I sighed and gazed out the window onto the back lawn. My mind jostled to decide what to believe anymore. I’d once trusted Robert, right? He’d lured me into his web with sweet nothings and soft kisses. I’d been duped before. I shook my head back and forth. Tears stung my eyes. No. Tom was different. I didn’t relish the satisfactory feeling of self-flattery because I’d caught a handsome man’s eye and desires, like I felt with Robert. No, the yearning to be in Tom’s arms was more intense, and in a weird way, more comforting—like coming home.
Speaking of…was that Robert’s voice? I dashed back down the corridor and up the flights of stairs to my room. I barely acknowledged the guards in the hallway. With a hard slam, I shut the door and pulled the armoire into place. I needed time to figure out how to get to Bath and the American Museum. That is where Glenda might be. Surely she was looking for me.
My mind posed the thought. Are you sure, Jen? No, I wasn’t. After all, she relented to let me go above on the barge, just at the right time. Everett had called me to look at the bridge. He and Sally had been extremely accepting of our plight. How many people were involved in this thing?
I slammed the palms of my hands against my ears. No, I can’t accept Glenda or that sweet couple had a part of this whole sordid tale. I chided myself for thinking like a conspiracy theorist gone amuck.
A tap on the door broke my concentration. “Ma’am? Niamh? Can I come in?”
“Not now, Jane. I want to be alone.”
“But, I have fresh sheets, and towels. We have to freshen your room.”
I sighed and shoved the wardrobe back to its original position. My shoulders were beginning to feel the strain, but that was the least of my worries. I opened the door.
Jane entered with another girl who seemed to be in her late teens—mousy and shy, with curly brown hair and skinny legs. She gave me a quick curtsy and shuffled after Jane without ever looking me in the eye.
“Mary suggested you take a walk up in the gardens for a bit while we get this room in order for you. Fresh air might do you good, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Jane. Will I have an escort?”
Her eyes darted to the duvet she folded back.
A shudder dashed through me. Would Robert be waiting in the gardens? A better idea popped into my brain. “Is there a chapel in the manor?”
The mousy girl raised her head. “Oh, yes. It’s in the next wing, on the first floor at the end of the corridor.”
Jane turned to her with a cold stare. The young woman tucked her lips together and shrunk back into shyness.
I stepped between them. “Jane, am I allowed to visit it? I’d like to pray.”
She gathered my sheets into a ball and placed them on the floor. “I suppose so.” She unfolded one of the clean linens.
The younger maid scurried to the other side of the bed in time to catch the snapped edge of the new sheet as it floated over the mattress.
“Very well.” I grabbed a cardigan sweater. “If anyone asks, that’s where I am.”
I walked down the hallway, past one of the minders with my head held high. I released my breath in relief when his footsteps didn’t follow. Without gazing back, I flit down the stairs.
The manor resembled a maze, probably due to additions and renovations over the centuries. I had no idea how many rooms it contained. It had more square feet than any house I’d ever been in, even the oil baron mansions back home on tour at Christmas time. As I wandered, I paused to admire the portraits of some dead relatives in Victorian or Tudor garb, as well as landscape scenes. One of the guards, I couldn’t say who because they were all starting to blend into one for me, stopped beside me.
“Lost?”
I smiled. “Sort of. The maids told me the chapel was down here.”
He snorted a short laugh. “Religious, huh? Well to each his own, I guess.”
I raised my nose. “Just directions please.”
He gave me a mock bow. “Yes, m’lady. Go down this hall, turn right and left at the end. You’ll see the double doors. The ones with crosses engraved in them.”
A slight squeak echoed, repeating in steady intervals. We both turned towards the sound. Mary rounded the corner, pushing the grandmother in her wheelchair. The guard spun in front of me, but not before our eyes met. The old woman raised a hand and pointed to me.
I peered around as Mary pushed her faster out of sight.
Another thought filtered into my head. Were these serendipities divinely inspired? If I determined where the baroness’ quarters lay, perhaps I could sneak in and speak with her. Something told me she held answers to questions no one else would let me ask. But if she was being drugged, could she tell me anything?
Still, it was worth a try. But in the meantime, the chapel might hold some clues. A family Bible with records in it of marriages, burials, and births. Perhaps even a way out of the manor house. An outside door left unlocked by mistake. And of course, a quiet place to pray for guidance and strength.
The carved doors complained as if they had not been opened this century. A whoosh of mustiness met my nose. A small basin on the wall in a niche for holy water sat bone dry. Ahead three rows of carved mahogany pews reached an ornate wooden screen with arches and a cross. Beyond it lay the altar rail and altar. I’d studied Anglican architecture in school. The chapel design resembled the quintessential English-country, Romanesque design. The wooden screen was called a rood. It separated the holy from the mundane.
On one side, three stained glass windows poured colored splotches onto the floor and the pews. The leaded glass scenes depicted Jesus’s birth, death and resurrection. On the stone altar, a patina covered brass cross with IHS in the center had a cobweb dangling from it. A cracked, leather Bible perched on a stand before it.
I walked up the steps, somewhat guilty for intruding into this once holy space. Maybe I should say a few prayers to humble myself in the sight of the Lord. That was a Bible verse, too wasn’t it?
I knelt on the hard stone floor and draped my body over the rail. One of my knees cracked. It reverberated through the room. I shifted my weight and folded my hands. What should I pray? For wisdom? Protection? For Tom? Definitely for the baroness, poor thing.
I recited the Lord’s Prayer at the end. Then I let the silence speak to me. Show me thy ways, O Lord. Lead me in the right path.
To the left of the altar I spotted a small archway. My lips pressed together to hold in my breath.
I rose and tiptoed towards the round-topped wooden door. An old black iron lock loomed at me. I rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Darn. I pushed on it with my hip and shoulder. Nothing. The sounds bounced off the windows and stone walls.
“You want to keep it down. This is a House of God, you know?”
I jolted, hand to my heart before it jumped out of my chest. There stood the pepper-haired man who had been with Andrew.
He made no move towards me. He pointed with his head. “That door’s been locked since before the war with your United States I believe. Anyway, no one has found the key in many generations from what I’m told.”
“Oh.” I stood my ground.
He took a few steps toward me and leaned one hand onto the carved rood screen arching over the altar area. “Name’s Malcolm. I am the groundskeeper of the manor. Have been for forty-eight years. My father ’afore me.”
“Then I guess you know a lot of the family history.”
“Aye.”
I wandered over and rested my backside onto the altar rail. “Tell me about them, Malcolm. Who is the old lady in the wheelchair they are keeping drugged up?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been eavesdropping.”
I shrugged.
He shifted his weight. “She is the Baroness Greenwell, the Dowager.”
“What’s that?”
“The female owner, I guess is the best way to describe it. But she can’t really own anything. It passes from male heirs. Always has. She’s just holdin’ it until young Andrew com
es of age. Thirty, I believe the will stated.”
I nodded. “I’ve read about that in English period novels.”
His eyes developed a twinkle. “Have ya now.”
My eyes dashed to the floor. Stupid touristy remark, Jen. “Anyway, why is she being drugged?”
His expression clouded. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but she’s not well. Has a heart condition and gout. She is on a lot of medications. Some make her a bit woozy.”
I raised my gaze to meet his. Did I detect truth in his eyes? “She’s Andrew’s grandmother, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where are Andrew’s parents?”
Malcolm coughed. He thought for a moment, I guess to decide how much he should tell me, but then continued. “They died. Private plane crash coming back from safari when Andrew and Niamh were both younger. Nine and ten as I recall. Sad day. The grandmother raised them.”
“And the Baron? Their grandfather?”
“Died of a stroke goin’ on about two years ago.”
“Oh, I see.” I tucked my lips together.
Neither of us spoke for a while. He turned to leave.
“Wait.” I shifted my weight to the other foot. “Tell me about Niamh? The one I am supposed to resemble?”
He grinned. “You do at that. When you first arrived I thought I’d seen a ghost. But they said you were Mr. Manning’s wife. Just a coincidence, I guess. Funny though, same name and all.”
I gave him a tilted sneer. “But, it’s not. My name is Jennifer Westlaw. And Mr. Manning, as you call him, is Robert Westlaw. He’s a convicted felon who has escaped from prison in the States.”
Malcolm roared back and laughed. “Go on with ya.”
Just then Andrew appeared. “Ah, there you are, Niamh. Time for lunch.”
He held out an elbow for me to take. I laced my arm through his and walked past Malcolm. As we left I saw Andrew narrow his eyes at the groundskeeper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We strolled back down the corridors, Andrew with a firm grip on my arm.
I made my tone casual. “Tell me about your sister.”
He stopped but looked straight ahead. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I have a right to, don’t you think? I have been given her name and made up to be her twin.”
The side of his jaw twitched. “She died two years ago next month. Motor accident. Tried to escape to be with her lover, a no good bum from the village.”
“But, then why…”
Andrew stopped abruptly and spun to glare into my eyes. “You don’t need to be told anything else.” He grabbed me by the elbow and tightened his grip until his fingers pinched me. “Be smart. Play the part, stay to your rooms and don’t tick off Robert.”
I cocked my head. “Don’t you mean Mr. Manning?”
He inhaled deeply. “Don’t push it. I don’t want you hurt.”
I jerked my arm free. “Then get me out of here, Andrew. Take me to Glenda, and leave the country. Run far. Run fast. Away from the evil madman who’s my husband.”
His eyes glistened. “I can’t, Jen Westlaw.”
My mouth formed an “o.”
“Yes, I know who he is and what he does. But, it’s, well, complicated.” He grabbed my right arm again and led me down the hall to the dining room. I wondered if Robert waited as well.
To my relief, there were only four place settings laid out for lunch. Mary and Michael were already seated. I took the one to the right and Andrew, with a residual scowl, eased into the chair across from me. We mostly ate in silence, which was fine with me.
* * *
Later in the afternoon the pop of the gravel caught my attention as car wheels rolled up the lane in front of the manor. Robert exited, followed by Michael.
The sight of him soured my stomach. I rubbed the clamminess from my hands onto my slacks and paced the room. Shoulder and back pains or not, I had to block his entrance. I shoved the armoire one more time over the doorway. Another serendipity. Through the hole in the wall, I heard his voice—
“Has she been any trouble?”
Andrew’s voice replied. “She tried to escape through the chapel but Malcolm caught her. And she’s starting to ask questions.”
“About?”
The floors squeaked with footsteps. A door softly closed. Then, Andrew answered him. “About Niamh…and Grandmamma.”
“Ah. And what did you tell her?”
Andrew said, “To mind her own business and behave.”
More footsteps sounded, but retreated to the other side of the room. I craned my head into the hole to listen better.
Robert scoffed. “Maybe Dr. Wilson needs to make two house calls.”
I caught my breath. Please, not again. No more drugs.
Andrew sounded nervous. “Robert, this isn’t going to work. Jen is smart, and stubborn. She won’t cooperate.”
“She will. Leave that part to me. You just keep convincing your dear old grandmother she is losing her mind. Between seeing Jen wander around and Dr. Wilson’s happy pills, we’ll get her committed. Then the manor will be yours, free and clear. You still want that, right?”
Silence hung in the air before I heard Andrew’s response. “Yes.”
“Good boy. Leave everything else to Michael and me.”
I listened as their footfall faded. Now I understood. They were trying to drive an already frail woman bonkers. But what I couldn’t figure out is why Robert became involved in all of this. And who was the suave, polished Michael? What role did he play in this English manor drama?
A huge chunk of the puzzle lay missing. Find that, something told me, and I’d find my key to freedom. Where was Mrs. Marple when I needed her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Later, Mary came to check on me. I inched the wardrobe away from the door and let her in.
“Niamh, why do you keep barricading yourself in here?” Her eyes, under furrowed eyebrows, scanned me.
She seemed really concerned, so I got straight to the point. “Do you know who I am, and why I’m here?”
“Well, obviously you’re not our Niamh.”
I sat down in one of the wing chairs and motioned for her to do the same. “I didn’t have any say in how they altered my appearance. They told me it was to protect me from the cartel. I had no idea…”
Mary stared at her hands. Long fingers with protruded veins showed her age more than her face and figure. “That’s not what Mr. Manning told us, now is it?”
I leaned back and sighed. “I wish I knew what this is all about. Up until last night I was headed to Bath to work in the gift shop at the American Museum.”
One eyebrow arched sharply. I gazed into her eyes and decided to take a chance. “Mary, Andrew is getting involved with people who are not very nice. My husband for one. And that posh and proper Michael.”
She straightened her spine. “You don’t say? But they seem so…well, nice to the staff. And they have helped Andrew get the estate back on its feet.”
I had her attention. “I’m sure so, but even though he’s still my husband, for all intents and purposes, our marriage is over. I found out he trafficked illegal teenage Hispanics. He got one pregnant, at least one I know of.”
Mary coughed into her fist.
I rushed to her and crouched down in front of her. “Mary. I don’t know what Andrew has told you or what lies Robert has spread…”
She leaned forward. “Robert? He said his name is Edward. Edward Manning.”
Of course. The disguise, the hair and eye color change. New identity. Tom’s words came back to me. Robert wanted me to start over with him.
“Our marriage certificate said Mr. and Mrs. Robert Westlaw. I’m Jennifer Westlaw. They made me change my name, too.”
“Who did?” She pressed her backbone into the chair, ankles crossed. But I noticed her hands whiten as she gripped the arms of the chair. Good, she’s listening.
“The FBI. Because I testified against
him.” I returned to my seat and tucked one leg behind the other. “Mary. They convicted him. Put him in federal prison. He is an escaped criminal, and extremely dangerous.”
She stared into my eyes, maybe to search for any sign of falsehood. I kept my composure. “I’m not lying. I am in danger, and if you and Andrew are involved, you are as well.”
She shifted her gaze from me to some speck on the wall. “Andrew. I was his nanny. He and Niamh’s. He’s all I have now.”
I leaned in. “Then help me. Please. Help him.”
Mary bolted from the wing chair and stared out the window, hands gripping her waist. The bedside clock’s ticking became louder in the silence blanketing between us.
She turned back to face me. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning. Andrew won’t disturb us and your Robert—is that what you called him?—has gone off somewhere again with that investor, Michael. He was not happy when he left.”
“No, I suppose not, especially since I bolted him from my bedroom last night.”
“Well, that’s between the two of you.” She straightened her apron. A few more uncomfortable seconds passed between us.
My pulse thump-thumped in my ears. I sent up a prayer. Lord, I need an advocate. Please open her mind to my words.
At last Mary’s chest heaved. Her glare bore into me as her jaw shifted. “Then, I suggest you tell me the whole sordid tale. But mind you, I am not one to have the wool pulled over my eyes for long.”
I bit my tongue. Seriously? That was exactly what they’d been doing to her. Oh, well. Here goes…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I told Mary the whole story—Tom’s kidnapping me and faking my death, our escape from Robert’s cronies through the New Mexico desert on foot, the dirt floored shack where I’d met Marisol and her friend Monica. I went on to explain about the paparazzi who had discovered I wasn’t dead and how Tom protected me from Robert’s goons. Next, the part when I learned Robert was alive and the white jefe who organized the trafficking of illegal girls and drugs into the United States. I talked about my subsequent testimony and relocation, about Pastor Jake, a young minister who had helped me back to faith, and my neighbor, Becky, who, though assigned to protect me, later betrayed me. Lastly, about Andrew and Glenda. As I relayed my story, I began to wonder myself if any of it sounded genuine or more like a made-for-TV movie plot.
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