collect?”
“Precisely,” Luten replied. “We have ascertained she disappeared from the apple orchard. The markings in the grass suggest she came—or was brought—in this general direction. I wonder if any of your servants happened to see her, or indeed if they spied anyone lurking nearby the Monday she disappeared. A carriage stopped in the roadway, perhaps? Or even a mount?”
“You already know she was brought in this direction? That is clever of you, milord. But I fear none of my people saw a thing. I was at the fair myself. I questioned Mrs. Dorman and the stableboys and the farmhands. I am sorry to say none of them can help us.”
“There is one other avenue of query,” Luten continued, and asked about any gentleman who might be hiding from the law or an army deserter.
Again he met a dead end. “There has been nothing like that,” Mr. Stockwell said, shaking his head. “This is a quiet little place.”
The tea tray—a decent silver one—arrived. “I meant to serve you some honey cake, but found it was all gone,” Mrs. Dorman said.
Mr. Stockwell said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dorman. I worked late over my books last night and helped myself to it before retiring. My housekeeper makes a lovely honey cake,” he said, blushing.
The guests expressed a polite disinterest in cake. Corinne poured the tea. She was so delighted with Mr. Stockwell that she accidentally splashed Luten’s tea into his saucer. He glared but said nothing. Stockwell leapt forward with his napkin to mop it up, apologizing as though it were his fault.
“The really odd thing,” Luten continued, “is that there has been no demand for ransom. You don’t think Miss Enderton might have run away?”
“Because of Blackmore, you mean?” Mr. Stockwell asked.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Stockwell?” Corinne asked in alarm.
“Why, it is no secret old Marchbank wanted her to accept Blackmore’s offer.”
“Good God! We heard nothing of that.”
“We have not actually spoken to Otto,” Luten pointed out.
“In his cups again, was he?” Stockwell said, shaking his gorgeous head. “Pity. It is really a shame the way things are run at Appleby Court since Mrs. Enderton’s death.” He looked a trifle disconcerted after this speech. “Servants’ gossip, you know. I do not visit at Appleby, nor does Miss Enderton call on me. It was Mrs. Dorman who told me of Blackmore’s offer. Who might help you is Mr. Soames. He and Susan were ... very close.”
“Indeed!” Luten exclaimed.
“Oh yes. I believe there was an understanding between them a month ago. No public announcement was made, however.”
“We must call on Soames,” Corinne said.
The guests soon rose to leave. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” Mr. Stockwell said as he accompanied them to the door.
While he exchanged a few last words with Luten, Corinne glanced around the hallway. A Chinese urn holding umbrellas was just inside the door. Beside it rested a pair of badly knitted slippers in blue wool. Unlike Luten’s, they were not secreted in a drawer but held the shape of their owner’s foot.
“That was a fairly futile visit,” Luten said when they were outside.
“I would not have missed it for a wilderness of monkeys,” Corinne replied.
The stableboy led the curricle out, and they began the trip back to Appleby.
“You found Rufus handsome, I expect?” Luten asked, with an air of indifference.
“I have never met such a handsome man—outside of novels, I mean. And so shy. We can stop imagining that Susan was haring after some other man. With a neighbor like that, she would not waste her time.”
“Despite his manifold charms, however, Stockwell is not eligible,” Luten said stiffly.
“Because he is not a gentleman? What prevents him from being a gentleman, Luten? He owns land, he is well spoken and well mannered. Is being a gentleman only a matter of birth, of ancestors?”
“That comes into it,
“Precisely,” Luten replied. “We have ascertained she disappeared from the apple orchard. The markings in the grass suggest she came—or was brought—in this general direction. I wonder if any of your servants happened to see her, or indeed if they spied anyone lurking nearby the Monday she disappeared. A carriage stopped in the roadway, perhaps? Or even a mount?”
“You already know she was brought in this direction? That is clever of you, milord. But I fear none of my people saw a thing. I was at the fair myself. I questioned Mrs. Dorman and the stableboys and the farmhands. I am sorry to say none of them can help us.”
“There is one other avenue of query,” Luten continued, and asked about any gentleman who might be hiding from the law or an army deserter.
Again he met a dead end. “There has been nothing like that,” Mr. Stockwell said, shaking his head. “This is a quiet little place.”
The tea tray—a decent silver one—arrived. “I meant to serve you some honey cake, but found it was all gone,” Mrs. Dorman said.
Mr. Stockwell said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dorman. I worked late over my books last night and helped myself to it before retiring. My housekeeper makes a lovely honey cake,” he said, blushing.
The guests expressed a polite disinterest in cake. Corinne poured the tea. She was so delighted with Mr. Stockwell that she accidentally splashed Luten’s tea into his saucer. He glared but said nothing. Stockwell leapt forward with his napkin to mop it up, apologizing as though it were his fault.
“The really odd thing,” Luten continued, “is that there has been no demand for ransom. You don’t think Miss Enderton might have run away?”
“Because of Blackmore, you mean?” Mr. Stockwell asked.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Stockwell?” Corinne asked in alarm.
“Why, it is no secret old Marchbank wanted her to accept Blackmore’s offer.”
“Good God! We heard nothing of that.”
“We have not actually spoken to Otto,” Luten pointed out.
“In his cups again, was he?” Stockwell said, shaking his gorgeous head. “Pity. It is really a shame the way things are run at Appleby Court since Mrs. Enderton’s death.” He looked a trifle disconcerted after this speech. “Servants’ gossip, you know. I do not visit at Appleby, nor does Miss Enderton call on me. It was Mrs. Dorman who told me of Blackmore’s offer. Who might help you is Mr. Soames. He and Susan were ... very close.”
“Indeed!” Luten exclaimed.
“Oh yes. I believe there was an understanding between them a month ago. No public announcement was made, however.”
“We must call on Soames,” Corinne said.
The guests soon rose to leave. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask,” Mr. Stockwell said as he accompanied them to the door.
While he exchanged a few last words with Luten, Corinne glanced around the hallway. A Chinese urn holding umbrellas was just inside the door. Beside it rested a pair of badly knitted slippers in blue wool. Unlike Luten’s, they were not secreted in a drawer but held the shape of their owner’s foot.
“That was a fairly futile visit,” Luten said when they were outside.
“I would not have missed it for a wilderness of monkeys,” Corinne replied.
The stableboy led the curricle out, and they began the trip back to Appleby.
“You found Rufus handsome, I expect?” Luten asked, with an air of indifference.
“I have never met such a handsome man—outside of novels, I mean. And so shy. We can stop imagining that Susan was haring after some other man. With a neighbor like that, she would not waste her time.”
“Despite his manifold charms, however, Stockwell is not eligible,” Luten said stiffly.
“Because he is not a gentleman? What prevents him from being a gentleman, Luten? He owns land, he is well spoken and well mannered. Is being a gentleman only a matter of birth, of ancestors?”
“That comes into it,
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