Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (9 page)

“No. Have you?”

She shook her head, platinum hair bouncing. “Gil said she was much too distraught. The doctor had given her something rather strong, I believe.”

“Perhaps we will be able to see her today.”

“It’s the most terrible thing,” she continued. “I can’t believe poor Rupert is gone. We were all so fond of him.”

“Well, not all of us,” Mr. Hamilton said with a smirk. “I’ll wager Trent wasn’t crying into his pillow last night.”

“Nelson,” Mrs. Hamilton said softly, “what a terrible thing to say.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” he replied, but he let the subject drop. If he had any specific knowledge of bad blood between Rupert and Gil, he was not in the mood to share it at present.

“This all could have been avoided if they had put up a suitable railing,” Mr. Rodgers intoned. “The legal implications of such a hazard likely have never occurred to the hotel. If Emmeline, after a suitable period of mourning, of course, would care for me to look into the…”

“Oh, Edward,” Anne Rodgers said, waving her fork at him. “Not now.”

He frowned at his wife’s gentle reprimand but didn’t finish his sentence.

Nelson Hamilton guffawed as he took an overlarge bite of egg. “Always on the lookout for a bit of business, eh, Ned?”

Larissa Hamilton had watched the exchange with the same look of vague alarm that I had come to realize was her natural expression. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant, Nelson,” she said softly.

“Not a bad idea, though,” Hamilton continued, as if his wife had not spoken. “Negligence, pure and simple.”

They were not aware, then, that it was murder. I wondered why Inspector Jones would have revealed the fact to me and not to the others. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to keep the information to myself for the time being.

I wondered who else knew about the bad feelings between Gil and Rupert. When the news was made public that Rupert had been murdered, people would be quick to point the finger at anyone besides themselves who might have had a reason to do him harm, and Gil’s dislike for Rupert might be construed as such. Of course, dislike for someone was not necessarily a motive for murder. Yet the fact remained that Rupert was dead, killed by a blow to the head from someone with whom he had presumably been arguing above the cliff terrace.

I still did not believe, even for a moment, that it might have been Gil. And after all, if Gil had been angry enough to strike Rupert, he could very well have done it that night when they had been alone on the terrace outside my window. No, I could not make myself consider that the overheard conversation was especially significant. That did nothing to ease my worry about what others might say, however.

A thought came to me suddenly. Perhaps if I could establish Rupert’s movements before his death, I could remove Gil from the scene completely. Perhaps it would rid me of my growing uneasiness.

“None of you saw Rupert walking about on the terrace yesterday afternoon, I suppose?” I asked casually, pushing my fruit around my plate with my fork.

“I hadn’t seen him since we were on the beach,” Anne Rodgers said. “Edward and I were napping. Weren’t we, dear?” She smiled luminously at her husband, and I rather thought he flushed.

“As I said yesterday, I hadn’t seen him either,” Mr. Hamilton said, a bit defensively, I thought.

“I saw him in the lobby after we came up from the beach,” Mrs. Hamilton said suddenly. She glanced at her husband as though worried he might cut her off and then continued. “He said something about having a meeting with someone later in the afternoon.”

That was curious. I remembered distinctly that yesterday afternoon she had agreed with her husband that they hadn’t seen Rupert.

“I … I only just remembered,” she said, as though reading my thoughts.

I wondered. It seemed more likely that Mr. Hamilton had encouraged her silence.

“I took it to mean his tea engagement with Emmeline,” she went on, “but perhaps…”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Mr. Hamilton said abruptly.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she echoed, but her eyes met mine, and I saw the question in them. I would have to speak with her about it later, when her husband wasn’t present.

“I understand your husband arrived last night.” The crisp voice of Veronica Carter broke into the conversation. I turned to see her approaching my table, regarding me with those cold blue eyes of hers.

“Yes,” I answered indifferently. “Quite unexpectedly.”

A rather vicious smile played on her trifle-too-red lips, and I fancied I saw her eyes glint just a bit. “How inconvenient.”

As much as I abhorred indelicate language, at the moment I would have been able to think of several appropriate names for the woman.

“Your husband?” Anne Rodgers asked. “I thought…” She paused, and an awkward silence descended.

“And will you be going home now, after this accident?” It was Lionel Blake who broke in with a fresh question, thankfully obliterating the necessity of an explanation of the current state of my marriage. He had been silent throughout my conversation with the others, but I had noticed he had been listening with apparent interest.

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “What about all of you?”

It was my turn to be met with an awkward silence.

“We’re not sure either,” Anne Rodgers said at last. “It sounds frightfully coldhearted, but we may finish out our holiday.”

“The rooms are paid for,” Mr. Rodgers said, taking a bit of his kippers.

“I think it’s dreadful,” Larissa Hamilton said softly. “I wish we could go home today … now.”

“Nonsense, Larissa.” Her husband spoke, I thought, a touch louder than was strictly necessary, given their proximity. “Rupert would want us to finish out our stay, life of the party, he was. No good packing up and heading home.”

“I expect Emmeline will go back with … with the body, when everything is cleared up here,” Anne Rodgers went on. “The funeral won’t be for several days yet, and we can attend when we go back to London.”

“Life goes on, eh?” Hamilton said, almost defiantly.

It seemed that there was nothing further to say, so I rose from the table. “If you’ll all excuse me, I think I’d better go take some aspirin. I have a headache.”

It crossed my mind as I left the room that I greatly hoped my friends would be just a bit more distressed were I to meet with an untimely end.

8

A SHORT WHILE
later, I tapped softly on the door to Emmeline’s room, and I heard the low murmur of voices before the door opened. Gil looked out at me. “Hello, Amory.” His tone was noticeably aloof.

“Hello, Gil,” I answered, as though I hadn’t noticed the lack of warmth in his greeting. “How is Emmeline?”

His eyes darted back into the room. “Not very well.”

“Let her come in, Gil,” Emmeline’s voice behind him sounded very weak and faint. Gil pulled open the door to allow me to enter.

I stepped into the dark room. The curtains were drawn against the cheerful sun, and Emmeline sat on the sofa, a blanket draped over her. Her face was wan, and her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

I moved to her and sat down beside her on the sofa, taking her soft, cold hand while Gil seated himself in a nearby chair. “Emmeline, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know there’s nothing you can hear now that will make you feel any better, but I truly am sorry.”

Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “I don’t know what I shall do,” she whispered. “I … I … don’t know how I’ll get on without him…”

I squeezed her hand in mine. “You mustn’t think about that now. Concentrate on getting your strength back. One day at a time, dear. That’s all you can do.”

She shook her head. “Even one day seems too much without Rupert. I loved him so…” Her words trailed off into sobs that shook her slight frame.

I did my best to comfort her as she cried. Eventually, the weeping subsided and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

I stood and pulled the blanket over her. “Poor dear,” I said softly.

I moved toward the door, and Gil walked with me. I stopped halfway across the room and turned to him, almost without thinking about what I was going to do. “Gil … I need to tell you something.”

“Yes? What is it?” he asked, his tone flat. It seemed to me that he had tensed ever so slightly, as though preparing himself for something he didn’t want to hear.

“It’s about Rupert. That Detective Inspector Jones … well, he says that Rupert was murdered.”

I watched Gil’s face as I said the words. His features remained perfectly smooth, but he blinked twice, very rapidly, as if he could not quite conceal his surprise.

“He told you that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he certain?”

“It seems so.”

“What else did he say?”

He asked the questions calmly, but I sensed urgency beneath them. I began to wonder if perhaps I should not have said anything.

“He only said that he’d been hit on the head before he fell.”

Gil blinked again, almost a flinch. “Did he say who he suspected?”

I hesitated. He hadn’t, not in so many words. The inspector had asked me questions about Gil, but mentioning it might cause Gil undue alarm. “I think it’s rather early for him to have determined that.”

Gil let out a short breath. “He can’t know anything for sure,” he said, almost to himself.

I frowned. This wasn’t exactly what I had expected. I had thought Gil would be shocked, perhaps a bit skeptical, as I had been. Instead, it seemed almost as though I had confirmed some private belief of his. Either that … or he knew something.

“You mustn’t say anything to Emmeline about this,” he told me, glancing over his shoulder at his sister’s sleeping form. “She’s far too distraught for any more bad news.”

“She’ll have to know eventually, Gil,” I said gently.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right…” His voice trailed off, and his gaze wandered, as though he were lost in thought.

“I asked at breakfast if anyone had seen anything. Perhaps if I talk to everyone…”

His gaze came sharply to mine. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t start asking questions.”

“But I only…”

“No good can come of it, Amory. Trust me.”

I was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. “Gil, is there … do you know something about this?”

He recovered his composure and smiled a very forced smile. “Of course not.” He almost managed to make his voice sound normal, unconcerned. “I only meant that the investigation is bound to be unpleasant, and I would hate for you to be involved in it.”

I suspected there was more to it than that, much more, but it was very apparent that Gil was in no mood to confide in me at present.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I answered, hoping to let the subject drop.

Gil looked immensely relieved, and I felt much more uneasy. Was there something that he was refusing to tell me?

I turned toward the door again, but his hand caught my arm. “Amory, wait. I … I have to ask. What is Milo doing here? What are his intentions?”

“One never knows with Milo,” I answered.

There was a sudden intensity in Gil’s expression as he looked down at me. “I don’t like his being here, not now.”

“I can’t very well send him packing, can I?” I retorted. Something in his manner was irritating to me. It wasn’t as though I summoned Milo here. His presence had been as unexpected—and unwelcomed—to me as it had been to Gil.

His hand dropped from my arm. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault. I just…” The dark brown flecks in his eyes stood out, as they did when he was troubled. In that moment, I felt a rush of affection for him, and sensation of guilt over all that I had put him through. It wasn’t Milo that had hurt Gil; it was me. And for that, I felt rather shabby.

“You don’t have to explain, Gil,” I said gently. “We’re all on edge at the moment. And I know how you feel about Milo.”

He offered a smile that seemed forced. “He is your husband, after all. I really have no right to … feel the way I do.”

Our eyes met and caught for just a moment. He was very close, and I could smell the heady scent of his aftershave. I thought he might try to kiss me again, but instead he reached behind me, his arm brushing mine, and pulled the door open, the click of the latch loud in the heavy silence of the room.

“You had better go,” he said in a low voice.

I nodded. “We’ll talk later, Gil. I think there are things we will both want to say, once things have settled down a bit.”

“Yes.”

I left Emmeline’s room and took the lift down to the lobby. I wasn’t certain where I was going. I only knew I didn’t intend to return to my room to sit idly thinking. My mind was much too full for quiet solitude at the moment. The murder, Milo, Gil—everything seemed to be tumbling about in a disorderly jumble in my head.

Gil’s behavior was puzzling, to say the least. It was disturbingly obvious from his reaction to my news that he knew, or at least suspected, more than he let on. His determination that I not get involved only strengthened my resolve to help in some way. Gil was worried about something, and if he wouldn’t confide in me, perhaps I could put the pieces together on my own.

There was so much to think about. What I needed was a steady sea breeze in my face and the roar of the waves in my ears. A brisk walk along the shore would serve me nicely.

The lift opened, and I stepped, preoccupied, into the lobby, nearly walking directly into the arms of Detective Inspector Jones. I stepped back, a trifle quickly, and hoped he would not be of the impression that I had leapt away in order to avoid contact. Such an idea was not one I cared to cultivate with the police.

“Mrs. Ames,” he said, politely enough, “just the person I wanted to see.”

“How frightfully popular you are, Amory,” Milo drawled from behind me.

I turned to him, less than enthusiastic that he should choose this moment to descend upon the scene. “Hello, Milo.”

“Hello, darling.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek and then paused, leaning in close for just a moment, his mouth very near my throat.

“You smell of aftershave,” he noted in a low voice.

“Do I? How very odd,” I answered, my attention turning back to the inspector. “Inspector Jones, this is my husband, Milo Ames. Milo, Detective Inspector Jones of the CID.”