Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Read online

  “And he didn’t try to stop you from coming?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  Gil shook his head and smiled wryly. “Then he really isn’t as clever as you believe him to be.”

  * * *

  THE TRAIN PULLED into the station that afternoon, and the weather was lovely. The sun shone brightly, and the warm air smelled of sea and salt. Standing on the platform, I breathed deeply and felt, for just a moment, that sense of well-being I had felt as a small child at the seaside, perfect happiness and contentment.

  “Here’s the car.” Gil led me to the sleek blue automobile that the hotel had sent to collect us. We pulled away from the station and followed a road that led gradually upward, passing through the thriving village as we went.

  “There it is,” Gil said a moment later, pointing to the top of the hill.

  The Brightwell Hotel sat on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was a lovely white building, sprawling, sturdy, and somehow elegant at the same time. There was something stately yet welcoming about the place. It looked as though it would be equally suited to princes or pirates, the sort of place one could be proud of visiting without being perceived to be too fond of squandering one’s money. These days, a good many people frowned upon unnecessary lavishness.

  Gil and I emerged from the car and moved together up the walk, stepping through the door into the hotel. The interior was as pleasing to the eye as the exterior had been. The lobby was a large spacious room with a desk directly facing the doors. The floors were of gleaming white marble, and light filtered in through the numerous windows, bouncing off the yellow walls, infusing the room with a warm glow. There was a good deal of furniture in white and various shades of blue scattered artfully about with very deliberate carelessness. A potted plant or two, strategically placed, added to the overall effect.

  As Gil collected our room keys, I felt I could spend quite a happy week in this place.

  “Why, if it isn’t Amory Ames!” A high, almost shrill voice called out across the lobby. I turned and saw a woman in an outrageous hat and brightly colored clothes soaring toward me like a parrot in flight.

  “Oh, dear,” said Gil and I in unison.

  Yvonne Roland, terror of London society, descended upon us.

  “Amory, Amory darling!” She clutched my arms and brushed kisses an inch away from each of my cheeks, the scent of talcum powder and roses enveloping me. “It’s been ages … Since before my last husband died, I think … Or maybe just before … Poor dear Harold … And how are you, dearest?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer before turning on Gil. “And Gilmore Trent! How delightful to see you. But you’ve come together.” She turned to me, grabbing my hand. “How delightful.”

  A thought suddenly seemed to strike her. Her eyes narrowed and darted from me to Gil and back again. “But, my dear, I thought you had married … What was that fellow’s name? The wickedly good-looking one?”

  “I’ve just come to visit the seaside with some friends,” I said vaguely.

  A rather sly smile crossed her face. “Ah! I see. Well, you can count on me as the soul of discretion … If you only knew the secrets I’ve kept … never revealed I knew all about Ida Kent, even after she’d run off with that butcher.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Sordid business … but you and Gil? I’m delighted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking tea on the terrace. I’ll be seeing you both later.” She winked ostentatiously and was gone.

  “Good heavens,” Gil breathed.

  I nodded. Mrs. Roland was a wealthy widow who flittered about society like a flamboyant and excessively chirpy bird. She had been widowed three times, accumulating successively more wealth as each husband faded beneath her bright and tiresome exuberance. I was inclined to believe her husbands had gone to the grave for the sheer peace of it. Still, she was harmless enough.

  “At least things won’t be dull at the seaside,” I said with a smile. “Mrs. Roland may not exactly be with us, but she will certainly be among us.”

  “Well, then,” he said, lightly touching my elbow, “I suppose we may as well go up and prepare ourselves to join Mrs. Roland and the others for tea on the terrace.”

  I followed him to the lift, which sat to the left of the front desk. We rode up in silence to the first floor, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

  As we stepped out of the lift, Gil turned to me and handed me the key to my room. As his hand brushed mine, I suddenly felt that there was something rather clandestine about all of this. Separate rooms or no, we had just checked into a hotel together, and I felt a bit unsettled about the fact.

  We looked at one another. I wondered if the thought had occurred to him as well.

  “My room’s just three doors down,” he said. “I’ll meet you here in a quarter of an hour?”

  “All right.”

  He left me, and I entered my room. It was good-sized and decorated in an understatedly elegant manner: gleaming wooden floors with thick rugs, silk flocked wallpaper, and smooth, heavy bed linens, all in pale, tasteful colors. The sitting area had a fashionably modern sofa and two silk-upholstered chairs. A writing desk sat against the wall. As in the lobby, the furnishings seemed to say, “Don’t mind us. We will just sit here and be expensive.”

  I took off my hat and gloves, dropping them on one of the chairs, and went to the window. My room faced the sea, and I pushed aside the filmy, ivory curtain, admiring for a moment the smooth expanse of blue. It was a decidedly romantic view, and, coupled with the vague feeling of wrongdoing I had experienced in the hallway, I began to wonder if I had made the right choice in coming. I quickly pushed the doubts away; there was nothing wrong in it, after all.

  I changed from my tailored dove-gray traveling suit into a flowing white and red flower-printed chiffon dress with a soft belt that tied in a loose bow at my side. I then went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on my face, reapplied what little makeup I had worn, and combed my hair, smoothing the dark waves that were a little mussed from the journey. Putting on a white, lightweight cloth hat with a jaunty brim and red grosgrain ribbon, I was ready to take tea with Gil’s sister and whoever else was in the party.

  The sudden realization that I had very little idea who exactly was sharing our holiday made me feel a bit silly. Undoubtedly, I had rushed into this seaside trip with very little forethought, but I supposed it was too late to do much about it now.

  Gil met me in the hallway at the designated time. He had freshened up as well, and we made a handsome pair walking down the long, golden hallway together. For a briefest of instants, I wondered what life might have been like had I married Gil. Would we have been happy? It was impossible to know.

  “I would rather have had a good nap,” he said as we entered the lift. “But I suppose tea is as good a time as any to make our entrance.”

  “Indeed,” I answered. “It will give the scandal time to build until dinner.”

  He smiled, but I could sense his hesitation. “You don’t mind a bit of scandal, do you, Amory?”

  The last of my doubts dissipated, and I returned his smile. “What’s a little scandal? One only lives once, after all.”

  We exited the lift and walked across the gleaming lobby, through a comfortable sitting area, to French doors on the west side of the building. Stepping out into the bright light, I admired the spacious terrace. Gil explained that it extended all along this side of the building, wrapped around across the south side, overlooking the sea, and then continued around the east side. There was another terrace, he told me, a short way down the cliff, accessible by a winding flight of white wooden stairs. “It’s rather a scenic spot, but the wind is high today,” he said. “I expect most of the guests will have tea on the main terrace.”

  “Gil!” We looked to see Emmeline Trent waving to us from a bit farther down. With Gil’s hand at my elbow, we made our way to where she had risen from her seat to greet us.

  Emmeline hugged her brother, then turned to me. Like Gil, Emmeline
seemed to have changed very little since I had seen her last. A thin, pretty girl, she shared her brother’s coloring, the dark blond hair and brown eyes. She smiled brightly as she extended her hand to squeeze mine affectionately. “Dearest Amory. I’m so happy to see you again. I didn’t know you would be here. How delightful.”

  “It was something of a last-minute decision. It’s lovely to see you, Emmeline.”

  She turned then, her eyes alight with happiness and pride, stretching out her hand to the gentleman beside her. “You’ve met, I think? You remember my fiancé, Rupert Howe. Rupert, Amory Ames.”

  The young man standing by her side was as I remembered him: tall, handsome, and impeccably groomed, with dark brown hair and eyes to match. Bright teeth formed what seemed a practiced, too-polite smile. There was no warmth in his eyes, not for me, and certainly not for Gil.

  “Charmed, Mrs. Ames,” he said.

  I was not at all charmed. I could tell at once that he was too polished, too aware of his own appeal. Perhaps he did not remind me of Milo so very much, after all.

  As if our thoughts had taken different routes to the same location, Emmeline asked, “Is your husband here?”

  I paused, allowing a slightly awkward silence to settle in our midst. “No,” I said at last. “No, Milo and I are … well, I’ve come at the invitation of your brother.”

  Emmeline colored. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She gave her brother a rap on the arm. “You didn’t tell me, Gil! Do forgive me, Amory. I didn’t realize…”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said lightly. “All water under the bridge.”

  I noticed then that Rupert Howe watched me speculatively. I had no time to guess what he was thinking before a voice spoke from behind us.

  “It’s too windy to take tea out of doors.”

  We turned to see Olive Henderson, a young woman I had known for many years more than I cared to. She was the daughter of a well-known banker, and we had frequently come into contact with one another at social occasions, though we really weren’t well acquainted. I had always taken her for a thorough little snob, though she was pretty when her smile warmed green eyes and softened her naturally petulant expression.

  “It would have been much better in the indoor sitting room, I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve just had my hair waved.”

  “Calm down, old girl,” said Rupert. “It won’t blow you away.”

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes as she patted at her perfectly coiffed dark hair but said nothing further. I was prepared to greet her, but she shot a glance at Gil and me before she sat down without speaking to us.

  Slowly the party began to collect, and I found that the Trents’ friends were none of the same group with which we had often associated five years before. I supposed I couldn’t have expected that things would remain the same, but I still found that I was vaguely disappointed.

  “Amory, meet Mr. and Mrs. Edward Rodgers,” Gil said, introducing me to a couple that just reached our table. They greeted me, and I was struck by the contrast between them, which was, visually, something akin to a cinema star on the arm of a parish priest.

  “How do you do?” Mr. Rodgers said unenthusiastically. He was young and solemn, a solicitor by trade I would later learn. His brown eyes scanned me in a cursory way, and he appeared to have found little to interest him, for he soon seated himself and poured his tea.

  Anne Rodgers was a platinum blonde, and though her features were somewhat plain, she possessed a way of moving that had attracted the attention of every man in the vicinity when she had walked out onto the terrace in a dress of clinging rose-colored silk.

  She greeted me warmly, her eyes moving over me in an appraising yet not unfriendly manner.

  “I adore your dress. Schiaparelli, isn’t it?” she said, sinking down into a chair beside her husband and stirring four sugars into the cup he set before her. “Thank you, darling,” she told him, reaching to pat his hand, and he smiled warmly at her. They seemed something of an odd pair, but I was far from an expert on what made a happy marriage.

  Next to arrive at the terrace were Nelson Hamilton and his wife, Larissa. They walked directly to where Gil and I stood, Mr. Hamilton’s quick strides leaving his wife behind. As Gil made the introductions, I tried but failed to recall ever having seen them at any events in London.

  “Pleasure, Mrs. Ames,” Mr. Hamilton said, grasping my hand in his very warm one. He gave me a thorough going-over with his eyes, and I felt justified in examining him in turn. He was older than the others of our party, perhaps in his midforties, with graying dark hair, a ruddy face, and a well-groomed mustache. He was the jovial sort, I perceived immediately, with a ready smile and an easy, almost too friendly way of talking to people. He was, I thought, the sort of person one liked at once, but for whom the fondness fades after a short time.

  “My wife, Larissa,” he said gesturing perfunctorily to the woman who stood a bit behind him. That introduction deemed sufficient, he moved off to engage Rupert in an earnest conversation about some business deal, the particulars of which soon became lost in the jumble of conversation. Mrs. Hamilton’s gaze followed him for just a moment before returning to me.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “And I you,” she replied.

  As so often happens, Mr. Hamilton’s vibrant personality had attracted a partner without his effusive joie de vivre. Larissa Hamilton was quiet and soft-spoken. She was at least fifteen years younger than her husband and attractive in an unassuming way, pretty without realizing that she was. There was something forlorn about her, and I was unaccountably reminded of one of Waterhouse’s Ophelia paintings. She had a nice smile that warmed her expression but not, it seemed, a great deal of confidence. She was, if I judged correctly, thoroughly cowed by her husband. More than once, I saw her start when his hearty laughter broke out behind us.

  Another gentleman approached our cluster of tables, and I recognized him at once as Lionel Blake, a rising star of the British stage. His Hamlet had caused quite a stir and was perhaps the most talked-about interpretation of the character since John Barrymore had come over from New York to play the role several years before. He was very good-looking, with dark hair and piercing eyes that were an unusual shade of green.

  “I’ve long planned on attending one of your performances,” I told him when we had been introduced. “I’ve heard you’re marvelous.”

  “You’re too kind, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “But I’m afraid the reports may be exaggerated.”

  He pulled out my chair for me, and I sat. There was an easy grace in his movements that I would imagine translated well to the stage, and I noticed that he spoke carefully, as if pronouncing lines.

  The last to arrive was Veronica Carter, a woman I knew by reputation, if not by actual acquaintance. She was the daughter of a well-known industrialist, and, despite rumors of cracks in the family’s financial empire, my impression of her was that she fed on her father’s wealth and had no further aim in life than her own amusement. A vibrant redhead, she was dressed flashily and excessively made up, overemphasizing a beauty that would have been more striking had it not been so heavily accentuated. She made a name for herself in the gossip columns, the most recent scandal, so the story went, involving a very married member of Parliament. Nothing I had heard of her gave me any incentive for liking her.

  She did not take long in cementing my initial impression. As we all settled down to drink our tea, she fastened me in her cold blue eyes, which matched the china of her teacup. “Miss Ames, is it? Your name is familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Mrs. Ames,” I corrected. “And no, Miss Carter. I don’t believe we have.”

  She bit her scarlet lip artfully, as if in contemplation. “Where have I heard that name? Let me think. I’m sure I … Ah, yes. I met a gentleman called Ames only last month. On the Riviera. A deliciously handsome gentleman.”

  “My husband, Milo.” If my tone sounded bored, it was because I truly was. It was
embarrassingly obvious that she was attempting to create some sort of awkward scene, as though I would be surprised to learn Milo had been behaving badly.

  “Oh,” she said, a thin, penciled brow arching, her features conveying mock surprise. “Excuse me. I didn’t realize he was married.”

  I smiled coolly. “You mustn’t feel bad; he sometimes forgets it himself.”

  There was a moment of silence. Veronica Carter looked genuinely astonished at my flippancy. No doubt she had expected a harsh reply from a jealous wife. Gil cleared his throat uneasily, and Lionel Blake openly smiled.

  Conversation descended into trivialities and generally pleasant small talk as we were lulled by the sounds of the sea and the clinking of china. Nevertheless, there was a strange sort of tension in the group, despite the fact that these were people who spent a good deal of time together, people who had willingly agreed to meet at this seaside hotel for a mutual holiday. Then again, perhaps it was just that none of them liked each other very much. That was the way it often was with the affluent: birds of a feather did flock together, friends or no. Such a gathering was by no means my ideal way in which to pass a week, but I was doing it for Gil. And, really, it was always nice to spend time at the seaside.

  We all sat on the terrace, enjoying our tea and tolerating one another’s company. None of us realized, of course, that within twenty-four hours, one of our party would be dead.

  4

  THE HOTEL WAS aglow that evening. Dinner at the Brightwell Hotel was, it seemed, quite the affair, with black tie, dancing, and champagne all par for the course.

  I wore a fitted gown of mauve silk with sheer flutter sleeves and flowing tulle panels inset into the skirt, the cut quite flattering to my thin, tallish frame, if I may say so myself. Gil looked dashing in his dinner jacket, slim and broad-shouldered. He was of that class of men that was bred for evening wear.

  The dining room was both elegant and elaborate, without any accompanying flashiness. The walls were a striking shade of salmon with settings that managed to walk a surprisingly successful line between formal Victorian and sleek, modern art deco. The round tables, clothed in white silk, glittered with crystal, silver, and silver-edged porcelain.