Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery (26 page)

“Thus far, I have been … lenient, shall we say, because I like you and, quite frankly, the frivolous prosecution of the wealthy and well connected does not sit well with my superiors. But let me warn you: if either you or your husband interferes again, I shall not hesitate to take whatever measures necessary to ensure both your safety and the success of my investigation. No more independent enquiries. Do I make myself clear?”

“As clear as crystal, Inspector,” I replied.

*   *   *

INSPECTOR JONES WENT
to look in on Mrs. Hamilton, telling me I should wait. I knew it would perhaps be a while before I could see her, so I took a seat in the area designated for waiting. I’m afraid patience is not one of my more dominant virtues, so it was not long before I rose from my seat and began to take stock of the building.

The hospital was a clean, quiet facility with long white walls. The scent of the sea mingled with the more astringent smell of disinfectant, and there was a relaxed sort of air to the place, as though people did not often get sick at the seaside. Unfortunately, that did not seem to be the case at the Brightwell Hotel. “Dropping like flies” had been Milo’s succinctly inappropriate, if accurate, pronouncement.

Though it seemed impossible now that she could have had anything to do with the murders, I had intended to talk to Olive Henderson, and this seemed the ideal time to do so. I approached the solid, humorless-looking woman that sat behind the desk. “Might I see Miss Olive Henderson?” I asked.

She looked up at me with a flat expression. “Miss Henderson is no longer receiving visitors today, by the doctor’s orders,” she said crisply.

“Surely she’s well enough for me to drop in for just a moment.”

“Miss Henderson was upset by an early visitor, and the doctor specifically instructed that she receive no more visitors today.”

I frowned, suddenly alert. “What visitor?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge information. I can only tell you that Miss Henderson is currently under close observation and is not allowed to receive visitors.” She began sorting papers on her desk, and I knew that I had been dismissed.

I turned from the woman, lost in thought. Who might have visited Olive Henderson today? In all likelihood, it was one of the guests from the hotel. What had upset her? It was all very mysterious.

I briefly considered sneaking into her room, but the inspector’s warning was still fresh in my mind. I did not believe for an instant that his had been an idle threat, and I did not relish the thought of being locked up in some dank, dark cell.

The air in the waiting area seemed to grow more oppressive by the moment, and I stepped outside. The wind had picked up, but the sky above me was still a bright blue, dotted with wispy white clouds. Though dark clouds still showed in the distance, they did not seem to be approaching very rapidly. If rain was coming, it would likely not arrive until evening.

The hospital overlooked the sea, and I enjoyed a few moments of quiet as I gazed out at the view. Then I looked toward the village. It was not a great distance off, and it looked inviting. Inspector Jones would likely tell me when Mrs. Hamilton awakened. In the meantime, I might try a walk to calm my nerves.

I reached the village a few minutes later. I wandered around for a while, looking in the windows of various shops. Among the villagers and holiday goers, I could almost forget all the terrible things that had occurred in the past week. Almost.

A lovely little antique shop caught my attention, and I spent a few moments browsing through the crowded rows of knickknacks, ranging from cheap plaster busts to very good china. I found a set of gold cufflinks engraved with the letter
A
and purchased them on a whim. I thought Milo would like them.

I had just left the shop when I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers exiting a shop at the end of the street. They were walking quickly, their backs to me. I called out to them, but they appeared to be deep in conversation and didn’t hear. A moment later, they got in a car and drove away.

I decided to head back to the hospital, but as I walked down the street, I noticed the building that the Rodgerses had exited. It was the apothecary shop. A thought occurred to me suddenly, and I stopped outside the door, hesitating for just a moment before charging ahead.

I entered the shop, and the little bell above the door jingled a greeting. A single woman stood behind the counter. She had a round, pleasant face framed with flame-colored hair. She smiled brightly as I came in. “Good day, miss. Is there something I could help you with?”

“I just saw my friends leaving,” I said, “but I didn’t catch them in time and they’ve driven off. We’re all staying up at the Brightwell. I don’t suppose they purchased a bottle of aspirin for me? They may have forgotten.”

“No, miss. They didn’t purchase any aspirin,” the woman said.

Almost before I knew what I was saying, I nodded and spoke casually. “I suppose they were picking up the sleeping tablets.”

“Yes, miss. The lady said she had misplaced hers.”

I kept my expression studiously neutral, but my thoughts were racing. Why should Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers come to purchase sleeping tablets immediately after Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had been drugged? Surely they knew about Mr. Hamilton’s death by now. It seemed a very odd time to make a trip to the apothecary.

I purchased a bottle of aspirin to replace the one I had given the inspector. Instead of falling into place, things only seemed to be getting more and more complicated. One thing was certain: there were enough sleeping tablets floating around the Brightwell Hotel to do away with all of us. As the woman at the counter chatted on amiably, I resolved that I would be very careful of what I ate or drank at the Brightwell from this time forward.

*   *   *

LOST IN THOUGHT,
I arrived back at the hospital. The unhelpful woman at the desk informed me that the inspector had not yet emerged, so I took a seat. Unwelcome thoughts continued to race through my head. If someone had meant to kill me in my room after drugging me, it had been a lucky thing that Milo had decided to spend the night in my room. Yet I could think of no reason why someone should wish to murder me. I had very little to do with the whole affair. If indeed Mr. or Mrs. Rodgers had something to do with it, I could think of no conceivable reason why I should pose an impediment to them. None of it seemed to make any sense.

By the time I saw Inspector Jones coming toward me, my nerves were quite on edge. Despite my distraction, I noticed immediately that his expression was grim.

I stood, bracing myself for the worst. “Is she all right?” I asked.

“She’s alive,” he said, “which is not at all the same thing.”

“She’s taken it very hard?”

“It seems so. She’s not entirely coherent. Whatever drug she was given was exceptionally strong.” He paused, as though considering how much he should say, and then went on. “It’s very likely that Mr. Hamilton was given the same thing. He was faceup in the water, indicating that he was probably held down until he drowned. He would have been too disoriented to struggle much.”

A chill swept through me as I recalled the splashing Milo and I had heard. Mr. Hamilton had been putting up what fight he could, trying to save his life, but it had not been enough. A wave of sadness swept over me. If Milo and I had come out of the wardrobe a moment sooner, perhaps we could have done something …

“Are you all right, Mrs. Ames?” Inspector Jones asked. He was watching me intently, and his expression was almost kind.

“It’s been a dreadful day,” I said. In truth, I felt on the verge of tears.

“There is one other thing.”

“Indeed?” I asked, something very like dread in my voice.

“I had one of the doctors look at those tablets you gave me. They’ve not yet finished analyzing them, but he is quite certain that they are sleeping tablets and not aspirin.”

It was not really a surprise, but it was still something of a blow to hear my suspicions confirmed.

“Who might have had access to them?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Anyone, I suppose. I’m afraid I am sometimes rather careless about locking my door. But the bottle was exactly where I left it.”

“Was your husband with you that night?”

“Yes, but I can think of no reason why he would have done it. In fact, I don’t understand why anyone should have done it,” I said. “Surely I don’t pose a threat to anyone.”

“You may know more than you think,” he said cryptically. “Come. I’ll take you back now. You should get some rest.”

I nodded. What I wanted now was to lie down in the quiet of my room and share what I had learned with Milo. When exactly he had become a source of comfort to me, I didn’t know, but at the moment I found myself wanting very much to be with him.

Inspector Jones and I walked back to the car in comfortable silence.

I hesitated to tell him what I had discovered regarding Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers; he would no doubt only berate me for my underhanded tactics. However, I couldn’t bring myself to keep the information quiet. Skirting around my methods, I told him what I had learned.

“Indeed,” he said, and I could read nothing in his expression.

“Might the Rodgerses have any reason for killing Mr. Howe?” I asked.

“It may be nothing,” he said, not answering my question. “But you did well to let me know.”

At last, we reached the hotel. The car pulled to a stop, and Inspector Jones turned to me, his face grave. “I believe this will all be resolved soon. In the meantime, please be careful, Mrs. Ames,” he said.

“I intend to, Inspector.”

I walked toward the hotel so lost in thought that I nearly collided with Lionel Blake.

“Oh, excuse me,” I said.

I looked up at him and noticed at once the tension on his features. However good of an actor he might be, he was making no attempt to hide his distress at present.

“Is it true what they are saying?” he asked me without preamble.

I nodded sadly. “I’m afraid so.”

He rubbed a hand across his chin and mumbled something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out. The only word I caught was “lord.” Then he seemed to catch himself, and I watched with fascination as he deliberately smoothed his features and presented me with the calm, handsome expression I had come to expect from him.

“I’ve been out walking around the grounds,” he said, and even his tone had undergone a transformation. There was absolutely no trace of strain in his well-modulated voice now. “The hotel is beginning to seem so stifling. I will be very glad to leave this place.”

“As will I.”

“Do you think there will be much publicity?” he asked me suddenly.

I thought it a strange thing to ask. But perhaps as an actor he always had to consider such things. “The Brightwell and the police have done a remarkable job of keeping the press away thus far,” I said. “Though I’m sure the papers are still full of sensational tales. I’d almost rather not know what they are saying…”

“I do hate to give interviews.”

“I shouldn’t imagine that would be necessary,” I answered. “It would be entirely at your discretion to do such a thing.”

He nodded. “Yes. You’re right of course.”

I must have glanced at the hotel, for he was immediately all contrite politeness. “Forgive me for keeping you, Mrs. Ames. I know you must be anxious to rest after … I do apologize.”

“No apologies necessary, Mr. Blake,” I said, glad nevertheless to be on my way. “I’ll see you at dinner, perhaps.”

“Yes.”

I walked past him, and a final glance over my shoulder confirmed that he had continued his solitary walk. There was something in the encounter that nagged at me, but I was too weary at present to attempt to analyze it.

I entered the hotel feeling more tired and worn than I ever had in my life. I glanced around the people seated in the lobby, hoping to spot Milo. Instead, Mrs. Roland appeared out of nowhere, and before I could retreat, she caught sight of me and headed in my direction.

Today she was dressed in a turquoise dress bedecked with a pattern of huge magenta hibiscus, over which she had layered what seemed to be a dozen necklaces of every description: seashells, pearls, jet beads, and what appeared to be hollowed-out and intricately carved pieces of wood. She fairly clattered as she glided toward me.

“Amory darling!” she exclaimed. “You’re still here! I thought you’d gone with your husband.”

I was only half-listening. As much as I liked the woman, there was only so much my nerves could take at present.

“Gone where?” I asked, my gaze caught momentarily by an emerald-encrusted tortoise on a long gold chain that hung around her neck.

“Back to London, of course. I assume that’s where he went.”

I looked up sharply. “Milo’s gone?”

“Why, yes, darling. Your charming husband left not long ago. I assumed you’d gone with him.”

I felt as though I had been dealt an unexpected blow. “Surely you must be mistaken.”

“Not at all, dear.” She gave me an exaggerated wink. “It’s impossible to mistake your husband for anyone else.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Roland. I must see to something.”

“Yes, of course. You really should get some sun, Amory,” she called, as I walked away. “You’re looking rather pale!”

I approached the desk with as much calmness as I could muster. Surely she was mistaken. Milo would not have left without saying anything. The very idea was ridiculous.

“Have I any letters?” I asked the clerk. “Mrs. Amory Ames.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ames. There’s a note for you. It was left by your husband about half an hour ago. He asked that we give it to you upon your return.”

I took the envelope and recognized Milo’s personal stationery. Perhaps he had gone to the village and I had missed him. I opened the envelope and pulled out the note, written in his familiar bold script.

Had to dash off to London, darling. Not sure how long I shall be gone.

M.

22

I SHOULD NOT
have been surprised, but I was. In fact, I was utterly astounded. I stared at the note for a long moment before crumpling it in my hand. I resisted the sudden impulse to burst into tears. Truth be told, I was too tired to cry.