Chapter 8

8

A SHORT WHILE later, I tapped softly on the door to Emmeline’s room, and I heard the low murmur of voices before the door opened. Gil looked out at me. “Hello, Amory.” His tone was noticeably aloof.

“Hello, Gil,” I answered, as though I hadn’t noticed the lack of warmth in his greeting. “How is Emmeline?”

His eyes darted back into the room. “Not very well.”

“Let her come in, Gil,” Emmeline’s voice behind him sounded very weak and faint. Gil pulled open the door to allow me to enter.

I stepped into the dark room. The curtains were drawn against the cheerful sun, and Emmeline sat on the sofa, a blanket draped over her. Her face was wan, and her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

I moved to her and sat down beside her on the sofa, taking her soft, cold hand while Gil seated himself in a nearby chair. “Emmeline, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know there’s nothing you can hear now that will make you feel any better, but I truly am sorry.”

Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “I don’t know what I shall do,”

she whispered. “I … I … don’t know how I’ll get on without him…”

I squeezed her hand in mine. “You mustn’t think about that now.

Concentrate on getting your strength back. One day at a time, dear. That’s all you can do.”

She shook her head. “Even one day seems too much without Rupert. I loved him so…” Her words trailed off into sobs that shook her slight frame.

I did my best to comfort her as she cried. Eventually, the weeping subsided and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

I stood and pulled the blanket over her. “Poor dear,” I said softly.

I moved toward the door, and Gil walked with me. I stopped halfway across the room and turned to him, almost without thinking about what I was going to do. “Gil … I need to tell you something.”

“Yes? What is it?” he asked, his tone flat. It seemed to me that he had tensed ever so slightly, as though preparing himself for something he didn’t want to hear.

“It’s about Rupert. That Detective Inspector Jones … well, he says that Rupert was murdered.”

I watched Gil’s face as I said the words. His features remained perfectly smooth, but he blinked twice, very rapidly, as if he could not quite conceal his surprise.

“He told you that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he certain?”

“It seems so.”

“What else did he say?”

He asked the questions calmly, but I sensed urgency beneath them. I began to wonder if perhaps I should not have said anything.

“He only said that he’d been hit on the head before he fell.”

Gil blinked again, almost a flinch. “Did he say who he suspected?”

I hesitated. He hadn’t, not in so many words. The inspector had asked me questions about Gil, but mentioning it might cause Gil undue alarm. “I think it’s rather early for him to have determined that.”

Gil let out a short breath. “He can’t know anything for sure,” he said, almost to himself.

I frowned. This wasn’t exactly what I had expected. I had thought Gil would be shocked, perhaps a bit skeptical, as I had been. Instead, it seemed almost as though I had confirmed some private belief of his. Either that …

or he knew something.

“You mustn’t say anything to Emmeline about this,” he told me, glancing over his shoulder at his sister’s sleeping form. “She’s far too distraught for any more bad news.”

“She’ll have to know eventually, Gil,” I said gently.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right…” His voice trailed off, and his gaze wandered, as though he were lost in thought.

“I asked at breakfast if anyone had seen anything. Perhaps if I talk to everyone…”

His gaze came sharply to mine. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t start asking questions.”

“But I only…”

“No good can come of it, Amory. Trust me.”

I was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. “Gil, is there … do you know something about this?”

He recovered his composure and smiled a very forced smile. “Of course not.” He almost managed to make his voice sound normal, unconcerned. “I only meant that the investigation is bound to be unpleasant, and I would hate for you to be involved in it.”

I suspected there was more to it than that, much more, but it was very apparent that Gil was in no mood to confide in me at present.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I answered, hoping to let the subject drop.

Gil looked immensely relieved, and I felt much more uneasy. Was there something that he was refusing to tell me?

I turned toward the door again, but his hand caught my arm. “Amory, wait. I … I have to ask. What is Milo doing here? What are his intentions?”

“One never knows with Milo,” I answered.

There was a sudden intensity in Gil’s expression as he looked down at me. “I don’t like his being here, not now.”

“I can’t very well send him packing, can I?” I retorted. Something in his manner was irritating to me. It wasn’t as though I summoned Milo here. His presence had been as unexpected—and unwelcomed—to me as it had been to Gil.

His hand dropped from my arm. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault. I just…” The dark brown flecks in his eyes stood out, as they did when he was troubled. In that moment, I felt a rush of affection for him, and sensation of guilt over all that I had put him through. It wasn’t Milo that had hurt Gil; it was me. And for that, I felt rather shabby.

“You don’t have to explain, Gil,” I said gently. “We’re all on edge at the moment. And I know how you feel about Milo.”

He offered a smile that seemed forced. “He is your husband, after all. I really have no right to … feel the way I do.”

Our eyes met and caught for just a moment. He was very close, and I could smell the heady scent of his aftershave. I thought he might try to kiss me again, but instead he reached behind me, his arm brushing mine, and pulled the door open, the click of the latch loud in the heavy silence of the room.

“You had better go,” he said in a low voice.

I nodded. “We’ll talk later, Gil. I think there are things we will both want to say, once things have settled down a bit.”

“Yes.”

I left Emmeline’s room and took the lift down to the lobby. I wasn’t certain where I was going. I only knew I didn’t intend to return to my room to sit idly thinking. My mind was much too full for quiet solitude at the moment. The murder, Milo, Gil—everything seemed to be tumbling about in a disorderly jumble in my head.

Gil’s behavior was puzzling, to say the least. It was disturbingly obvious from his reaction to my news that he knew, or at least suspected, more than

he let on. His determination that I not get involved only strengthened my resolve to help in some way. Gil was worried about something, and if he wouldn’t confide in me, perhaps I could put the pieces together on my own.

There was so much to think about. What I needed was a steady sea breeze in my face and the roar of the waves in my ears. A brisk walk along the shore would serve me nicely.

The lift opened, and I stepped, preoccupied, into the lobby, nearly walking directly into the arms of Detective Inspector Jones. I stepped back, a trifle quickly, and hoped he would not be of the impression that I had leapt away in order to avoid contact. Such an idea was not one I cared to cultivate with the police.

“Mrs. Ames,” he said, politely enough, “just the person I wanted to see.”

“How frightfully popular you are, Amory,” Milo drawled from behind me.

I turned to him, less than enthusiastic that he should choose this moment to descend upon the scene. “Hello, Milo.”

“Hello, darling.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek and then paused, leaning in close for just a moment, his mouth very near my throat.

“You smell of aftershave,” he noted in a low voice.

“Do I? How very odd,” I answered, my attention turning back to the inspector. “Inspector Jones, this is my husband, Milo Ames. Milo, Detective Inspector Jones of the CID.”

“Mr. Ames.” The inspector extended a hand, which Milo shook.

“Always pleased to make a friendly acquaintance with the law,” Milo said. “One hears so many things about the police these days.” The way in which Milo said this could, perhaps, be construed as less than complimentary.

“And I have heard of you,” Inspector Jones replied unperturbedly. “Mrs.

Ames mentioned that you weren’t expected, I believe.”

Amusement turned up the corner of Milo’s mouth. “I certainly wasn’t.”

“I suppose you wish to speak with me alone,” I interjected.

“I had thought to ask you for a private interview, if you would be so kind”—he glanced at Milo with the same sort of perfunctorily requesting gaze he had given Gil the first time he had interviewed me—“and if your husband has no objection.”

Milo gave an elegant shrug. “I am becoming accustomed to having her spirited away.”

“Indeed … However…” He paused, his expression blank. “I see no reason why your husband should not be party to our conversation. Perhaps we should all step into the sitting room.”

I had no idea why he would wish to include Milo in our conversation, but I had no strong objection. In fact, if anyone was disinclined to participate in the interview, it was my husband. Murder would be of very little interest to Milo.

Nevertheless, he followed the inspector and me to the sitting room. The inspector motioned with his hand for me to precede him, followed by Milo, and then he entered and shut the door behind us.

I took a seat on the green sofa, and Milo sank easily into a white chair, a vaguely indifferent look on his face. As for myself, I was beginning to dislike this room intensely. It had come to represent, in my mind, all the charms of an interrogation room, not that I was actually acquainted with such places.

The inspector remained standing. “There are just a few things I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Ames,” he said, pulling out his notebook. He flipped it open, and I could make out bold but neatly printed notes.

“The medical examiner has concluded that Mr. Howe was killed sometime between noon and four o’clock. Had you seen him at all yesterday afternoon?”

I shook my head. “That last I saw him was at the beach in the morning.”

“At what time?”

“Ten, or perhaps half past.”

“Was anything of interest said then?”

I thought back. “No, nothing of consequence. Rupert was swimming. I stopped to speak to Emmeline, he came up, we chatted briefly, and I moved on.”

“What about at dinner Saturday night?”

“He was there. We spoke very little, danced once.”

“And he seemed … untroubled?”

“Very. He seemed quite pleased with himself.”

“In what way?” The questions were shorter now, his tone more expectant. I was not entirely sure I cared for it.

“In the way of a man who has everything he wants and feels that he unquestionably deserves it,” I replied.

He paused for just a moment, looking up at me over his notebook with his calm brown eyes. Was it a glint of approval I saw there?

“What made you look down to the cliff terrace?”

“Emmeline told me that we were to take tea there. She thought perhaps he had gone down to wait for us rather than meeting in the lobby as they had discussed.”

“And when you discovered the body, he was lying facing upward?”

“I only saw him from the top of the cliff,” I replied. “I don’t really recall seeing his face, just his body lying there.”

“Yet you were quite certain it was he.” He flipped to another page in his notebook, his eyes scanning the notes written there. “The hotel manager said that you told him that Rupert Howe had fallen off the cliff.”

“You’re rather good at this, Inspector,” Milo interposed dryly.

The inspector’s gaze flickered to my husband, and for once I was glad of Milo’s maddening insouciance.

“Next thing, you’ll have her confessing, though I’m quite sure if she were to bash in anyone’s head, it would be mine. Am I right, darling?”

“Milo, really…”

“I am merely ascertaining the facts,” Inspector Jones said calmly. “It is my opinion that Mrs. Ames would have neither sufficient motive nor force

of will to kill Mr. Howe.”

“How very kind,” I replied crisply.

“Nevertheless, I should like to know how you knew it was he at the base of the cliff.”

I cast my mind back, forcing myself to remember what I had been doing my best to forget. I had looked over the edge … “Now that you ask, I am not at all certain why I was so sure. I was expecting to see him, I suppose.”

“Perfectly logical.” He turned to Milo. “And you arrived when, Mr.

Ames?”

“Oh, is it my turn now?” Milo smiled. “I arrived last night, around nine.”

“You came directly from London?”

“No. From our country house in Kent.”

“On what train?”

“I don’t recall. One of the afternoon trains. I’m sure my ticket stub is about somewhere, if you should require it.”

The inspector jotted another note. “Very good.”

He turned back to me. “Just one more thing. You can think of no one with motive to do harm to Mr. Howe?” he asked. It seemed to me there was something expectant in his gaze, as though he were ready for a specific answer.

“No, I…” The memory of the conversation I had overheard between Rupert and Gil once again made an unexpected and unwelcome appearance in my mind. I had convinced myself that it was nothing … yet … no, I decided, I needn’t mention it, not until my own mind was settled about the matter. To do so would be disloyal to Gil. I only hoped no one else had overheard it. “I am quite sure I don’t know why any of our party would wish to do harm to Mr. Howe.”

“The hotel is nearly at capacity,” Milo noted, once again relieving me of the piercing official stare. “I’m sure that must give you any number of suspects, a much larger field than in the mystery novels.”

A tight smile showed itself on the inspector’s mouth. “It’s very unlikely, I should say, that a complete stranger would care to—how did you put it?—

bash in Rupert Howe’s head. There has been no connection made between any of the other persons staying at the Brightwell. It is highly probable, then, that it is someone of his own acquaintance.”

“You’re certain this was no accident?” I asked, knowing the question was a futile one. Whatever else Inspector Jones might be, he was certainly competent.

“I’m afraid there’s no question. He was definitely hit by a blunt instrument. The medical examiner is certain the wound could not have been caused by the fall. There will be an inquest tomorrow. You will give evidence?”

“I have little evidence to give, Inspector,” I answered. “However, I would be happy to relate my experience.”

He nodded. “Very good. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Yes.” I stood. “If that is all, I think I might go out and take in some fresh air.”

“Going for a walk?” the inspector asked. “With all that’s occurred, perhaps it would be best if Mr. Ames accompanied you.”

“He needn’t bother,” I said with a glance at Milo. “I’m sure it’s much too early for him to be getting any sort of exercise.”

“Nonsense,” Milo replied, not moving a muscle. “I am perfectly capable of physical exertion in the cause of chivalry.”

“I doubt I shall need your gallant protection, but you may come if you wish.” I turned toward the door, and Milo rose languidly from his seat.

“A pleasure to meet you, Inspector,” Milo said. “Our acquaintance has been most enlightening.”

“Indeed, it has, Mr. Ames,” Inspector Jones replied. “Indeed, it has. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.”

“Well, it’s not exactly the Côte d’Azur, is it?” Milo answered. “But I daresay I’ll find some way to amuse myself.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt it.” The inspector’s thoughtful gaze moved from Milo to me and then back again. “Well, good day, Mr. Ames. Mrs. Ames.”

“Pleasant chap,” Milo observed, as Inspector Jones walked off, no doubt in search of other victims to interrogate. There was something distinctly unnerving about the man, but I suspected that was a useful characteristic in his line of work.

“A very efficient policeman, I should think,” I replied. And a clever one, unless I missed my guess. There was something Inspector Jones was getting at, something he suspected and was trying to confirm. For some reason, the thought was discomforting.

My thoughts went back to the conversation between Gil and Rupert. If one imagined hard enough, one might be able to see some sort of vague threat on Gil’s part, and it worried me more than a little. Not that I believed for a moment that Gil was capable of murder. It was just that if I had overheard the conversation, others might have, and they might not interpret Gil’s words as innocently as I had.

I wondered if that was what had worried him when we had spoken earlier in the day, but somehow I thought it was more than that. I wished, not for the first time since coming to the Brightwell, that Gil would take me into his confidence. Then again, I had long ago forfeited my rights on that score.

That didn’t mean, of course, that there was nothing I could do. Perhaps I should continue to talk to the others, to see if any of them had an inkling of what might have happened. Even if they had seen nothing, they might have their own suspicions—or hidden motives.

“… I shall have to change my clothes,” Milo was saying.

I turned to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Before we go traipsing about on the beach, I shall have to put on some other clothes.” He was wearing a blue suit that fit him to perfection, but that was neither here nor there.

“We’re not going to the beach,” I answered.

“No?”

“No. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Very well. Am I dismissed?” Something very subtle in his posture gave me the impression that he was ready to be gone, that there was something innate in him like a tide, ready to sweep him away from me. A calm sea with restless, swirling currents.

I almost laughed at my absurd philosophizing. If Milo could have heard my thoughts, he would no doubt have had something very droll to say about them.

“Yes, you may go,” I said loftily, in keeping with his general lack of gravity. I headed toward the back of the hotel, ready to get out into the fresh air of the terrace.

“Amory.”

I turned.

“Before I go, may I offer you one piece of sound, husbandly advice?”

“And what is that?” I asked, wondering if he could possibly have any sort of counsel that could prove useful to me, for some reason hoping that he did.

He stepped closer. Then a look of amusement flickered across his eyes, and, even before he spoke, I knew that he was not serious.

“That scent on your neck is not at all becoming, I’m afraid. Your usual gardenia is much more suited to you.”

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