Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

  Lionel Blake spared me the trouble of deciding whom to speak with next, as he was the first person I encountered upon reentering the hotel.

  “I’m going to the village, Mrs. Ames,” he said, after we had exchanged pleasantries. “Is there anything I can pick up for you?”

  I didn’t hesitate, knowing this was the perfect opportunity to put my investigative inclinations to work. “Might I come with you?”

  He smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted to have your company.”

  “I’ll just run up and get my handbag.”

  I made my way to my room and gathered up a handbag and a light jacket. There were clouds gathering in the distance, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see rain before the day’s end.

  I was a bit afraid of encountering any members of the press as we left the hotel grounds, but it seemed the reporters had been dissuaded by the police and the lack of any further dramatic developments. We were undisturbed as we made our way to the hotel car.

  As we found ourselves driving slowly down the hill toward the village, I took a moment to observe Lionel Blake. He had the quality—rare, I thought, for an actor—of being as good-looking close-up as he was from a distance. His was an easy sort of handsomeness, self-assured but lacking arrogance. In fact, he seemed to distinctly lack the sort of bluster and bravado I had come to associate with gentlemen of the theatrical profession. I realized, of course, that my assumptions were based on clichés, but I had known a fair share of actors, and many of them demonstrated decidedly stereotypical qualities.

  “It’s nice to get away from the hotel for a bit,” I said at last, breaking into the comfortable silence. “Especially with this dreadful business of Rupert’s death.” It was not exactly a subtle approach, but I felt it was entirely within context.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Poor Rupert. It was rather a shock to all of us, I think, to have something like that happen.”

  “You were very good friends, weren’t you?” I asked. “It must be very hard for you.”

  “We were friends, yes,” he answered. “Though I wouldn’t say that we were close. Rupert was a hard man to get to know.”

  “How so?”

  He hesitated. “I think the best way to describe it is that one could never be certain if he liked one or not. There was always the front of friendliness, but it could have been genuine or an act.” He smiled, a bit sadly I thought. “I don’t mean to speak against the dead.”

  It was surprising how often people prefaced their disparaging comments about Rupert Howe with those words.

  “You haven’t,” I answered. “I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. It’s strange how when something like this happens, it makes you want to understand about the person, to get to know him … now that it is too late.”

  “Morbid curiosity, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I feel so sorry for Emmeline. She’s terribly upset.”

  “I hope she will recover shortly. She is young; love will come for her again.”

  It was a practical statement and probably true, but I was a bit surprised by the cool way in which he dismissed her love for Rupert.

  “Some would say that one loves only once,” I said mildly.

  He looked at me, and I sensed skepticism in his gaze. “Some people love many times,” he said, and I knew precisely what he was driving at.

  “You mean Rupert? There were women, I understand,” I said carefully.

  He shrugged noncommittally. “One hears things.”

  I had heard, of course, about Olive Henderson and suspected it was common knowledge. Had there been others? He seemed disinclined to elaborate, and I could think of no conceivable way to ask such an indecorous question, so I shifted my focus.

  “You were on the veranda when Emmeline and I came looking for Rupert, and you said you hadn’t seen him. How long had you been sitting there?”

  He looked at me then, with his strange green eyes. “You are beginning to sound like that police inspector.”

  I laughed. “Oh, dear.”

  He smiled, but said nothing further.

  The car stopped at the edge of the village, and Lionel got out and opened my door. “What time shall we drive back?” he asked me.

  That fact that he had failed to answer my question was not lost on me. While he gave every appearance of amiability, I thought it odd that he should neglect to reply to the most innocent of inquiries. There was something evasive in his manner that roused my suspicions.

  “I will be ready whenever you are,” I answered. “I really have no special reason for coming to the village. I just wanted to get away from the hotel for a while.”

  “Would you care to accompany me, then?” he asked.

  “I would love to.” I followed him around the car to the road. “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a little theater up this way,” he said, and pointed at a street that ran off from the main thoroughfare. “Someone mentioned that it might be the ideal place to put on a small production.”

  We started walking toward the side street he had indicated. The village was rather large, owing much of its success to the holiday trade. We passed a few of the more traditional enterprises: butcher, post office, apothecary, as well as businesses that appealed to seaside visitors. There were several people milling about, and the village had an air of busy leisure.

  “What sort of production are you planning?” I asked.

  “My friend, the backer, was considering taking our play on tour. He thought a seaside venue might be just right, and I told him I would look into it. I heard from a chap at the hotel that the local theater building might be just the thing.”

  We had crossed the main street and had begun to wander up the street that he had indicated. We walked at a comfortable pace. It was a pleasant day, despite the clouds gathering in the distance, with a breeze off the sea. There were few people about on this road, and the noise from the village faded as we followed the path winding its way toward an edifice a good distance from the town.

  We stopped as it came into view. The building, far from impressive, looked as if it had been a factory. In fact, it looked as though it was one still. It was large, square, and unappealing and had a few windows, darkened with wooden shutters. The grass surrounding it seemed long overdue for a trimming.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Rather awkwardly situated, isn’t it? This fellow told me that it was some sort of factory during the war. A local philanthropist took it upon himself to have it renovated as a favor to the village. Doesn’t look as though they much appreciated it.”

  Lionel Blake walked to the door and rattled the handle. “Locked.”

  “Surely there’s a caretaker about somewhere.” I looked around for a nearby cottage or building, but there was nothing nearer than the village proper.

  “Yes, I suppose.” He stepped back from the door, still surveying the building. “I shall have to find out the proper channel of enquiry.”

  “If we ask at the village, I’m sure they will tell us.”

  “Well, it seems there is no need for us to linger.” He walked back toward me and indicated the path. “Shall we?”

  We began our return to the village, and I thought it was not my imagination that Lionel Blake seemed preoccupied.

  “Do you think you will recommend it to your backer?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “It depends, I suppose, on a number of things,” he replied absently.

  “It’s not a very good location. I don’t see that it would be a terribly good investment.”

  He stopped walking abruptly and turned to face me. “To be honest, he’s in something of a bad way financially. He was counting on a good venue … quite desperately in need of it, in fact. It was his way of thinking that a cheap but well-placed venue might get him out of the mess he’s in. Of course, I would prefer it if you not mention this to anyone.”

  “Of course.”

  We continued back to the village and reached the car just
as a light rain began to fall.

  “I was afraid it might rain,” I said as Lionel slid into the car and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we may be in for a spell of bad weather,” he remarked, looking out of the window. “I hope it clears up quickly. I don’t relish the idea of being stuck inside that hotel for days with only the Hamiltons and the Rodgerses for company.”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “That does present a rather unappealing prospect.”

  * * *

  BACK AT THE hotel, I wanted nothing more than to return to my room for a few moments of peace before dinner.

  I was somewhat put out that my afternoon of inquiries had yielded so very little. Charming companion though Lionel Blake may be, there had been very little in his conversation that could have any bearing upon Rupert Howe’s murder. Surely someone must know something. At least dinner would be another chance to insert casual questions into the conversation.

  I walked into the hotel and spotted Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers sitting together in the lobby. He was reading The Times and she was thumbing through an issue of Vogue. Despite the time we had spent together, I still could not help being struck by the contrast between them. They seemed such an unlikely pair, but I sensed solidarity in their relationship, as though they were really very devoted to one another. Perhaps opposites really do attract.

  I had gleaned so little from Mr. Blake. I wondered if perhaps Mr. or Mrs. Rodgers might have a bit more information to offer. I walked to where they sat. “Good afternoon,” I said.

  They both looked up, and he began to rise from his seat. “Don’t get up, please,” I said quickly. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. I only came by to say hello.”

  “Looks like rain,” Mr. Rodgers said, by way of polite conversation, before picking up his newspaper again. Mrs. Rodgers seemed a bit more inclined to chat.

  “You’ve just come back?” she asked, and I could tell she was curious where I might have been. Though they had been well mannered enough to conceal it for the most part, I knew my somewhat unorthodox relationship with Gil and Milo was the cause for much speculation among the members of our party.

  “Yes. I took a ride with Mr. Blake to the village, just to get out for a bit.”

  “Lionel’s such a dear. And so handsome, isn’t he?” she said. I noticed her husband did not look particularly concerned by her comment. In fact, his attention did not shift from his newspaper.

  “Yes. He’s very nice,” I said.

  “So many handsome men are here this weekend,” she went on. I sensed that this latest comment was for her husband’s benefit. Her way of teasing him, perhaps. I suddenly had the impression that, though Mrs. Rodgers enjoyed calling attention to her appearance for the benefit of assorted handsome gentlemen, she was very much in love with her husband.

  “I … hadn’t really thought about it,” I answered.

  She laughed. “I suppose you’re accustomed to looking at that husband of yours, but he’s a feast for the eyes for the rest of us.”

  “Really, Anne,” Mr. Rodgers said, folding his paper and looking sternly at his wife. “I think that’s not at all a polite thing to say.”

  “I only meant it as a compliment,” she said innocently, but I detected a note of triumph in the fact that she had finally roused him from his reading.

  “It’s all right,” I smiled. I turned my attention to Mr. Rodgers, hoping to shift the conversation in a more meaningful direction. “Anything interesting in The Times?”

  “The usual things, I suppose. Talk of that American flyer, Amelia Earhart, the rising unemployment rates, and an abundance of politics and death. I had thought we’d escaped the last of those things, at least, coming down here. It seems I was wrong.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Poor Mr. Howe. Were you very close to him?” It was by no means the smoothest transition of topic, but they did not seem to notice.

  “I wouldn’t say so,” he answered flatly.

  “We’ve really come to accompany Nelson and Larissa,” Mrs. Rodgers said. “We’ve known the Hamiltons for several years now, since just after they were married.”

  “So you’ve not been long acquainted with the Trents or Mr. Howe?”

  “No, though we knew them casually, of course. Gil is a dear, and Emmeline is such a sweet thing. She seems a fairly quiet girl, but she was so … so very vibrant with Rupert.” She hesitated before pressing on. “Rupert was very charming and handsome, and I suppose she couldn’t help but fall in love with him. You can imagine how it was.”

  “Yes.” I could imagine it very well.

  “Rupert always seemed very pleasant,” she continued. “I had nothing to say against him.”

  She said it as though I expected she would have.

  “I’m very sorry for Emmeline,” I said.

  Mrs. Rodgers hesitated ever so slightly. “Yes. I imagine she’s heartbroken.”

  “She’s very young,” I said, picking up Mr. Blake’s line for the sake of moving the conversation along. “I expect, eventually, she will find love again, and it will help all of this fade. Love has a strange way of making one forget the past.”

  Mr. Rodgers looked up at me then, his gaze suddenly shrewd. “I think you’re quite right about that, Mrs. Ames.”

  The movement was so subtle, I almost didn’t notice it. Mrs. Rodgers’s hand slid from her lap and brushed her husband’s leg, ever so slightly. If it was a cue, he took it at once. He lifted his paper back up and began reading it.

  “I’m sure we all wish Emmeline well,” Mrs. Rodgers said with a bright smile, and I sensed that it was the end of the conversation.

  “Well, I suppose I had better go up and prepare for dinner,” I said, not wanting to outstay my welcome. “I shall see you both then?”

  “Certainly. It’s been lovely chatting with you, Mrs. Ames.”

  I left them and crossed the lobby toward the lift, wondering what that exchange had been about. There had been something behind Mr. Rodgers’s comment, but whatever it had been, his wife had not wanted him to elaborate. Curious. It seemed that every way I turned people were concealing things.

  I entered the lift, and, as the doors closed, I cherished the moment of peaceful silence. Truth be told, I did not feel at all like dressing and spending the evening with these insipid people. I could hold up under the strain as well as anyone, I supposed, but the murder had shaken me more than I cared to admit.

  I had always prided myself on my independence, but at that moment what I longed for was someone with whom I could talk and share my troubles. It was in moments like these that I felt the hollowness of my marriage the keenest. In those whirlwind days of my courtship, I had failed to take into account the fact that storms of life called for stronger stuff than the easy flow of smooth endearments and witty banter.

  As was my habit with morose contemplation, I pushed the thoughts away for another time. I turned my thoughts from what I lacked to what I had, for I was not friendless by any means. A letter to my cousin Laurel, my closest friend and confidant, was long overdue, but at the moment I lacked the stamina that the task required.

  The lift opened, and I stepped out onto the landing just as Veronica Carter approached. We exchanged cool pleasantries. I have never ceased to be amazed at the intuitive dislike that can arise with little or no provocation between two women. Perhaps I am of biased opinion, but there was something distinctly unpleasant about Miss Carter. It seemed to me that she carried about with her an icy disdain that radiated from her jaded gaze and smug little mouth. Aside from these unfortunate traits, she was admittedly very pretty.

  I expect that in the time I was summing her up, she was doing the same to me. I had obviously impressed her even less than she had me. “You look all done in, Mrs. Ames,” she commented with false sympathy. “I expect finding Rupert as you did gave you quite a turn.”

  “It was terribly shocking,” I said.

  “It’s too bad, really, for his company was very enjoyable. I’m afraid I s
hall miss him.”

  “You were close?”

  “Not as close as I should have liked,” she said, and I wondered if she meant it the way it sounded. “I knew him before he met Emmeline and found him charming, but we were never much in one another’s company.”

  “Oh,” I said casually, “then you’ve known him longer than Emmeline?”

  She sighed, as though my question was immensely trying, but answered it anyway. “No, Emmeline and I were at school together, Olive too. That’s why we decided to come down here when we heard that the Trents and Rupert were coming.”

  “I see. I was curious how everyone knew one another.”

  She livened a bit at the chance to gossip, though she spoke with the same general lack of enthusiasm that I had come to expect from her. “I suppose the Trents had some business dealings with the Hamiltons and Mr. Hamilton attached himself to them. Rather a social climber, I’d say. I don’t have anything to do with them. I think he’s too horrid for words.”

  So we did have something in common, after all.

  “I believe Mr. Rodgers is some friend of Mr. Hamilton’s, so he tagged along as well.”

  That fit with what Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers had told me.

  “And we picked Lionel up someplace quite some months ago,” she went on. “He’s become quite a pet. We invited him along when we knew we were all coming down. It sounded like rather a lark, our holiday. Of course, we couldn’t have known all this”—she waved her hand in a sweeping and disdainful gesture—“would take place.”

  “It’s been especially hard on Emmeline,” I said.

  “Yes. I went to look in on her earlier, but Gil has her practically under lock and key.”

  “I believe the doctor has given her a sedative.”

  I was certain that it was apathy I saw lurking in her china-blue eyes. “Oh? Well, perhaps it will do her good. Though things are so dull around here, I feel as though I’d had one. I’ve barely needed my sleeping tablets these past few days.” Then her eyes glinted with amusement. “At least until your charming husband arrived. I had forgotten how excessively amusing he is.”