Death Wears a Mask (15 page)

*   *   *

THE FLAT WAS
quiet when I returned home that evening after some shopping and a light dinner. It was Winnelda's night off, and I realized suddenly that I had become unaccustomed to silence. She was growing on me.

I changed into a blue silk nightdress with a sheer ivory negligee thrown over it then went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I intended to pass a quiet evening reading before the fire. I needed a distraction from my marriage and the murder, if only for an hour or two.

I set out a cup and saucer on the countertop and took the tea tin down from the shelf. As I opened the tin, the lid slipped from my grasp, fell to the floor, and rolled across the room and behind the dustbin. I leaned to retrieve it, and something caught my eye.

There was a gossip magazine shoved in the dustbin, its cover half obscured by some crumpled parchment paper. I frowned. It was unlike Winnelda to throw her scandal sheets away. After all, it was her accumulated collection that had proved so useful to us this afternoon. Why might she have wanted to dispose of it? I could only suppose it was the article about Milo and that Renault woman. It was sweet of her to want to shield me.

I picked up the magazine and thumbed through it, curious. I suspected a picture had been taken of the two of them when they arrived together at Lord Dunmore's ball, and I wanted to get a better look at her than the one I had had from the top of the stairs. I couldn't help but be a bit curious about my husband's rumored inamorata, after all.

I turned the page and stopped cold. I could literally feel the blood draining from my face before it rushed through it again in a fierce wave of heat.

The photograph had not been taken at Lord Dunmore's house. The magazine was new, dated the day Milo had left for Frederick Garmond's estate.

It was indeed a picture of Milo and Helene Renault, but I was quite unable to get a good look at her face as I had intended, for it was obscured by his.

Her arms were thrown around his neck, and they were kissing.

*   *   *

I'M NOT ENTIRELY
sure how long I stood there staring at it. The photograph had been captured while they were in the backseat of an automobile. It was difficult to make anything out, really, except for the fact that they were clearly enjoying one another's company. Her fur-draped arms were around his shoulders, and she was leaning into his embrace, her mouth pressed against his.

After a moment, I had to concede that Winnelda had had the right idea. I crumpled it up and put it back in the dustbin. I noticed as I did so that my hands were shaking, whether from shock or the intense fury I was attempting to contain, I didn't know.

I drew in a deep breath and forced myself to remain calm. It was by no means the first time this had happened. There had been other women in other photographs, but I could not escape the fact that none had been as blatant as this. There was no way to explain a kiss away.

I fought down an immense wave of sadness. There would be time enough to deal with this when Milo returned home. Until then, I would push it away to some far corner of my mind and not think about it. It was a skill I had mastered over the years.

With supreme effort, I calmly finished making my tea and took it to the parlor.

My eyes fell on the photograph on the mantel of Milo and I on our wedding day. I looked so very young, so radiantly happy. Milo looked as elegant as always, but he looked happy, too. Looking at the photograph, I would have sworn that we were very much in love.

I sighed. Our wedding day seemed so very long ago. I had truly believed then that we would be happy together for all the days of our lives. Did I still believe it? I just wasn't sure anymore. I fought the urge to pick up our wedding photograph and hurl it across the room. Instead, I sat and drank my tea.

 

14

I SLEPT VERY
poorly, but I was determined to put on a good show for Winnelda. It didn't seem to have worked, however, for she took one look at me and cheerfully suggested a bit of rouge to “improve my color.”

My makeup duly applied and a cheerful dress of rose-colored crepe selected, I set out to determine my first order of business for the day. I certainly didn't intend to sit at home moping as though my world had come to an end. I was hurt and deeply angry, but giving rein to either of those emotions was not going to be useful at present. There was still a mystery to be solved, and I needed to see what other information I could glean.

I had spoken with Mrs. Douglas-Hughes and, though quite unsatisfactorily, with her husband. It would be more difficult for me to arrange a meeting with the other suspects. Typically, crossing paths with the women would be easier to accomplish, though in this case I could think of no good means of doing so. The Echols sisters I didn't know at all well. I had not been acquainted with them before Mrs. Barrington's dinner party, and I could think of no excuse for contacting them now. I could think of even less of a reason to contact Mrs. Garmond.

As for the gentlemen, I had very little means of putting myself in their paths in an inconspicuous way. This served as yet another reason for me to be angry with Milo. Were he not traipsing about the country making a spectacle of himself with his mistress, he might have proved himself useful.

What I needed was another source. Someone who was disconnected from the murder itself but might still have information that would be useful.

I thought suddenly of Yvonne Roland. I dismissed the idea at once, but I couldn't seem to shake it completely. An extremely wealthy widow, she charged through polite society with terrible speed, gathering up information like a squirrel gathering nuts. Though I had never ascertained the particulars, she had some type of connection with the gossip columns, and I wondered if there might possibly be anything that she could tell me. I hadn't the slightest doubt that she had been following the story in the papers.

I pondered the hazards of contacting her. With my own situation being what it was, I suspected it would be difficult to keep her from prying into my personal affairs. Then again, she would probably know things about the guests of Lord Dunmore's ball that would be nearly impossible for me to find out myself.

I decided to take the risk. After all, I knew her game and would go in prepared to beat her at it.

*   *   *

AT FOUR O'CLOCK,
I was ushered into Mrs. Roland's parlor. She had been delighted to hear from me and had insisted I come to tea that very afternoon. She lived in a large but comfortable house she had bought for herself after the death of her most recent husband. She went through husbands at a somewhat alarming rate, but it had never been known to dampen her considerable zeal for society life.

A harried-looking maid had shown me to the parlor and disappeared as soon as she had announced me. I had expected shelves of bric-a-brac, an abundance of aspidistra, and at least three cats. I was correct in two of three surmises. The parlor was decorated very much in the Victorian style, with dark flowered wallpaper, heavy golden drapes, lush plants in porcelain pots, and a great deal of ornate furniture crowding the room.

There were no cats, however. Instead, I found the lady holding court for the two Pomeranians and a fat Pekingese lying before her on silk cushions on the rug. The trio of animals began yipping at me in harmony as I entered.

“Hush,” she said, and the dogs were immediately silenced. I was rather impressed with their obedience. Then again, I did not find it surprising that the forceful Mrs. Roland should have the same effect on animals as she did on people.

“Mrs. Ames,” she said, rising to meet me, extending a hand that fairly glittered with assorted rings of all descriptions. “I'm delighted that you've come to see me. It's been much too long! After the events at the Brightwell, you know, I have been thinking how we simply must have tea. In fact, I had just thought this very morning that I should phone you. I've been wanting to see you, my dear. I feel that we have so much to discuss!”

I felt a vague sensation of unease, as though I had been drawn into the spider's web unawares.

“And then you rang me up, and now here you are! It must be fate! I'm delighted.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Roland,” I said, as I took the seat she indicated, an impressive piece with a heavy wooden frame and garish embroidered upholstery.

Mrs. Roland herself was no less impressive. She was as much known in society for her ostentatious ensembles as she was for being a notorious quidnunc, and today was no exception. Her henna-red hair was swept into an intricate coiffure that served to highlight a gold-beaded headpiece Cleopatra might have envied. If ancient Egypt had inspired her headdress, she must have taken her wardrobe cues from the Greeks, for she was dressed in a long, elaborately draped gown of puce, the folds of which brushed one of the dogs as she swept past and set it to barking again.

“Ferdinand, be quiet,” she commanded as she settled herself back into her chair. “You must excuse my little ones, Mrs. Ames. They're very excitable. Have you any dogs?”

“We've some hounds at Thornecrest. Hunters, not house dogs.”

“Sugar or milk?” she asked, leaning over the silver tea service on the table.

“Two sugars, please.”

The beads of her many bracelets clanked against the pot as she poured.

“Are you fond of dogs?” she asked, handing me my cup.

“Yes, I suppose I am. We had a mastiff when I was a child. He was called Archibald, and we were the greatest of friends.”

“You should get a sweet little dog, Mrs. Ames. I find them to be a great comfort.” She said this with a significant look, and I knew that we had already come to the topic I had been hoping to avoid. I felt again the sensation that she had invited me here to question me and not the other way around. “I'm sure, with your husband away as often as he is, you find yourself quite lonely sometimes.”

It was not a very subtle hint, but I felt disinclined to elaborate on the situation. It was not that I wanted to shield Milo, but neither did I want our personal difficulties to be any more on display than they already were. “Perhaps a puppy would be nice one day.”

“Of course, dear. But you needn't put on a brave face with me. We're old friends, aren't we? After all, I'm no stranger to philandering husbands. My first husband was a handsome devil, just like Mr. Ames, though perhaps not
quite
as handsome. He broke my heart more times than I can remember, and many's the time I thought I couldn't take it another moment, but love's not a thing you can turn on and off with a switch, is it? I loved him until that unfortunate accident carried him off.”

I was beginning to think that I had overestimated my abilities and that coming here was a very bad idea indeed.

“I know young people don't like to talk about their problems,” she said sweetly, misinterpreting my bewildered silence for embarrassment, “but if you need a sympathetic ear, you have only to ask. And I'm the soul of discretion, my dear.”

“Thank you,” I said politely in the face of this tremendous untruth. “I know there have been quite a lot of things printed about my husband lately, but you know how the papers exaggerate things.”

“Helene Renault is a beautiful woman, naturally, but she's lacking something. She hasn't got your elegance, for one thing. Of course, men don't take much note of such things. It seems that all it takes is the whiff of French perfume and a few garbled syllables to draw them like bees to honey.” She shook her head. “It's a pity. But I shouldn't worry much, Mrs. Ames. In the end, I should be very much surprised if she holds his interest for long. After all, your husband is quite mad about you. That much was quite plain to me at the Brightwell. And your other young man, Gil Trent. What has become of him since that wretched hotel business?”

She was referring to my former fiancé, who had also been involved in the events at the Brightwell Hotel. “I had a letter from him a few weeks back,” I told her. “He's quite well.”

“Splendid! You wouldn't have suited in the long run, I don't suppose, but one must hope he will find happiness with someone else.”

“Do you know Mrs. Vivian Garmond?” I asked abruptly, as it had become apparent there was no possible means of politely shifting the conversation in sight.

“Poor Mrs. Garmond,” Mrs. Roland tut-tutted, diverted from her monologue on my marriage. “Now, that Lord Dunmore is a different matter. He is a scoundrel. He's handsome enough, I suppose, but I don't see why it is that women go weak at the knees over him. Vivian Garmond should have known better. She's a clever girl from a good family, but I suppose even clever girls can lose their heads.”

“You know her then?”

“I knew the family. Overton is their name. She went abroad a few years ago … Turkey or Greece or some such place … and came back a widow with an infant son.” She placed definite skeptical emphasis on the word “widow.”

“Coincidentally,” she continued, “Lord Dunmore had been abroad at about the same time and came back shortly after she did. They immediately took up with one another, so it's commonly assumed he got her in trouble and refused to marry her. Everyone realizes what's going on, of course, but she maintains the pretense that her husband was killed and people go on pretending to believe it. However, I, of my own knowledge, have never been able to ascertain exactly when and where her husband seems to have died. After all, that's the sort of thing one remembers. I remember all my poor husbands' deaths.”

I blinked and managed a sympathetic smile. “Yes, Mrs. Roland, I'm sure you do. Surely there must be some record of a Mr. Garmond dying?”

She shrugged. “I suppose one could find out, if one really cared to. I'm not much acquainted with the Garmonds myself. After all, if they've welcomed her into the family, who am I to discourage them? Of course, I don't know why they care to claim her, the way she runs after Dunmore, despite the parade of women going through his bed.”