Murder and Misdeeds (8 page)

Blackmore wafted his hand around the walls. “Flemish paintings, some Italian and some French furnishings, Oriental carpets, and a good old Kent chest to anchor it all. I refer, of course, to Kent the cabinetmaker, not the county.”

“Ç
a va sans dire,”
Prance said. “It takes a good eye to succeed with the eclectic style,” he added, nodding his head in approval.

Blackmore’s lips twitched in amusement. “I cannot take credit for the accumulation, but only the current arrangement,” he said. “Each generation adds what it feels is best.”

“Then this excellent taste must be hereditary,” Prance said, with a bow of his head.

Blackmore returned the bow with a perfectly straight face, but Corinne noticed his steely eyes were laughing. “I have my heart set on upgrading the family china,” he said. “A set designed with the family crest by Wedgewood, perhaps. I am working on a design.”

“I should adore to see it,” Prance said at once. “I do hope it will have some black in it, to honor your title. I envisage a creamy background, with black and gold—yes, definitely gold. Griffins would be nice.”

“Unfortunately, the family crest features lions,” Blackmore said.

“As does my own, Baron. Three lions passant, gold on sable.”

“Perhaps you will give me the benefit of your experience, Sir Reginald.”

“I was hoping you would ask!” Prance was so pleased, he was purring.

It was the baron’s turn to bow his head. “I have more than enough furnishings. There are some quite decent pieces in the house, but scattered about the two dozen bedrooms. And believe it or not, a mural by Angelica Kauffmann in the attic, of all places.”

Prance leaned so far forward he nearly fell off the sofa.

“No!” he exclaimed in rapture. “But I adore Angelica! Which period?”

“It is done in the Italian style, probably after her visit to Italy. I would love to know how it comes to be there. An affair with one of my ancestors, perhaps. You must come upstairs to see it, Sir Reginald.”

He turned a mischievous eye to Corinne. “Do join us, milady. You shall have a tour of the whole house. That will give you an opportunity to peek about and assure yourself that it does not harbor any nineteenth-century heiresses.”

“Oh, I say!” Prance exclaimed, laughing. “Were we that obvious?”

“Like a pane of glass, Sir Reginald. Speaking of glass...”

He put one hand on Sir Reginald’s elbow, the other on Lady deCoventry’s, and led them forth.

Corinne said, when they left an hour later, “I have been given tours before, but that is the strangest visit I ever made! Imagine him opening every chest and making us look into the clothespresses and under the beds.”

“A marvelous collection. A veritable treasure trove. There is nothing like it outside a royal palace. Prinny would be green with envy if he could see it. Well, we know one thing. The baron doesn’t have Susan. I must say, I liked the chap. I had no idea he was so cultured. To hear the locals talk, one would take him for the original Wicked Baron.”

“He’s smooth, all right.”

“Delightful! Perfectly delightful. We need not worry that he had anything to do with Susan’s abduction. He’s a gentleman of refinement. Susan is adorable, but there is no denying her charms are rustic. She wears such modest little gowns. Mind you, I’ve never seen a finer clavicle! But can you see her in that marvelous French bed in the master bedchamber? I cannot! It would take a du Barry to do it justice.”

Reacting from the nervous tension of the visit, Corinne fell into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry, Reg. I fear I’m having the vapors. It was all so strange.”

“Well, have them quickly. We must get on to the inn. Civilized conversation awakens other appetites. Now, don’t frown,
cara mia.
I am referring to lunch. We shall eat—no, dine. On such a fine day it ought to be
al fresco
.
”

Chapter Nine

By daylight, East Grinstead was seen to be a pleasant little town with a wide High Street lined with shops and picturesque houses built of timber. Corinne recognized a few of the locals on the street from her former visit and greeted them. Knowing her connection to Susan, they commiserated with her on Susan’s disappearance. None of them had any information to help find her.

The proprietor of the Rose and Thistle directed Sir Reginald and Lady deCoventry to a private parlor where Luten and Coffen were having a glass of ale while waiting for them. Corinne thought the inn a shabby place, but Prance, who delighted in anything antique and authentic, was enchanted with it. Its termite-ridden wainscoting ran halfway up the wall, where it met smoke-laden stucco and beamed oak. On the groaning sideboard, the dented pewter plates and tankards from the Tudor period lent the proper touch of Olde England. All that was lacking was a wild boar roasting on the spit and sawdust on the floor. At least the proprietor had not tampered with authenticity by covering the discolored old floor planks with a newfangled oilcloth covering.

Luten was never happy to see Corinne with Prance, who played at being her flirt. “Where the devil have you been?” he demanded when they entered.

Corinne ignored him. It was Prance who replied, “Is that any way to greet a poor traveler? Naturally we have been looking for Susan.”

They sat down and summoned a servant. It was well known that Prance couldn’t order a glass of water without wanting to know its pedigree. After a prolonged discussion, he ordered a steak and kidney pudding to go with the setting, and Corinne asked for chicken.

When they had all been served, Luten demanded what they had learned. “I assume you would have mentioned it if you had found her,” he said.

“Our luck was not so stunning as that, which is not to say our time was wasted,” Prance replied, picking at his pie with the tip of his fork. He was a finicky eater. “We can tell you for a certainty that Blackmore does not have Susan. By a process of elimination we must eventually discover who does.”

“If we are to eliminate the more than ten million inhabitants of the island who do not have her, she will die of old age before we find her. More to the point, did you search Blackmore Hall?” Luten asked, thinking he was delivering a leveler.

“As a matter of fact, we did,” Corinne told him. “Blackmore quite insisted on it. He showed us over the whole house.” To repay Luten for his surly mood, she added, “He is much nicer than I ever imagined. Really very distinguished. I cannot think why he is spoken of so badly.”

“The place is a veritable treasure trove!” Prance exclaimed. “A mural by Angelica in the attic, Luten. Imagine!”

“Angelica who?” Coffen asked.

“Wipe your mouth—with your napkin!” Prance ordered. “Angelica Kauffmann, naturally. Do you know any other artists named Angelica?”

“Can’t say I do, including Kauffmann. A kraut-eater, is she?”

“God forgive him, for he knows not what he says. The lady was Swiss-born. That disadvantage was overcome by travel—Italy, naturally, then England. She was a member of the Royal Academy—quite an accomplishment for a lady. But enough art history. Blackmore Hall is stuffed to overflowing with objets d’art. If the baron needed blunt, he would have only to take some of his paintings to London.” He ticked off half a dozen of the artists in the collection.

“He sounds an acquisitive gentleman,” Luten said. “It is well known that collectors will sink to any ruse when they wish to acquire
—”

Prance just shook his head. “She is not there, Luten. He even insisted on moving a longcase clock and showing us the priest’s hole.”

“Did you also examine the cellar?”

“Certainly we did. And an excellent cellar he has laid down, too. I tell you she is not there. He was perfectly at ease, even playful.”

“It sounds an odd sort of call, showing you every nook and cranny. Almost as if he were trying to prove something. He would hardly keep her at his own house if he had abducted her,” was Luten’s next try. “She might be in the barn—or even buried nearby.”

“If he buried her, then he would not get her blunt,” Corinne pointed out. “One would assume he kidnapped her to force her into marriage. Odd that a man like Blackmore would have to force a lady....”

“Inconceivable,” Prance decreed. “If he would only grace London with his presence, he would be overwhelmed with heiresses.”

Luten was becoming more vexed by the moment. His real annoyance was that Corinne had spent the time with Prance. She had also praised Blackmore, and her gleaming eyes expressed tacit approval of Prance’s knowledge of art. She had hardly glanced at Luten himself since entering.

“I see our success has put you in a pelter, Luten,” Prance said. “I shall put the smile back on your face by my report on my party—for which you did not think to inquire, though it was thrown in your honor.”

“Surely in honor of solving the mystery of Corinne’s stolen pearls,” Luten said. A light flush rose up from his collar at the mention of that party, and the tacit reminder of his not having come up to scratch.

While Prance lavished praise on his party, Luten listened impatiently, then immediately reverted to the search for Susan. “You are convinced, on very little evidence, that Blackmore is innocent. I feel equally strongly that Otto is innocent.”

“Surely there was no question of Otto Marchbank having kidnapped her?” Prance asked.

“He was in charge of her monies. I had thought he might have managed to lose it and be using this ploy to account for the loss. Pretend he had paid the kidnapper, I mean, and actually paid his debts. I saw the Consols with my own eyes. He has not only got every penny of the twenty-five thousand but has managed to add ten thousand to it over the years.”

“Egads! I must pick his brains before we leave. My own investment agent is hopeless. So she is now worth thirty-five thousand!” Prance exclaimed. “A veritable heiress!”

“You had only to see Marchbank’s distress to know he is innocent,” Corinne said.

Coffen stopped eating long enough to have his say. “We ain’t much closer to finding her, despite our work. Prance says Blackmore is innocent; you, Luten, say Otto is not to blame. Who is left?”

“Rufus Stockwell,” Luten replied. Corinne made a pooh-poohing sound. “Or Jeremy Soames,” he added. “Soames is next on our list.”

“Surely you are omitting the likeliest suspect—a chance passerby, smitten by her beauty. A stranger, in other words,” Prance pointed out. “We have known Jeremy forever. He is her cousin. He likes Susan. If he needed blunt, he would be more likely to turn highwayman than to harm her.”

Coffen frowned into his ale, then looked a question at Corinne. “You don’t figure it was Jeremy who held us up last night? The constable suspects a local lad. There’s been a rash of thefts in Ashdown Forest and the road north of it.”

Corinne gave a
tsk
of impatience. “He could use the money, but I don’t see him as a highwayman. It’s interesting that he had a falling out with Susan when she refused his offer. Revenge is sweet.” She looked around for the others’ views.

Luten shook his head and said, “Bah.”

“We should talk to him,” she persisted. “And if he proves innocent, then we must have broadsheets printed and post a reward for her safe return. Someone must have seen her being taken away. The roads would have been full of people on fair day.”

“I quizzed Hodden,” Coffen said. “No one saw hide nor hair of her, but there were dozens of carts and carriages on the road. She might have been hidden under a load of manure.”

Prance gave him a scathing look and frowned at his pie.

“If it was a kidnapping, why hasn’t there been a ransom note?” Luten asked.

Corinne sighed. “I wonder if wolves have not come back to the island and eaten her.”

Prance sighed and pushed away his plate. “I wish you would keep a civil tongue in your heads,” he said.

“Who will call on Jeremy?” Corinne asked. “We need not all go.”

“I’ll go,” Luten said.

“I’ll have a look around any empty barns or buildings in the neighborhood,” Coffen decided. “No need to wait until dark for that. Someone might have stashed her in an empty building. No more unlikely than what the rest of you are saying anyhow. Eaten by wolves. Rubbish.”

Prance patted his arm. “You must not take those little flights of fancy too literally, Pattle.”

“I never take you literally,” Coffen said, then frowned, wondering what that meant. “Anyhow, I’m going to find Susan.”

“Where?” Prance asked, with mild interest.

“Wherever she’s at.”

Corinne called them to order. “I think we should go back to Appleby first, just to make sure no ransom note has come during our absence.”

Luten rose. “Oakhurst is along the way. I’ll stop and speak to Soames.” He looked at Corinne to see if she cared to join him.

Instinct urged her to accept, as she did want to talk to Soames and ascertain exactly the nature of his romance with Susan and, most important, the reason for its rupture. But she was in no mood to oblige Luten. “I’ll go home with Reggie. Are you ready to leave, Reg?” she asked.

He had begun a sketch of the parlor. “I thought this might make an interesting domestic study, suitable for framing in the kitchen. I see no reason why the servants should be robbed of art. It has a benign influence on character. Andr
é
, my chef, keeps a marble statuette that he claims is a likeness of Lucullus on the windowsill for inspiration.” He glanced up from his sketching and said to Corinne, “I shan’t be a moment,
cara mia.
Don’t let us keep you, Luten.” He directed a small, triumphant smile at his friendly foe.

Luten was obliged to ignore it. It was unthinkable to give Corinne the idea he was disappointed. “Very well. I’ll see you back at Appleby, then.”

When Corinne and Prance returned to Appleby, they discovered that no ransom note had arrived during their absence. Otto had obviously been drinking steadily during the day but was still able to stand and speak. After his usual question, “Have you learned anything?” and the unsatisfactory answer, he retired to his study.

“For lack of anything better to do, let us go riding through the fields and woods on the off chance of finding some trace of her,” Prance suggested. “It will keep our minds occupied. We don’t all want to end up drunk, like Otto. I feel for him in his grief. It is a great error for a man not to have some creative outlets. I do not count making money as a creative outlet. That is mere ciphering.”