Walking Into Murder (4 page)

“No need to say the whole name,” the Baron assured her as he poured himself another generous drink. “Can’t get the tongue around it – trips you up, doncherno. Dropped the Witherspoon anyway. A bit too common for a Baron, I fear.” A melancholy look came into his face. “Too bad, rather liked that part of the family. More common sense than most.”

He brightened. “Wonder if that’s why they call them commoners?” He turned to Thomas and Laura with an inquiring gaze.

Laura knew exactly what he meant, and Thomas apparently did too. “I’d never thought about common sense and commoners, but you could be right,” he said dryly.

The lord of the house nodded. “Yes. Now, where was I? Introductions - that was it.”

He turned to Laura again. “If Bark is too informal,” he advised her, “you can always try Lord Torrington. That’s what the Brits call Barons.”

“Thank you, Lord Torrington,” Laura answered. She put her drink down on a table. “Now that we have been introduced,” she stated in her firmest professorial tone, “I feel it is necessary to tell you that there really is a dead body in the green room. I want to make certain the police have been notified, or a doctor. I feel responsible since I was the one who discovered her.”

Lord Torrington spun around, spilling whisky as he turned. “A dead body?” he croaked. “But I thought it was all that bloody game of Nigel’s, the one he’s going to do next year. Solve the mystery, or some such nonsense.

“The tourists will love it, though,” he added, brightening.

“It appears not to be a game,” Thomas answered. “A woman called Lottie seems to be dead.” He was watching Lord Torrington carefully, and for the first time it occurred to Laura that his persistent jocularity might be a way of covering his real thoughts. Could he be an investigator of some kind? On the other hand, he could just as easily be the killer. In either case, he must know more than he was saying about the woman’s death. After all, he had told her someone might be killed.

But that was all he’d told her. Laura regarded him appraisingly. He had managed to avoid answering a single question about himself, which meant she would have to find out what she wanted to know on her own. One good thing about an academic career was the ability to do background research. She saw no reason why those skills couldn’t be applied to other kinds of investigations.

The Englishman set down the decanter carefully, looking dumbfounded. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Who would want to harm Lottie?”

He frowned. “Surely she didn’t, I mean she wasn’t unhappy enough… Angelina can be a trial, but surely that’s not…

“Are you sure she’s dead?” he demanded abruptly.

Laura looked at Thomas. Were they sure? She hadn’t felt for a pulse or checked for a heartbeat.

She had underestimated Thomas. “I checked,” he said curtly. “There was no pulse or heartbeat that I could find, and she was already cold.”

So that was what he had been doing. Laura sank down on the nearest chair. “That is why I must make sure the police have been contacted,” she repeated. “Enough time has already been wasted.” Spotting a phone on the desk, she forced herself up again. “Is there a special number for the police?”

Lord Torrington didn’t seem to hear her question. Turning away, he poured himself another drink and downed it in a gulp, then poured another. He looked dazed, uncomprehending.

“I’ll look,” Thomas said, and rummaged in the desk for a directory.

Laura dialed the number he gave her. “It doesn’t seem to work,” she reported. “Perhaps I’m doing something wrong.”

Thomas took the receiver from her and listened. “That’s because there is no dial tone,” he informed her. His voice was neutral, his face closed.

He turned to the Englishman, who seemed lost in thought. “Lord Torrington,” he said loudly, “we seem unable to get through on this line. Is there another telephone?”

Lord Torrington jumped. “Telephone? You want a telephone? Damned nuisance, those instruments. Ring at you every time you fall asleep, and then all you get is some fool at the other end.”

“We need one now to call the police,” Laura reminded him.

“Give it to me,” he retorted, and grabbed the receiver. He listened intently. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed, looking pleased. “No dial tone.” His face saddened. “Old tree’s finally gone,” he said mournfully. “All this rain too much for it.”

Laura frowned. What did a tree have to do with the telephone?

“Ah,” said Thomas. “You mean a tree has fallen on the wires and that is why there’s no dial tone?”

Lord Torrington nodded, still looking relieved. Was that because the hated instrument wouldn’t ring and disturb him anymore, or because he didn’t want anyone to call the police? Bad for business, for one thing, to have swarms of police around.

“If the telephone won’t work, perhaps someone could drive to the police station, or get a doctor,” she persisted.

Lord Torrington shook his head. “Road’s flooded,” he told her. “Always underwater when it rains hard. At the bottom of the hill, doncherno. Big dip there. Can’t get a car through, even a truck.”

“And that’s the only way out, I suppose?” Laura queried, without much hope.

“Except on horseback,” Thomas suggested flippantly.

Lord Torrington turned on him. “Can’t take the horses out at this time of night,” he objected in shocked tones. “Might hurt them. Valuable animals!”

Laura sighed. “So we’re stuck here with a dead body and no way to get help.” And, she added silently, she was stuck with two men of unknown trustworthiness, one of whom seemed suspiciously unwilling to call the police, the other about whom she knew absolutely nothing except that he was masquerading as her husband. Either of them could be a killer. It was going to be a very long night.

Nigel appeared in the door, looking even paler than before. He closed the door behind him, and Laura saw that his hands were shaking.

“We tried to call, Gram and I,” he told his father. “Call the police about Lottie, I mean, but we couldn’t get through.”

“Old tree’s finally fallen on the line,” Lord Torrington assured him, sounding quite cheerful. “No use trying.”

Nigel swallowed hard, as if his mouth were too dry to speak. “No,” he said, “not the tree. Someone has…” He swallowed again. “Someone has cut the telephone lines.”

CHAPTER FOUR

No one spoke. Without knowing she had done it, Laura took a large gulp of her drink. She choked, and Thomas patted her absently on the back. She longed, suddenly and irrationally, for a hot shower, for clean clothes. She was still in her muddy hiking socks and even muddier pants, and her untidy state made her feel helpless, unable to cope or even to think. Surely if she could just find her suitcase, have a shower and change her clothes, everything would go back to normal and she would be all right…

A gong sounded, and the door burst open. “I made the sandwiches,” Angelina shouted. “That’s all we have for dinner because cook’s gone and mother doesn’t know how to cook, so we’re to have tea instead, and I’m to help mother serve it, as there’s no butler either. There’s some soup, too, but it’s all vegetables and it’s nasty.

“It’s in the dining room, in half an hour,” Angelina continued, “and Gram says I’m to show you to your rooms right away, and not to be late so the dinner, I mean tea, won’t get cold. Hurry up!” she chastised them when no one moved.

Numbly, Laura followed Angelina out of the room. Thomas followed.

“We were going to put you in the green room before,” Angelina confided,” but my mother decided the blue room would be better since there’s two of you.”

Laura shuddered. She really did want to know more about Thomas, but that didn’t include sharing a room with him. Still, the green room was worse.

The blue room, however, turned out to be two connecting rooms with a bath between. Laura’s mood lifted, and she felt even better when she saw her suitcase in one of the rooms, delivered as promised by the tour company to her next stop. She would have her own room and the longed-for shower would be hers – if a shower existed. Many English bathrooms possessed only tubs, and she had never understood how anyone could take a bath in ten minutes or less, as they always seemed to do in books.

“Do you mind if I go first?” she asked Thomas politely, indicating the bathroom. “I’m such a mess after all that hiking.”

“I guess you are,” Thomas agreed with unflattering honesty. He smiled, making the laugh lines at the sides of his eyes crinkle. “Mess or no, however, I find you utterly bewitching.”

Astonishment rendered Laura speechless, and then, to her horror, she blushed. “Oh,” she mumbled. “Thanks.”

“You are quite welcome,” he replied. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

Laura felt the blush deepening. She fled into the bathroom and shut the door hard behind her. If only she had more experience as a single woman she might know how to interpret remarks like that, or at least learn not to blush like a teenager. He must think she was terribly naïve. She was, too. She had believed him, proving all over again that she knew more about fifty-thousand-year-old men than contemporary ones. No man could find her bewitching in this disreputable state. Donald certainly wouldn’t. He’d said she always looked unkempt, which had infuriated her. She wasn’t really. She just hated the tailored look and refused to wear clothes that made her look like some kind of neatly wrapped package. Like Patti.

Laura flung off her filthy clothes and stepped into the shower, which fortunately did exist. The hot water felt blissful, and she luxuriated in it for as long as she dared. Images of the dead woman came into her mind, but she pushed them away determinedly. There was nothing she could do for the poor woman now except try to find out how she had died and why.

“All yours,” she called through the adjoining door when she finished, and then realized with acute embarrassment that she was clad only in a towel. She didn’t want to think about the remarks that might evoke.

Fortunately, Thomas didn’t answer. Laura scurried into her room and rummaged in her suitcase for clothes. She always brought too much when she traveled because she could never resist stuffing in a few favorite long skirts and brightly colored jackets that might be perfect for some mythical occasion but never were. They certainly weren’t right for this setting. Instead, she pulled out a new purchase, a long dark green dress of some new fabric that was supposed to be wrinkle-free. To her surprise, it was. The slinky stuff fell easily over her head and settled itself smoothly around her.

Laura glanced in the mirror. Not too bad, she decided, except for her hair. There hadn’t been time to wash it and in the high humidity it exploded around her face like an untamed lion’s mane. Or maybe a baboon’s mane, considering the color.

Maybe a bun would work? Smoothing the unruly strands back, Laura pulled it into a rough circle and skewered it with a few gaudy pins. That would have to do. Dabbing on some eye makeup and her favorite pair of dangly earrings to give herself confidence, she knocked again on Thomas’s door to let him know the bathroom was free. There was still no answer.

She found him downstairs, examining some paintings in the study. He too had changed, into a dark blue blazer. She was glad to see a few bulges in the pockets. Perfectly tailored men were too reminiscent of Donald.

“These paintings are lovely,” Thomas told Lord Torrington. “Have you had them cleaned lately?”

Laura wasn’t sure she would describe them as lovely, though they were the type of paintings one expected to find in museums and were probably valuable. The backgrounds were dark and the peasant homes they portrayed were little more than grimy shacks. Still, the people in them had cheerful faces, and she liked the touches of bright color that enlivened their ragged clothes.

Lord Torrington glanced up absent-mindedly at the paintings. “Don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe Antonia did. Look the same as always to me. One of those Dutch painters, you know. Rather good, I’m told, but I’ve never paid much attention to those things.”

Antonia appeared. “Dinner is ready. This way, please.” She sounded like a bored tour guide, Laura thought. Maybe she too was a young wife tiring of her older husband. There were far too many of that species around.

Antonia led them into an impressive dining room. More large pieces of ornate silver covered the tables, and portraits in heavily gilded frames, no doubt portraying Torrington ancestors, decorated the walls. Above the sideboard was a more recent painting of a woman with dark hair and aristocratic features that was almost certainly the grande dame when she was younger. Laura felt a stir of recognition. Hadn’t she seen that face somewhere before? Not the face of the present woman, but the one in the portrait. She stared at it, but couldn’t recall the context in which she’d seen it.

The grande dame, who was clearly their hostess, indicated the proper places for her guests as if this were a four-course gourmet dinner. Clearly informality was not tolerated in the dining room, even with a dead body in the house and cut telephone wires.

“If you will sit there, Mrs. Smith,” she said graciously, indicating a seat beside Lord Torrington, “and you there, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you,” Laura murmured, wishing she knew how to address her hostess properly. Was she Lady Torrington? She couldn’t be, though. That was Antonia, at least Thomas had addressed her as Lady Torrington.

Laura gave up and tackled her soup, trying not to slurp. The spoon, she remembered from long ago lessons, was supposed to go into the bowl from front to back, though how one got it to the mouth from that position without spilling remained a mystery, especially when the soup bowl was encased in a silver tureen that kept getting in the way. Still, the soup was delicious despite Angelina’s disclaimers.

The sandwiches were another matter. They were a varied and ill-assorted lot, some with bits of green that she assumed were watercress, others with a pink paste that might be ham or fish, and a yellow one that might be eggs enhanced by a great deal of mayonnaise. Most of them, however, had a sticky brown substance inside that reminded Laura of the mud she had stared at all day. Both Angelina and Nigel were eating them voraciously, so Laura took a tentative bite. She put the sandwich down again in astonishment. Chocolate! How bizarre!

“If you don’t want it, I’ll have it,” Angelina said, noting that Laura had taken only one bite.

“Angelina, that is not polite,” her mother corrected.

“Yes, mother,” Angelina answered, and coolly grabbed the sandwich from Laura’s plate.

Conversation was desultory. Antonia seemed lost in her own thoughts and so did Lord Torrington. Tom Smith, who was seated beside their hostess, was talking to her about art, a subject both of them seemed to know a lot about.

Their voices suddenly ceased and Laura realized that everyone’s eyes were focused on the door behind her. Antonia gave a sharp cry of fear, and Nigel looked as if he were about to faint. Lord Torrington was open-mouthed with astonishment. Thomas had a glint in his eye that looked almost dangerous. Even the grande dame had lost her steely composure, as if she had no idea how to rise to this particular occasion.

Angelina, as usual, looked mutinous. “You’re dead!” she exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be dead, so you can’t come in here.”

Lord Torrington’s astonishment morphed into triumph. “No dead body, after all,” he said, beaming. “Didn’t see how there could be. Not reasonable, doncherno.”

Belatedly, Laura looked behind her. A duplicate of the woman she had seen on the bed in the green room stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. Her long bony face was suffused with embarrassment.

Lottie rushed toward them. “I am so sorry, Baroness Smythington, so very much sorry that I have not attended to my duties,” she said in an anguished tone, bowing until she had almost prostrated herself at the grande dame’s feet. Her accent was very strong. One of the Scandinavian languages, Laura suspected.

Gratefully, she took note of the name Lottie had used. It was a strange way to find out the proper form of address for her hostess, but she was still glad to know it.

Lottie went on apologizing as if unable to stop. “I do not know what happens to me,” she moaned, stumbling over the words. “One moment I am drinking the tea in my room, and then I am falling down, and I wake up many hours later, but I do not know where I am and what has come over me, and I…”

Abruptly, her voice broke off and she slumped into a chair.

“All right, Lottie,” the Baroness said. “I am sure it was not your fault. I think all of us have been the victims of a very nasty joke.”

Deliberately, one face at a time, she examined each person at the table, including Laura. “I do not know who is responsible for this outrage,” she said severely, “but I intend to find out.” No one met the probing dark eyes. Even Lord Torrington seemed subdued by her gaze.

The old lady rose slowly to her feet. “Shall we take coffee in the study? Antonia, I would be pleased if you would carry the tray from the kitchen.” She turned to Angelina. “There are some petit fours in the sideboard. Perhaps you will bring them?”

Angelina’s face lit up. “Yes, Gram,” she answered meekly. Grabbing the delicacies, she ran ahead of them to the study so she could chew unobserved. The others trooped behind the Baroness, as intimidated as a group of students on their way to the principal’s office.

Coffee was served and Angelina passed the petit fours, taking care to eat one every time she offered the box to someone else. No one seemed to notice except Lottie, who looked too sick and miserable to object and finally excused herself, with many repetitious apologies, to go lie down.

As if by unspoken agreement, no one in the family raised the subject that was uppermost in their minds: Lottie and her miraculous recovery. Laura suspected that the Baroness wouldn’t ask for explanations until her guests had retired for the night.

She was right. “I am sure our guests must be tired,” the Baroness said, rising to her feet. Laura took the hint and stood up too.

“Thank you for the dinner, Baroness Smythington,” she said politely. “Good night, everyone.”

“You go first, darling, and use the bath,” Thomas suggested. “I’ll have a quick look at the weather and be right behind you.”

Laura heard him saying his good nights as she headed down the hall. When he opened the front door to look outside, she heard thunder.
Great,
she told herself,
an even wilder storm as well as everything else.

Exhaustion hit the moment she looked at her bed. It was covered with a thick duvet encased in ivory fabric with tiny blue flowers, and soft pillows with the same pattern invited her to rest her weary head. Laura resisted until she had brushed her teeth and found a nightgown. Then she tumbled under the covers and closed her eyes.

Perversely, sleep wouldn’t come. It often didn’t. Being alone at night was the worst part of being single. She’d become accustomed to a warm body beside her in the bed, even one who had long ago lost his appeal. Why had she married Donald anyway? Sex, she supposed. That was how the species kept going. The impulse to mate was as strong today as it had been thousands of years ago. It kept going even after the job of child-bearing was over. She often wished it didn’t. That empty ache never went away.

Her mind moved on to the day’s events and then drifted to her children. Both were young adults now, but they still worried her. Donald’s defection had come at a terrible time. She had just started a demanding new job; Melinda had decided to get married despite multiple reservations about that patriarchal institution – now unpleasantly confirmed by her father. Mark had been in the sullen throes of adolescent rebellion and had refused to talk about anything. He had seemed most comfortable with Patti, which was hard to take, as were the sympathetic glances from faculty members who assumed that Laura had been ignominiously dumped. In fact, she had intended to ask Donald for a divorce as soon as Mark was a little older and had calmed down, but Donald had stolen her fire. That was what rankled most of all. That and the fact that he had gone straight to Patti’s after his perfidious announcement and stayed out of sight for weeks, leaving her to pay for the infamous dinner.

Laura grinned, remembering her revenge. She had come home from that dinner in a rage so fierce that she had taken every article of Donald’s clothing she could find and tossed each piece triumphantly out the window into the pouring rain. The sight of his soggy trousers, his shirts, socks, ties, shoes and underwear hanging limply from bushes and trees had thrilled her.