Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (21 page)

If the folly of youth was my excuse, I sometimes wondered what it was that had made Milo choose to marry me. I was not at all the type of woman to which men of his sort were commonly attracted; a dazzling blonde might have suited him better.

There was so much more that separated us than the little bit of empty bed that lay between us.

As they had been wont to do of late, my thoughts of Milo somehow drifted into thoughts of Gil. I wondered if he too was lying awake at the moment. I hoped he was not too terribly uncomfortable in his prison cell. I still could not believe that Gil had been arrested. What a mess this whole thing was. Tomorrow, I would go to see him. I only hoped he would not be too angry with me. I hadn’t meant for anything to come of what I had told the inspector.

I thought of Detective Inspector Jones. That man severely tried my patience. Yet I could not help but feel that there was more to him than met the eye. He was up to something. Of that, I was sure. He had arrested Gil, but he had not said anything about discovering the weapon. As of the inquest, it had still been missing. I would ask him tomorrow just how it was that they could be certain of anything without a weapon.

Thoughts swirled in and out of my head as I edged toward sleep. I was drifting somewhere between wakefulness and a hazy dream when the thought struck me. I sat up, instantly awake.

The weapon
.

I looked over at Milo. I felt I needed to share my theory with someone, and he was the closest at hand. “Are you asleep?” I whispered. He didn’t stir.

Perhaps it could wait until morning … but, no. My mind raced over the possibilities, and I knew it would be impossible for me to rest.

I reached over and switched on the lamp. Milo’s eyelids did not so much as quiver.

“Milo?”

The smooth, peaceful lines of his face showed no sign that he was anywhere near wakefulness.

“Milo,” I said at last, rather loudly. “Wake up.”

He blinked against the light and covered his eyes with his hand. “What on earth … what’s the matter?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Good heavens, Amory. What time is it?”

I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. “It’s just after two,” I said. “Are you awake?”

“No, blast it. I’m not.”

“Don’t be surly, Milo. Listen. I’ve thought of something. I should have realized it before. I think Mr. Hamilton was looking for the weapon.”

He lowered his hand to look at me. “The murder weapon?”

“Yes, he must have been. Perhaps he killed Rupert and then tossed the weapon, whatever it was, over the cliff, where he could retrieve it later.”

“Surely your inspector was bright enough to search for it there.”

“He’s not my inspector, and perhaps it was something that wouldn’t have drawn notice, unless one knew what one was looking for.”

“Like what, for instance?”

I thought of the pile of debris at the bottom of the cliff, driftwood and stones and bits of shells that the sea had flung upon the shore. “It might have been anything, a loose brick from the wall, perhaps.”

“If it was so carefully concealed, why not leave it there?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he was afraid it would be discovered later. Or perhaps he was afraid the tide might wash it out into the open.”

I rose from the bed, pulling on my negligee and moving to the little writing desk in the corner. My thoughts were all a jumble, and I knew the best way to organize them would be to write them down. I should have thought of this method before. It always cleared my head to write to Laurel. Once I could organize my thoughts on paper, I could begin to make sense of things. I hoped the same would prove true when trying to solve a murder.

“Darling, can’t this wait until morning?”

“It is morning,” I said, pulling out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. “And before you make any complaints, let me remind you that it was your idea to stay in my room, not mine.”

Milo sighed. “Yes, well, this wasn’t what I had envisioned.”

I wrote “Mr. Hamilton” on the piece of paper and drew a line beneath it. “What motive does Mr. Hamilton have?” I asked. “Do you think Rupert may have trifled with Larissa Hamilton?”

Milo sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair, then across the shadow of a beard that was beginning to darken his face. I tried not to notice how very attractive he looked, disheveled from sleep. He was so seldom anything less than immaculately attired that his current rumpled state held a certain sort of appeal. My mind wandered to our earlier kisses, and I forced myself to focus on the task at hand.

“It’s possible,” he said, “but I shouldn’t say likely. I gather Rupert Howe would have preferred a very different sort of woman. Granted, she’s pretty enough, but there’s that aura of tragedy that hovers over her. She doesn’t conceal her unhappiness well. I shouldn’t think most men would find it appealing.”

“She certainly warmed up under your attentions,” I observed.

“She enjoys it when someone is pleasant to her,” he said. “From what I’ve seen, Mr. Hamilton certainly isn’t.”

“No,” I replied. “I can’t see why she ever married him.”

“You see? You should count your blessings,” Milo noted. “You may not have gotten the best of bargains when you married me, but Mr. Hamilton proves it could be much worse.”

“A moving argument,” I replied dryly. “In any event, I can’t see Mr. Hamilton as murdering in a jealous passion. Might he have killed Rupert for some other reason?”

“Perhaps it’s something to do with Socialists,” he suggested. “According to the papers, everything has to do with Socialists these days.”

“Be serious, Milo.” I directed him with a smile.

“Shady business dealing, perhaps?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I can enquire of Emmeline or Gil. They might know if Rupert and Mr. Hamilton had any sort of joint venture.”

Milo rose from the bed and put on his dressing gown, moving toward the desk. “From what I’ve heard of Rupert Howe, he would be likely to get involved in something underhanded, if he thought there was a quick profit to be made from it.”

I turned to him, surprised. “Did you know Rupert? Miss Carter mentioned he was in Monte Carlo.”

“No. I knew of him, but I didn’t know him personally. He didn’t quite move in my circles, I’m afraid.”

“What a thorough snob you are, Milo.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said with a raised brow. “Money doesn’t buy breeding, after all. These people here at the Brightwell aren’t exactly of our class.”

“They are perfectly nice people.”

Milo smiled. “Except for whichever of them is a murderer.”

“Yes, excepting that person.”

He was right, of course. I had defended them automatically with a charitable politeness that had been instilled in me from an early age, but the plain fact remained that, aside from Gil and Emmeline, none of the guests here were particularly nice people at all. It seemed to me that each of them had their own hidden agendas, their own secrets to keep. However, somewhere amidst the muddle, there were answers. It was only a matter of separating the inconsequential from the significant.

“You may as well continue the list,” Milo said, glancing over my shoulder. “Get all the suspects together.” He dropped onto the sofa and lay across it, his dark head propped against the arm nearest me.

“All right. Mrs. Hamilton next, then.” I hesitated, thinking hard. “Perhaps Rupert paid her unwanted attention. Perhaps it wasn’t murder at all. Perhaps she was forced to defend herself from him, and consequently he died and she was too afraid to tell anyone.”

“She might have picked up a rock and bashed him with it,” Milo conceded. “One can never tell about aggressive bridge players.”

“She might have told Mr. Hamilton, and he went searching for the weapon on her behalf.”

“Uncharacteristically chivalrous of him, I should say.”

“Perhaps. Well, how about Olive Henderson?” I asked. “Rupert insinuated that there had been something between them before he met Emmeline, and Mrs. Hamilton mentioned that they might have had a clandestine meeting. Now, she’s slit her wrists. Perhaps it was guilt and not heartbreak.”

“Yes, they may have had a lovers’ quarrel on the cliff. Perhaps she hit him and he fell over the edge.”

My mind went back to my conversation with Olive in the sitting room. She had asked me if I had ever been in love, and I was certain it had been real sorrow in her eyes. Could it have been guilt for killing the man she had once loved? It was possible, but I didn’t think it likely. Hers had been the wistful sadness of something lost, not the suffering of remorse. “I have my doubts about Miss Henderson,” I said at last. “But it’s always possible.”

“What of the charming Miss Carter?” Milo asked. “Might she have had a reason to kill Rupert?”

I considered. “Perhaps. It seems that Rupert was inordinately successful where women were concerned. There may have been something between them that none of us were aware of. Perhaps she killed him in a jealous rage.”

Milo reached over and retrieved a cigarette from the box on the table. He lit it with a silver lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and smoked contemplatively. “I think it very unlikely that Rupert Howe was having a love affair with every member of this little party,” he said at last. “I never met the man, but it seems that his luck could not have extended that far.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I replied sweetly. “I imagine even you would have difficulty accomplishing such a thing. And you’ve much more savoir faire than Rupert had.”

He blew a stream of smoke into the air. “You flatter me, my dear.”

I glanced back at the list. “I’m curious about Lionel Blake,” I said. “There’s something mysterious about him.” I related my visit to the abandoned theater. “He was so secretive about the thing, as though there was some reason he should attempt to hide it.

“Theater people are an odd lot,” Milo said dismissively. “It may be nothing. Then again, it may well be that he’s the one tied up with the Socialists.”

I ignored him. “We’ll come back to Mr. Blake. I shall have to ponder over Anne and Edward Rodgers,” I said, moving on. “Neither of them seems to have any real motive thus far.”

“Rather an odd pair, aren’t they?” he commented.

“Yes, that’s just what I thought. She’s very sociable, and he’s so very stiff. I’ve barely seen him smile since we’ve been here.”

“We may as well ascribe to them the familiar motive. Perhaps she was too sociable with Rupert, and her husband objected.”

“I don’t know. I have the impression they’re really very fond of one another.” I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Perhaps you should talk to Mrs. Rodgers. I think she would be more than happy to have a nice, long chat with you.”

“I do believe you are using me, Amory,” Milo said, turning his head on the arm of the sofa to look up at me.

“Yes, well, you have to be good for something, don’t you?”

He laughed. “I should have known better than to match wits with you this early in the morning.”

“Or anytime, for that matter,” I retorted.

“Might I see your list?” he asked.

I handed it to him.

Milo took the sheet of paper and ran his eyes across it. “I notice you haven’t included Trent. Is it really wise to be unwilling to consider the possibility that he might actually have done it?”

“He didn’t, Milo. I know it.”

“I see. And does your decree of clemency extend to Miss Trent, as well?”

I frowned. “Emmeline?”

Milo sat up and offered me one of his sardonic smiles. “If you go around eliminating everyone you’ve taken a liking to, you may overlook something important.”

I bit back a harsh retort as the truth of his words sank in. Emmeline, by all appearances, was very distraught at Rupert’s death. But that didn’t mean she was not responsible. It was she who had called attention to the fact that Rupert was missing. Might she have wanted me to be with her to discover the body? Perhaps she had grown tired of Rupert’s philandering. Could her paralyzing grief be an act? No, it was impossible. She couldn’t be feigning the depth of her sorrow. I had felt her sincerity, seen it in the bleakness of her eyes. She and Gil were both innocent. They had to be.

“I know these people, Milo. I’ve known them for years. I just can’t conceive of the fact that either one of them would kill someone in cold blood.”

“Poor darling,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re not coldhearted enough to be a detective. You only want the disagreeable people to be guilty, and I’m afraid you’ll find that life isn’t like that.”

I sighed, suddenly very tired. The realization that he might just possibly be right knocked the wind from my sails. I stood from the desk chair and dropped onto the sofa beside him. “What if it is one of them, Milo?”

He looked at me, his gaze searching despite his mild expression. “Would it matter to you so very much?”

“Of course it would.”

Milo leaned to grind out his cigarette in the pewter ashtray on the table in front of us. “Are you in love with him, Amory?”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think you heard me,” he replied easily as he sat back, his blue gaze coming up to mine. “I asked if you are in love with Gil Trent.”

“What a question…” A rather forced laugh dwindled away into silence, and I could not think of what to say next. The question, coming so unexpectedly, had stunned me. A quick denial sprung to my lips, but I hesitated. What did I feel for Gil? I wasn’t sure.

Milo watched me expectantly, waiting for my answer.

“I married you, didn’t I?” I said at last, as lightly as I could manage.

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Yes, well. That’s not quite an answer, is it?”

“No,” I said softly. “I suppose it’s not.”

He offered me a smile that revealed absolutely nothing of his feelings. “Your silence speaks most eloquently.”

He made a move as though to rise, but I caught his arm. “Please, Milo. Let’s not quarrel.”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of quarreling with you, darling, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’m tired.”

“It’s just that I’m so confused … about everything.”