Free Murder and Misdeeds by Joan Smith Page B

island who do not have her, she will die of old age before we find her. More to the point, did you search Blackmore Hall?” Luten asked, thinking he was delivering a leveler.
    “As a matter of fact, we did,” Corinne told him. “Blackmore quite insisted on it. He showed us over the whole house.” To repay Luten for his surly mood, she added, “He is much nicer than I ever imagined. Really very distinguished. I cannot think why he is spoken of so badly.”
    “The place is a veritable treasure trove!” Prance exclaimed. “A mural by Angelica in the attic, Luten. Imagine!”
    “Angelica who?” Coffen asked.
    “Wipe your mouth—with your napkin!” Prance ordered. “Angelica Kauffmann, naturally. Do you know any other artists named Angelica?”
    “Can’t say I do, including Kauffmann. A kraut-eater, is she?”
    “God forgive him, for he knows not what he says. The lady was Swiss-born. That disadvantage was overcome by travel—Italy, naturally, then England. She was a member of the Royal Academy—quite an accomplishment for a lady. But enough art history. Blackmore Hall is stuffed to overflowing with objets d’art. If the baron needed blunt, he would have only to take some of his paintings to London.” He ticked off half a dozen of the artists in the collection.
    “He sounds an acquisitive gentleman,” Luten said. “It is well known that collectors will sink to any ruse when they wish to acquire —”
    Prance just shook his head. “She is not there, Luten. He even insisted on moving a longcase clock and showing us the priest’s hole.”
    “Did you also examine the cellar?”
    “Certainly we did. And an excellent cellar he has laid down, too. I tell you she is not there. He was perfectly at ease, even playful.”
    “It sounds an odd sort of call, showing you every nook and cranny. Almost as if he were trying to prove something. He would hardly keep her at his own house if he had abducted her,” was Luten’s next try. “She might be in the barn—or even buried nearby.”
    “If he buried her, then he would not get her blunt,” Corinne pointed out. “One would assume he kidnapped her to force her into marriage. Odd that a man like Blackmore would have to force a lady....”
    “Inconceivable,” Prance decreed. “If he would only grace London with his presence, he would be overwhelmed with heiresses.”
    Luten was becoming more vexed by the moment. His real annoyance was that Corinne had spent the time with Prance. She had also praised Blackmore, and her gleaming eyes expressed tacit approval of Prance’s knowledge of art. She had hardly glanced at Luten himself since entering.
    “I see our success has put you in a pelter, Luten,” Prance said. “I shall put the smile back on your face by my report on my party—for which you did not think to inquire, though it was thrown in your honor.”
    “Surely in honor of solving the mystery of Corinne’s stolen pearls,” Luten said. A light flush rose up from his collar at the mention of that party, and the tacit reminder of his not having come up to scratch.
    While Prance lavished praise on his party, Luten listened impatiently, then immediately reverted to the search for Susan. “You are convinced, on very little evidence, that Blackmore is innocent. I feel equally strongly that Otto is innocent.”
    “Surely there was no question of Otto Marchbank having kidnapped her?” Prance asked.
    “He was in charge of her monies. I had thought he might have managed to lose it and be using this ploy to account for the loss. Pretend he had paid the kidnapper, I mean, and actually paid his debts. I saw the Consols with my own eyes. He has not only got every penny of the twenty-five thousand but has managed to add ten thousand to it over the years.”
    “Egads! I must pick his brains before we leave. My own investment agent is hopeless. So she is now worth thirty-five thousand!” Prance exclaimed. “A veritable heiress!”
    “You had only to see