Death Wears a Mask
Page 28
I took a step forward, and he pulled the gun upward. “No,” he said, jerking his hand back. At the same moment, Milo pushed me behind him even as the gun went off with a deafening boom.
Mr. Barrington stared at us for a moment, as though he was more surprised than anyone that he had done it. Then he turned and fled from the room.
I turned back to Milo, and something about his face stopped me cold.
“What is it?” I asked, a strange sense of dread creeping over me.
“I don’t want to alarm you, darling,” Milo said, pulling back his dinner jacket to reveal a growing red stain on the white shirt beneath, “but I’m afraid I’ve been shot.”
31
“MILO,” I GASPED. I rushed to his side, fear coursing through me with such force that I felt almost dizzy. I realized instantly what had happened. Milo had pushed me aside, but, in doing so, he had put himself in the path of the bullet.
“It’s all right,” he said calmly. “I’m fairly certain it’s only a scratch, but perhaps I’d better sit down nonetheless.”
As he moved to a chair, there was a shout from the hallway and the sound of a scuffle. A moment later, Inspector Jones came into the room, followed by Mr. Douglas-Hughes. The inspector’s eyes fell on Milo, and he came quickly to his side.
“Inspector Jones, please call for a doctor. Milo’s been shot,” I said, as though he couldn’t see for himself. My voice sounded calm to my own ears, but it seemed as though it had come from very far away, as though I wasn’t the one talking at all.
Inspector Jones turned back to Mr. Douglas-Hughes. “Will you telephone, sir?”
“Certainly,” he replied promptly, going from the room.
“Did you catch him?” Milo asked conversationally.
“Yes. We apprehended him in the hallway. Sergeant Lawrence has taken him in charge,” Inspector Jones replied, his calm gaze taking in the location of the blood on Milo’s shirt.
“Excellent work,” Milo said in congratulation. “I didn’t have much time to think about apprehending him after the gun went off.”
“We’d better take off your jacket, sir.”
He helped Milo gently out of it. Milo appeared as unperturbed as ever, but his face had gone pale. I had never seen him any shade but bronzed, and it frightened me badly to see the color leeched from his face. He was in pain, and I feared that he was losing too much blood.
My eyes fell to the steadily growing red stain against his white shirt, and I felt my legs go a bit weak as the corners of my vision began to swim.
“It’s all right, Amory,” Milo said soothingly as he reached out and took my hand. It was not until his warm fingers enclosed my icy ones that I realized he was trying to comfort me and not the other way around. “Sit down, darling,” he said. “You’ve gone all white.”
I pulled over a chair and sat at his side. I was glad for the support; my legs felt like straw.
“Oh, Milo, does it hurt very much?” I was fighting tears. I didn’t want him to know how afraid I was, for that would only make him more uncomfortable than he already was. I had never felt so helpless.
“Not at all,” he said, lying. My eyes searched his face, and he smiled, squeezing my hand reassuringly.
“It appears it’s only a flesh wound,” Inspector Jones said.
“Oh, thank God,” I whispered.
“He didn’t really mean to shoot me,” Milo commented. “Amory made him uneasy, and the gun went off.”
“It seems Mrs. Ames is always confronting armed killers just before the police can arrive,” Inspector Jones said dryly.
“At least this time I was able to intercept things, so to speak.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be talking, Milo,” I said.
“I’m not dying, darling. I’m perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation.”
Inspector Jones pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound. Milo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Are you certain he’s going to be all right?” I whispered to the inspector. “Is he losing too much blood?”
“I haven’t been shot in the ear, Amory,” Milo said. “You needn’t talk about me as though I can’t hear you.”
I frowned at him affectionately. “Do be serious for once, Milo. You’ve got a bullet in you.”
“I don’t think the bullet is in him,” Inspector Jones reassured me. “I think it merely grazed him. Quite a lucky thing.”
“You see?” Milo told me. “A scratch.”
He was being brave to reassure me, and I adored him for it. I still felt like I was one step away from falling into sudden hysteria. My husband had been shot protecting me from a desperate murderer. It sounded too melodramatic to be true.
“The doctor will be here shortly,” said Mr. Douglas-Hughes, coming back into the room. “Is everything all right?”
“I think so,” Inspector Jones said. “I think Mr. and Mrs. Ames may be more careful about confronting killers in the future.” He smiled to soften the reprimand. “I must commend you both, however. You’ve managed to see yet another murderer brought to justice. Well done.”
Coming from Inspector Jones, this was high praise indeed.
“That wretched man killed his nephew for fear of being found out in a gambling plot,” I said, feeling extremely uncharitable toward Mr. Barrington. “Mr. Harker had overheard his uncle plotting with Mr. Foster to throw a match in Switzerland next month. He’d done it before, you see, at Wimbledon. There were rumors circulating at the time that there was something wrong about his loss, and he left the country while things died down.”
“And yet he planned to do it again,” Inspector Jones said.
“It’s nothing along the scale of Wimbledon, of course. They probably could have managed it without much suspicion. But even a hint of scandal could have ruined both of them. Mr. Barrington felt Mr. Harker must be silenced.”
“Did he say if Foster has anything to do with the murder?” questioned the inspector.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I wouldn’t put it past him, though it’s more likely that he suspected that Mr. Barrington had something to do with it but chose to keep silent.”
“We’ll find out what his involvement in all of this is,” Inspector Jones said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes said calmly, breaking into the conversation for the first time. I looked up at him, surprised.
He went on in his cool, steady voice. “Mr. Foster is involved in some, shall we say, highly sensitive work with the Foreign Office. I’m afraid we can’t jeopardize that.”
“Not even if he’s an accomplice to murder?” I asked.
He looked at me gravely. “There are more lives at stake than you know, Mrs. Ames.”
I thought it somewhat unjust that Mr. Foster, a liar, a cheat, and a violent man, was outside the reach of the law.
Mr. Douglas-Hughes seemed to have read my thoughts, for he continued. “I know he is an unsavory character, Mrs. Ames. And believe me when I say that measures will be taken to ensure he puts no one else in jeopardy.”
That would have to be sufficient, I supposed. However, it still left my question unanswered.
“You came here that day claiming to be looking for your wife’s missing earring, and she confirmed your story later. But Mrs. Douglas-Hughes wore no earrings to the ball.”
Mr. Douglas-Hughes smiled. “You’re very perceptive, Mrs. Ames. We could use more people like you in the Foreign Office.”
“Don’t give her any ideas,” Milo said.
“I thought,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes said slowly, carefully weighing his words, “that it might be possible that Mr. Foster was somehow involved with Mr. Harker’s death. He had been much interested in Miss Felicity Echols, with whom Mr. Harker was on friendly terms, and I thought Mr. Foster might have wanted his competition out of the way. My wife and I were in the card room at the time the shot sounded, and Mr. Foster came in from the balco
ny. I came back to check the door to the murder room, just to ascertain whether it might have been possible for him to lock the door behind himself and then retreat to the balcony. I found the bolt could only be activated from inside, and I was satisfied that he was not the killer.”
Not the killer, perhaps, but despicable nonetheless.
I thought suddenly of Mrs. Barrington and felt very sorry for her. I knew it would come as a dreadful blow after the death of her nephew to find out that her husband was responsible. I felt sorry, too, for poor James Harker, who had trusted his uncle and had been sorely deceived.
It seemed proper, somehow, that this had started at a masked ball, for nothing had been as it seemed. Even death had worn a disguise.
* * *
THE DOCTOR ARRIVED and confirmed Inspector Jones’s assessment of Milo’s injury. He cleaned and bandaged the wound, which thankfully hadn’t even required stitches, and instructed Milo to consult with our doctor in a day or two.
After he had gone, Milo and I were left alone for the moment, Inspector Jones and Mr. Douglas-Hughes having gone to tend to the unpleasant aftermath of the investigation. I could only imagine what sort of chaos was happening downstairs as the guests began to realize what had occurred.
“The worst part in all of this,” Milo said, examining the bullet hole in his dinner jacket, “is how furious my tailor is going to be.”
“He can’t fault you for being shot at.”
“Trust me, darling. He can fault me for anything.” He stood and gave a slight wince. “I will admit that being shot is not as glamorous as it has been made out to be.”
“You’re going to relish this story for years to come.”
“Naturally. One doesn’t get shot every day.”
Despite the levity of his words, I knew that he had likely saved my life. Had he not pushed me aside, the bullet would have hit me squarely. I stood and went to him, taking his hand in mine.
“Thank you, Milo,” I said, sincerely.
This seemed to surprise him. He hadn’t been expecting me to grow suddenly sincere. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he replied.
“Yes, well. Next time we face a killer, I hope he or she will use something other than a gun.”
“Good heavens, Amory. Next time?”
I laughed. “Never say never.”
“Speaking of never, you do realize,” he said suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “that it will hereafter be impossible for you to divorce me.”
“A pity,” I said, in keeping with his lack of gravity. “I might have been a viscountess.”
“Only a viscountess?” he chided. “If you’re going to do something, do it right. I expect you could get an earl, or perhaps even a marquess if you set your mind to it.”
“Why stop there? What about a duke? Or even a prince?”
“Not as a divorced woman. Unless perhaps you went to the Continent.”
I laughed. “I don’t want a prince.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Life would be much too dull without you, darling.”
“It would be less constraining,” I said. “You could do as you pleased without having me to answer to.”
“Nonsense. Who would there be to drag me about solving murders and getting shot?”
“You’re rather an idiot, Milo,” I said with a smile.
“But you love me anyway,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered softly. “I love you anyway.”
“Then let’s go home. I’m quite sick of the Ritz.”
“Milo,” I said suddenly, stopping him at the doorway. “I happened to overhear a bit of your conversation with Helene Renault downstairs.”
“Happened to overhear?” he repeated. There was the slightest loosening of the corner of his mouth, as though he was almost tempted to smile. I had no doubt that he was perfectly aware of what I meant by that.
“I heard you … fight her off,” I said, my own lips trembling at the corners. “She’s quite tenacious, isn’t she?”
He smiled then, one of those smiles that made my stomach flutter. “I may not be a model husband, my darling, but I hope I am a better one than I am often given credit for being.”
And there it was, a précis of our marriage. I couldn’t change who he was, not really. He would never be a sentimental, dutiful husband at my beck and call, dedicating himself to my whims. But that was not why I had married him. What I had wanted most, I now had: the reassurance that I could rely on him when it mattered most. He had, after all, just taken a bullet for me.
He opened the door for me, and we went back out into the hall just as Lord Dunmore and Mrs. Garmond came up the stairs. I noticed a significant change at once. Mrs. Garmond’s face was radiant, her dark eyes glistening with happiness. Something must have occurred since last we spoke.
“That police inspector has informed me of what’s happened,” Lord Dunmore said when they reached us. “Are you all right, Ames?”
“Quite all right,” Milo answered.
“I can’t believe it was Barrington,” Lord Dunmore said. “I never would have suspected him.”
“Is Foster still here?” Milo asked suddenly. “I’d like a word with him.”
“Milo…” I began to protest, but Lord Dunmore interrupted smoothly.
“Mr. Foster has had an unfortunate accident and broke his nose.”
The gentlemen met eyes, and Milo smiled. “Perhaps another time, then.”
Mrs. Garmond turned to me. “There’s one more piece of news. You’ll never guess. Alexander has asked me to marry him.”
“Has he?” I asked, considerably surprised. “Well, allow me to offer my congratulations.”
“He says I have you to thank,” she said.
My brows rose. “Oh?”
“I’ve realized the benefits of a loving and devoted wife,” he said, with a smile and a wink. “You’re a lucky man, Ames.”
“That I am, Dunmore,” Milo agreed.
“I hope you will be very happy,” I told them, and I meant it.
“I’m certain we shall be.” Mrs. Garmond smiled up at him, her face aglow. She would have her work cut out for her with Lord Dunmore as a husband, but I suspected she was more than willing to try her hand at it. Furthermore, I thought she would enjoy it immensely.
Milo and I left them and were making our way down the stairs carefully, to keep from jarring Milo’s wound, when a voice rang out. “Oh, Mrs. Ames! Mr. Ames!” Mrs. Roland came up the last few steps to meet us. “How dreadful, how absolutely dreadful! Are you all right, Mr. Ames?” she asked, surveying the blood on his clothes with something very like ill-concealed glee.
“Quite all right. Thank you,” he replied with a smile.
“But you’ve been injured.”
“Yes, but I’ve learned my lesson,” he said. “And Amory has promised she will be less violent in the future.”
She stopped, speechless, and I fought the urge to laugh. I doubted that Mrs. Roland’s being at a loss for words had ever happened before and was unlikely to ever happen again, so I could not bring myself to be angry with Milo for so outrageous a remark.
We took advantage of her disconcertment, crossing the foyer and going out into the night. Bright lights flashed as we stepped outside, and I realized that reporters had gathered as they began to shout questions at us. News had spread with remarkable speed. I somehow suspected that Mrs. Roland was to thank for that.
“Mrs. Ames! How did you manage to catch another killer?”
“Mr. Ames! Are you gravely wounded?”
This was the last thing we needed. I was sure we made quite a pair, me in my evening gown and Milo in his bloodstained shirt. “Let’s hurry to the car, Milo.” I made a move to descend the front steps, ready to push my way through the crowd, but Milo stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Just a moment, darling.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s give them something to put in the gossip columns first, shall we?” And he pulled me t
o him and kissed me thoroughly in the blinding glare of the flashbulbs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashley Weaver is the technical services coordinator at the Allen Parish Libraries in Oberlin, Louisiana. Weaver has worked in libraries since she was fourteen; she was a page and then a clerk before obtaining her MLIS from Louisiana State University. Weaver lives in Oakdale, Louisiana. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY ASHLEY WEAVER
Murder at the Brightwell
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
Also by Ashley Weaver
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEATH WEARS A MASK. Copyright © 2015 by Ashley Weaver. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.