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.