by Joan Smith
All they had to do was put a watch on the spot and catch him when he came back. Coffen whistled for his mount, threw his leg over it, and rode after the others. They all agreed that the cheap jewelry proved the highwayman was using the shepherd’s hut as a temporary hiding place for his mount.
When they reached Oakhurst, a modest mansion of stone, Mr. Soames’s housekeeper seemed almost glad to see Hodden. She was a tall, genteel lady in a white cap, with a white apron over her black gown.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Know what, Mrs. Peel?” Hodden replied in confusion.
“That he’s missing. Mr. Soames didn’t come home last night. I was just about to send the footman for you. He’s not turned up dead!” she cried, and turned as pale as paper.
“He’s not turned up at all, Mrs. Peel. We can’t find him.”
“He stopped at Appleby last night on his way home from the auction,” Luten said. “He took dinner at the Rose and Thistle.”
“He does that sometimes when he’s late,” Mrs. Peel said. “So considerate. What do you think could have happened to him?”
“It might be best if I have a look about the place,” Hodden said. “It could give us an idea where he’s gone. Could you show me his study, Mrs. Peel?”
She was all in a fluster at showing such a troupe about the master’s house in his absence. She recognized the gentlemen, however, and knew that Luten was related to Soames. This seemed to set the seal on her approval.
“We won’t trouble you further, Mrs. Peel. You can just go about your business,” Hodden said in a kindly way.
“I’ll make coffee,” she said, and scurried off to the kitchen, happy for the diversion.
The gentlemen conversed quietly in Soames’s modest study. “He’s peeled off, it looks like,” Hodden said. “I’ll search his bedchamber. You, milord, might have a look over his account books and anything else that catches your interest. Letters, billets-doux, jewelry.”
“I’ll do the guest rooms,” Prance said.
“I’ll search his stable and barns,” Coffen added.
After three quarters of an hour of searching, they met in the saloon, where Mrs. Peel had provided coffee.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peel,” Hodden said. “I’ll have a word with you before I leave.”
She took the hint and returned to her kitchen.
“I found nothing suspicious,” Hodden said. “There was no cache of money in his room, no hidden jewels.”
“The timing of the robbery suggests Soames. He left the inn shortly before the Turner ladies were held up, but if he was the highwayman, you’d never guess it from his account books,” Luten added. “He was skating close to the edge of bankruptcy. The mortgage his papa saddled him with was the culprit, I fancy.”
“His own mount, the one he was riding last night, is in the stable,” Coffen said. “The groom says it came home alone sometime during the night. Looks as if Soames might have taken a tumble and be lying in the road with a broken neck. Either that or he knows we’re on to him and has shabbed off on the other mount.”
Hodden looked in confusion from one to the other. “Mr. Soames had only the one mount in his stable,” he said firmly.
“Perhaps he’s not the highwayman,” Prance said.
“I’m beginning to doubt he is, and I don’t give a damn,” Coffen said. “Did you find any sign he took Susan?”
“No, nothing,” Luten and Prance said.
“What, kidnapped Miss Enderton!” Hodden exclaimed. “Is that what you think? Oh, surely not. I could scarcely believe he was the highwayman but to do a thing like that! Soames was always a gentleman. He thinks the world of Miss Enderton. Why, for a while there, we expected a match between them.”
“Are you sure he was at the fair that day she disappeared?” Coffen asked.
“He was. He left early, but it wasn’t to kidnap Miss Enderton. He had an appointment with his banker.”
“Did he keep it?” Coffen asked.
“I’ll ask Fairly. That’s our bank manager.”
“Because if he didn’t—if he’s the one who took Susan, I mean—we might never find out where he’s got her, now that he’s disappeared. Sneaking her off to Gretna Green, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“He never took her,” Hodden said angrily. “We must organize a group to scout about for Soames. The parish is becoming a regular den of vice, what with highwaymen and kidnappers and now this.”
“We’ll start searching now,” Luten said.
“And keep an eye out for any sign of Susan while we’re about it,” Coffen added.
They discussed what direction each would take. It was, alas, Prance who found the mortal remains of Jeremy Soames, lying in a field half a mile from the road with his sightless eyes staring at the azure sky and his mouth fallen open in despair. The condition of his clothes and hands suggested that he had been trying to crawl home. The front of his jacket and his knees were well grimed, although he had turned over on his back to die. It was the bullet in his chest that prevented his making it home.
Prance had some instinctive notion that he shouldn’t leave a corpse lying alone in a field, but common sense told him he must mount at once and fly to East Grinstead with this stunning news.
“Dead!” he would exclaim. No, “Murdered!” had a more dramatic ring to it. What a wretched soul he was, to be thinking of such a thing when poor Soames lay on the grass with his eyes and mouth open and his vest covered in congealing blood.
Chapter Fifteen
As soon as the gentlemen had left with Hodden, Corinne ran upstairs and began to search the rooms. In the room next to Susan’s bedchamber she found a cache of linen in the dresser. Half a dozen sets of new bedsheets and pillowcases were there, not stitched by Susan’s awkward fingers, but finely done by a seamstress. This confirmed the notion of a trousseau. In another spare room she found towels and an elegant lace tablecloth worth a small fortune. All these sat idle while the towels in the guest rooms were threadbare and the sheets on the beds were like tissue paper. One daren’t turn over for fear of ripping them.
Excited, she next searched the attics, but she did not find the expected carpets or chaise longue, nor anything except old clothes and discarded lumber.
She planned to pay a morning call, but as her host was so exceedingly handsome, she wished to tidy her appearance. Simon proved vulnerable to flattery when she stopped at Luten’s room to compliment him on the marvelous breakfast he had prepared them.
“I should have brought Mrs. Ballard with me,” she said. “Here am I looking as if I had just run a smock race, while you turn Luten out in such high style. It is a problem even getting hot water. How do you manage it, Simon?”
“It will be my privilege to assist you, your ladyship,” he said, wearing a smile from ear to ear.
Simon glided down to the kitchen and was back in minutes with a basin of hot water. He mentioned that he had a few leisure moments, and if her ladyship had anything she wished ironed, he would be only too happy to oblige her. And she was only too happy to hand her wrinkled gowns over to him.
Fifteen minutes later, a refreshed and more stylishly coiffed Lady deCoventry set out for Mr. Stockwell’s house. Without Luten to hold her in check, she took the shortcut on foot down the path and across the park to Greenleigh and was soon tapping at his door.
“He rode out to his back acres an hour ago,” Mrs. Dorman said. “He’s fertilizing that field today, but I expect him back any moment, if you’d care to step into the parlor. A cup of tea, milady?”
“Thank you.”
While Corinne sat waiting, there was a knock at the front door. As Mrs. Dorman was in the kitchen, Corinne answered it for her.
“Luten!” she exclaimed. A scowl settled on her face. She had hoped for a private interview with Stockwell. He would be less forthcoming with Luten there, glowering at him.
“What the devil are you doing, answering Stockwell’s door?”
“Mrs. Dorman is mak
ing me some tea.”
“Has Stockwell opened a tea parlor?”
“Not at all. He is tending to his work, like a good farmer.” As they went into the parlor, she said, “You planned to come here without me! Don’t deny it. You are supposed to be searching for Jeremy.”
“The shoe is on the other food, Countess. You were supposed to be searching Appleby. Fortunately, Tobin saw you leaving. I decided you require a chaperon, as you obviously plan to seduce the poor innocent.” His eyes skimmed over her, noticing her improved toilette. Her green eyes glowed like emeralds in the sunlight, but they didn’t distract him from noticing she was pleased at that charge of dangling after Stockwell, and he was pleased that she enjoyed his jealousy.
“I would never seduce an innocent lad. I have some scruples. Now, if he cared to try his hand at seducing me, that is a different matter entirely.”
He had to make a conscious effort to sound annoyed. “You are disgusting, Countess.”
“What’s sauce for the gander ...”
“Must we wallow amongst clichés?” he asked in a bored drawl.
“Surely we require more than one for a good wallow?”
“Where is Stockwell?”
“Mrs. Dorman tells me he is fertilizing his back acres but should return presently.”
“One does not usually greet a lady after fertilizing his fields with manure. Let us hope Stockwell takes time to refresh himself before he comes.”
“I’m sure one may count on Mr. Stockwell to do all that is proper,” she said.
A younger servant appeared with the tea tray. She was clean and bright-eyed. The tea tray, on this occasion, held the honey cake that had been missing on their last call.
“We are in a hurry,” Luten said. “Could you direct me to this field where your master is working?”
“Oh, her ladyship wouldn’t like that!” she said with a shy glance at Corinne. “I just saw his mount go into the barn as I left the kitchen. I’ll go and hurry Mr. Stockwell along.”
She set down the tea tray in front of Corinne, bobbed a curtsey, and left.
“You wanted me to see Mr. Stockwell in his working clothes,” Corinne charged. “I daresay he looks magnificent with his broad shoulders stretching his shirt taut over his muscles.”
“You forgot the perspiration beading his noble brow.”
Corinne smiled as she handed him his tea. “I didn’t forget it. Some thoughts are best kept to oneself.” She drew a blissful sigh.
Luten polished his nails and glanced about the room.
Before he could think of a setdown, Rufus Stockwell was at the door. Corinne remembered him as an exceedingly handsome man, yet she was surprised anew at just how handsome he was. Not only handsome, but with the added charm of youth and vibrant health. He wore a blue jacket, buckskins, and top boots, untouched by fertilizer. He had obviously been overseeing his men at work, not personally shoveling manure. He bowed politely at them both, said “Good morning,” then directed himself to Luten.
“Mrs. Dorman tells me you are in a hurry. Sorry to detain you. I have my men marling the back acres. The soil there is slightly acidic. I expect the carbonate of lime will improve the yield.”
Corinne said, “Ah, you are one of the improving farmer breed, Mr. Stockwell. How clever of you.”
“When one’s acreage is small, he must optimize every inch,” he said, and took a seat. “Is there any news of Miss Enderton?”
“I’m afraid not,” Luten replied. “The reason I am here has nothing to do with Miss Enderton, not directly in any case. You heard that Soames was missing?”
“Missing? No, I hadn’t heard it. I saw him yesterday.”
“He didn’t come home last night. Hodden had men out searching for him. His body was found in the meadow a mile from Oakhurst. He’d been shot.”
Stockwell’s eyes opened wide; his face paled, and he exclaimed, “Good God! Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“The highwayman got him, I expect.”
Corinne also exclaimed. “Soames murdered! You didn’t tell me, Luten! Oh dear! What— Do you think it has anything to do with Susan’s disappearance?”
“I have no idea, but if he was the one who has her hidden away, we’ll have the devil of a time finding her now.”
“Soames!” Stockwell said in consternation. “He’d never hurt Miss Enderton. He was fond of her. I really think you’re looking up the wrong tree there, milord.”
“The assumption in town is that he was the highwayman.”
Stockwell laughed out loud. “Soames, turned highwayman?” he asked. “The highwayman’s victim, more like. He had taken the notion of capturing the fellow, for the reward, you know. If he were the scamp, he wouldn’t be so short of funds. He never paid me for the milcher—but this is no time to speak of that.”
They discussed the murder a moment and the possibility of its being connected to Susan’s disappearance. Stockwell was adamant that Soames had nothing to do with Miss Enderton’s disappearance.
“I should hate to think of his good name being smeared in this manner when he isn’t here to defend himself,” he said.
Corinne fanned herself. She suddenly began weaving in her chair. Stockwell noticed it first.
“Lady deCoventry! I say—” He turned to Luten. “She seems faint. I’ll get some brandy.”
Corinne turned to Luten. “My hartshorn, Luten,” she said in a weak voice. “I keep that bottle in the pocket of your carriage.”
Luten flew out the door to fetch it. As soon as he was gone, she recovered from her imaginary fainting spell.
“Never mind the brandy, Mr. Stockwell. I had hoped for a word alone with you,” she said. “I have some reason to believe Susan was in love with someone, perhaps even planning to marry. Would you have any notion who this man might be?”
“Marry?” he cried in alarm. But she noticed the idea of Susan’s being in love came as no surprise to him. He looked more guilty than anything else. “No. No idea at all.” He was a wretched liar. His cheeks were pink. “Why do you ask me?”
“I thought you might be the man she is in love with,” she said, and gave him her most sympathetic smile. “I am sure no lady would be surprised if it were the case.”
His face relaxed into a shy, boyish smile. “It is true I love her,” he said, “but I know I could never marry her. She is worlds above me. I promise I have not importuned her in any way.”
“But has she importuned you?”
“I... We have met a few times, by accident. She says she cares for me, but I... To tell the truth, milady, I am at my wits’ end.”
Before he could say more, Luten was back with the hartshorn, and Corinne was obliged to begin fanning herself faintly with her gloves. Luten noticed that her color was good. She had been talking in a low voice to Stockwell—and there was no sign of the brandy. What was the minx up to? She accepted the hartshorn and thanked him, uncapped it and applied it to her nose, but he noticed she didn’t inhale.
“It was the shock of hearing that Jeremy is dead,” she said to Luten. “Prance found him, you say? It must have been dreadful for him.”
“Yes, for us all. If you are feeling better, Countess, we should go and let Mr. Stockwell return to his work.”
Mr. Stockwell’s face was rosy from his chat with Corinne as he accompanied them to the door.
“If there is anything I can do to help in finding Mr. Soames’s killer, I hope you will let me know,” he said.
When Luten and Corinne were in the carriage, he said, “Odd he is so eager to defend Soames and help find his murderer. I don’t recall him offering to help find Susan, do you?”
“I’m sure he did. If he didn’t, it was an oversight. It was taken for granted.”
“He never mentioned looking for her, though. Everyone else one speaks to tells of searching his barns and the ditches.”
“Mr. Stockwell is the strong, silent type.”
“Then one can assume it was n
ot his sparkling repartee that took you scampering across the meadow to visit. Why did you go to call on him?”
“To see if he had heard anything about Susan.”
“And had he?”
“Of course not,” she said testily. “But I think he was on closer terms with her than he has been letting on. In fact, I think the hussy has been hounding him to marry her.” Luten gave a dismissing laugh. “You think it’s only gentlemen who can make fools of themselves over a pretty face?” she asked.
“That is no way to speak of your late husband, Countess.”
“I wasn’t speaking of George, Luten.”
“Why do you think Susan had been hounding Stockwell?”
“He spoke of what he called ‘accidental meetings.’ I sensed that she arranged these accidents.”
“More likely he arranged ‘em. But I doubt if he had anything to do with Soames’s death.”
“Are you now looking into that, as well as Susan’s disappearance?”
“One can hardly ignore it. They are probably connected. Besides, he was my cousin. Finding Susan must have top priority, however. We have to find her before she’s murdered, too.”
Corinne uncapped the spirits of hartshorn and took a real whiff this time. Tears spurted to her eyes from the ammonia fumes. She thought over what Luten had said, that it was odd Stockwell never mentioned trying to find Susan. He had that moonish look of a man in love when he spoke of her. “I am at my wits’ end,” he had said. But instead of going out to search for her, he was at home, tending to his farm. She was sure Susan wanted to marry him.
“I wonder if he has the chaise longue sequestered at Greenleigh,” she said. “It isn’t at Appleby. It’s perfectly clear he’s madly in love with her.”
“Am I to deduce you had no luck in seducing him?”
“I haven’t tried.” When she saw his grin, she added, “Yet. Next time I go, perhaps. I feel there is something fishy going on at Greenleigh, to say nothing of Appleby.”
She told Luten about finding the linen and towels and lace tablecloth. “She was definitely assembling a trousseau. How sad if she never gets to use it. We must find her, Luten.”