I came down into the lobby and made my way to the breakfast room. It was at the south side of the hotel, a sunny, golden space that looked out over the terrace, with a sweeping view of the sea. The sky was a vibrant shade of blue, and our dining was accompanied by the sound of gulls and the waves on the rocks below. It was a lovely view for a lovely morning.
Gil stood and smiled as I approached his table. “Good morning. You’re looking fresh and lovely this morning.”
“Thank you.” I was pleased with the compliment. I wore a cheerful yellow silk dress that was in keeping with my attempt at good spirits. The color seemed to brighten my pale skin, which I was certain could benefit by a few days in the sun. Though naturally fair, I hoped to have time to improve my complexion a bit while here.
I filled my plate from the overflowing sideboard. The food was excellent, as it had been the night before. We were served the full spectrum of breakfast fare, including sausage, bacon, eggs, baked beans, an assortment of puddings, fried bread, kidney, kippers, tomato, mushrooms, and a variety of fruits. I ate more than could have conceivably been healthy.
I could not help but feel very much pleased with the Brightwell Hotel. I thought it was a place I should like to visit again, perhaps under less strenuous circumstances. For, despite the loveliness of the morning, there was still a tension that seemed to hover in the air.
As we ate, I noticed that a change had come over Gil since last evening. He looked as though he hadn’t slept well either. His eyes were tired, and there was a very definite tightness about his mouth that remained there even when he smiled. No doubt he was still troubled by his conversation with Rupert Howe. I decided that it would probably be best to avoid bringing up the fact that I had overheard the conversation. If he wished to tell me about, I had no doubt that he would do so in his own good time.
“You look as if a long walk along the beach would do you good,” I said as I pushed my plate away, unable to consume another mouthful.
He smiled, wearily it seemed. “As lovely as that sounds, I’m afraid I have things to attend to this morning. But soon. Soon I would like to have a walk and a long talk.”
“It will be all right, Gil.” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
He looked up at me, but there was something vague about his expression, as though his mind was not completely on our conversation. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
I picked up the coffeepot and poured the steaming liquid, refilling his cup.
He held up his hand as I picked up the sugar tongs, preparing to give him two lumps. “Just milk, please.”
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten.”
* * *
GIL LEFT ME after breakfast, the air of preoccupation still hanging over him. I would have liked to help, but I could think of no way to prove useful at the moment. I was his partner in this, yes, but I was no longer his confidant as I once had been. The easiness that existed between us was fragile. Once again I contemplated how rottenly I had treated him. Happily, he seemed to have forgiven me, and I hoped that we could one day be real friends again.
With nothing to do for the moment but amuse myself, I went to my room and changed into my backless peach-colored maillot, over which I wore beach pyjamas of flowing white trousers and a loose crêpe de chine jacket with wide stripes of peach, white, and teal. I topped it off with a white straw hat and matching bag. A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked suitably turned out, and I made my way downstairs. I exited the side entrance of the building, which wound around to the seaside terrace, from which the long flight of steps led down to the beach.
I reached the seaside terrace and saw Mrs. Hamilton sitting alone at a table, taking a cup of tea. There was something of the little lost girl about her, as though someone had forgotten her.
“Hello,” I said, stopping near her table.
“Hello.” When she smiled she seemed much less retiring, as though the simple upturning of her lips brought her confidence.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“Yes, quite.” Her eyes darted out toward the sea. “Though the sea seems rather rough today.”
The water did not seem overagitated to me, but perhaps the pronounced sound of the waves echoing up from the base of the cliff had given her that impression. I remembered what her husband had said about her dislike of the sea.
“You’re all alone here?” I asked.
“Nelson has gone down to the beach.” She nodded her head toward the stretch of ground below. I imagined that, by leaning slightly in her seat, she would be able to make out the guests there at the water’s edge. I wondered if she liked to keep an eye on her husband. “I don’t care for it myself. I thought tea on the terrace would be lovely. Then perhaps I shall find a nice quiet place to read. I’m told the hotel has a comfortable sitting room. I rather like to be alone.”
So I had surmised correctly that Larissa Hamilton was not enjoying her holiday at the seaside. No doubt her husband had convinced her to come. Nelson Hamilton was undoubtedly the decision maker in their marriage. And he seemed more than happy to indulge her in her proclivity for solitude.
As if she could read my thoughts, she smiled. “I don’t mind. Really. I’m happy to sit alone reading. I’ve the latest Warwick Deeping novel to keep me company.”
“Sometimes it’s rather nice to have a bit of time to oneself,” I agreed.
“Yes. I’ve been accused of being unfriendly, but it’s really just that I’m not very good with people, especially those I don’t know.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” I told her.
Her smile returned, as though she was glad to have found someone who understood her. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time at the beach,” she said.
“And I hope you enjoy your tea and reading,” I said sincerely as I continued my journey toward the water.
A set of white wooden stairs at the end of the terrace led downward toward a little landing at the top of the cliff. From there two steps of staircases led ever downward, the steps on the right leading toward the path to the beach, the stairs on the left coming to the terrace partway down the cliff, the one about which Gil had told me yesterday.
I took the steps to the right, which led downward until they ended in a pebbled path that snaked its way down to the beach. There were other hotels, I supposed, that offered visitors easier access to the water. However, an establishment such as the Brightwell was not one to make apologies. Indeed, the private beach it offered its guests was well worth the slight inconvenience of access. The beach at the base of the cliff was cut off on either side by cliffs that extended farther into the water, creating its own secluded beachfront. There was no access except by the Brightwell steps or by boat.
A good number of Brightwell guests were at the beach, and I saw several members of our party. Emmeline sat in a chair not far from the path. Beyond her, Lionel Blake sat reading, his lips moving silently. I wondered absently if it was a script he was memorizing.
Veronica Carter lay in the sun, posing in a rather small bathing suit. She seemed to be tanning nicely, and I suspected that her red hair might not be natural; her skin tone was certainly not like that of most redheads I had known. Olive Henderson sat beneath an umbrella in striking green and blue printed beach pyjamas, looking out with disdain upon the proceedings.
Beyond them, I saw Nelson Hamilton talking to Anne Rodgers, who stood in her figure-hugging pink bathing suit, hands on her hips, bright blond hair shining in the sunlight. I wondered briefly where her husband might be but decided that he didn’t seem much the type to enjoy lounging by the sea.
The only other person I recognized was Yvonne Roland, who was walking along the surf much farther down the beach, her gaudy red robe flapping in the wind like a brilliant cape.
I stepped off the path and into the shingle beach, walking toward the others, enjoying the warm wind whipping at my hair beneath my hat. The walls of the cliff caught the sound of the sea, and the crash of the waves echoed around us.
“Oh, not yet, I should think. I like to warm a bit before I plunge into that icy water.” I sank into the chair and, kicking off my shoes, pressed my toes into the warm pebbles.
A sudden burst of laughter turned our attention to where Rupert had been knocked down by a large wave. He stood, dripping, and wiped the water from his face.
Emmeline smiled, her eyes not leaving her fiancé. “Rupert’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very.” I decided for the direct route. “When I first met your Rupert, he reminded me of Milo.”
She seemed surprised. “Really? How so?”
“Dark good looks, easy charm, elegant manner, that sort of thing.”
She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry to hear about your marriage … It makes it somewhat awkward since I’m also happy to see you with Gil.”
“I should have thought you would both be angry with me after what happened.”
“Oh, no! Gil could never be angry with you, Amory. Not really.” She looked up at me then, sincerity shining in her face. “And I felt sorry for him … but I was happy for you. I remember seeing you with Milo in London after things had … had ended with Gil. You seemed so frightfully happy, so very much in love. And I would have sworn he adored you.”
I shrugged, scooping up a handful of small, round pebbles and then let them fall, one by one, through my fingers. “Perhaps he did, for a time. Such things don’t last.”
“Don’t they?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You see, what men like Milo love most are themselves. Marriage was a diversion, and now the amusement has run its course.” I dropped the rest of the pebbles, brushing the last few clinging grains from my hands. How much of what I was saying was the truth, I wasn’t sure, but the words served my purpose. I had come not to contemplate my marriage but to cause Emmeline to contemplate hers.
Of course, I didn’t want to overdo it. I smiled. “But we needn’t dwell on the melancholy. The day is much too lovely.”
“Yes,” Emmeline agreed. I couldn’t help but notice that there was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before when her gaze wandered back to Rupert.
We chatted lightly for a while after that, and then Rupert walked over.
“What are you ladies gossiping about?” he asked, wiping the water from his face and pulling on his robe.
I stood. “Just a feminine tête-à-tête, Mr. Howe. Nothing to interest you, I’m afraid. But I leave you to your fiancée. I think I shall take a stroll.”
“Have tea with us this afternoon, won’t you, Amory? On the cliff terrace,” Emmeline asked.
I looked up at the terrace high above us. “Of course. I shall see you then.”
I left them and began to walk along the shore.
Lionel Blake looked up from his book as I prepared to pass him, and he wished me good morning. His green eyes, accentuated by his surroundings, seemed almost to glow, like a cat’s eyes.
I smiled an unenthusiastic greeting at Olive and Veronica as I passed, neither of whom acknowledged me with more than a raised eyebrow or slightly upturned lip. The feeling, then, was mutual.
The next pair my path crossed was Nelson Hamilton and Anne Rodgers. His gaze traveled up and down me like a boat looking for a pleasant spot to land. “Mrs. Ames,” he said. “Care for a swim? Anne and I were just about to take a dip.”
“Thank you, no. I think I’ll just walk a bit.”
“Well, perhaps later,” he said with a wink.
Wretched man. The more I saw of him, the more I disliked him and pitied his wife.
I passed them all, somehow avoiding Yvonne Roland, and enjoyed a relaxing, solitary walk. I ambled along for a nice stretch, until the beach was cut off by the cliff extending into the water, and then I turned around. By now the sun was high and increasingly warm. I decided to cool myself with a swim. I removed my trousers and jacket and took a bathing cap from my bag. I pulled the cap on, tucking in a few loose strands of hair, and waded into the sea. The water was cold and very refreshing. By the time I had finished sea bathing, it was lunchtime and the beach was deserted.
I mounted the long white stairway back to the hotel. When I at last reached the top, I was thoroughly winded and quite sleepy from my exercise. Still full from breakfast, I decided to forgo lunch and take a brief rest in my room before meeting the others for tea.
* * *
A BIT LATER, refreshed from my nap, I changed into a light dress in a pale floral print. I went to Gil’s door and knocked, thinking that perhaps he would join us for tea, but there was no answer at his door. I decided to see if perhaps he had already gone down.
When I exited the lift into the lobby, I caught sight of Emmeline. She waved and walked toward me, a slight frown creasing her brow.
“Rupert said he would meet me here twenty minutes ago,” she said. “But he hasn’t come down. I’ve rung his room, but he isn’t there.” She seemed more anxious than the situation warranted. Then again, I could sympathize. In the early days of my marriage, once I had discovered a thing or two about my husband, I had been anxious when he was out of my sight as well.
“Perhaps he’s already gone out to the terrace.”
“Perhaps, but he distinctly said he would meet me in the lobby.”
I refrained, of course, from commenting that men of Rupert Howe’s ilk often did not do as they said they would. It was an uncharitable thought, perhaps, but that didn’t make it any less true.
We crossed the lobby and exited to the terrace. Many of the tables were filled with hotel guests enjoying the afternoon sun, but Rupert was not among them.
I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at one of the tables, and we approached them.
“Howe?” Mr. Hamilton replied in answer to our inquiry. “Haven’t seen the chap all afternoon. Neither has Larissa. Have you, dear?”
“I … no,” she answered, softly. I clenched my teeth at the way the poor woman was barely given a chance to speak.
Lionel Blake, at a nearby table, confirmed that Rupert had not been seen by anyone currently on the hotel terrace. “I was here before anyone else came out for tea, and I have not seen Mr. Howe.”
“Well,” Emmeline said, “he may have gone down to the cliff terrace. He may have misunderstood and thought we would meet him there.”
“We can probably see from here,” I said, pointing to an overlook that allowed a sweeping view of the sea, and looked down upon the cliff terrace below.
We walked to the overlook, which had a waist-high stone wall that served as a barrier between the overlook and a very steep drop. The wind was strong this afternoon, and I doubted there would be anyone having tea on the cliff terrace. Backed against the rocks of the cliffs as it was, the area would be buffeted by the strong breezes that were rolling in off the sea.
Emmeline put her hand atop the wall and leaned, catching herself when the top stone wobbled beneath her hand. “Goodness. That could be a hazard.”
An ill feeling swept over me at that moment. Emmeline had backed slightly away from the wall. She had not looked over the barrier, but I had leaned over far enough to see the cliff terrace and the crumpled form that lay below.
Rupert.
6
THE NEXT HOUR passed in a blur. I had taken Emmeline away from the overlook, and some of the hotel staff had rushed down to the cliff terrace. There was nothing to be done; Rupert Howe was dead. Emmeline, quite naturally, had gone to pieces, and a doctor had been called to see to her.
I went to the hotel’s sitting room to be alone until the authorities wished to hear my account of the accident, what little I knew of it. Rupert had, I supposed, leaned too far over the edge. A stone had probably given way, and he had tumbled do
wn …
The sitting room, decorated in calming shades of yellow, white, and green, did little to ease my troubled nerves. I was more than a little shaken by the experience. I had not particularly liked the man, but to see his body lying at the base of a cliff was not something I would have wished upon him in the worst of circumstances.
The news spread quickly, but I was mercifully left alone until Gil found me in the sitting room. “Amory, are you all right?” He reached out as if to embrace me, then seemed to think better of it and took my hand instead. I was surprised how much comfort I derived immediately from the simple warmth of his grip.
I drew in a breath. “It was awful, Gil,” I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice when my insides were still trembling. “Quite the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Let me order you a drink.”
I shook my head. “No. No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”
He sat down beside me on the sofa, his hand still holding mine. “Emmeline’s resting now. I’ve just come from there. The doctor’s given her something. Poor darling. She’s taken this very hard.”
“She loved him very much,” I answered softly. I couldn’t imagine what she must be feeling. I barely knew the man, and I still felt very shaken by it all.
“She’s better off,” Gil said, almost under his breath.
I hadn’t time to reply before my name was spoken from the doorway.
“Mrs. Ames?” A gentleman in a gray suit and hat entered the room. He was around fifty, of average height and build, with an air of confidence about him that was immediately noticeable, the sort of unassuming person to whom one’s eyes were unaccountably drawn.
I stood. “Yes.”
“I’m Detective Inspector Jones, CID.”
Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery Page 5