“Darling, can’t this wait until morning?”
“It is morning,” I said, pulling out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. “And before you make any complaints, let me remind you that it was your idea to stay in my room, not mine.”
Milo sighed. “Yes, well, this wasn’t what I had envisioned.”
I wrote “Mr. Hamilton” on the piece of paper and drew a line beneath it. “What motive does Mr. Hamilton have?” I asked. “Do you think Rupert may have trifled with Larissa Hamilton?”
Milo sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair, then across the shadow of a beard that was beginning to darken his face. I tried not to notice how very attractive he looked, disheveled from sleep. He was so seldom anything less than immaculately attired that his current rumpled state held a certain sort of appeal. My mind wandered to our earlier kisses, and I forced myself to focus on the task at hand.
“It’s possible,” he said, “but I shouldn’t say likely. I gather Rupert Howe would have preferred a very different sort of woman. Granted, she’s pretty enough, but there’s that aura of tragedy that hovers over her. She doesn’t conceal her unhappiness well. I shouldn’t think most men would find it appealing.”
“She certainly warmed up under your attentions,” I observed.
“She enjoys it when someone is pleasant to her,” he said. “From what I’ve seen, Mr. Hamilton certainly isn’t.”
“No,” I replied. “I can’t see why she ever married him.”
“You see? You should count your blessings,” Milo noted. “You may not have gotten the best of bargains when you married me, but Mr. Hamilton proves it could be much worse.”
“A moving argument,” I replied dryly. “In any event, I can’t see Mr. Hamilton as murdering in a jealous passion. Might he have killed Rupert for some other reason?”
“Perhaps it’s something to do with Socialists,” he suggested. “According to the papers, everything has to do with Socialists these days.”
“Be serious, Milo.” I directed him with a smile.
“Shady business dealing, perhaps?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I can enquire of Emmeline or Gil. They might know if Rupert and Mr. Hamilton had any sort of joint venture.”
Milo rose from the bed and put on his dressing gown, moving toward the desk. “From what I’ve heard of Rupert Howe, he would be likely to get involved in something underhanded, if he thought there was a quick profit to be made from it.”
I turned to him, surprised. “Did you know Rupert? Miss Carter mentioned he was in Monte Carlo.”
“No. I knew of him, but I didn’t know him personally. He didn’t quite move in my circles, I’m afraid.”
“What a thorough snob you are, Milo.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said with a raised brow. “Money doesn’t buy breeding, after all. These people here at the Brightwell aren’t exactly of our class.”
“They are perfectly nice people.”
Milo smiled. “Except for whichever of them is a murderer.”
“Yes, excepting that person.”
He was right, of course. I had defended them automatically with a charitable politeness that had been instilled in me from an early age, but the plain fact remained that, aside from Gil and Emmeline, none of the guests here were particularly nice people at all. It seemed to me that each of them had their own hidden agendas, their own secrets to keep. However, somewhere amidst the muddle, there were answers. It was only a matter of separating the inconsequential from the significant.
“You may as well continue the list,” Milo said, glancing over my shoulder. “Get all the suspects together.” He dropped onto the sofa and lay across it, his dark head propped against the arm nearest me.
“All right. Mrs. Hamilton next, then.” I hesitated, thinking hard. “Perhaps Rupert paid her unwanted attention. Perhaps it wasn’t murder at all. Perhaps she was forced to defend herself from him, and consequently he died and she was too afraid to tell anyone.”
“She might have picked up a rock and bashed him with it,” Milo conceded. “One can never tell about aggressive bridge players.”
“She might have told Mr. Hamilton, and he went searching for the weapon on her behalf.”
“Uncharacteristically chivalrous of him, I should say.”
“Perhaps. Well, how about Olive Henderson?” I asked. “Rupert insinuated that there had been something between them before he met Emmeline, and Mrs. Hamilton mentioned that they might have had a clandestine meeting. Now, she’s slit her wrists. Perhaps it was guilt and not heartbreak.”
“Yes, they may have had a lovers’ quarrel on the cliff. Perhaps she hit him and he fell over the edge.”
My mind went back to my conversation with Olive in the sitting room. She had asked me if I had ever been in love, and I was certain it had been real sorrow in her eyes. Could it have been guilt for killing the man she had once loved? It was possible, but I didn’t think it likely. Hers had been the wistful sadness of something lost, not the suffering of remorse. “I have my doubts about Miss Henderson,” I said at last. “But it’s always possible.”
“What of the charming Miss Carter?” Milo asked. “Might she have had a reason to kill Rupert?”
I considered. “Perhaps. It seems that Rupert was inordinately successful where women were concerned. There may have been something between them that none of us were aware of. Perhaps she killed him in a jealous rage.”
Milo reached over and retrieved a cigarette from the box on the table. He lit it with a silver lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and smoked contemplatively. “I think it very unlikely that Rupert Howe was having a love affair with every member of this little party,” he said at last. “I never met the man, but it seems that his luck could not have extended that far.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” I replied sweetly. “I imagine even you would have difficulty accomplishing such a thing. And you’ve much more savoir faire than Rupert had.”
He blew a stream of smoke into the air. “You flatter me, my dear.”
I glanced back at the list. “I’m curious about Lionel Blake,” I said. “There’s something mysterious about him.” I related my visit to the abandoned theater. “He was so secretive about the thing, as though there was some reason he should attempt to hide it.
“Theater people are an odd lot,” Milo said dismissively. “It may be nothing. Then again, it may well be that he’s the one tied up with the Socialists.”
I ignored him. “We’ll come back to Mr. Blake. I shall have to ponder over Anne and Edward Rodgers,” I said, moving on. “Neither of them seems to have any real motive thus far.”
“Rather an odd pair, aren’t they?” he commented.
“Yes, that’s just what I thought. She’s very sociable, and he’s so very stiff. I’ve barely seen him smile since we’ve been here.”
“We may as well ascribe to them the familiar motive. Perhaps she was too sociable with Rupert, and her husband objected.”
“I don’t know. I have the impression they’re really very fond of one another.” I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Perhaps you should talk to Mrs. Rodgers. I think she would be more than happy to have a nice, long chat with you.”
“I do believe you are using me, Amory,” Milo said, turning his head on the arm of the sofa to look up at me.
“Yes, well, you have to be good for something, don’t you?”
He laughed. “I should have known better than to match wits with you this early in the morning.”
“Or anytime, for that matter,” I retorted.
“Might I see your list?” he asked.
I handed it to him.
Milo took the sheet of paper and ran his eyes across it. “I notice you haven’t included Trent. Is it really wise to be unwilling to consider the possibility that he might actually have done it?”
“He didn’t, Milo. I know it.”
“I see. And does your decree of clemency extend to Miss Trent, as well?”
I frowned. “Emmeline?”
Milo sat up and offered me one of his sardonic smiles. “If you go around eliminating everyone you’ve taken a liking to, you may overlook something important.”
I bit back a harsh retort as the truth of his words sank in. Emmeline, by all appearances, was very distraught at Rupert’s death. But that didn’t mean she was not responsible. It was she who had called attention to the fact that Rupert was missing. Might she have wanted me to be with her to discover the body? Perhaps she had grown tired of Rupert’s philandering. Could her paralyzing grief be an act? No, it was impossible. She couldn’t be feigning the depth of her sorrow. I had felt her sincerity, seen it in the bleakness of her eyes. She and Gil were both innocent. They had to be.
“I know these people, Milo. I’ve known them for years. I just can’t conceive of the fact that either one of them would kill someone in cold blood.”
“Poor darling,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re not coldhearted enough to be a detective. You only want the disagreeable people to be guilty, and I’m afraid you’ll find that life isn’t like that.”
I sighed, suddenly very tired. The realization that he might just possibly be right knocked the wind from my sails. I stood from the desk chair and dropped onto the sofa beside him. “What if it is one of them, Milo?”
He looked at me, his gaze searching despite his mild expression. “Would it matter to you so very much?”
“Of course it would.”
Milo leaned to grind out his cigarette in the pewter ashtray on the table in front of us. “Are you in love with him, Amory?”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think you heard me,” he replied easily as he sat back, his blue gaze coming up to mine. “I asked if you are in love with Gil Trent.”
“What a question…” A rather forced laugh dwindled away into silence, and I could not think of what to say next. The question, coming so unexpectedly, had stunned me. A quick denial sprung to my lips, but I hesitated. What did I feel for Gil? I wasn’t sure.
Milo watched me expectantly, waiting for my answer.
“I married you, didn’t I?” I said at last, as lightly as I could manage.
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Yes, well. That’s not quite an answer, is it?”
“No,” I said softly. “I suppose it’s not.”
He offered me a smile that revealed absolutely nothing of his feelings. “Your silence speaks most eloquently.”
He made a move as though to rise, but I caught his arm. “Please, Milo. Let’s not quarrel.”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of quarreling with you, darling, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’m tired.”
“It’s just that I’m so confused … about everything.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
I recognized the polite, disinterested responses. He was quite done with this conversation, perhaps quite done with me.
My hand dropped from his arm and he rose.
“If you don’t mind, I think I shall try to get a bit more sleep before breakfast,” he said, turning toward the bed.
I stood, suddenly angry with myself and angry with him. “You’re not being fair, Milo.”
He turned back to me, brows raised. “Really? I thought I was being more than fair, considering my wife has just told me she’s in love with another man.”
“I didn’t say I loved him.”
“You didn’t deny it,” he replied, as infuriatingly calm as ever. “You couldn’t even come up with a convincing lie.”
“Now that’s something you know all about, isn’t it?” I rejoined. “Lies are very convenient when you must keep track of the dozens of women you’ve been linked to.”
“I thought you didn’t wish to quarrel.”
“I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I think we’re on the verge of a blazing row.” My voice, though not raised, fairly shook with anger. I realized suddenly that, throughout the course of our marriage, we had never once shouted at one another. Perhaps that little fact said that we simply didn’t care enough.
“I suppose next you’ll be hurling things at me, like a fishwife.”
In that moment I was sorely tempted to do just that. Perhaps an ashtray to the forehead would relieve him of his thinly veiled amusement.
“Tell me something,” he went on. “Have you carried a secret passion for Trent all these years? If so, I wonder why you ever married me to begin with.”
“I’ve forgotten why I married you,” I retorted.
It was a cruel thing to say, and I regretted it the moment it escaped my lips. I opened my mouth to apologize but stopped short when I saw the look on Milo’s face. His eyes glinted, and a dangerous smile played on his mouth. He had obviously taken my insult as a challenge.
“Have you?”
“I…”
I didn’t have time to formulate my response before he closed the distance between us, and his arms moved around me and he pulled me against him.
“Shall I remind you?” he asked in a low voice.
“Milo…”
Then he kissed me. It was a kiss that made our encounter on the steps pale in comparison. My heart began to race, and I struggled to maintain my indignation of a moment ago.
Finally, I pulled back as much as I could manage. He was holding me quite tightly and made no move to release me. “Milo, I don’t think…” I began.
“Yes, Amory. For once, don’t think.”
He kissed me again, and I found it was, indeed, getting increasingly difficult to think clearly. I put my hands against his shoulders to push him away, but I realized suddenly that I didn’t want to. My emotions had been reduced to rubble as of late, and I was so very tired of bearing it all alone. I longed for at least the comforting illusion of a link with someone, and perhaps this was the closest I was going to get.
This man, for better or for worse, was my husband, and at this moment I could conjure no good reason why I should not give in to mutual desire. I hesitated for just a moment before letting my arms slide around his neck as I returned his kiss with equal ardor.
18
I SUPPOSE ONE is allowed to forsake her resolve with her own husband. Nevertheless, as diverting as the night had been, something very like regret hung over me as I rose, bathed, dressed, and went down to breakfast.
Milo was still asleep when I left the room, and I was glad of it. I hadn’t the inclination to face him now. Our romantic interlude had resolved nothing. In fact, it was very likely it had only worsened matters. The lines that had been drawn between us were hazier now than ever.
Nevertheless, if I was very honest with myself, I was not completely sorry. After all, we had only behaved in the natural way of husbands and wives; there was so little of the typical spousal behavior in our relationship, I was glad we had managed something. In any event, unwise though it might have been, there was nothing to be done about it now.
I was rather late coming down to breakfast, and though the dining room was still scattered with guests, the only person I recognized was Lionel Blake. He sat in a corner of the dining room, a book on the table in front of him. He ate his breakfast in methodical bites, not taking his eyes from the book.
I filled a plate with food from the sideboard and moved toward where he sat.
“Good morning, Mr. Blake,” I said, sitting at the table next to his.
He looked up, as though noticing me for the first time, and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Ames.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt your reading.”
“Oh, no,” he said, closing the book and pushing it aside. I glanced at the title and recognized it as a play. Die Ratten, by Gerhart Hauptmann. “I always read when I have nothing better to do, but I do prefer company at mealtimes.”
“I expect the others had their breakfast earlier.”
“Yes, I’ve seen most of our party this morning. Rather too much of some of them, i
n fact.”
I raised a brow at this curious statement, but he didn’t elaborate. I wonder if he had had a falling out with one of the other gentlemen.
“I’ll be glad when we can get this all behind us and go home,” he went on. “Back to our normal lives.”
Our normal lives. Though I would be glad to leave the Brightwell and its dark connotations behind, I was not certain that I longed to return to the normal state of things. But these were thoughts for another time.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said casually, stirring some sugar into my coffee, “if you’ve had any word from your backer.”
Was it my imagination or did something very like confusion cross his features before it was quickly erased? He nodded. “Ah … yes, in fact, he’s come across a good venue closer to London. He feels quite certain that he will be able to make a good profit. The show goes on, as they say.”
“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you,” I replied. I shifted the conversation to other things as I ate my breakfast. I was beginning to see that Lionel Blake was a hard man to read. He was always friendly, pleasant in a vacant sort of way. I got the sense that he did not reveal his true self easily. Perhaps it was the actor in him that always wished to maintain a part.
An idea came to me suddenly, and I went ahead with it without pause. “What time was it you told the inspector that you saw Gil on the balcony the day Mr. Howe was killed?”
If I had hoped to throw him off his guard into some sort of confession, I was to be disappointed. He met my gaze without blinking. “I told the inspector no such thing.”
“Oh,” I said, feigning embarrassment. “I’m sorry … I must have made the inference … You were sitting on the terrace when we were searching for Rupert, so perhaps I assumed that it was you.”
“No, it wasn’t me.” His response was perfectly polite, but I could sense a coolness in his answer. Be it a desire for privacy or something more sinister, he did not care for my prying.
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 17
