Free Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith Page B

remembered that guests were present, he added, “Sir.” They could all see the man was foxed.
    “Let us have a look,” Prance said, and darted down to Coffen’s study.
    He returned with the picture, still in its wrapping. He undid the wrapping, and they all examined it, front and back.
    “This is the original, all right,” he said, setting it on a chair.
    Coffen examined it. “It is. There are the nicks I put in the frame when I hit it against her table.”
    “What all is missing?” Luten asked.
    They examined the familiar rooms. The permanent state of disarray made an inventory difficult, but this was not entirely the servants’ fault. The silver epergne that should have been on the dining-room table sat on the floor in the saloon, where Coffen had been flipping cards into it. A clutter of cards were scattered around it. Journals were tossed about on the sofa. Used wineglasses were on every dusty table.
    Corinne went to check the silverware. The cupboard in the butler’s pantry was not locked as it should have been, but the silver was all there. A few paintings of some value still hung on the dining room walls.
    Coffen ran upstairs and returned to tell them his jewelry was intact.
    Prance, who had been checking the saloon, said, “They made off with that ugly Capodimonte statuette of Columbine that used to sit on your mantel. You say the brass vase and silver candlesticks are missing. We are looking, then, for some thieves with eclectic and abominable taste. Are you sure it wasn’t your own servants?”
    “Nay, they’re all drunk as Danes. I quizzed them. They’re in no shape to keep a secret. When they steal, it’s usually money from my desk drawer.”
    Prance shook his head. “Kind of you to keep a supply there for them.”
    “Only a few pounds. Saves them stealing my stuff.”
    “It sounds like some passersby who perhaps saw the door ajar and risked slipping in,” Corinne said. “With Jacob in the kitchen... You really must speak to your servants, Coffen.”
    “I will, as soon as they’re sober,” he replied, though they all knew how vain the effort would be.
    Prance tossed up his hands. “For God’s sake, put this Poussin away. And lock the door when we leave.”
    Coffen handed the painting to Jacob, who looked at it a moment, then slid it behind the chair, handy to any thief who opened the front door.
    “Thankee for coming, folks,” Coffen said, shamefacedly. “Can I give you a glass of wine for your trouble?”
    “I could do with a posset,” Prance said, then with a memory of Coffen’s kitchen, he shook his head. “Never mind. My Andr é will prepare me one.” He looked with some interest at Luten. “Well, Luten, we are all on nettles to discover why you called out your hunting carriage this afternoon. Beating my time with la comtesse, hmmm?”
    Luten directed a mock scowl at Corinne. How else did Prance know what carriage he had been driving? Prance’s butler was not a spy. They went into the untidy saloon, removed assorted debris from the sofas, and sat down. Coffen gave them a glass of wine, and Luten outlined what he had learned of the comtesse and Gresham and Yarrow.
    “The comtesse is a schemer,” Coffen said. “I’ll take my Poosan to an art dealer tomorrow and make sure it ain’t a fake.”
    “That’s not a bad idea,” Luten agreed.
    Prance did not object to this slur on his beloved’s character. He liked his friends to have a few interesting faults. “If it is still in your possession by tomorrow,” he added. “What else have we planned for the day?”
    “Corinne and I plan to go on the strut on Bond Street,” Luten said. Corinne looked at him in surprise. He had not mentioned it to her.
    “May we join you?” Prance asked. “Or is this a pas de deux?”
    “Pas du tout,” Luten replied. “Let us all go. Pattle can bring his Poussin along, and we’ll stop at Mercier’s to have the painting authenticated.”
    They finished their wine and left, waiting