“An excellent piece of luck for us,” the Baroness commented dryly. “We were rather at our wit’s end.”
“Not surprising,” Thomas agreed. “It’s a nasty business.” He turned back to Laura. “As soon as I arrived, I realized that I had stumbled into the proverbial hornet’s nest. One of the first things I found was a sophisticated laboratory in Stewart’s cottage for preparing canvases and mixing the paints required for forgeries – far more sophisticated than the Baroness had provided. I called a colleague, who told me that paintings passed off as originals, but which some experts thought were forgeries, were also turning up on the market. They, too, seemed to come from this area, possibly the manor. They had sent one of their investigators here, posing as a cook.” He gestured toward the freezer, and Laura shuddered.
Tires crunched on the gravel driveway. “Ah, that must be the police,” Thomas said with satisfaction.
“If you have no objections, Thomas, I believe I shall go upstairs now,” the Baroness said. “I find I am not quite prepared to watch after all.”
Thomas nodded sympathetically. “No need for you to stay, Baroness. I just thought it important that you know.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” The Baroness turned to Laura. “I must make one more request before I leave, and that is that you to keep your knowledge of what you have seen and learned tonight to yourself.”
“Of course,” Laura agreed. “I will not speak of any of this to anyone.” The Baroness inclined her heat in thanks, and went slowly up the stairs.
“You can leave too, Laura,” Thomas said, concern evident in his voice. “In fact I wish you would. This isn’t going to be pleasant to watch.”
Laura shook her head. “I feel a kind of responsibility since I was the one who found her – twice. I can’t bear to walk out now,” she admitted.
“If you’re sure,” Thomas agreed, walked over to the freezer. “I suppose I should get it open for them. Not so many fingerprints that way.” Slowly he lifted the lid.
Steeling herself, Laura followed. Thomas stared in, total disbelief in his face. “The body’s gone!” he said. “It’s gone!”
Laura peered into the freezer. He was right. There was no sign of the body at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Laura sat up abruptly, awakened by a rustling at her door. A piece of paper slid under it and she blinked. Who was sending her messages through a door?
An explanation presented itself and she lay down again. Thomas had probably put it there to let her know what had happened after she had left the cellar. He and the two men with the stretcher had gone to the tool shed to collect Morris instead of the missing cook, so the men hadn’t come in vain. She had elected not to join them.
Time enough in the morning to read it, Laura decided. If she looked at it tonight, she would be wide awake again for hours. Yawning, she nestled under the duvet again and tumbled back into sleep.
When she woke again, it was light outside and this time she knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Might as well get up and get going, she decided. Remembering the note, she went to the door but found nothing there. Had she dreamed the whole thing? She must have, since there clearly was no paper. Her brain really must be overworked.
She stood and stretched, wishing she could talk to Thomas and find out what had happened directly from him. It seemed cruel to wake him, though. Between Morris and looking for the missing body, he probably hadn’t got to bed until a few hours ago.
That poor woman – she seemed fated to disappear over and over again. The strange thing was that Thomas had left the cellar for only a short time after he had found the body, to alert the Baroness. That someone had managed to steal it in that short time was positively spooky. The man who had done it must have been nearby all the time, waiting for his chance.
And it probably had been a man, Laura realized. Only a very strong person could have hauled the stiff body out of all that ice.
She wondered if she should knock on Thomas’s door anyway, just to check on him. He accused her of getting into trouble, but he was worse. She compromised. Instead of knocking, she turned the knob gently and eased the door open a crack. To her relief, he was in his bed, sleeping soundly. She left him to it and went to get dressed.
A glance at her watch told her it was just past six-thirty. An excellent time to pay Adrian a visit, she decided. She wouldn’t be expected, and she could surely wangle her way into the gallery again. Mrs. Paulson might even feed her some breakfast. She could walk. It couldn’t be more than about two miles to Adrian’s house, and walking always cleared her head.
She looked at herself critically in the mirror. The alterations to her face were holding up surprisingly well. She did her best to fix them up and then donned her hiking clothes, which fortunately had been returned. Holding her muddy boots, she went quietly downstairs.
She went first to Lord Torrington’s study, to see if the two paintings were still there. A glimpse from the doorway told her that they were in place. That meant either they or the ones in the loft were forgeries.
On impulse, Laura stopped in the dining room to look at the portrait over the sideboard. The woman seemed to stare back at her, tantalizingly like the Baroness and yet not her in some subtle way. What was the difference, besides youth?
The article about the society wedding she had found on the moor came into her mind. It must have been about the Baroness, since the bridegroom was a Baron, but she had no idea why the cook had thought the article was important. What had it said exactly? The tall and glamorous bride was lovely in her satin and organdy dress was one sentence, but that didn’t tell her very much. Maybe the next bit had meaning. A lacy veil covered the bride’s face and she held a bunch of wildflowers picked that morning from a meadow, making her resemble Ophelia, one of her favorite-
Memory returned with a physical jolt that made Laura gasp. She reached for a dining room chair and sat down heavily. A barrage of images poured in, with all the emotional impact they had aroused more than two decades ago.
Charlotte Gramercy - the Baroness was Charlotte Gramercy, the magnificent young actress who had burst upon the London scene over twenty years ago and then disappeared as abruptly as she had come. She had intelligence, discipline, grace and above all talent, the critics had gushed, and she played Shakespeare and Ibsen better than any actress in living memory. As Ophelia, she had brought tears to even the most hardened eyes. She had truly been a legend in her own time.
Laura rose again, too dazed by the discovery to sit still. She had seen the revered actress only once, when she had gone to London during a student year abroad. Charlotte Gramercy had played Ophelia that night, and the memory of her performance had never left Laura. Ophelia and Lady MacBeth had been the actress’s favorite roles. They were polar opposites – the woman so cruelly used by her lover, and the woman who used her husband without scruple to further her ambitions. Charlotte Gramercy had played both brilliantly.
What an honor, to know her in person! But what had happened to her, and why had she so suddenly left the theater? Why was she so anxious to conceal the fact that she had once been Charlotte Gramercy? And how on earth had she ended up here, mistress of Torrington Manor?
Noises on the floor above roused her. Someone else was up. Laura tiptoed down the hall and slid out the back door. Donning her boots, she made her way out to the road, carefully avoiding the outbuildings. After this, she would leave body-finding to people who were more inured to such gruesome discoveries.
It was a beautiful morning, and Laura almost forgot the manor and its problems as she listened to birds singing in the hedgerows and took in the scents of trees and flowers. She was surprised when she saw Adrian’s house already coming into view. It really was an attractive place. The golden Cotswold stone gleamed in the early morning light, and the flower gardens all around it were full of color.
Adrian was standing, lost in thought, near the well-tended front garden. When he spotted her, he called out an enthusi
astic greeting.
“Laura! What a marvelous surprise! I am delighted to see you, even as Mme Merlin, though I must say I like Laura better. Come on in and we’ll make a cup of coffee, or tea if that’s your preference.”
He came up to her as if to embrace her, but seemed to think better of the impulse and took her arm instead.
“You are up early. Good. I like early risers. I can offer you some breakfast if you like, though we are on our own in that, I’m afraid. For some unaccountable reason Mrs. Paulson decided to stay at her sister’s last night.”
“Are Catherine and Angelina with her?” Laura was vaguely alarmed at the thought that they were alone in the house with Adrian. He was well-meaning, but probably not very adept at handling children.
“They are indeed,” Adrian assured her. “I suspect their desire to stay with her has something to do with puppies,” he added with a twinkle.
She asked for tea and looked around curiously as Adrian prepared it. The kitchen wasn’t at all modern, but it had all the necessary appliances and looked efficient and comfortable.
“I do hope the remainder of your night was peaceful,” Adrian remarked as he filled the kettle. “I did not like leaving you with that Scotsman in the house.”
“He seems to have left,” Laura assured him. “He didn’t even spend the night.” It seemed an easy way to make the Scotsman disappear, along with his beard and wig.
“I am immensely relieved.” Adrian presented the tea with a flourish. Laura thanked him and eyed the cup dubiously. The tea was weak and not very hot. The coffee he poured for himself, however, looked strong and hot and delicious. Maybe she could pour the tea unobtrusively down the drain and have coffee instead.
“I can make some breakfast,” she offered. “What do you usually have?”
“Adrian looked perplexed. “Whatever Mrs. Paulson puts out for me,” he answered vaguely. “I guess I don’t pay much attention. I’m not much of a cook, I fear, especially when it comes to breakfast.”
“I can make some toast,” Laura suggested.
“Toast sounds excellent,” he replied. “Then I can show you around the house. All you saw was the gallery last time.”
Laura was delighted by the idea, not because she had any great desire to see the house but because Adrian had so conveniently provided her with an opening to ask if she could see the gallery again.
“That would be nice,” she agreed. “I would especially enjoy seeing your gallery again before I leave.”
Adrian looked dismayed. “I do hope you aren’t leaving soon. I had hoped we could pursue our acquaintance over the next few days.”
“I’m not sure of my exact plans,” Laura hedged, “but I should be back in London soon to get ready for a course I am teaching there.”
Adrian beamed. “Excellent. Then we can surely look forward to more time together. I had not known you were staying on in this country, and I am very pleased that you are.” He settled back in his chair. “Business brings me often to London,” he went on. “Perhaps we could take in a show together, or go to a few galleries.”
“That sounds very nice,” Laura temporized, wondering if it had been wise to tell him she would be remaining in England. Did Adrian view her as a friend or as an extension of his favorite lady?
When they had finished, Adrian stood up. “It’s time for me to show you my house and then to see my little collection again. After all, you are in it, are you not?” he added playfully.
Laura smiled tepidly and took a last sip of her coffee, which she had managed to substitute for the insipid tea without being observed, and followed him out of the kitchen. He led her on a tour of the house, providing the history of each antique they passed. He owned quite a few – china, furniture, even some tapestries. Adrian’s tastes were far richer than those of a simple country veterinarian, Laura reflected. Where had the money to pay for all these treasures come from?
“Now, the gallery,” Adrian said at last, taking the key out of his pocket. The hushed note of reverence, the possessiveness, came into his voice again, and again, Laura felt that small shiver of apprehension.
Despite her uneasiness, the extraordinary glow of the room captured her as it had before. She stood in the middle of the room, gazing around her.
“Where did you find them all?” she asked. “That must have been a job in itself.”
Adrian’s answer was illuminating. “It wasn’t that difficult, actually. Many of them came from the manor. In fact, that’s how I got started. I had come into some money when my wife died, and when I saw the wealth of treasures languishing in the manor and heard that Charlotte - the Baroness, I suppose I should say - and Lord Torrington wanted to sell some of them to raise funds for restorations, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to embark on what had been a life-long dream.”
He must have been the friend who had alerted them to the value of their paintings, Laura realized, and wondered why the Baroness hadn’t said so.
“I was also lucky,” Adrian went on. “The Torrington ancestors who had collected the paintings had tastes very similar to my own – and had the wits to hide their treasures during times of trouble, to keep them out of the hands of their enemies.”
“Were they Royalists?” Laura asked, struggling to remember the history books she had read in preparation for the trip.
“Well done!” Adrian was impressed. “Yes, they were Royalists, and they were Catholics as well. They committed the double sin of wanting to see the monarchy restored and of sheltering fugitive priests, who were presumably hidden with the paintings.”
“Priest holes,” Laura murmured, thinking of the tunnel Angelina had showed them. “So then you bought some of the paintings?” she prompted.
Adrian nodded. “We had various pieces appraised, and I bought most of them once my late wife’s estate had been settled.” He smiled, remembering. “Actually, I was their first buyer. We had a wonderful time together. We did some bargaining, more for the pleasure of it than anything else, and arrived at a good deal all around.”
“When did your wife die?” Laura asked sympathetically.
Adrian’s face closed. “Three years ago,” he relied shortly. Perhaps her death was a subject that was still hard for him to talk about, Laura thought. He seemed an unusually sensitive man.
“I am sorry,” she offered. “That must have been hard.”
Adrian shook his head and his lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line. “No, it wasn’t in fact. We had little in common except a love of art, and even that had begun to change. She preferred a different style,” he added with a touch of contempt.
Laura couldn’t think how to answer. Adrian obviously had very firm views on artistic taste. She began to feel sorry for the dead wife, whose money had been used to pay for an art collection she might not have liked.
“She was a semi-invalid for a long time,” Adrian went on. “Finally she took a little too much of whatever it was the doctors gave her. I could hardly blame her. It seemed the sensible thing to do. She was not very happy.”
Laura could find no response to this honest but callous assessment, either. Perhaps veterinarians were so accustomed to putting animals out of their misery that it seemed normal to them for a suffering woman to choose the same path.
Adrian had moved away from her and was staring up at his favorite painting, the one of the lady with the big hat that he now called Laura.
“It seems so extraordinary that I should actually find you, the living embodiment of the woman I have always adored,” he said wonderingly. “I have always believed that we must consider seriously what such coincidences might mean. Life does not offer them often, does it, my dear?” Smiling, he grasped her fingers and pressed them to his lips.
It was a courtly gesture and well-intentioned, but Laura was still alarmed. Adrian sounded as if he were about to declare his love on the spot. She had better defuse the situation fast.
Pulling her fingers firmly away from him, she pointed to the paint
ing. “She’s much better looking than I will ever be,” she commented wryly, hoping that humor would have the desired effect. “All her hair is in place, her clothes aren’t filthy, and she hasn’t had her face rearranged by the Baroness.”
Adrian was offended. “This is not a joke, Laura,” he reproved her. “It is the woman inside who counts.”
Laura sighed. Humor was clearly not the right approach. “No, I suppose it isn’t funny,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Adrian.”
Adrian’s face relaxed and he became his genial self again, though now his affability seemed forced. “I guess I do get carried away,” he admitted. “I feel so strongly about paintings, and that makes me go overboard with you as well.”
Laura nodded, but the statement didn’t reassure her. It was definitely time to leave. “I should get back to the manor,” she told him. “They will wonder where I am.”
Adrian seemed not to have heard her, or if he had, he paid no attention. “We must look at some of the others,” he said, and stopped in front of another portrait of a woman. Laura was relieved. At least it wasn’t the one he thought was her this time.
“Can you believe,” he said in a tone of wonder, “that I once thought she was the right woman for me?”
Reluctantly, Laura examined the painting. The woman was beautiful, but there was a secretive air about her that made further speculation difficult.
“She’s very beautiful,” she offered tentatively.
“Oh, beautiful!” Adrian was contemptuous. “Certainly she is that, but can you see the coldness, the ambition?”
“Who is she?” Laura asked.
“She was a French aristocrat once,” Adrian replied. “I believe she ended up on the guillotine.”
Laura shuddered. “Poor lady. That seems a cruel fate.”
“I suppose it is,” Adrian agreed. “Perhaps, though, she deserved it.”
Walking Into Murder Page 21
