Walking Into Murder

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  As soon as they had finished, the Baroness stood up. “We had better do the preliminaries before the food, if one can call it that, puts both of you to sleep. Who would like to go first?”

  “I believe Angelina has already appropriated that honor,” Laura replied, regarding the child with amusement. Her lips were deep red, her skin olive, at least in the patches where grease hadn’t turned it still darker, and a black wig hung lopsidedly on her head. She was at that moment penciling her eyebrows to match her new hair color.

  Catherine grinned. “So that’s why she didn’t object to washing up.”

  “Makeup does not adhere well to dirt, as Angelina knows,” the Baroness explained. “Grease, of course, is quite different,” she added gravely.

  Her face sobered as she turned her full attention first to Catherine, and then to Laura. Presumably, Laura thought, she was doing her visualization. The critical gaze seemed to peel layers from her face and even her mind, and she shifted uneasily. It was liked being examined under a microscope.

  Finally the Baroness nodded. “I believe I have it,” she said, and her lips curved in an almost diabolical smile. “You may not like the results, but I assure you, the transformation will be complete.”

  ***********

  Laura stared at the woman in the mirror. An expensively dressed but harassed-looking woman she didn’t recognize stared back. She looked French, perhaps German, but she was definitely not American. Perhaps it was the cut of her clothes or the way she wore her hair, twisted expertly into a severe bun at the back of her neck. She wore a lot of discreetly applied makeup and elegant tinted glasses, and held a fashionable purse. She had a slight frown that seemed permanently fixed to her face. She was not a very pleasant woman, Laura decided, nor was she a happy one.

  Her gaze shifted to the girl standing beside her. She was about fourteen, and her pale face had a scrubbed look, as if she had just been ordered to wash it thoroughly. Dark pigtails hung down her back, and she wore a schoolgirl skirt and blouse, white socks and lace-up shoes. Her hazel eyes were sulky, and her mouth had a petulant look – or it did until she started to laugh.

  “You look like the ultimate conservative worried Maman,” she chortled to the mirror. “Ghastly! I bet you’ve never unbent an inch in your life!”

  “And you look like the ultimate spoiled and bratty schoolgirl,” Laura shot back.

  “I look horrible,” Catherine agreed, giving the word a French accent. “I’m going to act horrible too. I shall make your life a misery.”

  “Moi aussi,” Angelina agreed, getting into the spirit of the game. “Je suis un enfant terrible!” Suiting action to words, she flung herself onto the floor and began to scream and pound her fists.

  “Mon dieu!” Laura exclaimed in mock horror, turning to the Baroness. “Qu'est-que vous avez fait, Madame? Deux enfants terribles?”

  Her French came out easily, she was glad to note. She’d read Levi-Strauss in French in graduate school, so it ought to. She hadn’t agreed with him in French any more than she had in English. Anthropologists at that time were invariably men, Victorian ones at that, and they saw what they expected to see in other cultures, like dominant men and subservient women, and prostitutes instead of priestesses. Thank heaven all that nonsense was finally discredited.

  The Baroness raised her eyebrows expressively, a gesture Laura was coming to know well. “You will pass as Madame Merlin. Your French is quite good,” she approved.

  “When people fail to recognize themselves, I know I have succeeded,” she went on with a ghost of a smile, “but you must keep looking at yourselves so you know who you are now. Then it is easier to act the part.”

  Obediently, Laura and Catherine stared at themselves again. The Baroness hadn’t let them watch while she worked on them, and the results were still a shock. Laura was astonished at what makeup could accomplish, at least in expert hands. The slight tilt at the end of her nose had been eliminated by putty so that the nose now looked long and pointed; her cheeks were flatter, her mouth thinner and framed by deep lines. As a result, her whole expression had changed, or she hoped it had changed. She wouldn’t want to look like this all the time. There was plenty of self-absorption but little humor in the woman in the mirror, nor much generosity, if she was any judge.

  “If I wish to do a total transformation,” the Baroness had said, “I take what is least characteristic of the individual and make it obvious. When I succeed, the person is almost unrecognizable, even to themselves.”

  That was certainly true of Catherine. All her lightness and fluidity were gone, her bravery and her rebelliousness. She looked stolid, uninteresting, and not very bright. In part, that was because her distinctive green eyes were concealed behind brownish lenses, but changes in the shape of her eyes and face had an even greater effect. There was nothing cat-like about Catherine now, and Laura wished she could have the old one back. She was much more fun than Patrice would be.

  Angelina had insisted on being transformed, too, before she went to visit what Laura gathered was a favorite playmate, and her grandmother had complied. She had elaborated on Angelina’s earlier efforts, though removing the worst excesses, and the child was now a small boy with olive skin and long dark bangs that fell into his eyes, conveniently concealing their blueness. He wore a navy sailor suit with short pants.

  The Baroness rummaged through a cardboard box and came up with a hat to match. It had an elastic band that went under the chin. “There,” she said, placing it on Angelina’s head and affixing the band. “Now the wig will stay on better, too.”

  Angelina snapped the band experimentally. “That hurts!” she wailed.

  “Then don’t do it again,” her grandmother replied calmly. “You can look in the toy bin now. A boy in a sailor suit should have some toys.”

  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'appe
lle 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 S
cotsman 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.