Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (14 page)

“And your husband was amenable to this scheme?”

“My husband had very little to do with it.”

“Apparently, he is unaware of that fact,” Inspector Jones commented wryly.

“Milo very seldom makes informed decisions. There’s no telling why he is here.”

“Isn’t there?”

I ignored the insinuation. Milo was not inclined to jealousy. He had admitted as much last evening. The most likely explanation for his arrival at the Brightwell Hotel was that he had found our empty home dull and knew arriving unannounced would create a stir.

“In any event,” I continued, “Gil would never have hurt Rupert Howe. That is the reason I hesitated to tell you anything about the discussion I overheard. I feared it would cause you to suspect him unduly.”

“I seldom suspect people unduly, Mrs. Ames.”

I was not quite sure what to make of this statement, but the opportunity to ask dissipated as he turned the key and started the engine, easing the car down the wet road toward the Brightwell Hotel.

*   *   *

BACK AT THE
hotel, the inspector and I parted ways. I was not sure what his business at the Brightwell was, and he did not see fit to confide in me. Quite possibly, I was still holding rank on his list of suspects, though I couldn’t conceive of what my motive for killing Rupert Howe might be.

I was still not certain I had done the right thing by telling him about the conversation I had overheard between Gil and Rupert. Like any good British subject, I was brought up to tell the truth and respect the law, but I did not feel that my silence had violated either of these principles. Knowing Gil as I did, the argument seemed irrelevant. I hoped Inspector Jones would come to view it similarly.

It suddenly occurred to me that the next best course of action would be to alert Gil to what I had done. It was only fair that I should give him warning, in the event that Inspector Jones should wish to question him. I only hoped he wouldn’t be too angry with me.

I checked first at his room and got no answer. A soft tap on Emmeline’s door also went unanswered. A check of the dining room was also unsuccessful. I tried the sitting room next.

Anne Rodgers and Lionel Blake sat on the sofa.

“Oh, Mrs. Ames,” said Mrs. Rodgers as I entered, “you must come hear Lionel read these poems and sonnets. Really, he’s too talented! He does accents so well; you should hear his Robert Burns!”

“I would love to,” I said, “but first I need to locate Gil. Has anyone seen him?”

Mrs. Rodgers shook her head. “Lionel and I have been here reading since lunch.”

“How was the inquest?” Lionel Blake asked, setting the book of poems aside.

“Well…” I paused, as if hesitant to reveal the news. “I’m afraid they’ve discovered that it was murder.”

“Murder!” Anne Rodgers practically shrieked. “Oh, no. Whoever did it?”

“A very good question,” Lionel answered dryly. “What have the police to say, Mrs. Ames?”

“I don’t really know,” I replied, “except that I am sure we are all suspects.”

As I had hoped, this alarmed Anne Rodgers into effusive speech. “I don’t know why I should be a suspect,” she protested. “I barely knew Rupert. Oh, well, we were friendly enough, but not the kind of friendly where you want to murder the person. Just wait until I tell my Edward about this. I’m sure he knows a good barrister if any of us is accused. If anyone did it, I expect I could guess. Perhaps Emmeline finally got tired of his making eyes at other women. And Olive Henderson never did get over it when he chose Emmeline.” She halted then, as though aware she had said too much. “Not that I think Emmeline or Olive would kill anyone,” she added, somewhat belatedly.

“Of course not,” Lionel Blake said with a cynical smile. “None of us would kill anyone.”

*   *   *

STILL HOPING TO
find Gil, I walked past the breakfast room and saw Mrs. Hamilton sitting alone at a table near the windows. I thought it would be an ideal time to speak with her; I was so seldom able to catch her away from her husband’s prying gaze.

“The verdict of the inquest was murder,” I told her when we had exchanged greetings.

She nodded, and I could detect no hint of surprise in her expression.

“You said the other day that you were not surprised Mr. Howe’s death was a murder. Why did you say that?”

She frowned. “Did I say that?”

I suddenly had the feeling she was being purposefully evasive. I took a chance on directness. “What is it that you aren’t saying, Mrs. Hamilton?”

She didn’t meet my eyes as she spoke. Instead, she gazed out of the rain-specked windows at the sea. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. I only meant that there were so many people who might have had cause to … to quarrel with Rupert.”

“Yes, you mentioned a quarrel. Do you mean someone specifically?”

She looked at me then, and I saw again that flash of determination in her gaze, as though she had come to the private conclusion to move forward. “I only know I heard some rather nasty rumors about … well, women. And then I saw them, Rupert and Olive—I mean, together—talking on the beach as they followed Emmeline, who had gone up to change. They all walked past me on the terrace. I was reading, and I don’t think they noticed me, you see. I might have thought nothing of their chatting together, but I’m fairly certain I heard Olive say that she wanted to meet Rupert later, that she wanted to talk to him about something.”

This was certainly news. Had Rupert and Olive been carrying on their affair, then?

“What did Rupert say?”

“He said he would see if he could get away … but he seemed somewhat reluctant. I don’t think he much cared for her anymore. When he mentioned a meeting later, I … well, I thought he just meant tea with Emmeline.”

It was a flimsy excuse for having concealed the truth, but I suspected Mrs. Hamilton was desperate not to cause any trouble. And this information had the potential to do just that. Could it have been Olive that quarreled with Rupert on the terrace that day? Or had it been someone else?

“Who else was on the terrace when this conversation occurred, Mrs. Hamilton?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a moment before replying. “Mr. Trent had come out and was talking with Emmeline. I thought I saw them turn around and look at Olive and Rupert, but the sea is very loud, you know. They may have been too far away to overhear them.”

Somehow, I didn’t think so. The sea was not as loud as Mrs. Hamilton made it out to be.

“Why didn’t you say something before? Did you tell this to the inspector?”

She shook her head. “I was sure it was nothing. I may have misheard, and I didn’t want there to be any difficulty. Oh, dear. What a mess all of this is.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Hamilton,” I said, almost wishing that she hadn’t.

“I didn’t know if I should,” she said with a shaky smile. “But I feel better now that I have.”

I felt much worse, myself. This bit of information was certainly not in Gil’s favor. If he had overheard Rupert planning an assignation with Olive, it would certainly have increased his dislike for Rupert. Inwardly, I sighed. Rather than clearing up, things seemed to be getting murkier.

*   *   *

UNABLE TO LOCATE
Gil anywhere in the hotel, I returned to my room. The rain showed no sign of letting up. Indeed, it seemed to have increased in fervency since my arrival back at the hotel. There was something slightly claustrophobic about the atmosphere. The rain pounding against the windows, leaving us, for all intents and purposes, caged in with a murderer.

Wearily, I lay on the bed, hoping to nap before dinner. My thoughts, however, would give me no such reprieve. Over and over, the events that had occurred since my arrival played in my head. Who would have reason to kill Rupert?

Gil as good as threatened him,
my traitorous mind reminded me. For the first time, I fleetingly allowed for the possibility. Might Gil have done it? Though I had denied a threat to the inspector, Gil’s words to Rupert that night below my window had held a warning. It just wasn’t possible. Was it? No. No, I could not believe that Gil would resort to murder, no matter how desperate the circumstances.

It must be someone else. My mind played over the other members of our party, but I could think of no conceivable motive for anyone to have killed him. Mr. Hamilton seemed the type that would kill someone who crossed him, but a negative opinion of his character did not a motive for murder make.

Anne Rodgers had reminded me that Olive was involved with Rupert before he met Emmeline, and she had said that Olive wanted to meet with him on the day he died. Perhaps he had spurned her advances once again. Was she hurt enough to kill him? It was possible, I supposed. But there had been real sorrow in her eyes; I was sure of it. I didn’t believe she could have killed him.

Then who could have done it? It was all such a muddle.

Without provocation, my thoughts turned to Milo. What, I wondered, were his intentions now that he was here? I had not seen him yet today, and I could only imagine what he was up to. His arrival had only complicated matters, and it seemed apparent that he was intent on making a nuisance of himself for the foreseeable future, a role I suspected he would enjoy.

I sighed. More weary than when I had lain down, I rose to bathe and dress for dinner.

12

MR. HAMILTON WAS
the first to greet me as I took my seat for dinner. “Mrs. Ames, what’s all this business about Rupert being murdered?” he thundered at me. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or merely put out that he had not been given advance notice of this information.

“That was the verdict of the inquest,” I replied as calmly as I could.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Rodgers said, before forking a large bite of quail into his mouth. “Rupert fell. It was all negligence on the hotel’s part.” I wondered if he was being purposely obtuse or if he really regarded everything in terms of inane legal ramblings.

“The police are quite sure.”

Mr. Rodgers didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t like this,” Mr. Hamilton blustered. “I don’t like it at all.”

Larissa Hamilton was very pale as she watched her husband. When she looked up to see my eyes on her, she offered a small smile before quickly looking away.

Olive Henderson had not come down to dinner, so I assumed she was feeling poorly. I wondered if she might possibly be troubled by a guilty conscience.

I glanced around the dining room. Gil was not here either. The slightest trickle of fear began to seep down my spine. I hoped he was all right.

Milo sank into the seat beside me. “Looking for someone, darling?”

“Have you seen Gil?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“What do you think about this murder business?” Hamilton inquired of him.

“All very unfortunate,” Milo replied as he placed his napkin in his lap. I hadn’t seen Milo since my return from the inquest, and I wondered who had told him about the official verdict. Of course, I assumed the whole hotel would be talking about it soon enough. Since coming to dinner, I had already noticed the curious glances of people at nearby tables.

“But supposing it is true. Who could have done it?” Rodgers interjected. “I see no reason why anyone would kill Rupert.”

Hamilton snickered. “Only the husbands of half the women in London.”

“Nelson,” Larissa Hamilton whispered. “Please.”

I wondered if Nelson Hamilton was privy to the information his wife had shared with me today.

He ignored her. “Something of a ladies’ man, old Rupert was. He was fond of Emmeline, but we’ve been acquainted for years and it was always very apparent that he enjoyed the company of the women.”

“I think you may be misjudging him,” I said. I, of course, suspected that this was indeed the case, but I thought that presenting myself as sympathetic would perhaps be useful to my cause. More flies with honey, so the saying went. I was not entirely sure that this applied to murderers, but it didn’t seem that it could do any harm.

“He was always very pleasant,” put in Anne Rodgers. “And he seemed to me to be a true gentleman.”

“You’re a woman, Anne,” Mr. Hamilton said, with what seemed to be more than a touch of familiarity in his tone. “Of course you’d be charmed by him. Women don’t see through that sort of charm. They’re all susceptible to it. Aren’t they, Ames?”

Milo looked up from his plate, an impeccably guileless look on his face. “I’m afraid I’m not really in a position to know.”

“You’re much too modest.” This comment came from Veronica Carter. She had sauntered into the room in a lovely gown of scarlet silk.

“Of all my attributes, my modesty is the one of which I am most proud,” Milo replied.

She gave a tinkling laugh. “How clever you are.”

I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes, but only just.

“We were just discussing this business of Rupert’s murder,” Mr. Rodgers said. “Have you any theories on that matter?”

“So it is murder, is it?” she asked, sinking in a sort of sensuous melt into the chair the waiter had pulled out for her. She seemed to have been in doubt of the truth of my statement until now. “I’m very much surprised that any of us would have the stomach for such a thing.”

“Doesn’t take much stomach to shove someone off a ledge.” This bit of wisdom came from Mr. Hamilton. He was proving to be more insufferable than usual this evening.

“One of us?” Anne Rodgers said. “Surely none of us would have killed Rupert.”

“Theoretically,” said Mr. Rodgers, “such a thing would be hard to prove. Despite what the police say, how can they possibly know for certain that Rupert was pushed? An accident still seems to be the most plausible solution by far.”

“There’s truth in that,” said Mr. Hamilton, looking at me almost defiantly. I had the feeling that he held me personally responsible for the fact that Rupert’s death had been declared a murder.

“Yes, but he was hit on the head before he fell.” A brief silence greeted my announcement.

“Hit on the head with what?” Mr. Hamilton demanded.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”