“Oh, I sincerely doubt it,” I said with a smile. I imagined the staff was enchanted with Mrs. Douglas-Hughes. She had that rare combination of elegance and genuine warmth, which, combined with her American informality, made her a charming conversationalist.
“I have adapted very readily to teatime, though,” she said, pouring the steaming liquid into a cup emblazoned with the Douglas-Hughes monogram.
I took my cup and saucer from her. “How long have you lived in England?”
“Two years now. It really is a wonderful place. Different from New York, of course, but also the same in many ways. Have you been to America?”
“Yes, although it’s been quite some time. My cousin Laurel is on a steamship bound for there now. She’s going to visit a family friend who lives in Manhattan.”
“How very nice. It’s always more pleasant to visit places where one has acquaintances.” She paused for a moment before going on. “If I’m honest, I will say that it has not been as easy for me to make friends here as I had hoped. Of course, there are social acquaintances, but it’s not the same. As soon as we met, I felt immediately as though we were going to be friends.”
I smiled, only a bit caught off guard by her frankness. “Well, thank you. I should like that.”
She smiled brightly, and I found it hard to believe that people would not wish to befriend her. It was true that many women of our social circle might look down upon Mamie’s social origins, her nationality, or possibly both. However, I had felt the same instinctual regard that she had felt for me, and I hoped that we would indeed become friends. My only truly close friend was Laurel, and I felt her absence all the more now that I had no one with whom to discuss all of my most recent contretemps.
“You were a dancer in America, I believe?” I asked. I had heard the various accounts of her past, but I was curious as to what the real story was.
“Yes, I danced in several revues on Broadway. Not a chorus girl, you understand. My partner and I would do dance routines: waltzes, the foxtrot, the Charleston, a bit of tap dance, that sort of thing. I’m also a great admirer of ballet, but it hasn’t much taken hold in the States yet. Dancing was my greatest love … until I met Sandy.”
I smiled. “How did you come to meet him?”
“He was in New York for some sort of political thing, and the gentlemen came to one of the revues. He sent a note to my dressing room afterward. I didn’t often go out with men from the audience, but something about his sweet, formal little note caught my attention. He took me to dinner, and the rest is history.” She smiled fondly, and I could detect no trace of sadness in the relinquishment of her profession.
“You seem very happy,” I commented.
“Oh, we are. Of course, Sandy is away with his work more often than I like. And he’s so secretive about it sometimes. Government conspiracies and all that, I suppose. But on the whole we have been extremely happy.”
“Do you still dance?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t have much of an opportunity for that now. Of course, at balls and things I enjoy it. But as for dancing professionally, I find I don’t miss it much. There are so many other things to occupy my time. With Sandy’s role in the Foreign Office, we’re forever attending different functions. He says he gleans public perception of current events when he attends social occasions. I think that was why he insisted we attend Lord Dunmore’s ball. It’s not really the sort of thing he would have enjoyed otherwise. He finds the idea of masks and disguises and such to be silly, and I was a bit surprised he wanted to go.”
“It was terrible about Mr. Harker’s death, wasn’t it?” I said, pouncing upon the opening she had given me.
“Yes,” she answered. “It was just awful! I could scarcely believe it when they told me what happened. And now to hear that it was murder. It’s almost too much to believe.”
“I was in one of the bedrooms waiting for the doctor when the shot sounded,” I told her. “Were you still upstairs?” According to Inspector Jones, she had been in a room with her husband, but I wanted to hear her account firsthand.
She nodded. “Sandy and I were in the room where the men had been playing cards before they all wandered off. We were discussing a bit of political gossip when the shot sounded. It flashed across my mind that there may have been an assassination, and now it seems I was not far wrong. Perhaps that is why there continues to be something about that night that bothers me.”
“It was so dreadfully unexpected,” I said, to prod her along.
“Yes, but it wasn’t just that,” she continued, a thoughtful expression on her face. “There’s something else, something that someone said that night that made me think…” She smiled suddenly, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s quite possible that my mind is playing tricks on me after everything that happened.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed her. I didn’t want to appear too inquisitive. Then again, a mysterious death was bound to be a subject of interest, and there was no reason why I should not appear intrigued.
“I don’t know exactly.” Her brow furrowed as she thought. “It was just when I heard that they found those jewels in his pocket, it made me feel that I had seen or heard something earlier in the evening that made me wonder…” She laughed. “I’m probably imagining things. Sandy tells me I have a typically American imagination. The Hollywood influence, he calls it.”
I longed to question her further, but I didn’t want to tip my hand, as the Americans said. Though I felt instinctively that I could trust Mamie Douglas-Hughes, I knew that my involvement in the mystery of James Harker’s death was probably best kept quiet for the present. If an opportunity came to confide in Mamie at a later time, I would certainly do so. For now, I thought it best to tread carefully.
“I suppose it was quite a shock to everyone who had recently dined at the Barringtons’ home,” I said. “To know we had just dined with Mr. Harker, and now he is dead.”
“Yes, I’m so sorry for poor Mrs. Barrington. We’re often in company with the Barringtons because Sandy and Mr. Barrington are very chummy. They like talking politics for hours on end. I didn’t know Mr. Harker well, only from the dinner parties. He always seemed very nice, even if he was a bit awkward. I feel sorry for Felicity, too.”
This stopped me. “Felicity Echols?”
“Yes. I never heard anything, of course, but I think she was a bit sweet on Mr. Harker.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“It was just an impression I got. Of course, I doubt there was anything really going on between them. Felicity’s so quiet. She’s a sweet thing, but Marjorie’s a bit frightening, isn’t she? I don’t mean that in a negative way. I just mean that she’s very brash. She reminds me of some of the girls I knew from the revue, flashy and confident. She runs with a rowdy crowd, I believe. And she drags poor Felicity along with her. I think Mr. Harker would accompany them out sometimes as well. That’s why I had the impression that he and Felicity might have been an item.”
This was an interesting bit of news. I wanted to ask her more, but Mr. Douglas-Hughes suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, here you are, darling,” he said. “And Mrs. Ames. I’m delighted to see you.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Douglas-Hughes.”
“Amory and I are having a delightful time,” Mamie said. “We’re going to be great friends.”
He smiled affectionately at his wife. “I’m delighted to hear it. You must watch out for her, Mrs. Ames,” he said, turning to me. “She has the charming habit of completely winning people over when she sets her mind to it.”
“Oh, Sandy’s always teasing me,” she said laughingly. “He claims he fell in love with me against his will.”
“I had the firmest intentions of remaining a bachelor, wholly dedicated to my work,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes told me. “However, one evening in Mamie’s company, and I was hopelessly smitten. She quickly brought me to heel.”
I tried to imagine the words “smitt
en” or “brought to heel” ever being even remotely applicable to Milo and failed utterly.
She laughed and reached up to touch his hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t say such things in front of people!”
I felt a little pang at the way they looked at one another. It was obvious that they were very much in love.
“You must excuse us, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “I’m afraid Mamie’s scandalous American behavior is rubbing off on me.”
I smiled, admiring the ease of their exchanges and their affection for one another. Had Milo and I ever been that way? It suddenly seemed very difficult to remember.
“Will you drink tea with us?” she asked him.
“I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I’ve an appointment with Sir John.”
Mamie wrinkled her nose at the mention of the foreign secretary. “You’d have a better time with us, although we’re being a bit morbid. We were talking about poor Mr. Harker’s death.”
“Indeed? That was quite a tragedy.” He said this almost tonelessly, and I couldn’t help but feel that there was suddenly a slight change in his manner, as though it was a topic he wished to avoid. Naturally, this made me want to pursue it.
“I didn’t know Mr. Harker well,” I said, “but he seemed a pleasant gentleman. His murder was so shocking a thing to happen in such a public place.”
“Yes, I think we were all a great deal surprised, though I’m sure the culprit will be apprehended shortly,” he answered blandly, thwarting my attempts to draw him into the conversation. “I’m afraid I’ve got to be off. Don’t wait dinner for me, my dear. Mrs. Ames, it was lovely to see you again.”
“It was nice to see you as well, Mr. Douglas-Hughes.”
He excused himself, and I found I was a bit disappointed. I suspected that careful neutral replies were no doubt the stock-in-trade of Mr. Douglas-Hughes’s profession, so his reserve was not necessarily unusual. Nevertheless, it seemed that he was especially disinclined to discuss Mr. Harker’s death. Perhaps he knew more than he was willing to say.
Mamie changed the subject then, and there was little I could do to change it back without appearing either suspicious or morbidly curious. We talked about pleasanter things, and I thought that we would indeed be good friends.
At last, I rose to leave and Mamie walked me to the door. “Sandy and I are having dinner with some friends Thursday night at Restaurant Boulestin,” she said. “It’s become one of my favorite places. If you feel like coming, we’d be delighted to have you.”
I wondered if any of the other guests might be on the list of suspects. There would be potential for me to learn more about what had happened on the night of the ball. However, there was really no way that I could ask who else would be attending.
“Thank you. I shall try to be there.”
“Wonderful! You don’t need to call me or anything. It’s nothing formal. Just come if you feel like it. We’ll make room at our table.”
I left the Douglas-Hughes home a while later, lost in thought. What had I learned today? It hadn’t been much. However, it was interesting to know that Felicity Echols might have been involved with James Harker. The papers had suggested a lovers’ quarrel. It seemed far-fetched, but I couldn’t rule it out. I would need to find out more about the relationship between Miss Echols and Mr. Harker.
I also wondered what it was that Mrs. Douglas-Hughes felt she had observed. I would have to bring it up again casually the next time we met.
* * *
THE FLAT WAS quiet when I returned home that evening after some shopping and a light dinner. It was Winnelda’s night off, and I realized suddenly that I had become unaccustomed to silence. She was growing on me.
I changed into a blue silk nightdress with a sheer ivory negligee thrown over it then went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I intended to pass a quiet evening reading before the fire. I needed a distraction from my marriage and the murder, if only for an hour or two.
I set out a cup and saucer on the countertop and took the tea tin down from the shelf. As I opened the tin, the lid slipped from my grasp, fell to the floor, and rolled across the room and behind the dustbin. I leaned to retrieve it, and something caught my eye.
There was a gossip magazine shoved in the dustbin, its cover half obscured by some crumpled parchment paper. I frowned. It was unlike Winnelda to throw her scandal sheets away. After all, it was her accumulated collection that had proved so useful to us this afternoon. Why might she have wanted to dispose of it? I could only suppose it was the article about Milo and that Renault woman. It was sweet of her to want to shield me.
I picked up the magazine and thumbed through it, curious. I suspected a picture had been taken of the two of them when they arrived together at Lord Dunmore’s ball, and I wanted to get a better look at her than the one I had had from the top of the stairs. I couldn’t help but be a bit curious about my husband’s rumored inamorata, after all.
I turned the page and stopped cold. I could literally feel the blood draining from my face before it rushed through it again in a fierce wave of heat.
The photograph had not been taken at Lord Dunmore’s house. The magazine was new, dated the day Milo had left for Frederick Garmond’s estate.
It was indeed a picture of Milo and Helene Renault, but I was quite unable to get a good look at her face as I had intended, for it was obscured by his.
Her arms were thrown around his neck, and they were kissing.
* * *
I’M NOT ENTIRELY sure how long I stood there staring at it. The photograph had been captured while they were in the backseat of an automobile. It was difficult to make anything out, really, except for the fact that they were clearly enjoying one another’s company. Her fur-draped arms were around his shoulders, and she was leaning into his embrace, her mouth pressed against his.
After a moment, I had to concede that Winnelda had had the right idea. I crumpled it up and put it back in the dustbin. I noticed as I did so that my hands were shaking, whether from shock or the intense fury I was attempting to contain, I didn’t know.
I drew in a deep breath and forced myself to remain calm. It was by no means the first time this had happened. There had been other women in other photographs, but I could not escape the fact that none had been as blatant as this. There was no way to explain a kiss away.
I fought down an immense wave of sadness. There would be time enough to deal with this when Milo returned home. Until then, I would push it away to some far corner of my mind and not think about it. It was a skill I had mastered over the years.
With supreme effort, I calmly finished making my tea and took it to the parlor.
My eyes fell on the photograph on the mantel of Milo and I on our wedding day. I looked so very young, so radiantly happy. Milo looked as elegant as always, but he looked happy, too. Looking at the photograph, I would have sworn that we were very much in love.
I sighed. Our wedding day seemed so very long ago. I had truly believed then that we would be happy together for all the days of our lives. Did I still believe it? I just wasn’t sure anymore. I fought the urge to pick up our wedding photograph and hurl it across the room. Instead, I sat and drank my tea.
14
I SLEPT VERY poorly, but I was determined to put on a good show for Winnelda. It didn’t seem to have worked, however, for she took one look at me and cheerfully suggested a bit of rouge to “improve my color.”
My makeup duly applied and a cheerful dress of rose-colored crepe selected, I set out to determine my first order of business for the day. I certainly didn’t intend to sit at home moping as though my world had come to an end. I was hurt and deeply angry, but giving rein to either of those emotions was not going to be useful at present. There was still a mystery to be solved, and I needed to see what other information I could glean.
I had spoken with Mrs. Douglas-Hughes and, though quite unsatisfactorily, with her husband. It would be more difficult for me to arrange a meeting with the other su
spects. Typically, crossing paths with the women would be easier to accomplish, though in this case I could think of no good means of doing so. The Echols sisters I didn’t know at all well. I had not been acquainted with them before Mrs. Barrington’s dinner party, and I could think of no excuse for contacting them now. I could think of even less of a reason to contact Mrs. Garmond.
As for the gentlemen, I had very little means of putting myself in their paths in an inconspicuous way. This served as yet another reason for me to be angry with Milo. Were he not traipsing about the country making a spectacle of himself with his mistress, he might have proved himself useful.
What I needed was another source. Someone who was disconnected from the murder itself but might still have information that would be useful.
I thought suddenly of Yvonne Roland. I dismissed the idea at once, but I couldn’t seem to shake it completely. An extremely wealthy widow, she charged through polite society with terrible speed, gathering up information like a squirrel gathering nuts. Though I had never ascertained the particulars, she had some type of connection with the gossip columns, and I wondered if there might possibly be anything that she could tell me. I hadn’t the slightest doubt that she had been following the story in the papers.
I pondered the hazards of contacting her. With my own situation being what it was, I suspected it would be difficult to keep her from prying into my personal affairs. Then again, she would probably know things about the guests of Lord Dunmore’s ball that would be nearly impossible for me to find out myself.
I decided to take the risk. After all, I knew her game and would go in prepared to beat her at it.
* * *
AT FOUR O’CLOCK, I was ushered into Mrs. Roland’s parlor. She had been delighted to hear from me and had insisted I come to tea that very afternoon. She lived in a large but comfortable house she had bought for herself after the death of her most recent husband. She went through husbands at a somewhat alarming rate, but it had never been known to dampen her considerable zeal for society life.
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