Walking Into Murder

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  Laura shivered. The hand holder had yelled for Cat to come back and this woman had a cat-like look, with her oval green eyes, round cheeks and peaked eyebrows. But if Cat was his missing wife, she seemed to be here, not on the horse.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Laura ran to the door, aware that her legs were shaking badly. She opened it with a jerk and saw the Englishman. He was no longer carrying the gun. “I say,” he began. “Sorry about all that in the woods. Acted hastily, I fear. Antonia tells me…”

  “Please could you come in here?” Laura interrupted through stiff lips.

  The Englishman looked surprised but followed her readily into the green room. Laura pointed at the bed.

  He stared at the figure under the coverlet, bewildered. “But who is that?” he asked, as if Laura perhaps would know. “And what is she doing there?” He took a step closer. “Good heavens! I think she’s dead! However did she get here dead?” He ran out of the room and Laura heard his footsteps pound down the hall.

  She turned to follow him and saw Angelina. The child had come through the door and was inching her way toward the bed. “I think we’ll go out now,” Laura said firmly. Even a rude child shouldn’t come face to face with a dead woman.

  “I want to see her,” Angelina insisted, evading Laura’s outstretched arm. She ran over to the bed and peered at the dead woman. A series of expressions passed across her plump face: surprise, consternation, puzzled reflection and finally anger.

  “But that’s wrong!” She stamped her foot down hard on the floor. “It’s supposed to be Lottie. I wanted Lottie to be the dead one! Nigel said she would be.”

  Her face twisted with fury and she gave the dead arm a vicious poke. Her hand shot back as if scalded. “It’s cold!” she shrieked, and began to wail.

  Laura lifted her up and removed her bodily from the room. Angelina kicked and screamed and pounded at her chest with clenched fists. Laura had endured her share of tantrums when her two children were young and held on doggedly until they reached the drawing room. Then, thankfully, she put the child down and rubbed her shins. Was ever a child so ineptly named? Even at birth, it must have been obvious that Angelina had not a shred of angel in her.

  Angelina’s screams stopped the instant her feet met the ground. Glaring at Laura, she marched to the middle of the room, as if taking center stage. The white-haired woman and Antonia, whom Laura supposed must be Angelina’s mother, and the youth Nigel watched her warily.

  “There’s a dead woman in the green room, a truly dead one,” Angelina announced in a high, shrill voice. “I know because I touched her and she’s cold. And I know who killed her because I saw.” With a dramatic flourish, she turned and pointed a malicious finger at Laura. “She killed her. She did it.”

  Laura raised her eyebrows in weary exasperation. “Oh, for goodness sake,” she exclaimed. “Can no one control the silly child?”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. Laura returned their gaze with dawning horror. She saw none of the half-amused, half-resigned irritation at the child’s monstrous accusation that she had expected in those eyes. Instead, she saw only suspicion.

  Laura’s frayed nerves snapped. “This is ridiculous! I know absolutely nothing about that poor woman and I certainly did not kill her. I am an American tourist on a walking trip, and the only reason I am here is that I was virtually kidnapped by two men and brought here.”

  Nigel abruptly left the room. The grande dame raised her eyebrows at the last revelation, but she didn’t speak. Laura rushed on, determined to make them understand. “There really is a dead woman in the green room,” she insisted. “The police should be called, and a doctor. After that, I would like to leave. I must also call the people who are supposed to be my hosts tonight so they will not send out a search party.”

  The white-haired woman cleared her throat. “Angelina exaggerates. And of course you must leave if you wish. You must forgive us. We did not expect a guest this evening, and we have had an unusually difficult day. We are not normally so rude.” Her eyes shifted to Angelina. “Most of us are not,” she amended. “Nor do we tell tales.”

  “But I’m not telling tales!” the child protested indignantly. “There really is a dead woman in the green room,”

  Antonia rolled her eyes. “There is not,” she said with irritation. “You know that perfectly well, Angelina. It is only one of Nigel’s games, the mystery ones he’s practicing for. Though why he had to choose the green room without telling us, I cannot imagine,” she added with unexpected malice.

  Laura stared at her. That must be what they all thought. No wonder they hadn’t reacted. Maybe they were right and the green-eyed woman was pretending to be dead. She hadn’t gone close enough to the bed to be sure. She didn’t think so, though. The arm had looked lifeless, and Angelina had touched it, felt its coldness.

  Antonia’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Actually, we were expecting a guest tonight,” she told Laura with a notable lack of enthusiasm. “I am afraid I forgot to tell everyone,” she added, glancing nervously at the older woman. “I had forgotten myself. I was distracted…”

  She turned back to Laura. “Could you give us your name?”

  “Laura…”

  “Laura Smith,” a voice from the door interrupted before Laura could finish. The hand holder, she thought resignedly. She might have known.

  For the first time she saw him clearly. He wasn’t conventionally handsome as much as he was attractive. His lanky frame still had a faintly adolescent look, and a lock of hair fell boyishly over his brow. They made him look younger than he probably was, judging from the faint lines around his eyes and the gray in his brown hair. It was still damp and tousled, and she noticed traces of cow muck on his hands. That was a relief. He, at least, wasn’t as perfectly groomed as everyone else in the room.

  Antonia frowned. “And you are…?”

  “Tom Smith,” said the hand holder, smiling. “Laura’s husband.”

  Laura scowled at him, exasperated by his insistence on the silly fabrication, and then she softened. He wasn’t aware yet that his real wife might be lying dead on the bed upstairs. That would come as a terrible shock.

  “But I’m not -” she began.

  “Now, darling, I know you thought I couldn’t come, but I’ve managed it anyway. Caught up with you finally, isn’t that wonderful?” He grinned at her, but again she saw the pleading look in his eyes. Don’t desert me now, he seemed to be saying.

  She hesitated. Tom Smith – if that really was his name - might be her only source of help in this eccentric household. He did seem marginally saner than the rest of them. He had also warned her that a life might be at stake, and now there was a dead body.

  She wouldn’t expose him just yet, Laura decided, not until she knew more about what was going on – and about him.

  She attempted a conciliatory smile. “Your presence is certainly unexpected,” she equivocated.

  “The name I was given was Dr. Morland,” Antonia said, frowning at the discrepancy. “Dr. Laura Morland.”

  Laura’s head snapped up at the sound of her name. Was she really scheduled to spend the night in this crazy ménage? Probably she was, she realized with a sense of impending doom. The brochure described it as the highlight of the trip, a night in a genuine English manor house complete with turrets and titled occupants and butler – though that amenity had so far been invisible. The owners even gave tours two days a week, she remembered. Maybe wax figures were included. For all she knew, being escorted to the manor at gunpoint was part of the agenda.

  “Morland is Laura’s maiden name,” Tom Smith replied glibly before she could speak. “She uses it professionally.” He smiled appealingly at Antonia. “I hope it’s all right that I’ve turned up, Lady Torrington. My wife and I haven’t had much time together recently.”

  Laura lost patience. “It is long past time someone called the police and a doctor,” she said firmly, “or at least went to examine the woman in the gr
een room to see if she really is dead.”

  Alarm spread suddenly over Tom Smith’s features. He opened his mouth to speak again but Laura forestalled him. “I recall from my notes that the place I am scheduled to stay tonight is called Torrington Manor,” she told Antonia. “It would help if I knew your names,” she added, aware for the first time that none of the occupants of the house had introduced themselves.

  “This is Torrington Manor,” Antonia conceded. “I am Lady -”

  “Then you are supposed to be here,” Angelina interrupted. “I guess you can stay then.” Her tone was grudging.

  “Thank you, Angelina,” Laura said coldly. “Now, about the police?”

  Tom Smith could contain himself no longer. “What is all this about a dead body?” he demanded. His eyes were accusing now. “You didn’t tell me you found a body.”

  “So far, I haven’t had the opportunity,” Laura retorted, annoyed by his tone but gratified that someone was finally taking the situation seriously. “I thought there was a dead woman in the green room, where I went to freshen up,” she explained. “It might be best if you looked at her first to see if she is someone you know,” she added with a warning look.

  “She’s really dead!” Angelina informed him. “She’s cold, and her eyes are wide open. They’re green, like a cat’s,” she added with gory relish.

  Tom Smith went very pale, and Laura was afraid he was going to faint. “But that’s… that’s impossible,” he stammered.

  “Why don’t you come with me and look for yourself?” she offered, gesturing for him to precede her out the door. Instead, he grabbed her hand again and hung on tightly. This time she let him have it. His pallor was alarming.

  To her dismay, the others followed as she led him upstairs. She had hoped to get him alone so she could soften the shock if the woman was his wife, but with this crowd on her heels that was impossible. Were all of them as ghoulish as Angelina?

  Her dismay increased when she saw Nigel leaning nonchalantly in the doorway of the green room. He sported a Sherlock Holmes hat and a monocle, and held a pipe in one long-fingered hand. The resemblance was remarkable.

  Laura was not amused. “Are you aware,” she asked through clenched teeth, “that there may be a dead woman on the bed?”

  “Dead woman, you say,” answered Nigel thoughtfully, in a deep, cultivated voice that sounded to Laura exactly as Sherlock Holmes ought to sound. His eyebrows went up a fraction and stayed there. “Indeed! This calls for an investigation.” He held the monocle to one eye and approached the bed, a faintly ironic look on his mobile face.

  Laura tried to see past him, but the lights had been dimmed even more and all she could make out was a lump on the bed.

  Angelina darted in front of her and pushed Nigel out of the way, eager to be the first to view the body. She stiffened and turned to Laura, perplexed. “But it is Lottie this time. She must have got mixed up. Lottie always gets mixed up,” she added petulantly.

  “Of course it’s Lottie,” Nigel said impatiently, forgetting his role. “I said it was going to be Lottie, didn’t I?”

  “But it wasn’t Lottie before,” Angelina protested. “It was somebody else, and she didn’t look at all like Lottie.”

  She turned again to Laura. “It’s not the same one, is it?” she demanded. “Tell Nigel it isn’t! Tell him!”

  “Now, Angelina,” her mother reproved. “You know that can’t really be true. Besides, I think it’s time for us to leave. I’ve had enough of this game. It is horrible, macabre.”

  Reluctantly, Laura approached the bed, and almost screamed again. She forced the sound back into her throat. Angelina was right. A different woman lay on the bed, a woman with limp blond hair and a long bony face. She bore no resemblance at all to the green-eyed beauty who had been lying there before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Laura closed her eyes and turned away, feeling nauseated. “No,” she agreed faintly. “No. This is not the same woman.”

  Tom Smith peered over her shoulder and breathed a long sigh of relief. Slowly, his pallor receded, but he still looked grim and shaken.

  “So this is a different woman,” he muttered. “How very peculiar.” He looked appraisingly at Nigel.

  “You mean to say,” Nigel asked, “that Angelina’s right and someone else was here before?” His eyes widened and he began to grin. “Who would have believed it? Good old Lottie. What a glorious trick on us all. She must have put a mask on her face earlier to fool us. I wonder how she managed it.”

  “Who is Lottie?” Laura demanded, appalled at his cheerful tone. Did he feel no pity at all for the dead woman?

  “My governess,” Angelina answered promptly. “She’s very stupid and I can always play tricks on her.”

  “Well, this time, Angelina dear, she’s played a trick on you,” Nigel said, still grinning in delight. Stuffing the monocle and the pipe in his pocket, he turned toward the woman on the bed.

  “Well done, Lottie old thing,” he crowed. “I didn’t think you had it in you. But I still want to know how you managed to do the mask by yourself. That’s one hell of a trick to pull off! I ought to know!”

  Laura frowned. Was Nigel the mask maker? It sounded that way. Maybe he had created the grande dame mannequin, too. But who had put the cat mask on Lottie’s face? She certainly couldn’t have done it. Nigel might not realize it yet, but Lottie really was dead, at least she thought so.

  Nigel’s voice continued, cajoling, jocular. “Did somebody help you get it on and off? Come clean, Lottie darling. Come clean for Nigel.” There was no answer.

  Nigel went closer. “Come on, Lottie old thing, time to get up,” he went on, a tinge of worry in his voice. “The game is over. We’ve found you, so it’s all right to get up.”

  The woman on the bed didn’t stir. “I say, old thing, this is carrying the joke too far,” Nigel objected, sounding alarmed now. “No need to lie there all day!” He reached out and shook her limp arm. His hand, as Angelina’s had, shot back quickly.

  “Lottie!” he said urgently, and now there was real fear in his face. “Lottie!” he repeated. “Get up!”

  Nigel turned to his grandmother, his eyes filled with horror and a kind of desperate appeal. “We were just practicing,” he told her weakly. His skin had turned a greenish hue, and Laura saw that he was close to tears. “We were practicing for the mystery game. It was just a game. Lottie said she would be the victim, would be in the green room. I meant to tell you…” He closed his eyes suddenly and rushed into the bathroom. They heard the sound of retching.

  His grandmother went slowly to the bed and looked down at the woman lying there. Gently, she reached out and touched the cold hand. Her erect posture sagged. Even her face seemed to lose its taut structure. Laura felt very sorry for her.

  Angelina’s scream cut into the silence. “It’s wrong,” she howled. “It’s wrong again, and I don’t like it this way. I want the game to be right…”

  Laura put an arm gently around the girl’s heaving shoulders and touched Antonia’s arm to rouse her. The woman looked numb with shock. She also looked terrified. “Take Angelina away,” Laura told her quietly.

  After a horrified glance at the bed, Antonia obeyed. For once, Angelina didn’t resist. Sobbing violently, she ran out of the room.

  Laura looked at the grande dame. Her back was straight again, but her face looked older, and very weary. She stood perfectly still, head bowed, as if gathering her strength.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, raising her eyes to Laura’s. “I fear this is not the welcome you deserve. I shall try to place you elsewhere.”

  “There is no need,” Laura told her gently. “I’ll be fine. You have enough on your hands without worrying about me. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

  The old lady nodded. She turned back to the bed to look once more at the still figure, and a terrible sadness came into her face, as if something greater than a single life had been lost. Laura wondered what i
t was.

  When the grande dame had left, she turned to face Tom Smith. He had to be involved in all this somehow, and it was past time she got answers from him. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Tom Smith paid no attention. He was bending over Lottie, examining her with careful fingers. There was no sign of faintness in him now, only intense concentration and a kind of clinical detachment.

  Anger suddenly suffused Laura. She welcomed it, felt it shove aside the confusion and shocks of the last few hours. “Who are you and why are you here?” she repeated. “I’m in no mood for more lies, either. I want the truth, and I want it now. Otherwise you can forget this ridiculous farce.”

  “I want the truth, too,” Tom Smith answered grimly as he straightened up. “Believe me, I want it as badly as you.”

  He stared into space, thinking, but when he looked at her again, the inscrutable look had vanished. Once again, he was debonair, charming.

  The man was incapable of being serious, Laura thought furiously. Didn’t he care that an innocent woman was lying there dead, had probably been murdered? Why else all the subterfuge, the mask that must have been deliberately placed on the victim’s face earlier to hide her identity? And then someone must have come back and removed it…

  She shuddered, aware for the first time that a member of this household could be a murderer. But who? Not Nigel, surely, even if he was the mask maker. He had been genuinely upset when he realized Lottie was dead. More likely someone else was taking advantage of his talent, must have counted on using Nigel’s life-like mask to conceal the real victim, perhaps to buy time as well as confuse people.

  Tom Smith interrupted these morbid speculations. “Shall we find a more suitable space in which to exchange confidences?” he asked lightly. “I for one have had enough of the green room for the evening.”