Death Wears a Mask (4 page)

“I had a dinner party a fortnight past,” Mrs. Barrington was saying, “and, as it was our wedding anniversary, I wore it. But it seemed the clasp was loose, so I removed the pin and placed it in that little ivory trinket box on the mantel.” She nodded toward the fireplace. “I meant to collect it later and have it sent to be repaired. However, after I had bid all my guests good evening, I went to retrieve it and found that it was gone.”

As much as I had harbored hopes to the contrary, the circumstances certainly were suspicious. This business was becoming more intriguing than I had initially believed.

“Of course, I was frantic,” she went on. “The thing is very valuable, of course, but it has far more sentimental worth to me than anything else. I searched the room, then the house, hoping I had misplaced it somehow, but I knew perfectly well that I hadn't. I put it in the ivory trinket box, and at the end of the evening it simply wasn't there.”

“But the servants…”

“There had been no servants in the room all evening, save for Fenton, whom I trust implicitly. And even if I thought him capable of such a thing, I'm quite sure he was nowhere near the mantel all evening.”

“Then who…”

“Don't you see?” she asked with a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes making a quick sweep of the room. “It must have been one of my guests. My dear, who else could it be?”

My impulse was to dismiss the entire thing at once as some kind of misunderstanding, but my instincts told me differently. I thought for a moment, digesting all of what she had just told me. She was quite right, of course; it didn't seem it could be anything but deliberate theft. Nevertheless, it seemed absurd that anyone wealthy enough to be included in the Barringtons' circle should be forced to stoop to pilfering from their host. Certainly none of the guests here tonight seemed capable of such a thing. I seemed to recall that Lord Dunmore, for example, was in possession of the Dunmore Diamond, a jewel of some renown. I thought it unlikely he would have use for Mrs. Barrington's Eiffel Tower brooch.

“Did you ask any of them about it?”

“Certainly not,” she said, obviously horrified at the suggestion. “I didn't like to make a scene. You know how poorly people react if they think they are being accused of anything.”

I did indeed. If she thought accusing someone of theft was bad, she had never been forced to confront a murderer. That had proved to be an extremely disagreeable experience.

“Who was there that evening?” I asked.

“The same group that is here tonight.”

And then I understood. The sudden invitation, the insistence that I accept, had all been a part of the ploy. The truth of it was that I had been invited to dinner under false pretenses. It was perfectly obvious that Mrs. Barrington had lured me here under the guise of a simple dinner party in order for me to ferret out a thief in our midst. I didn't think it was at all a nice thing to do, yet I couldn't keep myself from asking a pertinent question. “Was that the same group that was there each of the three times that something went missing?”

“Yes, I believe so. I've been over it in my mind, and I think it was the very same group each time. Well, all except Mr. Barrington. He was called away on some business the night my brooch disappeared. He was so upset, poor dear, when I told him my lovely anniversary gift was missing.”

“I find it difficult to believe that any of your guests would do such a thing,” I said carefully.

“But it seems one of them must have, doesn't it?” she asked pointedly. “I don't like to accuse anyone, naturally, but facts are facts.”

“Perhaps.” I didn't quite know what to think. It was all so fantastic.

“Well?” She looked at me expectantly.

“Well, what, Mrs. Barrington?”

“Are you going to help me?”

“As intriguing as this is, I'm still not sure how I can be of help to you.”

She looked disappointed, as though her expectations had not been met. “You haven't any ideas as to how we may catch the culprit?”

“I'm afraid not.” I hesitated to venture my misgivings as to the guilt of one of the present company. I thought it much more likely that one of the servants had escaped her notice that evening, though, admittedly, Mrs. Barrington did not seem to miss much.

“Well, we shall think on it,” she said. “I will come up with something. But you will help me, won't you? I don't expect you to catch the thief red-handed and wrestle him to the ground or any such thing.”

Well, thank heavens for that.

“Another dinner party would do, I suppose, though it may be a while before everyone is free again. There are so many parties and such that are … Oh, I have it!” she cried so suddenly that I nearly flinched. “Lord Dunmore's masquerade ball tomorrow night! He's invited you to it. Mr. Barrington and I are attending as well. Everyone here tonight will be there. It's the perfect opportunity to lay a trap.”

“Mrs. Barrington…” I felt I should try to dissuade her, though I had the impression that feat might be comparable to stopping a runaway train at this point.

“I'm going to wear some jewels to the ball, put them in the path of the suspects, and see if someone will steal them.”

“I don't think…”

“It's the perfect plan,” she interrupted. “Where I'll need your help is keeping an eye on each of the suspects, helping me direct them, so to speak. And of course you'll serve as a witness when we catch the thief.”

“What exactly do you intend to do if you succeed in your plan?” I asked, hoping to draw her back to the more realistic side of things. I wondered if perhaps she had not quite thought the thing through, but I should have known better.

“It's perfectly simple,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “When confronted, the guilty party will quite naturally be so embarrassed and eager to keep it all a secret that he will return all of my things. That's all I want: the return of my beloved brooch. Will you help me?”

I hesitated. This entire thing was madness, and I knew perfectly well I should distance myself from any involvement in her schemes. And yet … What could it hurt, really? If there was nothing to it, no one would be the wiser. If she was right, perhaps I could lessen the damage if something socially catastrophic were to occur.

“I suppose I will, Mrs. Barrington,” I conceded.

“Splendid! I just knew you would! Let me tell you what I have in mind.” She outlined a plan in which she would leave a bracelet in a spot where each of the “suspects” would be sure to know about it. Then it was only a matter of waiting for the culprit to take it. My part in the scheme would be to draw attention to her bracelet at some point in the evening so that the thief would know where to find it, and then I could take part in what Mrs. Barrington called “the negotiations.” That is, convincing the villain to return her purloined baubles.

The plan was simple enough, but I was not at all convinced it was going to succeed. For one thing, I still had my doubts that any of the guests tonight were involved in the disappearance of Mrs. Barrington's jewelry. For another, the entire strategy reminded me of a very poorly written mystery play I had once attended in the West End.

“I feel so relieved that you've agreed to help me, Mrs. Ames,” she said, grasping my hand warmly in hers. “I'm sure we shall straighten this business out in no time, and you'll be glad you agreed to assist me.”

I highly doubted it. Against my better judgment, I had agreed to help Serena Barrington catch a thief, and I could only imagine what sort of trouble would come of it.

*   *   *

LOST IN VARIOUS
disconcerting thoughts, I was silent as we walked from the Barringtons' home. Milo's hand rested lightly on the small of my back as he escorted me to our waiting automobile, and I wondered if he could detect the tension in me.

As Markham, our driver, pulled away from the curb, Milo sank back against the seat and began pulling loose his necktie. “Well, that was just as dull as I imagined it would be.”

“Really?” I replied, looking out the window at the darkened streets. “I thought it was a rather interesting evening.” It had certainly been more than I had bargained for. My mind was still spinning.

“What did you make of the viscount?” he asked. “Were you dazzled?”

“He's invited us to his masquerade tomorrow night.”

“Ah, so it's you who've dazzled him. I might have known. He certainly seemed to be enjoying your company.”

I said nothing, and after a moment the silence seemed to grow heavy.

I could feel him looking at me in the darkness.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked at last.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Yes, you are. You're thinking of what that idiot James Harker said.”

I glanced at him. “It was of no consequence.” My tone said otherwise, and Milo knew it.

“As I said at dinner, I barely know Helene Renault.”

“I'd rather not discuss it now, Milo.” I glanced pointedly up at Markham, who could hear every word we said.

Milo took the hint, but rather than letting the subject drop as I had wished, he slid closer to me on the seat, his arm slipping around me, and leaned to whisper in my ear. “It's simply another of those nasty rumors.”

I didn't trust myself to reply.

“Look at me, darling.”

I turned to look at him, not taking into account how close he sat. My mouth nearly brushed his as I looked into his eyes, so very blue even in the darkness of the car.

“There's nothing to it. Truly.”

I knew that I wanted very much to believe him. Perhaps I could. I had doubted him before, and it had very nearly been disastrous.

I sighed. “Very well.”

He smiled and lowered his mouth to mine.

“Milo,” I whispered, pulling back after a moment. “Not now.”

Milo shot an impatient glance at our driver before turning his attention back to me. “I am sure Markham is aware there are occasions when a man would like to kiss his wife.”

If he wasn't, I'm afraid he was well aware of it by the time we reached home.

 

4

I HAD NOT
found the time by morning to tell Milo of my strange conversation with Mrs. Barrington. Very likely he would have brushed it aside as the far-fetched imaginings of a bored society doyenne. And perhaps I was the least bit afraid he would attempt to dissuade me from getting involved in an affair that was, admittedly, none of my concern. That did not prevent me from deciding to attend the ball, however. Milo, though not especially enthusiastic, had agreed to accompany me.

The day was a whirl as I made preparations. Though I was the first to admit I had a very serviceable wardrobe, I could find nothing that I thought suitable to wear to a masquerade thrown by the Viscount Dunmore. Though my modiste had promised to try to find something appropriate, I had not yet heard from her by the time I began to ready myself for the ball, and I had determined that I would have to choose a gown from among my own things.

Winnelda, my maid, stood behind me, watching my preparations in the mirror, her head tilted slightly to one side. She was a petite, pretty young woman, and her reflection reminded me of a woodland pixie standing over my shoulder.

“Your hair looks lovely.” She leaned to examine it. “Just like a cinema star.”

“Thank you.” I had had it freshly waved that morning, though I somehow doubted the effect was as glamorous as she seemed to think.

“I've always longed for dark hair like yours,” she continued wistfully. “But both of my parents were pale as winter whey, so I suppose it wasn't to be. And I don't suppose I'd look quite right if I dyed it … not that I'd do such a thing.”

“Your hair is quite pretty as it is, Winnelda.” It was true. Her natural shade was a startling shade of platinum that would have made Jean Harlow envious.

“Thank you, madam.”

I reached for my perfume bottle, and she rushed to hand it to me, fairly pushing my hand away in the process. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.”

“And which gown have you chosen? Will you wear the blue silk?”

“The black satin, I think.” I nodded toward the dress draped across my bed. Though not extravagant, it was a striking dress and would not be out of place at Lord Dunmore's ball.

Winnelda didn't care for black, it seemed. I was certain I saw her grimace in the mirror, but I ignored it. It was best, I had learned, to pay no attention to her frequent opinionated responses.

She was not, strictly speaking, a lady's maid. In fact, she had been hired by Milo, in my absence, to look after the flat. Before her arrival, we had made a point not to have domestic staff at the flat. A woman had come in to cook and clean, and we had enjoyed the absence of domestics observing our every move.

Since our return to London from the country, however, Winnelda had inserted herself into my daily routine in a manner that was all-encompassing, if not completely effectual. I had found that her enthusiasm was undiminished by any of my tactful attempts at discouraging her, and she had assumed the roles of parlor maid, cook, and housekeeper with undisguised zeal. I hadn't had the heart to advertise for another lady's maid, mine having left my service two months before to be married, and so here Winnelda was, making a likable and well-meaning nuisance of herself in every imaginable capacity.

I picked up the dress and moved behind the black lacquer changing screen. Milo entered just then, and Winnelda slipped from the room. She was, it had become plain, somewhat overawed by Milo and made rather obvious attempts to stay out of his way.

“Darling?” There was something in the way he said it that roused instant suspicion. He had been on the telephone in the hallway, and I knew instantly that no good had come of it.

“Behind the screen,” I answered.