Death Wears a Mask (11 page)

“That's ever so strange,” she said when I had concluded. She had settled back in the chair by this point and was frowning as she contemplated my tale. “It doesn't seem quite like a gentleman would do away with himself at another gentleman's ball, does it, madam?”

This was, in essence, the same thing I had thought myself.

“It was quite a shock,” I said vaguely.

“And just think, you were just down the corridor from the scene of a tragic death,” she went on, something disturbingly like envy in her tone.

“If I had been able to walk, I might have been able to be of more use,” I said, refusing to acknowledge, even to myself, that my aid might have been more akin to snooping.

“I'm ever so sorry you fell down the stairs,” she said. “It must have been frightfully embarrassing.”

“Thank you, Winnelda. Yes, it was very unpleasant all around, though mercifully there weren't many people to witness it.”

I thought suddenly of the four young people who had been seated on the stairs. I wondered if any of them had heard the shot that had killed James Harker. If so, one of them might have seen something of use. I wonder if that inspector had spoken to them. I thought back to the humorless expression of Inspector Harris and surmised that he was not an overly imaginative sort of person. Perhaps, if I were to …

“That reminds me, madam,” Winnelda said, drawing me from my traitorous thoughts. “One of your shoes seems to be missing. I was putting your things away before tea and forgot to mention it.”

“I believe Mr. Ames put it in the pocket of his dinner jacket.”

“I'll just fetch it so that I can put them together in the closet. Things will be tidier that way, and then you can finish telling me all about it.”

She disappeared out of the room before I could say that I had told her all there was to tell. She was back a moment later with the offending shoe in her hand. “I found it in Mr. Ames's pocket, just as you said. How was it that you fell, madam?”

“I don't know what happened. My foot just slipped out from under me.”

“I suppose he'd had the floors waxed for the ball.” She flipped the shoe over, examining it. “Was something broken, madam?”

“No, just a sprain.”

“Begging your pardon, I meant something glass?”

“I don't think so. Why do you ask?”

“There seems to be a piece of colored glass lodged on the bottom of your shoe. Perhaps that was what made you slip.”

She picked at something lodged between the sole and the heel.

I frowned. “A piece of … may I see it?”

She dropped it in my hand. I opened my palm and looked down at what appeared to be a sapphire glinting softly in the warm, flickering light of the fireplace.

 

10

I KNEW THE
prudent thing would be to telephone the police at once. This was undoubtedly a valuable piece of evidence and should be brought to their attention. However, I needed time to think. I wasn't ready to surrender my tiny piece of the puzzle just yet.

I held the sapphire up, letting the light play through the facets. I was no gemologist, but this looked very like the paste sapphires from Mrs. Barrington's missing bracelet. I had slipped on it while on the stairs. How exactly had it come to be there? It had been there before the murder, which meant that the jewels had been removed from the bracelet before James Harker had been killed. Had he removed the stones for some reason? Or had someone else done it? I could think of no reason why anyone would have wanted to remove the stones from the setting in the first place. It was all exceedingly bizarre.

The buzzer rang, and my thoughts were drawn to the present when, a moment later, Winnelda came into the room. “There's a Mr. Jones here to see you, madam,” she announced formally.

“Mr. Jones?” I repeated searchingly, dropping the sapphire into my pocket. “I don't…”

The gentleman in question stepped into the doorway beside her.

“Detective Inspector Jones,” I said, rising from my chair, my surprise evident in my voice.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ames.”

For a moment, I was quite unsure what to make of this most unexpected guest. The inspector had been in charge of investigating the murder I had become so unfortunately entangled in at the Brightwell Hotel. When I had left the seaside, I had rather thought I would not be renewing our acquaintance anytime soon. Then again, perhaps he had come to London on business and had dropped by to wish me a friendly hello.

Somehow, in the light of all that had happened, that seemed unlikely.

I suddenly remembered my manners. “Come in, won't you?”

He came into the room, pulling off his hat, his dark eyes moving about in his customary observant fashion. He was what one might call nondescript in appearance, with dark hair tinged with gray and pleasant features, but there was something arresting about him that made one take notice. I motioned to the chair across from me, but he didn't sit until I did.

“Would you care for some tea?” I asked.

“That won't be necessary, Mrs. Ames.” His replies, while perfectly polite, did not hide the fact that there was something formal in his manner. It brought to mind unpleasant memories of when I had known him in his official capacity. Truth be told, though we had eventually cultivated a somewhat cordial working relationship, he had been rather stern with me on more than one occasion about interfering in official police business.

It occurred to me that the timing of his arrival, one night after I had been at the scene of another unexpected death, might not be entirely coincidental.

“What brings you to London, Inspector?” I asked.

“I understand you were at the scene of another murder last night.”

One could never accuse Detective Inspector Jones of being anything less than direct.

It was one word in particular, however, that caught my attention. “A murder,” I repeated, feigning surprise. “They said it was suicide.”

He looked at me as though he knew perfectly well that I was being disingenuous. “That is what we've told the press.”

I frowned as he included himself in the actions of the police. “‘We'? Are you … I'm sorry, but I thought you belonged to the East Sussex police.”

“I've transferred to Scotland Yard,” he said. “As of last month.”

“I see.” He offered no further explanation, and I was not entirely sure whether I should be pleased or alarmed at this news. Inspector Jones and I had parted on friendly terms, but I rather suspected he would begin his customary frowning at my having been found at the scene of another murder—not that I could help it. It certainly wasn't my fault people went about getting themselves killed wherever I happened to be.

“I was given to understand…” I began. “That is, Inspector Harris…”

“Was good enough to turn the case over to me,” he interrupted smoothly. “He is not with the Criminal Investigation Department, you see. When it became known that it was a murder, it was transferred to the CID.”

“I see,” I said again, though I was not entirely sure I did see. Inspector Jones was an extremely competent policeman and would, I was sure, prove an asset to the Metropolitan Police. None of this, however, explained his visit. Why exactly had he come to me?

“When I heard that you were at hand when the murder happened, I was particularly interested.”

“It is rather an unfortunate coincidence,” I admitted warily.

“Or a fortunate one, depending on how you look at it.”

I waited. If there was one thing I knew about Inspector Jones, it was that he was not going to reveal anything until he was ready to do so. It was a particularly maddening trait of his.

“When I saw your name among the list of guests, I asked specifically to be assigned to this case. You may be surprised to hear it, Mrs. Ames, but I've actually come to ask for your help.”

My brows rose. “Indeed? You're right, Inspector. I'm quite surprised.”

“We have not released the fact that it was a murder to the general public as of yet, but it is only a matter of time before the truth becomes known. The inquest will be in a few days. Once the verdict is decided, there will be no keeping it quiet. In fact, rumors are already beginning to spread. Inspector Harris, in a moment of investigative zealousness after he realized the jewels were part of a missing bracelet, decided to have everyone on the floor at the time of the murder searched for the presence of the rest of the jewels.”

“That must have been after we left,” I said. I thought of the jewel in my shoe, but decided to wait to reveal it until I knew more of why he had come.

“It raised no small alarm, I'm sure I need not tell you. Nearly everyone there at the time now suspects foul play, and I haven't the slightest doubt that news will spread like wildfire.”

“And what is it that you would like me to do?” I asked. I was still a bit wary, as though I was treading on thin ice above unknown waters.

He looked at me steadily. “To begin with, I would like to know what you know.”

“What makes you think I know anything?”

A hint of a smile flickered across his mouth. “You're much too modest, Mrs. Ames. My sources tell me that you were wading into a mystery before the murder took place.”

So that was it. He might have said so to begin with.

“You've spoken with Mr. Harker's aunt, Mrs. Barrington, I assume?”

“Yes, I spoke to her shortly before I came to see you. Mrs. Barrington had a good deal to say on the subject. From the first, she has insisted that it was murder. She also tells me that she had enlisted your aid to catch a jewel thief, and she thinks that the two incidents are connected.”

“Perhaps I should start at the beginning,” I said.

“That is usually best.”

I told him of Mrs. Barrington's request at her dinner party and the subsequent events at the ball, including Mrs. Barrington's plan to catch the thief.

“She wanted to lay a trap at Lord Dunmore's ball,” he mused. He hesitated a moment and then asked, “Was that your idea, Mrs. Ames?”

“Certainly not!” I replied, incensed. “I thought the entire thing very ill advised.”

He looked at me with what might be described as skepticism.

“She fell asleep in the library,” I told him. “There wasn't much time between my leaving her and the murder, so someone had a short window of opportunity to take the bracelet.”

“And, presumably, to murder Mr. Harker.”

Unless Mr. Harker had taken the bracelet and then, for some reason, decided to end his life a short time later.

“You are certain, I suppose, that it couldn't have been suicide?” I asked.

“I'm afraid there's no question of that. Mr. Harker was killed with a single bullet wound to the head at very close range. From the … state of things, it was not immediately apparent, but upon further examination, the medical examiner is quite sure.” I winced a bit at his careful avoidance of the unpleasant details, but he continued in his usual professional manner. “The angle at which the bullet entered his head is not consistent with a self-inflicted wound. In fact, it seems as though he may have been surprised and shot from behind before he could turn completely around to face his assailant.”

Someone had killed him while his back was turned. “Then it was a very deliberate murder,” I said.

“Yes. I'm afraid there can be no doubt.”

My mind spun at these implications. “And how is it that I can help?”

He leaned forward a bit in his seat, his steady eyes resting on mine. “I know I have had issue with your, shall we say,
methods
in the past. I think, however, that in this situation, your social expertise will prove ideal. I don't want you to do anything foolish, of course. But if you should happen to be in touch with any of these people and should learn anything of interest, you will contact me?”

I paused a moment to let this sink in. I could scarcely credit that Inspector Jones was willingly asking for my involvement in the matter. Well, if he thought I could be of use, that was good enough for me. I had intended to involve myself, in any event.

“I'll be happy to do whatever I can, Inspector Jones.”

He smiled. “I thought you might say that, Mrs. Ames.”

“What happened to the gun?” I asked suddenly. “It was still in the room, I suppose, if it was originally thought to be a suicide.”

“Yes. I'm not certain the killer intended it look like suicide, but the gun was left at the scene.”

“If the killer wanted to make Mr. Harker's death look like suicide, it would account for the gemstones in his pocket. Perhaps they were put there to reinforce the idea of Mr. Harker's guilt.”

“I'm not convinced. If the killer intended to make it look like suicide, he did a rather careless job of it. In any event, we're still attempting to determine to whom the gun belonged.”

“Perhaps it belonged to Lord Dunmore,” I suggested.

“He says no.”

I wondered if Lord Dunmore would have admitted it, if the gun was indeed his. I had known my share of titled gentlemen, and it seemed that all of them had a great deal of assorted weaponry lying about their homes. That was certainly something to be considered.

“I understand there were jewels discovered in Mr. Harker's pocket.” I charged ahead. I wanted to glean as much information as possible while the inspector was inclined to share.

“Yes. Four small gemstones. Three more were found on the floor near the body. Mrs. Barrington believes they came from her bracelet, but we have yet to find the setting or the rest of the stones.”

“If he took it from his aunt, he must have done it shortly before he was killed,” I said. “It's strange that he should have taken them since he was aware that the sapphires were paste.”

“Yes, Mrs. Barrington tells me that Mr. Harker was aware of her plan to catch the thief. If that is the case, I am at a loss as to why the gems should have been found in his pocket.”