Laura shuddered. “I suppose you gave Thomas just a little tap, too,” she inserted. “Twice, if I remember correctly.”
Roger bristled. “I only do what I’m told. I didn’t really hurt him, only knocked him out for a bit. Morris was supposed to finish him off that second time, once he’d talked, not me.”
Laura frowned, wondering why Antonia was letting Roger speak so freely. The answer came quickly. So far Roger was only incriminating himself.
“I suppose you were told to drug Lottie as well,” Thomas said to Roger, but Laura noticed that his eyes were on Antonia now.
“I didn’t do that either,” Roger muttered, with a guilty glance at Antonia. “It wasn’t me,” he repeated. “That was her id -”
“Shut up!” Antonia interrupted furiously. “Can’t you see they’re just trying to get you to talk so you incriminate yourself? I don’t want you to talk anymore. No more, do you understand?”
“Now that your name is under discussion, his wagging tongue must be stopped,” Thomas observed sardonically, confirming Laura’s thought. “But you did drug Lottie. And me, so you could search my room. We found the sleeping pills ground up as face powder on your dressing table. Horrible things. Made me fuzzy for days.”
Antonia stiffened. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I drug Lottie?”
“So that when she reappeared from the dead, so to speak, the others would think there hadn’t been a body after all. That way, no one would know that Marie had been murdered. Very clever, actually.”
“Until you thought Lottie really was dead,” Laura observed. “That must have been a shock. If she had died of a drug overdose, you would be charged with murder.”
“But she didn’t and I wasn’t,” Antonia taunted, and Laura felt her spurt of hope evaporate. A woman who could flawlessly execute an art heist as complicated as this one, managing even small details such as cut telephone wires, wasn’t likely to let a reluctant Roger bungle the job of silencing them.
Antonia’s words confirmed her fears. “Enough,” she snapped. “Everything you’ve said is pure speculation, and I shall make sure you don’t last long enough to tell anyone about your pretty little theories anyway.”
Her expression changed as she turned to Roger. “Well,” she said softly, letting her long-lashed eyes linger lovingly on his face, “we’ve got all the paintings, haven’t we, darling. I’ll wait in the van while you finish up here.”
Smiling lazily at Roger, she lifted her arms and stretched voluptuously, so that her breasts were clearly outlined against the thin silk of her shirt. Roger goggled at her and began visibly to sweat.
She blew him a kiss and walked slowly toward the door. “They’re all yours, Roger dear,” she called back in her sweetest tone. “I’ll be waiting for you. And then…” She let the sentence dangle and smiled seductively.
Roger swallowed hard and licked his lips. “Wait!” he exclaimed urgently. “Maybe it would be better if you did it,” he added tentatively. “I mean…”
“Darling! Are you getting cold feet?” Antonia stopped beside the door, a trace of impatience on her face. “What you have to do, Roger dearest, is to think of us basking on a beach somewhere warm, or perhaps - ”
She stopped abruptly as a car door slammed. The unexpected sound was jarring. A voice piped up, a very familiar voice.
“Can I pour out the milk for him? Mama never let me have a puppy, but now I’ve already got Muffin, and she can’t give him back, can she?”
Angelina’s childlike question was so incongruous in the midst of Antonia’s sadistic plotting that all of them froze.
“Oh my God,” Thomas muttered. “I told Mrs. Paulson she could come back any time after eleven. I was sure I’d have Adrian in handcuffs and out of here by that time.”
“Maybe they won’t come in here,” Laura said hopefully, but at just that moment, she heard the clipped sound of a dog’s toenails trotting along the uncarpeted hall to the gallery. Other feet followed, Angelina’s feet.
“You better bring the puppy back in here,” Mrs. Paulson warned from the kitchen. “The doctor won’t want him peeing on the rugs.”
Angelina giggled from the study. “He already has.” The puppy burst into the gallery, wagging its tail frantically, and went to sniff at Adrian’s prone form.
“What’s Uncle Adrian doing on the floor?” Angelina asked from the door. “Is he hurt?” She ran after the puppy and knelt down beside Adrian.
“Angelina, I want you to go back to Mrs. Paulson,” Antonia said. Her voice had a strangled sound. Laura saw that she had hidden the gun behind her.
“Right now, Angelina!” she ordered, but there was no authority in the command. There never was when she spoke to Angelina. It was as if she had no idea how to deal with someone she couldn’t manipulate, even when that person was her own child.
Stewart’s child, too, Laura remembered suddenly. Where was Stewart?
“If you’re a good girl and go back to Mrs. Paulson with the puppy right away, you can keep him,” Antonia offered, resorting to bribery. Angelina didn’t cooperate. Instead, she got up and went to her mother.
“Why are you holding a gun?” she asked. “Roger has one too. Can I see it, Roger?” She reached out a hand.
“Don’t give it to her,” Antonia snapped. “I… I mean, we are playing a game,” she told Angelina with an oddly pleading glance at Roger. “We’re almost finished. You take the puppy back to the kitchen now, and I’ll come in a few minutes and explain.”
Angelina regarded her solemnly; then she turned to Laura. “Will you come with me? I’ll go if she can come with me,” she told her mother.
“Laura has to stay for just a few more minutes.” Antonia said weakly.
Angelina went to stand beside Laura, close enough to touch her. “I don’t like it here, with Uncle Adrian on the floor and Mama has a gun,” she said tremulously, pressing her pudgy body against Laura. “It’s all wrong. I want you to come with me.” Blinking hard, she bit her lip and looked down at the floor.
“Let’s ask your mother if I can come with you,” Laura said gently. She wished she could reach out to reassure Angelina, but she dared not reveal the fact that her hands were free, not just yet.
“Can she come with me now?” Angelina didn’t look at her mother but kept her eyes firmly on the floor.
Antonia stood perfectly still. A series of expressions crossed her face: shock, disbelief and then capitulation. She seemed to shake herself, and when she spoke her voice was perfectly controlled. “Roger and I will go back to the manor now,” she announced. “We will finish our game another time.”
She turned to her daughter. “I’ll see you there later, Angelina. As soon as I have gone, Laura can come with you.” She walked slowly to the door and lingered there for a moment, to look back at her daughter, at the room, as if memorizing the scene of a failure so she wouldn’t repeat it.
“Bye, Mama,” Angelina said nonchalantly. Stooping, she picked up the puppy. “I’m going to give Muffin his milk now,” she told Laura. “You have to come with me, though, okay?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Laura promised. She rose and shook out her arms ostentatiously, both of them, and decided she would never again enjoy anything so much as the look of incredulity on Antonia’s face.
“Maybe you should come too, Thomas,” she added silkily. Taking his cue, he stood up, his limp arm hanging free by his side. At the same time, Laura drew out the knife and let it dangle tantalizingly from her fingers.
Antonia gave a small yelp of dismay and her face turned white. Laura smiled at her. “It was knocked out of Morris’s hand when the horse kicked him up on the moor. I picked it up because I thought it might be useful.”
Antonia shot her a glance filled with loathing and walked stiffly away.
“See you later,” Laura called to her retreating back. “Though in rather different circumstances, considering what we know,” she added with a theatrical sigh that rivaled Antonia’s own. �
��Still, I understand that some of the jails in this country are quite comfortable.”
Antonia turned again, and now her face was dark with rage. Laura thought she was going to bring out the gun and shoot her, despite Angelina’s presence. With a visible effort, Antonia controlled herself. Without speaking, she walked slowly out the door, her demeanor once more imperturbable.
Laura started after her. Antonia and Roger would vanish as fast as they could with their precious cargo of paintings. They had to be stopped.
Thomas had the same thought. Grabbing the knife from her hand, he picked up the plaster bust she had left on the floor and charged out of the room. She ran after him, ignoring Angelina’s furious protests. To her relief, Mrs. Paulson appeared behind the child and guided her gently into the kitchen.
Thomas gave a flying leap toward the car just as its engine turned over, and slashed the nearest tire. A loud hissing noise followed; he slashed the next one, rolling to avoid being run over as Roger gunned the engine. Then he flung the bust at the window on the driver’s side. Laura heard glass shatter as the van roared away, its rear end sagging almost to the ground. It wouldn’t get far, she thought with satisfaction.
The bust was in pieces at her feet, and for the first time she saw who it was, or had been. Adrian, she realized, or what was left of him. His sightless eyes stared up at her. She hoped that wasn’t symbolic.
The sound of a loud crash startled her. The van! It had come to rest against a tree where the road turned sharply. She turned to tell Thomas but he was already running back to the house.
Mrs. Paulson met him half-way and pressed a small instrument into his hand. “The doctor has one of these newfangled contraptions,” she said disapprovingly. “Don’t like them myself, but I suppose they come in handy.
“I’ve called that number you gave me already,” Mrs. Paulson went on calmly. “The line’s a bit crackly but I told the police to come right away.”
She turned to Laura. “Wasn’t hard to see that something was wrong around here,” she said, shaking her head. “Once I saw that van and had a peek inside, I knew, anyway. The doctor’s been acting ever so strange these last weeks, always staring at those paintings, and his poor wife, dead so sudden you know, and I couldn’t help but wonder. That’s why I spoke to Mr. Thomas here. Heard he was a detective and all that.
“I called Dr. MacDonald, too,” she added complacently to Thomas. “He’s the doctor. I’ll have a look at Dr. Banbury now, poor soul, if that’s all right with you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Paulson. You’re a gem.” Thomas punched in some numbers.
Laura shivered and moved closer to his warmth. “I’m glad that’s over,” she said fervently.
Thomas sent her a quizzical look. “Not all over, I fear,” he said, and began to issue crisp instructions into the phone.
Laura straightened. He was right. There were still missing pieces to this puzzle. The answers, she knew, could only be found at Torrington Manor.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Laura crept quietly up the three flights of stairs to the attic. The box room, she was sure, would provide answers to some of her remaining questions. The others, she hoped, would come from Antonia and Roger. They had emerged almost unscathed from the crash, and the police had been there to greet them. Thomas insisted, however, that everyone at the manor be told that they had been killed.
“Do not divulge the fact that they are alive unless there are no other options,” he had warned her. Laura wasn’t sure why he was so insistent, but she had no intention of giving the secret away. So far Antonia had sat stony-faced, saying nothing, but being in police custody had shifted Roger’s loquacity into high gear. He was spouting like a faucet. Interestingly, he swore that the van had crashed because someone had tampered with the brakes, not because of flat tires or lack of skill on his part.
The crowded box room almost defeated Laura before she began to look. Old trunks, cardboard boxes, packing cases of all sizes were piled in every available space. Laura decided to start at the back and move forward on the theory that what she was looking for would be well hidden. She was right. At the very back of the room at the bottom of a pile of heavy boxes she finally discovered what she sought. A glossy photograph of the young woman in the painting above the sideboard stared up at her when she pried the box open. Below it were more photos and best of all, London theater programs, and the reviews that had followed the performances.
Laura sat down and dug into the piles of papers. Slowly, bits of the story began to emerge – Charlotte Gramercy's successes, her marriage at the height of her career to a young European Baron who had been the catch of the season, the trips to Monte Carlo and other glamorous places, but there was nothing, at least so far, to tell Laura why it had all ended. It seemed a fairy story, one that must have gone bad, but why?
Another photograph fell from the box, instantly recognizable as a much younger Lord Torrington playing Julius Caesar. According to the reviews, he had been a fine actor. He certainly had the voice, Laura thought, and found she could easily imagine him in that commanding role.
A clipping about two English actors making a living in France was attached. One was called Charles Morrison, the other Barkeley Smythington. That must be Lord Torrington! No wonder he was so good at playing his present role. She peered at the accompanying photographs. Oddly, the one called Charles Morrison looked more like Lord Torrington than the other, though it was hard to be certain since both men were in costume and stage make-up. Perhaps the writer of the article had mixed the two men up.
A slight noise behind her made her look up sharply. She rose to her feet and saw Mrs. Murphy, the new cook, standing in the doorway.
“Hello,” Laura said, unable to think of anything else to say. Mrs. Murphy didn’t answer. She only looked at Laura coldly, and then sighed.
“It takes all types, doesn’t it?” she asked rhetorically. “Well, she warned me - the Baroness that is - but she said it was all right. I’m not just going to take her word for it, though. I’m here to make sure.” Planting her hands on her hips, she sent Laura a threatening glare that made her blood run cold.
“Perhaps you had better explain what you mean,” Laura said faintly.
“What I mean is that if you give her away, I’ll…I’ll…” Mrs. Murphy’s voice failed her and to Laura’s astonishment, tears came into her eyes.
“Mrs. Murphy,” Laura said gently, “I have no intention of doing anything that would hurt the Baroness, if that is what you mean. I think she is one of the finest people I have ever met.”
Mrs. Murphy wiped her eyes with her apron. “That she is, and it is good of you to say so, Miss. Not everyone understands. But I still can’t just…”
“Can’t just take it on faith that I can be trusted?” Laura ventured, and Mrs. Murphy nodded.
“You know her well, then,” Laura went on, wondering how that was possible even as she realized it must be so.
Mrs. Murphy’s face changed, and a dreamy look came into her fierce eyes. “I was her dresser, you see, all those years. Every piece of clothing she wore I fixed for her, got her into them and out of them and my, sometimes we had to move so fast I hardly got her buttoned. Been with her ever since, but for the last few years, when I had to go tend my sister. Dying of cancer, but now I wish I hadn’t gone. Still, I came back as soon as I could. I pretended to answer that ad in the paper, but the Baroness and I had it all fixed up ahead. Just don’t tell Antonia who you really are, she told me.”
Mrs. Murphy paused, smiling at the memory. “You should have seen the look on Lord Torrington’s face when he saw me. He didn’t give me away, though. Great actor, he was, still is, if you ask me. Antonia never guessed. I shouldn’t have left, though, in the first place. Look what happened! That dreadful woman, and all her terrible schemes, and I wasn’t here to help my poor lady -”
“But why didn’t the Baroness just stop her?” Laura interrupted. “Why did she let Antonia come here in the first place?”
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br /> Mrs. Murphy sent her another threatening look. “I’m not telling you that but if you find out - and you probably will because you’ll snoop around until you do - I want a promise, a promise on your mother’s grave that you won’t talk,” she said fiercely.
An unexpected voice came from the door. “Murphy Darling, don’t take on so. It’s all right.” The Baroness entered the room and put her arms around Mrs. Murphy’s tense shoulders. “I’m sure we can trust Laura not to say anything. After all, she’s been a great help already, hasn’t she?”
Mrs. Murphy glowered at Laura. “She better not talk,” she muttered, and sat down on a packing case in front of the Baroness. She reminded Laura of one of those fierce little terriers who plant themselves in front of a beloved mistress, ready to leap at the throat of anyone foolish enough to come too close.
The Baroness sat down beside her and gestured for Laura to find a seat too. “As you have already discovered,” she began without preamble, “I was once an actress. I was aware from the beginning that you were puzzled by my familiarity and that you would try to ascertain its source. You are a woman who seeks answers.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips before she went on. “I decided, therefore, to let you discover the facts for yourself and then to tell you my story in the hope that you will keep my secrets - our secrets, I should say, for they involve others as well. Under the circumstances, it seemed the only sensible course of action.”
Laura nodded dumbly, too mesmerized by her presence to speak. Even sitting on a cardboard box, the Baroness was commanding, awe-inspiring. It seemed impossible to Laura that she hadn’t recognized her sooner – until she recalled that Charlotte Gramercy was one of the finest actresses the London stage had ever known and could probably fool anyone at any time, if she chose.
“I only saw you once,” she said softly, “as Ophelia. It was a performance I have never forgotten.”
The Baroness nodded graciously, accepting the compliment. She looked down at the floor of the cluttered box room, thinking, remembering, and when she resumed her story, she spoke not as herself but as an observer, as if distancing herself from memories that were still too raw to confront directly. Her voice changed too; it was still grave and memorable, but now it was beautiful as well, deep and warm, vibrant with passion and intensity. Laura sat motionless, enthralled.
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