Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 8

  “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.”

  “Mr. Ames.” The inspector extended a hand, which Milo shook.

  “Always pleased to make a friendly acquaintance with the law,” Milo said. “One hears so many things about the police these days.” The way in which Milo said this could, perhaps, be construed as less than complimentary.

  “And I have heard of you,” Inspector Jones replied unperturbedly. “Mrs. Ames mentioned that you weren’t expected, I believe.”

  Amusement turned up the corner of Milo’s mouth. “I certainly wasn’t.”

  “I suppose you wish to speak with me alone,” I interjected.

  “I had thought to ask you for a private interview, if you would be so kind”—he glanced at Milo with the same sort of perfunctorily requesting gaze he had given Gil the first time he had interviewed me—“and if your husband has no objection.”

  Milo gave an elegant shrug. “I am becoming accustomed to having her spirited away.”

  “Indeed … However…” He paused, his expression blank. “I see no reason why your husband should not be party to our conversation. Perhaps we should all step into the sitting room.”

  I had no idea why he would wish to include Milo in our conversation, but I had no strong objection. In fact, if anyone was disinclined to participate in the interview, it was my husband. Murder would be of very little interest to Milo.

  Nevertheless, he followed the inspector and me to the sitting room. The inspector motioned with his hand for me to precede him, followed by Milo, and then he entered and shut the door behind us.

  I took a seat on the green sofa, and Milo sank easily into a white chair, a vaguely indifferent look on his face. As for myself, I was beginning to dislike this room intensely. It had come to represent, in my mind, all the charms of an interrogation room, not that I was actually acquainted with such places.

  The inspector remained standing. “There are just a few things I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Ames,” he said, pulling out his notebook. He flipped it open, and I could make out bold but neatly printed notes.

  “The medical examiner has concluded that Mr. Howe was killed sometime between noon and four o’clock. Had you seen him at all yesterday afternoon?”

  I shook my head. “That last I saw him was at the beach in the morning.”

  “At what time?”

  “Ten, or perhaps half past.”

  “Was anything of interest said then?”

  I thought back. “No, nothing of consequence. Rupert was swimming. I stopped to speak to Emmeline, he came up, we chatted briefly, and I moved on.”

  “What about at dinner Saturday night?”

  “He was there. We spoke very little, danced once.”

  “And he seemed … untroubled?”

  “Very. He seemed quite pleased with himself.”

  “In what way?” The questions were shorter now, his tone more expectant. I was not entirely sure I cared for it.

  “In the way of a man who has everything he wants and feels that he unquestionably deserves it,” I replied.

  He paused for just a moment, looking up at me over his notebook with his calm brown eyes. Was it a glint of approval I saw there?

  “What made you look down to the cliff terrace?”

  “Emmeline told me that we were to take tea there. She thought perhaps he had gone down to wait for us rather than meeting in the lobby as they had discussed.”

  “And when you discovered the body, he was lying facing upward?”

  “I only saw him from the top of the cliff,” I replied. “I don’t really recall seeing his face, just his body lying there.”

  “Yet you were quite certain it was he.” He flipped to another page in his notebook, his eyes scanning the notes written there. “The hotel manager said that you told him that Rupert Howe had fallen off the cliff.”

  “You’re rather good at this, Inspector,” Milo interposed dryly.

  The inspector’s gaze flickered to my husband, and for once I was glad of Milo’s maddening insouciance.

  “Next thing, you’ll have her confessing, though I’m quite sure if she were to bash in anyone’s head, it would be mine. Am I right, darling?”

  “Milo, really…”

  “I am merely ascertaining the facts,” Inspector Jones said calmly. “It is my opinion that Mrs. Ames would have neither sufficient motive nor force of will to kill Mr. Howe.”

  “How very kind,” I replied crisply.

  “Nevertheless, I should like to know how you knew it was he at the base of the cliff.”

  I cast my mind back, forcing myself to remember what I had been doing my best to forget. I had looked over the edge … “Now that you ask, I am not at all certain why I was so sure. I was expecting to see him, I suppose.”

  “Perfectly logical.” He turned to Milo. “And you arrived when, Mr. Ames?”

  “Oh, is it my turn now?” Milo smiled. “I arrived last night, around nine.”

  “You came directly from London?”

  “No. From our country house in Kent.”

  “On what train?”

  “I don’t recall. One of the afternoon trains. I’m sure my ticket stub is about somewhere, if you should require it.”

  The inspector jotted another note. “Very good.”

  He turned back to me. “Just one more thing. You can think of no one with motive to do harm to Mr. Howe?” he asked. It seemed to me there was something expectant in his gaze, as though he were ready for a specific answer.

  “No, I…” The memory of the conversation I had overheard between Rupert and Gil once again made an unexpected and unwelcome appearance in my mind. I had convinced myself that it was nothing … yet … no, I decided, I needn’t mention it, not until my own mind was settled about the matter. To do so would be disloyal to Gil. I only hoped no one else had overheard it. “I am quite sure I don’t know why any of our party would wish to do harm to Mr. Howe.”

  “The hotel is nearly at capacity,” Milo noted, once again relieving me of the piercing official stare. “I’m sure that must give you any number of suspects, a much larger field than in the mystery novels.”

  A tight smile showed itself on the inspector’s mouth. “It’s very unlikely, I should say, that a complete stranger would care to—how did you put it?—bash in Rupert Howe’s head. There has been no connection made between any of the other persons staying at the Brightwell. It is highly probable, then, that it is someone of his own acquaintance.”

  “You’re certain this was no accident?” I asked, knowing the question was a futile one. Whatever else Inspector Jones might be, he was certainly competent.

  “I’m afraid there’s no question. He was definitely hit by a blunt instrument. The medical examiner is certain the wound could not have been caused by the fall. There will be an inquest tomorrow. You will give evidence?”

  “I have little evidence to give, Inspector,” I answered. “However, I would be happy to relate my experience.”

  He nodded. “Very good. Until tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes.” I stood. “If that is all, I think I might go out and take in some fresh air.”

  “Going for a walk?” the inspector asked. “With all that’s occurred, perhaps it would be best if Mr. Ames accompanied you.”

  “He needn’t bother,” I said with a glance at Milo. “I’m sure it’s much too early for him to be getting any sort of exercise.”

  “Nonsense,” Milo replied, not moving a muscle. “I am perfectly capable of physical exertion in the cause of chivalry.”

  “I doubt I shall need your gallant protection, but you may come if you wish.” I turned toward the door, and Milo ro
se languidly from his seat.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Inspector,” Milo said. “Our acquaintance has been most enlightening.”

  “Indeed, it has, Mr. Ames,” Inspector Jones replied. “Indeed, it has. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly the Côte d’Azur, is it?” Milo answered. “But I daresay I’ll find some way to amuse myself.”

  “Yes, I don’t doubt it.” The inspector’s thoughtful gaze moved from Milo to me and then back again. “Well, good day, Mr. Ames. Mrs. Ames.”

  “Pleasant chap,” Milo observed, as Inspector Jones walked off, no doubt in search of other victims to interrogate. There was something distinctly unnerving about the man, but I suspected that was a useful characteristic in his line of work.

  “A very efficient policeman, I should think,” I replied. And a clever one, unless I missed my guess. There was something Inspector Jones was getting at, something he suspected and was trying to confirm. For some reason, the thought was discomforting.

  My thoughts went back to the conversation between Gil and Rupert. If one imagined hard enough, one might be able to see some sort of vague threat on Gil’s part, and it worried me more than a little. Not that I believed for a moment that Gil was capable of murder. It was just that if I had overheard the conversation, others might have, and they might not interpret Gil’s words as innocently as I had.

  I wondered if that was what had worried him when we had spoken earlier in the day, but somehow I thought it was more than that. I wished, not for the first time since coming to the Brightwell, that Gil would take me into his confidence. Then again, I had long ago forfeited my rights on that score.

  That didn’t mean, of course, that there was nothing I could do. Perhaps I should continue to talk to the others, to see if any of them had an inkling of what might have happened. Even if they had seen nothing, they might have their own suspicions—or hidden motives.

  “… I shall have to change my clothes,” Milo was saying.

  I turned to him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Before we go traipsing about on the beach, I shall have to put on some other clothes.” He was wearing a blue suit that fit him to perfection, but that was neither here nor there.

  “We’re not going to the beach,” I answered.

  “No?”

  “No. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Very well. Am I dismissed?” Something very subtle in his posture gave me the impression that he was ready to be gone, that there was something innate in him like a tide, ready to sweep him away from me. A calm sea with restless, swirling currents.

  I almost laughed at my absurd philosophizing. If Milo could have heard my thoughts, he would no doubt have had something very droll to say about them.

  “Yes, you may go,” I said loftily, in keeping with his general lack of gravity. I headed toward the back of the hotel, ready to get out into the fresh air of the terrace.

  “Amory.”

  I turned.

  “Before I go, may I offer you one piece of sound, husbandly advice?”

  “And what is that?” I asked, wondering if he could possibly have any sort of counsel that could prove useful to me, for some reason hoping that he did.

  He stepped closer. Then a look of amusement flickered across his eyes, and, even before he spoke, I knew that he was not serious.

  “That scent on your neck is not at all becoming, I’m afraid. Your usual gardenia is much more suited to you.”

  9

  OUTSIDE, I WAS met by a blast of warm, salty air that I was sure would carry away any lingering traces of Gil’s aftershave. I stood there for a moment, drinking in the sight of the sea that stretched into the distance and trying to ignore the sense of dissatisfaction I felt after my encounter with Milo.

  The terrace was nearly empty, as it had been the morning before, with most of the hotel guests on the beach. Once again, Larissa Hamilton sat alone, a cup of tea before her, gazing out almost fearfully at the sea. As she was by herself, I thought it would be a good time to ask what Rupert had said to her about some sort of meeting on the terrace.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hamilton,” I said.

  She dragged her eyes away from the water to look at me. “Hello.”

  I indicated the empty seat across from her. “Might I sit down?”

  I did not imagine the briefest hesitation before she nodded. “Of course.”

  As I sank into the chair, she glanced around, and it occurred to me that she might be worried her husband would see us. The fact that he was an intolerable boor was more than obvious. I wondered if the public boor might also be a private brute.

  “The sea is very beautiful today,” I observed, glancing out at the water. Strange how the sea provided a sense of serenity, even in such circumstances.

  Larissa Hamilton did not share my sentiments.

  “If I am honest,” she answered, “I must say I don’t much care for it.” She smiled faintly, but the barest hint of warmth entered into her eyes. “I grew up near the forests and hill lands of Derbyshire,” she said. “Flat, open places feel foreign to me.”

  I wondered why, then, she sat on the terrace for hours, staring out at the endless expanse of sea.

  “I once visited Derbyshire as a young girl,” I said. “What I remember most is green, vibrant green every way one looked.”

  She smiled then, the first genuine smile I had seen from her. “It’s beautiful. No place is so dear to my heart.” She glanced back toward the water, the smile fading from her lips. “So very unlike my home, this place. I’ve hated the sea, ever since … ever since I was a child.”

  “Well, it feels so good to get a moment’s peace out here,” I said, “after everything that has happened.”

  “Yes, it’s all been so dreadful.”

  “Did you know Rupert Howe well?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. He was a friend of friends; you understand. My husband and I were thrown into his company quite often, but I … we were not close.” Her eyes drifted back out toward the water. “I’m very sorry for Emmeline.”

  “How did they meet, do you know?”

  “I believe Emmeline said they met at a play in London. I don’t remember the details—some story about his rescuing her from a man who had set his sights on her. She would have done better, I think, to have avoided Rupert.” She looked suddenly rueful. “I suppose it’s not nice for me to say such things.”

  “You didn’t think much of him, then?”

  “It isn’t kind to speak against the dead,” she answered, and I recognized that the topic was closed, for the time being, in any event.

  “Have you talked to the inspector who has been wandering about?” I asked, switching subjects.

  She blinked, but her gaze remained on the sea. “Yes, he asked me a few questions about the accident.”

  “Did you tell him what you told me earlier, about Rupert saying he was to meet someone?”

  “Yes, I told him,” she said, and when her gaze met mine, I saw something unexpected: determination. Despite her meek appearance, there was an underlying strength to her that I had not seen until now. “Nelson hates terribly to get involved in things. He’d rather we just go on as if nothing happened … but I didn’t think it right not to tell the inspector.”

  “No,” I answered, “I think it was best that you did.” I understood very well what she meant. I, too, was finding it difficult to go on as normal after all that had happened.

  “He seemed to think it of little consequence.”

  I plunged ahead. “What was it that Rupert said?”

  “He told me that he had an engagement on the terrace for that afternoon. He only said it in passing. I’m sure he meant tea with Emmeline.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “At least, I feel quite sure that I took it at the time that he meant Emmeline. I think he may even have said as much. I do wish I could remember…”

  I weighed my options for just a moment. It would be
best for me to tell her the truth. I could get her honest reaction, before she had time to hide her initial response to the news.

  I leaned forward, hoping to convey a conspiratorial air. “The inspector says that he is certain that it was not an accident. In fact, he believes it was murder.”

  She turned her eyes back to me, and there was some emotion in them that I didn’t know how to read. Was it fear? “Murder? Surely not.”

  “That’s what I said, but he seems to be quite sure.”

  “It seems a stupid way to kill someone,” she said, almost absently.

  “But effective, nonetheless.” I noticed that she had not wondered who should like to kill Rupert; I wondered whom she suspected. There was one way to find out.

  “Who could have done it, do you think?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t venture to guess,” she said carefully, but there was something in her tone that made me feel a bit more prodding would result in her confidence.

  “But one always has suspicions, doesn’t one?”

  She seemed to be considering what to say next. When she spoke, it was with great hesitation. That streak of strength I had seen moments ago seemed to have faded back into wariness. “I … I had wondered if perhaps it might not have been an accident … Not a real accident, I mean … but the result of a quarrel…”

  “Yes?” I urged her on.

  She looked as if she would finally force out the words, but we were interrupted by her husband’s voice. “Larissa,” he called gruffly from the doorway.

  She started and stood hastily. “Coming, dear.”

  As he turned, she placed her hand on my arm and leaned in. Her hand was cold; I could feel it through my sleeve. Her voice was so faint, it was nearly torn away by the wind. “I don’t know who it might have been, Mrs. Ames. But I am not surprised it was murder,” she whispered. “Not surprised at all.”

  * * *

  WITH THAT INTERVIEW behind me—or postponed, if I had anything to say about it—I weighed my options. I wondered whom it would be best to speak with next. I still was not certain what part I was intending to play in all of this. My innate practicality and a sense of decorum honed by years at stern boarding schools told me to heed Gil’s advice and leave the matter to the police. However, my instincts told me that there was more trouble on the horizon and that it might be judicious to take the offensive. Besides, there could be no harm in eliciting the impressions and opinions of the other guests. If nothing else, I might learn something of interest to tell that detective inspector when next he came prowling about the premises.