Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (7 page)

Lionel Blake looked up from his book as I prepared to pass him, and he wished me good morning. His green eyes, accentuated by his surroundings, seemed almost to glow, like a cat’s eyes.

I smiled an unenthusiastic greeting at Olive and Veronica as I passed, neither of whom acknowledged me with more than a raised eyebrow or slightly upturned lip. The feeling, then, was mutual.

The next pair my path crossed was Nelson Hamilton and Anne Rodgers. His gaze traveled up and down me like a boat looking for a pleasant spot to land. “Mrs. Ames,” he said. “Care for a swim? Anne and I were just about to take a dip.”

“Thank you, no. I think I’ll just walk a bit.”

“Well, perhaps later,” he said with a wink.

Wretched man. The more I saw of him, the more I disliked him and pitied his wife.

I passed them all, somehow avoiding Yvonne Roland, and enjoyed a relaxing, solitary walk. I ambled along for a nice stretch, until the beach was cut off by the cliff extending into the water, and then I turned around. By now the sun was high and increasingly warm. I decided to cool myself with a swim. I removed my trousers and jacket and took a bathing cap from my bag. I pulled the cap on, tucking in a few loose strands of hair, and waded into the sea. The water was cold and very refreshing. By the time I had finished sea bathing, it was lunchtime and the beach was deserted.

I mounted the long white stairway back to the hotel. When I at last reached the top, I was thoroughly winded and quite sleepy from my exercise. Still full from breakfast, I decided to forgo lunch and take a brief rest in my room before meeting the others for tea.

*   *   *

A BIT LATER,
refreshed from my nap, I changed into a light dress in a pale floral print. I went to Gil’s door and knocked, thinking that perhaps he would join us for tea, but there was no answer at his door. I decided to see if perhaps he had already gone down.

When I exited the lift into the lobby, I caught sight of Emmeline. She waved and walked toward me, a slight frown creasing her brow.

“Rupert said he would meet me here twenty minutes ago,” she said. “But he hasn’t come down. I’ve rung his room, but he isn’t there.” She seemed more anxious than the situation warranted. Then again, I could sympathize. In the early days of my marriage, once I had discovered a thing or two about my husband, I had been anxious when he was out of my sight as well.

“Perhaps he’s already gone out to the terrace.”

“Perhaps, but he distinctly said he would meet me in the lobby.”

I refrained, of course, from commenting that men of Rupert Howe’s ilk often did not do as they said they would. It was an uncharitable thought, perhaps, but that didn’t make it any less true.

We crossed the lobby and exited to the terrace. Many of the tables were filled with hotel guests enjoying the afternoon sun, but Rupert was not among them.

I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at one of the tables, and we approached them.

“Howe?” Mr. Hamilton replied in answer to our inquiry. “Haven’t seen the chap all afternoon. Neither has Larissa. Have you, dear?”

“I … no,” she answered, softly. I clenched my teeth at the way the poor woman was barely given a chance to speak.

Lionel Blake, at a nearby table, confirmed that Rupert had not been seen by anyone currently on the hotel terrace. “I was here before anyone else came out for tea, and I have not seen Mr. Howe.”

“Well,” Emmeline said, “he may have gone down to the cliff terrace. He may have misunderstood and thought we would meet him there.”

“We can probably see from here,” I said, pointing to an overlook that allowed a sweeping view of the sea, and looked down upon the cliff terrace below.

We walked to the overlook, which had a waist-high stone wall that served as a barrier between the overlook and a very steep drop. The wind was strong this afternoon, and I doubted there would be anyone having tea on the cliff terrace. Backed against the rocks of the cliffs as it was, the area would be buffeted by the strong breezes that were rolling in off the sea.

Emmeline put her hand atop the wall and leaned, catching herself when the top stone wobbled beneath her hand. “Goodness. That could be a hazard.”

An ill feeling swept over me at that moment. Emmeline had backed slightly away from the wall. She had not looked over the barrier, but I had leaned over far enough to see the cliff terrace and the crumpled form that lay below.

Rupert.

6

THE NEXT HOUR
passed in a blur. I had taken Emmeline away from the overlook, and some of the hotel staff had rushed down to the cliff terrace. There was nothing to be done; Rupert Howe was dead. Emmeline, quite naturally, had gone to pieces, and a doctor had been called to see to her.

I went to the hotel’s sitting room to be alone until the authorities wished to hear my account of the accident, what little I knew of it. Rupert had, I supposed, leaned too far over the edge. A stone had probably given way, and he had tumbled down …

The sitting room, decorated in calming shades of yellow, white, and green, did little to ease my troubled nerves. I was more than a little shaken by the experience. I had not particularly liked the man, but to see his body lying at the base of a cliff was not something I would have wished upon him in the worst of circumstances.

The news spread quickly, but I was mercifully left alone until Gil found me in the sitting room. “Amory, are you all right?” He reached out as if to embrace me, then seemed to think better of it and took my hand instead. I was surprised how much comfort I derived immediately from the simple warmth of his grip.

I drew in a breath. “It was awful, Gil,” I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice when my insides were still trembling. “Quite the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Let me order you a drink.”

I shook my head. “No. No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”

He sat down beside me on the sofa, his hand still holding mine. “Emmeline’s resting now. I’ve just come from there. The doctor’s given her something. Poor darling. She’s taken this very hard.”

“She loved him very much,” I answered softly. I couldn’t imagine what she must be feeling. I barely knew the man, and I still felt very shaken by it all.

“She’s better off,” Gil said, almost under his breath.

I hadn’t time to reply before my name was spoken from the doorway.

“Mrs. Ames?” A gentleman in a gray suit and hat entered the room. He was around fifty, of average height and build, with an air of confidence about him that was immediately noticeable, the sort of unassuming person to whom one’s eyes were unaccountably drawn.

I stood. “Yes.”

“I’m Detective Inspector Jones, CID.”

“CID?” I repeated, surprised. What on earth would the Criminal Investigation Department be doing here? To the best of my knowledge, they had never been much concerned with accidents.

“Yes,” he answered, then turned to Gil. “And you are, sir?”

“Gilmore Trent. My sister, Emmeline, was engaged to Mr. Howe.”

“Allow me to express my sympathies.”

“Thank you.”

“And now, I wonder, Mr. Trent, if you would mind my speaking to Mrs. Ames alone?” he asked, perfect politeness doing little to mask rather obvious authority.

This seemed to rub Gil the wrong way. “Is that really necessary, Inspector? Amory … Mrs. Ames has had a bad shock.”

The inspector’s brown eyes flickered across my face in a searching glance and then returned to Gil. “She looks like she’ll hold up, Mr. Trent.”

I saw Gil’s mouth draw into a hard line, but I patted his hand. “It’s all right, Gil. Let me speak to the inspector, and I’ll come and find you. I could use a good strong cup of tea.”

“Very well.”

The inspector offered him what was not a very warm smile. “I should like to speak to you later, Mr. Trent.”

“If you wish,” Gil answered.

He left the room without further comment, and I turned to the inspector. “Now, what may I do for you?”

He indicated the seat from which I had arisen. “Sit down, won’t you?”

I took a seat on the pale green sofa, and he sat in a chair opposite as he removed his hat, exposing dark hair that was turning silver, and pulled a notebook and a pencil from his coat pocket. “If you don’t mind, please tell me exactly what happened this afternoon.”

I related the events that had led to the discovery of Rupert’s body, from Emmeline’s expecting to see him in the lobby to my viewing his body from above. He let my story flow on, uninterrupted, as he jotted down notes.

“There was a loose stone on the wall,” I concluded. “I wonder if he might have lost his balance. It’s all so terrible.”

He looked up from his notebook, his eyes very mild and steady. “It’s more terrible than you think, Mrs. Ames. It appears that Mr. Howe was murdered.”

“Murdered?” The word was an unexpected jolt to my system. A feeling of denial swept through me, and something more … fear. I sucked in a breath, trying to steady myself. I could sense the inspector’s calm gaze on my face. I had the feeling that he was gauging something in my reaction.

“I don’t understand, Inspector,” I said at last. “I … it seemed to me that he fell.” Even as I spoke, I realized that I did not sound completely convinced, even to myself. Had there been something, in the back of my mind, that had made me wonder if it might not be an accident?

“Did you see his body? Up close, I mean.”

“No. I…”

“Did you know Mr. Howe?”

“Not well, no.”

“And your impression of him?”

“Honestly?” I met the inspector’s gaze. “I didn’t care for him. Of course, I’m sorry that he’s dead.”

Inspector Jones inclined his head. “Honesty is always appreciated in my line of work. What was it about Mr. Howe that you found … disagreeable?”

“Just that he did not seem a very nice sort of man,” I answered. “Nothing substantial. I thought he and Emmeline were ill suited. I … I suppose it was none of my business.”

“Can you think of anyone who would have reason to hurt him?”

“Certainly not.”

I realized that he was watching me very intently. There was something unnerving about the man, a quiet intensity. He was, I imagined, very accomplished at instilling a sense of unease in the guilty. I felt vaguely on edge myself.

His next question, phrased in the same almost uninterested tone, caught me by surprise.

“You are registered here under your own name. Your husband did not come with you?”

This I hadn’t expected. “I don’t see what that has to do with Mr. Howe’s death,” I answered, somewhat more tersely than was probably proper when being interviewed by a detective inspector with the CID.

His eyes met mine, and he was obviously unperturbed by my irritation. “I’m just trying to form an accurate picture of things, Mrs. Ames. Little flecks of paint make up the whole picture.”

I sighed. “No, Inspector. My husband is not here. In fact, since you have no doubt already ascertained as much, I came at the invitation of Mr. Trent.”

“I had, in fact, already ascertained that detail.” He seemed to me to be a very quick worker, this inspector. I wondered what else he might have learned. I did not have to wait long to find out.

“You’re staying in separate rooms, however.”

“Certainly,” I replied, less than civilly. There was, as far as I could see, no call for such intrusive and insinuating questions. “There is nothing untoward occurring between us.”

“And yet you don’t wear a wedding ring?”

I stiffened. “I’ve taken my rings off. I was sea bathing this afternoon.” These were both true, though unrelated, statements. I had been sea bathing, but that was not why I had removed my rings. I had not worn them to the Brightwell, though they were tucked away in my jewelry case upstairs. It hadn’t felt quite right to leave them at home.

“I see. But you and Mr. Trent are close friends.”

“We’ve known each other for years, yes.”

“And Mr. Howe? Were he and Mr. Trent close?”

I wondered, a bit uneasily, where these questions about Gil were leading. “I only just met Mr. Howe,” I answered carefully. “I didn’t have much chance to observe them together.”

“Indeed.” Something in his expression made me wonder if he knew I was being purposefully evasive. “And were you with Mr. Trent this afternoon?”

“I … yes. That is, we parted ways after breakfast and intended to take tea together.”

“But you didn’t see him on the terrace when you and Miss Trent were searching for Mr. Howe.”

I hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “No, I didn’t.”

He scribbled something in the notebook and then flipped it closed. “I think that will be all for now, Mrs. Ames. I imagine you’ll be around if I should wish to speak with you again?”

“Of course.” I stood, and he followed suit, placing his hat back on his head.

“I’m only too happy to do all that I can,” I told him, wondering if I might possibly end up regretting my words.

He nodded and began to walk away, but I had to know. “Inspector?”

He turned.

“You’re quite certain that it was murder?”

He hesitated for just a moment, as if determining how much information to share with me, and then spoke carefully. “Yes, Mrs. Ames. For one thing, someone made certain no one would go down to the terrace. A ‘closed for repair’ sign was placed where the steps veered off the landing. If it hadn’t been for you, the body might not have been discovered until sometime later.”

“There could be any number of reasons for that sign. An oversight, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “None of the staff knew anything about it.”

“But that, in itself, does not rule out an accident.”

“Correct. But you see, Mr. Howe fell straight to the terrace, landing on the stone floor and hitting the back of his head. The medical examiner seems to think his neck was broken, killing him almost immediately. There are no marks on his body to indicate that he hit the cliff at any point on the way down.”

Such dreadful information failed to enlighten me. “I still don’t see how that indicates he didn’t just slip and fall.”

“Because, if he fell, nothing accounts for the blow he received here”—two fingers touched his left temple—“from what appears to be a blunt instrument.”