Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (16 page)

This was another piece of news that caught me completely off guard.

“By whom?” I demanded.

“That is something I would rather not disclose at this time.”

“This is outrageous!” I said.

“I understand how you might think so,” Inspector Jones answered in that irritatingly calm way of his. “But I am inclined to see it somewhat differently.”

“You can’t possibly…”

“Never mind, Amory,” Gil said, gently interrupting my protest. “We’ll sort it out. I’m ready, Inspector. We may as well go.”

“I don’t believe you did it for a moment, Gil,” I said, clutching his arm. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to clear this matter up. Don’t worry.”

He smiled. “I know you will, Amory. It will all be all right.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Mrs. Ames,” said the inspector. “I realize my intrusion may have been inopportune.”

“I shall be taking this matter up with your superiors, Inspector,” I said.

The man actually smiled at me, an amused little smile that I found to be highly annoying. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Ames, but you must do what you feel is necessary.” He nodded slightly in Milo’s direction. “Good evening, Mr. Ames.”

“Inspector,” he returned. He sounded almost bored, as if this whole thing had been a scene in a play that he didn’t find particularly interesting.

Inspector Jones and Gil reached the door, and Gil offered me one last feeble smile before they left. The look in his eyes clutched at my heart. He was worried, despite his assurances to me. Murder was no small charge. Determination welled within me. I certainly wouldn’t let him be hanged for a crime that he didn’t commit. I would find out who killed Rupert Howe if it was the last thing I did.

“An unpleasant business,” Milo said from behind me. He had remained quiet throughout the climactic scene, and for that I was grateful. If he had uttered one of his little bon mots, I may have lost my temper.

I turned to face him. “This is madness. Absolute, utter rubbish.”

He rose from his seat. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink, thank you.”

I paced toward the sofa and then back toward the door. This was terrible. “I should never have told the inspector what I heard. If I’d have thought for a moment that Inspector Jones would misconstrue what I was saying, I would never have spoken with him. Gil didn’t kill Mr. Howe. It’s utterly preposterous.” Despite my shock, the irony of the situation was not lost on me. I had been terribly afraid that someone might implicate Gil, and I had managed to do it myself. How dreadfully stupid I had been.

“You’re as pale as death, Amory,” he said, pressing the glass into my hand. “But perhaps that is the wrong expression to use at present.”

“I don’t want it,” I said, pushing the drink he had given me back toward him.

“It’s only soda water,” he replied. “I haven’t forgotten your aversion to stronger beverages.”

“Thank you, then.” I took a sip. Strong beverage or not, the cool crispness of it seemed to help clear my head, which had begun to throb. I pressed my fingertips to my temple.

“And why don’t you take these.” There was a bottle of aspirin lying on the table, and he picked it up, opened it, and handed me two of the tablets.

“I do have quite a headache.” I took the pills and then set the water down before moving to the sofa. I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the evening.

“Gil didn’t kill Rupert Howe,” I said again. My eyes met Milo’s. “You know he didn’t.”

“I don’t know that for certain and neither do you.”

“I’ve known him for years, Milo. Much longer than I’ve known even you. I
know
him. He wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“You’d be surprised by what you don’t know about the people closest to you,” he replied, settling onto the sofa beside me.

“That’s nonsense.”

“Take me, for example. How much do you know about me, really?”

I looked at him. It was an odd question, but I considered it. “Not as much as I should, I suppose,” I said at last. That wasn’t the half of it, but now was not the time to engage in that particular discussion.

“Precisely.”

“But I know that you wouldn’t kill anyone.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Would you?” I challenged.

He contemplated. “I might. If the occasion called for it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “In any event, we’re not talking about you; we’re talking about Gil. Something must be done.”

“Well, there will be plenty of time to fret over it tomorrow,” he said. “How’s your head?”

“It seems to be a bit better, thank you.” I reclined against the sofa pillows. For some unaccountable reason, I felt much more relaxed than I had a few moments before.

“Shall I turn down your covers?”

“I can manage. You should probably go to your room,” I said with a yawn. “I assume Miss Carter’s given up on you by now.” Despite my distress, I was suddenly so very sleepy that I could barely keep my eyes open.

“I think I’ll wait around a bit longer,” Milo said.

I was too tired to argue. “Suit yourself,” I said and closed my eyes.

*   *   *

I AWOKE TO
the sound of the sea and the warmth of sunlight shining through my window. I lay perfectly still with my eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of being deliciously relaxed and refreshed, as though I had slept for years. When did I fall asleep? What had gone on the night before?

It came back to me in a rush. Gil had been arrested. My eyes opened.

I was vaguely startled to see Milo lying in the bed next to me, his dark hair contrasting with the soft pastel of the pillow, the covers pulled up to his chest. He was wearing his undershirt and, I assumed, the rest of his underclothes. I wore my nightgown, minus negligee. How had we ended up in bed together? Clothed or no, I should have remembered going to bed with him. And then I realized what had happened.

I sat up. My head swarmed momentarily, but the sudden rise of anger quickly cleared it.

“Milo,” I shook his shoulder. “Milo!”

He turned his head on the pillow, not opening his eyes. “Hmmm?”

I shook him again, more aggressively. “Wake up.”

He opened one eye. “What is it, darling?”

“What did you give me last night?”

He sighed. “What?”

“What did you give me?”

“Soda water.”

“No, those pills. What were they?”

“Oh, those.” His long black lashes fluttered open, and he looked up at me. “Aspirin. What’s the matter with you?”

A fresh wave of anger pulsed through me at the attempted deception. “They were not aspirin. They were sleeping tablets.”

He frowned. “Why do you keep sleeping tablets in your aspirin bottle?”

I grabbed the blankets and pulled them off of him. “Get up and get out of here.”

“I wondered why you fell asleep so quickly.” He folded his hands behind his head and regarded me with a sleepy smile. “I normally don’t have that effect.”

I was not at all amused. “You’re sure you didn’t give me sleeping tablets?”

“I did no such thing.” He favored me with a semi-serious expression. “Why would I want to put you to sleep?” Then a wicked grin flashed across his face. “If you’re worried, I can assure you nothing untoward occurred. I was the perfect gentleman all evening.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Milo. What are you doing in my bed?”

“Sleeping … or trying to. It’s awfully early.”

“For heaven’s sake.” I tossed aside the portion of the blanket covering me and stood up. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through me, and I clutched the bed for support. For a moment, I was afraid I was going to topple to the floor.

Milo propped himself up on his elbow and regarded me. “Really, Amory, perhaps you better lie down. I think you’re overwrought. This murder business has been rough on you.”

“I tell you there was something in those pills. I feel as though I’m wading through molasses, Milo. That isn’t a common aftereffect of aspirin.”

He sat up. “Can I get you something?”

“I’ll get some coffee in a bit,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m all right. I … I just need a moment.”

“Let me ring for coffee.” He got up and went to the telephone and called for coffee to be brought to my room.

I made my way into the bathroom. I turned on the sink and washed my face in cool water. I felt strange and not at all well. A glance in the mirror showed that I was also very pale. It was all quite disconcerting.

I returned to the bedroom. Milo had pulled on his trousers and was buttoning his dress shirt. He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. “Smoke? It may clear your head.”

I shook my head as a wave of nausea passed over me. “I feel as though I may be sick.”

“Can I do something?”

“Thank you, no. I’m sure it will pass.”

“At least sit down,” he said.

He came to me and took my arm, leading me over to a chair. Then he sat across from me and watched me as he smoked. “You do look terribly pallid, darling.”

“I’ll be all right,” I replied. “It’s just so very odd. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Perhaps you’re pregnant,” he suggested casually.

Our eyes met. It was not a very subtle way of inquiring just how much had been going on between Gil and me while Milo had been away.

I regarded him with raised brow. “Not unless there has been some change in procedure of which I haven’t been informed.”

Was it my imagination, or did something very like relief cross his eyes? “Well, one can never be certain.”

“Sometimes one can.”

We looked at one another, neither of us willing to address the elephant in the room. What a farce this marriage was.

We were spared any further awkwardness by a timely knock at the door.

“It’s the coffee,” I picked up my negligee and pulled it over my nightgown. “As you said, it will be just the thing.”

He rose from his chair and went to open the door. The maid came in with a tray, setting it on the table. If she noticed Milo’s dishabille, the fact that he was in my room wearing last night’s clothes, she gave no sign of it. “Your tea, sir.”

“I rang for coffee,” Milo said.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the maid replied. “Things are all askew at the moment. Everyone is in a flutter. You see, one of the guests tried to commit suicide this morning.”

14

“ATTEMPTED SUICIDE? WHO?”
My heart began to pound as I feared the worst. “Not Gil … Mr. Trent?”

I felt Milo’s eyes on me even as the color drained from my face. The thought that Gil might have harmed himself while in police custody made me feel weak with fear. Would he have done such a rash thing? I didn’t think so, but I was beginning to believe there was much about Gil I didn’t know. I was not the same as I had been five years ago; neither was he.

“No, madam,” the maid answered. “It was a woman, that Miss Henderson.”

“Olive Henderson?” I sat down on the sofa. “Why would she do such a thing?” I cast my mind back to the conversation we had had in the sitting room. She had been very unhappy, that was true. But I shouldn’t have taken her for the kind of girl to take such drastic action.

The maid shook her head knowingly. “Some women are like that, madam. One never knows what they will do next.”

“Yes, I suppose,” I commented absently. It just didn’t make sense.

The maid would have been happy to go on telling tales, whether or not she knew any further details, but Milo adeptly ushered her to the door and rewarded her handsomely for her gossip.

As the door closed behind her, he turned to me. “I suppose you’ll have to settle for tea.”

“That will be lovely, thank you.”

He poured me a cup and brought it to me, dropping into the seat across.

I took it absently, still lost in thought. “Thank you. Why would Olive Henderson try to kill herself? Surely not for love of Rupert?”

He shrugged. “I assume the story will come out. You know these people can’t go any length of time without sharing whatever it is they know.”

“It’s all so very strange.” I took a few sips of the tea as a fresh determination settled within me. “We shall have to go down to breakfast, Milo. I need information.”

“Amory, you’re not well. You should lie down, not traipse about the hotel embroiling yourself in matters that do not concern you.”

I had felt vaguely that way until Gil’s arrest, but things were different now. Gil had been wrongfully accused, and I could not stand by and do nothing while a killer went free. Until last night, I had been driven by my own curiosity and a vague sense of unease, but Gil’s arrest had raised the stakes considerably. My fears had come to pass, thanks at least in part to my own foolishness, and there was nothing to do now but devote myself completely to the cause of justice, as it were. I had waded into this investigation thus far; now it was time to dive in—headfirst.

“Nonsense.” I felt revived by the hot, strong tea and the newfound zeal for my cause. I set my cup and saucer down on the table and stood. “This may have something to do with the murder. We should investigate.”

“We?”

I looked down at him, surprised myself that I had included him in my plans. He could prove useful, perhaps, but I suspected his potential usefulness was not what had fueled my impulsive invitation. However, now was not the time to contemplate my personal motives for enlisting the aid of my wayward husband. Instead, I forged ahead.

“Aren’t you at all interested in solving a murder?” I asked him.

“In clearing Trent, you mean?” he replied easily. “I’m not sure that I am.”

“He’s innocent. I’m certain of it.”

“I don’t particularly care.”

“Nonsense, Milo. I know you want to help me.”

I didn’t, of course, know any such thing. Milo was not generally inclined to be cooperative when it didn’t suit him. Nevertheless, he rose, albeit somewhat reluctantly, from his seat.

“Amory darling, I…”

I patted his arm, effectively cutting off any sort of protest. “Go put on something appropriate and we’ll go down to breakfast. And for goodness’s sake, don’t let anyone see you skulking out of my room in your evening clothes.”