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to find out how she had died and why.
    “All yours,” she called through the adjoining door when she finished, and then realized with acute embarrassment that she was clad only in a towel. She didn’t want to think about the remarks that might evoke.
    Fortunately, Thomas didn’t answer. Laura scurried into her room and rummaged in her suitcase for clothes. She always brought too much when she traveled because she could never resist stuffing in a few favorite long skirts and brightly colored jackets that might be perfect for some mythical occasion but never were. They certainly weren’t right for this setting. Instead, she pulled out a new purchase, a long dark green dress of some new fabric that was supposed to be wrinkle-free. To her surprise, it was. The slinky stuff fell easily over her head and settled itself smoothly around her.
    Laura glanced in the mirror. Not too bad, she decided, except for her hair. There hadn’t been time to wash it and in the high humidity it exploded around her face like an untamed lion’s mane. Or maybe a baboon’s mane, considering the color.
    Maybe a bun would work? Smoothing the unruly strands back, Laura pulled it into a rough circle and skewered it with a few gaudy pins. That would have to do. Dabbing on some eye makeup and her favorite pair of dangly earrings to give herself confidence, she knocked again on Thomas’s door to let him know the bathroom was free. There was still no answer.
    She found him downstairs, examining some paintings in the study. He too had changed, into a dark blue blazer. She was glad to see a few bulges in the pockets. Perfectly tailored men were too reminiscent of Donald.
    “These paintings are lovely,” Thomas told Lord Torrington. “Have you had them cleaned lately?”
    Laura wasn’t sure she would describe them as lovely, though they were the type of paintings one expected to find in museums and were probably valuable. The backgrounds were dark and the peasant homes they portrayed were little more than grimy shacks. Still, the people in them had cheerful faces, and she liked the touches of bright color that enlivened their ragged clothes.
    Lord Torrington glanced up absent-mindedly at the paintings. “Don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe Antonia did. Look the same as always to me. One of those Dutch painters, you know. Rather good, I’m told, but I’ve never paid much attention to those things.”
    Antonia appeared. “Dinner is ready. This way, please.” She sounded like a bored tour guide, Laura thought. Maybe she too was a young wife tiring of her older husband. There were far too many of that species around.
    Antonia led them into an impressive dining room. More large pieces of ornate silver covered the tables, and portraits in heavily gilded frames, no doubt portraying Torrington ancestors, decorated the walls. Above the sideboard was a more recent painting of a woman with dark hair and aristocratic features that was almost certainly the grande dame when she was younger. Laura felt a stir of recognition. Hadn’t she seen that face somewhere before? Not the face of the present woman, but the one in the portrait. She stared at it, but couldn’t recall the context in which she’d seen it.
    The grande dame, who was clearly their hostess, indicated the proper places for her guests as if this were a four-course gourmet dinner. Clearly informality was not tolerated in the dining room, even with a dead body in the house and cut telephone wires.
    “If you will sit there, Mrs. Smith,” she said graciously, indicating a seat beside Lord Torrington, “and you there, Mr. Smith.”
    “Thank you,” Laura murmured, wishing she knew how to address her hostess properly. Was she Lady Torrington? She couldn’t be, though. That was Antonia, at least Thomas had addressed her as Lady Torrington.
    Laura gave up and tackled her soup, trying not to slurp. The spoon, she remembered from long ago lessons, was supposed to go into the bowl from front to back,