Walking Into Murder (25 page)

“Charles was an actor, too,” the Baroness went on imperturbably. “He was some years younger than I, but he had always been my friend. Not just an admirer, a friend in the truest sense of the word. He was English, but he was working in Paris that year, and he was always there, to help us all, to force me to move my limbs when I thought I could not or make me laugh when I was certain that was impossible, to wheel Nigel about in his pram and help him learn to walk, to joke with Murphy and jolly her into creating the delectable French dishes he loved but hadn’t the patience to make for himself.”

“Prodded me terrible, he did,” Murphy remarked unexpectedly.

The Baroness smiled at her fondly. “Murphy was the one who kept food on the table and a roof over our heads for quite some time. And Charles. When his acting job came to an end, he stayed on, working at whatever he could get to help us make ends meet. One of his jobs was at an art gallery, where he learned what art was worth and what the rich would pay for old masterpieces, a lesson that proved valuable later. So did Murphy’s cooking and dressmaking skills. She did better than any of us in those early days, as a seamstress and cook.

“Eventually, I was able to help. I could no longer act nor did I wish to, with my stiff body and stiffer face, which had suffered injuries that affected the mobility on one side. I learned a great deal about facial structure in those days, and became intrigued with the many ways in which the human face and body could be altered and character changed. I began to work for museums, actors, sculptors, artists, anyone who needed to be transformed or to have a life-like facsimile created. And so our lives took form, and Nigel grew. He did not have parents, but he had more care and attention lavished on him than most children, since at least one of us was always there - too much attention perhaps, but it did not seem to spoil him unduly.”

Another piece of the puzzle fell neatly into place in Laura’s mind. The Baroness was Nigel’s aunt, and “Gram” was short for Gramercy. Nigel must have made up the name when he was small and now Angelina used it too.

“Charles met a young man called Stewart at the gallery,” the Baroness continued, “a painter with an uncanny ability to copy masterpieces. He also met a very beautiful young woman named Antonia.”

She sighed, a long sigh of regret. “Charles had asked me many times to marry him, but always I refused. I was older, maimed, too proud, perhaps; it is hard to say. I was also aware that to obtain a divorce in my husband’s Catholic family would have been very difficult. It was a decision I came to regret many times. So did Charles, for in the end, he gave up on me and married Antonia instead. We were unhappy that year. Very unhappy indeed.”

Mrs. Murphy nodded in agreement. “Not our best.” Her bony face assumed a dolorous look.

“The marriage did not last,” the Baroness went on in her usual measured tones. “Antonia tired of Charles as soon as she realized he was not going to be a great star. She disappeared, and he did not hear from her again for many years. Stewart went away soon after she had left. We had no way then of understanding how significant those dual departures would one day become.

“Charles came back to me, and I…” the Baroness drew a deep breath. “I saw what I should have seen long before, that Charles and I would be happy together. And so we have been for many years. More than happy, in fact. We were quite delirious for a time, though eventually we settled down. A little,” she added thoughtfully, and smiled.

Laura remembered the passionate voice she had overheard in the study and the embrace that had followed. It seemed right now, almost inevitable. But was it true? Had all of this really happened or was it just a story the Baroness had concocted to seduce her into silence?

“But how did Charles Morrison become Lord Torrington instead of Barkeley Smythington?” she blurted out.

She was immediately aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room. Murphy’s eyes seemed to shoot sparks at her. The grande dame’s face changed, too, became oddly secretive. She kept her eyes on Laura, but it was to Murphy she spoke. “Murphy, dear, would you be kind enough to get us some tea? My voice, you know. It gets so dry. We could have a little tea party up here, Laura and I.”

Mrs. Murphy got to her feet. “I shan’t be long,” she promised the Baroness. She sent Laura another threatening look and then went out, closing the door hard behind her.

“Murphy is protective of me,” the Baroness observed with the touch of humor so characteristic of her. “I see that you understand the implications of what I am saying,” she went on gravely. “There is more to come.”

Laura wondered numbly what it was. Drugged tea perhaps? Probably she ought to get up and leave, but she couldn’t. She knew now why a mouse being tormented by a ruthless cat didn’t dart away. It couldn’t. It was too mesmerized by those batting paws, the glowing intensity in the cat’s eyes. Like the mouse, she couldn’t leave until the game was over. She had to hear the rest.

“We had another special friend in those years,” the Baroness said, and Laura knew at once that she was coming to the heart of her story. “His name was Barkeley Smythington. He and Charles had grown up together in a village near Torrington Manor, and had often played in the manor grounds. Barkeley had even been taken inside, for the manor belonged to distant relatives. He did not know them personally, but he cared deeply about the manor and the town and spoke often of them, with great nostalgia. He wished he could see them again, but he was dying of AIDS, and was too ill to travel.

“Shortly before his death, the letter came. The old Baron at Torrington Manor had died and there was no direct heir. Barkeley, to his astonishment, was next in line as the new Baron. He wanted desperately to go and became frantic with grief because he was too ill to assume the responsibility. The manor property would fall into ruin, he told us, would be divided into ugly estate homes or worse. There seemed to be only one solution.”

Laura didn’t need to be told what it was. Charles Morrison had taken Barkeley Smythington’s place, and that meant the present Lord Torrington was an impostor. That was the secret that could not, must not get out. The world Lord Torrington and the Baroness had built would come crashing down if it did.

And everyone who knew the secret was dead, all but Antonia, and the Baroness didn’t know that.

Laura shrank back against her box. Now, she too knew the story. Why had the Baroness told her? Did she really trust her not to talk? Or was the Baroness offering this virtuoso performance as a kind of last gift?

Inexplicably, the grande dame’s lips twitched with amusement. “Barkeley came up with a novel solution,” she said, humor clear in her eyes. “He looked at Charles and saw the new Baron. ‘You are perfect,’ he told him over and over again. ‘You
are
a country squire, a lover of horses and all things British,’ and it was true. Charles had always wanted fine horses. He was the very epitome of an English country gentleman. And so, on his deathbed, with great drama, for Barkeley was an actor too and a very dramatic one, he extracted a promise from us both that we would try at least. Charles was to assume his identity, use his papers,
be
him, and go to London to talk to the trustees. I was to come later, with Nigel and Murphy.”

The Baroness looked down at her hands, and Laura was sure she was trying not to laugh. “It was so outrageous, you see,” she explained, “like something Lucy would have done for a lark. I had the feeling the whole time that she was laughing, urging us on. Even more important, we had promised, and for Charles to become the new Baron was the greatest gift we could offer our old friend. We
wanted
to do it, too, wanted to rescue the manor. Perhaps most of all, we wanted badly to go home. England was our home and Murphy’s, and none of us had been back for so long.”

The Baroness spread out her hands as if to say: “What else could we do?”

Laura laughed, relieved at the explanation. Why not uphold a friend’s dying wish and take on Torrington Manor, which so desperately needed to be kept intact?

“Charles went to London as Barkeley and succeeded in establishing himself as the new Baron. He had the time of his life, to use a rather vulgar phrase,” the Baroness told her, smiling at the memory. “The trustees were delighted with him. They were elderly, eager to be rid of the responsibility of the manor, and I doubt they looked carefully at the documents. It all seemed too easy, as if it were meant to be,
fated
, as Lucy would have put it. There were no problems at all, about me or Nigel. The trustees were very pleased to have the next heir in place. I simply came as a relative, and no one bothered to ask any more questions. After all, I was already a Baroness, and that seemed enough.

“I also had money. My husband had died the year before, and I inherited what was left of the family fortune, mostly from a trust he could not touch. There was also some money from the old Baron at the manor, not a lot after death duties and years of profligate spending, but with my funds it was enough to begin the restorations.

“I also took great care to hide my former identity. I was well known, and if anyone became interested in how Charlotte Gramercy came to Torrington Manor, they would no doubt have stumbled upon Charles’s past as well. To that end, I presented myself simply as the Baroness, though I gave out Smythington when a surname was required. To be still safer, I took to making myself look older so no one would put us together but would think I was Nigel’s grandmother instead. I became the grande dame of the manor, as I am aware you and Catherine have dubbed me, and Charles became the quintessential English country gentleman. It is a role he dearly loves to play - and loves even more to overplay,” the Baroness added with a wry twist of her lips.

Laura sighed. It all sounded so delightful - and so very believable. Surely, it must be the truth?

“Eventually, my money began to run out and we decided to sell some paintings, as you have heard. Charles located Stewart and hired him to make copies, and then… then the nightmare began.”

The Baroness closed her eyes and a spasm of pain crossed her face. “Perhaps you can guess the rest. Antonia had been living with Stewart, though we had not known it, had in fact been selling copies for him for years, using Roger as her enforcer, if that is the right term. She knew the business well, though we did not realize how well until these last few days. Scenting money, she followed Stewart here, bringing their daughter, Angelina, and later Roger, first as a butler, then as gardener when it became clear even to her that his surly manner made people suspicious. There was nothing we could do to make her leave. She also knew who we were, you see, knew we were as fake as the paintings Stewart was providing for our walls, and she made it clear that she would publicize that fact if we thwarted her. All we could do was try to sabotage her plans, as you have no doubt learned from Thomas.”

She looked up at Laura, desperate now to be understood. “We did not mind exposure for ourselves,” she cried passionately. “It was the town, the manor itself; the many people who would suffer from what seemed such a benevolent deceit. They are the ones we worry about. We have come to care deeply for them, for the townspeople, the buildings, the manor itself. But most of all, we worry about Nigel. We tried to keep Antonia’s purpose from him, tried to protect him, but it became impossible after a time. Nigel knows who he is - we have never hidden that from him - but we are the only parents he has ever known, and the manor is his home, even more than it is ours. If you could have seen his face when we first came here… He was only ten then, and had been happy in France, but here… here, he has flourished. Every object, every piece of furniture in the manor is his friend, every inch of the grounds he knows intimately. To wrench Nigel from this place would be to…to…”

Laura looked up as the door burst open. Lord Torrington stood there, holding the tea tray and smiling affably. His large bulk seemed to fill the doorway.

For the first time since she had known her, Laura saw the grande dame’s face collapse with an emotion so strong she had no power to control it. Fear. The Baroness was terrified.

Abruptly, menace pervaded the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Lord Torrington set the tray down on an old table near the door. He was still smiling affably. Laura relaxed a little. Maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her. She glanced at the Baroness and changed her mind. The grande dame hid her terror well, but it was still there under her guarded look. Laura’s tension deepened.

“Thought I’d save Murphy the climb,” Lord Torrington announced genially. “She’s looking a bit peaked, so I gave her a cup of tea and sent her off to have a rest. Ought to get off her feet once a day, I told her. None of us as young as we once were.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Charles,” the Baroness replied. Lord Torrington looked startled at her use of the name
Charles.

“It’s quite all right,” the Baroness assured him. “Laura already knows a great deal. She has no intention of using that knowledge.” She stared at him intensely as she spoke, as if willing him to agree.

“Just as you say, my dear,” Lord Torrington replied, and began to pour the tea into first one cup, then the other two.

The Baroness watched and so did Laura. She could see no sleight of hand to suggest that he was pouring powder into the cup intended for her. Did that mean it was already there? Or was she imagining things again?

No, she wasn’t. Milk and sugar – and possibly ground-up sleeping pills – were already in the cups, as the ritual of English tea making required. They went in first and the tea was poured over them.

A chill settled over Laura despite the heat of the attic room. Could he really mean to kill her?

With a gallant gesture Lord Torrington handed a cup to the Baroness. Then he crossed the room to hand one to Laura. His back was to the tea tray.

“Thank you, Charles,” the Baroness said politely. Her hand flashed out as she spoke. With a deft movement she put her cup noiselessly back on the tray and took the one Lord Torrington had poured for himself.

Laura’s eyes widened. Was that a warning not to drink her tea? The Baroness looked straight at her and Laura knew that it was. But what did it mean? Was the Baroness on her side, after all?

She picked up her tea, pretended to take a sip, and then managed to pour some of it into a box of old clothes while Lord Torrington returned to the tray. The Baroness saw her do it, and looked relieved.

Laura watched Lord Torrington surreptitiously as he sipped his tea. He looked younger now, and very alert. Why hadn’t she noticed the intelligence in those sleepy blue eyes before? Probably he was far more capable than he pretended to be. He knew the value of fine art, too. The Baroness had just told her that. Maybe he had been working with Antonia and Stewart all along, only none of them had guessed. If so, he was vulnerable to exposure on two counts: his involvement in the forgeries and the all important secret of his true identity. Both were excellent motives for murder.

Lord Torrington interrupted her thoughts. “Well, all settled now, problems over,” he said cheerfully. “Must say, Laura, you’ve been a great help. And Thomas. Good to have the foxes out of the henhouse finally, so to speak. Had to get rid of them of course, but hard to know how.”

“Thank you, Lord Torrington,” Laura said faintly. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get out the words. She coughed harshly. “I’m thirsty,” she explained, pretending to take a big sip of her tea.

Lord Torrington looked pleased. Smiling, he turned to the Baroness and patted her arm. As he did so, Laura quickly dumped out more of her tea.

“No need to worry any more, m’ dear,” he told the Baroness gruffly. “All over now. Antonia’s gone, Roger too. “Good thing, too,” he added. “Didn’t know one end of a shovel from another.” Laura flinched, remembering the bloodied shovel and Morris’s battered head.

Her eyes widened in shock. Could Lord Torrington have done that to him? Antonia and Roger still insisted they hadn’t killed Morris.

“Stewart too,” Lord Torrington grumbled. “Fine painter but a terrible groom. Not good for the horses. Got to find one who knows his stuff. Have a superb pair of trotters in mind, doncherno. May need help with them.”

“I am indeed relieved to think that we might be able to lead normal lives for a time,” the Baroness said with a trace of her old acerbic humor. “These last days have been most trying.”

“There, there, m’ dear,” Lord Torrington comforted, patting her hand again. “All simmered down now. Got to get you a rest.” Tucking a finger under her chin, he kissed her on the lips. Laura upended her cup into the clothes.

“Maybe a little trip together, eh?” Lord Torrington continued. “Haven’t been away for a long time now. Due for a holiday, I’d say. Greece, maybe, or the Mediterranean.”

He acted as if he knew she was aware of his real relationship with the Baroness, Laura realized. How long had he been outside the door listening as the grande dame told their story? The tea had felt quite cool when she had held the cup to her lips, so he must have been lurking there for quite a while. What else had he heard?

The Baroness noticed, too, and for a second the terror was back in her face. She controlled it quickly, and turned to look straight at Laura. Her gaze was so intense that Laura was unable to look away. And then she realized that there was a message in those brilliant eyes.
Take advantage of the opportunity I have offered you,
the Baroness was telling her.
It is time to get on with the play. You must be the actress now. If you can do that, you might save your life.

It was a chilling message.

Laura took a deep breath, trying to control her racing heart and the thudding in her veins. Never in her life had she been so terrified. All that lay between her and death was this flimsy chance.

She must try anyway. Yawning ostentatiously, she slumped against the pile of musty clothes. “Sleepy,” she muttered apologetically. “So sleepy suddenly…”

She yawned again, a real yawn this time that stretched her mouth so wide it hurt, and sank further into the soft clothes. As she did so, she pulled a lacy bit of blouse over her face in a way that she hoped looked inadvertent. She intended to watch as well as listen, and she didn’t want Lord Torrington to see her alert eyes.

One limb at a time, she willed her muscles to go limp, the way she’d been taught years ago in a yoga class. How strange that those half-forgotten lessons might save her life now. Perhaps there was more to yoga that she had thought.

After a suitable interval while sleep presumably overtook Laura, the Baroness took her cue. “You know this must stop, Charles. It is getting out of hand,” she rebuked, taking a sip of her tea.

Lord Torrington looked astonished. “Of course it will stop, my dear. Very soon, I promise you. I thought you understood that. But I had to do what was necessary to protect us. People who know about us cannot be permitted to speak. We have no choice.”

Laura realized that his voice, even his diction, had changed completely now that he thought she was asleep. He was no longer a typical country gentleman who mumbled in short “barks”, but a sophisticated man with a clipped upper-class accent and a mellifluous voice that would have enhanced any Shakespearean role.

“Antonia could never keep her thoughts to herself under pressure, and Roger was a weakling,” he went on. “I dared not take a chance. It is not difficult to arrange accidents when you know how, but I was damned lucky that this one worked as well as it did. One can never be quite sure until afterward, which is a nuisance.”

How cold-blooded he sounded! Laura tried not to shudder. So Lord Torrington
had engineered the van’s crash, probably by tinkering with the brakes as Roger said. She peeked at the Baroness and saw that she was startled. Maybe she hadn’t thought of that possibility.

The grande dame’s surprise showed for only an instant. “And the others?” she prompted.

“Damned cook was trying to blackmail us,” Lord Torrington burst out, reverting to his bark-like speech in his agitation. “Can’t have that! Had to be stopped. Would have stopped it myself but Morris gave her a good push first. He liked that sort of thing. It did the trick, too. Great help, that, since I didn’t have to. Morris was a menace with that knife of his, but he had his uses. Still, he had to go in the end.”

He glanced at Laura, now supine on the floor, before he continued. “We had to get rid of him. You know how volatile he was.” His tone was persuasive and entirely reasonable. “Morris knew too damned much about everything, and he could wriggle information out of Antonia like a snake charmer. He would have blackmailed us as well if I had given him the chance. Stewart is hopeless at that sort of thing and so was Roger, under all that bluster, and Antonia didn’t even want to hear about it. So I had to. No choice.”

He shook his head sadly, appealing to her. “I don’t like it, you know, but it simply had to be done. Morris was a devil,” he added. The venom in his voice made Laura cringe.

“And once it starts it’s hard to stop,” the Baroness murmured, so softly Laura barely made out the words. “I should have realized that for you it would be like an addiction.” For an instant, her face was desolate.

“Nonsense,” Lord Torrington repeated, reverting again to his country speech. “That’s the lot, I should think. No need for any more after today, and that will be over soon. So cheer up, darling girl. After this, everything will go back to normal.

“Except better, much better.” His tone was unabashedly cheerful, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Plenty of money, an excellent stable, valuable art collection. Paintings hardly hurt at all. In the back, tied in. Antonia was always good about that.

“All ours again, too,” he added triumphantly. “Adrian left them to you in his will, m’ dear, did you know that? Solicitor told me in confidence. Poor man – shot in the chest as well as hit on the head, so he didn’t last long.”

He smiled affectionately at the Baroness. “No more nosy guests, either,” he added with a snort of disdain. “Still, I rather liked the American woman over there. Thomas too; he was a great help to start with. Showed up Antonia at least. Too bad they have to go.”

The Baroness didn’t respond directly. "The tea is very bitter,” she commented instead, taking another sip. “I feel remarkably sleepy.” Suiting action to words, she closed her eyes. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to look at him any more, Laura thought with sympathy.

Lord Torrington looked uncomfortable. “Never could fool you, could I? Sorry about that, my dear. But I couldn’t let your tender feelings get in the way now. There is too much at stake to take any chances.”

He indicated her cup. “I only put a small amount in yours. You’ll soon be right as rain again.”

Alarm shot thorough Laura. That meant Lord Torrington wasn’t getting a very strong dose of whatever it was. She had hoped he would soon be incapacitated or at least weakened.

The Baroness didn’t answer. Laura stole another look at her and saw that her eyes were still closed and her face devoid of expression.

Lord Torrington stood up. “Time to finish up. Won’t take long,” he assured the unresponsive Baroness.

Crossing the room, he hauled Laura to her feet and grabbed her under the shoulders. Still feigning unconsciousness, she let him pull her out the door to the stairs. Clumsily, she let one foot slide after the other as he half-lifted, half-dragged her down one step at a time, grunting with the effort. Maybe she could wear him out, Laura thought desperately. Unobtrusively, she allowed her feet to tangle in the banister, then wished she hadn’t when one of them got stuck and he yanked it out with rough impatience.

Where was everyone anyway? Surely someone had heard their noisy progress down the stairs. And then she remembered. No one else was here. Thomas was probably still with the police, Nigel and Catherine were in the woods looking for suitable sculpting stones and Mrs. Murphy was no doubt sleeping off her own cup of drugged tea. Even Angelina was away, so another unexpected rescue from that quarter wasn’t going to materialize.

Laura decided the circumstances were dire enough to mention that Antonia was alive. If she wanted to live, she had no other option. “Talked to Antonia,” she mumbled, trying to make her voice sound drugged. “Didn’t die…talking…police…”

Lord Torrington stiffened. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

Laura frowned, as if unable to think clearly. “Thomas… Thomas said…”

“Thomas told you? Damnation!” Lord Torrington grabbed her arm so tightly that Laura cried out. “Down!” he ordered, and dragged her toward the last flight of stairs. Laura let him propel her awkwardly down, certain that if she didn’t he would simply push her instead. She thought she heard quiet footsteps behind them. The Baroness?

The front door was already open and Lord Torrington pushed her through. Thomas’s car was parked just in front of it. The motor was purring and Thomas was lying motionless on the back seat. Laura’s heart sank. He must have come back, and Lord Torrington had found him. What had he done to him? How was she to get out of whatever it was he planned to do next with Thomas unconscious or even dead?

She tried again. “No point,” she muttered. “They know…police waiting… over there…” Vaguely she pointed into the trees, wishing that her bluff was true.

Lord Torrington peered into the woods. There was no sign of movement, not even an unusual shape. He yanked her upright. “A bluff,” he said furiously. “Always knew you were too smart for your own good.”

Viciously he shoved her into the front seat. Laura’s head cracked hard against the steering wheel, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. Then the car started moving and she jerked herself upright.

She froze, horrified. The car was pointing straight down the hill toward the big tree at the bottom, the one that Lord Torrington feared had fallen over and brought down the telephone wires.

The car gathered speed as it careened down the hill. Grabbing the wheel, Laura yanked with all her strength. It was useless. The steering was broken. She pumped on the brakes instead. Maybe if she brought the car to a screeching halt it would swerve. The brakes didn’t work either. She tried the handbrake, but that had been disabled too. Desperate, she flung the door wide open. Maybe she could jump out, open the back door and haul Thomas out somehow. Could she do it in time? Do it at all?