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“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Ambassador. Peter Carrington is in jail. But should he be? Or, to put it another way, should not someone else perhaps be sharing his jail cell? This is a dreadful time to intrude, but may I stop by for a few minutes later today? I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mrs. Kay Carrington. Would it be possible to call on you at twelve thirty?”
“Be here at noon. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.” Althorp slammed the phone into the cradle, put down his coffee cup, and stood up. He walked over to the desk where there were pictures of his wife and their daughter.
“I’m so sorry, Gladys,” he said aloud. “I’m so sorry, Susan.”
67
I was in the kitchen when Vince stopped by for the gatehouse key at seven thirty. Then, as pla
If Barr was suspicious, he didn’t show it. He got on one of the extensions and confirmed the parking arrangements with Vincent. A few minutes later, from an upstairs window, I watched Barr drive the Mercedes past the gatehouse and out onto the road.
Vincent must have been watching for him to leave, because almost immediately, his Cadillac pulled onto the driveway and turned left. I guessed he would be parking behind the gatehouse in a spot that couldn’t be seen from the mansion. Now it was my job to keep Jane from darting back home for some reason before her usual after-lunch break.
There was a simple way to do it. I told her that I had a headache and would she please answer the phone and take messages, except if Mr. Greco called.
“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 co
“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 i
“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 di
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 i
“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.”