Walking Into Murder (18 page)

Angelina was the only one with a wig. For Catherine and Laura, the Baroness had simply dulled the existing color, so that Catherine’s hair no longer had reddish highlights, and Laura’s was now a flat, uniform brown.

“It is better to make small changes, but important ones,” the grande dame had explained as she worked. “Take out the gleam if it is there, in personality or hair, put it in if it is not.”

“This is going to be fun!” Catherine said enthusiastically.

“That was Catherine talking,” the Baroness reproved. “You are no longer Catherine. You are Patrice. She is seldom enthusiastic about anything. Patrice seldom talks, either. She looks sulky instead. That is convenient, since your French is not as good as Laura’s, so you will have to keep quiet.”

Catherine looked chastened and practiced looking sulky. It wasn’t hard. The Baroness had somehow made her whole face exude sulkiness.

The Baroness continued her lecture. “You must
be
what I have made you, move like that person, think like her, and then you will be all right. Now, move for me as that person would move.”

Laura and Catherine began to walk around the room, trying to think how Madame Merlin and Patrice would move. She would be stiff and upright, Laura decided, and straightened her spine. Catherine decided Patrice would be clumsy and immediately tripped over a box.

“Excellent,” the Baroness said approvingly. “That looks just right.”

Angelina played her role with no effort at all. She strutted up and down, boy-like, whipped a few toys around her head and made a great deal of noise steering trucks around the floor. She looked supremely happy.

Watching her, Laura remembered Antonia. The Baroness seemed in no hurry to tell her that Angelina was safe. She had promised to take care of the matter, but as far as Laura knew, she had not yet done so. Her delay seemed strange. Surely, Antonia had a right to know.

They were interrupted by light knock on the door, and Nigel entered. He stared at them in disbelief. Angelina was practicing horrid faces in the mirror, an activity Laura suspected she would do in both characters.

“Angelina?” Nigel asked tentatively.

“
Je ne suis pas Angelina. Je m'appelle Henri,”
she said without turning, and began to talk to her image in voluble French. Swear words predominated.

“
Arrete-toi, Henri!”
Laura snapped without thinking.
“Tu es mechant!”

Nigel’s eyes turned to his grandmother, and a slow grin spread across his face. “I have never seen anything as good as this,” he told her. “You must have been truly inspired.”

The Baroness inclined her head graciously. “From you, that is great praise indeed. I believe your talents have almost surpassed my own.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier,” Nigel mumbled, looking embarrassed as he always did when praised. “They wanted me to help in the barn, and I couldn’t get away.” An unspoken message passed between them, as so many messages seemed to between people in this house, Laura reflected.

Nigel bent down to hug Angelina. She squirmed in his grasp. “You make a great little boy,” he told her. “And I really am very glad to see you again. We’ve been worried about you.”

His eyes returned to Laura. “Thanks again for rescuing her.”

Angelina stamped her foot imperiously and glowered at Nigel.
“Je ne
suis pas
little,” she objected strenuously, turning to a mixture of French and English in her agitation.
“Je suis
big
, et tres
strong
.”

“How did you learn to speak French so well, Angelina?” Catherine asked.

Angelina looked surprised. “I didn’t
learn
it, silly,” she answered. “I just speak it. Everyone does in France.”

“Angelina lived in France for a time when she was younger,” the Baroness explained, and Laura realized that this was the first time she had ever heard that venerable lady explain anything. She must know what was going on at the manor, at least some of it, but despite Laura’s list of suspicions and questions, she had volunteered no information, only offered to help.

“There is time for a short rest now,” the Baroness she said, glancing at her watch. “I shall have Nigel bring up some breakfast about nine o’clock. You will feel more alert after that.” Laura certainly hoped so. She felt limp with fatigue. Last night, the Baroness had worked on them until almost midnight, and she had woken them before dawn this morning to continue. Transformations take time, she had explained.

“Please wear this while you rest,” the Baroness went on, handing each of them an odd-looking object made of thin netting.

Catherine stared at it distastefully. “What is that thing?”

“A makeup preserver,” the Baroness answered with a straight face, but a gleam of mischief appeared in her eyes again. “Put it over your head, like this.” She drew the net over her head and face, demonstrating.

“Yuk,” Catherine responded. “Do I really have to wear it?”

“It will help preserve your new identity while you sleep,” the Baroness answered. “There won’t be time to do much repair work before the tour. It starts at eleven o’clock, and you must be prompt.”

Laura immediately felt nervous. To go on the tour as herself was one thing, but to go as Madame Merlin, with Catherine alias Patrice as her daughter, was another. The idea of maintaining a new persona in French with other people watching was daunting.

Still, she had to do it. Tonight, she planned to search all of Torrington Manor, and the tour provided an excellent opportunity to grasp the layout of the house. She hadn’t confided the search plan to the Baroness, however, or to anyone else.

Reluctantly, Catherine pulled the net over her head when they reached their room. Flinging her skirt and blouse onto a chair, she flopped on her bed and promptly went to sleep again. Laura took off her suit and hung it up carefully, rescued Catherine’s clothes and hung them up too, so they wouldn’t look rumpled for the tour. Then she put on her own net and sank into the other bed. Thoughts tumbled through her mind and dissolved into meaningless pictures, until finally she fell into a troubled doze.

Angelina, still dressed as a boy, awakened her. “I’m going to see some newborn puppies,” she crowed importantly. “Mrs. Paulson is going to take me to her sister’s to see the puppies, and she’s going to give me tea with lots of scones and jam and cake. I’m to stay there all day and even the night. Gram says so.” She ran out of the room.

Laura struggled up through a fog of sleep and hauled herself out of bed, wishing she could wash her face in cold water and shock herself awake. She felt much too groggy to go on a tour, especially as Madame Merlin. Dutifully, she donned her costume, shook Catherine until she got up, and headed for the workroom.

Nigel appeared with coffee and tea and croissants. “The cook worked for some French people once,” he told them, “and she’s decided to offer these for breakfast instead of cold hard toast. I can get eggs and all the rest, though, if you want them.”

“This is perfect,” Laura assured him, happy to forgo a large English breakfast. The fish and chips still sat heavily on her stomach.

Nigel turned to Angelina, who had followed him into the room, eyeing the tray greedily. “Mrs. Paulson is downstairs,” he told her, “and she says to hurry because the puppies are eager to see you.”

“I will take you down,” the Baroness said, holding out her hand. Angelina took it and skipped eagerly out of the room.

The Baroness reappeared just as they were finishing their meal. She looked more relaxed, as if she were a little less anxious about Angelina now that the child had been safely delivered to friends by her own hands.

“You must get back into character and not get out of it again,” she told Laura and Catherine sternly as she administered some corrective touches to their faces. “It is best to remain in character even when you are alone. The tour participants will be here for dinner tonight, and if you revert to Laura and Catherine, becoming Madame Merlin and Patrice again will be harder. I have also invited Adrian Banbury, who is an old friend and often comes to our dinners. Guests enjoy meeting a country veterinarian.”

Laura was alarmed. Dr. Banbury wasn’t off her suspect list yet. Still, the Baroness must trust him to ask him to dinner, so he was probably all right. He wouldn’t recognize her anyway if she played her part well.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Catherine grumbled. “Formal dinners are awful, and it will be hard to act like Patrice with everyone watching.”

“Why don’t you take a break and join Angelina and Mrs. Paulson?” Laura suggested. With Catherine gone, her search tonight would be much easier.

“They could take you to see the new puppies,” she added as extra incentive. “You could even stay for the night if you want.”

Catherine’s face lit up. “I would love to do that,” she said. “But I don’t want to leave you if you need my help.”

“All I’m going to do is take a long rest and practice thinking in French,” Laura assured her. “So there’s no need for you to be here.”

“An excellent suggestion,” the Baroness agreed. “I will ask Mrs. Paulson to pick Catherine up after the tour.”

Catherine looked vastly relieved. “Great. Angelina will like it too. She’s had a hard time, poor kid.”

The Baroness returned to her lecture. “You must be especially careful if you see anyone who knew you before,” she told them. “Antonia speaks fluent French and will detect a false accent in a moment. She is more perceptive than she seems.”

She looked straight at Laura as she spoke, and Laura was certain she saw a warning in those penetrating eyes.

“I see,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think I see.” Her stomach gave an odd little lurch. The Baroness was giving her a clue; she was certain of it. She was saying:
be careful not to underestimate Antonia.

Laura sighed, wishing the Baroness would simply explain what was going on. Still, there must be a good reason why she didn’t, so she would just have to find out for herself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The tour participants gathered near the front door at eleven. There were five others: a stout German couple with a grown but still gangly daughter, a middle-aged Englishwoman in sensible tweeds, and a tall, stooped Scotsman with a thick beard and ginger hair. Laura was glad none of them were French. Even if she spoke the language well, she wouldn’t fool a native for very long.

While they waited for Nigel, she tried to get into character mentally.
Think like Madame Merlin and you will be her,
the Baroness had told them. Catherine seemed to have managed the task already. Her shoulders were slumped, her mouth slightly open, her eyes pointed at the floor. She kept fiddling with her hair, pulling strands in front of her face as if she were searching for insects.

Irritated, Laura told her to stop. “Arrete-toi!” she hissed. “C’est insolent!”

Catherine glanced at her, dropped her eyes again and shrugged. Really, Laura thought, she was almost too invested in her role.

Nigel began to speak, and after that she barely noticed Catherine, or Patrice. He was an excellent host. He knew the history of every piece of furniture, every object on walls and tables. He even talked about the floors and rugs. Laura listened avidly and had to rouse herself to remember that she was here to learn the layout of the house, and which rooms might be worthy of further searching. She also needed to look for escape routes and hiding places – and to remember that she was Madame Merlin, though Patrice made that fact difficult to forget. She was as obnoxious as possible, and Laura found herself reacting exactly as Madame Merlin would have reacted without even trying. Really, the girl was a trial! She realized that the thought had come in French, and was comforted. Perhaps she wasn’t such a bad actress after all.

To her delight, Nigel even took them up to the attic. “This is called a box room,” he explained as they entered a low-ceilinged room filled with old trunks, furniture and children’s toys in various states of disrepair. “Most manor houses had one, and everything went into them in case the next generation had any use for them. There is probably more history here than in any other part of the house.” He seemed to regret the statement as soon as he made it, and Laura eagerly added the box room to her list of places to search.

At the end of the tour, Nigel asked if anyone would like to see the cellar. Patrice held up her hand but didn’t speak. Laura decided to ask for her. Seeing the cellar again was high on her list too. She was aching to examine some of the wine labels, never mind all those rooms she hadn’t had time to explore before. Who knew what treasures they might hold – and clues.

Heavily accented English, she decided, would be most in character. Madame Merlin would do her best to speak the language of her host.

“
Ma fille
… my daugh-ter likes to go to
les caves
- ze cellars
. Elle
s’interesse
in… in ze atmosphere,
n’est-ce-pas,
Patrice?”

“
Ah, oui,”
Nigel answered with a lift of his eyebrows that reminded her once more of his grandmother. “We will go then. But please watch your step. The stairs are very steep.”

He ushered them to a door along the hall that led to the kitchen. Beyond it Laura saw stairs, which were indeed steep but not nearly as bad as the ones she had crawled up last night. She wished she had known about them before subjecting herself to the tunnel and the winding staircase, but at least she now knew there was another way to get from the cellar to the house. That could prove very useful tonight.

Nigel led them through the maze of the cellar, explaining the purpose of various rooms, but mostly just letting them soak up the ancient and musty atmosphere. When they came to the room Laura and Catherine had entered from the big double doors, Laura noticed that the large chest of drawers had been moved back to its original place, covering the tunnel. She wondered if Nigel would mention that, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was afraid some of the visitors would insist on exploring it.

The big freezer was still in use, she noted, if the long extension cord was any indication. An extra freezer would be handy, she supposed, when they had large groups of guests. She pulled it open a crack while the rest of the group was examining the old linen press, curious to see if anything was in it.

The lid fell back with a soft thump, and Laura felt the blood drain from her face. A hand was in the freezer, a human hand. She had seen it clearly, sticking up past some large bags of ice. Barely visible beneath it was a body, a body that almost certainly belonged to the missing cook.

Laura’s stomach churned. To find her here, thrown carelessly into a cold freezer and surrounded by ice, was somehow far more terrible than finding her comfortably lain out in a bed and covered with a beautiful warm duvet. And the pale disembodied hand; it was sad, so horribly sad that anyone had been so neglected, so…so thrown away…

Laura stood perfectly still, her mind reeling with shock, and tried to recover her poise. She mustn’t let anyone see how affected she was. Catherine especially mustn’t see, mustn’t look. Nigel, too - he didn’t need this as well as the other burdens he must carry. The other tourists mustn’t know, either.

She glanced at them and saw to her relief that they were still intent on the clothes press, all but the Scotsman, who was reading wine labels. Laura’s gaze strayed back to the freezer. She had to look again, had to make certain she’d seen what she thought she’d seen. Easing the lid up, she peeked in. The hand was still there, and it was attached to a body that was faintly visible under all the ice.

Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach and the faint ringing in her head, she straightened her shoulders and walked slowly toward the group. She was glad now that she had to be Madame Merlin. If she’d been Laura, she wasn’t at all sure she would have been able to act normally.

She leaned over the linen press with feigned interest and then went on to the wines to peer at some labels. Catherine gave her a sharp glance that didn’t look like Patrice, but she didn’t speak, and Laura was relieved. By the time they reached the front hall again, she had recovered enough to thank Nigel in heavily accented English for a wonderful tour.

At that moment, Antonia came down the hall, and Laura was glad she had used English instead of French. Antonia would have picked up the lingering American in her French in seconds.

Antonia paused when she saw them, nodded briefly and moved on. Before she turned away, her eyes lingered on Laura’s clothes, especially her fashionable purse. There was avarice in those cool eyes, Laura thought, and was vastly relieved. Her accoutrements had attracted Antonia, not her face. The Baroness had done a good job.

The small distraction helped to put the gruesome discovery out of her mind. So did Catherine’s pleasure when she left to join Angelina and Mrs. Paulson. Laura was doubly grateful now to see the girl leave. Not only would it give Catherine a welcome break from being Patrice; it would give her a break from the strain of pretending she had nothing more than the general mystery on her mind.

She went back to her room and slumped onto a chair. The idea of rest seemed ludicrous now, but she could at least try to think. If there really was a body, she had to call in some kind of official help right away. But what if she was wrong again and there wasn’t a body? Her mind had begun to work more clearly now, and she realized she could once again be jumping to unwarranted conclusions. The hand might not belong to a body at all, but to a mannequin, like the one Nigel had made of his grandmother. Now that she thought about it, the hand in the freezer had looked just like the fake grande dame’s hands as she had grasped the back of the Victorian sofa, and she hadn’t been able to see the body clearly enough through all those bags of ice to tell if it was real or not. Maybe Nigel put his models in the freezer. Perhaps it was part of the finishing process, to keep the wax from melting or to stiffen the body.

Laura shuddered. The only way to know with certainty was to examine the hand and whatever was attached to it more carefully. Before she called in the authorities, she had to be quite sure of her facts. She wished she could sneak down the cellar steps now and get the unpleasant task over with, but that could be disastrous. Someone would be bound to notice her. She would have to wait until tonight.

In the meantime, she decided to distract herself by using the computer at the local library. Thomas’s dissertation on art forgeries in that horrible shed on the moor had been interrupted, and she needed to know more before she went on her search tonight. She was determined to find out more about Thomas, too, and this was the first chance she’d had to do it. Where was Thomas anyway? The man was like an elusive shadow!

To her surprise, the Scotsman who had been on the tour came into the library while she was struggling to find a useful site. He nodded politely and walked toward her. Laura nodded in response but then turned pointedly back to the computer. She didn’t want one of the guests at Torrington Manor looking over her shoulder right now, with a large print headline announcing the latest art forgery techniques. What would he think?

To her horror, the Scotsman picked up a chair, placed it next to hers and sat down. He glanced with interest at the glaring headline.

“Ah! Art forgeries. Yes. Now where was I? I believe I had mentioned that the first major type is simply a good copy of a masterpiece which often fools even the experts. The second is the pastiche. A copyist uses typical scenes from paintings by a well-known artist to -”

“Thomas!” Laura hissed the name. Her first impulse was to slug him, but since she was in a library, she couldn’t. Why hadn’t she seen through his disguise before? He had obviously seen through hers, which was maddening. And how had he managed to look so old and uninteresting?

Thomas continued relentlessly, seeming to enjoy her discomfiture. “The typical scenes used by the copyist give the impression that this painting is also genuine. The third type is an original fake, which means a copyist imitates the style and subject matter of a well-known painter. Some painters are remarkably good at it. To sum up, any of these three types can and do fool professionals if they are well done, and they often are.”

Laura gaped at him, speechless. She still couldn’t find Thomas under all that bristly hair. Had the Baroness done him too? What a macabre sense of humor the woman had! And what talent.

“Of course, copies of masterpieces can be sold legitimately too,” Thomas added with a grin that for a second made him Thomas again. “It’s a good business for artists. Many collectors can’t afford originals but will pay well for fakes they can pass off as originals to their friends.”

Laura held up a hand of protest. “Enough,” she said faintly. “I get the point. Forgeries are everywhere and not as hard to make as I’d thought.” She sighed. “I will never look at a Rembrandt or a Vermeer with the same eyes again. Or for that matter, any of the paintings people gape at so reverently in museums.”

“I could tell you all about what to look for to see the difference,” Thomas promised, “but right now, the librarian looks annoyed.”

Laura glanced at the desk. The librarian was indeed flashing fierce looks at them over her thick half glasses.

“How did you know who I was so easily?” she whispered. “I must be a lousy actress.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think I would have known except for Catherine. She played her part extremely well, but I have an advantage. I saw her in a similar type of uniform not too long ago. Her mother’s idea; it was a boarding school and Catherine left within a month. I couldn’t blame her. The place was called a finishing school. Mostly they taught deportment and how to say the right things to the right people.”

“Sounds ghastly,” Laura agreed. “I gather, then, that the Baroness didn’t tell you who we were.”

“The Baroness seldom tells anybody anything, at least not directly.”

“True,” Laura agreed. “Is the Baroness responsible for your new and hairy appearance? And why are you disguising yourself?”

“I did most of it myself,” Thomas answered breezily. “I’ve always wanted a beard, so every once in a while I put one on, just for the experience.” He eyed her attire. “Do you occasionally crave stiff-looking designer suits?”

“No,” Laura answered tersely. “I dislike them intensely. But why
are
you in disguise? I don’t believe the beard bit. And ginger hair falling over your eyes and half your face is a bit much.”

“You’re in disguise, too,” Thomas pointed out. “I imagine we have more or less the same reasons. What are yours?”

“Occasionally, I don a new persona to remind me how pleasant my own actually is,” Laura replied sarcastically. If he wasn’t going to tell her what he was up to, she wasn’t going to explain, either.

“Please could you continue your discussion elsewhere?”

Laura jumped. The librarian had come up behind them so quietly she’d never heard a thing. “Yes, of course, so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go anyway,” she hissed to Thomas. “I need to search the Baroness’s supplies for an equally conservative outfit for dinner tonight.”

“Not the sort of thing you generally bring along, I gather,” Thomas remarked as they went outside. “Thank heaven,” he added. “How about that green dress you had on before? I found it fetching.”

“Thanks.” Laura was pleased. He had actually noticed what she was wearing. Then she glanced at him suspiciously. Was he teasing her again?

“I gather you and Catherine have had more unusual experiences since I last saw you,” Thomas continued. “I must say that you demonstrate a great deal of ingenuity in extracting yourselves from difficult situations, but you seem to have an equal talent for getting into them. If I remember correctly, you did say you would keep my daughter out of trouble while I was away.”

“I tried,” Laura said, abashed. “All I did was get into the car Adrian had sent for us to take us to Torrington Manor. That didn’t seem dangerous until Roger pulled out his gun.”