Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery

by Ashley Weaver

  “CID?” I repeated, surprised. What on earth would the Criminal Investigation Department be doing here? To the best of my knowledge, they had never been much concerned with accidents.

  “Yes,” he answered, then turned to Gil. “And you are, sir?”

  “Gilmore Trent. My sister, Emmeline, was engaged to Mr. Howe.”

  “Allow me to express my sympathies.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now, I wonder, Mr. Trent, if you would mind my speaking to Mrs. Ames alone?” he asked, perfect politeness doing little to mask rather obvious authority.

  This seemed to rub Gil the wrong way. “Is that really necessary, Inspector? Amory … Mrs. Ames has had a bad shock.”

  The inspector’s brown eyes flickered across my face in a searching glance and then returned to Gil. “She looks like she’ll hold up, Mr. Trent.”

  I saw Gil’s mouth draw into a hard line, but I patted his hand. “It’s all right, Gil. Let me speak to the inspector, and I’ll come and find you. I could use a good strong cup of tea.”

  “Very well.”

  The inspector offered him what was not a very warm smile. “I should like to speak to you later, Mr. Trent.”

  “If you wish,” Gil answered.

  He left the room without further comment, and I turned to the inspector. “Now, what may I do for you?”

  He indicated the seat from which I had arisen. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  I took a seat on the pale green sofa, and he sat in a chair opposite as he removed his hat, exposing dark hair that was turning silver, and pulled a notebook and a pencil from his coat pocket. “If you don’t mind, please tell me exactly what happened this afternoon.”

  I related the events that had led to the discovery of Rupert’s body, from Emmeline’s expecting to see him in the lobby to my viewing his body from above. He let my story flow on, uninterrupted, as he jotted down notes.

  “There was a loose stone on the wall,” I concluded. “I wonder if he might have lost his balance. It’s all so terrible.”

  He looked up from his notebook, his eyes very mild and steady. “It’s more terrible than you think, Mrs. Ames. It appears that Mr. Howe was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” The word was an unexpected jolt to my system. A feeling of denial swept through me, and something more … fear. I sucked in a breath, trying to steady myself. I could sense the inspector’s calm gaze on my face. I had the feeling that he was gauging something in my reaction.

  “I don’t understand, Inspector,” I said at last. “I … it seemed to me that he fell.” Even as I spoke, I realized that I did not sound completely convinced, even to myself. Had there been something, in the back of my mind, that had made me wonder if it might not be an accident?

  “Did you see his body? Up close, I mean.”

  “No. I…”

  “Did you know Mr. Howe?”

  “Not well, no.”

  “And your impression of him?”

  “Honestly?” I met the inspector’s gaze. “I didn’t care for him. Of course, I’m sorry that he’s dead.”

  Inspector Jones inclined his head. “Honesty is always appreciated in my line of work. What was it about Mr. Howe that you found … disagreeable?”

  “Just that he did not seem a very nice sort of man,” I answered. “Nothing substantial. I thought he and Emmeline were ill suited. I … I suppose it was none of my business.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would have reason to hurt him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  I realized that he was watching me very intently. There was something unnerving about the man, a quiet intensity. He was, I imagined, very accomplished at instilling a sense of unease in the guilty. I felt vaguely on edge myself.

  His next question, phrased in the same almost uninterested tone, caught me by surprise.

  “You are registered here under your own name. Your husband did not come with you?”

  This I hadn’t expected. “I don’t see what that has to do with Mr. Howe’s death,” I answered, somewhat more tersely than was probably proper when being interviewed by a detective inspector with the CID.

  His eyes met mine, and he was obviously unperturbed by my irritation. “I’m just trying to form an accurate picture of things, Mrs. Ames. Little flecks of paint make up the whole picture.”

  I sighed. “No, Inspector. My husband is not here. In fact, since you have no doubt already ascertained as much, I came at the invitation of Mr. Trent.”

  “I had, in fact, already ascertained that detail.” He seemed to me to be a very quick worker, this inspector. I wondered what else he might have learned. I did not have to wait long to find out.

  “You’re staying in separate rooms, however.”

  “Certainly,” I replied, less than civilly. There was, as far as I could see, no call for such intrusive and insinuating questions. “There is nothing untoward occurring between us.”

  “And yet you don’t wear a wedding ring?”

  I stiffened. “I’ve taken my rings off. I was sea bathing this afternoon.” These were both true, though unrelated, statements. I had been sea bathing, but that was not why I had removed my rings. I had not worn them to the Brightwell, though they were tucked away in my jewelry case upstairs. It hadn’t felt quite right to leave them at home.

  “I see. But you and Mr. Trent are close friends.”

  “We’ve known each other for years, yes.”

  “And Mr. Howe? Were he and Mr. Trent close?”

  I wondered, a bit uneasily, where these questions about Gil were leading. “I only just met Mr. Howe,” I answered carefully. “I didn’t have much chance to observe them together.”

  “Indeed.” Something in his expression made me wonder if he knew I was being purposefully evasive. “And were you with Mr. Trent this afternoon?”

  “I … yes. That is, we parted ways after breakfast and intended to take tea together.”

  “But you didn’t see him on the terrace when you and Miss Trent were searching for Mr. Howe.”

  I hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “No, I didn’t.”

  He scribbled something in the notebook and then flipped it closed. “I think that will be all for now, Mrs. Ames. I imagine you’ll be around if I should wish to speak with you again?”

  “Of course.” I stood, and he followed suit, placing his hat back on his head.

  “I’m only too happy to do all that I can,” I told him, wondering if I might possibly end up regretting my words.

  He nodded and began to walk away, but I had to know. “Inspector?”

  He turned.

  “You’re quite certain that it was murder?”

  He hesitated for just a moment, as if determining how much information to share with me, and then spoke carefully. “Yes, Mrs. Ames. For one thing, someone made certain no one would go down to the terrace. A ‘closed for repair’ sign was placed where the steps veered off the landing. If it hadn’t been for you, the body might not have been discovered until sometime later.”

  “There could be any number of reasons for that sign. An oversight, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. “None of the staff knew anything about it.”

  “But that, in itself, does not rule out an accident.”

  “Correct. But you see, Mr. Howe fell straight to the terrace, landing on the stone floor and hitting the back of his head. The medical examiner seems to think his neck was broken, killing him almost immediately. There are no marks on his body to indicate that he hit the cliff at any point on the way down.”

  Such dreadful information failed to enlighten me. “I still don’t see how that indicates he didn’t just slip and fall.”

  “Because, if he fell, nothing accounts for the blow he received here”—two fingers touched his left temple—“from what appears to be a blunt instrument.”

  My lips parted, but nothing came from between them.

  He tipped his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Ames. I trust we shall meet again
.”

  * * *

  A HEAVINESS HAD fallen over our party because of the tragedy among us, but, like the steady, resilient, upper-class we were, we all dressed and met for dinner. I wore a gown of dark gray silk with caplet sleeves. None of my more brightly colored gowns seemed appropriate somehow. We were all in attendance except Emmeline, who was still in her room. I had looked in on her earlier, but she had been asleep. Whatever the doctor had given her, it had put her clean out. I wondered if it was really the best thing for her. As dreadful as the truth was, perhaps it would be better for her to face it at once rather than in a lingering lethargy.

  I sat beside Gil at the dinner table. He was quiet, his features solemn, but the calm steadiness I had always admired in him was still there, and I felt calmer myself because of it.

  Olive Henderson looked as though she could have used a dose of something a bit stronger than the water she was sipping. Her face was colorless, and I noticed her trembling hands each time she raised her glass to her lips. Rupert had hinted at something between them; perhaps she had loved him as well. Lionel Blake, who sat beside her, seemed solicitous, speaking softly and even earning a smile once or twice. I hoped that it would do her good.

  The meal was subdued, and, of course, none of our party danced. Watching other couples move about the floor, strangers untouched by our misfortune, I found it hard to believe that we had all been so carefree only the night before. The sensation caused by Rupert’s death had not been too heavy a blow upon the other Brightwell guests, and I assumed they had been fed an official line about an unfortunate accident. They had no doubt tut-tutted sympathetically and then went about their holidays relatively undisturbed.

  The press was being kept away by a policeman left on the premises, and I hoped that rumors of a murder investigation would be kept quiet. I was not at all confident such a story could be concealed for long; I knew perfectly well how relentless the press could be.

  For my part, I was still recovering from my own very trying day. The general ghastliness of Rupert’s death aside, I was still shocked by the inspector’s revelation. I had sat alone in my room all afternoon, a thousand questions swirling in my head. It seemed simply impossible that anyone would have wanted to murder Rupert Howe. People don’t kill one another while on holiday, I told myself stupidly. But apparently, they did.

  I glanced around the table, trying to fathom the possibility that one of us might have done it. I didn’t even know if any among my own party was aware of the inspector’s suspicion that Rupert’s death had been murder. I hadn’t been asked to keep the information to myself, but for some reason I had not wanted to discuss it with anyone, not just now. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Gil, and then I had felt guilty for withholding it from him. What was more, I couldn’t help but feel as though I had failed in some illogical way. Gil had asked me here to help him, and things had turned out more horribly than any of us could have imagined.

  Talking of Gil, I couldn’t seem to dismiss my uneasiness at the direction of the inspector’s questions concerning Gil’s relationship with Rupert. The two of them had certainly not been friends, and I suspected that fact wasn’t much of a secret. Had the inspector picked up on it, or was he merely fishing for information?

  If I was honest with myself, I had to admit that the conversation I had overheard between Gil and Rupert the night before was very much on my mind. The plain fact of it was that they had argued, and now Rupert was dead. I could not for one moment suspect Gil of something so horrible as murdering Rupert Howe. Despite the time that had passed, I knew him too well for that. And yet the conversation nagged at me, and a vague sense of uneasiness hovered at the back of my thoughts.

  My head began to throb, and I pressed my aching eyes with my fingers.

  “Are you all right, Amory?” Gil whispered, his hand touching my arm beneath the table. “You don’t look well.”

  “I don’t feel well,” I admitted. “The shock, I suppose. It’s been a horrid day.”

  “Shall I escort you to your room?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I could sleep. Not yet. And I don’t want to be alone at the moment.” It was true. My mind was tired of attempting to process my constantly churning thoughts; what I needed at the moment was the soothing comfort of familiar company.

  “Shall we go for a walk on the terrace, then?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I could use the air.”

  We excused ourselves from the table and exited out one pair of the French doors that lined the wall of the dining room.

  We were on the terrace that ran along the east side of the hotel. The night air was cool, and there was no one in sight. There was no view of the sea from this side unless one walked to the back of the terrace, and the moon had gone behind a cloud. Gil and I stepped out of the rectangle of light made by the doors, and we were alone, bathed in dark blue dimness.

  I breathed deeply of the salty air and let the sound of the waves hitting the rocks wash over me. I found that there was something infinitely soothing about the sound of the sea, as though for just a moment everything was all right.

  “I’m sorry you’re unwell,” Gil said, leaning against the balustrade beside me. Even in the dimness, I could see he was studying me closely.

  I touched his arm. “I’m fine, Gil. Really. It’s just so wretched that something like this had to happen. I feel dreadfully for Emmeline.”

  He was looking down at my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, Amory.” The backs of his fingers moved to brush the top of my wrist. “But I will confess that I am glad you’re here.”

  There was a noticeable change in the air as his fingers caressed my hand. I looked up at him, unable to take my eyes from his. “Are you, Gil?” I asked softly.

  He nodded and reached up to brush a stray hair back behind my ear, his hand remaining on my cheek. “Very glad.”

  He was very close to me now, looking down into my eyes. In the space of an instant, I knew he was going to kiss me, and I was still wondering if I would let him as he leaned closer.

  His mouth was inches from mine. “Gil…”

  “Ah. Here you are.” The smooth, dry voice spoke from behind us as the moon appeared as if on cue from behind the clouds.

  Gil dropped his hand from my face, and I turned, already knowing who had spoken.

  “Milo.” I was gratified to find that my tone was completely calm, displaying none of the surprise I felt. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  7

  MY HUSBAND SMILED at me, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Weren’t expecting me, I see.”

  “I never know when to expect you,” I answered lightly. Remembering my manners, and relishing the slight dig at my errant spouse, I gestured to the man who had been about to kiss me. “You remember Gil Trent, I suppose.”

  “Very well,” Milo answered amiably. “How are you, Trent?”

  “I’m very well,” Gil replied, somewhat curtly. I could feel the tension in him from where he stood, slightly behind me. It was obvious that he did not care for the intrusion, and I knew he was probably embarrassed. I didn’t imagine that kissing married women was much in his line.

  “Yes.” Milo took a cigarette from the silver case he kept in his pocket and put it in his mouth, lighting it. “You seem to be getting along all right.”

  “You haven’t answered me, Milo,” I put in, before Gil could make some sort of remark. Men could be such idiots at moments like this.

  His eyes moved back to me, flickering silvery in the darkness. “I’m sorry, darling. I seem to have forgotten the question.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I received word that there had been a death in your party.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “I’m glad to see you haven’t allowed it to upset you too much.”

  “Now, see here, Ames,” Gil said, moving slightly forward. I put my hand on his arm.

  “It’s really been quite an ordeal,” I said. “Emmeline,
Gil’s sister, you remember, she was engaged to the young man.”

  “My condolences.” He sounded as sincere as Milo ever sounded, but then one could never be sure just what he was really thinking.

  “Yes, well, I think I’ll just go check on Emmeline,” Gil said. Without another word or a backward glance at me, he walked past Milo and into the hotel.

  Milo and I were alone. We stood for a moment, looking at one another. His expression was as maddeningly impassive as ever. He just stood there, placidly smoking his cigarette as though we were enjoying a quiet evening in our cozy parlor.

  “Who told you there had been a death here?” I asked at last.

  “These things get around.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his toe. “I was concerned for you at once, of course.”

  “And so you rushed to my aid?” I made no attempt to hide the skepticism in my voice. This business was all very odd, his concern definitely suspect.

  “Naturally. Shall we go inside, dearest?”

  “Not yet.” I moved to him. “I want to know why you’re really here. News of Mr. Howe’s death could not have appeared in the papers in time for you to make it here this evening.”

  He made a gesture of assent. “Very well. I read in the evening paper that there had been an accident here at the Brightwell this afternoon, but that wasn’t my sole reason for coming.”

  “No. I thought not.”

  “I had come to have a word with you about this other business. I assumed that if you chose to carry on with Trent, you would at least be discreet.”

  I was surprised by his admission, but I made no attempt to deny his accusation. Denial would serve no purpose. “You have always cared so little for discretion, Milo. I don’t see why I should be any different.”

  “The difference between us, darling, has always been that you care for your reputation.” He reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out what appeared to be the folded page of a newspaper. “This appeared in the paper this morning.”

  I took the slip of paper and moved into the patch of light from the dining room doors.

  It comes as a surprise to few, no doubt, that a certain lady has had more than her share. The wife of a well-known rogue, lately returned from Monte Carlo, seems to have left for the seaside in the company of the man she jilted to marry said rogue. Do we dare predict divorce proceedings followed by wedding bells?