Walking Into Murder Read online

“I have no confidences to make,” Laura retorted. “As far as I can see, all the confiding has to come from you – starting with why you told these people that I was your wife.”

  Tom Smith regarded her speculatively. “That isn’t completely true,” he countered. “For instance, you might confide what sort of a doctor you are. I really ought to know, if I’m to be your husband.”

  “That is not guaranteed,” Laura shot back. “But if you must know, I am a professor. I teach and do research at a college in the United States, and I am in England to teach a seminar as well as to walk. Now let’s get back to you.”

  “What kind of research?” His interest sounded genuine.

  “On sex differences,” Laura replied maliciously, “like why men prevaricate when asked questions about themselves. And why they hide their emotions behind various facades, like charm.”

  “Ouch!” Tom Smith looked suitably chastened. “Is that really what your research shows they do?”

  “Not exactly,” Laura admitted. “It’s a good deal more complex than that and in my case goes back a few thousand years to the evolution of gender differences. Now – who are you? And no more prevarications, please.”

  The sound of water running in the bathroom reminded them that they weren’t alone. When it stopped, Nigel appeared. “Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.” He slouched toward the door, his face twisted with tears, and hurried down the hall.

  “Poor guy,” Tom Smith commented when Nigel was out of hearing range. “He really didn’t know. He must feel terrible. He’s talented, though, isn’t he, at impersonation as well as mask making.”

  “More talented than you,” Laura replied coldly as they left the room. “Tom Smith – really! Couldn’t you have thought of a more original name?”

  He chuckled. “Sorry. Unfortunately, that is my name. Gets me in and out of all sorts of trouble. If you like, you can call me Thomas instead. It sounds loftier, more suitable for solving crimes, which at the moment I seem called upon to do. Or perhaps Langley. That’s my other name.”

  “Is that really your name?” Laura asked suspiciously.

  “Which one?” he countered. “Tom Smith or Langley?”

  Exasperated, Laura regarded him stonily. The man changed personalities – and names as far as she knew - from one moment to the next, and she couldn’t for the life of her tell what was real and what a pose - or whether to believe a word he said. Relying on him to help her was definitely out. If she hadn’t been able to trust Donald, a man she had often sworn would never in his whole life do anything unexpected, how could she trust a man who never did anything predictable at all?

  Laura rubbed her aching forehead. The more she knew about gender, the less she seemed to understand the kind of men who inhabited the world today.

  “Both, I guess,” she replied faintly, and sank down on a bench in the hall. Her legs felt too weak to support her, and a welcome numbness seemed to be setting in. She couldn’t seem to think coherently anymore, either. Too much had happened, too fast.

  Tom Smith sat down beside her. “I have three names: Thomas, Langley and Smith,” he told her, counting them off on his fingers.

  “You sound American,” Laura remarked.

  “Half of me is American,” he replied enigmatically.

  Laura raised an eyebrow wearily and didn’t bother to reply.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Now, what are you going to call me? If we are going to get to know each other better, and I sincerely hope we are, you will need to use a name.”

  Laura considered. She always used full names with her students because she had found that too much informality led to endless requests for extensions on papers. Perhaps a more formal name might dampen this man’s persistent insouciance as well.

  “All right then, I shall use Thomas,” she told him severely. “And do you really intend to solve this crime, Thomas?”

  “Yes,” he answered, unsmiling again. “I intend to solve this crime. And now let’s go downstairs. Being near dead bodies make me nervous.”

  “You sound as if you have encountered a lot of them,” Laura remarked.

  This time Thomas was saved from answering by the Englishman. He strode toward them as they descended the stairs, looking every inch the country gentleman with his unruly hair, graying now at the edges, his ruddy cheeks and sleepy blue eyes.

  “Glad to say I got Senator back,” he told them proudly, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “Couldn’t catch the girl, though.” He shook his head sadly. “Too bad. Would have taught her a lesson she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Gave me a terrible start. Looked exactly like the girl on the bed! Those big green eyes, don’t you know.” The last three words slid together into a rumbling phrase that sounded like “doncherno.”

  Laura felt a surge of relief. The girl with the green eyes was alive and well. But could she really be the missing wife - if there was one? She had looked so very young.

  Thomas made a noise somewhere between a cough and a curse and clenched his jaw hard. Laura regarded him with interest. Could he be angry because Cat was a young trophy wife who was tiring of him?

  The Englishman chuckled. “Can’t think why I was fooled in the first place,” he went on. “Should have known better. Nigel is always making those damned masks. Jolly good, some of them. Fool almost anyone. I really thought for a minute the girl was dead!”

  Laura opened her mouth to tell him that the body under the mask he’d seen really was dead, but the Englishman waved his hand. “Drinks first,” he insisted. “We’ve treated you both abominably. Sorry about that. Had to fire the damned butler and the cook vanished yesterday. Can’t think why. Paid her a whopping salary.”

  He frowned, puzzled. “Odd, she didn’t seem the type to vanish like that. No color, if you know what I mean. Just an ordinary cook. But I suppose they don’t stay long these days, do they?”

  As he delivered these random thoughts, he ushered them down the hall into a large room lined with bookshelves. A cluttered desk stood at one end of the room and a fire blazed at the other. “My study,” he explained. “Only room with a good fire these days, seems to me. Now, what will you have? Drinks on us, you know. You’re our guests, Antonia tells me. Sorry I didn’t know earlier. I thought…” He stopped abruptly. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he resumed finally. “Just got things a bit mixed. Silver’s been disappearing as well. That’s why. Bit of a bother, actually. Makes one suspicious.”

  “As I said at the time, I was looking for my wife, not your silver,” Thomas remarked dryly. “And I’ll have a whisky.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Englishman agreed, looking embarrassed. “Good thing you found her, what? I mean to say -”

  “There is always the possibility,” Thomas interrupted mildly, “that the disappearing silver and the disappearing servants are connected.”

  “By jove! Never thought of that!” The Englishman sounded genuinely startled. “Jolly good idea. Have to follow up on that one.”

  He turned to Laura. “Now, my dear, what will you have to drink?”

  There was no wine in evidence, so Laura decided on whisky too. A good strong drink might help. She felt almost dizzy with fatigue, or perhaps it was hunger. She still hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. More likely, she realized, it was shock. A strong drink was supposed to be good for shock.

  “I’ll have a whisky too, a small one,” she told the Englishman gratefully. She took a large gulp when he handed it to her.

  “Good gel,” the Englishman drawled approvingly. “Like to see a woman who’s not afraid of whisky.

  “Occurs to me,” he added in an even stronger drawl, “that I haven’t introduced myself. Circumstances a bit odd, doncherno. Got off on the wrong foot, I fear.” He turned to Laura and bowed low over her hand. “Barkeley Smythington–Witherspoon, Baron of Torrington, at your service. My friends call me Bark, say I talk in barks, like the dogs.”

  He frowned. “Where are the dogs anyway? Antonia’s
always locking them up. Need to have dogs about the place. Too damned stiff without them.”

  “How do you do, Baron Smythington-Witherspoon?” Laura replied, conscious that Thomas was laughing behind them. She wondered if one shook hands with a Baron or curtsied, a skill she lacked. She decided to raise her glass to him instead. He seemed to appreciate the gesture, since it gave him the opportunity to drain his whisky. Laura drank some of hers, too. It was really quite strengthening. Maybe she should try drinking it at faculty functions. They often engendered a need for a good stiff drink.

  “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, w
on’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.