Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

  “Yes, he’s a darling, isn’t he?”

  Her smile faded as I once again failed to be baited. “In any event,” she went on, “Rupert’s death has ruined the entire week. I wish I had never come.”

  How very careless of him to spoil your fun, I was tempted to say.

  “I don’t know what he might have been doing before he fell. No doubt he slipped and went over,” she replied, absently examining her bloodred fingernails.

  I decided to try my little experiment of surprise enlightenment once more. “Oh, didn’t you hear?” I asked casually. “The inspector says it was murder.”

  She looked up at me, and, for the briefest of instants, I was sure I saw something other than that perpetual boredom in her expression. Was it surprise … or had it been fear? Then the cool mask slipped back into place.

  It was nearly the same reaction I had received from Mrs. Hamilton on the terrace, a flash of alarm that they both had quickly concealed. Could it be that both of these women knew something about which they were hesitant to speak?

  “Murder? I don’t see how it could have been. Who would want to murder Rupert?”

  “I imagine Detective Inspector Jones would give a great deal to know just that.”

  “Well, this has all been fascinating,” she said lightly, touching her glossy red hair, “but I’m afraid I must go to my room and dress for dinner.”

  “Of course.”

  She left me then and entered the lift. I had reached the door to my own room before I began to wonder what she had been doing on this floor if her room was elsewhere.

  10

  DINNER PASSED MUCH as usual, despite the addition of Milo to our party. He sat at my table, playing the dutiful husband, but we had very little to say to one another. Veronica Carter seated herself across from him and engaged him in conversation whenever possible. No doubt he was amusing her excessively. Gil did not come down to dinner, and I found myself worrying over him as well as Emmeline.

  Mr. Hamilton seemed to be doing his best to amuse me. “You look smashing tonight, Mrs. Ames,” he said, his eyes moving over me in a disconcerting way. My bias-cut gown of ivory satin was not at all revealing, but I felt rather as though he were looking straight through it.

  “Thank you,” I answered with all the politeness I could muster.

  “I’ve half a mind to steal you away from that husband of yours,” he said in a false whisper. Larissa Hamilton looked about as amused as I felt.

  “I hope Mr. Ames isn’t the jealous type,” he went on, in what seemed to be a progressively louder voice. He seemed to enjoy calling attention to himself.

  “Not at all,” Milo said, as he cut into his fillet. He looked up at Mr. Hamilton and smiled. “I married Amory for her money. And she married me for mine.”

  Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily. “From what I’ve heard, neither of you were disappointed! That’s the way to go about it.” He indicated his wife beside him with his fork. “Larissa here married me for my money, but she’d never admit it.”

  “Nelson!” she whispered as her face flushed bright red. “I didn’t…”

  “Of course, she was a looker then,” he went on, oblivious to, or more likely uncaring of, his wife’s distress. “Well worth the price.”

  I felt my jaw tighten at his completely inappropriate remarks, and poor Larissa Hamilton seemed on the verge of tears.

  “What line of work are you in, Mr. Hamilton?” Milo asked, smoothly diverting the conversation. It was good of him to do so. I knew perfectly well that he had about as much interest in Nelson Hamilton’s line of work as I had in Veronica Carter’s dental history.

  “Well, I’m a self-made man,” he began. Pleased to ramble on about himself, he let drop the subject of his marriage, and Larissa Hamilton’s flush gradually faded into her usual pallor.

  Everyone was relieved, I think, by the change in topic. Mrs. Rodgers had been trying without much success to conceal a disapproving frown throughout the conversation, and she turned then to Mrs. Hamilton and began speaking animatedly. I still could not quite tell what the relationship between the two women was. Though Mrs. Rodgers said they had known each other for many years, their interactions thus far had not seemed to be those of very close friends. Nevertheless, they seemed at ease in one another’s company. I found myself hoping that Mrs. Hamilton might have a true friend in Mrs. Rodgers; she could certainly benefit from one.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come up to my room for a drink after dinner, Larissa,” Anne Rodgers said. She reached out and squeezed her husband’s arm. “Edward has some tedious legal briefs to read, and I’m feeling like company tonight. I’ve some new magazines we might read.”

  “I should like that,” Mrs. Hamilton replied, and I noted with approval that she did not first ask her husband. “That is, if Mr. Rodgers doesn’t mind.”

  “Edward doesn’t mind. Do you, darling?”

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Rodgers said, and I noticed that his normally dry tone was friendlier than usual. It seemed as though he were acting on his wife’s unspoken instructions to be kind to Mrs. Hamilton. “We should both be glad of your company. Anne gets cross with me when I ignore her, and I find it difficult to concentrate when she prattles on at me.”

  Anne Rodgers laughed, and Mrs. Hamilton smiled, that spark of warmth coming back into her eyes. The mood at the table seemed to have lightened considerably, despite the fact that Mr. Hamilton was still going on to Milo about some very astute business decisions on his part, his voice growing louder to drown out our conversation.

  I was glad when the meal was over so I could escape to the hotel sitting room. It was unoccupied, as I had hoped it would be. Most of the guests, I had noticed, stayed in the dining room dancing long after dinner had ended.

  The soft, cool colors of the room in the warm glow of the lamplight were soothing after the brightness and noise of dinner. I moved to the writing desk that sat against one wall. I pulled open the top drawer and found a neat stack of crisp ivory paper bearing the hotel’s name, along with a pile of envelopes.

  I sat at the desk chair and pulled out a sheet of paper. I had been meaning to write my cousin Laurel, and now was as good a time as any. I could confide in her, and perhaps the organization of my thoughts on paper would be beneficial to me as well.

  I was feeling overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the past few days. I had accepted Gil’s invitation to the Brightwell somewhat rashly and with little forethought, and now it was time to acknowledge that I may have gotten in over my head. It had never been my nature to give in easily, however. Perhaps that was why I had endured my obviously failing marriage for as long as I had …

  Who had murdered Rupert Howe? The question repeated itself over and over in my mind. I had learned little so far, except that the murdered man had not been very highly regarded by his friends and acquaintances. The carefully neutral answers of nearly everyone with whom I had discussed Rupert had spoken loudly. No one had liked him, not really.

  It seemed only poor Emmeline had been blind to his faults. I felt very sorry for her. No matter what I or anyone else had thought of Rupert, she had loved him, and now he was gone. Despite Lionel Blake’s prognosis, it was going to take her time to recover from this tragedy.

  My thoughts shifted to Gil. He knew more than he was saying, of that I was sure. But what? I suspected he would be horrified to learn that it had been his adamancy that I not ask questions that had provoked my determination to do just that.

  That was not to say that I acted without misgivings. If I was honest with myself, I was forced to acknowledge that I was venturing into territory in which I had no business. Rupert Howe’s murder, however unfortunate, was really none of my concern. Detective Inspector Jones seemed extremely competent. Nevertheless, his leading questions regarding Gil’s whereabouts at the time of the murder had alarmed me. There was always the chance he might come to the wrong conclusion, and that was a risk I was unwilling to take. If there was some way I could he
lp clear suspicion from Gil, then I would do it.

  Of course, my motive posed its own problems. It was all very well to tell myself that I wanted to aid Gil, to be certain that he didn’t get swept up in the murder of his sister’s fiancé, but I had not confronted the reason I wanted to do so. What was Gil to me? A friend or something more? Even now, when I attempted to sort out my uncertain feelings toward him, I could come to no other conclusion than that I still wondered what might have been. Five years was a long time and much had changed, and yet some things still felt so very much the same …

  With a sigh, I set pen to paper and began my letter.

  Dear Laurel,

  I promised to write to you, thinking my seaside excursion would produce very little that would prove to be newsworthy. How wrong I was. This trip has been more than I had bargained for. I am sure you have heard of the death of Rupert Howe, Emmeline Trent’s fiancé. This terrible news has been exacerbated by the fact that his death was nothing less than murder. It was I who discovered the body, and tomorrow I must attend the inquest. Knowing how you love a mystery, I am sure you will be envious. Do not be. Murder is not nearly as romantic in real life.

  As if matters needed to be further complicated, Milo has arrived, swooping down upon us unannounced. I have no idea of his purpose for coming here, but I am certain no good can come of it. He and Gil already appear very cool to one another, and in the midst of an investigation does not seem the proper time to contemplate the state of our marriage.

  A hurried set of steps alerted me to someone’s approach.

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  I looked up to see Olive Henderson standing in the doorway. I had seen little of her the past two days, and I had been surprised at dinner to see how wan she was. She looked even more distressed now, her face ghastly pale, save for her red-rimmed eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said softly. Her eyes looked almost pleading, as if she longed for a confidant as much as I did. I was surprised she would choose me; she had never seemed very fond of my company before.

  “You aren’t disturbing me at all,” I answered, folding my letter, to be finished later. “I would be glad of the company, in fact.”

  She entered the room and sank into the sofa, her white hands clenched in her lap. “Things are perfectly ghastly here, aren’t they?” she said, almost to herself.

  “It has been a rough couple of days.”

  Without further provocation, she burst into tears. “I’m so dreadfully unhappy,” she said, sobbing into a handkerchief that had appeared from nowhere.

  Having grown up in a reserved, emotionally distant family and subsequently being married to Milo, flagrant shows of emotion were foreign to me and, truthfully, somewhat uncomfortable. I moved to sit beside her on the sofa and did my best to affect a soothing manner.

  “I’m sorry you’re distressed. Is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. “No. You wouldn’t…” She looked up at me suddenly, her gaze intense. “Have you ever been truly, madly in love?”

  I hesitated only a moment. “I thought so once.”

  “Then perhaps you know how it feels to lose someone…”

  Steps sounded outside the door, and I looked up to see Gil standing there. Olive stiffened beside me and dabbed her face rather aggressively with her handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Gil said. “Shall I come back?”

  “No,” Olive said, rising. “I was just leaving.”

  Without a backward glance at either of us, she left the room. I couldn’t help but feel that her sudden and unexpected confidence had been surprising. I should have thought I would be the last person to whom she would unburden her heart, but perhaps there had been no one else.

  It seemed obvious she was referring to Rupert. He had spoken of their past relationship with decided flippancy; obviously, Olive’s feelings had been much stronger. Had she loved him that desperately? If so, things could not have rested easily between them, not with his being engaged to Emmeline. I recalled her apparent sadness that first night at dinner. Might it have turned to anger? It was certainly something to consider.

  Gil regarded me with raised brows. “She seemed upset.”

  “I believe she was.” I didn’t elaborate. There would be plenty of time to think things over alone in my room tonight. A bit of familiar company would be soothing just now. I indicated the sofa beside me. “Care to sit?”

  He sat, leaned back, then sat forward again, turning to look at me. “I owe you an apology, Amory.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Yes, I was terse with you today, and there was no call for it. I asked for your help, and you were nothing but kind. And then, because things didn’t go as planned, I acted badly. I’m sorry.” He looked so forlorn, I fought the urge to embrace him.

  “Think nothing of it. We’re all tense at the moment.”

  “It isn’t just that. Your husband … dash it all, Amory.” He sighed. “I think you should know that I…”

  “Gil,” I stopped him with my hand on his, longing to hear what he had to say but not wanting him to go on. “I don’t think now is the best time.”

  He looked at me, his brown eyes serious yet warm and golden in the yellow light. “You’re probably right, but there may not be another time.”

  “There’s plenty of time,” I said. I didn’t want to encourage him, to give him any sort of false hope. But at the moment I was so unsure of everything, and Gil was the closest thing to security I had ever known. I hadn’t known that when I threw it all away, but I realized it now and was hesitant to completely relinquish it, whatever my feelings for Milo might be. “When all this is over, Gil, we will talk. But I also think you should know that I…”

  It was his turn to squeeze my hand. “Don’t tell me now, Amory,” he said with a tired smile. “Let’s wait until this is all over.”

  11

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the day of the inquest, was suitably gloomy. The rain splattered against my window as I rose and dressed. I had tea and toast in my room, for I was in no mood for company. The thought of encountering Nelson Hamilton was especially unbearable.

  The inquest itself was remarkably brief, such a cold, formal way to account for the ending of a man’s life.

  It was held at the local inn, attracting a small crowd of locals curious about the mysterious death at the Brightwell and a handful of reporters, eager for some hint of scandal. Few from our party were there. Most of them had nothing to contribute, and the rain seemed to have dissuaded those with only a casual interest in attending.

  Emmeline, her face white, sat in one of the hard wooden chairs until it was her turn to speak. She gave her halting account of the events that had led up to our gruesome discovery, and it was obvious that only the very greatest of efforts was keeping her from hysteria. When she had finished, Gil helped her to her seat. Grief and fatigue had left her weak and ill, and I was very sorry for her that her dreams of happiness had vanished in an instant.

  When it was my turn to speak, I gave a statement regarding my role in the discovery of Rupert Howe’s body. There was precious little to tell, and I was brief.

  The coroner reiterated what I had learned from Inspector Jones. Rupert had been hit on the head with a blunt instrument before being tossed over the railing. The blow itself had not had sufficient force to kill and might have been administered by either a man or a woman.

  Inspector Jones gave his evidence, but I learned from him few details that I did not already know. No one reported having seen Rupert exit the hotel. No one could be certain when he fell.

  The verdict came quickly and confirmed what we all already knew: murder by person or persons unknown.

  * * *

  “MRS. AMES, MIGHT I have a word with you?” Inspector Jones approached me outside as I moved toward the hotel car. The rain beat a steady drumming on our umbrellas as we stood huddled in a rather forlorn little group.

  I turned to Gil, who had
just settled Emmeline inside. “Will you wait a moment, Gil?”

  His eyes flickered to the inspector and back to me. “Of course.”

  “If you’d like, Mrs. Ames, I can give you a ride back to the hotel. I had intended to pay a visit there this afternoon in any case.”

  I turned to Gil. “You had better take Emmeline back. I’ll be along soon.”

  He hesitated only briefly, then nodded. “Very well.”

  The car pulled away, and the inspector indicated his car, which was parked at a short distance. “Shall we?”

  We walked toward it. The grass was sodden, and I could feel the dampness seeping into my shoes. They were entirely inappropriate for the weather, but in packing for this trip I had brought very little to wear in the rain and even less to wear to an inquest.

  “I admired your recounting of events,” Inspector Jones said as we walked. “You were clear and concise in relating your information. You’d make a very credible witness.”

  “Witness to what, exactly?” I inquired. His tone indicated that there was more to what he was saying than his words suggested. There was something very clever, in a devious sort of way, about Inspector Jones.

  “I am speaking in generalities,” he said. “A policeman values a witness who knows how to recount events without embellishment or excessive emotion. Pure, simple truth is always admirable.”

  I stopped and turned to face him. “You are quite right. And I would appreciate the same directness now, Inspector. Whatever it is that you have to ask or say to me, perhaps it would be best if you came out with it.”

  The barest of smiles touched his lips. “Very well, Mrs. Ames. But perhaps we should get out of the rain.”

  We walked to his car, and he opened the door for me before going around and sliding in behind the steering wheel. He inserted the key but didn’t turn it. Hands on the wheel, he turned to look at me.