Death Wears a Mask (29 page)

He had looked at me intently, his eyes moving over my face as though he had never quite seen me before. “You're so beautiful,” he said, and there was something in his voice that was different from his normal murmured endearments. “I adore you, Amory.”

He had leaned to kiss me then, and the love that surged through me had been almost dizzying. Looking back, I didn't know if I had ever been happier than I was in that moment.

Even now, our marriage crumbling beneath us, I felt the ghostly flutter of that euphoric moment in my stomach. Milo, as always, had known just what to say, what I would feel at the mention of that night. I think that was what I both loved and hated most about him, how easily he could make me forget all the things I needed to remember and remember what I wanted to forget.

“You're just as lovely tonight as you were then,” he said. “Lovelier.” If possible, he pulled me more tightly against him. “It's impossible for me to hold you like this without remembering.”

My heart had begun to beat madly, and I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths. I didn't trust myself to answer. I knew I was dangerously close to losing myself in his hypnotic seduction.

“Come upstairs,” he said in a low voice in my ear. “Spend the night with me, Amory.”

I closed my eyes. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to relent, to forget everything except how much I loved him. But some part of me knew that if I did, nothing would change.

And I couldn't do it. I could not let things go on as they had always done.

I stepped back suddenly, cool air rushing in to take the place of his warmth against me. “I can't, Milo,” I said, and my voice sounded strained.

“Why not?” He still held my hand in his, his thumb caressing my palm.

“Do you want the truth?”

“Of course.”

I looked down at my hand in his, and then I gently pulled it away. “For things to work between us, I need you to behave as my husband, to show that you care, not only when it's convenient or you're in danger of losing me. I love you desperately, Milo,” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes, threatening to spill over. “But I'm not sure I can trust you. And sometimes love just isn't enough.”

 

26

I AWOKE WITH
a heavy feeling in my chest, the sort of thing that befitted the brokenhearted heroines of the radio dramas my life was rapidly beginning to resemble, but there was nothing to be done about that at the moment. I had made myself very clear to Milo. It was up to him to make up his mind.

After a breakfast of toast and coffee, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. Lord Dunmore's ball was tomorrow, and I needed to start putting things in order. My romantic difficulties could wait until afterward.

I had just finished dressing in a light wool suit of pale blue over an ivory crêpe de chine blouse with a flounced collar when I heard the telephone ring. I refused to hope that it was Milo calling. Since I was not expecting it, I was not disappointed when Winnelda came to say that Inspector Jones was on the line. I was rather glad to hear it, in fact. Now that I had come up with a plan for catching the killer, I had only to convince the inspector that it was a worthwhile endeavor.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ames,” he said, as I picked up the telephone. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Inspector. I was hoping to hear from you, in fact. I've something I'd like to talk to you about.”

“How fortunate. I was wondering if you would like to have tea with me this afternoon. Do you know Lyon's Corner House in Piccadilly?”

“Certainly,” I said readily, very glad he hadn't suggested tea at the Ritz.

“Very good. I'll see you at four.” He rang off without further ado. He certainly hadn't been talkative, but that was not particularly unusual.

I wondered why he had decided not to come by the flat this time, but I certainly was not going to quibble over the meeting place.

I set the telephone back on the receiver and tried to think of how best to spend my morning. I wasn't entirely sure that Inspector Jones would be receptive to my plan, but I intended to convince him.

*   *   *

THE SECOND TELEPHONE
call of the day came shortly after lunch. Once again, it was not Milo.

“Mrs. Ames, you'll never believe it,” said Mrs. Barrington without preamble as soon as I had picked up the telephone. “I've found my Eiffel Tower pin! It was in the trinket box on the mantelpiece!”

This was a very unexpected development. “I don't understand, Mrs. Barrington,” I said, when I had recovered from my surprise. “It just appeared there?”

“Yes. I've been through the house again and again, and the servants have searched behind me. It wasn't there when last I looked. I'm certain of it.”

“When did you discover it?”

“Just now. I was looking for matches and happened to open the box, and there it was, as blatant as you please. I'm not imagining things, Mrs. Ames. It wasn't here before.”

I believed her. Mrs. Barrington was not a silly woman. I was certain she had made a thorough and comprehensive search. That could mean only one thing. Someone must have placed it back in the box.

“When did you last make a search?” I asked, hoping that, if she could pinpoint the time, it would help us determine who might have had access to the box.

“I've tried to remember that. I think it was the night before the dinner party. I wanted to make one final search before I came to you with my problem.”

So she had not looked in the box since that evening at her house. That meant that anyone at the dinner party that night might have slipped it inside when no one was looking. I tried to recall seeing anyone near the fireplace, but I hadn't been paying much attention.

“But why should someone have put it back?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she answered with a sigh. “I've been trying to figure out who might have done it, but it just doesn't make any sense.”

The door buzzer rang, and Winnelda went to answer it.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Barrington,” I said. “There's someone here. Shall I call you back?”

“No, no, that's all right,” she said. “I just thought you should know. If I think of anything else, I'll ring you again.”

I set the phone down, frowning. Why would someone have stolen something only to put it back? Surely they didn't think the crime would have gone undetected.

“A package has come for you, madam,” said Winnelda, coming away from the door with a brown parcel in her hand.

I took the package and opened the attached card. It read:

I suspected you wouldn't come to collect it, so I've sent it along. I look forward to seeing you wear it.

—A

It couldn't be.

I removed a flat, midnight-blue case from the package and opened it. Winnelda and I both stared.

Nestled on a bed of black velvet was an enormous oval diamond in a platinum setting, suspended from a chain of diamonds that glittered wildly as if they had been waiting to be exposed to light.

The Dunmore Diamond.

*   *   *

IT HAD ALREADY
been quite an eventful day by the time I left the flat to meet Inspector Jones for our tea appointment. I had put the Dunmore Diamond in the safe, though I still felt a bit uneasy leaving it unattended. I wished that Lord Dunmore hadn't sent it to me in that casual way. The thing was priceless, and he had sent it over wrapped in brown parchment paper.

Markham drove me to Piccadilly, and I went inside Lyon's Corner House. It was busy this time of day, the large crowds at the white-clothed tables being served by nippies in their black dresses with starched white collars, caps, and aprons.

The room was large, and most of the tables were full, but I spotted Inspector Jones sitting at one of the tables near the long steel food counter, reading a newspaper. I made my way over to him, weaving among the tables.

“Hello, Inspector Jones,” I said. He had risen to his feet, but I waved him back into his chair. “I'm sorry I've kept you waiting.”

“No need to apologize, Mrs. Ames. I appreciate your taking the time to meet me.”

Though he was a difficult man to read at times, I had come to be able to detect a certain something in his posture that indicated when he was about to reveal something. There was something he was going tell me, or, more likely, he was up to something.

It seemed my latter supposition was the correct one, for a moment later I heard a familiar voice. “Well, isn't this a charming reunion.”

I turned to see Milo making his way to our table. I looked back at Inspector Jones, who met my gaze with a pleasant expression. I suddenly understood why he had chosen this neutral meeting place. No doubt he had been keeping tabs on my unraveling marriage and knew I would be unlikely to meet with him if I knew Milo would be in attendance. I felt I should be a bit angry with him for not telling me my husband would be at tea. Until I heard what he had to say, however, I would grudgingly overlook his underhanded tactics.

I glanced at Milo, but he was not looking at me.

“Inspector Jones. How nice to see you again,” he said, by way of greeting. It was polite of him to say so, considering Inspector Jones had suspected that Milo might be guilty of murder when last they had met.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Ames. How have you been?”

Milo took the seat beside me, his attention still focused on the inspector. “I'm excellent, thank you. I trust the London air is agreeing with you?”

“It's been an adjustment from the seaside,” Inspector Jones responded. “I have been enjoying it immensely, however. We've adapted quite readily to life here.”

“We? Are you married?” I asked. It had suddenly occurred to me that I knew very little about Inspector Jones. It was silly of me to think so, of course, but it seemed strange somehow that he should have a life outside of his role as a policeman.

“I am. Mrs. Jones is delighted with London.”

“And have you any children?”

“Yes, two daughters.”

He answered the questions willingly enough, but did not elaborate. I supposed that it was against his nature to give more information than he received.

The nippy came to our table, and we placed our orders.

“I hear Lord Dunmore is going ahead with his ball tomorrow night,” Inspector Jones said, when she had gone.

“Yes,” I replied warily. Now that I had my own plans for the ball, I hoped Inspector Jones didn't mean to tell me that the police planned to prohibit another event at Dunmore House. It would spoil everything. “Is there any reason that he shouldn't?”

“Aside from the sake of propriety?” he replied dryly.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I think it's rather in poor taste, but you'll admit that societal approval has never been chief among Lord Dunmore's concerns.” I didn't dare look at Milo as I said it.

“No. Indeed it hasn't,” Inspector Jones agreed.

“If he wants to have another ball, I don't really see what harm it could do.” I could hear myself protesting too strenuously, but I couldn't seem to make myself be quiet.

It seemed that Inspector Jones's rather searching gaze settled on my face for a moment longer than made me comfortable. With the inspector, I always had the feeling that his mild eyes were boring into my brain and reading all the thoughts I most wanted to keep from him. While this was, no doubt, an excellent skill for a policeman to have, it always put me a bit out when I was the one from whom unspoken confessions were being pried.

“Are you planning to attend?”

“It's going to be one of the biggest events of the season,” I said, dodging the question he was really asking.

“And you, Mr. Ames?” he asked, turning to Milo.

Milo was, as ever, unimpressed with Inspector Jones's interrogations. “I expect Amory will drag me along with her,” he answered blandly. “I have no patience for balls, but one must do as one's wife requests.”

“I have often found that to be the case,” Inspector Jones agreed pleasantly before turning his gaze back to me. “And I expect you have some sort of plan to catch the killer?”

My eyes flickered to Milo, and I saw the barest hint of sardonic amusement cross his features. I looked back to the inspector and affected my best innocent expression. “Why, Inspector Jones, I don't know what you mean.”

He was not fooled. Apparently, despite my moderate success with Mr. Gibbs, I was not cut out for the stage. “Why don't you tell me what it is that you're planning? You'll agree that things will go better if we work together.”

I had intended to tell him anyway, knowing it would be beneficial in many ways to operate under the canopy of police sanction. Nevertheless, I felt a bit annoyed that he should have predicted my intentions so correctly. No doubt he had suspected I was plotting something, and that was the reason he had asked me here.

“Very well,” I conceded. “It will make things easier if we have a policeman at hand.”

“I'm so glad you think so.” There was definite sarcasm in his tone, but I chose to ignore it.

“I've been thinking that the best way to catch the killer is to lure them with another piece of jewelry,” I said.

“Do you think that it will be as easy as that?” There was no derision in his tone, for which I was grateful.

“I don't know,” I confessed. “But it seems worth a try. And Lord Dunmore has agreed to provide a piece worth stealing: the Dunmore Diamond.”

Inspector Jones's brows rose. “I am unfamiliar with that particular piece, but it sounds most impressive.”

“It's been in the Dunmore family for generations, I believe.”

The nippy came then with our tea things: a pot of steaming black tea, and a tiered platter of little sandwiches, crumpets, tea cakes, and shortbread biscuits. Though I had very little appetite, I took a biscuit and nibbled at it halfheartedly.