Murder and Misdeeds (23 page)

“I can’t believe it worked!” Prance exclaimed, and murmured something about the thin line between idiocy and genius.

“We’d best stop and make some plans,” Coffen said, and drew to a halt.

“Regarding what we do when we reach our destination, you mean?”

“About what we do when we find the bounder.”

“That’s what I said. Discretion will be called for.”

“Aye, the more of it the better. We’ll slip up on him with our pistols drawn. The hounds will help.”

“Not they! They’ll eat the blunt. They seem to like vanilla.”

When they came to a crossing in the road, Coffen peered around to get the lay of the land. “There’s the hut ahead!” he exclaimed. “On the far side of the stream.”

“The hounds don’t seem interested. They’re not crossing the stream.”

“See where they go. We’ll follow them.”

After another twenty yards, the hounds plowed into the stream.

“The crafty devil has used the stream to kill his scent!” Prance exclaimed. “We’ve lost him now.”

“Caesar and Nero will pick up the smell on t’other side,” Coffen assured him, and waded his mount through the water, with Prance beside him.

The hounds began sniffing the ground on the other side and soon took up the trail again.

“That’s Prissy Trueheart’s little cottage,” Prance said a moment later. The little thatched cottage with leaded windows looked innocent in the moonlight. A few lights burned on the ground floor.

“It is, and the lads are heading straight for it. Now, why is it lit up when you said she’d left? She must still be there.”

“Prissy Trueheart! Surely she can’t be behind this. Pattle, you don’t suppose Blackmore—”

“At the bottom of the whole thing, I shouldn’t wonder. Never cared for him above half. An oiler.”

“How embarrassing! I wish I weren’t here,” Prance said on a disillusioned sigh. “What do you say we go fetch Hodden?”

“They might make their getaway. I say we go in and arrest them. I’ll hold them while you go for Hodden. Come now, Prance, show your mettle!” Coffen said severely. When this failed to sway him, he added slyly, “Think of all the glory you’ll be trailing when you go back to London.”

This was indeed a consideration. And besides, it was only Blackmore and a female against two men and two large, slavering dogs. They rode toward the back of the house. A dark mount was tied to the mulberry tree in the backyard.

“You’re right,” Prance said. “Carry on, Pattle. I am right behind you.”

“I’d rather have you by my side. We’ll go in the back door, take ‘em by surprise.”

“There might be a servant in the kitchen. There’s a light on.”

“We’ll peek in the window.”

Coffen dismounted and crept up to the window. Through the faded lace curtain he saw two people sitting at a table—a man and a woman. The man’s back was to him. The woman might have been Prissy. The flickering light of one lamp wasn’t bright enough to be certain, but she was definitely a brunette.

The hounds were becoming impatient with this dallying way of going on. One of them lifted his forepaws to the windowsill beside Coffen and peered in. Something caused him to emit a yelp of excitement. Coffen clamped his hand over the dog’s mouth.

It was no good. The people inside had heard it. The man jumped up and ran to the back door. There was scarcely time to leap behind a rain barrel before the door opened and he peeked out. He looked all around and went back in.

Prance peered out from behind the mulberry tree. “He was wearing a mask!” he exclaimed. “It must be the highwayman.”

“Why was he wearing a mask in the house—or did he put it on to look out the door? Cautious fellow. Let’s go, before he barricades the door.”

Coffen went quietly to the door at a stooping gait, due to having to muzzle Caesar with his fingers, as he had forgotten to provide the hounds with muzzles. The dogs were becoming excited. Coffen tried the door and found it locked. Prance breathed a great sigh of relief. This gave them an excellent excuse to go and fetch Hodden. Before he could voice this suggestion, Coffen raised his pistol, there was a terrific explosion, and the door flew open. He went storming into the kitchen. Prance swallowed down his anxiety and went after him.

When he saw the two hounds take a flying leap at Blackmore—he had taken off his mask—Prance breathed another sigh of relief.

“We know you’ve got the blunt, Blackmore,” Coffen said, in his usual calm voice. “Lie down on the floor. You, too, Miss Trueheart. I’m going to tie you up, and Prance is going to fetch Hodden.”

Blackmore lifted his hand; it held a pistol.

“Don’t be a fool, Blackmore,” Prance said in a quavering voice. “Those hounds will tear you limb from limb.”

Blackmore laughed. It occurred to Prance at that instant that the hounds, far from tearing Blackmore limb from limb, were licking his fingers and showing other signs of affection.

“I don’t think so, Prance,” he replied. “I’ve known these fellows since they were pups. I sold ‘em to Lafferty. Sic ‘em, Caesar, Nero.”

The dogs turned. Deep, dangerous growls began to emanate from their throats. Their hackles rose menacingly. There was a fearsome display of long, pointed teeth. Blackmore grabbed their ropes in his left hand to restrain them.

“Point non plus,
gentlemen,” he said. “Would you prefer a clean bullet or a messy end?”

Prance’s pistol clattered to the floor. He took out a handkerchief and patted his moist brow with trembling fingers. Prissy darted forward, snatched up the gun, and pointed it at them.

“Kill them,” she said to Blackmore.

“I shouldn’t do that if I were you. Everyone knows we’re here,” Coffen lied blandly. “The jig is up, Blackmore.” They faced each other, each pointing a pistol at the other.

Blackmore stood like a statue, his steely eyes narrowed in thought. The dogs growled and strained at their leashes. “I think not, Pattle. I call your bluff.”

“Suit yourself,” Pattle said. His left hand shot out and snatched the pistol out of Prissy’s hand. He pointed the two pistols at Blackmore, one in either hand. His hands weren’t even trembling. Prance told himself Coffen was too unimaginative to be afraid, but he didn’t really believe it. Coffen had actually a better imagination than any of them. He often came up with ideas. It was a strange and lowering thought to admit that Coffen Pattle was as brave as a lion.

“Shoot him,” Prissy said again to Blackmore. Her voice rose in panic. “Go on, what are you waiting for? They can only hang you once. You’ve already killed Soames.”

Blackmore’s voice lashed out like a whip. “Shut up, you fool!”

Prance was seized with the fear he was going to faint and half wished he would. But then the dogs would devour him. It was no fit death for a gentleman.

“If you haven’t the bottom for it, I’ll do it myself,”  Prissy said, and grabbed the pistol from Blackmore’s hand. Her own hand was steady. She seemed familiar with guns.

“Go ahead,” Blackmore said. “I suggest you begin with Pattle. He seems the more dangerous of the pair.”

She lifted the gun and pointed it at Coffen. Before she could fire, Coffen pulled the trigger of his weapon and the gun flew out of her hand, to clatter on the floor at her feet.

Blackmore unleashed the dogs. One leapt at Coffen, the other at Prance. It went against the grain with Coffen to shoot a dog. He loved dogs, but he loved his life more. He dropped the guns and tried to get hold of the rope to choke the attacking hound into obedience. Meanwhile, Prissy was making a great clamor, holding her hand and crying and shouting curses at Blackmore, who stood smiling wanly at the fracas before him.

The other dog—Nero, it was—had leapt on Prance. The force of the two paws against his chest knocked Prance to the floor, with the dog yelping in his face, with those great, long teeth flashing. Staring an extremely degrading and painful death in the face, Prance found the courage to defend himself. He put his two hands around the dog’s throat and held it off at arm’s length with the strength of desperation. He knew if he avoided being eaten alive by dogs, he was looking at death by pistol. The pistol was faster and cleaner. He struggled on.

They had reached this impasse when Luten, holding a pistol, stepped into the kitchen. Behind him reared the stalwart frame of Rufus Stockwell. He also held a gun. It looked like a whole army behind Stockwell, although it was actually only Simon, Luten’s valet, and a groom. Stockwell and Simon ran forward and subdued the hounds. Rufus said simply, “Down, boys,” and they subsided to docility. He took them outdoors and tied them to the mulberry tree.

Blackmore conceded defeat gracefully. His gaze ran over the assembled men. He turned to Prance, who had picked himself up from the floor.

“You will see they use a silken rope for my execution, Prance,” he said. “We gentlemen must stick together.”

Prance, restored to arrogance, said, “I fear I cannot oblige you, Blackmore. You have put yourself beyond the pale.”

“Where’s the money, Blackmore?” Coffen asked.

“In the cupboard. Where else would one keep vanilla?” he asked, and strolled out, with Stockwell’s pistol nudging his spine.

Prance, watching, admired Blackmore’s sangfroid. Perhaps he did deserve a silken rope after all.

Chapter Twenty-five

Otto
dozed in an easy chair by the cold grate. An expression of ease sat on his lined face. Corinne felt obliged to deliver the necessary scold to Susan for the fright she had given them all, before they could get down to more interesting talk.

“I had no choice.” Susan pouted. “Rufus simply refused to marry me, no matter how often I told him the money didn’t matter. And it was not that he didn’t love me, for I knew he did. One can always tell.”

“How did you know?” Corinne asked, and listened more closely to that answer than to any other.

“Oh,
you
know. His face got all red when I flirted with him. He used to make excuses to ride out and accidentally meet me when he saw me leave for the village. Stuttering and stammering and blushing. You know.”

This was no help to Corinne at all. She realized that the sophisticated Luten would no more be guilty of these rustic intimations of love than he would wear a soiled shirt. Nor would she be comfortable flirting with him. Theirs was a different sort of romance.

“So you assembled your trousseau and decided to foist yourself on him,” she said.

“I thought he would have to marry me if I could contrive to spend a night under his roof. I packed a lunch in my sewing basket and told Mrs. Malboeuf I was going to the orchard.”

“How did the basket end up in the apple tree?”

“I had to wait ever so long to sneak into Greenleigh. Mrs. Dorman was doing the washing that day and kept going into the yard. By the time she was finished, I had eaten the lunch, so I just chucked the basket up into the tree. I didn’t want to leave it on the ground. The Jamieson boys sometimes play in the orchard, and they are such mischievous fellows, I was afraid they would destroy it or even steal it.”

“The basket is safe in your room,” Corinne assured her.

“Oh, good. Now, where was I? Oh yes, it was very scary and uncomfortable all alone in the attic, but luckily I fell asleep while reading that book you sent me. Then at dawn when I felt I was compromised, I went down to Rufus’s room to tell him I had been there all night. He was
angry
with me,” she said, greatly vexed at his lack of consideration. “He only thought of himself, saying everyone would put it in
his
dish and think he was after my money. I very nearly gave up on him, after all the trouble I had gone to and he didn’t appreciate it. But instead I cried, and he said he would see what we could do. You ought to try tears if you are having trouble bringing Luten up to scratch, Corinne,” she added with a sly smile that showed she had lost the last vestige of girlhood.

“I never thought of that,” Corinne said, chewing back a grin at the absurdity of it. Luten would tell her to stop being a watering pot and pull herself together. And she would think the better of him for it. She didn’t want such a biddable husband as Rufus Stockwell.

Susan continued her tale. “Rufus told Mrs. Dorman he was hunting bats in the attic to explain any little noises I might make and to make an excuse to spend some time with me, for it was horrid up there all alone. He was frightened to death when you and Luten called on him. He feared Luten was going to issue a challenge. After that, he just went about his work on the farm as usual during the day and only visited me at night. I told him he need not worry about Luten. He took no interest in my affairs,” she finished, with an angry sniff.

“Why had you been writing to Luten recently? Was it to do with marrying Rufus?”

“I wanted Luten to tell Rufus it was all right to marry me. I wrote to Luten and told him I had to speak to him most urgently and asked him to come to Appleby. He wrote back that my allowance was adequate and that if I really required an increase, I must speak to Otto. I wrote again and told him it was not about money, it was practically a matter of life and death, but still he did not come. I expect it was about then your pearls were stolen, and he was busy finding them for you.”

“Yes, it was,” Corinne said. So that was why Luten spoke of Susan’s disappearance weighing on his conscience, and why he wore that strained, white face. Because he felt he had forsaken her in her dire trouble, and if he had come, she would be safe at home. Perhaps he even worried that she had thrown herself into a river.

When Susan went on to apologize for having to cut three inches off the bottom of that sprigged muslin gown Rufus had picked up in error in the dark, Corinne was not in a mood to scold.

“Naturally you would not want to be tripping on the hem. As long as my cashmere shawl is all right—”

“Mrs. Dorman thinks she can get the cocoa stains out. And the little hole where I caught it on a nail will hardly show once it is mended. Oh, and I fear I broke that little mirror Prance gave you. Rufus accidentally stepped on it.”

“It is really of no importance at all,” Corinne said, “but I notice you are not wearing the little hand ring I sent you, nor was it in your room. Have you lost it?”