Walking Into Murder

by JOAN DAHR LAMBERT

  “Many years ago,” the Baroness began softly, “a young woman called Charlotte came to London, looking for work as an actress. The classics were her goal, especially Shakespeare, the great bard whose understanding of human nature has never been surpassed and from whom she learned all she needed to know of people and their ways.

  “Unlike so many others she succeeded in the theatre. What they saw in her she has never fully understood, but simply accepted as a gift. The praise flowed, the flowers and the champagne, the offers of marriage, of more and better roles, of movie contracts and plays written just for her, but she was seldom tempted. She wanted Shakespeare still, and later Ibsen, a few other classicists. She seemed to know even then that if she diverged from the path she had set herself, disaster would follow. And so it did.”

  Laura’s stomach clenched. She was about to hear, finally, the rest of the story she had sought, but now she wasn’t sure she wanted it. She knew already that the telling, and the listening, would be painful.

  The Baroness made no effort to spare herself, or Laura. On and on her voice went, mesmerizing in its intensity, describing Charlotte, the roles she had played, the cities that had welcomed her, the people who had lavished gifts and attention and praise upon her. At first her story was inspiring, a tale of hard-earned praise and success, but gradually Charlotte’s faults, the arrogance she began to develop, the expectation of adulation, were laid out too, as if for renewed examination.

  Murphy remained always at her side, barring the door with fierce protectiveness to unwanted admirers, reluctantly admitting others when Charlotte insisted. “A redheaded terror from Yorkshire,” the Baroness said, her voice taking on a Yorkshire lilt, and Laura saw Murphy’s thin lips curve in a proud smile that was quickly tucked away.

  Above the words, seeming to float in her own clear atmosphere, as objective as she was painful or amused or joyous in turn, was the Baroness of today, a woman so schooled by life that she had no need anymore to act. She had only to understand, to assess, and then to watch as others played the roles she assigned them, never suspecting they were being manipulated by her unseen hands, hands that knew, as her mentor Shakespeare had known, all there was to know of human folly and greatness.

  Laura sighed without knowing that the small burst of air had been expelled. She understood now what had mystified her most of all: that the Baroness was the unseen puppeteer she had sensed when she sat captive in the kitchen of the cottage. Power dwelt in those skillful hands – too much power perhaps?

  A niggling doubt crept into Laura’s mind. Was Antonia really the brains behind the art forgeries? Maybe the Baroness was the actual leader but had manipulated them into suspecting Antonia. And now the Baroness believed that Antonia was dead.

  “Charlotte’s most persistent admirer was Baron Zorolaskowitz,” the Baroness went on. “We called him Zorro to tease him, but he was not amused. That should have warned Charlotte, and perhaps it did, but she did not want the knowledge.”

  For a moment her voice faltered. Then it went on steadily to tell how Charlotte was finally won over by the handsome young Baron, by his charm and sophistication, his desire for her, his fervent promises of eternal adoration. Why not some personal happiness? Charlotte had asked herself. Others have it, why should I not?

  So she had yielded to his entreaties, had married him and then been forced to watch as his attention flagged and his adoration faded into petulance. Weary of her fame, her constant absences, the very absences he had assured her would only enhance the passion of their reunions, and jealous of the demands made by her career and the attention paid to her by others, he drifted slowly into dissipation and drink, gambling away first his money and then hers.

  Laura felt tears prick her eyes for the young woman who had known all along in some deep part of herself that this would happen but for whom the enactment must still have been so intensely painful. It wasn’t an unusual story, she supposed, but in the grande dame’s exquisite telling it had all the elements of tragedy. But then, Shakespeare’s plays told ordinary tales, too – a jealous husband who killed his wife, lovers separated, men and women of overreaching ambition or fatal attraction to the wrong person. The words, the manner of delivery gave them epic proportions, and a profound understanding of the human mind and heart, with all their tragic flaws.

  Did the Baroness, too, have a tragic flaw – the flaw of overweening pride – hubris, the Greeks had called it – so that she believed she was justified in deciding other peoples’ fates? Who should live and who should die…

  Unexpectedly, the Baroness smiled, and Laura felt suddenly comforted. Her persistent feeling of unease began to dissipate as the next part of the story unfolded. How could a woman like the grande dame be a criminal?

  “But there was Lucy,” the Baroness was saying, “my darling Lucy. She was my younger sister, far more beautiful than I and as kind and playful as I was hard and watchful, as irreverent as I was over-serious. For Charlotte had become those things, though at the time she did not know it. She went to France to rest and to think what to do, and Lucy came there to console her. In doing so she helped Charlotte to recover, so she could act again, and that truly was a joy, for now she knew better how to keep the arrogance at bay. No one could be arrogant with Lucy watching.

  “Lucy met her husband there, a Frenchman as kind as she was herself and even more gentle. Too gentle perhaps,” she added with a touch of asperity that might have made Laura laugh had she not been so enthralled.

  “We were happy together, Murphy and Charlotte and Lucy and her husband, and then Nigel came along…” The Baroness’s voice faltered, and a look of inexpressible sorrow crept slowly across her face. Laura waited, tense with horror for the disaster she knew must come. It was in the form of a car accident. Lucy’s husband was driving; Lucy was beside him, Charlotte and Nigel were in the back. When they were finally extricated from the wreckage, only the baby, Nigel, was unscathed. Lucy and her husband were dead, and Charlotte had multiple fractures and burns across much of her body. Her young husband did not come to her nor did anyone else, only the faithful Murphy. Nigel went into her care, and so did Charlotte, once she came out of the hospital.

  “There was one other,” the Baroness continued softly, speaking as herself again now that the tragedy was over. “His name was Charles then, although you know him as Lord Torrington.”

  Laura stiffened. Charles, not Barkeley. How could that be? A frisson of fear crept up her spine. Maybe the article she had found on the moor wasn’t wrong, if the man named Charles Morrison was now Lord Torrington. What had happened to Barkeley Smythington? With that name, surely he was the rightful heir. Where was he now?

  “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 de
al 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 dam
e 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…”