“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 evidence 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.”
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.