Chapter 11

11

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the day of the inquest, was suitably gloomy. The rain splattered against my window as I rose and dressed. I had tea and toast in my room, for I was in no mood for company. The thought of encountering Nelson Hamilton was especially unbearable.

The inquest itself was remarkably brief, such a cold, formal way to account for the ending of a man’s life.

It was held at the local inn, attracting a small crowd of locals curious about the mysterious death at the Brightwell and a handful of reporters, eager for some hint of scandal. Few from our party were there. Most of them had nothing to contribute, and the rain seemed to have dissuaded those with only a casual interest in attending.

Emmeline, her face white, sat in one of the hard wooden chairs until it was her turn to speak. She gave her halting account of the events that had led up to our gruesome discovery, and it was obvious that only the very greatest of efforts was keeping her from hysteria. When she had finished, Gil helped her to her seat. Grief and fatigue had left her weak and ill, and I was very sorry for her that her dreams of happiness had vanished in an instant.

When it was my turn to speak, I gave a statement regarding my role in the discovery of Rupert Howe’s body. There was precious little to tell, and I was brief.

The coroner reiterated what I had learned from Inspector Jones. Rupert had been hit on the head with a blunt instrument before being tossed over the railing. The blow itself had not had sufficient force to kill and might have been administered by either a man or a woman.

Inspector Jones gave his evidence, but I learned from him few details that I did not already know. No one reported having seen Rupert exit the hotel. No one could be certain when he fell.

The verdict came quickly and confirmed what we all already knew: murder by person or persons unknown.

* * *

“MRS. AMES, MIGHT I have a word with you?” Inspector Jones approached me outside as I moved toward the hotel car. The rain beat a steady drumming on our umbrellas as we stood huddled in a rather forlorn little group.

I turned to Gil, who had just settled Emmeline inside. “Will you wait a moment, Gil?”

His eyes flickered to the inspector and back to me. “Of course.”

“If you’d like, Mrs. Ames, I can give you a ride back to the hotel. I had intended to pay a visit there this afternoon in any case.”

I turned to Gil. “You had better take Emmeline back. I’ll be along soon.”

He hesitated only briefly, then nodded. “Very well.”

The car pulled away, and the inspector indicated his car, which was parked at a short distance. “Shall we?”

We walked toward it. The grass was sodden, and I could feel the dampness seeping into my shoes. They were entirely inappropriate for the weather, but in packing for this trip I had brought very little to wear in the rain and even less to wear to an inquest.

“I admired your recounting of events,” Inspector Jones said as we walked. “You were clear and concise in relating your information. You’d make a very credible witness.”

“Witness to what, exactly?” I inquired. His tone indicated that there was more to what he was saying than his words suggested. There was something very clever, in a devious sort of way, about Inspector Jones.

“I am speaking in generalities,” he said. “A policeman values a witness who knows how to recount events without embellishment or excessive emotion. Pure, simple truth is always admirable.”

I stopped and turned to face him. “You are quite right. And I would appreciate the same directness now, Inspector. Whatever it is that you have to ask or say to me, perhaps it would be best if you came out with it.”

The barest of smiles touched his lips. “Very well, Mrs. Ames. But perhaps we should get out of the rain.”

We walked to his car, and he opened the door for me before going around and sliding in behind the steering wheel. He inserted the key but didn’t turn it. Hands on the wheel, he turned to look at me.

“You would like me to be blunt, so I shall be. I think there is something you are concealing from me.”

I was somewhat surprised by this accusation, but I fancy that I was able to hide it. “Oh? And why do you think that?”

“Come now, Mrs. Ames,” he said. “When one has been at this job as long as I have, one begins to develop a sense about these things. Twice I asked you if you knew of anyone who would have reason to harm Rupert Howe. There was something you hesitated over. I would like to know what it is.”

“It was nothing of consequence.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

I hesitated. I truly believed Gil was innocent, but the inspector might not feel the same way. If I told him that I had heard Gil arguing with Rupert Howe the night before his murder, it could go very badly for Gil. But perhaps the truth was the wisest course of action. Inspector Jones appeared to be very thorough and conscientious in his methods, and I doubted my information would form his opinion of the case one way or the other. This

was my chance to rid myself of the nagging sensation that I was doing something wrong in concealing information. Furthermore, if I told Inspector Jones all I knew, perhaps he could begin to focus his attention in a direction more likely to bring results.

I spoke quickly, as though in doing so I could minimize the damage.

“The night before Mr. Howe’s murder, I happened to … overhear an argument between him and Gil … Mr. Trent. As I said, it was nothing of consequence.”

“What sort of argument?”

“Gil wanted Mr. Howe to end his engagement to Emmeline. Gil wasn’t happy about the match. He had told me as much. It wasn’t a secret.”

“What did you hear?” I was wary of the calm, casual way he asked the questions. His ever-present notebook was nowhere to be seen, but I hadn’t the slightest doubt he was jotting neat little notes somewhere in his mind.

“Did Mr. Trent threaten Mr. Howe?”

“Gil wouldn’t…”

“Did he threaten Mr. Howe?” There was a smooth persistence to his questioning that I found unnerving.

I thought back. Had Gil threatened Rupert? Not in so many words. “No.

He told him that men like Mr. Howe always have their price. I didn’t overhear the entire conversation. I had fallen asleep and awoke to catch just a bit of it.” This was not the unvarnished truth, but it was not a lie.

“I’m sure it was nothing,” I concluded.

“There must have been some reason you chose to conceal it until now.”

“I didn’t want you to draw the wrong conclusions. Gil and Mr. Howe weren’t overly fond of one another, but there was nothing violent about their argument. Besides, if they’d argued outside my window, it seems unlikely Gil would have waited until the next afternoon to do harm to Mr.

Howe.”

He didn’t reply to this bit of logic.

The rain drumming against the window was the only sound for a long moment. Then he asked, “Where exactly does the relationship between you and Mr. Trent stand?”

I stiffened ever so slightly. “That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it, Inspector?”

“Perhaps. But that makes it no less relevant.”

Despite the situation, I smiled. “You’re very good at your job, aren’t you?”

He returned the smile. “I like to think so.”

I sighed. “Gil and I were once engaged to be married.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Then again, perhaps he already knew.

“Who ended it?”

“I did. I … met my husband.”

“I see. And the current state of affairs?” His choice of words was not lost on me.

“Gil asked me to come to the seaside with him on the pretext that I had left Milo. I don’t know if my husband’s name is familiar to you, Inspector, but he has something of an unsavory reputation.” His brief nod conveyed that he was well aware of Milo’s exploits. I went on. “Gil thought I might lead by example. He felt Emmeline might be able to see the error of her ways having been witness to my own misfortune. In hindsight, it was all quite ridiculous and completely hopeless.”

“And your husband was amenable to this scheme?”

“My husband had very little to do with it.”

“Apparently, he is unaware of that fact,” Inspector Jones commented wryly.

“Milo very seldom makes informed decisions. There’s no telling why he is here.”

“Isn’t there?”

I ignored the insinuation. Milo was not inclined to jealousy. He had admitted as much last evening. The most likely explanation for his arrival at the Brightwell Hotel was that he had found our empty home dull and knew arriving unannounced would create a stir.

“In any event,” I continued, “Gil would never have hurt Rupert Howe.

That is the reason I hesitated to tell you anything about the discussion I overheard. I feared it would cause you to suspect him unduly.”

“I seldom suspect people unduly, Mrs. Ames.”

I was not quite sure what to make of this statement, but the opportunity to ask dissipated as he turned the key and started the engine, easing the car down the wet road toward the Brightwell Hotel.

* * *

BACK AT THE hotel, the inspector and I parted ways. I was not sure what his business at the Brightwell was, and he did not see fit to confide in me. Quite possibly, I was still holding rank on his list of suspects, though I couldn’t conceive of what my motive for killing Rupert Howe might be.

I was still not certain I had done the right thing by telling him about the conversation I had overheard between Gil and Rupert. Like any good British subject, I was brought up to tell the truth and respect the law, but I did not feel that my silence had violated either of these principles. Knowing Gil as I did, the argument seemed irrelevant. I hoped Inspector Jones would come to view it similarly.

It suddenly occurred to me that the next best course of action would be to alert Gil to what I had done. It was only fair that I should give him warning, in the event that Inspector Jones should wish to question him. I only hoped he wouldn’t be too angry with me.

I checked first at his room and got no answer. A soft tap on Emmeline’s door also went unanswered. A check of the dining room was also unsuccessful. I tried the sitting room next.

Anne Rodgers and Lionel Blake sat on the sofa.

“Oh, Mrs. Ames,” said Mrs. Rodgers as I entered, “you must come hear Lionel read these poems and sonnets. Really, he’s too talented! He does accents so well; you should hear his Robert Burns!”

“I would love to,” I said, “but first I need to locate Gil. Has anyone seen him?”

Mrs. Rodgers shook her head. “Lionel and I have been here reading since lunch.”

“How was the inquest?” Lionel Blake asked, setting the book of poems aside.

“Well…” I paused, as if hesitant to reveal the news. “I’m afraid they’ve discovered that it was murder.”

“Murder!” Anne Rodgers practically shrieked. “Oh, no. Whoever did it?”

“A very good question,” Lionel answered dryly. “What have the police to say, Mrs. Ames?”

“I don’t really know,” I replied, “except that I am sure we are all suspects.”

As I had hoped, this alarmed Anne Rodgers into effusive speech. “I don’t know why I should be a suspect,” she protested. “I barely knew Rupert. Oh, well, we were friendly enough, but not the kind of friendly where you want to murder the person. Just wait until I tell my Edward about this. I’m sure he knows a good barrister if any of us is accused. If anyone did it, I expect I could guess. Perhaps Emmeline finally got tired of his making eyes at other women. And Olive Henderson never did get over it when he chose Emmeline.” She halted then, as though aware she had said too much. “Not that I think Emmeline or Olive would kill anyone,” she added, somewhat belatedly.

“Of course not,” Lionel Blake said with a cynical smile. “None of us would kill anyone.”

* * *

STILL HOPING TO find Gil, I walked past the breakfast room and saw Mrs.

Hamilton sitting alone at a table near the windows. I thought it would be an ideal time to speak with her; I was so seldom able to catch her away from her husband’s prying gaze.

“The verdict of the inquest was murder,” I told her when we had exchanged greetings.

She nodded, and I could detect no hint of surprise in her expression.

“You said the other day that you were not surprised Mr. Howe’s death was a murder. Why did you say that?”

She frowned. “Did I say that?”

I suddenly had the feeling she was being purposefully evasive. I took a chance on directness. “What is it that you aren’t saying, Mrs. Hamilton?”

She didn’t meet my eyes as she spoke. Instead, she gazed out of the rain-specked windows at the sea. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. I only meant that there were so many people who might have had cause to …

to quarrel with Rupert.”

“Yes, you mentioned a quarrel. Do you mean someone specifically?”

She looked at me then, and I saw again that flash of determination in her gaze, as though she had come to the private conclusion to move forward. “I only know I heard some rather nasty rumors about … well, women. And then I saw them, Rupert and Olive—I mean, together—talking on the beach as they followed Emmeline, who had gone up to change. They all walked past me on the terrace. I was reading, and I don’t think they noticed me, you see. I might have thought nothing of their chatting together, but I’m fairly certain I heard Olive say that she wanted to meet Rupert later, that she wanted to talk to him about something.”

This was certainly news. Had Rupert and Olive been carrying on their affair, then?

“What did Rupert say?”

“He said he would see if he could get away … but he seemed somewhat reluctant. I don’t think he much cared for her anymore. When he mentioned

a meeting later, I … well, I thought he just meant tea with Emmeline.”

It was a flimsy excuse for having concealed the truth, but I suspected Mrs. Hamilton was desperate not to cause any trouble. And this information had the potential to do just that. Could it have been Olive that quarreled with Rupert on the terrace that day? Or had it been someone else?

“Who else was on the terrace when this conversation occurred, Mrs.

Hamilton?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a moment before replying. “Mr. Trent had come out and was talking with Emmeline. I thought I saw them turn around and look at Olive and Rupert, but the sea is very loud, you know. They may have been too far away to overhear them.”

Somehow, I didn’t think so. The sea was not as loud as Mrs. Hamilton made it out to be.

“Why didn’t you say something before? Did you tell this to the inspector?”

She shook her head. “I was sure it was nothing. I may have misheard, and I didn’t want there to be any difficulty. Oh, dear. What a mess all of this is.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Hamilton,” I said, almost wishing that she hadn’t.

“I didn’t know if I should,” she said with a shaky smile. “But I feel better now that I have.”

I felt much worse, myself. This bit of information was certainly not in Gil’s favor. If he had overheard Rupert planning an assignation with Olive, it would certainly have increased his dislike for Rupert. Inwardly, I sighed.

Rather than clearing up, things seemed to be getting murkier.

* * *

UNABLE TO LOCATE Gil anywhere in the hotel, I returned to my room. The rain showed no sign of letting up. Indeed, it seemed to have increased in

fervency since my arrival back at the hotel. There was something slightly claustrophobic about the atmosphere. The rain pounding against the windows, leaving us, for all intents and purposes, caged in with a murderer.

Wearily, I lay on the bed, hoping to nap before dinner. My thoughts, however, would give me no such reprieve. Over and over, the events that had occurred since my arrival played in my head. Who would have reason to kill Rupert?

Gil as good as threatened him, my traitorous mind reminded me. For the first time, I fleetingly allowed for the possibility. Might Gil have done it?

Though I had denied a threat to the inspector, Gil’s words to Rupert that night below my window had held a warning. It just wasn’t possible. Was it?

No. No, I could not believe that Gil would resort to murder, no matter how desperate the circumstances.

It must be someone else. My mind played over the other members of our party, but I could think of no conceivable motive for anyone to have killed him. Mr. Hamilton seemed the type that would kill someone who crossed him, but a negative opinion of his character did not a motive for murder make.

Anne Rodgers had reminded me that Olive was involved with Rupert before he met Emmeline, and she had said that Olive wanted to meet with him on the day he died. Perhaps he had spurned her advances once again.

Was she hurt enough to kill him? It was possible, I supposed. But there had been real sorrow in her eyes; I was sure of it. I didn’t believe she could have killed him.

Then who could have done it? It was all such a muddle.

Without provocation, my thoughts turned to Milo. What, I wondered, were his intentions now that he was here? I had not seen him yet today, and I could only imagine what he was up to. His arrival had only complicated matters, and it seemed apparent that he was intent on making a nuisance of himself for the foreseeable future, a role I suspected he would enjoy.

I sighed. More weary than when I had lain down, I rose to bathe and dress for dinner.

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