Death Wears a Mask

by Ashley Weaver

  In addition to feeling distraught over the tragedy that had just occurred, I couldn’t help but be furious about Milo’s arrival with the French actress. I also suspected that Milo, beneath his calm exterior, was in something of a temper over finding Lord Dunmore removing my stockings.

  I could only imagine what Markham thought of our cool behavior toward one another. What a difference one night could make.

  We pulled up in front of the flat after riding the rest of the way in a silence heavy with mutual disapproval. Milo got out before Markham could open the door and came around to assist me from the car.

  “Perhaps if I just leaned on you,” I said, hoping in vain that I might be able to walk on my own.

  “Nonsense,” he interrupted, sweeping me up into his arms.

  The doorman and the lift operator both took in the scene with perfect equanimity, but I was relieved once we had reached the privacy of our flat. Winnelda, I hoped, was asleep, and Parks, Milo’s valet, had been given the night off. Milo frequently dispensed with Parks’s services; I had always suspected it was because Milo didn’t like witnesses to his misdeeds.

  He carried me into the dark bedroom and deposited me on the bed before he switched on the lamp. The room was decorated in black and gold, and the lamplight seemed to do little to push back the shadows; perhaps it was just that everything seemed darker this evening.

  “Shall I send for Dr. Easton?” he asked.

  “I saw the doctor while you were…” My words trailed off. “He says it’s only a sprain.”

  I sat up, easing myself to the edge of the bed, and reached to unfasten my dress as the chiffon of the skirt caught beneath me and welled up around me. What had started out as a dream of a gown had turned into an incredible nuisance. I couldn’t wait to be free of the wretched thing. Unfortunately, the side closures were difficult for me to undo myself.

  “If you’d wake Winnelda for me,” I said, not wanting to disturb her, but wanting even less to ask him for assistance.

  He ignored my request as he sat beside me on the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, and began to unfasten the innumerable little hook closures that held the dress closed.

  I looked down at the top of his dark head as he leaned to unhook me. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know where to begin. Things had been so much better between us as of late, but I could feel the old uncertainty beginning to creep back in.

  Almost before I knew it, he had gathered up the gown and slipped it over my head, tossing it in a heap on the floor. I was left sitting in my slip. And one stocking.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked, glancing down at my bare and swollen ankle.

  “It throbs a bit,” I admitted.

  Milo rose and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. Then he took two aspirin from the bottle in the drawer and handed them to me.

  “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  I gingerly shifted my foot back onto the bed and sat back against the pillows, swallowing the aspirin.

  Milo didn’t look at me as he took off his necktie and dinner jacket, tossing them across the back of a chair. He broke the silence as he removed his cuff links. “You know I dread above all things the conventional role of a jealous husband, but I feel I should warn you about Dunmore.”

  Had I not been exhausted and in pain, I might have found the irony of his admonishment to be laughable. As it was, I managed a very civil reply.

  “There’s no need. I have no interest in Lord Dunmore.”

  “He has an interest in you,” he said mildly, “and he is generally known as a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

  “I’m more interested in what you want, Milo.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Are you having an affair with Helene Renault?” The words were out almost before I realized I was going to say them. I had not intended to be so blunt, but there it was.

  His eyes met mine. “No, I’m not.”

  I must have expressed silent skepticism, for he sat down on the edge of the mattress and continued. “I met Garmond at my club, but then we decided to go out for dinner and drinks. When I was leaving, I happened to run into Helene. She asked where I was going and insisted upon accompanying me. She has heard about Dunmore, you see, and was anxious to meet him.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s the truth.”

  I leaned my head against the black-velvet tufted headboard and looked up at him. I had long ago recognized the flaw in my reasoning when it came to Milo. It was that I always wanted to believe him, no matter how dubious the story. This time was no different. I could feel myself relenting, despite the implausibility of his explanation.

  “As I told you before,” he went on, as though he knew that I was on the verge of accepting this far-fetched account, “I barely know the woman.”

  “That’s not what the papers will be saying tomorrow.” Just when things had begun to settle down, I would once again see the cracks in my marriage flashed across the gossip columns.

  “I’m afraid the cause célèbre of the hour is much more likely to be the unfortunate Mr. Harker,” Milo replied.

  “Why would he do it, do you think?” I asked, my thoughts diverted for the moment.

  “I expect theories abound in plenty, and I assume they will be made available to the press. You shall probably read all about his secret gambling debts and other assorted sins in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “He seemed a nice young man,” I said, ignoring Milo’s cynicism.

  He rose to finish undressing. “Those are frequently the kind that get themselves into trouble and can see no alternative but to end it all. Shame and embarrassment are sometimes unbearable for respectable people. That’s why it doesn’t pay to worry about one’s reputation.”

  Milo certainly followed his own credo there; he had never been embarrassed in his life.

  “Perhaps. But it was rather a drastic thing to do at a ball.” I frowned as I thought about it. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing I would think Mr. Harker would do. Despite our initial and publicly embarrassing meeting, the impression I had formed of him at the ball had been one of a retiring, private man. If he was inclined to end his life, I would have expected it to be done at his own residence, not in the house of a man he barely knew—and during the middle of a masquerade ball at that.

  “Milo, do you think it odd…”

  “No,” he said, cutting me off, as he handed me a nightgown he had retrieved from my bureau. “And you shouldn’t either. I know perfectly well what kind of schemes that brain of yours is concocting, and no good can come of them.”

  I frowned at him, but he ignored me.

  “I’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom so I don’t bump your ankle in the night,” he said, as he tied the belt of the black dressing gown he had put on over his nightclothes. “Do you need anything else?”

  There were so many things I wanted to say, but instead I shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Very well. Good night, darling.”

  He dropped a kiss on my lips and departed the room, leaving me feeling dissatisfied and unsettled about the entire evening.

  * * *

  THE FEELING OF dissatisfaction had not waned as the gray light of early morning began to filter through my curtains. Despite the hour at which I had gone to bed, I found I could not go back to sleep. I lay abed for what seemed like hours, willing myself to rest, but at last I gave it up and rose, pulling on a negligee over my nightgown.

  I hobbled from my bed to the black velvet chaise lounge and propped up my foot. It was quite sore this morning, but the swelling seemed to have gone down somewhat. I hoped to be up and walking again by the next day at the latest, doctor’s orders or no.

  I was surprised when the door opened and Milo came in carrying a tray. He was almost never awake at this hour. I wondered if this was a sign of an attempted truce on his part.

>   “I’ve intercepted Winnelda and brought your breakfast,” he said.

  “Bless you for that. I’ll tell her all about the ball later,” I said. “After I’ve had some coffee.”

  “How’s your ankle this morning?”

  “A bit better, thank you,” I answered.

  “Glad to hear it.” He set the tray on the table. “She’s made you toast and jam, which, though not especially substantial, might be for the best. I’m still not sure I’d trust the girl to do more than boil water. And I thought you might be interested in this.” He handed me a copy of The Times.

  I had been hoping to avoid the papers, but I knew I would have to face them eventually. The events of last night were only more fodder for the gossip machines. Like it or not, I had become part of another scandal.

  I took the paper from Milo and unfolded it. The headline was there in bold letters, and it was worse than I had expected: SUICIDE AT LORD DUNMORE’S BALL: DEAD MAN BELIEVED TO BE JEWEL THIEF.

  “Jewel thief!” I exclaimed. “What on earth…”

  “Read on,” Milo said, reaching to pour coffee from the pot into my cup.

  I read aloud. “Last evening, the ball held at the home of the Viscount Dunmore was the scene of an unexpected tragedy when Mr. James Harker, nephew of Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd Barrington, shot himself in one of Lord Dunmore’s upstairs rooms. A later examination of the body revealed the presence of several sapphires, believed to be from a bracelet belonging to the deceased’s aunt, Mrs. Barrington.”

  I gasped and looked up at Milo as he complacently stirred sugar into my coffee.

  “Mrs. Barrington’s bracelet?”

  “It appears so. I told you the young man’s sins would come to light.”

  My eyes scanned the article. “Mrs. Barrington revealed that bracelet appeared to be the one she had been wearing earlier in the evening. She also divulged that other items of jewelry were missing from her home, including a priceless brooch and a diamond bracelet. The combined value of the items is estimated to be in excess of ten thousand pounds.”

  “Not exactly a queen’s ransom,” Milo observed.

  I looked up. “But those sapphires were paste.”

  One of Milo’s dark brows lifted as he paused, my cup raised halfway to his lips. “Indeed? You seem privy to information that The Times was not able to extract from the rather voluble Mrs. Barrington.”

  I flushed, realizing I had revealed more than I intended. I fancy I was able to smooth out my features rather quickly, but not quickly enough to escape Milo’s notice. He was, as always, irritatingly perceptive. “Amory, have you been involving yourself in things you shouldn’t again?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.

  “Don’t you?” He challenged me with a knowing look.

  I was spared the effort of summoning up an indignant response by the ringing of the telephone.

  “I wonder who that could be at this hour,” I said.

  “I’m sure we shall soon see.”

  A moment later, Winnelda tapped hesitantly at the door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  She cracked the door and stuck her head inside the room as she always did, her eyes averted as though afraid of finding us in the throes of passion.

  “Yes, Winnelda? Who’s calling?” I asked.

  “It’s Mrs. Barrington, madam,” she answered, her gaze still trained on the floor.

  My eyes met Milo’s, something very like interest flickering in his.

  “Thank you, Winnelda.” I made a move to rise, but Milo was up before I could get to my feet.

  “I’ll speak to her, darling,” he said. “You shouldn’t be walking with your ankle as it is.”

  “Milo, I would like to speak to her…”

  But he was already to the door, Winnelda scurrying to get out of his way.

  He reached the telephone a moment later, and I could hear the low, pleasant murmur of his voice as he spoke. The conversation lasted for some minutes, and I supposed Mrs. Barrington was being treated to the full array of his considerable charms. I hadn’t the slightest doubt she would be captivated by the time he rang off. Much to my chagrin, I could not make out what he was saying, and I supposed they would be done speaking before I could hop to the door to eavesdrop. I gritted my teeth at the utter inconvenience of it all.

  When he came back into the room, I could barely contain my curiosity.

  “Well?” I asked. “What did she say?”

  “She wanted to see you, today if at all possible. She hadn’t heard, of course, that you have been injured.”

  “It’s only a sprain. Did she say what about?”

  “You really must be careful of your ankle,” he said, taking his seat and picking up my coffee cup, which he seemed to have commandeered. He infuriated me by taking a leisurely sip before continuing. “In any event, I’ve invited her to have tea with us this afternoon.”

  I was slightly mollified. At least I wouldn’t have long to wait before I discovered what it was she wanted.

  Milo drained the last of the coffee from the cup and rose from his chair. “I have some other matters to attend to, but I shall be back in time for tea.” He leaned to brush a kiss across my cheek. Then he was gone, and I leaned back against the divan, more exhausted, if possible, than I had been a few moments before.

  * * *

  I MANAGED TO pull myself together quite nicely by teatime. A somewhat fitful nap, a hot bath, and a smart new dress of indigo silk did much to improve both my appearance and my disposition.

  Using the wretched cane the doctor had sent, I was able to get around well enough to oversee Winnelda’s preparation of the tea things. We had just finished setting the table when the buzzer sounded.

  “She has arrived punctually,” Milo said, coming into the room. He had come home moments before, looking characteristically well turned out in a charcoal-gray suit.

  A moment later, Winnelda showed Mrs. Barrington into the room and left us alone. I think the girl was afraid she would spill tea on someone if she tried to serve, and I rather expected she was right. She really was a sweet little thing, but I was not at all certain she was cut out for service.

  Mrs. Barrington was dressed in a subtle navy ensemble and her features were somber, but the air of resilience hadn’t left her. I thought I detected a sense of determination about her, and I wondered what it was that she had come to say.

  “Mrs. Barrington,” I said, extending my hand to her. “I’m so sorry about your nephew.”

  “Thank you. It’s been rather a shock.” She said it in an automatic way, as though there were other things on her mind. While her tone was a bit more subdued than normal, I still detected the now-familiar underlying strength. Whatever her reason for coming, she had not come here to weep over James Harker, that much was certain.

  Milo had stood when she entered and moved to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Barrington. Allow me to offer my condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do you take your tea, Mrs. Barrington?” I asked, as Milo pulled out her chair and she sat.

  We settled for a moment into the comfortable routine of teatime. There was something very soothing about the familiar ritual, and the soft clinking of china and silver filled in the empty spaces in the conversation.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come,” she said after emptying her cup. She set the cup and saucer on the table before her and squared her shoulders as though preparing for some taxing activity.

  “Well,” I said carefully, “I … was a bit curious when Milo told me you wanted to come today.”

  “So soon after James’s death.” Her perceptive gaze trained on me. “But I expect you know that’s why I’m here.”

  I was still as puzzled as ever on that score. I really had no idea why she had come. I glanced at Milo, but his features were pleasantly impassive, as though we were discussing the weather.

  “I supposed it had something to do with the missing jewelry about
which you had spoken to me,” I said at last.

  “No, it isn’t that,” she said. “Not exactly, though goodness knows I wish I had never bothered about the jewels. If I had never bothered about it, James might still be alive. Of course, there is no way of knowing that for sure, and one mustn’t dwell on the ‘if only’s,’ must one?”

  “I … no, I suppose not,” I answered vaguely. I wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at. I wondered if she suspected her nephew had killed himself over guilt for stealing her things. It was what the papers had implied, but that did not mean it was true. Mrs. Barrington was a kind woman. If Mr. Harker had confessed, I had no doubt she would have forgiven him in an instant. No, I was certain there was more to James Harker’s suicide than the theft of a few of Mrs. Barrington’s jewels.

  “What is it about your nephew’s death that brought you here?” Milo asked. It was a rather straightforward question, but Mrs. Barrington didn’t appear to mind. In fact, she seemed to relax ever so slightly.

  “Have you seen the papers?” she asked.

  “I’ve been reading The Times,” I said, before adding hesitantly, “They said that you recognized the jewels found in your nephew’s pocket.”

  “Yes, I told the press that the jewels were mine and that the other things were missing,” she said. “They would have found out in any event. It saved time, and it served my purpose to do so.”

  My eyes flickered to Milo’s. We were both wondering, I think, where this bizarre conversation was leading.

  “Perhaps he had a good reason for taking them,” I ventured, when she didn’t continue.

  “James didn’t steal my things, Mrs. Ames.”

  I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “I know it’s a horrible thought, especially given the circumstances, but…”

  “You don’t understand,” she said abruptly, and I could almost picture her impatiently swatting my erroneous assumptions aside. “He knew that the sapphires were paste. I confided my plan in him before the ball.”