Murder and Misdeeds

by Joan Smith

  They chatted awhile, then Corinne bought her silk stockings and took her leave. Out on the street, she met Coffen and Pattle, just back from their trip and looking fatigued. Their shirt points were wilted, and their jackets creased.

  They had stopped to read one of the broadsheets. They rushed up to her and asked in unison, “Any news?”

  “No, none,” she said. “You have heard nothing either?”

  “The constable at Tunbridge Wells thought he was on to something,” Prance said. “A blond lady was found drowned in a pond outside of town, but she turned out to be a local light-skirt. I viewed the mortal remains.” He shivered delicately. “The stuff of nightmares. She looked quite like Susan, too, or perhaps it is only that death robs us of our individuality.”

  “I wish you will stop your chatter,” Coffen said gruffly. “You’re giving me goose bumps.”

  “There is a new development in the highwayman case,” Corinne said, and told them Stockwell’s idea that Soames had found the trinkets in the hut or the stream behind it. “Hodden refused to consider it.”

  “You’re on to something there,” Coffen said at once. “I never could believe Soames ... mean to say, a gentleman, even if he was poor as a church louse.”

  “That’s mouse, Coffen,” Prance said, shaking his head. “Must you always make fritters of the King’s English?”

  “Would a church louse be any richer?” Coffen asked, unfazed.

  As they were talking, Mrs. Spencer came out of the drapery shop. Prance spotted her and quickly reviewed what etiquette demanded in this instance. Obviously he could not present a light-skirt to Corinne. He decided to lift his hat and smile, as he might do for any pretty lady passing by. It was a small town after all. Acknowledging her presence did not necessarily show that he had made her acquaintance. He lifted his hat; she gave him a bold smile and passed without speaking.

  “That is Mrs. Spencer, a new dasher in town,” Corinne said, as Coffen was staring after her.

  “That ain’t her name,” Coffen said at once.

  Prance looked at him, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you have the lady’s acquaintance, Pattle?”

  “I can’t say I do, but she’s no lady. That’s Prissy Trueheart.”

  “Who?”

  “Prissy Truehart. She used to be at Covent Garden a decade ago.”

  “She married a Mr. Spencer, MP,” Prance said.

  “I take leave to doubt it,” Coffen said. “She is nothing else but a—” He glanced at Corinne.

  “An actress?” she ventured, as Coffen was familiar with all the actresses. He was an avid habitué of the Green Rooms in London.

  “That as well,” he said.

  “Oh! You mean a light-skirt.”

  “Are you sure?” Prance asked, looking after the dasher.

  Coffen looked, too. “Ladies don’t swing their rumps like that,” he said condemningly, but he watched her out of sight.

  Prance kept looking as well, not without admiration. Wife of an MP indeed! If such a delicious scandal had occurred within the past decade, he would have heard of it. Was it possible Lord Blackmore had been conning him? Or had the dasher been deceiving Blackmore? He was thrilled with the operatic vulgarity of it all. Should he mention it to the baron? And was he now free to tell the others? No, he would speak to Blackmore first. He had given the man his word.

  “She arrived in East Grinstead last winter,” Corinne said. “She lives in that little house at the end of High Street. The on dit is that she is Blackmore’s mistress.”

  Prance was sorry he had held his tongue. Now that the secret was out, he could display his knowledge by saying, “Yes, I met her yesterday chez Blackmore. Charming girl.”

  “Hardly call her a girl,” Coffen said. “She was on the boards aeons ago. Old Lord Clyde had her under his protection. The word was that she forged a check for a thousand pounds in his name, so he dumped her. She didn’t get any takers after that. So this is where she washed up. She’s still a looker.”

  “I should warn Blackmore,” Prance murmured.

  “I fancy Blackmore can look after himself,” Coffen said.

  “I wonder if I shouldn’t replace that lion on his dinner-ware with a satyr. I’ll do it, just for a joke.” He giggled to himself at his daring.

  Coffen was frowning into his collar. “She hit town about six months ago and she lives in that little house on the edge of town, did you say, Corinne?”

  “Yes, that is what Mrs. Dorman said.”

  “That’s not far from the shepherd’s hut. She might have seen the highwayman going into it. It was about that time that he started his nasty work.”

  Prance said, “Hodden has spoken to all the neighbors. If she knows anything, he would have got it out of her.”

  “Might not have,” Coffen said. “The woman is crooked as a dog’s hind leg. It wouldn’t surprise me if she is in league with the highwayman, for a price. I’ll have a word with Hodden before the inquest. It is at four o’clock. Are you going to attend it, Corinne?”

  Prance said, “Lord, how I abhor such morbid doings. I shall make a quick dart to Appleby, bathe, and change my linen.”

  “You haven’t time,” Coffen told him.

  “I shall take time. If I make a grand entrance late, I shall at least look my best. I don’t advise you to go, dear heart,” he added to Corinne. She hesitated a moment. “I daresay Luten will be back by now,” he added.

  That was enough to secure her company. She sent Susan’s carriage home without her and drove with Prance, while Coffen went to bend Hodden’s ear.

  “I am vexed with Blackmore for misleading me about Prissy Trueheart,” he said. “Now, what the deuce is a chit like that doing in East Grinstead? She is not only an actress, but a known felon. You don’t think she could be involved in Susan’s abduction?”

  “Surely not. There was no ransom note.”

  “We always come back to that, do we not? No ransom note. Well, we can hardly suggest to Hodden that Prissy abducted Susan for lustful reasons. He wouldn’t know what we were talking about. I don’t believe it myself, come to that. She bats her eyelashes too shamelessly at gentlemen. But she might still be involved in the highwayman business. It would be good to clear Jeremy’s name.”

  “Yes, Hodden did not believe what Stockwell told him.”

  “It makes Hodden’s life easier if he can pretend he has taken care of the highwayman. He’ll claim the reward. I have half a mind to hold up a coach myself, just to prove it was not Jeremy. I expect it would only throw the parish into a pelter. Someone would swear an affidavit it was Jeremy’s ghost, and a legend would be born. I shall mention it to Luten all the same.”

  “What we should do is force Hodden to search Mrs. Spencer’s house.”

  “For clues, as Pattle would say. Perhaps it would be better not to alert her and put her on her guard, but just keep an eye on her ourselves.”

  When they arrived at Appleby Court, they forgot about Mrs. Spencer. At last, the ransom note had arrived.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Corinne could feel the difference in the very air of the house when she entered. Things had changed; there was a quickening, a sense of hope, that had not been there before. Or was it that she knew Luten was back? She saw his curled beaver on the hat rack even before he came from the saloon to greet her. It gave her time to compose her eager smile to mere pleasure. Old habits die hard.

  “Luten, you’re back.”

  He bowed. “Corinne. Prance.” At closer range, she saw the excitement glowing in his eyes. For a brief moment she thought it was pleasure at seeing her, and her heart leapt. Then he spoke again. “The ransom note has come.”

  “Oh, let us see it!”

  “Our trips were for naught,” Prance said on a weary sigh. But of course, he was interested in the note and demanded to see it at once.

  They went into the saloon. Luten placed the note on the sofa table so that they might all study it. It was printed on a sheet of plain w
hite notepaper, not the very cheapest of paper, but not particularly fine either. It said:

  Mr. Marchbank:

  Miss Enderton is alive and well. If you want her back, bring twenty-five thousand pounds in bills to the split oak at the northern edge of the Ashdown Forest tonight at midnight. Come alone. If you do exactly as I say, she will be home unharmed by one o’clock.

  They all read it and fell silent. It was Prance who broke the silence. “Anyone might have sent this. There is no proof he has Susan.”

  Luten placed a little pearl ring on the table. “This came with it. It’s Susan’s.”

  Corinne picked up the ring, a little flower of gold with a pearl in the center. She had seen it dozens of times. “Yes, this is Susan’s,” she said. “Thank God she is unharmed.”

  “If we can believe that note,” Prance said doubtfully.

  “We haven’t much choice,” Corinne said. “Of course, it is horrible to think of her losing so much money, but at least her life will be spared. She will still have Appleby Court, and ten thousand pounds besides.”

  “But what if we turn over the money and Susan doesn’t come back?” Prance asked. “If there were only some way we could negotiate, tell the bleater he must bring Susan to the forest if he wants the money. How did the note arrive, Luten?”

  “Otto was dozing in his study. When he awoke half an hour ago, the note was on his desk. He had left the door to the garden open to catch the breeze. The fellow had the gall to come right into the house.” He turned an accusing eye on Corinne. “If someone had been here, watching Otto, she might have caught him.”

  “I was only gone for an hour,” she shot back.

  “I hope you didn’t expect Corinne to tackle a bloodthirsty kidnapper!” Prance said, bristling in indignation. He put a protective arm around her and pulled her against his side.

  “She might have seen him, is what I meant. Followed him, or seen which direction he took at least.”

  “He would hardly have come prancing into the study if I had been there,” she said. “He would have chosen some other time when he was sure of not being seen. There is no point blaming me, Luten.”

  “You’re right. It’s just nerves,” he said, flinging a hand into the air. “You don’t have to protect her, Reg. I wasn’t planning to strike her.”

  Prance let her go. Luten began pacing to and fro in the shabby saloon. Corinne noticed that, unlike Coffen and even the dapper Prance, Luten showed not a whit of disarray after his trip. Iridescent rainbows gleamed off his smooth black hair as the sun streamed through the windows. His shirt points were stiff, and his jacket unwrinkled. How did he do it?

  Luten interrupted his pacing to say, “What I particularly dislike is the demand that Otto go alone.”

  “Could one of you not go in his place?” she asked. “So long as the kidnapper gets the money, surely that is all he cares about.”

  “A disguise!” Prance exclaimed, leaping on the idea. “It would require padding, of course, and the loan of that article Otto calls a hat. Take his rig—as Corinne says, in the dark, who would notice the difference? The kidnapper won’t show his face. He’ll be hiding somewhere nearby. Does Otto know where this blasted oak is?”

  “He says it’s near the northern edge of the forest,” Luten replied. “It came down in a storm this spring. All the locals know about it. It was one of the oldest trees in the forest.”

  “But would a stranger know about it? Methinks not,” Prance said. “This confirms that the fellow is a local.”

  Otto came out of his study, smiling in relief. “You heard the news?”

  “Indeed we have, Otto,” Prance said. “We have just been discussing how to handle it. Fear not, we shan’t send you alone into the forest.”

  Otto stared in consternation. “It is for me to go. The note says so. At midnight, alone, with the money in bills. Mrs. Malboeuf brought me a valise to hold the money.”

  They argued, but Otto was adamant. He felt he was in some way responsible for Susan’s abduction, and he would go to rescue her. There was no point arguing with him. He announced that he would have a bath before dinner, and the others must help themselves to wine.

  “Where did you put the valise?” Luten asked him.

  “Locked in the safe in the study, and the key right here,” he said, patting his watch pocket. Then he left.

  “At least he is sober,” Prance said uncertainly. “Poor fellow. He is treating this transaction as if it were a wedding, or a funeral. I doubt he’s had a bath in a month. Such a tremendous undertaking will sober him up.”

  They were still discussing the delivery of the ransom money an hour later when Coffen returned from the inquest wearing a heavy scowl.

  “You’re in the soup not showing up to give your testimony, my lad,” he said to Prance.

  “Egads! I forgot all about it.”

  “You’d forget your head if it weren’t stuck on. I said you was sick and told them about your finding Jeremy’s body. They want a written statement, and you have to get it stamped by a JP. I thought you was going to change your duds.” He looked at Prance’s still wilting shut points.

  “I was,” Prance said, thinking of the job of writing up his testimony and getting it stamped.

  “Anyhow, it was a dead waste of time,” Coffen continued. “The idiot coroner says Jeremy was fatally shot while in the execution of a crime. If Soames was the highwayman, then I’m a Frenchman.”

  “C’est vous qui le dit,” Prance said airily.

  “I wish you would quit that babbling in Italian.” Coffen scowled. “I spoke to Hodden. You might as well talk to a jug. Tarsome fellow. I’ve not had a bite for hours. I asked Tobin to bring some tea and bread and butter— Why are you all staring like that? It’s hours till dinnertime.”

  “The ransom note came,” Luten said, handing it to him.

  Coffen snatched it and perused it quickly for clues. “I’ve seen this sort of paper before,” he said, wrinkling his brow with the effort of thought.

  “One sees it everywhere,” Prance informed him. “It is about the most common sort of notepaper. In fact, it is the same sort I used for my sketch of Blackmore’s dinner-ware.” He drew out his sketch and compared the papers, which were certainly similar.

  “Anyone recognize the writing?” was Coffen’s next effort.

  Prance sighed. “If you look closely, you will see it is printed, not written, done to disguise the penmanship.”

  “He writes pretty well, wouldn’t you say? Not an illiterate fellow, is what I mean. The spelling and grammar and all that are right, ain’t they?”

  “It’s hardly Shakespeare,” Prance said, “but literate, I suppose. Pretty straightforward, with no airs or graces about it.”

  “Do we know anyone like that?” Coffen asked, pinching his brow.

  “You are beating a dead horse, Pattle,” Prance said. “The note contains no secret clues. The matter under discussion was how we are to talk Otto into letting one of us go in his stead.”

  “Why would you want to do that? It’ll only get the kidnapper’s back up.”

  “Otto’s an old man and so eager to get Susan back that he won’t negotiate. If I could go in his place, I would insist that the bounder bring Susan to me before I handed over a penny.”

  Coffen studied the note again. “He says he will send her home at one o’clock. We can wait one hour. He’ll do as he says. Honor among thieves.”

  “You misunderstand the cliché, Pattle. We are not thieves,” Prance declared.

  “True.” Coffen massaged his ear, then said, “Why don’t we follow Otto when he goes?”

  “Or better,” Luten said, “go before him? Well before, say nightfall, and be there before the kidnapper arrives. If there’s more than one of them, we might even overhear where they have Susan and rescue her without handing over the blunt.”

  Mrs. Malboeuf arrived with a tea tray and slammed it onto the table. When the china and silver had stopped rattling, Luten said with a
glare, “Thank you, Mrs. Malboeuf.”

  Mrs. Malboeuf turned to Corinne. “There’s a parcel come for you while you were out, milady. I put it in your bedroom so as you’d find it, in case I forgot to give it to you.”

  “A parcel for me?” she asked. “I haven’t sent for anything. Who knows I’m here?”

  “It was left outside the kitchen door. Peggy stumbled over it when she went to the garden for parsley. It might have been there since last night for all I know. I’d fetch it for you, but I have the roast in the oven, haven’t I?”

  “Send Peggy for it, if you please,” Luten said at his most toplofty.

  Mrs. Malboeuf snorted, but apparently did as she was told, for Peggy did arrive with the parcel a moment later.

  Chapter Twenty

  While they waited, Corinne poured tea and Coffen snabbled down half a dozen slices of bread and butter.

  The parcel had not come through the post. It was just a brown paper bag, with the words “For Lady deCoventry” printed on the outside. Corinne opened the bag and drew out the blue kid reticule that had been stolen from her room two nights before.

  “My reticule,” she said in bewilderment. “I wish he had sent back my new sprigged muslin and cashmere shawl along with it.” She peered into the bag.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Coffen said. “Is your blunt there?”

  She drew out her money purse. “Yes, it’s all here. I can repay you the money I borrowed for stockings, Prance.”

  “Oh, do let them be a gift, cara mia! I get so few chances to give a lady anything of that sort.”

  “Pay him,” Luten growled.

  “Thank you, Prance, I accept,” Corinne said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She did not look within a right angle of Luten, but she knew that he was scowling at her.

  She searched the purse and said, “Now, that is odd! The money is here, but my comb and mirror are gone. That lovely little mirror you gave me, Reggie. My handkerchief is missing.”