Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

  * * *

  BY THE TIME I left the sitting room, Milo and Mrs. Hamilton were no longer anywhere to be seen. I wanted to know if he had learned anything from Mrs. Hamilton, but there would be time for that later. I simply didn’t feel up to Milo at the moment.

  I returned to my room, contemplating the events of the morning. The inspector’s criticism had done little to shake my confidence in Gil’s innocence, but this newest development regarding the barrister was difficult to explain away. Perhaps Mr. Rodgers was correct. Perhaps Gil had been aware that suspicion was likely to shift in his direction and had chosen to be prepared.

  And then there had been something in the inspector’s manner that had puzzled me. He seemed as though he knew more than he was saying. I could not rid myself of the feeling that he had meant to tell me something, though I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was. I hoped that he would prove to be my ally in this; if he was not set on Gil’s guilt, perhaps he could find who had really killed Rupert Howe.

  I opened the door to my room, still lost in thought. Then I stopped. Something was amiss, out of place. It took me only a moment to realize what it was. It was not that something was missing but that something had been added. A glance into the bathroom confirmed my suspicions. Stepping to the wardrobe and flinging it open, I felt a surge of indignation.

  Milo had had all of his things moved into my room.

  16

  I CHECKED IN on Emmeline before I went downstairs and found that she was eating a quiet dinner in her room. Her color had improved, and she seemed in slightly better spirits. “I don’t know how I shall make it without … without Rupert, but I couldn’t bear it if something should happen to Gil,” she said. “I feel so much better knowing you’re doing what you can to help him.”

  I only hoped it would be enough. I felt the great weight of her confidence upon my shoulders.

  “Emmeline,” I ventured after a moment, “can you think of any reason anyone might have killed Rupert?” I had been hesitant to ask her anything concerning his death, but who was in a better position to know?

  She paused and, to my relief, appeared to calmly consider it. “I’ve thought and thought about it, but I just don’t know why anyone would … would do such a thing. He got along with everyone, except perhaps Olive. They had been … close at one point.”

  “You knew about that?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes, it was common knowledge, though Rupert said there was really nothing to it. And I don’t think for a moment that Olive would have done anything so dreadful.”

  I thought of what Mrs. Hamilton had told me and decided to press ahead with my questions. “But didn’t Olive say she wanted to meet with Rupert that night? I was given to understand they were talking as you all came up from the beach. Perhaps they met and quarreled.”

  Emmeline frowned and shook her head. “No, I don’t think she said any such thing. We all walked up at the same time and perhaps Olive and Rupert fell into step together, but they usually tried to avoid one another. I’m certain they cared nothing for each other. You see, she…” She hesitated a moment, as if about to say something, and then shook her head again. “Well … they just didn’t care for one another. They certainly wouldn’t have wanted to meet.”

  I kept my opinion on this to myself. I was relieved she didn’t ask where I had acquired my information. I knew how uneasy Mrs. Hamilton had been in relating the story. Perhaps she was right in doubting herself. She may have misheard, or perhaps she had been correct in her assessment that the noise from the sea had been too loud for Emmeline to overhear the conversation.

  Still, I could not convince myself to dismiss it.

  * * *

  I WAS EARLY for dinner. Edward and Anne Rodgers were already at the table when I arrived.

  Mr. Rodgers still appeared preoccupied, but Anne Rodgers and I chatted about mundane things for a few moments. I had the impression that she was chatting on to fill the silence. We discussed neither the murder nor Olive, and I found I didn’t have the will to bring either topic up at the moment.

  The rest of the guests trickled in to the dining room, and soon our usual group was all in attendance. It was somewhat strange how we all marched on, as one by one our members dropped away to one unfortunate fate or another.

  “You’re looking lovely this evening,” Milo said, sliding into the seat beside me, eyeing my sleeveless, fitted gown of sapphire-colored satin. “I’ve always fancied you in blue.”

  “You’re looking rather lovely yourself,” I replied. “I see your dinner clothes were not among the things you had transferred to my room.”

  “Ah, so you noticed.”

  “I did.”

  Larissa and Nelson Hamilton arrived at our table, and Milo rose with the other gentlemen until Larissa was seated. He spoke to her, and her face lit up. She said something too quiet for me to hear, and Milo laughed. They seemed to have developed quite the camaraderie over the course of the afternoon.

  Taking his seat again, he turned to me and said in a low voice, “I thought, perhaps, since we are partners in this endeavor, we might make your room our headquarters, so to speak.”

  I placed my napkin in my lap. “Does that necessitate your sleeping there?”

  “Don’t you want me to sleep there, Amory?” he asked. He was speaking so close to my ear that I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t be sure if the low caressing tone was meant in earnest or if he was merely teasing me.

  “What do you think about them keeping us here against our will, Ames?” For once I was grateful for Mr. Hamilton’s intrusiveness. This was not a conversation I wished to have with Milo at the dinner table.

  “Are we here against our will, Mr. Hamilton?” Milo asked, picking up his wineglass. “I thought we were here on holiday.”

  “They sent a policeman round to inform us that we aren’t to leave, didn’t they? I’d say that’s being held against my will!”

  “In any event, it’s usually best to cooperate with the police,” Mr. Rodgers put in.

  “Well, I don’t like it!”

  “It isn’t as though they’ve locked us up, Nelson,” Mrs. Hamilton said quietly.

  “Nonsense, Larissa. You don’t know a thing about it. They’ve caught their man. Why should we be forced to remain here?”

  “You can’t mean you think Gil is guilty of Rupert’s death,” Mrs. Rodgers protested. “He’s much too sweet-tempered to do any such thing.”

  “One can never tell,” Mr. Hamilton said.

  “I shouldn’t think Gil capable of any such thing,” I said mildly. “I have no doubt everything will be straightened out directly.” Though I longed to speak heartily in his defense, I thought perhaps I could best serve my aims by maintaining the pretense of confidence in the police. To protest too loudly might draw attention to the fact that I was somehow involved in the case. It would be better for me to say as little as possible, though I hated not being able to speak more heatedly of my indignation at Gil’s wrongful imprisonment.

  I looked up and found Milo was watching me with a sardonic gleam in his eyes, a thinly veiled smile of mocking hovering on his mouth. He knew perfectly well what I was feeling, and he was relishing my discomfort.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Ames is right,” Anne Rodgers concluded. “It was probably an accident … or … or some stranger…” Her voice trailed off, and I knew what she was thinking. If, in fact, it wasn’t Gil, it was most likely that it was another one of us.

  “Did they say what the weapon was?”

  “A blunt instrument,” I replied, recalling what I had heard at the inquest. “Not too thick and probably with a smooth edge. I don’t believe the police have found it.”

  “This is horrid dinner conversation,” Anne Rodgers said suddenly. Of course, she was right.

  The conversation eventually turned to trivialities, as though everyone had wearied of such dreary topics. Talk turned to the weather, and most members of the party were making plans for sea bathing in the morni
ng. How quickly they forgot the calamities that had befallen their friends.

  Though Mr. Hamilton had protested the need to remain at the Brightwell, I felt that it was more the idea of the thing with which he disagreed. After all, he had told me himself that he intended to finish out his holiday. None of the group seemed much inconvenienced by the inspector’s order, and it seemed that, for the most part, life would continue to go on as usual.

  The last of the plates was cleared away, and, as the dancing began, the others rose to take coffee and drinks in the sitting room. As they began to take their leave, I remained in my seat. The events of the day and all that I had learned were weighing heavily upon my mind, and I sat for a moment, lost in thought.

  Milo turned to me, draping his arm across the back of my chair. “What are you thinking about?”

  I turned my attention to him, noticing how very close he was. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your eyes go all blue at the edges when you’re preoccupied.”

  “Do they?” I was surprised he had noticed such a thing.

  “Yes, and they turn a peculiar silver shade when you’re angry. You’ve lovely eyes, Amory.” His tone, though light, lacked its usual quality of artificial affection.

  My gaze met his. There it was again. That sudden spark of something between us. I never knew how to take Milo’s little bursts of sweetness. It was not that I suspected him of insincerity. It was just that his sincerity was so short-lived I dared not become accustomed to it.

  “Thank you,” I said, passing lightly over the compliment. “You’re right. I was lost in thought. I went to visit Inspector Jones today.”

  “Ah. And what does the good inspector have to say?” He removed his arm from my chair and sat back, the subtle shift in his posture indicating that we had lost the intimacy of the moment. Though that had been my goal, I found that I felt vaguely disappointed.

  “Not much. He’s a tight-lipped sort of person. He … he wouldn’t let me see Gil.”

  Milo said nothing to this. It was probably the wrong thing to say. For some reason, I seemed to find myself saying all the wrong things as of late.

  “I noticed you have formed an acquaintance with Larissa Hamilton,” I went on.

  “Yes, we had rather a long chat today.”

  “And what do you make of her?”

  “She’s not so retiring as people think, not once she’s been warmed up.”

  “Indeed.” I could just imagine Milo’s flattering attentions, just the kind of thing to warm a neglected woman like Mrs. Hamilton.

  “She’s quiet because she’s unhappy and she hates it here, but that’s not all of it. It seems to me there’s something she’s hiding. She’s afraid of something.” He was relating these things in an offhanded sort of way, and I sensed that the conversation was losing his interest. His eyes had drifted to the doorway, through which the rest of the party had departed, and his sun-bronzed hand toyed with the napkin on the table.

  “Odds are, it’s her husband,” I said. “Does he harm her, do you think?” Though we were quite alone at the table, I had lowered my voice and found that I was leaning toward Milo in a conspiratorial way. His gaze flickered back to me.

  “She wouldn’t, of course, have confided in me if he did.”

  “I think women find it easy to confide in you,” I said lightly.

  There was no amusement in his eyes as he looked at me. “You don’t.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” called Lionel Blake suddenly from the doorway. “Would you care for a rubber of bridge? We’re two short.”

  Milo stood and turned to me, a bland, pleasant expression on his features. “Care to, darling?”

  “Well, I…” There was little use. It was perfectly clear to me that I had lost Milo for the moment. I stood, managing a smile. “I would love to.”

  * * *

  I QUITE LIKED to play bridge. I found I enjoyed the mental challenge. Milo, I knew, didn’t particularly care for the game, but he was very good when he set his mind to it. As in most things, he was perfectly capable of excelling when he felt so inclined.

  I partnered with Lionel Blake, and Milo partnered with Mrs. Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. Rodgers were East and West to Mr. Rodgers’s and Miss Carter’s North and South.

  There was little talk during the game, and nothing of consequence. A Bakelite radio sat on a table in the sitting room, and Mrs. Rodgers turned the dial until she tuned it to BBC, the cheerful strains of an orchestra spilling out into the room. Everyone seemed determined to ignore the fact that there had been a murder, an arrest, and an attempted suicide in the past few days. I couldn’t exactly say I blamed them. The mounting stress of it all was beginning to prove trying to my nerves, and I felt constantly on edge, as though waiting for the next calamity to befall us.

  The game progressed, but my mind was not in it. I was preoccupied, and I’m afraid I wasn’t the best of partners. Lionel Blake and I couldn’t seem to make a go of it. Milo, it seemed, was served well by the combination of a competitive streak and genuine skill, honed by years at the roulette wheel and baccarat table. He and Mrs. Hamilton bid rather aggressively and trounced us soundly.

  “I’m afraid I was rather a sorry partner this evening,” I told Lionel Blake as we tallied our defeat.

  “I think you play very well,” said Mrs. Hamilton. It was gracious of her, considering she and Milo had just managed a small slam.

  After our game dissolved, we took seats about the room and Mr. Blake and Milo fetched us coffee while the others continued their play. Mr. Rodgers and Miss Carter prevailed, much to Mr. Hamilton’s obvious dissatisfaction.

  He patted his pockets irritably. “Confound it. I haven’t any cigarettes. Larissa, give me yours,” he snapped.

  “I … I haven’t got them.”

  “What do you mean, you haven’t got them?” He grabbed her handbag and rummaged in it as the rest of us tried not to increase Mrs. Hamilton’s mortification by appearing to pay attention. He apparently located her cigarette case and found it empty, for he shoved her bag back at her. “Why bother keeping a cigarette case if you can’t remember to put cigarettes in it?” he grumbled.

  “I so rarely smoke, Hamilton,” she said softly. “I simply forgot.”

  “Have one of mine,” Milo offered.

  Larissa smiled her thanks at Milo as Mr. Hamilton proceeded to sit down and smoke sulkily.

  I was waiting to see if I could catch a moment alone with Lionel Blake. I was very curious to learn the outcome of his recent expedition. He seemed very at ease, and I wondered if perhaps some of his employer’s financial difficulties might have been resolved.

  He proposed another round, and Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers agreed, which left them one short.

  Veronica Carter declined, excusing herself for the night. She had paid very little attention to Milo this evening, and I assumed that his spending the night in my room had been a clear enough message.

  “Mr. or Mrs. Ames?” Lionel asked.

  “I think not,” Milo replied. “I’m anxious to retire.” His eyes met mine, and I was certain I saw a definite challenge in them. Neither of us had forgotten that he was expecting to share my room this evening, but I had not yet decided if I intended to allow it.

  “I think I shall also call it a night,” I said. “I’m rather tired.”

  “Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton, then?” Mr. Blake questioned.

  Not surprisingly, Mr. Hamilton declined. He had not relished his defeat, and I felt sure he would not give his foes another chance to triumph. “No, I suppose it’s time for bed,” he said, rising from his seat. “Ready, Larissa?”

  “Not just yet, Nelson,” she answered. “I think I shall play another rubber with the others.”

  She didn’t look at him as she spoke, as though she were worried that a disapproving glance might change her mind. I dare say she was right. Something like displeasure crossed his face, but it was instantly smoothed away, and he smiled. “Very well, old girl. Suit yourself. Good nigh
t all.” And with that, he turned and left the room.

  “Oh, blast,” Lionel Blake said. “My pencil’s gone dull. Have you another, Mrs. Ames?”

  “In my handbag, I think.” I looked around me, suddenly conscious of the fact I had not seen my handbag in some time. “I must have left it in the dining room,” I said, rising. “I’ll just go get it.”

  “Shall I fetch it for you, darling?” Milo asked.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I’ll get it.”

  I went back to the dining room. They had cleared the tables, so I ventured to the front desk, where the clerk returned it to me.

  Turning back toward the sitting room, I stopped as I caught sight of Mr. Hamilton. Something about his manner struck me as strange. He was standing in an open place in the middle of the lobby, and he seemed to sway slightly, as though his body could not quite decide the direction he was going to take. He hadn’t spotted me, and I slipped behind a potted palm in a shadowy corner, knowing he was not likely to see me unless I called attention to myself.

  I thought for a moment that he was entering the hotel from the terrace, perhaps having taken in a bit of evening air before retiring. However, I quickly saw that he was not approaching the lift. In fact, as I watched, he glanced back toward the sitting room, as if to be sure that no one had observed him. Then he opened the door and slipped out onto the terrace.

  Had it not been for the glance over his shoulder, I might have thought nothing of it. As it was, it seemed a very strange and furtive thing to do. Without a further thought, I moved toward the doors leading out to the terrace. If I should encounter him, I would merely say I was getting some air.

  There were few guests about at this hour, though the strains of music still floated out from where dancing was going on in the dining room. A couple sat talking in the lobby, but they were engrossed in conversation, and I slipped out onto the terrace unnoticed.