Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (12 page)

“I only meant it as a compliment,” she said innocently, but I detected a note of triumph in the fact that she had finally roused him from his reading.

“It’s all right,” I smiled. I turned my attention to Mr. Rodgers, hoping to shift the conversation in a more meaningful direction. “Anything interesting in
The Times
?”

“The usual things, I suppose. Talk of that American flyer, Amelia Earhart, the rising unemployment rates, and an abundance of politics and death. I had thought we’d escaped the last of those things, at least, coming down here. It seems I was wrong.”

“Yes,” I said. “Poor Mr. Howe. Were you very close to him?” It was by no means the smoothest transition of topic, but they did not seem to notice.

“I wouldn’t say so,” he answered flatly.

“We’ve really come to accompany Nelson and Larissa,” Mrs. Rodgers said. “We’ve known the Hamiltons for several years now, since just after they were married.”

“So you’ve not been long acquainted with the Trents or Mr. Howe?”

“No, though we knew them casually, of course. Gil is a dear, and Emmeline is such a sweet thing. She seems a fairly quiet girl, but she was so … so very vibrant with Rupert.” She hesitated before pressing on. “Rupert was very charming and handsome, and I suppose she couldn’t help but fall in love with him. You can imagine how it was.”

“Yes.” I could imagine it very well.

“Rupert always seemed very pleasant,” she continued. “I had nothing to say against him.”

She said it as though I expected she would have.

“I’m very sorry for Emmeline,” I said.

Mrs. Rodgers hesitated ever so slightly. “Yes. I imagine she’s heartbroken.”

“She’s very young,” I said, picking up Mr. Blake’s line for the sake of moving the conversation along. “I expect, eventually, she will find love again, and it will help all of this fade. Love has a strange way of making one forget the past.”

Mr. Rodgers looked up at me then, his gaze suddenly shrewd. “I think you’re quite right about that, Mrs. Ames.”

The movement was so subtle, I almost didn’t notice it. Mrs. Rodgers’s hand slid from her lap and brushed her husband’s leg, ever so slightly. If it was a cue, he took it at once. He lifted his paper back up and began reading it.

“I’m sure we all wish Emmeline well,” Mrs. Rodgers said with a bright smile, and I sensed that it was the end of the conversation.

“Well, I suppose I had better go up and prepare for dinner,” I said, not wanting to outstay my welcome. “I shall see you both then?”

“Certainly. It’s been lovely chatting with you, Mrs. Ames.”

I left them and crossed the lobby toward the lift, wondering what that exchange had been about. There had been something behind Mr. Rodgers’s comment, but whatever it had been, his wife had not wanted him to elaborate. Curious. It seemed that every way I turned people were concealing things.

I entered the lift, and, as the doors closed, I cherished the moment of peaceful silence. Truth be told, I did not feel at all like dressing and spending the evening with these insipid people. I could hold up under the strain as well as anyone, I supposed, but the murder had shaken me more than I cared to admit.

I had always prided myself on my independence, but at that moment what I longed for was someone with whom I could talk and share my troubles. It was in moments like these that I felt the hollowness of my marriage the keenest. In those whirlwind days of my courtship, I had failed to take into account the fact that storms of life called for stronger stuff than the easy flow of smooth endearments and witty banter.

As was my habit with morose contemplation, I pushed the thoughts away for another time. I turned my thoughts from what I lacked to what I had, for I was not friendless by any means. A letter to my cousin Laurel, my closest friend and confidant, was long overdue, but at the moment I lacked the stamina that the task required.

The lift opened, and I stepped out onto the landing just as Veronica Carter approached. We exchanged cool pleasantries. I have never ceased to be amazed at the intuitive dislike that can arise with little or no provocation between two women. Perhaps I am of biased opinion, but there was something distinctly unpleasant about Miss Carter. It seemed to me that she carried about with her an icy disdain that radiated from her jaded gaze and smug little mouth. Aside from these unfortunate traits, she was admittedly very pretty.

I expect that in the time I was summing her up, she was doing the same to me. I had obviously impressed her even less than she had me. “You look all done in, Mrs. Ames,” she commented with false sympathy. “I expect finding Rupert as you did gave you quite a turn.”

“It was terribly shocking,” I said.

“It’s too bad, really, for his company was very enjoyable. I’m afraid I shall miss him.”

“You were close?”

“Not as close as I should have liked,” she said, and I wondered if she meant it the way it sounded. “I knew him before he met Emmeline and found him charming, but we were never much in one another’s company.”

“Oh,” I said casually, “then you’ve known him longer than Emmeline?”

She sighed, as though my question was immensely trying, but answered it anyway. “No, Emmeline and I were at school together, Olive too. That’s why we decided to come down here when we heard that the Trents and Rupert were coming.”

“I see. I was curious how everyone knew one another.”

She livened a bit at the chance to gossip, though she spoke with the same general lack of enthusiasm that I had come to expect from her. “I suppose the Trents had some business dealings with the Hamiltons and Mr. Hamilton attached himself to them. Rather a social climber, I’d say. I don’t have anything to do with them. I think he’s too horrid for words.”

So we did have something in common, after all.

“I believe Mr. Rodgers is some friend of Mr. Hamilton’s, so he tagged along as well.”

That fit with what Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers had told me.

“And we picked Lionel up someplace quite some months ago,” she went on. “He’s become quite a pet. We invited him along when we knew we were all coming down. It sounded like rather a lark, our holiday. Of course, we couldn’t have known all this”—she waved her hand in a sweeping and disdainful gesture—“would take place.”

“It’s been especially hard on Emmeline,” I said.

“Yes. I went to look in on her earlier, but Gil has her practically under lock and key.”

“I believe the doctor has given her a sedative.”

I was certain that it was apathy I saw lurking in her china-blue eyes. “Oh? Well, perhaps it will do her good. Though things are so dull around here, I feel as though I’d had one. I’ve barely needed my sleeping tablets these past few days.” Then her eyes glinted with amusement. “At least until your charming husband arrived. I had forgotten how excessively amusing he is.”

“Yes, he’s a darling, isn’t he?”

Her smile faded as I once again failed to be baited. “In any event,” she went on, “Rupert’s death has ruined the entire week. I wish I had never come.”

How very careless of him to spoil your fun, I was tempted to say.

“I don’t know what he might have been doing before he fell. No doubt he slipped and went over,” she replied, absently examining her bloodred fingernails.

I decided to try my little experiment of surprise enlightenment once more. “Oh, didn’t you hear?” I asked casually. “The inspector says it was murder.”

She looked up at me, and, for the briefest of instants, I was sure I saw something other than that perpetual boredom in her expression. Was it surprise … or had it been fear? Then the cool mask slipped back into place.

It was nearly the same reaction I had received from Mrs. Hamilton on the terrace, a flash of alarm that they both had quickly concealed. Could it be that both of these women knew something about which they were hesitant to speak?

“Murder? I don’t see how it could have been. Who would want to murder Rupert?”

“I imagine Detective Inspector Jones would give a great deal to know just that.”

“Well, this has all been fascinating,” she said lightly, touching her glossy red hair, “but I’m afraid I must go to my room and dress for dinner.”

“Of course.”

She left me then and entered the lift. I had reached the door to my own room before I began to wonder what she had been doing on this floor if her room was elsewhere.

10

DINNER PASSED MUCH
as usual, despite the addition of Milo to our party. He sat at my table, playing the dutiful husband, but we had very little to say to one another. Veronica Carter seated herself across from him and engaged him in conversation whenever possible. No doubt he was amusing her excessively. Gil did not come down to dinner, and I found myself worrying over him as well as Emmeline.

Mr. Hamilton seemed to be doing his best to amuse me. “You look smashing tonight, Mrs. Ames,” he said, his eyes moving over me in a disconcerting way. My bias-cut gown of ivory satin was not at all revealing, but I felt rather as though he were looking straight through it.

“Thank you,” I answered with all the politeness I could muster.

“I’ve half a mind to steal you away from that husband of yours,” he said in a false whisper. Larissa Hamilton looked about as amused as I felt.

“I hope Mr. Ames isn’t the jealous type,” he went on, in what seemed to be a progressively louder voice. He seemed to enjoy calling attention to himself.

“Not at all,” Milo said, as he cut into his fillet. He looked up at Mr. Hamilton and smiled. “I married Amory for her money. And she married me for mine.”

Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily. “From what I’ve heard, neither of you were disappointed! That’s the way to go about it.” He indicated his wife beside him with his fork. “Larissa here married me for my money, but she’d never admit it.”

“Nelson!” she whispered as her face flushed bright red. “I didn’t…”

“Of course, she was a looker then,” he went on, oblivious to, or more likely uncaring of, his wife’s distress. “Well worth the price.”

I felt my jaw tighten at his completely inappropriate remarks, and poor Larissa Hamilton seemed on the verge of tears.

“What line of work are you in, Mr. Hamilton?” Milo asked, smoothly diverting the conversation. It was good of him to do so. I knew perfectly well that he had about as much interest in Nelson Hamilton’s line of work as I had in Veronica Carter’s dental history.

“Well, I’m a self-made man,” he began. Pleased to ramble on about himself, he let drop the subject of his marriage, and Larissa Hamilton’s flush gradually faded into her usual pallor.

Everyone was relieved, I think, by the change in topic. Mrs. Rodgers had been trying without much success to conceal a disapproving frown throughout the conversation, and she turned then to Mrs. Hamilton and began speaking animatedly. I still could not quite tell what the relationship between the two women was. Though Mrs. Rodgers said they had known each other for many years, their interactions thus far had not seemed to be those of very close friends. Nevertheless, they seemed at ease in one another’s company. I found myself hoping that Mrs. Hamilton might have a true friend in Mrs. Rodgers; she could certainly benefit from one.

“Perhaps you’d like to come up to my room for a drink after dinner, Larissa,” Anne Rodgers said. She reached out and squeezed her husband’s arm. “Edward has some tedious legal briefs to read, and I’m feeling like company tonight. I’ve some new magazines we might read.”

“I should like that,” Mrs. Hamilton replied, and I noted with approval that she did not first ask her husband. “That is, if Mr. Rodgers doesn’t mind.”

“Edward doesn’t mind. Do you, darling?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Rodgers said, and I noticed that his normally dry tone was friendlier than usual. It seemed as though he were acting on his wife’s unspoken instructions to be kind to Mrs. Hamilton. “We should both be glad of your company. Anne gets cross with me when I ignore her, and I find it difficult to concentrate when she prattles on at me.”

Anne Rodgers laughed, and Mrs. Hamilton smiled, that spark of warmth coming back into her eyes. The mood at the table seemed to have lightened considerably, despite the fact that Mr. Hamilton was still going on to Milo about some very astute business decisions on his part, his voice growing louder to drown out our conversation.

I was glad when the meal was over so I could escape to the hotel sitting room. It was unoccupied, as I had hoped it would be. Most of the guests, I had noticed, stayed in the dining room dancing long after dinner had ended.

The soft, cool colors of the room in the warm glow of the lamplight were soothing after the brightness and noise of dinner. I moved to the writing desk that sat against one wall. I pulled open the top drawer and found a neat stack of crisp ivory paper bearing the hotel’s name, along with a pile of envelopes.

I sat at the desk chair and pulled out a sheet of paper. I had been meaning to write my cousin Laurel, and now was as good a time as any. I could confide in her, and perhaps the organization of my thoughts on paper would be beneficial to me as well.

I was feeling overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the past few days. I had accepted Gil’s invitation to the Brightwell somewhat rashly and with little forethought, and now it was time to acknowledge that I may have gotten in over my head. It had never been my nature to give in easily, however. Perhaps that was why I had endured my obviously failing marriage for as long as I had …

Who had murdered Rupert Howe? The question repeated itself over and over in my mind. I had learned little so far, except that the murdered man had not been very highly regarded by his friends and acquaintances. The carefully neutral answers of nearly everyone with whom I had discussed Rupert had spoken loudly. No one had liked him, not really.

It seemed only poor Emmeline had been blind to his faults. I felt very sorry for her. No matter what I or anyone else had thought of Rupert, she had loved him, and now he was gone. Despite Lionel Blake’s prognosis, it was going to take her time to recover from this tragedy.

My thoughts shifted to Gil. He knew more than he was saying, of that I was sure. But what? I suspected he would be horrified to learn that it had been his adamancy that I not ask questions that had provoked my determination to do just that.