Chapter 20

20

I HAVE OFTEN heard the expression about one’s blood running cold, but I cannot say I ever truly experienced it until that moment. It seemed like an eternity that I stood frozen, my mind racing over the possible consequences of being discovered.

Fortunately, Milo took action. With smooth, rapid motions, he quietly closed the door between the two rooms and, returning to where I stood, grabbed my arm, pushing me into the wardrobe. He slipped in after me and pulled the doors closed behind us, just as I heard the door to Mr. Hamilton’s room open.

The wardrobe was apparently of impressive construction, for no light slipped in the seams of the doors; it was black as pitch inside and immediately stuffy. I also couldn’t help but notice that the size of the space seemed to have diminished drastically from when I had gazed in moments before. My back was against the sidewall, and Milo stood directly in front of me. He was too tall to stand up straight, so he leaned toward me, his hands on the wall on either side of me. My hand rested on his chest, and I could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart, which was in marked contrast to the mad racing of my own.

Outside the wardrobe, I could barely make out the sounds of Mr.

Hamilton moving about the room. Mrs. Hamilton had apparently entered her own room, for I heard no sound of her voice. Now that the moment of

crisis had passed, at least for the time being, I began to reflect on exactly how preposterous our situation was. Even if we were not caught suspiciously ensconced in Mr. Hamilton’s wardrobe, I might well be stuck here for hours with Milo quite literally breathing down my neck.

As if on cue, my husband took this moment to exasperate me further.

“Rather cozy in here, isn’t it?” he whispered into my ear.

“This is all your fault,” I hissed.

“My fault? How is it my fault?”

“Be quiet. You’re using up all the air.”

We were both silent for a moment. Very few signs emanated from the room, and I was terrified Mr. Hamilton might fling the wardrobe doors open at any moment.

I wanted to cry with relief when I heard the unmistakable sound of Mr.

Hamilton drawing a bath. If only he would go into the bathroom and shut the door, we could make our escape. Yet it seemed that luck was not on our side. Though the water continued to run, Mr. Hamilton could be heard whistling to himself as he moved about the room. At least the running water would help to conceal our voices.

“Good heavens,” I whispered. “I hope he doesn’t decide to lay out the clothes from his wardrobe before he takes a bath.”

“It would be a bit awkward,” Milo agreed. “We might have talked our way out of being discovered in his room, but being discovered in his wardrobe is a different matter entirely.”

“This is your fault,” I said again. “If you hadn’t been here…”

“You would have been caught.”

“I would not.”

The whistling faded as Mr. Hamilton presumably made his way back into the bathroom. The sound of the water did not diminish, however, so it seemed he had not yet shut the door.

“It occurs to me,” Milo said after a moment, “that there may be distinct advantages to the situation in which we have found ourselves.”

“Such as?”

“Use your imagination, Amory,” he murmured. He leaned to kiss my neck, and I stiffened.

“Don’t,” I said.

His arms moved around me, and he pressed closer. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be kissed in a dark wardrobe?”

“There’s no need. Gil’s not here to see you now.”

“Ah,” he said, his mouth still pressed beneath my ear. The understanding implicit in the single syllable irritated me further.

“You did it on purpose,” I said, pushing against his chest.

He leaned back ever so slightly but didn’t bother to deny it. “All’s fair in love and war, darling.”

“And which, exactly, is this, Milo?”

“It was only a kiss, Amory. It wasn’t as though I ravished you in the lobby.”

“You needn’t feign attraction to me for Gil’s sake.”

“You little idiot.” He kissed me in earnest then, and it was a long moment before I pushed him away.

“Stop, Milo. Listen.” A series of splashes reached our ears. It seemed that Mr. Hamilton entered his bath. The water was still running, however, and it did not sound as though the door had been closed. Did the man intend to bathe with the bathroom door open? We waited.

Finally, Milo disentangled himself from me, and pushed the door open the slightest crack. A moment later, he pushed it open farther. The light shone across his face as he frowned. “Wait here a moment,” he said.

“I don’t…” He slipped out and closed the door before I could finish my sentence. I sighed into the darkness.

He was gone what seemed to be an inordinately long time. Then I heard another splash. I hoped Milo had not been discovered, but there was no sound of voices, so I waited a moment longer. I was about to step out and investigate for myself when Milo pulled the doors open. His expression was

uncharacteristically solemn, and I felt that his sleeves were wet as he assisted me from the wardrobe.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered.

He nodded toward the adjoining door, and I saw that water had seeped out of the room onto the carpet. And still the water was running in the bathtub.

“What…” My eyes met his, and suddenly I knew.

I stepped toward the bathroom.

“Amory, perhaps you’d better not.”

I ignored him and went to the door, looking in to the room I had rummaged through not long before. It was just as I had feared.

Mr. Hamilton, still dressed in his undershirt and trousers, was half-submerged in the bathtub full of water. His legs hung over the edge, and his face, eyes bulging wide, stared blankly up from beneath the surface.

I stifled a gasp with my hand. I turned to Milo, my eyes wide.

“I’m afraid the plot thickens,” he said.

* * *

IT WAS ALL very like some horrible bout of déjà vu.

Gazing down at the body of someone who had been alive only minutes before was awful indeed. Doing it twice in one week was utterly appalling.

Though I had thoroughly disliked the man, seeing him floating in a tub like so much driftwood left me feeling shabby about my uncharitable thoughts.

“Perhaps we should pull him out,” I said numbly.

“Better leave him for the police,” Milo answered.

“Are you sure he’s … dead? Perhaps we can still do something.” I knew even as I spoke that it was far too late to do anything.

“I pulled his head out a moment ago to check. He’s quite dead.”

The nonchalance with which Milo spoke of handling the corpse made me feel a bit ill. I shuddered as I recalled the brush of his wet cuffs against my skin.

“We’d better call the police,” I said.

Milo walked past me, his shoes sloshing in the water that ran across the floor. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and used it to turn off the water.

The room suddenly seemed very quiet. I glanced back at Mr. Hamilton.

His eyes were blue; I had never noticed.

Milo made his way back to my side.

“Let’s go, Amory.” He took my elbow and guided me from the room.

The next few moments passed rather in a blur. Back in the lobby, Milo told the desk clerk to call the police while I tried to collect my wits. Then we went back to our room to wait.

As Milo removed his damp shirt, I sat on the sofa, attempting to calm my nerves. I didn’t know what had come over me. My hands were shaking, and my legs felt like rubber.

Milo pulled on a fresh shirt, and I watched his fingers as he deftly buttoned it. His hands were steady. If stumbling across a body in a bathtub had rattled him, he certainly didn’t show it.

“How do you think it happened?” I asked at last.

“That, my dear, is a very good question,” he replied, knotting his tie.

“Perhaps he fell and hit his head,” I suggested, wanting desperately to believe it.

Milo smoothed his tie and regarded me with a bland expression. “Come now, Amory. You’re much too clever to believe that.”

He was right; I didn’t believe it. Not for a moment.

“This is like a nightmare,” I said, dropping my head into my hands. “It’s all too horrid for words.”

Milo sank onto the sofa beside me. “It’s a nasty business, isn’t it,” he agreed as he lit a cigarette and proceeded to smoke it, relaxed as ever. Some little part of me was disappointed that he didn’t pull me to him in a comforting embrace. I desperately needed a bit of reassurance at the moment.

Milo’s sangfroid was not rubbing off on me. I stood, too nervous to sit, and began to pace. “Why should someone wish to kill Mr. Hamilton?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“It could have been anyone. He left his door unlocked.”

“Yes, you got in easily enough.”

“But it would have had to be timed impeccably well. How should they know that he was preparing to bathe? Only Mrs. Hamilton might have known, and she wouldn’t have been able to do such a thing.”

“Amory darling, do sit down. You’re wearing a path in the rug.”

“Perhaps they meant to kill him and just happened to take advantage of the bath,” I said. “That seems more likely. But who could have done it? We didn’t hear anything.”

I stopped pacing as another horrible thought occurred to me. “Milo, whatever are we going to tell the police?”

He shrugged. “The truth, I suppose.”

“Tell them what, exactly? That we were hiding in the wardrobe?” I asked, aghast at the suggestion. “I suppose you think Inspector Jones would applaud us for our discretion.”

“I really think you should sit down. You’re very pale.”

“I’m perfectly well,” I replied, but I dropped onto the sofa next to Milo anyway. The truth was that I didn’t feel at all well. Though my hands had ceased to tremble, my insides felt all aquiver. I could not understand why I had taken this so hard. I had not been so affected by the death of Rupert.

Then again, I had only seen his body from afar. Mr. Hamilton’s body had been much more of a shock. The image of his staring eyes was something I was not likely to forget for a long time to come.

We sat in silence as we waited. Milo smoked with the appearance of perfect contentment as I wrung my hands, lost in thought. It just didn’t make sense. Who could have killed Mr. Hamilton? Even more perplexing was the question, Who would want to?

It seemed an eternity before the officious rap sounded at our door.

Milo rose and went to open it, and I stood expectantly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” Inspector Jones said as he entered, hat in hand.

His tone was calm, but something about his posture seemed poised and alert, like a cat about to pounce. “I understand there has been another …

unfortunate incident.”

“Have you been to Mr. Hamilton’s room yet?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. He turned to Milo. “I understand you reported the body, Mr. Ames.” Inspector Jones, I had discovered, possessed the peculiar talent of being able to say a great deal without saying anything at all. Somehow, the simple question managed to convey skepticism mingled with curiosity at just what Milo had been doing in Mr. Hamilton’s bathroom.

“Yes,” Milo answered. “I did. Or we did, rather.”

“I see.”

“It was dreadful,” I said.

The inspector’s gaze came back to me, and I thought I saw concern flicker there. “Mrs. Ames, perhaps you should sit down.”

I sighed and sat. Inspector Jones indicated the sofa, and Milo sat, too, as the inspector took a seat in one of the chairs.

“Now then,” he said, pulling his notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “How exactly was it that you discovered the body?”

I glanced at Milo. He had suggested the truth, so the truth it would be.

“We were in the room when it happened,” I said.

The inspector’s pen stilled, and he looked up sharply. “In the room?”

“Yes … we were hidden.”

“Hidden?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Milo said, “and while we’re confessing, I expect you’ll find that Amory’s fingerprints are scattered about the premises.”

“Blast,” I murmured. “I didn’t think of fingerprints.”

“You should have worn gloves,” Milo said.

Inspector Jones’s jaw clenched, and he was silent for a moment before he spoke. “May I ask why your fingerprints are scattered about Mr.

Hamilton’s room, Mrs. Ames?”

“I … I was doing a search,” I said.

“A search.” His jaw clenched again, and I thought he must be trying very hard to contain either extreme anger or amusement. I hoped for the latter but rather suspected the former.

I briefly explained the events that had led up to my inspection of Mr.

Hamilton’s room, including observing Mr. Hamilton pick up something on the beach and my suspicion that it might be the weapon. Inspector Jones, after staring inscrutably for a moment, returned to jotting methodical notes and interjecting the occasional terse question.

“I could find no sign of anything that might be a weapon in his room,” I told him.

“You thought you had information regarding the murder weapon, and you didn’t think this was pertinent enough to share with the police?” he asked. His eyes had taken on a decidedly hard cast, and I realized that this might not bode well for us, especially since he had yet to hear the rest of our tale.

“I didn’t want to bother you with trifles,” I answered. “Not until I was certain.”

“Do you realize you could be arrested for breaking into someone’s room?”

“The door was unlocked,” I said. The inspector frowned but did not reply to this. Instead, he turned to Milo.

“And what part did you play in this, Mr. Ames? You obviously didn’t try to discourage your wife from her endeavors.”

“One does not dissuade Amory from anything,” Milo said dryly. “But, in fact, I didn’t know she was going to Mr. Hamilton’s room. I just happened to encounter her there in the course of my own investigations.”

I was fairly certain I heard the inspector swear beneath his breath.

“I know this must sound frightfully far-fetched,” I admitted.

Inspector Jones sighed. “Go on, Mrs. Ames.”

I related how Milo and I had met up in the room and how we had heard Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton approaching. “We couldn’t get out of the room. So, we … well…”

“We hid in the wardrobe,” Milo supplied.

The inspector blinked once. “You were in the wardrobe when the incident occurred,” he said slowly. “What did you hear?”

“He was whistling to himself as he filled the bathtub,” I told him. “We could hear him walking around, and then he entered the bathroom.”

“And after that?”

“Well, we were a bit preoccupied,” Milo answered casually.

Inspector Jones digested this bit of news with perfect equanimity. I, on the other hand, was horrified.

“You needn’t make it sound so sordid, Milo.”

“Good heavens, darling. You’re blushing like a schoolgirl.”

“I am not,” I replied coolly.

Inspector Jones cleared his throat. “You heard no other voices?”

“No,” I answered, relieved at the change of subject. “I believe I heard Mrs. Hamilton in the hall, but I didn’t hear her enter the room. There was a bit of splashing, and then nothing.”

The inspector jotted this down and closed his notebook. “That should be sufficient for now.”

“How is Mrs. Hamilton?” I asked.

He looked at me, his gaze suddenly sharp. “Why do you ask?”

I was startled by the question. “I assume she has taken Mr. Hamilton’s death very hard. Or haven’t you told her yet?”

His expression relaxed ever so slightly. “No, Mrs. Ames. We haven’t told her yet. We are still hoping we will be able to.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Hamilton was drugged, heavily. The doctor is with her now. We haven’t been able to wake her up.”

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