“I expect you will be glad to leave the Brightwell behind you, Mrs. Ames.”
I turned to see Inspector Jones approaching. Though I had given him my official statement last night, I was not entirely surprised to see him. I had felt that, perhaps, he would have a few more things to say to me before I departed. I was glad to see him. Though my behavior had been trying to him, I had the feeling that he had grown rather fond of me. And I found that I admired him a great deal.
“I will indeed, Inspector. I don’t think I shall ever look at a seaside holiday in the same way.”
“You’re going home today?”
“Yes, I was just about to leave for the station.”
He didn’t ask about Milo, and for that I was grateful. Insightful man that he was, I had a feeling he had a good grasp of the situation.
“You may be surprised to hear this, given my stern views on the matter, but I actually came to thank you for your help,” he said grudgingly.
Despite the unwillingness of his confession, I felt flattered at the admission.
“You would have found her out,” I said, and I meant it. Inspector Jones was a very clever man, and I had no doubt he would have solved the case. My continual interference had, perhaps, forced Mrs. Hamilton’s hand, but she could not have eluded him forever.
“Perhaps not in time,” he said gravely. “I would not have been at all surprised should she have decided Emmeline Trent would be the next to be disposed of. She had been the one to ruin all of Mrs. Hamilton’s dreams, you know.”
It was a dreadful thought, and one I did not care to dwell on.
“Will she hang, do you think?” I asked. As horrid as her crimes had been, I still couldn’t help but feel a bit of sympathy for the quiet woman who had finally been pushed too far.
“I doubt it. From what the doctors have said, I gather she’s not entirely in possession of her faculties. It’s likely she’ll be committed.”
“Perhaps that would be best,” I said.
“And what of your plans?” he asked. “Do you intend to make a habit of interfering in police investigations?” Though his expression was perfectly serious, I knew that he was teasing me.
“I think not. One murder was enough, Inspector. I plan to leave crime far behind me.”
He smiled. “You say that now, but I think if something intriguing came along, you would jump at the chance to involve yourself in it.”
I laughed.
The porter brought my bags down, and I willingly surrendered my room key to the clerk at the desk.
“May I drive you to the station, Mrs. Ames?” the inspector asked as we walked back out of the Brightwell and into the warm sunshine.
“Thank you, Inspector Jones.” I smiled. “Given my experiences over the last week, I think a police escort would be lovely indeed.”
* * *
I SAT IN my train compartment looking out at the passing landscape, the sea fading into the distance as we traveled northward. The sun had come out today, as if to signal brighter things to come, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit forlorn. With all that had happened, I was terribly tired and ready to be home.
“Traveling alone?”
I looked up at the familiar voice, thinking for a moment I had imagined it. I was more than a little surprised to see Milo standing in the door of the compartment. I hadn’t seen him at the station, and I certainly hadn’t seen him board this train.
“I thought you’d gone on an earlier train,” I said. My voice was calm, though my heart had begun racing at the sight of him. I had admitted to Gil that, despite everything, I was still in love with Milo. I hadn’t wanted Milo to leave with things unsettled, and now here he was. Nevertheless, my mind refused to form any expectations; I had long ago learned that it was better not to get my hopes up.
I watched him warily as he came into the compartment and closed the doors behind him. “I’ve decided not to go back to the Continent just now,” he said.
I was unsure of how to react, what part I should assume in this little drama that was unfolding. I had felt certain that our marriage had fallen apart this morning, and yet here he stood, as casually as if he had come into the drawing room for tea.
“Oh?” I managed to say. “What changed your mind?
“I gave it a bit of thought, and I considered it best not to leave you alone. I don’t much like the company you’ve been keeping lately.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.” He took the seat across from me, his expression smooth and unworried. “In fact, I’d come with the express intention of throwing Gilmore Trent off of this train.”
My lips twitched at the corners, a smile coming against my will as I felt a spark of hope. “Gil isn’t on this train.”
Our eyes met.
“No?” he asked. I suspected then that he had already known as much, that he had waited at the station for me to make my choice, once and for all, before he took any sort of action.
“No,” I said softly, and we both knew how much the simple word conveyed.
He shrugged, relaxing in his seat. “Just as well. I should have hated for your opinion of my ruthless nature to be justified.”
“Milo, I…”
He waved a hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Perhaps I did look guilty there for a while. In any event, it was interesting being the prime suspect for a moment or two.”
“If only we’d confided in one another,” I said. “But we’ve never been very good at that, have we?”
“It could be worse. At least you’ve never tried to drown me in my bathtub.”
I let out a sound that was some cross between a laugh and a sigh. “Do be serious, Milo.”
“I’m perfectly serious. There are worse marriages than ours, certainly.”
“I mean it, though,” I persisted, my gaze dropping to my hands. For some reason I found it impossible to look him in the face and say what needed to be said. “We’re like strangers half the time. I often wonder if you still care for me at all.”
I had forced myself to say it, despite the fact that I expected a flippant answer. But when I raised my eyes to his, I found that there was no amusement in his expression.
“You know perfectly well that I adore you, Amory,” he said.
He was watching me intently, his eyes deep blue pools into which I could feel myself sinking. It was one of those rare moments in which he gave the impression of perfect sincerity, and I felt strongly the pull of my desire to believe him.
“Do you?” I asked softly. “I can never be sure.”
He took my hand in his, his thumb caressing the finger where my rings should have been. I felt a little shiver of heat travel up my arm. He brought my hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across it, and my breath caught in my throat.
“I’d like to come home with you,” he said. “I’m a bit tired of traveling at present.”
I hesitated. He was always so very good at saying the right things. I wanted so much to be sure that he meant it, to be certain that he wasn’t merely telling me what I needed to hear. I knew perfectly well, however, that at that moment I was willing to risk it. I was not completely certain I believed him, but, looking into his eyes as he waited for my answer, I believed that he believed himself. Perhaps that was enough. At least for now.
“Yes, Milo,” I said. “I should like very much for you to come home.”
He came up from his seat and sat beside me, pulling me into his arms as he leaned to kiss me.
I have never been like the silly girls in novels, for whom rational thought flees at the first brush of lovers’ lips. However, I will admit that, at that particular moment, I found it very difficult to think of anything other than how much I loved this infuriating man.
A few moments later, a passing porter forced us into some semblance of propriety, and as I leaned against Milo, his arm still around me, my thoughts cleared enough for me to remember the telegram I had sent before leaving the Brightwell.
“Laurel’
s coming to meet my train,” I said. “She won’t be expecting you.”
“Send her away,” he replied, his lips brushing my hair. “We’ve much better things to do than spend the evening sipping tea with your cousin. In the meantime, the porter’s gone. How much time until we reach our next stop?”
I glanced at my wristwatch, an absurd fluttery feeling in my stomach. “Nearly an hour.”
“Excellent,” he said, lowering his mouth again to mine. “Let’s make the most of it.”
And so we did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashley Weaver is the branch manager at Oberlin, the headquarters of the Allen Parish Libraries in Louisiana, and has worked in libraries since she was fourteen. She was a page, and then a clerk, before obtaining her masters in library science from Louisiana State University. Weaver lives in Oakdale, Louisiana, and Murder at the Brightwell is her first novel.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
MURDER AT THE BRIGHTWELL. Copyright © 2014 by Ashley Weaver. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by John Mattos
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-04636-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4653-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466846531
First Edition: October 2014
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 28
