by Joan Smith
She lay a moment with her heart pounding. As she lay, reliving the nightmare, she heard the rustle of the door being opened and thought she was still dreaming. Her eyes flew open, and she stared into impenetrable blackness. She couldn’t see a thing, but she felt, or imagined, a breeze, and she had a distinct awareness that she wasn’t alone in the room. It wasn’t a doubt, but a certainty. Someone was there, in the blackness just inside the door. She froze, not moving a muscle. There! Wasn’t that a deep-drawn breath? She waited, but the sound was not repeated.
She was about to scream when she remembered Luten’s letter in Susan’s lap desk. He had come looking for it when he thought she was asleep! Into the shuddering silence came a light tread as the form advanced. She lay rigid, breath suspended, as he approached the bed. He walked right past it to the wardrobe. He was going to search the pockets of her gowns. She heard the door breathe open, followed by the susurration of gowns brushing against each other, the light scraping of hangers on the metal bar.
But what if it wasn’t Luten? He wouldn’t wait until she was in bed to search. He could come in any time when she wasn’t there. Her heart pounded so hard she feared the intruder might hear it. She mentally gauged the distance to the door into the hall. Could she make it? Should she scream? The intruder didn’t seem to be interested in molesting her. He might just take what he was looking for and leave without knowing she was there. He was looking for something.
She held her breath, waiting, ears strained for the softest sound in the shadows. As she became accustomed to the darkness, she could discern the outline of the man against the light wall. The shadow moved toward the dresser. A light jingle told her his hand had brushed Susan’s trinket box. A drawer was quietly opened, then slid shut again. He turned and moved forward. As the intruder brushed past the bed, his hand moved out to touch it. When he felt her leg, he gave a frightened gasp. Not Luten, then. He knew she was in Susan’s room. She opened her lips and screamed. He made a lunge at her. Fingers brushed against her face, then clamped over her lips. “Shhh!” he whispered in a frightened voice.
She wrenched her head aside and screamed as loud as she could. The man took to his heels, out the door and down the corridor. Any attempt at secrecy was abandoned. He pelted toward the front staircase and down the stairs. By the time she recovered and got out her door, Luten was just coming into the hall, carrying a lamp. He was still wearing his evening clothes. He hadn’t retired yet, although it was the middle of the night.
“What happened?” he asked, hurrying forward.
“There was a man in my room!” she exclaimed.
Luten rushed toward her room. Corinne went after him. “He’s gone now. He ran when I screamed.”
He looked all around the room. “You were having a nightmare,” he said.
“I was wide-awake! He was looking for something, Luten. Look, the wardrobe door is ajar. It was closed when I went to bed. He ran downstairs. Didn’t you hear him running down the hall?”
“I only heard your bloodcurdling scream.”
“There was someone here.”
“I’ll go down and have a look.” He glanced around the room. “I see your window is closed. He didn’t get in that way. I made sure all the doors were locked before I retired.”
She snatched up a lacy negligee and threw it on. “I’m going with you. I want to see who it was.” Before leaving, she picked up the poker. She knew Luten thought she was imagining things, but it was possible the intruder was still in the house.
She clung to Luten’s arm as they went downstairs. He held the lamp high, looking all around the hall below. Long shadows moved lethargically as the lamp beam fell on the longcase clock, on chairs and a coatrack. When they were at the bottom of the staircase, they felt the draft from the front door and saw it was hanging open.
“I told you so!” she said.
Luten went and examined the door. “The lock doesn’t seem to have been forced. How did he get in?”
“He must have a key. Who would have one?”
“He might have used a passe-partout. These old locks are not much protection.” But he locked the door again, and they went into the saloon. Luten lit another lamp. He poured Corinne a glass of wine to calm her, and they sat on the sofa.
“I wonder what he was after,” she said. “Was it just a coincidence that he went to Susan’s room?”
When Luten saw her pale, distracted face, he knew that Corinne certainly believed she had had a visitor. He also knew that he wanted to comfort her with his warmth, to take her in his arms and kiss her fears away. He reached out his hand and squeezed her fingers.
“An ordinary thief would have gone for the silver,” he said. “He wouldn’t risk going upstairs. And if he did, he’d go to an empty room, one with the door open, not an occupied one. He knew where he was going, all right. If it was the kidnapper, who is to say he isn’t after another victim? You’re going back to London tomorrow morning, Countess.”
That “Countess” got her back up. She snatched her hand away. “Don’t be an ass, Luten. He didn’t know I was in Susan’s room. And he wasn’t looking for a kidnap victim in the clothespress. He seemed startled—frightened—when he felt me.”
“Felt you?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
“He just sort of touched the bed as he moved away from the dresser. I felt his hand on my leg, then he gasped. I screamed and he put his hand over my mouth to stop me.”
“Did you get any inkling who he might be?”
“No, none. He was a biggish man.”
“Could it have been Blackmore?”
She gave a sound of disgust. “It could have been anyone. He was looking for something, Luten. Is it possible Susan was mixed up in some dangerous business?”
“Like what?”
“Goodness, I don’t know. First she disappeared—
“She was kidnapped.”
“We don’t know that. She disappeared, then someone came sneaking into her room, looking for something. What I am wondering is if she discovered something, something dangerous. She had to be silenced, and now the man fears she left some evidence behind. It could be the highwayman,” she said. “She might have found out who he is.”
“We’ll search her room.”
“We’ve already searched it.”
“We’ll search it again tomorrow. We must have missed something. Drink up your wine. It’s three-thirty. The sun will soon be rising.”
She looked at his haggard face, and his evening jacket. “Why are you fully dressed? You haven’t been to bed.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“For four hours? You were out, Luten. Where were you?”
“I was spying on Blackmore. Looked in his windows like a Peeping Tom. He was up until two o’clock, reading and drinking brandy. Then he went up to bed. I saw the light go on in one of the bedrooms. I waited until it went off again and came back here.”
“You’re very troubled about Susan,” she said, and watched him closely.
“If anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“She wasn’t in your charge,” she said.
“She was my cousin. Otto is no fit guardian. I feel responsible,” was the only answer she got. She knew from long experience that there was no point trying to get information from Luten if he didn’t want to give it.
“I see. You don’t care to share your secret with me.” Her emerald eyes glowed angrily. “Good night, Luten.”
He rose and accompanied her upstairs. “It’s not likely our intruder will come back tonight, but lock your door anyway, just in case,” he said. “I’ll leave mine open. I’ll hear him if he returns.”
He wouldn’t be sleeping, in other words. What dark deed weighed on his conscience? Poor Luten. Poor Susan. Poor Corinne.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite her nightmares and her interrupted sleep, Corinne awoke early in the morning. She enjoyed having these few moments to herself. In London Mrs. Ballard woul
d be rushing about, opening the curtains and asking what gown she wanted to wear and if she had enjoyed the party the night before. It had all seemed wildly extravagant at first, but now it had become a bore. Except for the morning cocoa or tea. A cup of tea would be nice now, before she dressed.
She opened the curtains to see what sort of a day awaited her. The sky was a brilliant azure arc, with not a cloud in sight. She threw open the window. Branches of oak and elm stirred in the warm breeze. A pair of larks performed aerial acrobatics, swooping and wheeling and soaring, with the sun glinting golden on their wings. A muslin gown would be warm enough. She’d wear her new rose sprigged muslin with the empire waist. She turned to the clothespress to take it out ... and stared at the space where it had hung last night. She remembered she had put it beside the rose gown she had hung up.
The sprigged muslin was gone. The empty hanger jiggled mischievously in the breeze. She remembered the intruder last night, the quiet opening of that same door, the light chink of hangers on the metal bar. The man had stolen her gown! He had been an ordinary thief after all.
What else had he taken? She rushed about the room and found other items missing. Her new cashmere shawl— oh, and her reticule, with every penny she had brought with her. Silk stockings and underlinens were missing.
Her instinct was to run downstairs and tell Luten, but she had to dress first. There was no water in the water basin. She pulled the bell cord, but knew she would not be heeded. Too impatient to wait, she just threw on the same blue muslin gown she had worn the day before, scrabbled into shoes and stockings, ran a brush through her hair, and went darting to the morning parlor.
Luten, Prance, and a Coffen Pattle who looked as disheveled as she did herself arose punctiliously when she came pelting in. Luten and Prance looked as fine as ninepence. They had shaved, and their cravats were as immaculate and as intricately arranged as if they were on their way to Whitehall.
Prance took one look at her and said, “Not to give offense, dear heart, but don’t you think you should send for Mrs. Ballard?”
“I’ve been robbed!” she announced.
“Luten has been telling us of your ghastly experience,” Prance said, drawing out the chair beside him. “What a savage beast I am to have chastized you before commiserating on it. Small wonder if you look so ... distraught.”
“What’s missing?” Luten asked her.
“He took my clothes.”
Prance was charmed to hear it. “A pervert!” he exclaimed. “And I feared the country would be dull. As you are wearing that charming gown—again—one assumes it is your more intimate items that are missing. A petticoat thief!”
“No, my new rose-sprigged muslin gown and cashmere shawl. Oh, and my reticule with ten pounds in it, to say nothing of that darling little French hand mirror you gave me, Reg, and a few other small items.”
“Gowns and gewgaws,” Coffen said, frowning. “Strange sort of thief. He didn’t touch the silver, and it wasn’t even locked up as it should have been.”
“I’ve been telling Prance and Coffen about your experience last night. We could find nothing missing down here,” Luten said. “Tobin assures me the silver is intact.”
As he spoke, his valet appeared at her elbow with a pot of coffee and a plate of breakfast. Simon had cooked breakfast and served it. This elegant creature held himself very high, but for a price, he had condescended to expand his duties. The coffee was black and hot. The poached eggs cooked au point, the toast neither black nor gray from ashes, but a nice golden brown. The bacon was crisp and not too fat. Even Prance, who felt eating was a great imposition on the intellectual life, was busy with his knife and fork, dismantling an egg.
“You’re sure it was a man?” Prance asked her. “As everything taken was for a woman, one wonders if some local wench hasn’t been ogling your gowns and decided to help herself to them.”
“It was a man,” she replied.
“Could have had her fellow steal them for her,” Coffen suggested.
“One would think he could wait until the gown was hung out to dry,” Prance said. “There was quite a rash of linen-napping from clotheslines in London last year. I lost half a dozen shirts. Strange that it should occur at this time, but it cannot have anything to do with Susan, can it? There is no limit to the reach of coincidence’s long arm.”
“I wonder if it has something to do with her,” Corinne said, scooping her fork into her eggs. “She left the house with only the clothes on her back. She must be wanting a change of gown by now. He wouldn’t know, in the dark, that it was my gown he took. And how did he get in? The lock hadn’t been tampered with.”
“I could open that lock myself with a piece of wire,” Prance said dismissively.
“What an accommodating kidnapper,” Luten said, with a lift of his eyebrows. “As it was a man who stole the gown, presumably he did it for Susan.”
“If that is the case, we need not fear that she is lying on a board in some cold shack, starving,” Prance said.
“What you said last night, Prance,” Coffen said. “About Soames having taken her and trying to talk her into marrying him.”
“It was Corinne’s theory that Soames took her. If she’s right, I expect he is trying to talk her into marriage.”
“Me, too. If that’s what he’s up to, he’d do whatever she said. Get her clothes for her if she asked him. I say we should have another go at Soames. There’s something odd afoot. I had Eddie watch his place last night. He never went home. Where was he?”
Prance’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You actually convinced Eddie to do your bidding?” he asked. “How much did you pay him?”
“A guinea. He only stayed until two A.M., but Soames hadn’t come home. Where was he till that hour?”
“Perhaps helping himself to Corinne’s gowns. It’s worth a try,” Prance agreed, and applied his knife and fork to a golden piece of toast. Eggs, he found, even well-cooked eggs, were too close to the barnyard to tempt him after all.
They were still at breakfast when Hodden arrived, hot from East Grinstead. He carried the staff of his office. Other than that, there was nothing to distinguish him from a petty clerk or businessman. He was a smallish, well-knit man of some forty-odd years. His blue serge jacket had shiny cuffs, his buckskins were dusty, and his top boots lacked polish. His face bore some resemblance to a rabbit, due to his protruding teeth, but his snuff-brown eyes were as sharp as bodkins.
“News, milord!” he exclaimed, rushing into the morning parlor. When he had the undivided attention of the table, he continued. “He’s struck again, the highwayman. A Mrs. Turner and her daughter from Dover were held up and relieved of a hundred pounds and their jewelry. A set of garnets and a pearl ring.”
“What time?” Luten asked.
“Just after eleven. The villain cut their team loose. They had to walk three miles into town. By the time they got there, the scamp was long gone, of course.”
“I might be able to give you a hand there,” Coffen said. “I happen to know where he keeps his nag.”
The snuff-brown eyes snapped angrily. “You might have told me, Mr. Coffen!”
“I’m telling you now, ain’t I?”
“Well, where is it?”
“In the shepherd’s hut.”
“There are nine shepherd huts in the neighborhood. Which one?”
“At McArthur’s burned-down place. I’ll show you.”
“I searched that little hut myself when we were looking for Miss Enderton. There was no mount there.”
“Well there was last night. And I’ve a pretty good notion who your highwayman is as well. Do you have a nag or did you come on shank’s mare?”
“I’m mounted,” Hodden said proudly.
After some conversation, it was decided that all the gentlemen would accompany Hodden, in case Soames put up a fight. Corinne didn’t argue when Luten suggested rather imperatively that she stay at Appleby. She had a few investigations she wished to make closer
to home.
Hodden’s mount proved to be a mule, which slowed down their trip, but they did eventually reach the shepherd’s hut. The mare was gone.
“We’ll try young Soames’s stable,” Hodden said.
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you,” Coffen said. He went to look in the stream behind the hut. Trailing arms of willow dangled into the shade-dappled stream, where crystal-clear water gurgled over pebbles worn smooth by the water’s passing. He walked a quarter of a mile in both directions from the hut, but found no corpse facedown in the water. He was vastly relieved, for he had had a nightmare the night before that Susan was drowned in this very stream.
He was about to leave when the flash of something red at the bottom of the stream caught his eye. He fished it out, wetting his sleeve to the elbow as the stream was deeper than it looked, and found it to be a brooch made of faux diamonds and rubies. Curious, he examined the stream more closely and found a few other bits of cheap imitation jewelry. A fish-paste pearl ring, a pinchbeck watch chain and fob, and a string of glass beads. Loot that the highwayman had discovered to be worthless after he had time to examine it closely.
This confirmed that the missing mount belonged to the highwayman. It must be used only on those occasions when he planned a robbery, as there had been no mount there when Hodden searched. Perhaps the man rode through Grinstead on some other sort of mount and made his change here, which meant he had to sneak his scamp’s nag into the hut earlier. Easy enough to do after dark, with the concealment of the trees along the stream. It definitely pointed to a local fellow.