his pie.

  “If it was a kidnapping, why hasn’t there been a ransom note?” Luten asked.

  Corinne sighed. “I wonder if wolves have not come back to the island and eaten her.”

  Prance sighed and pushed away his plate. “I wish you would keep a civil tongue in your heads,” he said.

  “Who will call on Jeremy?” Corinne asked. “We need not all go.”

  “I’ll go,” Luten said.

  “I’ll have a look around any empty barns or buildings in the neighborhood,” Coffen decided. “No need to wait until dark for that. Someone might have stashed her in an empty building. No more unlikely than what the rest of you are saying anyhow. Eaten by wolves. Rubbish.”

  Prance patted his arm. “You must not take those little flights of fancy too literally, Pattle.”

  “I never take you literally,” Coffen said, then frowned, wondering what that meant. “Anyhow, I’m going to find Susan.”

  “Where?” Prance asked, with mild interest.

  “Wherever she’s at.”

  Corinne called them to order. “I think we should go back to Appleby first, just to make sure no ransom note has come during our absence.”

  Luten rose. “Oakhurst is along the way. I’ll stop and speak to Soames.” He looked at Corinne to see if she cared to join him.

  Instinct urged her to accept, as she did want to talk to Soames and ascertain exactly the nature of his romance with Susan and, most important, the reason for its rupture. But she was in no mood to oblige Luten. “I’ll go home with Reggie. Are you ready to leave, Reg?” she asked.

  He had begun a sketch of the parlor. “I thought this might make an interesting domestic study, suitable for framing in the kitchen. I see no reason why the servants should be robbed of art. It has a benign influence on character. André, my chef, keeps a marble statuette that he claims is a likeness of Lucullus on the windowsill for inspiration.” He glanced up from his sketching and said to Corinne, “I shan’t be a moment, cara mia. Don’t let us keep you, Luten.” He directed a small, triumphant smile at his friendly foe.

  Luten was obliged to ignore it. It was unthinkable to give Corinne the idea he was disappointed. “Very well. I’ll see you back at Appleby, then.”

  When Corinne and Prance returned to Appleby, they discovered that no ransom note had arrived during their absence. Otto had obviously been drinking steadily during the day but was still able to stand and speak. After his usual question, “Have you learned anything?” and the unsatisfactory answer, he retired to his study.

  “For lack of anything better to do, let us go riding through the fields and woods on the off chance of finding some trace of her,” Prance suggested. “It will keep our minds occupied. We don’t all want to end up drunk, like Otto. I feel for him in his grief. It is a great error for a man not to have some creative outlets. I do not count making money as a creative outlet. That is mere ciphering.”

  Corinne suggested they wait until Luten returned, so they might learn what Soames had said.

  “Meanwhile you can put on your habit and be ready to leave,” Prance suggested.

  “Oh dear! I didn’t bring mine with me. I packed in a hurry.”

  “Won’t Susan’s fit you? She wouldn’t mind.”

  “It will be a little short, but that is no matter. I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Ten

  When she came down, Luten had brought Jeremy Soames back to Appleby with him. Coffen had spotted them. Upon learning that a search of any abandoned buildings had already been made, he returned to Appleby with them.

  Soames was a pleasant young man, with “gentleman farmer” written all over him. Fresh air, plenty of riding, and good country mutton had given him a ruddy complexion and a fine physique. He was considered a dashing buck in East Grinstead, but beside his London friends, the edge of rusticity was apparent. His jacket, while of good blue worsted, bulged where it should sit flat. The dotted Belcher kerchief he wore in lieu of a cravat suggested a streak of dandyism. His top boots lacked the smooth finish of Hoby’s, the cobbler favored by the ton. His chestnut hair, cut by a local barber, showed the rough edges of country barbering. He spoke in a voice just a little too loud for ears accustomed to polite saloons. It was his eyes, however, that betrayed a certain lack of innocence. They were light green, almost yellow.

  “I am so glad you have all come to help us,” he said, after greeting the group. “I have been trying to put a rocket under old Otto, but he is usually in his cups, you know. A good deal worse than usual since Susan’s disappearance.”

  “Have you any idea what might have happened to her?” Corinne asked.

  “My favorite suspect is Blackmore,” he said. “The man has no character. You have only to speak to him to see what he is.”

  Prance mounted his high horse. “I found him particularly gentlemanly. So cultured for the provinces.”

  “If you’re talking about his pictures and whatnot, I would like to know where he is getting the blunt for them.”

  “They were inherited. Any new acquisitions were bought with the money from an inheritance from his aunt in Scotland, I believe,” Prance replied stiffly.

  “And the uncle in Cornwall. Convenient how all his relatives live so far away,” Soames said. “It seems to me he’s buried more relatives than he ever mentioned having.”

  “His mama was a Fowey, I believe. An old Cornwall family,” Prance said. “The death of two relatives in a year hardly seems excessive to me. I lost twice that many last year. Unfortunately for me, their passing did not enrich my coffers.”

  “Your cousin Bertie left you his hounds,” Coffen reminded him.

  “In spite, since I used to complain of their racket.”

  “They enriched your coffers, though. You sold ‘em t
o me for a pretty steep price.”

  “A bargain, Pattle. But this has nothing to do with Susan. Revenons à nos moutons.”

  “Well, p’raps it wasn’t Blackmore,” Soames said, frowning. “I wouldn’t put it a pace past Rufus Stockwell. I’ve seen him ogling Susan in church when he thinks no one is watching him. And she giving him every encouragement, too. Susan has changed lately.”

  “What do you mean, changed?” Corinne asked.

  “I daresay all I mean is that she is growing up.”

  “One would not guess it to look at this place,” Prance said, glancing around. “Appleby has gone to rack and ruin. But perhaps we can blame Otto for that.”

  “That is not quite fair, Sir Reginald,” Soames said. “The estate is well enough run. If it were mine, I would tile that back fifty acres and upgrade the stock. The corn yield is not what it could be either, but it is not exactly mismanaged. It is the house that is falling apart. One should not speak ill of her now, but that is Susan’s doing, I fear.”

  Luten’s gray eyes focused on Soames’s face a moment. He opened his lips to speak, then closed them again.

  “Why did she let things go so badly?” Corinne asked.

  Soames threw up his hands. They were strong, capable hands accustomed to holding reins and wielding hammers, to birthing a calf or breaking in a horse. Hands, she thought, that could easily overpower a lady.

  “I don’t know. When I asked her—hinted at it discreetly, you know—she gave a sly look and intimated she would not be here long. It encouraged me to hope she might accept an offer from me. She drove out with me half a dozen times, led me on really, but in the end she refused. I thought it must be one of you she had in her eye,” he said, looking first at Luten, then Prance, and finally, without much interest, at Coffen.

  “I am bound to say such a thing never entered my head,” Prance said. “Much as I like Susan, she is not quite my idea of a wife.”

  “I would have her in a minute,” Coffen said, “but I didn’t bother to offer. I knew she would turn me down flat. A man knows.”

  Luten did not commit himself on the matter.

  Corinne said, “There was no one locally, then, who might fill the bill?”

  “She wasn’t seeing anyone hereabouts,” Soames said. “And she didn’t visit anyone outside the parish, other than yourself, Lady deCoventry.”

  “She hadn’t been to London in a year,” Corinne said.

  Soames nodded. “It was early this spring that she mentioned not being here at Appleby for long. I would have heard if any local lad was courting her. She is quite the belle of the parish. Before that, she had spoken of hiring a new housekeeper. Malboeuf is hopeless, of course. Susan was speaking at the time of refurbishing the place.”

  “What did she plan to do?” Corinne asked. “New window hangings, I expect? A new carpet—perhaps a chaise longue?”

  “I don’t recall exactly. The carpets are not actually that worn. It is just that they have not been lifted and beaten in years. The window frames are covered in mildew. The frames have to be repaired. And of course, the panes are coated in dust. It is a shame to let a fine house like this fall into such a state when a hundred pounds would put it shipshape.”

  “What about Stockwell?” Luten asked. “Might Susan have had him in her eye?”

  Soames looked astonished. “Rufus? Good lord, she wouldn’t be interested in him. I doubt he clears five hundred a year from Greenleigh. He is a nice enough fellow. He sold me a milcher at a good price, but she would not marry him. No, I feel our man is Blackmore. There is nothing he would stick at. She turned him down, his pride was wounded, and he has chosen this revenge.”

  “That was my own feeling,” Luten said.

  “Et tu, Luten?” Prance said. “Pray remember we are speaking of a gentleman.”

  “Aye, he tries to give that impression,” Soames said. “He wears a fancy jacket and stares down his nose at a fellow. I don’t visit the man. I wouldn’t darken his door if you paid me. I have some ideas where his wealth is coming from. But I shall say no more on that score or he’ll have me up for slander.”

  Coffen said apologetically, “Don’t mean to cut into your gossip, Soames, but have you any evidence he took off Susan?”

  “I’m sure the bounder has her. I have been keeping a sharp eye on him in any case.” He drew out a clumsy turnip watch and glanced at it. “Good Lord, I’m late. I am supposed to be at an auction at Wetherby’s place this minute, and it is five miles away. Wetherby is selling up and retiring. There ought to be some bargains on the block. I could use a new pair of plow horses. A shocking price they are asking for them.”

  Tobin appeared at the door, removing a half apron as he came, and accompanied Mr. Soames out. “Let me know at once if you learn anything,” Soames called, before leaving.

  Luten looked at the others. “What did you make of him?” he asked.

  “He talked a lot about money,” Coffen said.

  “I don’t believe that indicates a mercenary nature so much as a lack of funds,” Prance said. “Soames is esurient. He has just enough to know he needs more to be fully accepted in the best society. An ambitious lad, I would say. He didn’t waste a minute when he thought Susan was interested. He’s even done a tally to figure out the cost of repairs to the place.”

  Corinne said, “You’re right, Reg. Soames is a climber. He wanted Susan to hire a house in London. He was upset when Susan jilted him, too. You notice he was swift to accuse Blackmore.”

  “He made some curious statements about Blackmore,” Luten said. “Was he implying the sudden wealth came from gambling? One thing is clear. Soames suspects Blackmore. Soames is awake on all suits. He has been here, to see how things were going on. If he suspects Blackmore, then it reinforces my intention to have a thorough search of his outbuildings after dark. At least if Blackmore has her, she isn’t dead. He would have to marry her to get his hands on her fortune.”

  “True,” Prance said. “Shall we go for that ride now, Corinne?” He turned to Luten. “Before you chide us for slacking off, Luten, let me assure you that we mean to search the woods and meadows for Susan, or any sign of her passing by. I shall just have a word with my man before leaving. He was to find me a decent bedchamber and air the bed.” He left.

  Luten accompanied Corinne to the hall to wait for Prance. “I see you are back in short skirts, Countess,” he said, looking askance at her borrowed riding habit. When she pokered up, he smiled to show her he was jesting. “Should you not let your hair down, to complete the effect of girlish charm? Very becoming, despite your years.” He reached out and flicked a loose curl. “I understand it is the custom in Ireland for gentlemen to marry late. It must be a sad trial to the ladies, having to go on feigning youth into their declining years.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Luten. I, unlike the other ladies, was snatched from the cradle. Now, if you have released your ill humor, I have something I would like to say to you.”

  “That will be a pleasant change. One is hard-pressed to get a word in edgewise when Prance is in the room.”

  “I was mistaken. You are not over your little fit of jealousy.”

  His delicate eyebrows rose an inch. “Jealousy?”

  “At Prance’s doing all the talking. Whatever did you think I meant?” she asked, with an arch smile.

  “What was it you wanted to say?”

  “I saw Susan’s trousseau. Why did you not tell me about it?”

  “I made sure you would discover it, in your own good time. You think it was a trousseau, then?”

  “A lady does not put up with the slithery, cold feel of a silk nightgown for her own pleasure. They are horrid.”

  “You were accustomed to a good warm flannelette nightie in Ireland, I expect?”

  “Oh no, we didn’t have special nightwear. We just huddled in front of the peat grate in our daytime rags, fighting with the dog over the family bone.” Having given him a setdown, she continued. “I also found some interestin
g lists.”

  “Of possible suitors to admire the silk nightie?”

  “No, of things to buy, I think. One was for lingerie, the other for window hangings, carpet, a chaise longue.”

  “So that is what put the notion of a chaise longue in your head! I thought you must have been reading a French novel. A trousseau and a shopping list of items for her new home, then? Is that your meaning?”

  “Yes. Strange, is it not? Added to what she intimated to Soames, it seems as if she was thinking of getting married, yet there is no indication who the groom could be.” She waited, thinking Luten might mention that he had been corresponding with Susan recently.

  “Whoever he is, he will be disappointed if we don’t find her,” he said.

  Prance came downstairs. “You would not believe the state of the linen in this house. You can see through it, it is so worn. I say, you’re not coming with us, Luten?”

  “No, I told you, I plan to ride over Blackmore’s land.”

  “Without permission?” Prance asked.

  “Without permission. If he objects, that will be an indication that he has something to hide.”

  Coffen came ambling out and overheard him. “I might as well go with you, Luten,” he said. “No point sitting here looking at my boots.”

  Prance glanced at his boots. “No, you would be better employed polishing them. Shall we go, my sweet?” He offered Corinne his arm.

  “Au revoir, angel of delight,” Luten said, with a satirical grin and an exaggerated bow.

  She waved good-bye and left with Prance.

  Chapter Eleven

  Corinne returned from her ride with Prance and went to Susan’s bedchamber to change out of her riding habit. She found a pair of clean sheets sitting on the bed. Luten had mentioned having his valet get sheets at the inn. Knowing the shortage of help at Appleby, she decided to change the linen herself. It took her back to her days in Ireland, when she and her sister Kate had performed these light chores together. She was not aware of the nostalgic smile that played on her lips as she began her job.