Walking Into Murder

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  Laura smiled back at him, appreciating his honesty, and entered the room. Immediately, she too felt its potency. The lighting was perfect, and the paintings glowed. They looked very old. Many were portraits of women as he had said, but all had a wonderful combination of dark and very complex backgrounds, and brilliant color.

  “They are marvelous,” she told him sincerely. “They glow, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Partly it’s the lighting, but it’s also the paintings themselves. The old masters knew what they were doing.”

  Laura let her eyes roam around the room. “They are truly beautiful,” she said reverently, “especially in a room like this, all together.”

  “I am very glad you understand,” Adrian replied, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “It means a great deal to me when others understand.” He seemed genuinely moved by her admiration and Laura was touched. Adrian was a very unusual man, to combine this strong love of beauty with his more prosaic work with animals.

  She gazed around again, taking her time as she surveyed the paintings. There were twenty at least, but they seemed to belong together, as if each had been carefully chosen for a quality that matched the others. It looked like an expensive collection, too, and the more mercenary half of her was curious to know how he could afford them. Veterinarians didn’t make that much - or maybe in England they did. She had noticed that in many of the towns around here the clinics for animals were much bigger and more modern than the ones for people. The English took their pets very seriously.

  Her eye was caught by a small pair of paintings that looked rather like the ones Thomas had examined in Lord Torrington’s study. Before she could examine them closely, Adrian took her elbow and steered her toward another painting.

  “This is a painting I especially want you to see,” he said, pointing at a portrait of a woman in a long dress of shimmering ivory fabric. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with floating streamers in deep turquoise green that set off her rich chestnut hair and the green tint in her eyes. “She is my favorite, the one I love best,” Adrian added reverently. The hushed, almost possessive tone had returned to his voice.

  Laura stared up at the painting. The woman seemed to look back at her with wide-open eyes, as if delighted at what she saw. Laura found herself smiling. “She looks pleased with life,” she said, feeling a sense of kinship with the unknown lady. “As if she thinks one never knows what might happen next.”

  “Exactly,” Adrian replied. “She is an impulsive creature, don’t you think? A curious one as well, who likes to find answers.”

  Laura laughed. “That sounds like me.”

  Adrian turned to look at her, and an odd little silence seemed to fill the room. Adrian finally broke it. “You understood immediately,” he said, and to Laura’s consternation, she saw tears in his eyes.

  “Oh dear, I didn’t mean that so seriously,” she began, wanting to defuse the situation, but Adrian interrupted.

  “That was why I stared at you so rudely,” he admitted. “You are extraordinarily like my favorite lady, even to the color of your eyes and hair.”

  He sounded as if he were in love with the woman in the painting, Laura thought uneasily. She hoped he wouldn’t transfer the feelings in her direction. Maybe it was time to get walking again.

  She looked at her watch. “Thank you for showing me your gallery, Dr. Banbury, but I must get back on the trail now. I need to get to Stourton, where I spend the night.”

  “Adrian,” he corrected. “No need for formality between us. And may I call you Laura? Such a lovely name. I shall call my lady in the painting Laura after this. A serendipitous meeting indeed.”

  “Thank you. That is a lovely compliment,” Laura said, edging toward the door. “You must know a good deal about art,” she continued as he locked the door again.

  He smiled at her, looking normal again. “I have always loved fine art and so I have educated myself,” he explained. “It is not hard to do when you are motivated. A great deal of information is available.”

  “Some of the people I met last night also knew a great deal,” Laura remarked. “Is that usually the case in this country?”

  “Goodness, no,” Adrian replied with feeling. “Most people in England can’t tell one painting from another. Their ignorance is shocking.”

  “I feel very ignorant myself,” Laura admitted.

  “You will learn,” Adrian assured her. “Believe me, you will. Art is in you, I feel, and I can usually sense these things in people.”

  Laura winced. He sounded like Donald now, always sure he knew what was best for her. She didn’t much like being sensed, as he called it, either.

  Adrian opened the front door, and she inhaled the fresh air. Adrian and his gallery had been fascinating, but they both made her feel claustrophobic.

  “Can you point me toward Withrington?” she asked. “It’s the next town on today’s walk, the one before Stourton. It should be along this road.”

  “Withrington is only about thirty minutes from here on foot,” Adrian replied. “I can give you a lift into town if you like,” he added hopefully. “I would enjoy the opportunity to become better acquainted.”

  “You are very kind to offer but I’m eager to walk now that the storm has passed,” Laura answered. “Thank you, though.”

  Adrian looked disappointed but didn’t insist, to Laura’s relief. Instead, he escorted her down the lane and pointed to a walking path. “That path will take you to Withrington. It’s a much nicer way to get there than the road.”

  Laura thanked him, glad to get away. The path led her up a long hill, and she stopped at the top to admire the view. Stretching beyond her were miles of countryside with small villages of golden Cotswold stone tucked into valleys or perched on hillsides. A field of rapeseed gleamed brilliant yellow below her; other fields lay idle but for cows and sheep and horses munching contentedly. It was like an enchanted world, one that was totally unexpected in such a populous country as England.

  A narrow lane with stone walls on both sides led her into Withrington, one of the many market towns that were built at a time when wool merchants made great fortunes and invested them in churches and other town buildings. Laura strolled slowly along, enjoying the antiquity that surrounded her. Some of the houses lining the cobbled street were so old they leaned against each other at odd angles. Glorious riots of flowers spilled from their front gardens and from the enormous pots hanging above them.

  It was all so different from her neighborhood, Laura mused, where no one seemed to have time to grow flowers, and even when they did, their gardens didn’t flourish as they did here. Houses weren’t spread across the countryside as in American suburbs either, but were clustered in villages where people could walk to the butcher, the baker, the vegetable stand and the news agent.

  Wishing nostalgically that she could too, Laura strolled on to the marketplace, the oldest structure in the village. It had a thickly thatched roof but no sides. Looking down, she saw that the stones under her feet were pitted and hollowed by the hard boots of generations of farmers and villagers. It seemed to her that she could feel the pulsation of all those lives coursing up to meet her. Not all of them were happy lives, either, she reflected, spotting the old wooden stocks where miscreants had their heads and arms thrust through holes and clamped there. The villagers came to gape or throw rotten produce at their helpless victims.

  Fanning out in all directions from the town center were the sheep alleys. Long ago wool merchants had driven their sheep from the surrounding fields through these alleys into the marketplace. Laura ducked into one of them and was immediately enclosed in a tunnel where sunlight never penetrated. The walls on each side rose far above her head, and the alley was so narrow that when a woman came the other way Laura had to squeeze flat against the cold stones to let her pass. Narrowness was the point, she supposed. The sheep had no choice but to head for the other end and whatever fate awaited them.

  Time for a coffee break, she decided, and eyed th
e shops clustered around the square in search of a bakery. Some windows featured fine antiques or gifts; others offered tourist trinkets or more prosaic fare, like the great hunks of meat hanging on hooks in the butcher’s window and the rows of beautiful fresh vegetables on the greengrocer stand. There was also an ironmonger’s, which turned out to be a hardware store. Remembering her need of the night before, Laura bought a flashlight.

  The window next door was filled with mouth-watering pastries and cakes, and the interior looked dim and cozy. Perfect, Laura decided. She regarded her mud-covered boots with disfavor. They weren’t fit to go in anywhere, so she took them off and left them just outside the door.

  A bell tinkled faintly as she opened the door, and a beaming face appeared from behind a curtain. “Take any table you like,” the woman said. “I’ve just opened, and you’re my first customer.”

  “Thank you,” Laura sank down gratefully into a creaky chair. “I’ve been walking and it’s good to sit.”

  “What can I bring you?” The woman smiled again. “I’ve just made some scones, if that tempts, and there’s clotted cream and jam.”

  Laura could smell them and was definitely tempted. “I would love some!”

  “I’ll get them right away. Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, I think,” Laura answered. The woman, whose name was Maude according to the pin on her apron, bustled away and soon returned with a pot of coffee and two of the biggest scones Laura had even seen.

  ‘These look delicious,” Laura told her, lathering them with clotted cream and jam, and pouring a steaming cup of coffee.

  “On your own, then, are you?” Maude asked comfortably. “Must be peaceful, I should think.”

  Laura laughed. Yesterday had hardly been that. “Most of the trip has been,” she answered, “but I got lost yesterday and that wasn’t peaceful at all.”

  Maude looked alarmed. “Dreadful, I’m sure,” she clucked. “But where were you going, to get lost like that?”

  “To Torrington Manor. It’s a bed and breakfast place.”

  “No wonder then,” Maude said, shaking her head with a knowing look. “It’s a hard place to find, down those twisty roads and then that long drive.

  “I’ve heard it’s very grand at the manor,” she went on. “My girl Daisy used to clean there, but that was when the old Baron was alive.”

  “The old Baron?”

  “Died a few years ago. They had to find the next Baron then, and it took them a while, I can tell you! No sons. All killed in the war, only distant relations left.” Maude shook her head again. “Isn’t the same, is it, when they haven’t lived here all their lives? Mind you, though, the new Baron isn’t bad. He’s restored the manor and the old church, though if you ask me, it was the Baroness who got him to do it. Still, he loves his horses and that’s good.”

  She stopped. “Here I am, talking away, and you wanting to get on with your scones and all. My Anthony says I talk too much and he’s right.”

  “Oh, but I’m very interested,” Laura answered quickly. “The manor seems like such a fascinating place.”

  “That it is,” Maude agreed obligingly. “The family has lived there for hundreds of years, and there’s been some interesting stories. Fellow who came here once wrote a book about all the nobility that visited, the rebellions they got involved in and all that. They even built a secret passage back then, the book says.”

  Laura was intrigued. If she ever got back to the manor, she would look for it.

  For the moment, however, she was eager to get back to the present family. “How long has this Lord Torrington lived there?”

  “Not quite sure,” Maude answered, thinking hard. Her brow cleared. “It was when my Daisy’s first was born, that’s right,” she declared. “Almost six years ago now, it was. Time for another, I’d say, but she won’t hear of it. It’s different these days, isn’t it? Sad, if you ask me. Clothes and such is all they care about.”

  “Yes,” Laura agreed, searching for another way to get back to the manor. “Lord Torrington’s wife certainly has beautiful clothes,” she remarked casually.

  Maude sniffed. “If she is his wife. Common tart if you ask me. Beautiful clothes, but that’s about it. Ought to keep them on, that’s what I think! You should hear all the rumors. There’s that groom, at least that’s what they call him, for one thing. Too big for his boots and doesn’t know a fig about horses. Comes to town and gives orders like he’s a lord himself, and never passes the time of day at the King’s Arms. That’s the pub down the lane, you know. No pints for him at the bar; drinks wine instead and goes right off to sit by himself in the corner. Never had a groom like that before. But that Antonia likes him, never mind poor Lord Torrington. My Daisy went up to the manor to see if she could do the cleaning again and there they were, big as life, kissing each other and who knows what else – the groom and Antonia, I mean.”

  Laura’s eyebrows went up. Thomas wasn’t the only one, then. Did Antonia make a habit of seducing men?

  “He’s not the only one, either,” Maude went on, echoing her thought. “There’s another I could name around here who’s been taken in by her. Terrible shame, that was, but it’s over now I guess.”

  “Who was that?” Laura asked, intrigued. Surely he couldn’t be Thomas. As far as she knew he hadn’t been here long enough. Or had he?

  Maude hesitated, obviously struggling between discretion and her desire to tell all. For once, discretion won the battle. “That I can’t say,” she replied primly. “No point raking over old gossip, is there? I mean, it’s all over and done with now, poor man.” She pressed her lips tightly together, as if to reinforce her decision, and Laura dared not ask more questions. Maude must like the man to keep his secret like this.

  “Oh dear, I’ve been talking out of turn,” Maude exclaimed, flicking a cleaning rag over the next table. “What you must think!”

  “I’m very interested,” Laura told her with a smile. “I wondered about Antonia myself. Do you suppose Lord Torrington knows what’s going on?”

  “Not a clue, I’d say,” Maude replied. “But I’d be willing to wager the Baroness does. She’s a sharp one. Baroness in her own right, though I’m not sure quite how that works out, I mean the lineage and all. Never could get it straight. She came when he did, you see, being related.”

  “How did she get to be a Baroness in her own right?” Laura asked curiously. “Did she marry someone called Baron Smythington?”

  Maude frowned, thinking. “Can’t rightly say I know,” she answered, sounding surprised. “I guess she must have, but I don’t know who he was. Never did hear. Odd, now that I think about it. Still, a Baroness is a Baroness and that’s what counts.”

  “If she was a Baroness before she came here, she obviously can’t be the wife of the old Baron, then,” Laura mused, trying to work out what this fact did to the grande dame’s relationship with Lord Torrington and Nigel.

  “No indeed, that Baroness died a long time ago,” Maude assured her. “This Baroness came with Lord Torrington, and a good thing, too. She’s the one who keeps the place going, in my opinion. Doesn’t come to town much any more, though – losing her eyesight, they say. Still, people admire her.”

  “Losing her eyesight?” Laura was astounded. The grande dame had looked as if she were seeing right through each of them.

  “You’d never know it, would you? She looks at you so sharp. But they say it’s true. Poor lady. Sad.” Maude shook her head pityingly.

  “Yes, it is sad,” Laura agreed. “She seemed to me to be such an impressive person. Even Lord Torrington seemed rather in awe of her.”

  “That he is,” Maude laughed. “She runs the show up there. Of course, she’s the one with the money. That always tells.”

  “The money?” Perhaps that was why the face in the painting had seemed familiar, Laura thought. People with money were always in the newspapers at one time or another, and so were Baronesses, especially young ones.

  “Yes, so t
hey say. Lord Torrington was living someplace outlandish like France when they finally found him. Hadn’t a penny as far as anyone could see. But she had, mark my word. Must have had, with all that restoration work she’s done. Costs a pretty penny to keep up a place like the manor, with taxes and all. That’s why they opened it up to the public, I suppose, like all the rest of the big places. Some of them even have zoos.”

  Maude sighed lustily and began to clear Laura’s table. “The old Baron would turn over in his grave if he knew that Torrington Manor took in paying guests, but there it is.”

  “So Lord Torrington and the Baroness haven’t been here that long,” Laura mused. “It seems odd. I had the feeling they had been there forever.”

  “That’s the feel of the place, I expect,” Maude answered, “and they’ve settled right in. The Baroness used to open the annual fair and all that, but then Antonia came and now she does it. People don’t like that at all.”

  “You mean Antonia came still later?” Laura was surprised.

  “Oh yes, she did,” Maude said, shaking her head mournfully. “Almost two years ago now, I expect. She’s the new young wife, or so it’s said.” She sniffed disapprovingly again. “Not long after that the groom, if he is one, turned up. Or maybe it was the other way round. I’m not quite sure, really, but the pair of them came right on each other’s heels. Fishy, I call it. Brought the child with her too, Antonia did. Angelica, she’s called, or some such name that has an angel in it, and if that isn’t the limit I don’t know what is. She’s got a terrible temper if she doesn’t get her way. The old lady’s the only one who can handle her.

  “Mind you,” she added with a knowing look at Laura, “there’s some as say the Baroness is too stiff, but I’m not one of them. Dignity, I call it, and I like a spot of dignity. Know where you are then, don’t you. Some of those royals are too chatty for me. My Daisy used to act like that poor Lady Diana was her best friend. All the girls did. But then, she encouraged it, poor girl.”