“I came back into the room, looking for you, and saw you dancing with him,” Gil said. “I saw the way you looked at one another. And somehow I knew…”
“I’m sorry, Gil,” I whispered, and I truly was. I couldn’t help the way I had felt about Milo, but I could have done more to spare Gil’s feelings. I had been young and inconsiderate. I regretted it now.
“I wanted you to be happy.” He laughed, somewhat hoarsely. “I was almost relieved when you said you were going to marry him. At least I knew that his intentions were honorable.”
“I was happy,” I said. “For a while.”
“I know I have no right … but I want to protect you, Amory. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
I wasn’t sure if he spoke regarding Milo or the murders. Perhaps he spoke of both. I only knew that he had somehow chosen just the right thing to say.
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
He swayed a little, and I reached out a hand to steady him. Somehow, he fell against me, and in the space of a moment his arms were around me. We looked at one another. Had it only been today that I had been pressed against Milo in the wardrobe? It seemed so very long ago. And now here I stood, in Gil’s embrace. He was so very close; I could feel him breathing. I felt at once that I should step back, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move.
“Amory,” he said. “I…” Then he leaned down and his mouth met mine.
For just a moment, my mind flashed back to the last time he had kissed me: the night I had told him I was going to marry Milo. I had broken the news as gently as possible, and he had taken it with a grace born of refinement and his own good nature. After all had been said that there could possibly be to say, he had turned to leave me for the last time. Then he had stopped and come back to where I stood. His hand on my face, he had leaned down and kissed me.
There had been so much emotion in that gentle farewell kiss. As in love with Milo as I had been, something about it had left me heartbroken. I had wept when Gil left, utterly miserable. I felt the same thing now: a deep, aching sadness and a forlorn sort of longing that I could not precisely explain.
Then Gil’s kiss deepened, his embrace drew me more tightly against him, and I was pulled back to the present. Things were different now than they had been then. Whatever my feelings, I was still married to Milo. I pulled back, my hands pressing gently against his chest, creating the smallest space between us. “We can’t do this, Gil,” I said softly.
He blinked, as though he was only just realizing this himself, and his hands dropped from my waist as though I were made of hot coals. “I’m sorry.” He stepped back quickly, wavered, and I worried that he would fall.
“It’s all right,” I said, moving to take his arm. “Please, sit down. I’ll have some coffee sent up.”
I rang for coffee as he sank heavily into the sofa and his head dropped into his hands.
“Love makes a mess of things, doesn’t it?” he said, as though he was speaking to himself. “People are always falling in love with the wrong people. It happens over and over. It would be so much simpler if … I didn’t know how she felt, you know … I didn’t think that she really meant it…”
He wasn’t talking about me any longer. Whom did he mean?
I sat on the sofa beside him. “Did you … do you need to talk about something, Gil?” I asked him.
“I thought she was young and infatuated. I didn’t realize she really meant it.”
It could only be Emmeline he was referring to. But what was he trying to tell me?
He sat back and leaned his head against the sofa. “I feel terrible,” he said.
“I know, dear. You’ll feel better when you get some coffee.”
As much as I wanted to know why he should have suddenly brought up the subject of Emmeline and her feelings for Rupert, I was silent and let Gil rest. I still didn’t believe for a moment that Gil had killed Rupert, and yet it seemed very odd he should be lamenting Emmeline’s grief at this particular moment. Then again, he was completely soused. I supposed it all made sense to him.
When the knock came, I answered it and took the tray from the maid, so she wouldn’t see Gil in my room. Closing the door, I walked back to the sitting area and set the tray on the table in front of the sofa. “Here’s the coffee,” I said brightly. “It will be just the thing.”
Gil didn’t stir.
“Gil?”
I looked at him closely. He was sound asleep or, more likely, out cold.
I sighed. I couldn’t have him moved without creating a scandal of immense proportions. He would just have to sleep it off on my sofa.
I removed his necktie and slid off his shoes before easing him into a recumbent position. Then I covered him with a spare blanket and turned out the lights. I couldn’t help but think that, if anyone should find out he had spent the night in my room, I was going to have a devil of a time explaining it to Milo.
23
I HAD ALREADY dressed when Gil stirred. Despite the fact I had dimmed the lights and that the weather had turned the sky a dismal gray, he squinted as he opened his eyes. Then he caught sight of me and jerked to a sitting position, grimacing as he did so.
“What … Oh, no.”
“Good morning, Gil,” I said cheerily, trying to lessen the shock of it all. “How do you feel?”
“I kissed you last night,” he said, ignoring my attempts at polite small talk.
“Yes.”
He dragged a hand across his face. “I’m sorry, Amory. I don’t know what to say.”
“You needn’t say anything.”
“You must abhor me, forcing my attentions on you like a drunken…”
“You are never anything but a gentleman, Gil,” I interrupted sternly. “And that’s the last we need say about it.”
“Does anyone know that I … spent the night here?”
“I sincerely hope not,” I replied. “Did you tell anyone you were coming up to see me?”
“Not that I remember,” he said ruefully. “I’ve never been quite that drunk before. I’m terribly embarrassed.”
“Please don’t be, Gil. We’ve all done things that we regret at one time or another.”
He looked at me for a long moment, my words hanging in the space between us, and then he stood gingerly to his feet. “I’d better go, before someone sees me.”
“Your shoes are under the table.”
He cleaned himself up as best he could, though his hair would not be tamed and he was in need of a shave.
He paused at the door. “I wouldn’t have come here like that if I hadn’t been drunk,” he said. “As much as I’ve wanted to talk about … things since we arrived.”
“As I said, Gil, we needn’t say any more about it.”
“I’ll talk to you later, then?”
“Yes.”
I closed the door behind him and sighed heavily. I couldn’t wait for this whole thing to be over so I could resume my normal life, or some variation thereof.
* * *
I SPENT THE remainder of the morning and the early part of the afternoon in my room. I had little desire for company, but that did not mean that I had given up on the murder investigation. As tumultuous as my personal life had become, I realized there were more important matters at hand. If anything was to be resolved, it was absolutely necessary that we discover who had murdered Rupert and Mr. Hamilton.
Inspector Jones’s stern warning against further action had not escaped my memory. I was neither naive nor arrogant enough to dismiss his concern out of hand. He had warned me because there was a very distinct possibility of danger; the murder of Mr. Hamilton had made that abundantly clear. However, I was simply in too deeply to give up now. Someone among us had killed two people and had quite possibly attempted to kill two others, myself included. I found the very idea highly provoking. I did not intend that the killer should have another chance to harm me or anyone else.
I wondered again why someone should have given me sleeping tablets. I
could not help but feel there had been something left unsaid in the inspector’s admonition that I be wary, some subtle message beneath his words. Did he know something that I didn’t? Did this mean he no longer truly suspected that Gil was involved? I did wish he wasn’t so frightfully reticent. He had kept very quiet about his own theories, and I suspected that he was very close to revealing some vital piece of information, perhaps even the true identity of the killer. But if he knew, or even suspected, that Gil was innocent, why hadn’t he acted?
I could only suppose he lacked evidence, which is why he had not yet made his move. If that was the case, I might be of help. If I were able to discover something, perhaps we could put this thing to rest. I sincerely hoped that, should I uncover something important, Inspector Jones would be willing to overlook my insubordination.
Pushing my doubts aside, I determined to focus on what I had learned thus far. My lunch tray nearly untouched, I went to the writing desk and picked up the list I had made with Milo. Obviously, Mr. Hamilton could be removed from the list of suspects. Why had he been killed? It seemed to me that, in order to discover the killer’s identity, it would be necessary to determine the link between Rupert and Mr. Hamilton. It was possible they had been involved in some sort of business venture, but I thought that Inspector Jones would have determined a link, had there been one.
No, I was fairly certain that Mr. Hamilton had been killed not because of something in which he was involved but because of something he knew. But what? It seemed to me that it must be connected with the item that he had found on the beach.
I had found absolutely nothing in his room that seemed a likely murder weapon. There were a few options. Either he had disposed of the item, or it had not been a weapon that he had found on the beach but something else.
In order to investigate the first option, I decided to walk down the path to the beach. I highly doubted I would be able to discover anything in the high grasses that lined the path, but it was worth a try. In any event, I was certain I would go mad just sitting in my room.
I made my way down to the lobby, where I met Veronica Carter, who was just about to enter the lift. She looked somewhat drawn, her features lacking their usual chilliness.
“They’ve brought Mrs. Hamilton back from the hospital,” she told me in an uncertain voice. “She looks dreadful. I wanted to talk to her … but it’s so difficult to know what to say, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I agreed, feeling another unwanted pang of sympathy for Miss Carter. “Have they taken her to her room?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t want to go back there … you understand.”
“Of course.”
“They’re preparing another room, I believe. She’s in the sitting room now.” Miss Carter’s composure slipped ever so slightly, and the flash of vulnerability made her look prettier than ever, softer somehow. “I want to go home,” she said in a low voice.
“It won’t be long now,” I said, and I desperately hoped I was right.
I went to the sitting room to offer my sympathies and found Mrs. Hamilton alone. She was sitting in a chair, a blanket on her lap. It struck me how differently grief affects individuals. Emmeline had gone to pieces at Rupert’s death, but it seemed Mrs. Hamilton was made of stronger stuff than that. She was, if possible, paler than usual, but she was very composed.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ames,” she answered softly, her eyes glistening. “I suppose it’s wicked of me not to be in hysterics, but I just … don’t feel anything. Does that make sense? I’m so numb; I think it hasn’t quite sunk in.”
“That’s perfectly natural,” I assured her, though I really had very little knowledge of such things.
“Poor Nelson…” Her voice trailed off as the tears that had pooled in her eyes overflowed. “I hate this place. I can’t wait to get away from here. I’ve hated the seaside, ever since I was a child … You see, I had a brother that drowned in the sea.”
It took the space of a moment for the quiet words to register, and when they did, I gasped, suddenly understanding so much. “How terrible,” I said.
I certainly would not have pressed for details, not at a time like this, but she seemed almost unable to stop herself from going on.
“Geoffrey—my brother—and I were the very best of friends. We were twins, you see. We were inseparable. We had gone with our parents on holiday to the Yorkshire coast, our very first time to view the sea. I had loved it so then, so wide and open and beautiful. We went out to swim. I remember the water was terribly cold that day, but we didn’t mind. It was a great adventure.”
Her eyes were fastened on the wall behind me as she spoke, and I wondered if she were seeing the events of that day again. “My parents … well, I suppose they had other things on their minds. Geoffrey was right beside me, and the next moment a wave washed over us. I went under, and when I came up … I remember I was laughing as I did, laughing with delight … I realized that Geoffrey wasn’t there. And then suddenly I saw him. He was being pulled out to sea. I tried to swim toward him, but it wasn’t any use … I couldn’t reach him, couldn’t get to him in time.”
Her blue eyes filled with tears as I sat, horrified by the story she was telling me. It was no wonder she hated the seaside and hadn’t wanted to visit the Brightwell. Had Mr. Hamilton known about this? Surely he must have, and if he had, he was even crueler than I had believed him to be.
She drew in a breath and continued. “I lost a part of myself that day, Mrs. Ames. Geoffrey and I were very close, and I suppose I never really recovered from losing him … and now Nelson. To have water take him, too…”
She began to cry quietly into her handkerchief.
Milo had been right; she was afraid of something, something she had been hiding. Now, I knew what it was, why she had stared out at the sea in that dazed way, why she had steadfastly refused to go down to the beach. Milo had astutely called it an aura of tragedy, and that was precisely what it was. The Brightwell, everything about it, had brought back those horrific memories of the loss of her brother. I felt the impulse to embrace her, but I knew it would only prove awkward for both of us, so I reached out instead to clasp her cold hand.
“I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” I said. I felt so helpless at the moment, and it was that very feeling that made me more determined than ever to find the killer.
After a moment, she dabbed at her tears and then looked up, her eyes meeting mine. “Someone killed him, didn’t they?”
It took me a moment to realize that she meant Mr. Hamilton. I hesitated.
“I was given a heavy dose of sleeping tablets … almost a lethal dose, the doctor said,” she went on.
“Did you knowingly take any tablets?” I asked, thinking of the ones that had been placed in my aspirin bottle.
“No, that’s just it. The doctor said they may have been ground up and put in my coffee or some such thing. Nelson must have been drugged, too.”
“I…” I tried to decide what I should say. The truth would come out soon enough, but I hated to be the one to tell her that her husband had been held down in his bathtub.
“But why would anyone do such a thing?” she asked, taking my silence for confirmation.
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Hamilton.” I paused. She knew that he had been murdered; there was no point in denying it. “Can you think of any reason why someone might … view your husband as a threat?”
She shook her head, almost too quickly. “No. Certainly not.”
I wondered if there was more she knew but was too afraid to tell.
“Mrs. Hamilton, if you know something…”
She shook her head again, a gentle but firm shake this time. “I don’t know anything, Mrs. Ames. Perhaps it was an accident, after all. I may have taken something accidentally. Nelson may have slipped and fallen.”
My eyes met hers, and I knew that neither of us believed it, not for a momen
t.
* * *
AFTER LEAVING MRS. Hamilton, I made my way to the terrace without encountering anyone else I knew, which was a relief. I was so very tired of these people. And I never again wanted to lay eyes on the Brightwell Hotel.
The wind, which had been high yesterday, had increased in velocity. The sky had taken on a leaden hue that seemed to bode ill. In fact, the seascape gave every indication that we were in for some nasty weather.
Though dusk was still hours away, the light was dim as I made my way down the wooden steps. The grasses swayed wildly in the wind, and my eyes scanned the ground as thoroughly as possible, looking for anything that might have been used to hit Rupert before he fell.
I reached the beach and found it deserted. Those guests who had not left the hotel after the murders would not find the sea welcoming today. The weather was not at all amenable to bathing. The waves crashed heavily on the shore, the sound echoing off the stone wall of the cliff. I walked to the pile of debris I had seen Mr. Hamilton inspecting. I doubted I would find anything significant, but it didn’t hurt to look. There were stones and shells and bits of things that had drifted in from the sea, but I saw nothing suspicious.
A glint of something caught my eye. I reached down to pick it up. It was just a scrap of shiny glass tossed up by the sea, but its presence had caused me to remember something. Whatever Mr. Hamilton had picked up had glinted, just momentarily, in the moonlight before he had slid it into his pocket. It was unlikely, then, that it was a stone or piece of brick. Perhaps it had not been the weapon after all. But if that was the case, why had Mr. Hamilton felt it necessary to sneak about in the dark searching for it?
A droplet of rain landed on my shoulder as I stood thinking. Then heavy drops began to hit the ground all around me. The storm that had been hovering on the horizon seemed to have made up its mind to approach. I decided to abandon my search and head back to the hotel, before I was forced to make my ascent in the pouring rain.
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 22
