Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (11 page)

“No,” I answered, “I think it was best that you did.” I understood very well what she meant. I, too, was finding it difficult to go on as normal after all that had happened.

“He seemed to think it of little consequence.”

I plunged ahead. “What was it that Rupert said?”

“He told me that he had an engagement on the terrace for that afternoon. He only said it in passing. I’m sure he meant tea with Emmeline.”

“Perhaps.”

“At least, I feel quite sure that I took it at the time that he meant Emmeline. I think he may even have said as much. I do wish I could remember…”

I weighed my options for just a moment. It would be best for me to tell her the truth. I could get her honest reaction, before she had time to hide her initial response to the news.

I leaned forward, hoping to convey a conspiratorial air. “The inspector says that he is certain that it was not an accident. In fact, he believes it was murder.”

She turned her eyes back to me, and there was some emotion in them that I didn’t know how to read. Was it fear? “Murder? Surely not.”

“That’s what I said, but he seems to be quite sure.”

“It seems a stupid way to kill someone,” she said, almost absently.

“But effective, nonetheless.” I noticed that she had not wondered who should like to kill Rupert; I wondered whom she suspected. There was one way to find out.

“Who could have done it, do you think?” I asked.

“I couldn’t venture to guess,” she said carefully, but there was something in her tone that made me feel a bit more prodding would result in her confidence.

“But one always has suspicions, doesn’t one?”

She seemed to be considering what to say next. When she spoke, it was with great hesitation. That streak of strength I had seen moments ago seemed to have faded back into wariness. “I … I had wondered if perhaps it might not have been an accident … Not a real accident, I mean … but the result of a quarrel…”

“Yes?” I urged her on.

She looked as if she would finally force out the words, but we were interrupted by her husband’s voice. “Larissa,” he called gruffly from the doorway.

She started and stood hastily. “Coming, dear.”

As he turned, she placed her hand on my arm and leaned in. Her hand was cold; I could feel it through my sleeve. Her voice was so faint, it was nearly torn away by the wind. “I don’t know who it might have been, Mrs. Ames. But I am not surprised it was murder,” she whispered. “Not surprised at all.”

*   *   *

WITH THAT INTERVIEW
behind me—or postponed, if I had anything to say about it—I weighed my options. I wondered whom it would be best to speak with next. I still was not certain what part I was intending to play in all of this. My innate practicality and a sense of decorum honed by years at stern boarding schools told me to heed Gil’s advice and leave the matter to the police. However, my instincts told me that there was more trouble on the horizon and that it might be judicious to take the offensive. Besides, there could be no harm in eliciting the impressions and opinions of the other guests. If nothing else, I might learn something of interest to tell that detective inspector when next he came prowling about the premises.

Lionel Blake spared me the trouble of deciding whom to speak with next, as he was the first person I encountered upon reentering the hotel.

“I’m going to the village, Mrs. Ames,” he said, after we had exchanged pleasantries. “Is there anything I can pick up for you?”

I didn’t hesitate, knowing this was the perfect opportunity to put my investigative inclinations to work. “Might I come with you?”

He smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted to have your company.”

“I’ll just run up and get my handbag.”

I made my way to my room and gathered up a handbag and a light jacket. There were clouds gathering in the distance, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see rain before the day’s end.

I was a bit afraid of encountering any members of the press as we left the hotel grounds, but it seemed the reporters had been dissuaded by the police and the lack of any further dramatic developments. We were undisturbed as we made our way to the hotel car.

As we found ourselves driving slowly down the hill toward the village, I took a moment to observe Lionel Blake. He had the quality—rare, I thought, for an actor—of being as good-looking close-up as he was from a distance. His was an easy sort of handsomeness, self-assured but lacking arrogance. In fact, he seemed to distinctly lack the sort of bluster and bravado I had come to associate with gentlemen of the theatrical profession. I realized, of course, that my assumptions were based on clichés, but I had known a fair share of actors, and many of them demonstrated decidedly stereotypical qualities.

“It’s nice to get away from the hotel for a bit,” I said at last, breaking into the comfortable silence. “Especially with this dreadful business of Rupert’s death.” It was not exactly a subtle approach, but I felt it was entirely within context.

“Yes,” he answered. “Poor Rupert. It was rather a shock to all of us, I think, to have something like that happen.”

“You were very good friends, weren’t you?” I asked. “It must be very hard for you.”

“We were friends, yes,” he answered. “Though I wouldn’t say that we were close. Rupert was a hard man to get to know.”

“How so?”

He hesitated. “I think the best way to describe it is that one could never be certain if he liked one or not. There was always the front of friendliness, but it could have been genuine or an act.” He smiled, a bit sadly I thought. “I don’t mean to speak against the dead.”

It was surprising how often people prefaced their disparaging comments about Rupert Howe with those words.

“You haven’t,” I answered. “I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. It’s strange how when something like this happens, it makes you want to understand about the person, to get to know him … now that it is too late.”

“Morbid curiosity, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose. I feel so sorry for Emmeline. She’s terribly upset.”

“I hope she will recover shortly. She is young; love will come for her again.”

It was a practical statement and probably true, but I was a bit surprised by the cool way in which he dismissed her love for Rupert.

“Some would say that one loves only once,” I said mildly.

He looked at me, and I sensed skepticism in his gaze. “Some people love many times,” he said, and I knew precisely what he was driving at.

“You mean Rupert? There were women, I understand,” I said carefully.

He shrugged noncommittally. “One hears things.”

I had heard, of course, about Olive Henderson and suspected it was common knowledge. Had there been others? He seemed disinclined to elaborate, and I could think of no conceivable way to ask such an indecorous question, so I shifted my focus.

“You were on the veranda when Emmeline and I came looking for Rupert, and you said you hadn’t seen him. How long had you been sitting there?”

He looked at me then, with his strange green eyes. “You are beginning to sound like that police inspector.”

I laughed. “Oh, dear.”

He smiled, but said nothing further.

The car stopped at the edge of the village, and Lionel got out and opened my door. “What time shall we drive back?” he asked me.

That fact that he had failed to answer my question was not lost on me. While he gave every appearance of amiability, I thought it odd that he should neglect to reply to the most innocent of inquiries. There was something evasive in his manner that roused my suspicions.

“I will be ready whenever you are,” I answered. “I really have no special reason for coming to the village. I just wanted to get away from the hotel for a while.”

“Would you care to accompany me, then?” he asked.

“I would love to.” I followed him around the car to the road. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a little theater up this way,” he said, and pointed at a street that ran off from the main thoroughfare. “Someone mentioned that it might be the ideal place to put on a small production.”

We started walking toward the side street he had indicated. The village was rather large, owing much of its success to the holiday trade. We passed a few of the more traditional enterprises: butcher, post office, apothecary, as well as businesses that appealed to seaside visitors. There were several people milling about, and the village had an air of busy leisure.

“What sort of production are you planning?” I asked.

“My friend, the backer, was considering taking our play on tour. He thought a seaside venue might be just right, and I told him I would look into it. I heard from a chap at the hotel that the local theater building might be just the thing.”

We had crossed the main street and had begun to wander up the street that he had indicated. We walked at a comfortable pace. It was a pleasant day, despite the clouds gathering in the distance, with a breeze off the sea. There were few people about on this road, and the noise from the village faded as we followed the path winding its way toward an edifice a good distance from the town.

We stopped as it came into view. The building, far from impressive, looked as if it had been a factory. In fact, it looked as though it was one still. It was large, square, and unappealing and had a few windows, darkened with wooden shutters. The grass surrounding it seemed long overdue for a trimming.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. Rather awkwardly situated, isn’t it? This fellow told me that it was some sort of factory during the war. A local philanthropist took it upon himself to have it renovated as a favor to the village. Doesn’t look as though they much appreciated it.”

Lionel Blake walked to the door and rattled the handle. “Locked.”

“Surely there’s a caretaker about somewhere.” I looked around for a nearby cottage or building, but there was nothing nearer than the village proper.

“Yes, I suppose.” He stepped back from the door, still surveying the building. “I shall have to find out the proper channel of enquiry.”

“If we ask at the village, I’m sure they will tell us.”

“Well, it seems there is no need for us to linger.” He walked back toward me and indicated the path. “Shall we?”

We began our return to the village, and I thought it was not my imagination that Lionel Blake seemed preoccupied.

“Do you think you will recommend it to your backer?” I asked nonchalantly.

“It depends, I suppose, on a number of things,” he replied absently.

“It’s not a very good location. I don’t see that it would be a terribly good investment.”

He stopped walking abruptly and turned to face me. “To be honest, he’s in something of a bad way financially. He was counting on a good venue … quite desperately in need of it, in fact. It was his way of thinking that a cheap but well-placed venue might get him out of the mess he’s in. Of course, I would prefer it if you not mention this to anyone.”

“Of course.”

We continued back to the village and reached the car just as a light rain began to fall.

“I was afraid it might rain,” I said as Lionel slid into the car and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Yes, I’m afraid we may be in for a spell of bad weather,” he remarked, looking out of the window. “I hope it clears up quickly. I don’t relish the idea of being stuck inside that hotel for days with only the Hamiltons and the Rodgerses for company.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “That does present a rather unappealing prospect.”

*   *   *

BACK AT THE
hotel, I wanted nothing more than to return to my room for a few moments of peace before dinner.

I was somewhat put out that my afternoon of inquiries had yielded so very little. Charming companion though Lionel Blake may be, there had been very little in his conversation that could have any bearing upon Rupert Howe’s murder. Surely someone must know something. At least dinner would be another chance to insert casual questions into the conversation.

I walked into the hotel and spotted Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers sitting together in the lobby. He was reading
The Times
and she was thumbing through an issue of
Vogue
. Despite the time we had spent together, I still could not help being struck by the contrast between them. They seemed such an unlikely pair, but I sensed solidarity in their relationship, as though they were really very devoted to one another. Perhaps opposites really do attract.

I had gleaned so little from Mr. Blake. I wondered if perhaps Mr. or Mrs. Rodgers might have a bit more information to offer. I walked to where they sat. “Good afternoon,” I said.

They both looked up, and he began to rise from his seat. “Don’t get up, please,” I said quickly. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. I only came by to say hello.”

“Looks like rain,” Mr. Rodgers said, by way of polite conversation, before picking up his newspaper again. Mrs. Rodgers seemed a bit more inclined to chat.

“You’ve just come back?” she asked, and I could tell she was curious where I might have been. Though they had been well mannered enough to conceal it for the most part, I knew my somewhat unorthodox relationship with Gil and Milo was the cause for much speculation among the members of our party.

“Yes. I took a ride with Mr. Blake to the village, just to get out for a bit.”

“Lionel’s such a dear. And so handsome, isn’t he?” she said. I noticed her husband did not look particularly concerned by her comment. In fact, his attention did not shift from his newspaper.

“Yes. He’s very nice,” I said.

“So many handsome men are here this weekend,” she went on. I sensed that this latest comment was for her husband’s benefit. Her way of teasing him, perhaps. I suddenly had the impression that, though Mrs. Rodgers enjoyed calling attention to her appearance for the benefit of assorted handsome gentlemen, she was very much in love with her husband.

“I … hadn’t really thought about it,” I answered.

She laughed. “I suppose you’re accustomed to looking at that husband of yours, but he’s a feast for the eyes for the rest of us.”

“Really, Anne,” Mr. Rodgers said, folding his paper and looking sternly at his wife. “I think that’s not at all a polite thing to say.”