Wading Into Murder (7 page)

Alan laughed. “You’ll make a pretty tough pair.” Reluctantly, he started for the door, and Laura stepped aside to let him pass.

“Goodnight,” he said, and gave her such a charming smile that she began to wonder all over again whether she was imagining things. Maybe after all, he was just a very nice man who was concerned for her welfare. She wished, not for the first time, that she had more experience in these matters. Twenty years of marriage hadn’t equipped her to evaluate masculine attention. A great deal of knowledge about gender differences didn’t seem to help, either.

This was not the moment, however, to dwell on her deficiencies. Moving fast, Laura scoured her suitcase for anything that would look out of character. She almost cheered out loud when she spotted a voluminous outfit she had bought at a sidewalk sale for her daughter, who loved ethnic clothes. Shoving her feet into the baggy harem pants, which looked like extra-large pajama bottoms to her, she pulled the low-cut, midriff-baring top over her head. It was a good start, but she needed to do something about her hair. That always gave her away. The huge scarf she had bought for a friend might do the trick. Laura wrapped it around her head like a turban and fastened it securely; then she applied as thick a layer of make-up as she could with her limited supply of cosmetics, and added beads and huge clunky earrings.

A quick glance in the mirror told her that she looked like an over-dressed prostitute with terrible taste. Still, it would have to do.

No one was in the corridor, so she went out. A movement stopped her after she had taken only a few steps. Someone had entered the hall at the other end, a tall red-head according to the gleam of russet that flashed as the woman passed one of the dim wall lights. Could it be Violet? Laura ducked into a closet full of cleaning supplies. Right now, she didn’t want even Violet to see her.

No, it wasn’t Violet. Instead, it was another redhead, quite a gorgeous one. The woman looked around furtively; then, to Laura’s astonishment, she hurried down the row of rooms and knocked quietly but insistently at number fifteen - Alan’s room. The door opened and she slid inside. There was no exchange of words, not even a greeting.

Laura expelled her breath with a whooshing sound. Who could the woman be? A girlfriend or wife? But why then would she come in so stealthily?

To her horror, a sneeze threatened to emerge. The floral scent in the closet was stultifying. Holding her nose, Laura charged out of the closet, ran downstairs and erupted into the hotel’s small garden, where she muffled the sneeze in a thick bush.

Disguises weren’t much use to people with allergies, she reflected dispiritedly as she slid from bush to bush, and finally out into the street.

Fortunately a lot of people were out taking a late stroll, many in unusual clothes, so she wasn’t too conspicuous in her costume. Laura began to relax. If she just ambled along casually, no one would notice her - unless, of course, that person was Lady Longtree, who had just come into the street. And William, Laura saw with alarm, as he joined his grandmother.

She ducked through the nearest door to elude them, and found herself in a smoke-filled pub. All conversation at the bar ceased at her abrupt entry and twenty or more pairs of masculine eyes turned to survey her through the smoky haze, if not with hostility, certainly without enthusiasm. The men waited.

Laura licked her lips. This must be one of the local’s bars her landlord had warned them about. Some of them were a bit rough, he had said, and it was best to patronize the ones that catered to tourists. She couldn’t leave, though, not until she was sure Lady Longtree and William were out of sight.

Deciding to ignore her, the men went back to their beers and cigarettes, and resumed a low-voiced conversation. Laura caught the word
baby
, and her ears pricked up. Maybe she would learn something if she stuck around. 

The bartender’s voice broke in. “May I help you, Madam?” His tone wasn’t very welcoming. The men stopped talking and waited again.

Laura squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she answered firmly, determined not to be intimidated. She had as much right to be here as anyone else. “I’ll have a beer.

“A small one, a half-pint,” she added hastily, recalling the correct term. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“Our Glastonbury special is popular,” he told her. “It’s a pale ale called Courage, not too strong. The ladies seem to like it.”

“Excellent,” Laura agreed. “Could you bring it to one of these tables?” She didn’t have the nerve to elbow her way through that crowd of men and get it for herself, as was the custom here. Maybe after a glass or two of Courage, she would.

She looked longingly at the table furthest from the bar but decided on a closer one where she could hear if the conversation about babies resumed. Pulling out her map of the town, she pretended to study it so the men would think she wasn’t listening.

The bartender brought her drink to the table and she paid him absent-mindedly, still deep in her map. Returning to his post, he propped his elbows on the bar and waited expectantly. His pose helped. The customers began to chat amiably again.

One of the men shook his head. “Terrible thing,” he intoned dramatically. “Two little babies, taken just like that!” He snapped his fingers hard to demonstrate. “Girls, both of ‘em. Straight outa’ the maternity hospital this time, not one of those touristy places like the other one. Last night, they did it. Right in front of the bloody coppers’ noses. Morning papers are full of it.”

“Bastards!” one of the men said succinctly.

Laura heart sank at the thought of still more babies destined for an unknown and probably horrible fate. On the other hand, this was helpful information, and if it had only just happened, she might be able to help if she found out more about it.

“Good hospital, too, I’ve heard,” another man contributed. “Oughta be able to take care of the poor little things better’n that. I know what I’d do if anyone stole my kid. Bloke would be dead before he hit the street.”

The other men nodded emphatically. “String 'em up,” another suggested. “Cut off their bloody damn balls, too.”

 “Up north someplace, wasn’t it?” the bartender asked.

 “Nah. Near here, my missus said. Bristol. She reads all that stuff. Can’t get her away from it long enough to cook the bloody food.”

Laura stiffened. Didn’t Amy and Margaret work in Bristol?

“Another case like that in Dublin last year,” a man with an Irish accent told the others. “I was there then. Papers were full of it for a while. Both girls that time, too, but they didn’t bother with hospitals or tourist places. Taken right outa their prams instead when the Mum was in a store. No one ever saw ‘em again. No ransom notes, nothing. Just vanished.”

“Bloody world’s falling apart when you can’t keep kids safe,” his companion grumbled. “Don’t have girls myself. Glad, too. All those wierdos hanging about. Ought to lock ‘em up where they can’t hurt anyone.”

Another man came in and the conversation shifted to football, European for soccer. Laura headed for the door. She could find out more about the thefts in the papers, and Lady Longtree and William must have reached the hotel by this time.

The streets were emptier now, almost too empty. Laura’s skin began to prickle, as if once again she were being watched. There were footsteps behind her, too, footsteps that seemed to stop whenever she did.

She went into a late-shop and watched out the window, but saw only a dog-walker and an elderly woman, stooped and slow, making her way from one trash bin to the next. Maybe she was the source of the footsteps. The woman discovered a half-eaten bag of fish and chips and disappeared down an alley with her prize, clucking with satisfaction.

“Damn,” Laura muttered to herself. “That’s my alley.” Venturing out again, she stood at the mouth of the alley, which was indeed the one behind the shops where the Bernsteins had lingered. There was no sign of the bag lady now.

Laura crept stealthily down the alley. No footsteps behind, she reassured herself as the darkness closed in, none ahead.

A rustling sound stopped her. Probably a rat or other animal, attracted by the smell of garbage. Laura aimed the beam of her flashlight at the noise. She heard a startled gasp and saw the bag lady in the act of pulling a garment up to her eyes to shield them. Other clothes littered the ground by her feet – clothes like the ones worn by so many of the women. A long skirt, a big shawl…

Excitement made Laura’s stomach flip. So her guess had been correct. She turned the light away from the woman’s face, afraid of alarming her further. Oddly, thought, the bag lady didn’t look frightened, only determined.

“I found ‘em first,” she stated defiantly in a high, nasal voice.

“You did,” Laura agreed amiably. “Nice clothes, too. Mind if I have a look at them? I design fabrics,” she lied, “and these patterns look very unusual.

“I won’t take them, I promise,” she added as the woman snatched them up and held them protectively to her chest. “I just want to look at them.”

 “What’s your name?” she added, when there was no response.

“Name’s Maisie,” the bag lady admitted.

“Do you live in Glastonbury, Maisie?”

Maisie stared at her for a long moment but made no answer. “You’re the one got pushed into the street,” she said unexpectedly.

“You’re right, I am,” Laura agreed. “Did you see what happened?”

But Maisie didn’t seem to hear. “You can look at this one,” she conceded, holding out a shawl with a lurid floral pattern before turning to rummage in the garbage bin again.

“Thank you.” Laura took the shawl, wondering what she was going to do with it. She hadn’t seen the man dressed as a woman. Violet had. Still, she might be able to describe the shawl to Violet later. Maybe, though, there was another way. Holding it up to her nose, she sniffed it. Surely, a scent as strong as Dr. Bernstein’s dreadful aftershave would cling to fabrics. How wonderful if that should be the instrument of his undoing!

Her nose wrinkled with distaste. The shawl smelled mostly of rotting garbage. She thought she caught a vague scent of perfume, but it was hard to identify as belonging to Dr. Bernstein or anyone else after its sojourn in the can.

The bag lady straightened and held up a ragged and hairy brown object with a gesture of triumph. Plunking it on her head, she danced clumsily around the garbage can. Laura laughed, feeling triumphant. So there was a wig.

“It suits you,” she said. “All you need is the shawl to put over your head. Here, you can have it back now.”

Maisie gave her a wide smile, revealing a mouth that was almost empty of teeth. Abruptly, her lips clamped tightly closed again and a look of abject fear came into her face. She gave a small screech of terror, grabbed what she could of the clothes at her feet and fled into the darkness with remarkable agility for such a stiff-legged old lady. The wig flopped furiously on her head and then fell off.

Laura whirled. Maisie must have seen something - or someone - behind her. Steeling herself not to run, she shone her light into the darkness, moving it in a wide arc around the alley. A flash of pale cloth caught in the arc; then it disappeared and the person in the cloth was swallowed into the darkness again. A dress or a long coat, Laura thought. She ran toward the place where she had seen it but no one was there.

Then, without warning, she heard the footsteps again, just behind her and to the left. They came closer and closer still.  Every instinct told her to run but she stood her ground, shaking. She had to know who the person was.

An unearthly scream bounced against the walls of the alley. Laura froze. A second scream followed and then a third - howls so ferocious that they propelled Laura’s paralyzed limbs into action. Utterly unable to control her panic now, she fled.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Laura hurtled out of the alley. Surely, there must be still be a few people on the main street. There was one - a man walking his dog with leisurely steps. She ran up to him, casting caution and discretion to the winds.

“Hello!” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “You look as if you’ve had a fright.”

 “Yes. I was… I was taking a shortcut through the alley. Not a good idea, I guess,” Laura said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“No,” he agreed, regarding her strange costume with politely restrained curiosity. Laura was grateful for the streetlights after the darkness of the alley, but she wished they weren’t quite so bright. They made her look positively garish.

“That awful scream terrified me,” she added, wanting to distract him from her appearance. “Did you hear it?”

He chuckled. “I certainly did. “We hear a lot of that sort of howling around here. Too many abandoned cats.”

“A cat?” Laura was horrified. Had she run away instead of rescuing a poor homeless cat that was being brutally attacked?

“A female in heat,” he explained succinctly, and gave her another curious look. “They always make a noise like that. Looking for a mate.”

Laura went pink with embarrassment. She had panicked because of a randy cat!

If nothing terrifying awaited her in the alley, she ought to go back for the clothes and the wig. They could be valuable evidence. The thought was appalling.

“If you will tell me where you live, or are staying,” her companion said in the same polite tone, “I shall be happy walk you back. Lucy is small but she’s fearsome when she wants to be.” As if to confirm his statement, the dog, an irascible looking terrier, growled at something unseen down the street.

Laura grasped at the excuse. She would go back to the alley early in the morning, when she could see but no one would be around. “That’s good of you,” she agreed.

Her rescuer cast her still another ambivalent glance, and it occurred to Laura that she should at least try to explain her unusual attire.

 “We had a kind of fancy dress routine this evening,” she ventured. This time the man’s look was frankly skeptical.

“I mean, that’s why I’m dressed like this,” Laura stumbled on. “I… I came out for a breath of air, you see…”

“Quite,” he agreed, sounding unconvinced. “Sounds jolly, I must say.”

Discouraged, Laura provided the name of her hotel and after that the conversation flagged. Her breathing slowly returned to normal, and she was grateful that he seemed to be as lost in his thoughts as she was in hers. Then, once again, she heard footsteps behind her. The dog growled, more ferociously this time. Laura felt a flutter of panic.

“Someone else out here, definitely,” the man remarked mildly. “Just another dog-walker, I imagine.”

Laura took a quick look behind her. Not a dog walker, she saw, but a tall man wearing a long pale trench coat. It flapped as he walked rapidly toward them.

The cloth she had seen in the alley; she was positive. Laura hesitated. Half of her wanted to confront the man, the other half wanted to run. She did neither. The unruffled presence of her companion gave her courage, and she walked on with him at the same unhurried pace. The man in the trench coat caught up with them, nodded brusquely, and sped on.

Laura stiffened. His face was familiar – not someone she knew, but someone she had seen recently. But where? All the way back to the hotel she pondered the question, but she was unable to place him.

To her relief, no one was around when they arrived. “Thank you so much,” she said with unfeigned gratitude. “Even if it was just a cat making that noise, it frightened the wits out of me.”

“My pleasure,” her rescuer assured her, but he didn’t turn away as Laura had expected. Instead, he lingered on the sidewalk beside her, looking embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak.

A horrifying idea popped into Laura’s mind. Maybe he thought she really was a prostitute and was working up the courage to proposition her.

She quickly forestalled the possibility. “I’d love to treat you to coffee tomorrow morning, to thank you for coming to my rescue,” she babbled with a bright smile. “It would have to be early, though. I’m with a tour group, and we have to be at the Abbey ruins at nine,” she added, wanting to make her position clear. “Would eight be too early?”

Consternation flooded the man’s face, but he recovered quickly. “That would be grand,” he agreed.

“We could meet at Hazel’s café,” Laura suggested, recalling the name of a small café she had seen on a side street.

 “Excellent,” he said with a smile. “I’m an early bird anyway. I can make it seven-thirty if you prefer.” Laura smiled back. He was a very pleasant looking man now that she’d had a chance to look at him. He might have seen something while he was walking his dog, too. Any snippet of information she could get was welcome, however she got it.

“Seven-thirty would be great,” she assured him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, at Hazel’s,” he answered, and strolled away, his steps jaunty now.

Laura hurried inside before anyone turned up. To her surprise, Violet wasn’t in the room. She had said she kept unusual hours, but it was well past midnight. Still, Violet was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

Stripping off her clothes, Laura folded them into her suitcase, scrubbed her face free of the cloying make-up, set her alarm for six thirty to allow time for the alley, and tumbled into bed. Two hours later she sat up suddenly. The man in the trench coat was the man with whom she had almost collided at the top of the stairs in the Bed and Breakfast in Bath – the elegantly dressed man who had looked at her filthy clothes with such disdain after she’d rescued the baby.

Laura blinked, unable to process this startling information in her foggy state, and fell back into dreamless slumber.

She awoke just in time to disarm the alarm. Scribbling a hasty note for Violet, now soundly asleep in her bed, she dressed and went quietly out the door.

When she reached the alley, she crept toward the bin where she had found Maisie. Footsteps sounded again, hurrying ones this time. Laura was almost certain they weren’t the same ones she had heard last night. These were lighter, faster. A woman?

A cat slithered in front of her and she stifled a gasp. The muted sound was enough to frighten her quarry. The person was running now, hurrying away from her in the same direction Maisie had fled.

Laura sprinted after the receding footsteps and spotted a slender dark-haired woman in a blue jacket and pale slacks running up an adjoining alley. She had a fleeting impression of lightness and grace; then her quarry turned into a busier street and disappeared. By the time Laura got there, she was nowhere to be seen.

Feeling cheated, Laura retraced her steps to the alley. There was still the garbage can, she consoled herself, which might contain something useful.

She leaned over the smelly can, nerving herself to grope around in the rotting contents. Tentatively, she thrust in an arm. She was immediately rewarded. A large bundle of stained cloth emerged with her filthy hand. When shaken out, it turned into a voluminous, very grubby skirt. Stuck to it by a wad of chewing gum was a scarf, not the one Laura had handed back to Maisie but a smaller silky one. A single long red hair that shone in a brief glimmer of sunlight dangled from it.

Holding it high, Laura performed a little jig, as Maisie had done. The woman she had seen last night sneaking into Alan Mansfield’s room! 

A chuckle behind her made her drop the skirt. “You seem to have found an article of clothing that pleases you,” a masculine voice observed.

Laura whirled. Last night’s dog-walker was behind her. His dog was at his side.

The humor vanished from his face, and he stared at her in consternation. “Good heavens!” he stammered. “I didn’t know that was you. You look quite different. I fear I’d thought… Or rather I wasn’t sure….”

He stopped abruptly, looking mortified again. Laura hastened to reassure him. “If you mistook me for a woman of the night, as the old novels call them, it just shows my disguise was more effective than I’d thought,” she assured him.

He continued to stare at her; then his face relaxed into a charming, lop-sided smile. “I like you a good deal better this way,” he said candidly. “You have to admit, though, that you did give cause for other interpretations.”

Laura laughed. “I certainly did. I had to duck into one of the local bars last night to elude someone, and I wonder now if they had the same thought.”

“No doubt they did,” he observed dryly. “They probably didn’t like it either, if you went into the King’s Head. You were trespassing on someone else’s turf. Gladys, our local prostitute, usually haunts that bar, and the locals feel protective about her.”

“So that was it! They did seem unwelcoming.” Laura sighed. “How naïve I am.”

“Good,” he replied firmly. “I find that a relief. You do seem to have an unusual interest in this alley, however, and I can’t help wondering why. Or why you were trying to elude someone by going into the King’s Head, or why you were dressed like that in the first place,” he added, regarding her with interest.

Laura hesitated. “It’s rather a long story,” she demurred.

“And an absorbing one, I deduce,” he countered. “You were so engrossed that you didn’t even see me.”

“Fine sleuth I make,” Laura answered gloomily.

“Lucy’s a jolly good one, however,” he replied. “She came up with this. Does it interest you too?”  In his hand was a wig.

“That is fantastic!” Laura told him, her eyes glowing with triumph.

“Excellent,” he said, handing it over. “The timely contribution will, I hope, persuade you of my deservedness in terms of explanations. You owe me one, as they say in America. And now I believe it is time for our coffee date.”

 “I’m aching for a cup of coffee,” Laura agreed, “or even better, a pot of tea, maybe a couple of scones as well.”

Her companion produced a grocery bag that he said he often used to collect trash on the streets. “Put those unsightly things in here,” he instructed, pointing at the wig and the skirt. “Otherwise Hazel at the coffee shop will think we’ve both gone mad.”

Her companion waited until Laura had downed her first cup of tea and then looked at her expectantly. Lucy, who was apparently well known at Hazel’s and allowed in without question, looked up at her with an almost identical expression. Laura grinned. Dog and master were both curious but polite about it, and very tenacious.

“It’s a complicated situation,” she began. “I’m afraid I’ve got myself into a hornet’s nest of intrigue. Quite unintentionally,” she added, lest he think she was some kind of an undercover agent. “I’m just an innocent American tourist, but I guess I was in the wrong place at the right time. Or is it the opposite?”

“I think it is. Maybe I can help,” he offered cheerfully. “I’d be glad to if I can. I’m a journalist and accustomed to doing investigations. First, though, perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Burtin. Richard Burtin.”

Laura’s eyebrows lifted at the familiar name. “I get a lot of flak from my daughter about it,” he confessed. “He’s her favorite actor. I act in local theatre productions and that makes it worse. I can’t measure up.”

Laura laughed. “Well, I’m very fond of amateur theatre,” she told him. “I do it too, or did. And I’m Laura Morland. Thanks again for your help.”

She reached out to shake his hand, and he took it in a strong grip. “I didn’t do much except almost put my foot in my mouth,” he said wryly.

“Yes you did,” Laura assured him, studying his face. His features were a bit too large and his face a bit too crooked for conventional good looks, but there was a friendly gleam in his astute gray eyes that she really liked.

Richard frowned. “Now that I’ve seen you looking what I surmise is normal, you look familiar. Weren’t you the woman who almost got run over yesterday?”

Laura brightened. Another witness. Was there anyone in Glastonbury who hadn’t seen her? “Yes, that was me. Did you see anything that might help?”

Richard shook his head. “All I saw was somebody walking away from you quite fast, a woman in a long skirt, but I thought she was chasing a child, trying to catch him before he got to the corner. I also saw the young man who joined you later at the table lurking at the head of the alley.”

He frowned. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“Did you see the woman’s face?” Laura asked eagerly.

“No, only her back. She looked sturdy, had brownish hair and a long stride. She was almost running, which is why I thought she was chasing a child.”

“Was the hair the color of that wig?” Laura’s voice was sharp.

Richard’s eyebrows rose. “Come to think of it, it was,” he admitted. “What made you ask? Do you think the woman I saw was wearing a wig?”

Laura grinned. “Yes, and the skirt in your bag too, except I’m not sure she was a woman. That’s part of the unlikely story you want to hear. It’s also what caused me to try to search the alley last night and this morning.”

Richard whistled softly, impressed. “Well, that’s one for the books. Now you’ve made me really curious. Fire away, for goodness sake!”

Laura paused to take a bite of scone. If she was going to confide in Richard, she should start at the beginning and tell him the whole story, including a description of the tour members. On the other hand, she knew nothing about Richard except his name and that he was a journalist - and an actor. Even amateur actors could put on an excellent performance. Last year’s experience had taught her that.

Richard seemed to intuit her thoughts. He handed her a business card. “I’ll give you names of people who can verify my credentials, too,” he offered. “I might be able to help by doing background research on whatever this
hornet’s nest of intrigue
is. I’d enjoy it. I came here from London, and things seem a bit dull by comparison.”

Laura considered. She really would like to talk to someone who wasn’t involved in the tour, and Richard seemed like a heaven-sent candidate. Besides, her intuition told her she could trust him, and that had to count for something.