Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

  I was beginning to find it immensely frustrating to be met with such chariness at every turn.

  “There must have been some reason.” I pressed. “Gil isn’t the type of man to take an instant dislike to anyone without reason.”

  “I … I don’t know,” she answered, and, to my horror, her eyes began to fill with tears. “I only know that I was the only one who really understood Rupert, and now he’s gone…”

  “I’m sorry, Emmeline. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. This was very distressing. Perhaps I should have sent Milo to speak with Emmeline. He would have handled the situation with much more finesse, I was sure.

  “I don’t mean to cry. Everything is just so terrible.” She swiped at her tears. “But you must know that Gil’s innocent. He never would have killed Rupert just because he didn’t like him … He didn’t kill him. He didn’t.”

  “I know,” I said, rising from my seat. “And rest assured, Emmeline, I’m going to find out who did.”

  * * *

  WALKING AWAY FROM Emmeline’s room, I realized that I had made quite a commitment. Finding Rupert’s killer would be difficult, and there was every possibility that it could be dangerous. Nevertheless, I remained undaunted. I did not believe for a moment that Gil was guilty of this crime, and I did not intend that he should hang for it.

  Milo was waiting in my room when I arrived, lounging on my sofa and thumbing disinterestedly through the novel I had been reading.

  “Well,” I said without preamble, “did you learn anything?”

  He tossed the book aside. “It seems Olive Henderson went at her wrists with a razor blade. I had a tray sent up for you.” He indicated the silver tray that sat on the table. I lifted the lid. It was cold porridge, which I abhorred, but I thought it sweet of him to think of me.

  “Her wrists? How ghastly.” I sat down on the chair opposite him, the rapid pace of the morning beginning to catch up with me. I was still somewhat drowsy, though the heavy lethargy seemed to have worn off.

  “I thought it rather theatrical myself.”

  “How terribly insensitive of you,” I remarked. “After all, the girl might have died.”

  “Well, she didn’t. Eat your porridge, Amory. You look as though you need nourishment.”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you. She’ll live then?”

  “Yes, she did a poor job of it, it seems.”

  “What do you mean?

  “Either she had reservations about actually seeing it through or she’s weak as a kitten. The wounds weren’t deep enough to do serious harm. They probably won’t even require stitching.”

  I was actually quite impressed. “Milo, how in the world did you manage to discover all of this?”

  He smiled. “A truly competent investigator never reveals his sources.”

  “Oh, so you’re an investigator now, are you?”

  “I thought I might as well try my hand at it,” he said, sitting back in the sofa, that familiar gleam in his eyes indicating one of his rare bouts of enthusiasm. It had been a long time since I had seen him look that way. I felt an unwarranted bit of satisfaction, as though I was somehow responsible for capturing his interest.

  “Anything more?” I asked.

  “Not much. Miss Henderson was the sole topic of conversation this morning; no one was talking of anything else.”

  “Well, I must say you did well,” I told him.

  He smiled. “This is shaping up to be more amusing than Monte Carlo. And what of you? Did you learn anything from Emmeline?”

  I sighed. “She’s nearly gone to pieces. I’m not sure how much longer she shall be able to hold it all together. She seems to be in a constant state of near hysteria. Of course, she’s been through so much. Were our situations reversed, I’m sure I should not be in a much better state.”

  “Nonsense,” Milo said. “You’d bear up.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a criticism, so I replied with a light tone. “Do you think so?”

  He tossed me a grin. “Naturally. If I were to be murdered, I would leave you with heaps of money and free to do as you please.”

  I stood and turned toward the door. “You needn’t be murdered for that,” I replied, looking back over my shoulder. “I could just as easy accomplish it with a divorce.”

  “Touché, my love,” he said.

  15

  MY FIRST COURSE of action after parting ways with Milo was to visit the police station to see Inspector Jones. I didn’t feel he had dealt fairly with Gil, or with me for that matter, and I intended to see what I could do about it.

  Milo’s objective would be to gain whatever information possible from the rest of the guests. His usual lack of interest in what people had to say could prove invaluable in this situation. I hoped people would be willing to speak to him, thinking it of little consequence. There was always the possibility that someone might give away a telling bit of information without meaning to.

  Inspector Jones was occupied when I arrived, but the helpful sergeant gave him my message, and it was only a few moments before I was ushered into his office. The space was well kept and orderly, as I would have expected his office to be. There were few personal items to be seen, save a photograph of the inspector with a pretty dark-haired woman I thought might be his wife. He sat behind a desk covered in neat stacks of paper. Everything about the place bespoke quiet efficiency.

  He rose when I entered. “Mrs. Ames,” he said. Though he didn’t smile exactly, there was a pleasant expression on his face, as though he were not altogether displeased to see me. I had the feeling that he was amused by me, which I found grating, and the begrudging sense of admiration I had felt for his competence had been shaken by Gil’s arrest. Nevertheless, he was obviously an intelligent man, and I hoped that he would come to see reason.

  The heat of anger with him had faded since last night. Nevertheless, I was still disinclined to be friendly. “I think you know why I’ve come, Inspector,” I said coolly, seating myself in the hard wooden chair he had indicated.

  “You feel that I abused my position when you spoke in confidence to me,” he said without preamble. “That’s understandable, and I’m sorry you feel that way. Nevertheless, if Mr. Trent is guilty of murder, it is my duty to see that he is arrested and charged for it.” There was something in his calm logic that diffused my indignation. I couldn’t very well fault the man for carrying out his duty, however misguided he might be.

  “Very well. I can accept that,” I replied. “But you’ve made a very grave mistake. Gil Trent no more killed Rupert Howe than you did.”

  He regarded me for a long moment before speaking. “May I be frank with you, Mrs. Ames?”

  “I wish you would be, Inspector.”

  He chose his words carefully. “I think, perhaps, that you are letting your, shall we say, affection for Mr. Trent influence your judgment.”

  I considered this possibility for only a moment before dismissing it. “I know Gil, Inspector,” I replied. “He didn’t do it.”

  “Were you there when Rupert Howe was killed?”

  “No.”

  “Then you cannot tell me with any certainty that you know what did or did not happen on the cliff that day.”

  I realized then that anything I could say was only vain repetition of last night’s sentiments, but I could think of no other way to convince him of my sincere belief in Gil’s innocence.

  “I am not just some meddling fool, Inspector.”

  He met my gaze. “I don’t believe for a moment that you are, Mrs. Ames. Far from it. But consider it from my position. If you had reason to believe a man was guilty, would you take the word of a woman who had, if you’ll pardon my saying so, rather a vested interest in the outcome of this investigation?”

  I wondered if he assumed there was more between Gil and me than I had let on. “There is nothing between Gil and myself but an old friendship,” I said.

  “Whether it is an old friendship or something more is reall
y none of my concern,” he replied smoothly. “The fact of that matter is that I did not arrest Mr. Trent solely on the information you related to me. There are other factors to be considered.”

  I remembered then what he had said in my room the night before. “Who told you they had seen him on the terrace with Rupert that afternoon?”

  He smiled placidly. “As I said last night, I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at present.”

  He really was the most infuriating man.

  I was not going to concede so easily. “Supposing someone did see him on the terrace. That doesn’t mean he killed Rupert.”

  “That, in itself, is not sufficient, no. When combined with a good motive, supplied by you, and backed by an apparently long history of bad blood between the two men, it puts things in a different light.”

  “But wasn’t his arrest rather premature? Did you even speak with the other members of our party? They all seemed startled to learn it was murder.”

  Inspector Jones reached to the corner of his desk and held up a file, thick with paper. “My dossier on the guests of the Brightwell, Mrs. Ames. Thorough histories, including those of you and your husband. Very interesting reading.”

  I didn’t know what inference he was attempting to make, so I ignored it. “Then you must know there are others with motive.”

  He looked at me speculatively for a moment. “I’d be interested to know what it is you think you know, Mrs. Ames.”

  I mentally chided myself for revealing my hand once again. He really was much too perceptive, this inspector.

  “I’ve heard things,” I replied evasively.

  “Yes, I expect you have,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Anything in particular?”

  As if I should be inclined to take him into my confidence now. “I doubt rumors would be useful to you, Inspector.”

  “Perhaps not. Then again, many a murderer has been caught with useful information gleaned from rumors.”

  “Then you agree that Gil is not the only one who could have done it,” I said, pouncing upon his admission.

  “Certainly … which is why I’ve instructed all the members of your party not to leave the hotel just yet.”

  This bit of news came as a surprise to me. I hadn’t heard that the guests had been told not to leave. “Then you’re not convinced it was Gil?”

  “I arrested Mr. Trent because he appears to be guilty. I would be remiss in my duties if I did otherwise. I cannot ignore the evidence. But rest assured, Mrs. Ames. I have not closed the book on this investigation just yet.”

  Was he trying to tell me something? I couldn’t be certain. He was so exasperatingly hard to read, almost as bad as Milo. One thing I did know: he wasn’t going to give me any more information at present.

  “Is Mr. Trent all right?” I asked.

  “He is being very well cared for.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible just now. Perhaps if you’d come back tomorrow?”

  I rose, knowing there was no point in detaining him further. “I shall be here in the morning.”

  He smiled. “I am sure you will, Mrs. Ames.”

  * * *

  I WAS WEARY and disappointed as I returned to the Brightwell. If I had expected to swoop in and discover a murderer within a few hours, I had greatly overestimated my abilities. I had hoped to glean something from Inspector Jones, but he was determined to play his cards close to his chest. I would have to see what I could learn on my own.

  The lobby was fairly empty, for it was a beautiful day and most of the guests were taking advantage of the beach after the day of rain. I knew that Rupert’s death had elicited great curiosity at the Brightwell, but thus far people had been content to watch and whisper from afar.

  I stopped at the desk, where I was given a letter from Laurel. I put it in my pocket, looking forward to reading it. Laurel always had a way of lifting my spirits, and I was sorely in need of a bit of encouragement at the moment.

  I was walking toward the lift when I caught the sound of conversation and laughter coming from a table in the corner. Almost immediately, I recognized the speaker was Milo. Curious to see whom he had engaged in conversation, and hoping it would prove to be in connection with our investigation, I walked to where I could have a vantage point without being seen.

  I was more than surprised to discover that the laughter belonged to Larissa Hamilton. She and Milo were seated where I could see them in profile. It was the first time I had ever seen Mrs. Hamilton look completely at ease. Her posture was relaxed as she sat across from my husband, a smile lighting her face, making her look prettier than I had ever seen her.

  Milo leaned toward her and said something, and the soft peal of laughter broke out again.

  If I had not heard it and not known Milo, I wouldn’t have believed it. She was positively aglow. It seemed my faith in Milo’s charms was justified.

  I moved away before either of them could spot me.

  I had just turned back toward the lift when I saw Mr. Rodgers enter the hotel sitting room. Now seemed as good a moment as ever to do a bit of investigating of my own. I might not possess Milo’s charisma, but I felt fairly confident that I could learn something … if, that is, there was something to be learned.

  I entered the room on the pretext of finishing the letter I had begun writing to Laurel.

  “Oh, Mr. Rodgers,” I said, feigning pleasant surprise upon encountering him. “How are you?”

  “Well, thank you,” he replied. “Though I have some rather urgent business to attend to.”

  I expected that was a hint that he wished to be left alone, but I pretended not to notice.

  “It’s a shame it must interfere with your holiday,” I said, taking a seat at the writing table.

  “Yes, well…” His voice trailed off as he began to read over the paper in his hand.

  This was not working as well as I had hoped. He seemed to have very little interest in conversation. I decided perhaps a direct approach would fare best. “What do you think of this murder business?”

  He looked up at me. “I think it’s highly unlikely that Gil Trent had anything to do with it,” he said. “I’ve wired Sir Andrew Heath, one of the best barristers in London.”

  “Gil will be grateful you’ve selected someone for him,” I said.

  “Gil asked me to send for Sir Andrew,” Mr. Rodgers replied, his eyes back on the document before him.

  This bit of news caught me by surprise. “Gil asked you … when?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Before he was arrested?”

  “Yes,” he looked up at me again, very little interest in his tone or expression. “He must have guessed that that inspector suspected him. He asked me right after breakfast if I knew of a good barrister. I suggested Sir Andrew at once.”

  I was silent while I digested this latest bit of information. Why would Gil have requested the advice of a barrister before he knew he was going to be arrested? It just didn’t make sense. It must have been something to do with what Gil had been trying to tell me last night. I would need to see him as soon as possible. Perhaps he could tell me what was going on.

  Mr. Rodgers and I lapsed into silence. He seemed disinclined to continue our conversation, and I felt that any further attempts on my part might be perceived as intrusive. I began a second letter to Laurel without opening the one she had sent me. I knew she would be intrigued by the latest developments. I had just finished writing it when Veronica Carter entered the sitting room.

  She acknowledged me with a nod, not the least bit self-conscious that she had tried to seduce my husband only the night before. Under the circumstances, I found my feelings were barely civil. I returned her nod because I was bred to be polite.

  She glanced at Mr. Rodgers, but he did not look up from his papers. I was rather surprised when she came and sat in the chair beside the writing desk. She said nothing for a moment, and I wondered what this
was leading up to.

  She looked a bit less haughty than usual, as though she had deflated somehow, and I felt an unwanted twinge of sympathy for her.

  At last, she seemed to have formed the words she was seeking. “It’s dreadful about Olive, isn’t it?” she said. Though her features were perfectly composed, there seemed to be genuine sadness in her eyes, and the usual cool confidence of her voice had faded into a sort of soft uncertainty.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I was sorry to hear about that. I understand she should be all right, which is good news.”

  “I went to the hospital. They wouldn’t let me see her.” I was surprised that she should have gone out of her way to visit Olive, but perhaps I was judging her harshly.

  “I can’t understand why she would do such a thing,” she went on, almost as though she was speaking to herself.

  “Perhaps … because of Rupert?” I suggested.

  Her gaze came up to me, somewhat sharply, I thought. “No, it couldn’t be. Olive didn’t care for Rupert,” she said.

  I wondered how well Veronica really knew her friend. Olive had seemed quite upset when I had spoken to her in the sitting room. Perhaps she had loved Rupert more than anyone was aware. Or perhaps she had another reason …

  “I understood that they cared for one another before Rupert met Emmeline.”

  “Oh, perhaps a little flirtation, but nothing serious. But Rupert was like that. Even in Monte Carlo, he…” She stopped, as though aware she might be saying too much, but then finished airily. “He was always something of a flirt.”

  Rupert had been in Monte Carlo as well? Milo had never mentioned that to me.

  “And now he’s gone, and Olive … It’s dreadful here now, isn’t it?” she said. “I would leave at once, if that awful inspector hadn’t insisted we remain.”

  “It will be over soon enough,” I said.

  “Yes, I suppose it will.” She stood then, and the indifferent mask had slipped back into place, but not before I realized that perhaps we were not so very different, after all. For the first time, I realized that Veronica Carter was much like me: a young woman from an affluent family, facing a difficult situation without the benefit of anyone on whom she could completely rely.