Free Murder and Misdeeds by Joan Smith Page A

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