Walking Into Murder

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  The German couple looked impressed and began questioning him in halting English about auctions. Adrian seemed to know a great deal about them, as did the Englishwoman, so the conversation became general

  Laura took a deep breath, glad to have a rest. Being Madame Merlin in public was exhausting, even without Thomas needling her and Adrian watching her obsessively. Twelve pairs of eyes were on her all the time. The Baroness’s eyes were the hardest of all to please. Occasionally, she uttered one of her discreet coughs, which Laura knew were to remind her to get back to her role.

  Her reprieve didn’t last long. “Qu’est-ce-que vous faites après le diner?” Thomas teased in a low voice, smiling seductively and edging closer. “Je vous suivez, Madame! Tous le temps je vous suivez!” He wagged a finger at her and shook his head flirtatiously, making his beard wobble.

  Laura glared at him as she thought Madame Merlin would glare if she received an indecent proposal. He was saying that he would follow her wherever she went tonight, which really was indecent.

  “Arretez!” she snapped under her breath, and pushed his hand away. He had actually had the temerity to place it suggestively on her thigh!

  Fortunately, the Englishwoman began to pester Thomas with questions about Scotland, which as far as Laura could tell he answered very vaguely. She seized the opportunity to take a large gulp of her wine – not appropriate for a Frenchwoman, she knew, but an essential source of sustenance at the moment. By way of compensation she raised her glass to Lord Torrington and complimented him on the vintage. As before, he appreciated the gesture, since it provided an opportunity to drain his glass and refill it.

  Dessert arrived, a blancmange that to Laura looked like a wobbly mass of protoplasm similar to those she sometimes saw washed up on beaches. She ate a bite to be polite and rearranged the rest on her plate.

  The Baroness finally rose to her feet, signaling that dinner was over. Relieved, Laura trailed after the others to the library, where she tried to consume enough coffee to keep her awake for her search but not so much that it sent her scurrying for bathrooms.

  The other guests went to their rooms soon after coffee was served, and Lord Torrington and the Baroness excused themselves to attend to various duties. To Laura’s surprise, Thomas also left, without even teasing her again. She was instantly suspicious. Was he laying some kind of trap for her, maybe disguising himself anew and hiding somewhere so he could follow her when she left her room?

  He had also left her alone with Adrian, who immediately confronted her. “I don’t know why you allowed Charlotte to turn you into Madame Merlin,” he said irritably, “but I hope you will go straight up to you room and lock the door. I don’t trust that Scotsman. There is something wrong about him. I can sense these things, you know.”

  Laura tried not to smile. “I’ll be sure to do that,” she promised, and ushered him firmly toward the door. Finally he left, still assuring her that she could call any time, day or night. Exhausted, she plopped onto a chair in a manner most unbecoming to Madame Merlin but jumped up again quickly. Time, finally, to get ready for her search.

  She heard the murmur of voices through the half open door of Lord Torrington’s study. He and the Baroness must still be in there. Laura decided to stop and congratulate them on the magnificent dinner. It seemed the right thing for a French tourist visiting their country to do. Her polite impulse came to a halt when she came closer to the study and the words took on meaning.

  Lord Torrington was speaking. “Don’t like the look of that French woman,” he drawled irritably. “Too bloody inquisitive by half, with that long pointy nose of hers. Wanted to poke it into everything. Even wanted to go down to the cellar. Why must we have these people anyway?”

  “We must have them for a while longer.” The reply came in a voice Laura didn’t recognize. “It’s the best way right now. You know that as well as I do, darling. And the rest will be sorted out soon. We’re almost ready.” The voice was very soft, obviously female. It certainly wasn’t the Baroness, but it didn’t sound much like Antonia either. Was it possible that Lord Torrington had another woman in his life?

  Lord Torrington uttered a contemptuous snort that seemed to imply the woman’s argument was useless, and she continued her plea.

  “Trust me, darling,” she said, in a low, thrilling voice. “Just trust me for a little longer. I am quite sure my plan is working. Soon it will all be over.” Rustling movements followed this appeal, and Laura was certain the woman had embraced Lord Torrington. She frowned. The woman had to be Antonia, in a loving mood for a change.

  After a prolonged silence, more rustling sounds told her that the couple had finished the embrace, if there had been one, and would soon emerge. Pulling off her shoes, Laura ran up the stairs and hid behind the door of her room. She wanted badly to discover the identity of the unknown female.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she peered out from behind the door. The hall lights were dim, but she had no trouble recognizing the two people. Her eyes widened in shock. Coming slowly up the stairs, hand in hand, were Lord Torrington and the Baroness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Laura lay on the bed, her mind, and her stomach, whirling. She was beyond shock now, or even disbelief. She felt as if she were caught in a maze, or a house of horrors with an endless series of twists and turns that had to be negotiated, and every choice led to a dead end where an unexpected and unwelcome sight awaited.

  Lord Torrington and the Baroness holding hands was certainly an unwelcome sight, almost an unthinkable one. Did they really have a romantic relationship, or had she misunderstood the joined hands, the rustling sounds and prolonged silence?

  She must have, Laura decided. The idea of the Baroness indulging in an illicit and possibly incestuous liaison was simply unacceptable. Still, it did happen, as Shakespeare had known. Thinking of Shakespeare made her think of the Baroness again, but in another way. They were somehow connected; Laura was certain of it, but she still couldn’t remember how.

  Besides, she corrected herself, the relationship wouldn’t be incestuous unless the Baroness was Lord Torrington’s mother or sister. Maybe she was neither of those things. Maybe she was the mother of his first wife. In that case, though, she was involved in a relationship with her dead or divorced daughter’s former husband, and that seemed almost as bad. It was also totally out of character for the grande dame, Laura decided stubbornly.

  Too restless to stay still, Laura stopped trying to work it out and got up again. She had been afraid she would be too exhausted to stay awake until the house was quiet enough for her to begin her explorations, but that was no longer a problem. How could anyone sleep after a day like this one?

  The only thing to do was to get on with her search. If someone was still awake, she could hide - even better, listen to their conversations. She looked at her watch, saw that it was almost midnight, and decided to get ready. The black suit was too tight for running or climbing, both of which she might have to do, and the outfit she had worn for the tour wasn’t much better. But what else was there? The clothes she had come in had been taken away for washing. The only garment she had left was the one the Baroness had given them last night, the one that looked like a hospital gown. That would have to do.

  Grimacing, Laura put on the gown, slung her dark jacket over it for warmth as well as a pair of grubby black tights and the spare hiking socks she always kept in her pack. Her clothes, or lack of them, would be an additional reason to make certain no one saw her. She would head for the cellar and tackle the most unpleasant task first, she decided, then search the outbuildings and the attic if she still had time.

  She peered into the hall, but neither heard nor saw anyone, so she crept cautiously down the back stairs, heading for the cellar entrance. Its door creaked when she opened it; she held her breath, waiting, but no reaction came. She peeked into the kitchen just in case, but it was empty. The outer door, however, was ajar, and Laura hesitated. So
meone must be out there, perhaps letting the dogs out for the night. They would give her away quickly if they spotted her.

  A shadowy figure near the barn and the prancing figures of the dogs told her she was right. Lord Torrington, she realized with surprise. He must have left the Baroness shortly after she had seen them. There certainly hadn’t been time for a romantic interlude. Maybe she had misread the situation after all. Then she remembered how young the Baroness had looked the evening when she and Catherine and Angelina had emerged from the workshop closet, and wondered anew. Maybe Antonia was only playing the role of Lady Torrington and wasn’t actually involved with the lord of the house. The Baroness had too much spirit to put up with a new young wife or mistress, if she did have a prior claim. But why, then, was Antonia here?

  “Come on, you idiots.” Lord Torrington’s voice was loud and genial. “Just for a while; then you can come out again. Biscuits if you come quickly.”

  Jasper and Lucy understood what biscuit meant and loped after him eagerly. Laura breathed a sigh of relief. He was putting them in their run, not letting them out. She wasn’t afraid of the dogs anymore, but her search of the outbuildings would be easier without them. Maybe she should take advantage of the fact that they were locked up and search outside first, instead of starting with the cellar. Probably she was procrastinating because she really didn’t want to look in the freezer again, but it did make sense.

  Grabbing a few hunks of bread in case the dogs were let out again before she had finished, she slithered out the door into the shadows. As soon as the clang of their gate told her they were safely confined, she sprinted for the trees.

  Whistling cheerfully, Lord Torrington strode toward the kitchen door, went into the house and slammed it behind him. Laura heard the sound of a key turning. Why hadn’t she thought of this possibility before? Now she would be forced to go in again through the cellar. She shivered. Perhaps it was just as well. She would have to go right past the freezer and further procrastination would be impossible.

  She crept cautiously toward the barn. A low light shone over the door, but the interior was in shadow. She stared in, eyes straining. Nothing moved and she heard no sounds, so she dared to turn on her flashlight. Hay littered the dirt floor and she could still see tracks where something heavy had been dragged across it. Thomas, perhaps? She followed the trail. It ended in a large clear space, as if someone had lain there. She turned her flashlight on it and was quickly rewarded. A stout stick, almost a club, had been thrown carelessly aside beside the cleared space. Was that the stick Morris or Stewart had used to knock Thomas out before rolling him in the carpet?

  Laura knelt to examine it more closely and discovered a sticky-looking substance that could be blood on one end. She touched it delicately with one finger. Definitely sticky. Did that mean it was fresh blood? Or just reddish mud? How long did blood stay sticky anyway?

  Laura shook her head. She had questions in abundance but no answers. Maybe the loft would provide more clues. She struggled up the steep ladder, trying to hold the flashlight in her teeth. It fell out half-way up and dropped to the ground. Irritated, she went down again to retrieve it. This time, she put it in her pocket and climbed up with only the faint light from the doorway to guide her. Cobwebs stuck to her face and hair as she progressed. At the top she fell across a bale of hay and bumped her head on a large object. Fumbling for the light, she shone it around. Her eyes widened in astonishment. A pair of gold-framed paintings was propped against the large chest in front of her, paintings that looked exactly like the ones Thomas had examined so carefully in the study. They had the same dark background, the same slouched, almost caricature-like figures and touches of bright color.

  Of course, Lord Torrington could have decided to sell them, hoping they had value, as Thomas had implied. There was no crime in that. She would look in his study later, Laura decided. If the two paintings were still there, one or the other of the sets had to be copies.

  The photo of the three paintings she had found on the moor came to mind. They weren’t the same as these; she was almost sure of that, so there must be another group of three. Remembering her forgery lesson from Thomas, she ticked them off: one was the original, one a copy to sell as an original to a shady or just a gullible buyer, the third might go to a buyer who could tell all his friends it was an original. A very profitable business, Laura decided. But who did the copies? And who got the profits?

  Other paintings were scattered around the loft. Laura examined each in turn but quickly realized she didn’t have enough light to see them clearly, nor did she have the knowledge and expertise to come to any conclusions about them. All she could do was try to remember each one in the hopes that if she saw another like it, she would know they were the same.

  She sighed, discouraged. Every time she found clues, she only became more puzzled and more aware of her ignorance.

  One of the dogs yapped, reminding her that time was short. Hastily she climbed back down the ladder and left the barn. Lights from a cottage-like building beyond the stable that she hadn’t noticed before caught her attention. Maybe Stewart stayed in the place; he didn’t seem to sleep in the house. She hoped Roger didn’t stay there as well. She had no desire to confront him again.

  A murmur of voices came from one of the open windows of the building. Laura crept closer, wondering if she dared to peer in.

  “A bit more of the brown on the dress, I think,” Antonia’s voice said. She sounded tense, as if she were waiting for something to happen.

  “I wish you’d stop looking over my shoulder like that,” came the irritable reply. “You make me nervous and then I get the lines wrong and the color muddles.”

  “I’m only trying to help,” Antonia snapped. “All I want is for you to finish the thing so we can get out of here.”

  Laura dared to peek in. Stewart stood in front of an easel, paintbrush poised over an unfinished painting of a woman in an old-fashioned bonnet. A completed painting was propped on another easel beside him. Even to Laura’s inexperienced eyes, it was obvious that the finished painting was of museum quality. Even more remarkable, Stewart was making an identical and similarly lovely copy of it. The expression on the woman’s face was the same, the colors perfect; the whole feel of the painting was right.

  Laura stared, captivated. Maybe an expert could see differences, but she certainly couldn’t, except for the fact that the copy was incomplete. Now she knew why there had been paint under Stewart’s fingernails when he’d taken them to the cottage. Stewart really was a painter, and if she was any judge at all, an excellent one, or an excellent copyist at least. Did Thomas know that?

  “Go sit down!” Stewart said sharply to Antonia. She complied, her lips set in a tight line.

  “How long do you think it will take to finish?” she asked from her seat. “I’m not prodding,” she added in an effort at conciliation. “I just need to know so that I can plan.”

  Stewart put down his brush and turned toward her. “Frankly, I am much more concerned about Angelina than about finishing this,” he said, gesturing to the painting. “Don’t you think we have enough already? I don’t like the thought of her up there with a pair of strangers.”

  “We have been over this before,” Antonia replied grimly. “Angelina is much better off up there than around here. She is quite safe, and the American women will look after her. Why do you think I told Roger to take them up there, for heaven’s sake? I knew they were the types who would take care of a child. Angelina will be thrilled to order them about and eat all that food we put in. She’ll be perfectly happy there for days if need be, so do stop worrying about her. She is not in any danger.”

  Laura gritted her teeth. So Antonia was the one who had ordered Roger to take them to the cottage! What a devil the woman was! She was also clever, diabolically so – though not clever enough to know that Angelina was no longer in the cottage. Stewart didn’t know Angelina had escaped, either. That was one small victory at least.

 
Why hadn’t the Baroness told her? Obviously, because she didn’t want Antonia to know. Did she suspect that Antonia was involved in Angelina’s disappearance?

  Antonia must not be underestimated, as the grande dame had said. She was right. No doubt Antonia was also the person who had instructed Morris and Stewart to knock Thomas out, wrap him in a rug so no one would see him, and take him to the shed for further questioning. Morris was provided as the icing on the cake, so to speak, with his persuasive knife.

  Stewart turned back to the painting. “I still don’t like it,” he muttered. “The whole thing has gone too far, got too complicated. It’s too much, having to do all these copies as well as the ones we’ve already got. Maybe if Morris hadn’t come and tried to horn in…”

  “Morris won’t be a problem any longer,” Antonia interrupted harshly, her voice sharp with anger. “I can promise you that. The bastard had the nerve to steal his own sister’s child, hide her in that cottage and then try to get money from me to get her back! That was the last straw for me. He is out of my life. Out for good!”

  “I’ll be happy to see him go, no doubt about that,” Stewart commented mildly as he put down one brush and applied tiny gentle strokes with another.

  Antonia smiled maliciously. “It gives me great pleasure, I can tell you, to turn my erstwhile brother’s little plot with Angelina around and use it for my own ends. And what I get out of it will be more than petty cash.”

  Stewart, however, paid no attention to this further diatribe. He was bent over his painting again, concentrating, as if all other considerations had left his mind. Laura watched him, impressed by his skill. Still, she suspected he was merely a pawn in the forgery operation, despite the fact that his astonishing talent supported it. He just wasn’t the type to run a complex organization. She felt oddly sorry for him. It wasn’t easy to make a living as an artist, even for a good one, and he had probably been forced to do copies instead. A legitimate market did exist for them, as Thomas had said, but the world of illegal art undoubtedly paid more. The temptation would be great.