“Mr. Greco?”
I heard the alarm in her voice and remembered that I had been told that after Mrs. Althorp had first hired Greco, he had talked to Gary Barr.
“Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with him at eleven o’clock.”
The poor woman looked both frightened and confused. I felt very sure that if Vince was right, and Gary had stolen the shirt from Elaine’s home, Jane had no part in that theft. But then I also remembered that she had sworn Gary was home in bed the night Susan disappeared. Had she been lying? By now, I was almost certain that she had.
For the next hour and a half, I was too restless to settle down, so I spent my time on the third floor. I hadn’t been through even half the rooms because it took time to untie and remove the covers off the furniture that was stored up there. I was looking specifically for baby furniture, and finally found an antique wooden cradle. It was too heavy to pick up, so I squatted on the floor, rocking it to see if it was steady. It was exquisitely carved, and I checked to see if it had been signed. It had been, by someone named Eli Fallow, and the date was 1821.
I was sure the cradle must have been ordered by Adelaide Stuart, the posh lady who married a Carrington in 1820. I made a mental note to look up Eli Fallow and find out if he had a reputation as a craftsman. I was finding it fascinating to uncover these treasures, and it at least provided a diversion from my constant worrying about Peter.
That kind of exploring, however, is a dusty business. At 10:30, I went down to the suite and washed my face and hands, then changed into a fresh sweater and slacks. I was barely ready when the doorbell rang promptly at eleven o’clock, and Nicholas Greco entered the house.
The first time I met him had been at Maggie’s house, and I had resented his suggestion that my father might have staged his own suicide. He’d even hinted there might be a connection between him and Susan Althorp’s disappearance. When Greco spoke to me in the courthouse hallway after the bail hearing, I was so upset that I barely noticed him. But now, as I looked straight at him, I felt that I could detect both warmth and sympathy in his eyes. I shook his hand and led him back to Peter’s library.
“What a wonderful room this is,” Greco commented as we entered.
“That was my impression the first time I saw it,” I told him. Trying to overcome my sudden attack of nerves, brought on by the radical move I was making in meeting this man, I added, “I came here begging the chance to have a literacy cocktail party in the mansion. Peter was sitting in his chair.” I pointed to it. “I felt nervous, and not properly dressed. It was a windy day in October, and I was wearing a light summer suit. As I pleaded my case, I was taking in this room and loving it.”
“As well you might,” Greco said.
I sat behind Peter’s desk and Greco pulled up a chair across from it. “You told me you could be of service to me,” I told him. “Now explain to me how you would do that.”
“I can serve you best by trying to ascertain the entire truth of what has happened. As you are certainly aware, your husband is facing a strong probability that he will spend the rest of his life in prison. It may give him some personal vindication if the world comes to believe that he is innocent—and now I quote—‘owing to the act being a noninsane automatism.’ That is what might have happened if all this was taking place in Canada, but of course it is not.”
“I do not believe that my husband, sleepwalking or not, committed any of those crimes,” I said. “Last night I received what to me is convincing proof that he did not.”
I had already decided that I wanted to hire Nicholas Greco. I told him that, and then I unburdened myself, starting with my visit to the chapel when I was six years old. “It never occurred to me that I might have overheard Susan Althorp that day,” I said. “I mean, why would she need to beg or threaten to get money from anyone? Her family was wealthy. I’ve heard also that she had a substantial trust fund.”
“It would be interesting to establish exactly how much money she had at her disposal,” Greco said. “Not too many eighteen-year-olds have access to their trust funds, and Susan’s friends tell us that her father had been very angry at her the night of the dinner party.”
He asked about the time Peter had jumped bail and been found kneeling on the Althorps’ lawn.
“Peter was sleepwalking and doesn’t know why he went there, but he thinks it was the same sleepwalking dream that made him try to get out of the hospital room. That second time he thought Gary Barr was in the room watching him,” I explained.
I told Greco that I had begun to think that Peter might have been the one who was being blackmailed in the chapel. “Last night, I found out that wasn’t true,” I said, and, trying not to get emotional, repeated for him what Maggie had told me.
Greco’s expression became grave. “Mrs. Carrington,” he said, “I have been concerned for you ever since I heard you had gone to see Susan Althorp’s friend, Sarah North. Let us presume that your husband is innocent of these crimes. If so, then the guilty person is still around, and I believe—and fear—that person is in close proximity to you.”
“Have you any suggestion as to how I can draw out that person?” I asked, aware my frustration was showing. “Mr. Greco, I know I was only six years old at the time, but if I had told my father about being in the chapel, and had recounted what I heard there, he might have gone to the police when Susan disappeared. The same man I heard in the chapel has to have been the man my father heard whistling outside shortly afterwards. Don’t you think that knowledge is torturing me?”
“ ‘When I was a child, I thought as a child,’ ” Greco said, his voice gentle. “Mrs. Carrington, do not be so hard on yourself. This information opens up new avenues, but I beg you, do not share with anyone else what your grandmother told you last night, and please tell her not to repeat it. Someone might begin to fear both her memory and yours.”
He looked at his watch. “I must leave you in a few minutes. I asked Ambassador Althorp to spare me a little time today, and I suggested twelve thirty. Unfortunately, he told me to be there at noon. Is there anything else that you think would be helpful in my investigation?”
I didn’t know until that moment that I was going to tell him about Peter’s shirt, but then I decided I had to go for broke. “If I told you something that could seriously hurt Peter’s defense, would you feel it necessary to go to the prosecutor with that information?” I asked him.
“What you tell me is hearsay, and I would not be allowed to testify to it,” he said.
“All these years, Elaine Carrington has had Peter’s formal dress shirt with some stains that appear to be blood on it. A few days ago, she sold it to me for one million dollars, then, after she was paid, refused to give it to me. Since then it has been stolen from her home here on the estate. Vincent Slater believes Gary Barr is the one who took it, and right now he is searching the gatehouse, looking for it.”
If Nicholas Greco was astonished at that information, he did not show it. Instead, he asked me how Elaine got the shirt, and how sure I was that it had bloodstains on it.
“ ‘Stains’ is too strong a word,” I said. “From what I could see, it was more like a smudge, right here.” I touched my sweater just above my heart. “Elaine said she saw Peter come home in a sleepwalking state at two o’clock that morning, and while she claims she had no idea what may have happened, she recognized that it was a bloodstain on his shirt and didn’t want the maid to see it in the morning.”
“So now she uses the shirt to blackmail you, then reneges on the deal. Why did she come forward at this time?”
“Because her son Richard is a compulsive gambler, and she’s always bailing him out. This time he apparently needed more money than she could come up with, at least in time to keep him from getting in trouble.”
“I see.” Greco got up to leave. “You have given me a great deal to think about, Mrs. Carrington. Tell me something. If somebody were to leave something in this house, a personal item of some sort, and
your husband thought it might be needed, what do you think he would do?”
“Return it,” I said, “and right away. I can give you an example. One night in December, Peter dropped me off at my apartment, then started driving home. He got over the bridge and realized I had left my wool scarf in the car. Can you believe he turned around and brought it back to me? I told him he was crazy, but he said that it was cold, and I had a walk to my car in the morning, and he thought I should have it.” I saw what Greco was driving at. “Susan’s evening purse,” I said. “Do you think that when Peter was sleepwalking that night, he was trying to return her purse?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Carrington. It is one of the many possibilities I shall consider, but it would explain your husband’s surprise and distress the next morning when the purse was not in his car, wouldn’t it?”
He did not wait for my answer, but instead opened his briefcase, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. It was a copy of a page from People magazine. “Does this have any significance to you?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s an article about Marian Howley,” I said. “She’s the most wonderful actress. I never miss one of her plays.”
“Apparently Grace Carrington shared your enthusiasm for this actress. She tore this page out of the magazine; it was in her pocket when her body was found in the pool.”
I started to hand the paper back to Greco, but he waved it away. “No, I downloaded several copies when I got a back issue of the magazine. Please keep this one. Perhaps you could show it to Mr. Carrington.”
The telephone rang. I reached for it, then remembered that Jane Barr was supposed to be taking messages. Moments later, as Greco and I were leaving the library, she came running down the hall. “It’s Mr. Slater, Mrs. Carrington,” she said, “He said it’s important.”
Greco waited while I went back to the desk and picked up the receiver.
“Kay, I didn’t find it,” Vince said. “He must have hidden it somewhere else.”
There was something in his voice that made me feel sure he was lying. “I don’t believe you,” I told him.
The phone clicked in my ear.
“Vince Slater claims he didn’t find Peter’s shirt,” I told Nicholas Greco. “I don’t believe him. He has it. I’d stake my life on it.”
“Does Vincent Slater have a key to this house?” Greco asked me.
“I changed all the locks and gave him a key only to the door that goes from the terrace into his private office. But you can get into the house from the office.”
“Then he does have a key, Mrs. Carrington. Have that lock changed immediately. I believe that Vincent Slater may be a very dangerous man.”
68
I’ve decided to close the gallery at the end of the week,” Richard Walker told Pat Jennings. “I know it’s short notice, but the building owner has someone who wants the space right away and will pay a bonus to get it.”
Jennings looked at him, dumbfounded. “Can you get other space yourself that fast?” she asked.
“No, I mean I’m going to close the gallery permanently. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m too fond of horse racing for my own good. I’d like to try a complete change of scenery. I have an elderly friend who has a small but most interesting gallery in London, and he’d very much like to have me go in with him.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Jennings said, trying to sound sincere. I wonder if Mama has pulled the plug on bailing him out, she thought. I wouldn’t blame her. And maybe he’s right. It would be a lot better to get away from all the bookies who supply him with all those hot tips. “What does your mother think of all this?” she asked. “I’m sure she’ll miss you.”
“Even with the Concorde gone, England is just a hop, skip, and jump away, and she has many friends there.”
Pat Jennings realized that she was going to not only miss her salary, but also the flexible hours she had here—they dovetailed perfectly with her kids’ school schedule. And it had been fun to see Trish regularly, to say nothing about having a seat on the fifty yard line of the Carrington family saga.
She decided to go for one more tidbit before it was too late. “How is Mrs. Peter Carrington doing?” she asked Richard, trying to sound concerned but not overly interested.
“How nice of you to ask! I haven’t seen Kay in several weeks, but my mother tells me they’ve been in close touch, and we’ll be having dinner together before I leave for England.”
With a dismissive smile, as if he realized he was being pumped for information, Richard Walker turned to go into his private office. The phone rang. When Pat Jennings answered it, an angry voice snapped, “This is Alexandra Lloyd. Is Richard there?”
Without even asking, Pat knew the answer to give, only this time, she made it more elaborate. “Mr. Walker is on his way to London, Ms. Lloyd. May I take a message?”
“Oh, indeed you can. Tell Mr. Walker that I am very disappointed in him, and he knows what I mean.”
This is one message I don’t want to give him, Pat thought. I had believed all along that this lady with the fancy name was an artist. Now I’m beginning to think she’s a bookie.
It was three o’clock, time to get uptown and pick up the kids. Richard’s door was closed, but she could hear the murmur of his voice, which meant he was on the phone. Pat wrote out Alexandra Lloyd’s message word for word, and, not happy with the way it looked on paper, tapped on Richard’s door, walked in, and placed it on the desk in front of him.
Then, with the haste of someone who knows that a firecracker might explode at her feet at any moment, she grabbed her coat and left.
69
When Nicholas Greco was escorted by the housekeeper into the study where previously he had met with Gladys Althorp, he felt protectively annoyed that her husband had so quickly commandeered the space that so recently had been hers. He saw that her shawl was missing from the chair, and that the blinds were no longer tilted. Sunlight that hinted of an early spring was pouring into the room, destroying the dim and quiet intimacy he had experienced there.
“The ambassador will be with you shortly,” the housekeeper said.
Is this a power play? Greco wondered. I asked to come at 12:30; he insisted I be here at noon. Now is he going to keep me waiting?
Greco remembered how concerned the housekeeper had been about Gladys Althorp. What was her name? he asked himself, then remembered it. “Brenda, I witnessed how solicitous you were of Mrs. Althorp. I am sure you were a great comfort to her.”
“I hope I was. I haven’t been here that long, but I was very fond of her. And I do know she died happy, knowing that the man who killed her daughter was finally going to pay for his crime. Mrs. Althorp told me that the day she was in court watching Peter Carrington in chains was something she’d prayed for every single day for twenty-two years.”
Charles Althorp had come into the room while she was speaking, and had overheard her. “We’re delighted to have your opinion, Brenda,” he said sarcastically. “You may go now.”
Greco took an instant dislike to Althorp. Humiliating his housekeeper in front of another person was probably indicative of the employer-employee relationship that existed in this house, and given Althorp’s attitude on the phone, he expected nothing more.
Brenda reacted as though she had been slapped. Her body stiffened. Then, with quiet dignity, she turned and left the room.
Althorp indicated a chair for Greco and sat down himself. “I have a luncheon engagement,” he said, “so you do understand that fifteen minutes means fifteen minutes.”
“I am aware of the time constraints,” Greco said. Deliberately avoiding the use of Althorp’s courtesy title, he began, “Mr. Althorp, you were very angry at your daughter, Susan, that last evening. It was noticed and remarked upon by a number of people. Why were you so upset with her?”
“I don’t even remember, and it isn’t important. Naturally, I have always felt terrible that my last contact with Susan was under those circumstances.”
<
br /> “You and Mrs. Althorp left the dinner party early the night Susan disappeared.”
“We left shortly after dinner. As had become usual, Gladys was not feeling well.”
“Before you left, you ordered your daughter to be home by midnight. The party, from what I understand, lasted well over an hour after that. Why the curfew?”
“Susan was overtired. I was concerned about her. I wanted her to leave with us. The dancing had just begun. Peter asked if she could stay for a little while; he offered to escort her home.”
“You liked Peter.”
“Very much, at that time.”
“Mr. Althorp, I will ask you again: why were you concerned about your daughter?”
“That is none of your business, Mr. Greco.”
“Oh, but I think it is. If what I believe is correct, it is the reason Susan is dead.”
Greco watched as Althorp’s face turned crimson. Rage or fear? Greco asked himself.
“When Mrs. Kay Carrington was a six-year-old child, she was sitting outside the Carrington mansion waiting for her father, Jonathan Lansing, who, as you know, was the landscaper there. It was the same day as the party. He was attending to a problem concerning the lighting. Kay had heard about the chapel, and, being a typically curious child, went into the house to look at it. While she was there, she heard the chapel door opening and hid between the pews. She did not see the people who entered, but she heard the words they exchanged. It was a couple, and the woman was demanding money from the man.”
Greco paused, then, his tone bitingly cold, said, “I believe that the woman in the chapel was your daughter, Susan. I believe that she had developed a drug problem, and that she needed money because she needed more drugs. I believe that you knew of the problem, but wanted to control it your own way, by making sure she had no money, and by keeping such a close watch on her that she would not have access to whoever was her supplier.”