AARP Hearing Center
Illustration by Dongkyu Lim
Chapter 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?
I thrust the paper back at him. “How perfectly disgusting.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“I wonder how they found out that I was coming to the seaside. I only left yesterday.” Milo’s eyes moved over the article again and then looked up at me, his brows raised. “Am I really a rogue?”
“This is nothing to laugh about, Milo.”
“Who’s laughing, my dear? Do you expect I am amused to find you and Trent making the most of the moonlight?” His eyes slid over me in a way that would have been positively indecent were he not my husband, and may have been indecent in any case. “Although, I can’t say I blame him. You’re looking very beautiful tonight, Amory.”
I tried not to think about how long it had been since he had looked at me with that wicked gleam in his eyes.
“Really, Milo.” I sighed. “I am in no mood for your charm this evening. Did you come all the way down here to confront me with a gossip column? After all the ghastly things they print about you, I’m surprised one little article should so inspire your interest in my affairs.”
“Affairs? Are there more than one?” he asked dryly. “Is poor Trent being duped as well?”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve had a very trying day. I’m going in. Good night.”
“How did the chap die?” His voice stopped me. There seemed to be something underlying the almost-uninterested tone.
I turned. “He went missing before tea. Emmeline and I went in search of him ... I saw him from the overlook. He was sprawled on the cliff terrace.” I stepped toward him and lowered my voice, though I wasn’t sure why. I was not even sure why I suddenly felt the need to confide in him. “It looked like an accident to me, but the inspector that was here today says it was definitely murder.”
Milo registered a marginal amount of surprise, indicated by the slight raising of one dark brow. “Murder, was it?” The corner of his mouth tipped up in what was half of a sardonic smile. “Well. It appears, my dear, that this jaunt to the seaside may prove to be more than you bargained for.”
***
I had thought, after the events of the day, that I would have difficulty falling asleep. But the old adage about the head hitting the pillow was never more apropos, and I awoke as the morning sunlight filtered into my room with no memory of having fallen asleep.
I bathed and dressed in one of my more somber ensembles, a tailored, belted dress made of emerald green silk, and went down to breakfast.
Only a smattering of our party was present in the breakfast room. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton and Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers sat together, talking in subdued voices. Lionel Blake was with them, though I noticed he did not seem to be participating in the conversation.
Gil was not in there, and I assumed he was with Emmeline. I was worried about her, especially now that it appeared Rupert’s death had been more than an accident. The next few months, the next few days especially, were going to be very hard on her.
Milo, of course, was nowhere to be seen. He was not what one would deem an early riser by any stretch of the imagination, and I had little doubt he was still enjoying the comforts of his bed. His room was on the same floor as mine, by chance or design I didn’t know.
I sat at a table alone but near enough to the others to avoid appearing uninterested in their company. Unlike the morning before, I was afraid I could not summon the appetite for a lavish breakfast. I took some toast and tea and a bit of fruit.
A moment after I had begun to pick at my food, Anne Rodgers leaned over to me from a nearby table, her hand on my arm. “Have you seen Emmeline?”
“No. Have you?”
She shook her head, platinum hair bouncing. “Gil said she was much too distraught. The doctor had given her something rather strong, I believe.”
“Perhaps we will be able to see her today.”
“It’s the most terrible thing,” she continued. “I can’t believe poor Rupert is gone. We were all so fond of him.”
“Well, not all of us,” Mr. Hamilton said with a smirk. “I’ll wager Trent wasn’t crying into his pillow last night.”
“Nelson,” Mrs. Hamilton said softly, “what a terrible thing to say.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true,” he replied, but he let the subject drop. If he had any specific knowledge of bad blood between Rupert and Gil, he was not in the mood to share it at present.
“This all could have been avoided if they had put up a suitable railing,” Mr. Rodgers intoned. “The legal implications of such a hazard likely have never occurred to the hotel. If Emmeline, after a suitable period of mourning, of course, would care for me to look into the ...”
“Oh, Edward,” Anne Rodgers said, waving her fork at him. “Not now.”
He frowned at his wife’s gentle reprimand but didn’t finish his sentence.
Nelson Hamilton guffawed as he took an overlarge bite of egg. “Always on the lookout for a bit of business, eh, Ned?”
Larissa Hamilton had watched the exchange with the same look of vague alarm that I had come to realize was her natural expression. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant, Nelson,” she said softly.
“Not a bad idea, though,” Hamilton continued, as if his wife had not spoken. “Negligence, pure and simple.”
They were not aware, then, that it was murder.
I wondered why Inspector Jones would have revealed the fact to me and not to the others. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to keep the information to myself for the time being. I wondered who else knew about the bad feelings between Gil and Rupert. When the news was made public that Rupert had been murdered, people would be quick to point the finger at anyone besides themselves who might have had a reason to do him harm, and Gil’s dislike for Rupert might be construed as such. Of course, dislike for someone was not necessarily a motive for murder. Yet the fact remained that Rupert was dead, killed by a blow to the head from someone with whom he had presumably been arguing above the cliff terrace.
I still did not believe, even for a moment, that it might have been Gil. And after all, if Gil had been angry enough to strike Rupert, he could very well have done it that night when they had been alone on the terrace outside my window. No, I could not make myself consider that the overheard conversation was especially significant. That did nothing to ease my worry about what others might say, however.
A thought came to me suddenly. Perhaps if I could establish Rupert’s movements before his death, I could remove Gil from the scene completely. Perhaps it would rid me of my growing uneasiness.
“None of you saw Rupert walking about on the terrace yesterday afternoon, I suppose?” I asked casually, pushing my fruit around my plate with my fork.
“I hadn’t seen him since we were on the beach,” Anne Rodgers said. “Edward and I were napping. Weren’t we, dear?” She smiled luminously at her husband, and I rather thought he flushed.
“As I said yesterday, I hadn’t seen him either,” Mr. Hamilton said, a bit defensively, I thought.
“I saw him in the lobby after we came up from the beach,” Mrs. Hamilton said suddenly. She glanced at her husband as though worried he might cut her off and then continued. “He said something about having a meeting with someone later in the afternoon.”
That was curious. I remembered distinctly that yesterday afternoon she had agreed with her husband that they hadn’t seen Rupert.
“I ... I only just remembered,” she said, as though reading my thoughts.
I wondered. It seemed more likely that Mr. Hamilton had encouraged her silence.
“I took it to mean his tea engagement with Emmeline,” she went on, “but perhaps ...”
“I’m sure it was nothing,” Mr. Hamilton said abruptly.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she echoed, but her eyes met mine, and I saw the question in them. I would have to speak with her about it later, when her husband wasn’t present.
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