By the time I reached the terrace, it had begun to rain in earnest. I was more than a little wet as I entered the hotel and saw Inspector Jones. I would have avoided him, if possible, but he spotted me the moment I entered, and I had the suspicion that he had been expecting me.
He stood and waited for me to approach as I walked inside, brushing the rain from my arms.
“Ah, Mrs. Ames. Just the person I was wishing to see,” he said, as though he hadn’t been lurking there waiting for my return.
“That sounds ominous,” I replied.
He smiled, not quite pleasantly, I thought. “I was wondering if you might tell me where your husband is.”
“Milo’s gone to London,” I said, though I was fairly certain the inspector knew this already. I had discovered that the police seemed to enjoy asking questions to which they already knew the answers.
“Indeed,” he said. “And may I enquire as to the nature of business important enough to pull him from the scene of a double homicide?”
I felt myself bristling at his officiousness. I reminded myself that he was no doubt attempting to set me on edge. Perhaps he thought I would give away something important.
“You may enquire if you wish,” I replied, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to enquire of Milo. If you can find him, that is. I’ve no idea where he went.”
“And what has become of your recent camaraderie?”
I met his gaze rather coldly. “Inspector, I wonder if we might finish this conversation after I’ve had a chance to change my clothes. I’m very wet.”
We looked at one another for a long moment before he gave a slight nod. “Of course. My apologies, Mrs. Ames. Might I come to your room in, say, half an hour?”
“If you must.”
He stepped aside, and I walked past him without further comment. As much as I liked the man, almost against my will, he was severely trying my patience. In fact, I was fairly close to infuriated. He was using my uncertainty about Milo to his advantage. It was not at all a nice thing to do.
I stopped at the desk to see if I had any mail. Perhaps Milo had sent a telegram, though I knew that was unlikely. I wondered why he had set off for London so quickly. Surely he could have waited to tell me about it.
As I had expected, there was no word from Milo. There was a letter from Laurel, which reminded me of the one I had neglected to read. I determined to go to my room and read them both.
First, however, I decided I should perhaps try to locate Milo. With his usual foresight, Gil had given me good advice about warning Milo to return. Unfortunately, I had no means of doing so. As was typical, he had left no indication of where he was headed. It was possible that he would go to our London flat, but I had been hesitant to call him. I had a great aversion to being a pestering wife, but now that I knew Inspector Jones was looking for him, I felt that I should try to contact him. If I could reach him before the inspector came to my room, so much the better.
I went to my room and placed the call. As I waited for the operator to connect me to London, I retrieved Laurel’s first letter, the one I had so long neglected to read.
Amory,
I thought I must warn you that I believe you may have the makings of a scandal on your hands. After you left for the seaside with Gil, I went to the post office. As I left, I saw Milo at the train station. He seemed to be waiting for the southbound train. I believe he may be following you. You naughty thing. Your love triangle is likely to be the talk of the town by the time you return.
This was not news. I would have been happy to have been warned of Milo’s impending arrival, but it made very little difference now. I turned to open the letter that had arrived today.
“Hello?” I was somewhat startled to hear the soft, low voice on the other end of the line. It belonged to a woman, and we kept no staff at our London flat.
“Who is speaking, please?” I asked.
I did not imagine the hesitation. “This is Winnelda,” she said at last.
I knew of absolutely no one with such a preposterous name. “Well … Winnelda, this is Mrs. Ames. May I ask what you are doing in my flat?”
“What am I doing in your flat?” she repeated dumbly. I could fairly hear her trembling on the other end of the line.
“Let me speak to Milo,” I said at last. This really was the final straw.
“Milo?” she repeated. I wondered if she could possibly be hard of hearing.
“Is my husband there or not?” I demanded.
“No … no, madam,” she answered. “He is out of town.”
A likely story. I drew in a calming breath before I spoke. “If you should happen to see him, would you kindly inform him that Inspector Jones wishes him to return to the Brightwell Hotel. I believe he has some questions related to the recent murders.”
I heard her gasp before I hung up the phone.
For just a moment, I sat completely still, digesting what had just occurred. I hadn’t the faintest idea who “Winnelda” might be, but I could guess that she had been the reason for Milo’s hasty departure. That was it, then. He had made the decision for me.
I determined then that I would not try to contact him again. If he chose to flee like a guilty man, he deserved the consequences. It would serve him well to spend some time in prison. At least I would know where to reach him when I began the divorce proceedings.
* * *
INSPECTOR JONES WAS, alas, punctual to the minute. If I had been disinclined to speak with him before, the idea was absolutely abhorrent now. My nerves were on edge, and it was only by the sheerest force of will that I was able to keep from breaking down in tears.
“You haven’t changed your clothes,” he observed as he came into my room. He was right; I had forgotten.
“Have you contacted your husband?” he asked when I failed to respond to his comment.
“I couldn’t reach him.”
“Mrs. Ames, I needn’t tell you the implications…”
“No, Inspector,” I interrupted, somewhat rudely. “You needn’t tell me. You seemed to operate under the misconception that I have some say in what my husband does. Our marriage isn’t like that.”
He was watching me closely, and I hated that I could see something very like sympathy in his gaze. “I’ve decided not to notify the London authorities at this point. However, if you hear from him, you will let me know?”
“Yes, certainly.”
He was still hesitating, and I knew that there was something else on his mind. “You don’t know why he left?” he finally asked.
“I … He left me a note that said he had to go to London and he wasn’t sure when he would return.” I hesitated and then decided that I should tell him the truth. “You may as well know, Inspector. I called our London flat, and a woman answered. That probably explains his sudden absence.”
Nothing showed on his features as I spoke. “I find that rather surprising, Mrs. Ames. He seemed devoted to you yesterday.”
“Milo is very good at … exhibiting remarkable enthusiasm for whatever interests him at the moment. Unfortunately, his interest wanes very quickly…”
“Surely a murder investigation is sufficient to hold his attention.” He was trying to speak lightly of the situation, though I sensed he was still peeved about it. “I know investigation seems to agree with you.”
“It doesn’t agree with me at all,” I said. “When I think that we might have prevented Mr. Hamilton’s death…” I pressed my lips together, barely managing to stifle a sob. I was suddenly unbearably miserable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “I should have realized how difficult things have been for you. Sometimes, as a policeman, I neglect to take into account the profound effect such things can have on civilians.”
“It’s quite all right,” I said, wiping the tears away as fast as they came. “I’m just so very tired. And I did discover both of the bodies. It’s been rather a shock.”
He handed me his handkerchief, and I took it, da
bbing at my eyes. His sympathy only made me feel worse, and I was having a hard time stopping the steady flow of tears. I took a seat on the sofa, and he sat at the other end.
“I know it has all been very distressing,” he said, “but it will be over soon enough.”
Something about his tone captured my attention. I looked up at him. “Do you really think so?”
“These things have a way of working themselves out eventually.”
“May I ask you a question, Inspector?” I asked suddenly.
“Certainly, Mrs. Ames.”
“Do you know who the killer is?”
He watched me for a moment, as though trying to determine exactly how much he should reveal. At last, he said, “I have my suspicions.”
“You don’t believe that it was Gil anymore, do you?”
“I arrested Mr. Trent because of the evidence,” he said carefully. “Time will tell if that arrest was premature.”
“That’s an evasion, Inspector. You aren’t answering my question.”
He smiled. “You’re feeling better then, Mrs. Ames.”
I returned his smile with a weary one of my own. “I haven’t meant to be a bother. It’s just that I am so certain Gil is innocent; I feel I must do whatever I can do to prove it.”
“Do you mean that?” There it was again, the subtle indication that there was something more he was keeping just below the surface, something he was either unwilling or unable to tell me.
“Of course I do.”
Still, he hesitated. I waited; perhaps if I remained silent long enough, he would choose to tell me whatever it was. My patience was rewarded.
“Mrs. Ames,” he said at last. “There is something I am going to tell you that I am not at all sure I should.”
My interest was immediately piqued, my emotional outburst all but forgotten. “I am intrigued.”
He went on, carefully. “You told me that your husband arrived the night of the murder, and he confirmed that he came down on the afternoon train.”
“Yes,” I said, wondering where exactly this line of inquiry would lead.
“That information has proven to be false.”
A frown flickered across my brow as I struggled to understand what he was telling me. “You mean, Milo didn’t arrive on the train he said he did.”
“Mr. Ames, in fact, arrived on the train directly following yours.”
This newest revelation took me a moment to digest. “I don’t understand,” I said at last. “Milo didn’t arrive until…” Laurel’s words hit me suddenly. Milo had left immediately after I did. But he hadn’t arrived at the hotel until the following night. Where had he stayed? More important, what exactly was the inspector trying to tell me?
“I didn’t know,” I said at last.
“No, I don’t expect you did.” He smiled wryly. “Your husband is an excellent liar.”
Somehow, I felt that this information was not the extent of what he was going to tell me. There was still wariness in his expression, and I sensed an unwillingness to continue.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“I’m afraid so.” The hesitation vanished suddenly, as though he had made up his mind. He leaned forward slightly, as though charging ahead before he thought better of it. “You recall that there was a witness who had seen Mr. Trent on the terrace shortly before the murder.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t tell me who it was.”
“At the time, I didn’t think it wise. Now, it seems there is little choice. You see, your husband was that witness.”
24
I SAT BACK in my chair, my head spinning. Milo had informed Inspector Jones that Gil had been on the terrace before the murder? It seemed almost impossible that it could be the truth, but if it was not, what reason could the inspector possibly have for saying such a thing?
“I understand why he kept it from you, of course,” Inspector Jones continued in that calm, formal way of his. “It wouldn’t look at all sporting of him to accuse his rival of murder.”
“I’m so confused,” I said, trying desperately to string together the facts that Inspector Jones was giving me into some semblance of order in my mind. “You can’t mean … Surely you don’t think Milo was attempting to implicate Gil solely on my account?”
“I’m afraid that is a possibility. At the time, I had no reason not to take his word for it. Now, other circumstances have arisen to put a different light on things. If it is the case that he gave false information, your husband may be charged with perverting the course of public justice. That is why I wish to speak with him.”
“Good heavens.” I breathed. “I know Milo is competitive, but I don’t believe it would come to anything like this.”
“I’m afraid that’s the way it appears.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I replied. “You see, I’m simply not that important to him.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and when he spoke he did not acknowledge my doubts. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Ames. I know how difficult things have been for you as of late. That is why I hesitated to…”
“It’s perfectly all right, Inspector,” I said, cutting him off as smoothly as I could manage. “I’m glad you told me.”
He rose, taking my cue that I would like to be alone. “If you hear from your husband, or if you have need of me, please call.”
“Thank you. I shall.”
After the inspector left, I changed into dry clothes as I tried to gather my thoughts. What he had suggested seemed completely illogical. I could conceive of no reason why Milo should falsely implicate Gil in Rupert’s murder. It was not at all the sort of thing Milo was apt to do. He preferred direct assault to underhanded schemes, whatever Inspector Jones might believe. In any event, I was not nearly grand enough a prize to risk legal ramifications.
For that matter, I still couldn’t understand why he had bothered to come to the Brightwell at all, especially if he only intended to leave again after a few days. Perhaps it had been to prove that he could still have me if he wanted me. Well, there he had succeeded admirably. I had let myself, once again, be too readily seduced. Once secure in the knowledge that I was his for the asking, he had felt it safe to leave again. Well, he would be surprised to learn that I did not intend to spend the rest of my life waiting for him to return. Five years had been long enough.
I realized I was gritting my teeth, and, in an effort to calm myself, I picked up the suspect list. Slowly and methodically, I began to read over it. There had to be something I was missing, some piece of the puzzle that had only to be discovered in order to make the entire picture clear.
My thoughts returned to poor Mr. Hamilton. He had picked up something on the beach. Somewhere along the way, he had disposed of it. I wondered if it would ever be found. I had thought it had shone momentarily in the moonlight when he picked it up, but perhaps that had been my imagination. If it had been a random rock or piece of brick, it was unlikely that it would be discovered. Even if someone should happen across it, the blood would no doubt be washed away by the torrential downpours that were beginning to fall. Then there was my suspicion that it had not been the weapon at all. If not, what could it have been?
I stared at the list, as though willing the murderer’s name to appear in red letters before my eyes. I felt I was so close to discovering something, if only I could find the right link, some bit of information that would point in the right direction. At least, that was how it worked in the mystery novels.
If only I had been able to peek at the inspector’s extensive dossiers on each of us. Of course, he had no doubt been poring over them, and it did not seem he had discovered anything substantial yet. Nevertheless, I had the feeling that more than one person was hiding something.
But people weren’t the only aspect of this case. There were things, mysterious objects, involved, too. For instance, the sleeping pills that seemed to be haunting so many of us. They were easy enough to obtain, so that particular bit of info
rmation was not necessarily enlightening.
Four of us had been drugged: Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, me, and Emmeline, the latter albeit by doctor’s orders. I knew Mr. Hamilton had been in possession of sleeping tablets. I also knew that the Rodgerses claimed to have misplaced theirs. Whether that story had been the truth or a ruse on their part in order to cover something more nefarious had yet to be determined.
I was missing something. I felt that I had all the pieces of the puzzle, but somehow I just could not make them fit.
Suddenly weary beyond all words, I set the list aside and sat down on the sofa. My head pounding, I leaned against the cushions and closed my eyes. Perhaps if I rested for just a few moments …
* * *
A MOMENTOUS CRASH of lightning startled me awake, and I sat upright on the sofa, momentarily unaware of where I was. Then I recalled that I was in my room. It took me a moment to realize I must have fallen asleep.
The room was black as pitch, illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning. Night had come upon me as I slept, and with it had come the raging storm that had been threatening for so long. The rain outside pounded against the hotel, the wind rattling the windows like something from a ghost story. I reached out to switch on the lamp and found it didn’t work. The storm must have knocked out the electricity.
Rousing myself, I felt along the table and located matches. I struck one, looking around the room to see if there was a candle about. I didn’t recall having seen one, and I couldn’t locate one now. The match burned out, and I was about to strike a second when I heard a tap on my door. “Amory, it’s Gil. Are you there?”
“Yes, Gil. I’m coming.”
I felt my way to the door and opened it to find Gil, oil lamp in hand. Emmeline stood with him, her face pale in the flickering glow. They made a sort of sad little pair around the dull pool of light.
“The storm’s knocked the power out,” he said. “The hotel’s got a few odd candles and such in the sitting room. Shall I fetch you one, or would you like to come down for a bit of company?”
“Do come down, Amory,” Emmeline said. “It’s so dreary in the sitting room. I couldn’t bear for Gil to leave me there when he came to fetch you.”
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 23
