Murder and Misdeeds (15 page)

They left him to his job and went to the inn, where they hired a private parlor to eat and discuss their morning’s findings. Prance drew out his notepad.

“What do you think of this design for Blackmore’s dinnerware?” he said, passing the pad along to Corinne. “It is only done in pencil, but envisage, if you can, a jet-black rim around the plate with a narrow gold band on the outer edge. Then the shield with a lion rampant. The crossed swords above refer to Blackmore’s ancestors’ probable place in the Celtic hierarchy. His coloring suggests that he is of Celtic origin. Their social system was divided into three parts, like Gaul. King, warrior-aristocrat, and freeman farmer. Blackmore’s ancestors would have belonged to the second class, one assumes.”

“Very nice,” Corinne said. With her mind on more serious matters, her praise lacked enthusiasm.

“I expect you would prefer a dash of color. Blackmore, I feel, has more austere taste. There is nothing gaudy at Blackmore Hall.” He immediately regretted that snide remark, but Corinne did not appear to connect it to her own love of ornamentation. It was Coffen who replied.

“Don’t know why you waste your time doing free work for that scoundrel,” he grouched. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the highwayman and murdered poor Soames. I feel like the devil for having suspected Soames. We used to have good times together, coursing hares, riding, hunting. Let Blackmore design his own plates. Poor Soames will have no need of plates. I wonder if a fellow gets to eat in heaven.”

“It will be no heaven for you if they don’t,” Prance said. “As to Blackmore, he is not a scoundrel! Luten was watching him at the time the Turner ladies were held up, so he cannot be the highwayman. We are assuming that is who murdered Soames. Did you think to ask Stockwell where he was last night when you were wooing him, Corinne?”

“No, I didn’t know at the time that Soames had been murdered.”

“You were with Stockwell when I told you,” Luten reminded her.

“Yes, but I let off wooing him when you arrived.”

“I would not say you had let off. You were gazing at him like a moonling.”

Having excited a squabble, Prance said, “Now, now, children. No squabbling,
vi prego.”

“Veepraygo?
What kind of talk is that?” Coffen scowled.

“It is Italian, Pattle. It is my admiration of Blackmore’s Italian objets d’art that made it slip out.” He turned to Luten. “Odd
you
did not ask Stockwell where he was last night, Luten, but then your mind was obviously on other things.”

“Yes, I was considerably upset to learn of Soames’s death,” Luten said with an icy stare.

“That too.” Prance smiled. “We’ll let Hodden make the inquiries, shall we? He tells us no mysterious strangers have been seen in the neighborhood. I wonder if Soames’s murderer could have been a woman. Perhaps he was playing some local belle false.”

“His housekeeper says not,” Coffen said. “He still had some hope of attaching Susan and was keeping his nose pretty clean in that respect. You keep your eyes open at Blackmore Hall when you take that picture over.”

“What am I expected to find?”

“Clues. Letters. Anything belonging to Susan. You might take a peek into drawers and whatnot when he ain’t looking. I don’t suppose he opened his desk to you when he was giving you that tour?”

“Strangely, no,” Prance said with great condescension. “We did not think it likely he had folded Susan up and hidden her in a drawer. Nor do I intend to impose on his hospitality by sneaking behind his back to look today.”

“He’s too sharp to leave any clues about,” Luten said.

They were just leaving the inn when Hodden came darting up to them, big with news. “A new development!” he exclaimed in some excitement. “I have found some evidence that Soames was our highwayman. I went back to his place and found these in a jewelry box in his late mama’s room.”

He held out a handful of trinkets—cheap glass brooches and rings.

“I saw them, but figured they were his mama’s,” Prance said. “What makes you think they’re not?”

“They are on the list of items stolen by the highwayman. Hardly worth selling. He just tossed them aside and forgot them.”

Coffen sighed and accepted that Soames was the highwayman. “No sign of a turnip watch?” he asked.

“None.”

“He tossed a bit of trash like this into the stream—the things I gave you. I wonder why he kept these. Where do you figure he sold the good stuff?”

“Oh, London, very likely. He wouldn’t risk placing it on the oak hereabouts. He used to go up to London every month on business or visiting relatives.”

“Then it seems his murder had nothing to do with Susan,” Corinne said.

“I figure he tried another robbery after he held up the Turners, his intended victim shot him and didn’t report it,” Hodden said. “To save himself trouble, he just rode off. If a man takes to robbing, he gets what is coming to him. P’raps this is better than the gibbet. I own I am surprised at Soames, but there you are. You never know what a decent-seeming fellow is up to behind your back.”

“But what did he do with the money he stole?” Luten asked. “Stockwell mentioned he still hadn’t been paid for a milcher he sold Soames some time ago. He bought a used dung cart at Wetherby’s sale. Hardly the act of a rich man.”

“He could hardly start spending freely when the whole parish knew his pockets were to let. I expect the money is sitting safe in a bank in London drawing interest, waiting for some relative to die, so Soames could claim he had come into an inheritance. He was with Fairly, the bank manager, on fair day, making some arrangement about his mortgage. We cannot lay Miss Enderton’s disappearance in his dish. Fairly was close as an oyster about Soames’s business doing. Perhaps he was rearranging his mortgage.”

“These baubles certainly are prima facie evidence at least that Soames was the highwayman,” Prance said pensively.

“It don’t do anything to help us find Susan,” Coffen said. “As you’ve called on Stockwell, Corinne, I shall make a bunch of visits around town and see what I can ferret out. Vicar, modiste, milliner, that Miss Blanchard Susan used to visit. She might know something.”

“I’ll go with you,” Corinne said. “What will you do, Luten?”

“Go back to Appleby and see if the ransom note has arrived. But first I’ll send a note to Townsend of Bow Street to check up on the London banks for any account in Soames’s name.”

“Might he have used an alias?” Prance asked.

“How long has the highwayman been active in these parts?” Luten asked Hodden.

“Only six months.”

“Townsend can make inquiries for any new accounts during the past six months. I’ll send a description of Soames. And I’ll have Townsend look into recent sales of jewelry as well. You said you have a list of items stolen, Hodden?”

“Indeed I do. At my office. You can write to Townsend from there. He’ll take more notice of a lord. I’ve been in touch with Bow Street. Sent them a list of items stolen by the highwayman. A lady sold a few of the stolen pieces. Called herself Mrs. Bewley, from Northumberland. Townsend put a trace on her but could find no such lady. We figured she was the highwayman’s doxy, or his wife or daughter. Did Mr. Soames have a lady friend in London?”

“No,” Corinne said. “He usually asked us to introduce him to ladies. He used to stay with you, Luten.” She looked a question at him.

Luten shook his head. “He’d hardly introduce us to a female of that sort.”

Before leaving, Luten said to Corinne, “Try to get Simon to make dinner for us. You seem to have a way with him,” he added with a knowing look. “I found him in the kitchen brushing your rose silk when I returned this morning to look for you.”

“As you were complaining of my unkempt appearance, I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Not at all. It’s my pleasure to hire servants for your use. Don’t hesitate to ask him if he can do something with your coiffure.”

‘Too kind,” she said through thin lips.

“Always happy to oblige, Countess.” His smile told her it was all in jest. It was his rather strange way of courting her.

The group parted to go their separate ways. Corinne and Coffen had very little luck interviewing the locals. Miss Blanchard, a pretty provincial lass, did corroborate what Corinne suspected, that Susan had a tendre for Stockwell.

“She was ever so fond of him, but she got nowhere. Stockwell was too proud.”

Coffen took umbrage on Susan’s behalf. “Susan is plenty good enough for him! Too good.”

“That’s what he said, that she was too high for him, being related to fine lords and ladies. Rufus is very proud, in his own shy way. He didn’t want anyone saying he was overreaching himself. But he liked her ever so much. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He’d never harm a hair of her head. He treasured that bookmark she made for his birthday as if it were gold.”

“Bookmark, you say?” Coffen asked, eyes narrowed. Then he turned to Corinne. “I thought you said she made him slippers.”

“No, she bought him blue slippers at the Christmas bazaar, but I believe she told him she made them herself. Susan’s a poor knitter. You’re out if you think he had anything to do with her disappearance,” Miss Blanchard said.

“We don’t suspect him of having any evil intentions,” Corinne assured her.

“Did she ever make hankies?” Coffen asked.

“Yes, but she thought they weren’t good enough for Rufus and sent them to someone else.”

Coffen sighed and bid farewell to his dream of marrying Susan. He and Corinne soon left.

Prance had a more fruitful visit. Blackmore did not appear to be expecting him. In fact, the butler was loath to admit Prance. But Prance had a way with servants. If he disliked what they were saying, he ignored them. He handed the butler his curled beaver, his malacca walking stick and York tan gloves, and sauntered into the saloon unannounced.

If Blackmore was not eager to see him, he hid his  vexation like a gentleman. He greeted Prance politely enough and offered him a glass of excellent sherry.

“I have been working on the design for your dinner-ware,” Prance said, handing over the pad and hovering nearby to accept praise. “This is a very rough sketch, of course. I would work it up in color, but alas! I did not bring my watercolors with me. Really it should be done in oils to bring out the richness of the colors. Watercolors would not do them justice. There is no getting a jet-black from watercolors. As to the gold—

Blackmore expressed appreciation, and they sat down to talk.

“You have heard the news?” Prance asked.

“About Soames’s murder? Yes, I heard it. The highwayman got him, I expect.”

“Al contrarlo!
You have not heard the cream of it. Soames
was
the highwayman.”

Blackmore was perfectly silent. He sat blinking in astonishment for a moment, then said, “Are you sure?”

“You are shocked, as we all were, but there is some pretty damning evidence. Hodden found some of the stolen trinkets in his house. Tawdry things that were not worth selling. He was a fool not to have got rid of them, but there. I never did think Soames particularly bright. Truth to tell, I would not have credited him with the nous to run this rig.”

“Nor did I.”

Prance noticed that Blackmore was ill at ease; his eyes kept shifting about, often glancing off the surface of the sofa table. Prance wondered what caused his
g
ê
ne.
He followed Blackmore’s darting gaze and noticed there was another wineglass on the table. It had been used. Soon he noticed something even more telling—a pair of dainty blue kid gloves, only partially concealed by a magazine. The rogue in him was delighted to have caught Blackmore out in an indiscretion. She must be a married lady, or why the secrecy?

He gave Blackmore a knowing smile. “We are not children, my dear Blackmore,” he said archly. “You may introduce your
ch
è
re amie
to me. I am not one to cast a stone, or more importantly, to spread gossip.”

Blackmore tossed back his head and laughed. “In that case, my—niece, shall we say?—will be charmed to meet you.”

The thing went from good to better. The lady was right in the room, hiding behind the curtain. And when she came out, laughing in embarrassment, she was seen to be utterly delightful, as any
ch
è
re amie
of Blackmore’s was bound to be. Beneath a tousle of black curls, a pair of blue eyes gleamed with the coquettish charm of the born flirt. This would be the beauty the youngsters had seen when peeking through Blackmore’s windows.

Her blue gown of watered silk had no hint of the provinces. Its rather daring neckline suggested a French modiste. At close range, she was seen to be a little older than the coiffure and youthful gown suggested. Prance felt no lady over five and twenty ought to wear pastel hues, but she was by no means hagged. The overall impression was of a ripe peach, ready for plucking.

“Mrs. Spencer, may I present Sir Reginald Prance,” Blackmore said.

Prance rose and lifted her white fingers to his lips. “Charmed, madam. It lacked only this to make a delightful visit memorable. Had I the good fortune to be your patron, I would not hide you behind a curtain, I promise you.” He directed a leering, playful smile at Blackmore. He showed the lady to a chair, lifted his coat-tails, and resumed his seat.

“We weren’t sure who our caller was,” Blackmore explained. “The vicar has been pestering me to donate a stained-glass window to the memory of my parents. I really ought to do it.” He continued to Mrs. Spencer, “Sir Reginald is visiting at Appleby Court. He is a friend of Susan’s.”

“Such a shocking thing!” she exclaimed. “The poor girl”

“Do you know Miss Enderton?” Prance asked, in a subtle attempt to discover what he could of Mrs. Spencer.

“I have met her occasionally in Town. I’m not from the neighborhood, Sir Reginald. Just rusticating in the countryside for a spell.”

“Ah.” The syllable was fraught with curiosity, but she chose not to enlighten him by much.

“I am originally from London,” she said. “I dropped in this afternoon to have a word with my cousin, Blackmore.”