With a sigh, I sat down at the desk. There was so much to think about, too much happening at once. The key was still resting in my pocket, and I wanted badly to go to Rupert’s room. I didn’t care to have Milo tagging along when I did, so I needed to think of some way to get rid of him. I contemplated bolting from the room while he was changing, but he would only come downstairs looking for me and alert everyone to the fact that I was not in my room.
I noticed Laurel’s second letter sitting on the desk. For lack of something better to do, I picked it up and slit it open with the letter knife, my eyes grazing over the words.
I’ve been asking around in the most casual way, and I found that it is rumored that Rupert Howe had yet to pay off a considerable gambling debt he had accrued in Monte Carlo. It was thought his hasty retreat was in rather bad taste, but I take it he was in desperate straits. I also found another interesting piece of information. You will think I have nothing to do but read gossip columns, though you know how I enjoy following the occasional piece of news. In any event, I found this article or, rather, the photograph attached to it to be very interesting. Perhaps Milo may prove of use to you after all.
Something about the note gave me a strange foreboding, and I was almost hesitant to reach into the envelope. I pulled out the slip of newspaper and looked at the photograph.
As Laurel had said, it was from one of the gossip magazines. The date indicated it had been taken in Monte Carlo about a month before. Milo, resplendent in evening dress, stood beside a roulette table. Despite the insinuation of the caption, it was not the woman in the low-cut gown clinging to his arm that caught my attention. It was the person who stood on the other side of him: Rupert.
I looked at the picture for a long moment. Milo had claimed never to have met Rupert. Yet there they stood, side by side.
I couldn’t imagine why Milo should have lied about it. Unless … a sudden sinking feeling coursed through me as the implications of what I had discovered became apparent. One by one, the pieces of the puzzle came crashing down on me like bricks. Milo knew Rupert. Rupert had owed someone a great deal of money. Milo had arrived at the hotel before the murder but had not made his presence known.
I pulled in a deep breath, forced myself to think calmly of what I knew of the murder. Rupert Howe, surmised the police, had had an argument with someone, been struck over the head, and tossed over the cliff. We assumed that it was likely the result of some argument, a sudden conversation that had turned ugly. But perhaps it had been more than that. What if it had been deliberately planned?
Milo had arrived home suddenly from Monte Carlo, much sooner than he had originally intended. Perhaps my visit here to the seaside had just happened to coincide with one he had already planned. Perhaps he had not been following me, but Rupert …
“This power outage is a blasted nuisance,” Milo said, coming back into the room, and I nearly jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. “Imagine, this is how our parents lived, prowling about by lamplight after dark.”
“Why did you tell me you didn’t know Rupert?” I asked, hoping the question would catch him off guard.
“I didn’t know him,” he answered easily.
I rose from my seat and handed him the photograph, watching him as I did so. Inspector Jones was right; Milo was a terribly good liar. His expression didn’t so much as flicker.
“Many people play roulette,” he said, handing the photograph back to me. “That doesn’t mean I knew him.”
“Rather a startling coincidence, isn’t it?” I was watching him closely, trying to see if anything seemed amiss.
Suddenly, he smiled. A sort of dangerous amusement flickered across his features. “Why, Amory darling, do you believe I killed Rupert Howe?”
“Did you?”
He laughed. “Would you expect me to confess if I did?”
“You told me that you might kill someone, if the occasion called for it. Rumor has it that Rupert Howe owed someone quite a lot of money.”
“Come now, darling. You know as well as I do that I have more money than I could ever possibly spend. It’s a rather thin motive.”
“But a motive nonetheless.”
“And I suppose I killed Mr. Hamilton as well.”
With great relief, I realized that my theory did not account for the death of Mr. Hamilton. Even if Mr. Hamilton had discovered something on the beach that might have implicated Milo, we had been in the wardrobe until … With a sudden sickening clarity, I recalled the splashing I had heard after Milo had left me in the wardrobe. Milo had claimed that he had pulled Mr. Hamilton out of the water to determine if he was still alive, but what if he had done exactly the opposite? I could literally feel the color draining from my face.
“You … you could have,” I said.
His expression was still completely indecipherable. I wished desperately I knew what he was thinking.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” he said at last.
I wanted to reply, but I could think of absolutely nothing to say.
We stared at one another, something uncomfortable hanging in the air between us. For the first time since I had known him, I felt myself a bit afraid to be alone with him. It was not at all a sensation I relished.
“Did anyone see you return tonight?” I asked suddenly, wondering, against my will, if anyone knew that he and I were alone here.
“No, I came upstairs while you were stealing keys from behind the desk.”
So he had seen that, had he? I wondered if he had inferred my motives.
“Then everyone believes you’re still in London.”
“I had a good reason for going to London, but I always intended to return to the scene of the crime,” he said, and I felt myself grimace at his choice of words.
“I think I had better go back downstairs,” I said. “They’re expecting me back.”
I took the slightest step toward the door, and I knew at once that he had read my unease in the movement.
“Good heavens, Amory.” He stepped toward me, and, despite myself, I took a step back.
He stopped, something else entirely crossing his face. It was a look I had never seen before, something very like incredulity, completely devoid of his customary languid amusement. Then it disappeared as quickly as it had come, the familiar veil of cool indifference dropping down over his features. He swore softly. “I didn’t believe you meant it. You think I killed him, both of them.”
“I … I … don’t…” My mind searched desperately, trying to think of something to say. What was there to say?
“If I had killed Howe and Hamilton, I should have done a much better job of it,” he said, the slight sharp edge to his words the only indication that he was deeply angry.
I stood there stupidly, unable to form a cohesive sentence, imploring him with my eyes to try to understand my suspicion.
“And I would never harm you.”
“Milo, please…,” I whispered. “I don’t want to believe it.”
“I’m going downstairs.” His face was a mask, cold and hard as a marble statue. “I’ll be in the sitting room with the others. Should you—or the police—wish to find me.” With that, he turned and left me alone.
My heart was pounding in my ears as I listened to his footsteps echoing away. I didn’t believe it of him. I couldn’t. And yet everything seemed to make sense.
Should I try to reach the inspector and tell him what I had learned? Something within me revolted at the idea. I couldn’t very well implicate my own husband. I needed a moment to think.
My thoughts whirled madly about in my head. Was it possible that my husband, this man I had loved and lived with for five years, was a murderer?
And more to the point: if he was, what did I intend to do about it?
26
I MUST HAVE sat in silence a full ten minutes before I attempted to pull myself together.
Things looked bad, but there was certainly some logical explanation. Unable to bear thinking about it any lon
ger, I decided to take action. I grabbed the torch and left my room, heading toward Rupert’s. One way or the other, I had to know.
I reached Rupert’s room and found that it was locked, the official police sign on the door noting that unauthorized entry was prohibited. I wondered what Inspector Jones would think should he see what I was about to do.
Slipping the key into the lock, I hurried inside and shut the door behind me, locking it.
Rupert’s things had obviously already been subject to a thorough search. Drawers were pulled open, their contents not replaced in a particularly orderly fashion. The police, it seemed, had left no stone unturned. But it was just possible that he had hidden his “treasure box,” as Emmeline had termed it, somewhere where it hadn’t been found.
I stepped toward the bureau and began looking at the items that were scattered about. I had underestimated the difficulty of searching through someone’s things with only a small torch for a light. I began to despair of finding anything the police hadn’t.
The things on his desk told me very little, and I assumed anything of interest had already been confiscated. I paused a moment to think. Where might Rupert hide his important papers from prying eyes? There weren’t likely to be any hidden compartments in the hotel furniture. That left somewhere less conspicuous.
I searched the wardrobe, feeling in all the dark corners for something they might be concealing in their depths. My thoroughness was in vain.
Acting on a sudden inspiration, I moved to the sofa and slid my hand between the cushions. I was rewarded with a shilling and a stray seashell. The chairs yielded nothing.
Where else? Crossing the room, I dropped to my knees beside the bed. As in Mr. Hamilton’s room, there was nothing to see but the expanse of rug. But perhaps … I shined my light along the supports, hoping that he had slipped something there. My diligence was rewarded. There, in the corner of the bed, against the white underside of the mattress, was a brown packet of some sort.
I slid my body partway under the bed and wrestled the packet from its resting place. It was made of some durable material, almost a box, as Emmeline had termed it. I pushed myself back out from under the bed and pulled the box open, examining the contents with my light. Rupert’s gold lighter was not inside, but there were several sheets of paper.
With unabashed curiosity, I began sifting through them. I would notify Inspector Jones, of course, but it couldn’t hurt for me to give them a cursory inspection.
There were more than a few bills. They came from his tailor, his haberdasher, a jeweler, and there was an impressive debt at a London cigar shop. None of them seem to have been paid, and my initial impression that he was interested in Emmeline for more than her sweet disposition seemed to have been confirmed.
I saw two envelopes addressed to Rupert in what I recognized as Gil’s handwriting. No doubt these were the strongly worded letters Gil had mentioned. I passed them over. Whatever Gil had written to Rupert, I believed it had been done with pure motives.
Near the bottom of the stack, I came across something that was not a bill. It was a terse note scribbled in dark ink that read:
Pay what you owe or you will be sorry. —A friend.
I found the note to be something of a relief. The letter wasn’t at all in Milo’s style. He would have issued a much more elegant threat on vastly superior stationery.
At the very bottom of the pile, there was a small yellow envelope. Opening it, I pulled out a letter written in small, neat handwriting.
My darling,
I know you warned me not to write, but I couldn’t help myself. I am not sure how much longer I can carry on. He suspects something. I’m sure of it. Even if he didn’t know, pretending that we mean nothing to one another is agony. We must act as we have planned. I have waited long enough. I want to be with you, and nothing must stand in our way. I live in anticipation of when our lives will be linked.
All my love,
L.
Before I could begin to make the connection, the voice behind me spoke in the darkness, startling me. “So you’ve found out.”
So intent had I been on the contents of the letter, I had not detected the click of the lock as the door behind me opened. Who else had a key to Rupert’s room? Rupert’s lover, no doubt. The same person that had written the letter I now held in my hand. The person whose name began with an L. The realization hit me so suddenly, I felt almost dizzy with it. The note had come from the woman who stood in the doorway watching me: Larissa Hamilton.
27
I ROSE SLOWLY, the letter still in my hand. “Mrs. Hamilton.”
“That’s my letter, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding toward the envelope. “The one I wrote to Rupert.”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s not signed.”
She smiled, and I thought with a sudden chill how the customary vague politeness had been replaced with a thinly veiled hostility. “I think you know that I wrote it, Mrs. Ames. You’re very clever. Perhaps too clever.”
My mind was working quickly. It was just possible that I had uncovered an illicit liaison and nothing more. I held the note toward her. “It was, perhaps, ill mannered of me to read it. I was hoping I could uncover something. If you’d like it back, I’ll just be going back downstairs.”
Her quiet smile didn’t falter in the slightest as she pulled a gun from her pocket and pointed it at me. “I don’t think that will be possible.”
I felt a strangely numb feeling steal over me as I looked into the muzzle of her gun. I had not suspected Mrs. Hamilton, had not even had an inkling that she might have been involved. And yet it seemed foolish now to have overlooked her.
“You and Rupert were having an affair,” I said. In the novels, it always seemed best to keep the suspect talking. Inevitably, help would arrive. I really held out no hope for such an opportune occurrence, but it seemed the best course of action would be to distract her until I could determine what to do.
“It wasn’t as tawdry as that,” she said, and her voice was wistful. “Rupert and I knew each other years ago. He was a bit younger than me, but we always got on. He knew Geoffrey, and when he was drowned, Rupert befriended me. He helped me through a very difficult time. We formed an attachment, but we were too poor to wed comfortably, and eventually we went our separate ways. It was about a year ago that I saw him again, in London.”
“But you were already married.”
“Yes, unfortunately. I married Hamilton six years ago, and I have been miserable ever since.”
“Did you ever love your husband?” I didn’t know why I had asked her that. I suppose I was just curious if there had ever been a part of Mr. Hamilton that was worth loving.
She laughed, a pretty, tinkling sound, and I realized that I had never heard her express true amusement before this. “Do you think it would be possible to love someone like Nelson? He delighted in belittling me, in making himself feel superior. No, I never loved him. He was rich, and he was the only chance I had at a better life, so I took it.”
“But then Rupert came back into your life.”
“Yes. We met unexpectedly at a party in London, began seeing each other. We agreed to meet here at the Brightwell. It wasn’t hard to convince Nelson. One only had to make him think it was his idea, and that wasn’t difficult. He knew how much I hated the sea, so it pleased him to come here.” She seemed caught up in the story now, and my mind was searching for some means of extricating myself from the situation. I considered hurling my torch at her, but I was not at all confident in my aim.
“I was terribly in love with Rupert,” she said softly, and I could see the anguish in her eyes as she spoke. “He was very good at making people believe what he wanted them to believe. He had Emmeline wrapped around his finger. He did the same to me.”
I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“He made me believe that he still cared for me. He said he wanted us to be together forever, but I think he was really just interested in Nelson’s
money. In addition to Emmeline’s fortune, he would have more money than he could ever possibly need.”
“But how would that have worked, with both of you married to other people? Divorces are difficult to obtain, and surely much of the money would be lost in the proceedings.”
She looked at me strangely, as though she had only just remembered that I was there. Her eyes met mine, and I was chilled at how cold they were. “No, I wasn’t talking about a divorce.”
I frowned, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“You see, we had planned to kill them all along,” she said suddenly. “Nelson and Emmeline. With both of them dead, we could be together, have all the money we ever needed.
Horror coursed through me at her words. I never, in my wildest imaginings, could have concocted something like this.
She smiled, a bit sadly. “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Ames. And you’re right. It’s a terrible thing. But Nelson was a terrible man.”
“But what of Emmeline?”
“Emmeline is a sweet girl … but I’ve been waiting a long time for happiness.”
I realized then that Mrs. Hamilton was not quite sane. She couldn’t possibly be. I desperately racked my brains for some way to distract her, for something I could do to escape.
“So what happened … with Rupert?” I asked at last. I was genuinely curious. If I were to be murdered tonight by a deranged killer, I should hate to do it with questions still lingering in my mind.
“I’d be interested to see what you think,” she replied. It was a strange request, but I took my time considering an answer.
“Your husband found out about your affair, confronted Rupert, and struck him. When you found out what he’d done, you killed your husband.”
She smiled again, shaking her head. “Perhaps you’re not as clever as I fancied you, Mrs. Ames. No, Nelson didn’t do it. He didn’t have the nerve. I killed Rupert.”
This I had not anticipated. I rather expect my mouth gaped a bit.
“Gil and Rupert were on the terrace that afternoon, arguing about Emmeline, as usual.”
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 25
