Death Wears a Mask

by Ashley Weaver

  “Alexander always throws lovely parties.” There was something in her pointed use of Lord Dunmore’s Christian name and the acknowledgment of their history that suddenly made me suspect that her coolness might be grounded in uncertainty over my interest in him. Her next statement confirmed it.

  “You’ve been seeing rather a lot of him lately, so I hear.”

  So that was the way it was. She suspected that I was encroaching on her territory. I wondered just where she had heard that bit of inaccurate information. “Not really, no,” I said. “I barely know him, in fact.”

  Her eyes seemed to study my face in the mirror, as though she was trying to gauge my truthfulness in it.

  I thought about the dinner at Mrs. Barrington’s and the night of the ball. I had seen very little interaction between the two of them. I wondered if they were simply keeping their relationship as discreet as possible. Somehow, given what I knew of Lord Dunmore, I thought that unlikely. It seemed to me that the two of them must have had a falling out. Perhaps she worried that he would move on rather than return to her. Well, she needn’t concern herself on my account. Even if Lord Dunmore had set his sights on me, I had no interest in a flirtation.

  I wondered if there was any way I could get her to talk about what had caused them to drift apart, but, given her frigid demeanor, it seemed unlikely in the extreme. I would have to ask Winnelda to ask Lilly to ask Jenny to ask Gladys what might have transpired.

  “Someone mentioned they had seen him at your flat,” she said. Her tone was too casual, and I knew she was wondering what I would say.

  “He dropped by in passing, to see how my ankle was mending.”

  I didn’t know if she believed me, but she seemed to have thawed ever so slightly when she spoke again. “To tell the truth, I think he was more affected by the events of the ball than he likes to admit.”

  “I can imagine,” I replied, wondering what she meant by this. I had detected very little sign of it in his manner yesterday. Then again, Mrs. Garmond knew him much better than I. He wouldn’t have been likely to share such things with me.

  “I saw him this morning,” she continued, “and he mentioned how troubled he was by everything that has happened.”

  She’d seen him this morning, had she? Perhaps things were not as strained between them as I had believed. I wondered if he had mentioned that I had called and that we had a dinner engagement for the following evening. It might have accounted for her coolness toward me.

  “I still find it hard to believe that such a thing happened under all of our noses. Did you hear the shot?” I asked.

  It seemed to me that she hesitated ever so slightly before she answered. “No. I was in the ballroom at the time, and the music was too loud.”

  That was curious. Inspector Jones had told me that she was in one of the bedrooms when the murder had happened. For some reason, she had chosen to tell me a deliberate lie. Perhaps it was because the truth might have proved embarrassing for some reason, but there was always the chance that her lie was meant to cover something more sinister.

  I picked up another hat, this one a strangely shaped brim that would be sure to draw attention, and perhaps not the positive kind. I put it on. “I had only just met Mr. Harker at the Barringtons’ dinner party. Did you know him well?”

  Again, it seemed as though she hesitated. “Not very well, no. We came into contact not infrequently at social occasions, but we were not what I would call friends.”

  There was something in her manner that gave me the impression she was keeping something back. I had not as yet made any connection between the two of them, but I wondered if there was something she was hiding.

  It was apparent I was not going to learn much more from the reticent Mrs. Garmond. I searched my mind for some other point of common interest. “I have been pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Foster. I have long enjoyed watching him play.”

  She dropped the hat pin she was holding and bent to pick it up, answering me as she did so. “I’m not very fond of tennis.”

  I barely heard her reply, however, for I had noticed that the collar of her blouse slipped down, and I could make out dark marks along her collarbone. Bruises.

  I looked away as she sat back up, so she would not see that I had noticed. I studied a crimson beret with much more attention than it merited.

  “I think that would suit you,” she said, rising and gathering up her handbag and gloves. “You do look lovely in red. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ames.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  I finalized my purchases with the salesgirl and gave her the address of the flat for them to be delivered.

  I left the shop not quite sure what I had accomplished. I had learned very little from Mrs. Garmond, though it was interesting that she had lied to me about her whereabouts at the time of the murder. I wondered if her lie had anything to do with the bruises. It was possible she had injured herself in some way, but the bruises had looked very much like marks left by fingers. Perhaps she and Lord Dunmore were not on friendly terms, after all.

  If there was anything more she knew, I didn’t think I would be able to get it out of her. I supposed I would just have to wait and see what sort of information Milo had been able to gather.

  I was forced to admit that it had not been an entirely successful trip from an investigative standpoint. On a positive note, however, I had acquired five new hats.

  19

  A FEW HOURS later, I stood before the mirror, surveying myself with dissatisfaction. I was hard-pressed to determine what to wear to dinner with my husband. On the one hand, I felt that I should try to look as well as possible in order to keep up appearances. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to think I had gone to any particular trouble on his account. I purposefully avoided wearing blue, as Milo had always preferred me in it.

  The gown I had settled on was of forest-green silk that looked well with my fair skin and gave a hint of color to my gray eyes. It fit me very nicely, but it was not particularly enticing, and I decided it would do well enough. I wanted to give Milo no encouragement, for I did not have high hopes that our evening would end well.

  In fact, I knew perfectly well how things would go. He would try to explain away his behavior, and I would long to believe it, despite the evidence. I knew, however, that if I gave in, we would be back where we started, with no true resolution of our problems. This made me more determined than ever that I would not give in to his charms.

  He came into the house without ringing the buzzer, but I noticed that he didn’t seek me out in the bedroom. Instead, I found him smoking in the parlor, listening indifferently to the radio.

  He stood as I entered the room, leaning to ground out his cigarette. “Good evening, darling.”

  “Hello, Milo.”

  He came to me and brushed a kiss across my cheek. “You look stunning, as always.”

  Naturally, the same could be said of him. I didn’t return the compliment, however. He knew perfectly well how good-looking he was and didn’t need me to say so.

  “Where would you like to dine tonight? Criterion?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said casually, “I was hoping we could go to Restaurant Boulestin, for a change of pace.”

  I had not forgotten Mamie’s invitation, and I did not intend to tell Milo about it until we arrived. I knew he wouldn’t have agreed to dinner with company when he wanted me alone to work his wiles.

  He had coerced me into dinner with the promise of information, so I felt not the slightest qualm about bringing him unknowingly to dinner with the Douglas-Hugheses.

  If he suspected anything behind my unusual choice of restaurant, he gave no sign of it. It was not a restaurant we often frequented. Nevertheless, we did sometimes choose restaurants outside of our normal haunts, so the suggestion was not enough to elicit suspicion.

  He helped me into my coat, and we went to our car.

  We talked very little on the drive to Southampton Street. Milo knew how much I di
sliked talking in front of Markham, and the things we had to say to each other were of a more private nature than usual.

  I had eaten at Restaurant Boulestin once or twice before. The food was excellent, and the wine-colored carpet, vibrant murals, and hanging balloon lights created a festive atmosphere.

  As we walked into the restaurant, I looked about for Mrs. Douglas-Hughes. She was normally easy to spot with her flaming red hair, but I didn’t see her at a quick glance. The crowded interior and bright décor proved a bit inhibitive to locating her. Luckily, a voice caught my attention.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Ames.”

  I turned to see Nigel Foster approaching. I was happy to see him, for I had wanted the chance to converse with another of the suspects and had hoped at least one of them would be present at dinner.

  “Good evening, Mr. Foster,” I said warmly, as he took my hand. Though I had encountered my fair share of celebrities, I was still a bit in awe of Mr. Foster. It was not often, after all, that one came into contact with one of the greatest athletes in the country—the world, for that matter.

  “Mrs. Douglas-Hughes said that we should perhaps expect you,” he told me with a smile. “I was glad to hear it, for I’d been hoping for the opportunity to see you again.”

  His gaze turned to Milo, whom he had apparently just noticed behind me. While he was too polite to show surprise, I could see the interest in his expression. Mamie had not known Milo would be attending, and I supposed that Mr. Foster, like the rest of London, had heard about Milo’s latest scandal. It seemed very unlikely that we should be dining together, but perhaps it would do something to quiet the rumors a bit.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ames.”

  “Good evening,” Milo said, and I detected the slightest trace of wariness in his tone. He was beginning to suspect something was afoot.

  “You’re joining us, aren’t you?” Mr. Foster invited. “Our table is just over here.”

  Milo spoke up before I had the chance. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to…”

  I elbowed him in the side, none too gently.

  “… refuse such an invitation,” he finished smoothly.

  “Excellent! We’ll be delighted to have you both.”

  He turned and began making his way through the crowded room toward a table in the corner. Milo took my arm as we followed him and leaned down to speak in my ear. “For the record, I took your rather aggressive cue unwillingly. I didn’t intend to share you this evening with other gentlemen, celebrated athletes or no.”

  “It’s not a matter of sharing.”

  “Indeed? You must have missed the way Mr. Foster looked at you before he noticed me standing there.”

  “Oh, posh,” I said. “This dinner may be an opportunity to learn something important, Milo. We can talk about your peccadillos another time.”

  “Amory…”

  I ignored him and reached the table before he could ply me with excuses.

  The gentlemen rose as Mr. Foster pulled out my chair and we all exchanged pleasantries. The party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Douglas-Hughes, Mr. Foster, a member of Parliament and his wife, and, to my surprise, Marjorie Echols. She was seated beside Mr. Foster, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they had come together. Miss Echols did not display any sign of particular affection toward him. In fact, if I read her body language correctly, she seemed a bit uncomfortable beside him. Or perhaps it was only nerves or the excitement of being out with so famous a gentleman.

  “I’m so glad you could join us, Amory,” Mamie said warmly, her eyes moving from Milo to me and back again, “and you too, Mr. Ames.”

  “We’re delighted,” Milo said, with the appearance of perfect sincerity.

  He was, of course, the picture of politeness; charm was a natural reflex for him. Nevertheless, I could sense his unwillingness to be a part of the group. I felt a bit bad about tricking him into a dinner party, but he might as well prove useful while he was here.

  I leaned close to him. “Talk to Miss Echols about the murder,” I instructed in a low voice. I had seen her bold eyes sweeping appreciatively over him since we had arrived at the table, and I was certain she would be more than happy to reveal to him whatever it was that she might know. If it was true that her sister and Mr. Harker had been involved with one another, Milo would be able to find out.

  He let out an impatient breath, but a moment later he turned to her and began a conversation. He was apparently making headway, for her throaty laugh could be heard every so often, though I couldn’t make out in the din of the room what they were saying to one another.

  We all made pleasant, superficial conversation, but as the main course came I became impatient to try to learn something.

  “I spoke with Mrs. Barrington yesterday,” I said aloud, by way of easing the conversation around to murder. “She seems to be doing fairly well.”

  “The poor thing,” Mamie said. “I feel so sorry for her. It must have been simply awful to lose someone like that.”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Harker very well,” I said to Mr. Foster. “What was he like?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t know him very well either,” Mr. Foster admitted. “Mr. Barrington and I are friends, but I never spent much time in Mr. Harker’s company. He seemed a pleasant fellow.”

  “We’d been to dinner at the Barringtons’ several times when he was there, so we got to know him in a casual way,” Mamie said. “He was so quiet, I’d often forget he was there … until he made some sort of outlandish remark that caught everyone off guard.”

  “Mamie,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes said in an affectionately warning tone. “There’s no need bringing that up.”

  “I didn’t really mean to, Sandy,” she replied. “But now that you’ve said it, I’ll have to or everyone will simply die of curiosity.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said lightly. “You must tell us now.”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Foster joined in. “You can’t dangle something like that in front of us and then refuse to tell us. We’re all quite curious.”

  I saw Mr. Douglas-Hughes give his wife a subtle shrug, as though he knew she was going to go on with the story, so he might as well not oppose it. There was an affectionate resignation in his gaze, and I marveled at how easily I could read the fondness between the two of them.

  “It was at dinner a few weeks ago,” she said. “You were there at the time, Mr. Foster, though perhaps you weren’t sitting near enough to hear what was said. We were all admiring Mrs. Barrington’s jewelry when Mr. Harker commented quite loudly that she didn’t really need such a collection, and it would be better off given to someone who could really use it.”

  I stilled, my fork halfway to my mouth as I took in this information. I glanced at Milo. His eyes were focused disinterestedly on the glass in his hand, but I knew him well enough to suspect that he was listening very carefully to what was being said.

  “I supposed Mr. Harker felt strongly about some social cause he wanted to support,” Mamie said, “but it made things a little awkward for all of us, the way he said it. Of course, it was sweet of him to care for the needy, and it just shows what sort of person that he was.”

  I glanced at Marjorie Echols. There was an odd expression on her face, but it was gone almost instantly, and I half wondered if I had imagined it.

  “Poor Jim was always saying the strangest things,” she said, and her voice sounded strained beneath its artificial cheerfulness. “He was rather a dear, though. I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  I wondered again if it was possible that she had been in love with him. It didn’t seem likely. Her personality seemed ill-suited to someone like Mr. Harker. Stranger things had been known to happen, however.

  “He always seemed a pleasant fellow to me,” Mr. Foster put in. I saw him glance at Marjorie as he said it, and I suspected he was trying to soothe her feelings. I thought it kind of him to do so, though she didn’t acknowledge his comment.

  I had picked up my water glass when Mamie caught my eye. She
raised her brows slightly and made a subtle nod toward the doorway. “I think I need to visit the powder room,” she said to the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said, taking her cue. “My makeup could use a bit of freshening up.”

  The gentlemen rose as we did, and I followed Mamie from the room. We entered the powder rooms. A row of red satin chairs sat before a long vanity that stretched along one wall. There was a woman there reapplying her lipstick, so I followed Mamie’s lead and removed my compact from my handbag as we took two of the seats. We powdered our noses until the other woman had finished and left the room.

  When the door had closed behind her, Mamie turned to me excitedly.

  “I didn’t want to say anything more at the table, but I thought of something else, the thing that was bothering me that I couldn’t remember. It was at that same dinner. Before he said the charity line, he blurted out”—she affected an excellent British accent—“‘It’s more the sort of thing a man would use to woo his mistress than give to his wife. Certainly you’ve no need for such adornments, Aunt Serena.’”

  My brows rose. That was an interesting comment indeed.

  “He then went on to say that he thought it would be better to donate things to the needy. I think it made her a bit uncomfortable.”

  “What sort of jewelry was it?” I questioned casually.

  “I don’t remember. It might have been a necklace. I really just remember how Mrs. Barrington looked so funny when he said it. It was as though he had struck some sort of nerve. I assume she was embarrassed at the crassness of the mistress remark, or perhaps at his insinuation that charity might be a better use for money. It wasn’t really the thing to say at dinner.”

  “That is quite interesting,” I said slowly, turning it over in my mind.

  It was strange that Mr. Harker should have equated the jewelry to something one would give a mistress and that Mrs. Barrington had appeared deeply affected by the comment. Of course, it might have just been one of his awkward outbursts that had mortified her, but perhaps there was more to it than that.