Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  “I expect Otto kicked in the other half, from Susan’s own money, I mean,” Corinne said, looking to Luten.

  “I donated the other five myself,” Luten said, with a perfectly wooden face.

  “Will Susan repay us if we get her back?” Prance asked.

  “I am hardly in a position to ask her,” Luten said curtly. “If you don’t wish to contribute, Prance, no one is forcing you. I’ll make up the difference myself.”

  “No, no. Count me in. I was just asking.”

  “Otto will pay the ransom, if a ransom note comes,” Luten explained. “These broadsheets have to be distributed. Hodden is seeing to it in East Grinstead. We should fan out around the neighborhood. Hodden says we have only to deliver them to the constable in each town, and he will see that they’re posted. I plan to head to the coast. I’ll cover the towns and villages between Hastings and Brighton, spending the night at my Brighton house. Coffen, you cover the northwest, Prance the northeast.”

  “What about me?” Corinne asked.

  “Look after Otto,” Luten said. “And keep your eyes and ears open here. Hound Hodden. Question anyone you can think of.”

  “Since it seems we must stay overnight in some ghastly village inn, I shall take my valet,” Prance said. “I wish I had brought my own bedsheets with me.”

  “I’ll pack a few things,” Coffen said, and ambled off to do it.

  The gentlemen all left to make their preparations. Corinne picked up the broadsheet Luten had brought in to show them. The rest were in his carriage. Each of the gentlemen would take a stack of them with him. She read the fateful words. The top lines were done in heavy black print to attract attention.

  MISSING: TEN THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO RECOVERY. The description of Susan followed. Susan Enderton, of Appleby Hall, East Grinstead. Female, twenty years of age, blond hair, blue eyes, five feet four inches, weight one hundred and ten pounds approximately. Missing from her home on May 5. It went on to mention that she had been wearing a blue gown.

  Seeing it in black and white made it all worse, somehow. Inevitable, like an epitaph. It rendered Susan anonymous; the description might refer to any young blond lady. It diminished her to a few words on paper, like a stranger. One saw these bills all over England, glanced at them, shook her head, and forgot them. One never realized the anguish they represented to the family and friends, to say nothing of the victim.

  Where could she be? A girl didn’t just disappear off the face of the earth. If she had been kidnapped, there would have been a ransom note, so she must have been carried off by some mad sex fiend. Yet there had been no strangers seen around Appleby. It had been fair day, but why would a man come out to a private estate to steal a girl when the town would have been full of attractive farm girls and servants? A stranger wouldn’t know Susan was in the habit of sitting in the orchard. It wasn’t even visible from the road, and there was no public path that would have given him a chance view of Susan.

  It didn’t seem logical. It must have been someone from the neighborhood who knew her and had secretly lusted after her. Blackmore, Soames, Stockwell. Soames was dead. Blackmore and Stockwell had been at the fair. Why had her sewing basket been chucked into the tree? Had she put it there herself? Had her kidnapper? If so, why? It didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense. Even if she had been enceinte and run away of her own accord, it still didn’t make sense.

  If she didn’t love the father, if she had been violated, she would have reported the man. And if she loved him, she would have gone after him and made him marry her. Susan was no longer a biddable child. She had a new way of “putting her little foot down.” What if she had fallen in love with a married man? But there was no married man in the neighborhood so attractive that a girl would throw all her scruples to the wind and give herself to him.

  The only man that attractive was Rufus Stockwell. She was interested in him, and he loved her madly. If he had ruined her, he would certainly have done the right thing by her.

  Lastly, Corinne thought of Luten. Of his anguished face when he had heard of her disappearance and the haunted look he had worn ever since. It was weighing on his conscience, he said. He and Susan had been exchanging letters, letters about which he was extremely secretive. He had offered seven thousand of his own money to find her. He was wealthy, but seven thousand pounds was still a fortune. And he had tried to hide the trousseau in the chest in her room. When was the last time Luten had seen Susan? It must be half a year ago. If she was pregnant by him, her condition must have been obvious, but no one had mentioned it.

  Was it even remotely possible that Luten had had his way with her? Was that what the letters were about? “Pray don’t be angry with me, Luten,” she had written. Angry because she was carrying his child? That she was pushing him to marry her? Or even that she was refusing to marry him, because she loved Rufus? And did any of it have anything to do with Soames?

  When she heard a sound in the hallway, she looked up and saw Luten gazing at her. He held a small valise in his hand, ready to leave. He stepped into the saloon, still wearing his pale, haunted look.

  “When was the last time you saw Susan, Luten?” she asked.

  “At the end of February,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  If she were only two and a half months pregnant, it wouldn’t be visible yet. “Just curious. I haven’t seen her since last May, when she visited me in London. Just for a few days. Where did you see her in February?”

  “Here, at Appleby.”

  “You never mentioned it! Why did you come here?”

  “I believe I mentioned attending Clarence Moore’s wedding in Horsham. While I was so close, I stopped in to visit Susan and Otto. I stayed overnight. The weather was wretched. I didn’t like to head out to London at eventide.”

  “I see. How did she seem then?”

  He shrugged. “Just as usual. Perhaps a little peevish. She had wanted to visit Miss Blanchard in town that day, and the weather kept her home.”

  A stormy night, the two of them virtually alone in the house, for Otto would have been in his cups by evening. Susan in a peevish mood, Luten trying to cheer her up. Yes, it could have happened. Luten’s cool veneer hid a passionate nature, as she had occasion to know.

  Her voice, when she spoke, betrayed none of her racing thoughts. “You were generous to offer such a large reward.”

  He batted his hand, as if seven thousand pounds was a mere bagatelle. “I may inherit her fortune, God forbid.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Nor did I, until this trip,” he said, advancing into the room. “Coffen told me after Soames’s death. You recall they left their estates to each other, so if Susan is dead, if she died first, Soames’s heirs will end up with the lot. If Soames died first, Coffen will inherit Appleby, with a proviso that Otto can live here until his death, with a small income from the estate. And you will get her jewelry. In any case, it will be a heyday for the solicitors.”

  “I had no idea what was in her will. We were her nearest and dearest, then.” Especially Luten. He was to get thirty-five thousand. At least she had no fear that Luten had done Susan in. Not only had he been in London when she disappeared, but he had no need of her money.

  “Try not to worry, Corinne,” he said, moving closer and reaching for her hands. “We’ll find her.” But it was Luten who was more worried. His eyes were dark, and his face was drawn from prolonged anxiety. Her heart went out to him.

  “God, I wish this were over, one way or the other,” he said in a choked voice, and drew her into his arms. When she gazed up at him, she sensed a softening mood creeping over him. He studied her with his dark gray eyes, then said, “If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I could have stood it.” When he pressed her close against him, her world suddenly returned to sanity. He didn’t love Susan after all. Surely he didn’t. It was guilt that rode him.

  “We’re all terribly distressed, Luten, but you seem ... shattered,
” she said, peering up at him.

  “Small wonder if I am. It’s my fault.”

  She tried to tame the rampant curiosity that raged forth at his words. “Why? Why do you say that?”

  “It’s a long story....”

  The sound of Prance and Coffen descending the staircase caused them to draw apart.

  “No, you take the west as agreed, Pattle,” Prance was saying in a querulous voice. “I have friends at Tunbridge Wells where I can stay the night. You know how I loathe public inns. I shan’t sleep a wink. You always sleep like a log.”

  Coffen grumbled his agreement.

  “Are we all set to leave?” Prance asked, as he entered. His sharp eyes examined Corinne and Luten closely. “Are we interrupting the leave-taking?” he asked archly. “Don’t mind us, children. Kiss her good-bye, Luten, and let us be on our way. Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  “We should be back tomorrow afternoon, Corinne,” Luten said, but his eyes said more. “Take care. I’ll just say good-bye to Otto before I go. Try not to let him drink too much.”

  “What if the ransom note comes while you’re gone?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t deliver the money yourself. Send for Hodden. And sleep in some other bedroom tonight, in case our intruder returns. I’ve given orders that the grooms are to be on the qui vive.”

  “Adieu, cara mia,” Prance said, and gave her a loud smack on the cheek.

  “We’re off. Take care,” Coffen said.

  Corinne was alone, staring at the hated broadsheet. The house seemed like a mausoleum. The sun was shining, luring her outdoors. She took up a shawl and went out into the park to think. She wanted to go to the apple orchard, to the secret spot where she and Susan used to go, but that was where the man had got Susan. It was too isolated. Corinne strolled down through the park toward Greenleigh. Everything was so peaceful here, with the greenery all around and the tall trees swaying overhead. It seemed the last place in the world for such wicked goings-on as kidnapping and murder.

  Stockwell was just dismounting from his gig. She waved to him and hurried forward. He waved back, then gathered up some parcels from the back of the rig and walked to meet her. As she moved toward him, she was struck again by how handsome he looked with the sun on his golden hair. He had left his curled beaver in the rig.

  “Any news of who might have shot Soames?” he asked.

  She shook her head, then told him about the stolen items found in his house.

  “It seems he was the highwayman after all,” she said.

  A frown grew between his brilliant blue eyes. “That’s hard to believe. Soames was bound and bent to find the highwayman and collect the reward. He was forever snooping about the countryside. I wonder if he didn’t find the trinkets in the shepherd’s hut where they’d been left by the highwayman.”

  “Would he not have turned them over to Hodden?”

  “I expect he wanted to capture the villain himself, to make sure he got the reward. Mrs. Dorman told me about Mr. Coffen’s leading Hodden to the hut. No doubt I would have heard about Soames being suspected, if the ladies at the drapery shop had not all been gossiping about Mrs. Spencer.”

  Corinne had no interest in inconsequential village gossip. “I believe you’re right, Mr. Stockwell!” she exclaimed. “Or perhaps Soames found the gewgaws in the stream. Coffen found some similar trinkets there. I should tell Hodden!”

  “I’ll go back to Grinstead myself. I can convince him, as Soames spoke to me about it a dozen times.”

  “Hodden won’t be happy to hear it. He’s very pleased to think he’s solved the mystery of the highwayman.”

  She went on to tell him that the others had gone to distribute the broadsheets. He listened, frowning deeply. It struck her as odd that Stockwell hadn’t inquired about Susan. After all, he was supposed to be mad for her.

  “It’s odd there’s been no ransom demand, don’t you think?” she said.

  “I daresay it is. Yes, that looks suspicious.”

  “It seems very strange to me. It means she was either kidnapped for some other vile purpose than money or ran off on her own.

  Stockwell’s handsome face clenched into a frown. “Poor Mr. Marchbank. What a wretched thing for him to be put through. It’s unconscionable. Something must be done about it.”

  Not poor Susan, but poor Otto! “Her relatives and friends are doing everything they can.”

  “Oh, certainly! I did not mean to disparage Lord Luten—all of you in the Berkeley Brigade.”

  Now, how did Rufus, living deep in the country, know that Society called them that? It had obviously come from Susan.

  The parcels he was holding began to sag in his arms. One fell to the ground. As he was so laden, Susan picked it up for him. It was a bag of sugarplums.

  Stockwell saw where she was looking and said with a shy smile, “It is Sally’s—my maid’s—birthday. The sugarplums are a little present for her.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you, Mr. Stockwell.”

  “It was Mrs. Dorman’s idea. Well, I must be going. Good day, Lady deCoventry. I shall deliver my parcels to Mrs. Dorman before I go into town to speak to Hodden.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Soames a highwayman! Did you ever hear such foolishness? Next they will take into their heads that I am the robber.” There was an air of escape to his departure.

  There was something she had never considered. Was it possible the handsome, shy Rufus had turned scamp to accumulate money to marry Susan? No, he would not have been so insistent on Soames’s innocence if he were guilty himself. He would be happy to let the matter rest. Unless, of course, he planned to continue his marauding ways.... Oh, it was all too confusing! She returned to the house and made up a bed in one of the spare rooms. She didn’t want a repeat of last night’s intrusion. Sleeping would be hard enough with so much on her mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  No ransom demand arrived at Appleby Court that evening. Otto drank too much, despite Corinne’s efforts to dissuade him. She asked him about Luten’s last visit at the end of February, but Otto’s recollections were hazy.

  “Susan was happy to see him,” he said. As he could add no details, she assumed this was conjecture rather than memory.

  She spent a weary evening worrying and thumbing through the journals without really reading them, and retired at eleven.

  As if to mock her gloomy mood, the weather continued sunny the next morning. To avoid getting the megrims from sitting around moping, she took Susan’s mount out, accompanied by a groom so that she could ride through spinneys and such isolated spots, looking for a trace of Susan. She found nothing, but the ride did improve her spirits. A hundred shades of green dazzled the eye: the luminous tips of tall trees, bathed in sunlight, the dappled grass beneath her feet, the deeper pockets of green in the glens, lightening to golden green in the distant shadows. She might have been back in Ireland.

  In the afternoon she drove into East Grinstead, ostensibly to buy a pair of stockings to replace those stolen by the intruder. She had borrowed the money from Prance. Her real reason for going to Grinstead was to look at the broadsheets proclaiming Susan’s abduction. The notices were garnering a good deal of attention. Small groups stood about, talking and gesticulating, even laughing. Well, it wasn’t their tragedy. Life went on. If anyone in town knew anything about Susan’s disappearance, he would not be slow to come forward now, with the lure of ten thousand pounds to tempt him. But when Corinne called on Hodden, he told her sadly that no one had come forward.

  “Mr. Stockwell called on you yesterday afternoon?” she asked.

  His snuff-brown eyes, like his voice, held an air of belligerence. “He did. I cannot think there is anything in his tale. Why would Soames not have turned the evidence over to me if he were innocent? No, Soames is our highwayman, milady.” He drew a sheet of paper from the pile on his desk to suggest that he was a man of many affairs, too busy to sit chatting. “Remind Sir Reginald and Coffen they will be required to give evi
dence at the inquest this afternoon,” he said in a dismissive way.

  “They’re out of town.”

  “I know it well. They will be back by four. They spoke to me before leaving. The inquest is delayed on their account. Their evidence is crucial.”

  “I shall remind them.”

  Next Corinne went to the drapery shop to buy the silk stockings. She met Mrs. Dorman there, sorting through the ribbons.

  “I am looking for a birthday gift for Sally,” she said, after greeting Corinne. “Her birthday is coming up next week.”

  “Next week? I thought it was yesterday.”

  “Now, wherever did you get that notion?”

  “Mr. Stockwell mentioned he was buying her sugarplums.”

  “Sugarplums for Sally? She’ll not thank him. She is trying to lose weight. She’s a little plump. No, I dropped him the hint she would like a tea set. She has a beau on the string and is gathering her wedding chest. He asked me to pick it out for him. The men are no good at that sort of thing, you must know.”

  “But he bought sugarplums yesterday.”

  “They would be for himself, but he was ashamed to admit it,” she said, laughing. “Mr. Stockwell has developed a great sweet tooth lately. Odd, for he never much cared for sweets before. It is worrying about Miss Enderton that causes it, I expect. I always find a sweet helps ease sorrow, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I daresay you are right.” Mrs. Dorman’s eyes slewed over Corinne’s shoulder to an elegant lady who was examining the muslins. Mrs. Dorman’s expression held a glint of curiosity. “There is Mrs. Spencer, out shopping again,” she said.

  Corinne looked and saw a very dasher of a lady with black curls, outfitted in a handsome blue walking suit. “I don’t recall seeing her before. Is she new in the parish?”

  “She landed in on us last winter. She has hired that little cottage at the end of the High Street. A friend of Lord Blackmore, I believe.” She gave a knowing nod to indicate what sort of friend. “She claims to have a husband in London, but we have seen no sign of him. You wouldn’t want to have anything to do with the likes of her, milady. She could be wearing a tiara and the word light-skirt would still be written all over her.”