Murder and Misdeeds by Joan Smith Page A

certainly.”
    “Well, given a choice, I would rather be Mrs. Stockwell than Baroness Blackmore. And so would Susan, I daresay.”
    “Speak for yourself. As to Susan’s preference, I trust she has better taste.”
    “Then you failed to see the pair of slippers in the front hall? Blue, knitted.”
    “I expect Mrs. Dorman knows how to knit,” he said woodenly. “In any case, we can acquit Stockwell of having abducted Susan, I think. I noticed he always called her Miss Enderton and did it quite naturally. A ‘Susan’ would have slipped out if he were accustomed to calling her that.”
    “Oh, certainly. Mr. Stockwell seemed very proper in every way. So gentlemanly,” she added mischievously.
    “Not quite in the mold of your usual flirts, Countess. You usually prefer Black Irish, n’est-ce pas? Rufus, I rather think, has some Teutonic blood in his veins.”
    “Or perhaps Scandinavian. Those blue eyes and broad shoulders belong on a Viking,” she said, and sighed deeply.
    When he did not reply to this taunt, she said, “We really must call on Soames. She gave me no hint that she was interested in him. Did you hear anything of it?”
    “I don’t believe it was serious. I expect Stockwell has only Soames’s version of that so-called understanding.”
    “Do you think Marchbank was trying to force her to have Blackmore? If that is the case, she might have run away. She would certainly run to us for help, either you or myself. Perhaps she is even now on her way to us in London.”
    “She had ample time to reach London before we left. She has been missing since Monday afternoon. Soames’s letter did not reach me until late Tuesday evening. Her carriage is not missing. One assumes she would have taken her own carriage.”
    “Well, it is very odd.”
    “She was kidnapped,” Luten decided. “Susan would not put me—us!—and Otto through the anxiety of running away.”
    Corinne gave him a knowing look and said, “But why has there been no ransom note?”
    “Perhaps there has, by now.”
    He whipped up his team and was back at Appleby Court in minutes.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Mr. Marchbank had finally arisen by the time Luten and Corinne reached Appleby. Like the house, he had deteriorated sadly since Corinne’s last visit. His hair had faded from gray to white, while his nose had blossomed into that ruby brilliance commonly known as a whiskey nose. He had always been a gruff, unpolished gentleman, but at least he used to make some effort to present a tidy appearance. On this occasion he had shaved and brushed his hair, but the hair was in sore need of barbering. The condition of his shirt was, perhaps, due to the broken washing dolly that Susan had not bothered to have repaired.
    He met his guests in the saloon, where he sat with a bottle of wine before him and a glass in his hand. He was still sober enough to rise and shake their hands. At this close range, his eyes betrayed the enlarged veins due to drink.
    “Ye’ve come about Susan,” he said, shaking his head. “A terrible business. I hardly know which way to turn. I asked Soames to send for you, Luten, but with the house the way it is, we’re not prepared for company. Ye’d be better off at the Rose and Thistle.”
    “We’re not here for a holiday, Otto,” Luten said, in a more sympathetic voice than Corinne had expected. “Have you any idea where she could be?”
    Again he shook his head. Tears dimmed his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was unsteady. “Nay, I fear some lecher has carried her off, for a prettier gel there never was, and so friendly. ‘Twas fair day, you know. I’ve been hoping to get a letter demanding money, but none has come. That looks bad, does it not?”
    “There is money to pay, should a demand come?” Luten asked.
    Marchbank looked surprised at the question. “Aye, there’s her dot of twenty-five thousand and a little something besides that has built up in interest. We live simply. I’ve been after her to fix the