by Joan Smith
As the words left her mouth, the door closed behind him. He didn’t even bother to say she couldn’t accompany him. Despite his great hurry, he had no real idea where he was going. With luck, Pattle’s bloodhounds would take up the trail, but which direction had the thief taken? He thought of what Stockwell had said, that the highwayman must have followed him from the forest, as he was waiting for him when he came out. Who knew about the transaction besides the people at Appleby Court and Greenleigh? Blackmore’s servant had visited Peggy. Once a servant knew something, the household knew, and from there, it was not long before it was all over the parish.
Luten hopped on his mount and headed, ventre à terre, to Blackmore’s stable. A stableboy came out.
“I have to see Lord Blackmore, urgently,” Luten said.
“Sorry, your lordship, he ain’t at home tonight.”
“At Mrs. Spencer’s, is he?”
The stableboy looked worried. “That ain’t for me to say, your lordship.”
“It’s all right, lad. I know about his mistress.”
The boy grinned. “In that case, you might find him there.”
Prance had said Prissy Trueheart went back to London, but the servants might not know it yet. She made a good excuse to leave home at night in any case. Her house would be standing empty. A good place to hide the ransom money. No doubt the lease was in Blackmore’s pocket.
Thinking of the highwayman, it occurred to Luten that visiting the soi-disant Mrs. Spencer would have made a good excuse for late evening absences from home, while Blackmore held up carriages on the highway. Why had Blackmore taken up with the wench? He would certainly know a light-skirt from a lady, whatever act he had put on for Prance. But Blackmore couldn’t be the highwayman. He had been under Luten’s own observation the night the Turner ladies were held up.
Neither Luten nor anyone who knew Soames believed he was the highwayman. A second thought told Luten it was likely the real highwayman had stolen the ransom money. The next question was, where had he taken it? He would know the shepherd’s hut was safe, now that Hodden thought the highwayman was dead. Luten headed for it, taking the shortcut through Blackmore’s meadow.
* * * *
The bloodhounds soon took up the scent and set out through the forest at a great rate, picking a path through the trees, with Coffen and Prance following. All went exceedingly well until they came to a clearing in the forest, at which point the dogs went mad. They began tearing around in circles, yelping their heads off.
Coffen decided he’d best stop and see what had set them off. One of them was pawing at an old box. With his luck, it would be a box that had held vanilla beans, left abandoned.
“It’s the valise!” Prance exclaimed. “Is the money in it?” They both hopped down and ran to retrieve the valise.
“Empty,” Coffen said, pulling it from the dog’s mouth and shaking it upside down. The larger of the bloodhounds thought it a game and leapt into the air, snapping at it. “Watch it, Caesar! That’s my fingers you’re nipping.”
Nero, the other hound, was running in circles. The ropes holding the two became entwined.
“What ails the cur?” Prance asked. “He acts mad. He’s got something between his teeth. What is it?”
“I’ll be dashed if I’ll try to get it from him. Caesar has already taken a bite out of me.”
Prance went up to the hound, murmuring, “Nice doggie. Here, boy. Nice, doggie.”
Nero spat the thing at him. He picked it up warily and leapt back from those alarming teeth, then examined his prize.
“It’s a ten-pound note!” he exclaimed.
The hounds were off on another frenzied chase. With their ropes entwined, they could not run as far as they wanted. They strained at their leashes, yapping.
“Here, you take one lead,” Prance said, and began untangling the ropes.
Eventually each of them had one lead. The hounds immediately took off in two separate directions, pulling a reluctant Prance and Coffen after them.
“Another note!” Coffen exclaimed.
“Mine has one, too!” Prance called.
Other notes were seen blowing through the meadow. Each fresh breeze sent the hounds off on a merry chase. When ten notes had been collected, the hounds returned to the valise and began attacking it with renewed vigor.
“Did the highwayman drop the valise, I wonder, and all Susan’s money is out floating on the breeze?” Prance asked.
“Dashed careless of him. There’d ought to be a lot more bills floating around if that is what happened.” Coffen’s face pinched with the effort of thought. “What it is,” he said a moment later, “the kidnapper smelled the vanilla and figured out what I was up to. He dumped the money into something—his jacket or a horse blanket—and left the valise and a few bills to distract the bloodhounds.”
“A clever stunt,” Prance said. “I believe you’re right, Pattle. The question is, what do we do next?”
Coffen lifted his nose and sniffed the breeze, looked at the trees to confirm which way the wind blew, and said, “We go that way.” He pointed toward East Grinstead. “The hounds will soon lose the scent of the valise. The wind is blowing from Grinstead, blowing the smell away from them. If they pick up the scent in that direction, we follow them.”
“I doubt the scent will be on the bills.”
“Dogs can smell out the weakest scent a mile away. My old hound, Jackie, used to go into conniptions when Mrs. Armstead took a roast out of the oven. She lived two miles away.”
“Who is to say the kidnapper went toward Grinstead?”
“He didn’t come out by the forest road where we were waiting for Otto. He wouldn’t bother going deep into the forest after he’d got rid of Luten. If he went the other direction, he’s heading for Appleby Court. I doubt he’d do that. It’s the shepherd’s hut I’m thinking of. He might have hidden the blunt there, or thereabouts.”
“He would know by now that Hodden suspects the hut.”
“Hodden hasn’t got a guard on it. He thinks Jeremy was the highwayman. The hut is safe as a church. Mind you, I’m not saying it’s in the hut. That area would be handy for him, is all I mean. Out of the way. He might have dumped the blunt into the stream to kill the smell.”
Prance, having nothing better to put forward, said, “Let us go.”
The hounds were reluctant to leave. Between the taste of the leather valise and the sweet attraction of vanilla, they were rapidly chewing the corners of the case to shreds. It took some minutes to convince them their job was not done.
They left the clearing and began tracking rather at random through the forest. It was clear they had lost the scent.
When they came out of the forest onto the main road, Prance said, “Now what? Do we go on to the hut, despite the hounds’ lack of interest in it?”
“Might as well have a look while we’re this close.”
He waved the vanilla-scented handkerchief under the dogs’ noses. For half a mile they continued with no encouraging signs. Suddenly Nero began to sniff the ground with a renewed interest. Caesar soon took up the scent. The two sleek animals left the road, ran behind the hedgerow that edged the road, and began to run faster, faster, with Coffen and Prance keeping pace on their mounts. Their route was parallel to the road, hidden by the hedgerow.
“I can’t believe it worked!” Prance exclaimed, and murmured something about the thin line between idiocy and genius.
“We’d best stop and make some plans,” Coffen said, and drew to a halt.
“Regarding what we do when we reach our destination, you mean?”
“About what we do when we find the bounder.”
“That’s what I said. Discretion will be called for.”
“Aye, the more of it the better. We’ll slip up on him with our pistols drawn. The hounds will help.”
“Not they! They’ll eat the blunt. They seem to like vanilla.”
When they came to a crossing in the road, Coffen peered around to get
the lay of the land. “There’s the hut ahead!” he exclaimed. “On the far side of the stream.”
“The hounds don’t seem interested. They’re not crossing the stream.”
“See where they go. We’ll follow them.”
After another twenty yards, the hounds plowed into the stream.
“The crafty devil has used the stream to kill his scent!” Prance exclaimed. “We’ve lost him now.”
“Caesar and Nero will pick up the smell on t’other side,” Coffen assured him, and waded his mount through the water, with Prance beside him.
The hounds began sniffing the ground on the other side and soon took up the trail again.
“That’s Prissy Trueheart’s little cottage,” Prance said a moment later. The little thatched cottage with leaded windows looked innocent in the moonlight. A few lights burned on the ground floor.
“It is, and the lads are heading straight for it. Now, why is it lit up when you said she’d left? She must still be there.”
“Prissy Trueheart! Surely she can’t be behind this. Pattle, you don’t suppose Blackmore—”
“At the bottom of the whole thing, I shouldn’t wonder. Never cared for him above half. An oiler.”
“How embarrassing! I wish I weren’t here,” Prance said on a disillusioned sigh. “What do you say we go fetch Hodden?”
“They might make their getaway. I say we go in and arrest them. I’ll hold them while you go for Hodden. Come now, Prance, show your mettle!” Coffen said severely. When this failed to sway him, he added slyly, “Think of all the glory you’ll be trailing when you go back to London.”
This was indeed a consideration. And besides, it was only Blackmore and a female against two men and two large, slavering dogs. They rode toward the back of the house. A dark mount was tied to the mulberry tree in the backyard.
“You’re right,” Prance said. “Carry on, Pattle. I am right behind you.”
“I’d rather have you by my side. We’ll go in the back door, take ‘em by surprise.”
“There might be a servant in the kitchen. There’s a light on.”
“We’ll peek in the window.”
Coffen dismounted and crept up to the window. Through the faded lace curtain he saw two people sitting at a table—a man and a woman. The man’s back was to him. The woman might have been Prissy. The flickering light of one lamp wasn’t bright enough to be certain, but she was definitely a brunette.
The hounds were becoming impatient with this dallying way of going on. One of them lifted his forepaws to the windowsill beside Coffen and peered in. Something caused him to emit a yelp of excitement. Coffen clamped his hand over the dog’s mouth.
It was no good. The people inside had heard it. The man jumped up and ran to the back door. There was scarcely time to leap behind a rain barrel before the door opened and he peeked out. He looked all around and went back in.
Prance peered out from behind the mulberry tree. “He was wearing a mask!” he exclaimed. “It must be the highwayman.”
“Why was he wearing a mask in the house—or did he put it on to look out the door? Cautious fellow. Let’s go, before he barricades the door.”
Coffen went quietly to the door at a stooping gait, due to having to muzzle Caesar with his fingers, as he had forgotten to provide the hounds with muzzles. The dogs were becoming excited. Coffen tried the door and found it locked. Prance breathed a great sigh of relief. This gave them an excellent excuse to go and fetch Hodden. Before he could voice this suggestion, Coffen raised his pistol, there was a terrific explosion, and the door flew open. He went storming into the kitchen. Prance swallowed down his anxiety and went after him.
When he saw the two hounds take a flying leap at Blackmore—he had taken off his mask—Prance breathed another sigh of relief.
“We know you’ve got the blunt, Blackmore,” Coffen said, in his usual calm voice. “Lie down on the floor. You, too, Miss Trueheart. I’m going to tie you up, and Prance is going to fetch Hodden.”
Blackmore lifted his hand; it held a pistol.
“Don’t be a fool, Blackmore,” Prance said in a quavering voice. “Those hounds will tear you limb from limb.”
Blackmore laughed. It occurred to Prance at that instant that the hounds, far from tearing Blackmore limb from limb, were licking his fingers and showing other signs of affection.
“I don’t think so, Prance,” he replied. “I’ve known these fellows since they were pups. I sold ‘em to Lafferty. Sic ‘em, Caesar, Nero.”
The dogs turned. Deep, dangerous growls began to emanate from their throats. Their hackles rose menacingly. There was a fearsome display of long, pointed teeth. Blackmore grabbed their ropes in his left hand to restrain them.
“Point non plus, gentlemen,” he said. “Would you prefer a clean bullet or a messy end?”
Prance’s pistol clattered to the floor. He took out a handkerchief and patted his moist brow with trembling fingers. Prissy darted forward, snatched up the gun, and pointed it at them.
“Kill them,” she said to Blackmore.
“I shouldn’t do that if I were you. Everyone knows we’re here,” Coffen lied blandly. “The jig is up, Blackmore.” They faced each other, each pointing a pistol at the other.
Blackmore stood like a statue, his steely eyes narrowed in thought. The dogs growled and strained at their leashes. “I think not, Pattle. I call your bluff.”
“Suit yourself,” Pattle said. His left hand shot out and snatched the pistol out of Prissy’s hand. He pointed the two pistols at Blackmore, one in either hand. His hands weren’t even trembling. Prance told himself Coffen was too unimaginative to be afraid, but he didn’t really believe it. Coffen had actually a better imagination than any of them. He often came up with ideas. It was a strange and lowering thought to admit that Coffen Pattle was as brave as a lion.
“Shoot him,” Prissy said again to Blackmore. Her voice rose in panic. “Go on, what are you waiting for? They can only hang you once. You’ve already killed Soames.”
Blackmore’s voice lashed out like a whip. “Shut up, you fool!”
Prance was seized with the fear he was going to faint and half wished he would. But then the dogs would devour him. It was no fit death for a gentleman.
“If you haven’t the bottom for it, I’ll do it myself,” Prissy said, and grabbed the pistol from Blackmore’s hand. Her own hand was steady. She seemed familiar with guns.
“Go ahead,” Blackmore said. “I suggest you begin with Pattle. He seems the more dangerous of the pair.”
She lifted the gun and pointed it at Coffen. Before she could fire, Coffen pulled the trigger of his weapon and the gun flew out of her hand, to clatter on the floor at her feet.
Blackmore unleashed the dogs. One leapt at Coffen, the other at Prance. It went against the grain with Coffen to shoot a dog. He loved dogs, but he loved his life more. He dropped the guns and tried to get hold of the rope to choke the attacking hound into obedience. Meanwhile, Prissy was making a great clamor, holding her hand and crying and shouting curses at Blackmore, who stood smiling wanly at the fracas before him.
The other dog—Nero, it was—had leapt on Prance. The force of the two paws against his chest knocked Prance to the floor, with the dog yelping in his face, with those great, long teeth flashing. Staring an extremely degrading and painful death in the face, Prance found the courage to defend himself. He put his two hands around the dog’s throat and held it off at arm’s length with the strength of desperation. He knew if he avoided being eaten alive by dogs, he was looking at death by pistol. The pistol was faster and cleaner. He struggled on.
They had reached this impasse when Luten, holding a pistol, stepped into the kitchen. Behind him reared the stalwart frame of Rufus Stockwell. He also held a gun. It looked like a whole army behind Stockwell, although it was actually only Simon, Luten’s valet, and a groom. Stockwell and Simon ran forward and subdued the hounds. Rufus said simply, “Down, boys,” and they subsided to docility. H
e took them outdoors and tied them to the mulberry tree.
Blackmore conceded defeat gracefully. His gaze ran over the assembled men. He turned to Prance, who had picked himself up from the floor.
“You will see they use a silken rope for my execution, Prance,” he said. “We gentlemen must stick together.”
Prance, restored to arrogance, said, “I fear I cannot oblige you, Blackmore. You have put yourself beyond the pale.”
“Where’s the money, Blackmore?” Coffen asked.
“In the cupboard. Where else would one keep vanilla?” he asked, and strolled out, with Stockwell’s pistol nudging his spine.
Prance, watching, admired Blackmore’s sangfroid. Perhaps he did deserve a silken rope after all.
Chapter Twenty-five
Otto dozed in an easy chair by the cold grate. An expression of ease sat on his lined face. Corinne felt obliged to deliver the necessary scold to Susan for the fright she had given them all, before they could get down to more interesting talk.
“I had no choice.” Susan pouted. “Rufus simply refused to marry me, no matter how often I told him the money didn’t matter. And it was not that he didn’t love me, for I knew he did. One can always tell.”
“How did you know?” Corinne asked, and listened more closely to that answer than to any other.
“Oh, you know. His face got all red when I flirted with him. He used to make excuses to ride out and accidentally meet me when he saw me leave for the village. Stuttering and stammering and blushing. You know.”
This was no help to Corinne at all. She realized that the sophisticated Luten would no more be guilty of these rustic intimations of love than he would wear a soiled shirt. Nor would she be comfortable flirting with him. Theirs was a different sort of romance.
“So you assembled your trousseau and decided to foist yourself on him,” she said.
“I thought he would have to marry me if I could contrive to spend a night under his roof. I packed a lunch in my sewing basket and told Mrs. Malboeuf I was going to the orchard.”
