Death Wears a Mask (10 page)

Mrs. Barrington was dressed in a subtle navy ensemble and her features were somber, but the air of resilience hadn't left her. I thought I detected a sense of determination about her, and I wondered what it was that she had come to say.

“Mrs. Barrington,” I said, extending my hand to her. “I'm so sorry about your nephew.”

“Thank you. It's been rather a shock.” She said it in an automatic way, as though there were other things on her mind. While her tone was a bit more subdued than normal, I still detected the now-familiar underlying strength. Whatever her reason for coming, she had not come here to weep over James Harker, that much was certain.

Milo had stood when she entered and moved to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Barrington. Allow me to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“How do you take your tea, Mrs. Barrington?” I asked, as Milo pulled out her chair and she sat.

We settled for a moment into the comfortable routine of teatime. There was something very soothing about the familiar ritual, and the soft clinking of china and silver filled in the empty spaces in the conversation.

“I suppose you're wondering why I've come,” she said after emptying her cup. She set the cup and saucer on the table before her and squared her shoulders as though preparing for some taxing activity.

“Well,” I said carefully, “I … was a bit curious when Milo told me you wanted to come today.”

“So soon after James's death.” Her perceptive gaze trained on me. “But I expect you know that's why I'm here.”

I was still as puzzled as ever on that score. I really had no idea why she had come. I glanced at Milo, but his features were pleasantly impassive, as though we were discussing the weather.

“I supposed it had something to do with the missing jewelry about which you had spoken to me,” I said at last.

“No, it isn't that,” she said. “Not exactly, though goodness knows I wish I had never bothered about the jewels. If I had never bothered about it, James might still be alive. Of course, there is no way of knowing that for sure, and one mustn't dwell on the ‘if only's,' must one?”

“I … no, I suppose not,” I answered vaguely. I wasn't quite sure what she was getting at. I wondered if she suspected her nephew had killed himself over guilt for stealing her things. It was what the papers had implied, but that did not mean it was true. Mrs. Barrington was a kind woman. If Mr. Harker had confessed, I had no doubt she would have forgiven him in an instant. No, I was certain there was more to James Harker's suicide than the theft of a few of Mrs. Barrington's jewels.

“What is it about your nephew's death that brought you here?” Milo asked. It was a rather straightforward question, but Mrs. Barrington didn't appear to mind. In fact, she seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“Have you seen the papers?” she asked.

“I've been reading
The Times,
” I said, before adding hesitantly, “They said that you recognized the jewels found in your nephew's pocket.”

“Yes, I told the press that the jewels were mine and that the other things were missing,” she said. “They would have found out in any event. It saved time, and it served my purpose to do so.”

My eyes flickered to Milo's. We were both wondering, I think, where this bizarre conversation was leading.

“Perhaps he had a good reason for taking them,” I ventured, when she didn't continue.

“James didn't steal my things, Mrs. Ames.”

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “I know it's a horrible thought, especially given the circumstances, but…”

“You don't understand,” she said abruptly, and I could almost picture her impatiently swatting my erroneous assumptions aside. “He knew that the sapphires were paste. I confided my plan in him before the ball.”

I was silent a moment while I considered what this information meant.

“Then he would have had no reason to steal them,” Milo said. He made no attempt to hide the interest in his voice.

“Exactly. And there is more. The jewels were not all there. You remember the bracelet, Mrs. Ames?”

I nodded. It had been a very distinctive piece.

“It contained twenty-two stones in total. Only four were found in James's pocket. And there were a few more scattered about the floor.”

“Did the police recover the rest?” Milo asked.

“No. They searched the room but didn't find them.

“Then that means…” I said, the implication of her words startlingly clear.

“Yes. Now you see why I've come,” she said. “Poor James didn't kill himself. He was murdered.”

 

9

“MURDERED?” I REPEATED,
though somehow I was not really surprised. It had been in the back of my mind since last night that something was amiss in all of this, and it seemed that now my suspicions were confirmed.

I hazarded another glance at Milo. His countenance was completely unruffled, but there was a watchful look in his eyes that went beyond his customary indifference.

“Yes,” Mrs. Barrington said. “The theft of my jewels and James's death are obviously connected. I just haven't determined why or how.”

I poured myself another cup of tea as I allowed the implications of what she was saying to settle around me. As far-fetched as it might seem, the events appeared too closely connected to be mere coincidence.

“The police are aware of your concerns, of course?” Milo asked, as though it was perfectly natural to announce at tea that one's relative had been recently murdered.

“Yes, I spoke with them again today. They said they are content to let the rumor of suicide stand for the time being. I suppose it will give them more time to muster forces or whatever it is that they do. Poor James. I'm sure he would be mortified to have everyone think he would do such a thing, though anyone who knew him is bound to disbelieve it. And, of course, if it will help to catch his killer, I suppose the end justifies the means.”

She looked at me, as if expecting me to concur.

“But why come to us?” I asked, finding my words at last.

“Don't you understand, Mrs. Ames? I need you now more than ever.” She turned to look at Milo. “And you too, of course, Mr. Ames. Your help will be invaluable.”

“But surely the police…” I began.

She shook her head. “The police will do what they can, of course, but they cannot go where you go, Mrs. Ames. They haven't the influence in our sphere that you do. You know that people of our set won't be open with policemen … but they will be open with you. You were able to do it before, on the south coast. I'm asking you to do it again now.”

“I … I don't think…”

Milo was watching me, and I wished that he would say something.

“Please,” Mrs. Barrington said before I could refuse. “If you think there's anything you can do to help, I should be deeply indebted to you.”

How could I refuse her?

“All right, Mrs. Barrington,” I conceded, albeit with grave reservations. “I'll do what I can.”

“Bless you,” she said, rising from her seat. I rose with her, and this time she did embrace me, pressing me tightly against her ample bosom. She released me and turned to Milo, whom I suspected she would have enjoyed embracing as well, and settled for squeezing his hands warmly.

“I shall be busy with arrangements. The police say we may be unable to bury James until next Monday, a week from today. Will you come and have tea with me next Wednesday?”

“Yes, that should be all right.”

“Excellent. A week should be ample time for you to gather evidence. I shall see you then.” And with that she swept out of the room and was gone before I could have Winnelda show her out.

After the front door had closed, I turned to look at Milo, who had resumed his seat and was placidly eating a watercress sandwich.

“What do you make of that?” I asked him.

“Very interesting,” he said, though one certainly couldn't have determined his interest from his tone.

“I don't know what to think,” I said, still looking at the door through which Mrs. Barrington had departed. “I'm not certain how I feel about being involved in another murder investigation.”

“You like it,” Milo said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You like the idea of plunging headfirst into this tangle. In fact, I'd hazard a guess that you're thrilled at the prospect.”

I was incensed at this assumption, whether or not it was true. “Whatever gave you such an absurd idea?”

“When you poured your tea after she told you about the murder, your hands were perfectly steady. It didn't upset you in the slightest.”

“That's nonsense.”

He sat back in his chair and scrutinized me. “And now your eyes are unnaturally bright, like liquid silver.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” I huffed.

“Come now, darling, you may as well admit it.”

The buzzer rang again, sparing me the necessity of having to answer his ludicrous accusations. “Mrs. Barrington must have thought of something else,” I said.

However, it was not Mrs. Barrington who entered the room behind Winnelda, but an enormous basket of red roses, from under which the delivery boy was attempting to refrain from knocking into anything of value.

“Just set them there,” I told him, surprised. Winnelda steered him to a corner. The bouquet was nearly as tall as the boy himself. Milo tipped him, and Winnelda ushered him out before hurrying back into the room.

“Aren't they lovely, madam,” she said with delight. “The most beautiful thing I've ever seen!”

“Yes, they're very lovely,” I said, as I made my way carefully to the flowers and plucked out the card.
My humblest apologies and sincerest wishes for your speedy recovery,
it read.
The night was an utter failure, but I promise to make it up to you. —Dunmore

“From the viscount,” I said.

“Oh! How very thoughtful of him!” Winnelda cried. “He's such a gentleman, isn't he, madam?”

“‘Gentleman' is not the word I would use,” Milo remarked over his teacup.

“He wishes me a speedy recovery.”

“Yes, I'm sure he does.”

Ignoring his tone, I turned to Winnelda. “Will you get some water for them?”

“Yes, madam.”

She went to the kitchen, and I turned back to Milo. Of course he would sneer at the flowers. Not only did he have general objections to Lord Dunmore, but extravagant floral arrangements weren't much in Milo's style. I, on the other hand, thought it was quite a sweet gesture. I didn't share Milo's concerns. Lord Dunmore was something of a flirt, perhaps, but there was nothing serious in his attentions. He certainly had no cause to believe that I would be receptive to them.

“Well?” I prompted Milo. He had said surprisingly little about Mrs. Barrington's revelations, and I was curious to know what was going on behind that impassive face of his.

He looked up at me. “Well, what? Shall I applaud Lord Dunmore's taste in roses?”

“I don't give a fig about the roses,” I told him crossly. “What do you think we should do about Mrs. Barrington?”

He rose, tossing his napkin onto the table. “I think you're going to do just as you please, no matter what I say. There is, at least, one positive thing about the situation.”

“And what's that?”

“I was in the room with you when the murder occurred this time. You can't possibly accuse me.”

He was smiling, but I sometimes wondered if that rift had been completely mended. Things had been tense and uncertain at the Brightwell, but the plain fact remained that, for a few mad moments, I had believed him capable of murder.

“Aren't you curious about James Harker's death?” I asked.

“Vaguely,” he admitted. “That doesn't mean I think we should go wading into matters that do not concern us.”

He was steadily moving toward the dining room door as we spoke.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to meet up with Garmond again to finish settling matters about my horse. And then I've a dinner engagement with a few friends. You don't mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” I said, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment washing over me. “Have a nice evening.”

*   *   *

MILO LEFT, AND
I did not allow myself to think about where he might really be going. I was not so naive as to accept his carefully reported plans for the evening at face value.

I felt again the sensation that things were beginning to fall apart at the seams, that the happiness we had constructed so carefully over the past two months was beginning to crumble.

I hobbled mournfully into the sitting room but found I was not to have the luxury of solitude in which to pity myself. Winnelda followed me and began dusting things in a very conspicuous way. She had been waiting all day with thinly veiled impatience for me to relate the events of Lord Dunmore's ball. I was sure that bits and snatches had come her way throughout the day, and she wanted a full report, which I had been thus far too harried to give.

Now, as I sat in one of a pair of ivory-colored leather chairs before the fireplace, she was making her presence known by cleaning everything near me as energetically as possible. When she nearly knocked over the Lalique vase on the mantel, I thought it time to put an end to her domestic charade.

“Would you like to hear about the ball, Winnelda?”

“Oh, yes!” she said, dropping the duster and perching on the chair opposite me with startling speed. “I've been ever so curious, though I didn't like to say so.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I thought you might be.”

I gave her a condensed version of events, with just enough of the grim details to satisfy her appetite for the macabre. Though she tried to hide it, I knew that her tastes tended toward the sensational, for I often found her scandal sheets hidden about the premises.