Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (22 page)

“Perfectly understandable.”

I recognized the polite, disinterested responses. He was quite done with this conversation, perhaps quite done with me.

My hand dropped from his arm and he rose.

“If you don’t mind, I think I shall try to get a bit more sleep before breakfast,” he said, turning toward the bed.

I stood, suddenly angry with myself and angry with him. “You’re not being fair, Milo.”

He turned back to me, brows raised. “Really? I thought I was being more than fair, considering my wife has just told me she’s in love with another man.”

“I didn’t say I loved him.”

“You didn’t deny it,” he replied, as infuriatingly calm as ever. “You couldn’t even come up with a convincing lie.”

“Now that’s something you know all about, isn’t it?” I rejoined. “Lies are very convenient when you must keep track of the dozens of women you’ve been linked to.”

“I thought you didn’t wish to quarrel.”

“I’ve changed my mind. In fact, I think we’re on the verge of a blazing row.” My voice, though not raised, fairly shook with anger. I realized suddenly that, throughout the course of our marriage, we had never once shouted at one another. Perhaps that little fact said that we simply didn’t care enough.

“I suppose next you’ll be hurling things at me, like a fishwife.”

In that moment I was sorely tempted to do just that. Perhaps an ashtray to the forehead would relieve him of his thinly veiled amusement.

“Tell me something,” he went on. “Have you carried a secret passion for Trent all these years? If so, I wonder why you ever married me to begin with.”

“I’ve forgotten why I married you,” I retorted.

It was a cruel thing to say, and I regretted it the moment it escaped my lips. I opened my mouth to apologize but stopped short when I saw the look on Milo’s face. His eyes glinted, and a dangerous smile played on his mouth. He had obviously taken my insult as a challenge.

“Have you?”

“I…”

I didn’t have time to formulate my response before he closed the distance between us, and his arms moved around me and he pulled me against him.

“Shall I remind you?” he asked in a low voice.

“Milo…”

Then he kissed me. It was a kiss that made our encounter on the steps pale in comparison. My heart began to race, and I struggled to maintain my indignation of a moment ago.

Finally, I pulled back as much as I could manage. He was holding me quite tightly and made no move to release me. “Milo, I don’t think…” I began.

“Yes, Amory. For once, don’t think.”

He kissed me again, and I found it was, indeed, getting increasingly difficult to think clearly. I put my hands against his shoulders to push him away, but I realized suddenly that I didn’t want to. My emotions had been reduced to rubble as of late, and I was so very tired of bearing it all alone. I longed for at least the comforting illusion of a link with someone, and perhaps this was the closest I was going to get.

This man, for better or for worse, was my husband, and at this moment I could conjure no good reason why I should not give in to mutual desire. I hesitated for just a moment before letting my arms slide around his neck as I returned his kiss with equal ardor.

18

I SUPPOSE ONE
is allowed to forsake her resolve with her own husband. Nevertheless, as diverting as the night had been, something very like regret hung over me as I rose, bathed, dressed, and went down to breakfast.

Milo was still asleep when I left the room, and I was glad of it. I hadn’t the inclination to face him now. Our romantic interlude had resolved nothing. In fact, it was very likely it had only worsened matters. The lines that had been drawn between us were hazier now than ever.

Nevertheless, if I was very honest with myself, I was not completely sorry. After all, we had only behaved in the natural way of husbands and wives; there was so little of the typical spousal behavior in our relationship, I was glad we had managed something. In any event, unwise though it might have been, there was nothing to be done about it now.

I was rather late coming down to breakfast, and though the dining room was still scattered with guests, the only person I recognized was Lionel Blake. He sat in a corner of the dining room, a book on the table in front of him. He ate his breakfast in methodical bites, not taking his eyes from the book.

I filled a plate with food from the sideboard and moved toward where he sat.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake,” I said, sitting at the table next to his.

He looked up, as though noticing me for the first time, and smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Ames.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your reading.”

“Oh, no,” he said, closing the book and pushing it aside. I glanced at the title and recognized it as a play.
Die Ratten
, by Gerhart Hauptmann. “I always read when I have nothing better to do, but I do prefer company at mealtimes.”

“I expect the others had their breakfast earlier.”

“Yes, I’ve seen most of our party this morning. Rather too much of some of them, in fact.”

I raised a brow at this curious statement, but he didn’t elaborate. I wonder if he had had a falling out with one of the other gentlemen.

“I’ll be glad when we can get this all behind us and go home,” he went on. “Back to our normal lives.”

Our normal lives. Though I would be glad to leave the Brightwell and its dark connotations behind, I was not certain that I longed to return to the normal state of things. But these were thoughts for another time.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said casually, stirring some sugar into my coffee, “if you’ve had any word from your backer.”

Was it my imagination or did something very like confusion cross his features before it was quickly erased? He nodded. “Ah … yes, in fact, he’s come across a good venue closer to London. He feels quite certain that he will be able to make a good profit. The show goes on, as they say.”

“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you,” I replied. I shifted the conversation to other things as I ate my breakfast. I was beginning to see that Lionel Blake was a hard man to read. He was always friendly, pleasant in a vacant sort of way. I got the sense that he did not reveal his true self easily. Perhaps it was the actor in him that always wished to maintain a part.

An idea came to me suddenly, and I went ahead with it without pause. “What time was it you told the inspector that you saw Gil on the balcony the day Mr. Howe was killed?”

If I had hoped to throw him off his guard into some sort of confession, I was to be disappointed. He met my gaze without blinking. “I told the inspector no such thing.”

“Oh,” I said, feigning embarrassment. “I’m sorry … I must have made the inference … You were sitting on the terrace when we were searching for Rupert, so perhaps I assumed that it was you.”

“No, it wasn’t me.” His response was perfectly polite, but I could sense a coolness in his answer. Be it a desire for privacy or something more sinister, he did not care for my prying.

“Good morning! Good morning!” I looked up to see Yvonne Roland sailing into the room. She was wearing a flowing silk gown in an astounding shade of orange. The hazy brightness of the fabric seemed to billow around her as she walked. Looking at her was very like gazing directly into the sun.

Mr. Blake and I greeted her as she moved to the sideboard and began to pile her plate high with sausages.

“So many things happening here lately,” she said. “I am reminded of my second … no third honeymoon. We were on a Nile cruise and some fellow fell off the boat. I suppose he was eaten by crocodiles … and then someone contracted some dreadful disease, and then the weather turned beastly hot, and … well, it was one thing after another. I imagine that Gil is rotting away in a dungeon somewhere. And that poor young thing, so in love, cutting herself all to pieces. It’s all too much for me. I shall be glad to get back to London.”

That said, she took her plate of sausages and sailed out as abruptly as she had come.

I looked at Mr. Blake, and he smiled. “She’s like something out of an outlandish comedy,” he said.

“A very interesting character, to be sure,” I replied. Though she was a strange creature, I couldn’t help but like Mrs. Roland. There was something so very alive about her. I expected that vibrancy had translated to allure in her younger days.

“Well, Mrs. Ames,” said Mr. Blake, picking up his book and rising, “I have some letter writing to attend to. I’m sure I shall see you later.”

“Yes.”

He exited, and I picked at the remainder of my breakfast in silence. His denial did not prove he had not spoken to the inspector, but I could not really see any reason for him to hide the fact if he had. In fact, I could think of no good reason why anyone should seek to deny that they had observed Gil on the terrace.

My thoughts were recalled to the present as I heard the rise and fall of Mrs. Roland’s exuberant tones in the foyer and the low answering tones of Milo. My husband managed to extricate himself in a surprisingly quick manner, for he appeared in the doorway a moment later. His eyes sought me out and he smiled, and for some reason I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach. I smiled in return, though I’m afraid mine lacked warmth. I felt oddly ill at ease.

I noticed the attention he attracted as he made his way toward the sideboard. I had grown accustomed to the way that women’s eyes followed Milo. It was his misfortune, really, that he was so good-looking. If he had not been so attractive, he might have turned out differently, less confident and more considerate. As it was, he took advantage of the fact that he had only to exert a minimum amount of effort to bend people, women especially, to his will. Myself included, apparently.

“Hello, darling,” he said, when he was seated at the table with a cup of coffee and plate of food.

“Good morning,” I said somewhat stiffly, fiddling with my napkin. I was uncertain how this latest turn of events would affect the uneasy alliance that had developed between us.

Milo, it seemed, felt no such awkwardness.

“It has been a good morning, hasn’t it?” he replied with a grin. “Though I was disappointed to awaken and find myself bereft of your charming company.”

“We’ve better things to do than … loll about in bed all day,” I said in a low voice, hoping to avoid being overheard.

“More worthy, perhaps,” he said over his cup, “but certainly not better.”

“I’ve just spoken to Mr. Blake,” I said, ignoring him.

“Besides, I wouldn’t exactly call it lolling.”

“Milo, do pay attention.”

“You’re making it difficult,” he said, setting down his cup and leaning toward me, arms on the table. “When you talk, it only calls attention to your lovely mouth.”

“I thought flattery came before seduction,” I replied tartly. “Not after.”

He sat back in his chair, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “Very well. I’m listening. You’ve spoken with Mr. Blake.”

He picked up his fork and began to eat as I talked. “Yes, I tried to get him to admit that it was he who told Inspector Jones that Gil was on the terrace.”

“And did he?”

“No. If he did, he wouldn’t own up to it.”

“Why should it be a great secret, do you think?” Milo asked, echoing my own question, though he didn’t sound particularly interested. “There must be some reason the inspector wishes to keep it quiet.”

“My thoughts, exactly,” I said. “I only wish Inspector Jones would be a bit more cooperative. In fact, I think I shall pay him a visit this morning,” I said. I also intended to speak with Gil, but I kept that fact to myself.

“And what assignments have you for me today?” he asked.

“Continue to glean what information you can,” I said. “Particularly from the ladies. Perhaps you can discover from Mrs. Hamilton what her husband was doing creeping about on the beach last night. There must be some reason he chose that particular time to investigate.”

Milo shrugged. “Perhaps he found a convenient moment and took advantage of it.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t help feeling that there is something we are overlooking.”

Milo listened indulgently to my conjectures as he finished his breakfast. Then we rose from the table and walked together out of the breakfast room and into the lobby. The morning sun shone brightly through the windows, lighting up the walls and giving the room a cheerful countenance. I felt suddenly lighter than I had in days. Perhaps everything would be all right, after all. Perhaps, with Milo’s help, I could find who had killed Rupert Howe and see that Gil was set free.

I was about to turn toward the front door when Milo stopped me, hand on my arm. “Oh, Amory…”

“Yes?”

“One more thing.” His hand slid to my waist. He leaned and gave me a lingering kiss that I couldn’t bring myself to break away from, despite the very public place in which we stood.

At last, he released me and gave me a smile. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

I nodded and watched him enter the lift. Then I sighed. As much as I attempted to steel myself against his charms, I was finding it very difficult to maintain my barriers. Against my better judgment, I found myself enjoying his company and pleased by his attentions. It was not at all wise, but I was the first to admit that wisdom and matters of the heart seldom go hand in hand.

Doing my best to banish such dismal thoughts, I turned to leave the hotel and found myself very surprised indeed to see that Gil was standing in the entryway.

*   *   *

“GIL,” I EXCLAIMED.
The initial paralysis of surprise wore off quickly, and I hurried toward him.

Though he tried to hide it, his expression indicated that he had seen the exchange between Milo and me. With a heavy sort of certainty, I realized just why Milo had chosen that particular moment to lavish me with affection. I felt a strange mix of anger and sadness that settled into a cold lump in my chest. Milo, ever aware of what he was doing, had timed that triumphant display perfectly.

“They’ve released you,” I said, stating the obvious as I reached Gil’s side. I could feel the flush on my cheeks. For some unaccountable reason, I felt as though I had been caught in an indiscretion.