Death Wears a Mask (13 page)

The corner of Milo's mouth tipped up. “Of course.”

He was amused, but not much interested. So far, he had paid very little notice to Mr. Harker's murder. Somehow I had the impression that there was something else on his mind, that our conversation did not have his complete attention. I wished, as I had countless times before, that I could read his thoughts. He was so very closed sometimes.

I tried to draw him out. “Don't you think it strange that the list of people on the first floor when the murder occurred were the same people at Mrs. Barrington's dinner party, one of whom she suspects of being a jewel thief?”

“Perhaps it's just a coincidence. People naturally tend to flock in familiar groups. We'd all been together at the Barringtons'. It isn't so very strange that we should find ourselves grouped together again. Garmond and I dined tonight with Ivers and Billings from our club because we'd had drinks together yesterday. It's not so uncommon.”

I shook my head. “There's more to it than that. There's something I can't put my finger on…” The thought came to me suddenly. “Is Mr. Garmond related in any way to Vivian Garmond?” I asked, making the connection between the two names that I should have made long ago.

“Dunmore's mistress? Distantly, perhaps. I've never asked him.”

“You knew she was his mistress?” I asked, surprised.

“My dear, everyone knows it.”

“You didn't mention it to me.”

He shrugged. “I didn't think it noteworthy. Besides, what has she to do with any of this?”

“Perhaps nothing,” I admitted.

“What else did you and the good inspector discuss?”

“I remembered tonight that Mr. Harker and Mr. Foster were wearing nearly the same mask. What if it was Mr. Foster that someone meant to kill?”

Milo seemed to consider this.

“Perhaps the killer murdered the wrong man by mistake,” I suggested.

“Killing the wrong man would be rather a colossal mistake,” he said.

“Just think of it,” I said, warming to the tale. “The killer might have had a vendetta against Mr. Foster, snuck up behind him, and killed him.”

“I suppose it's possible,” he conceded without enthusiasm. “Nevertheless, I think it far more likely that James Harker was the intended victim. After all, one can't go around haphazardly killing people. Were I going to kill someone, I would make sure that I was killing the right person. It would be quite a nuisance to have all that planning count for naught.”

Leave it to Milo to think of a mistaken murder in terms of the inconvenience it would cause rather than the moral implications.

I was not entirely convinced that my theory about killing the wrong man should be discarded, but I let it pass for the moment. Milo did have a point. It seemed quite unlikely. Besides, if the killer had murdered the wrong man by mistake, it didn't account for the gemstones found in Mr. Harker's pocket.

“What we have yet to determine,” I said to Milo, “is why anyone would want the jewels so desperately in the first place. Granted, someone might steal something if it was lying about at Mrs. Barrington's house; it might have proved too tempting to resist. But who would want them or need them badly enough to kill for them? It just seems so senseless. After all, none of us are exactly in need of money.”

“That we know of,” he corrected.

It was a valid observation. What did I really know about the financial situations of anyone involved? Lord Dunmore, the Douglas-Hugheses, and Nigel Foster certainly didn't appear to need the money. That left only the Echols sisters and Mrs. Garmond as more obvious candidates. I would have to find out more about them.

I sighed. “It's all so complicated. I will have to see what I can discover.”

He ground out his cigarette and stood. “You make an adorable bloodhound, my sweet, but I don't know that snooping about is a good idea.”

I must say I found his reticence surprising. Though he would never admit it, I was certain that he had enjoyed the thrill of the chase as much as I had when we were looking into the affair at the Brightwell. Why should things be any different this time?

“Why ever not?” I asked.

“Because, if you'll recall, you nearly got yourself killed the last time. I should hate for you to get yourself into trouble while I'm away.”

I bit back the urge to reply that he had never been much concerned about me during his absences before. Instead, I smiled with what I hoped was deceptive sweetness. “Don't worry your pretty little head over me. I shall be just fine.”

 

12

WHATEVER GRAND SCHEMES
I might have been concocting, the following days turned out to be frustratingly dull. I had forgotten the severe limitations placed upon me by my inability to walk properly. Despite my impatience, I knew I needed to give my sore ankle time to heal if I was going to devote my full energies to catching a killer.

Milo had set out for Bedfordshire the morning after Inspector Jones's visit, and I was left to limp about the house with only Winnelda for company. I spent a good deal of time sifting through her stash of scandal sheets, looking for any clues that might have been dredged up by the unwitting press. It would be helpful, I reasoned, to learn what I could about the suspects. By the time the week had passed, I knew more than I ever wished to, but none of it seemed at all important.

As might have been suspected, there was very little to read about James Harker. He had appeared occasionally in the society columns, as the guest of some notable person or the other at various social events. He was often in the company of the Echols sisters, and I had seen photographs of him with Marjorie and Felicity appearing alternately on his arm. On the whole, his behavior seemed particularly unobjectionable, and I felt another stab of sadness that his life should have been ended so unexpectedly and so violently.

The tales of Lord Dunmore's misdeeds, of course, abounded in plenty. My purposeful avoidance of gossip had kept me in ignorance of most of them, and I was a bit surprised at the stunning variety of his rumored transgressions. Granted, they were interspersed with enough notices of various charitable contributions to prevent his reputation from slipping from tarnished to completely irredeemable.

I was surprised there was very little mention of Mrs. Garmond, at least in the recently published articles that Winnelda had on hand. Perhaps they had parted ways. It was quite possible that he had tired of her or that she had grown tired of his behavior. It was certainly trying to see the man you love appearing again and again in connection with other women.

“Oh, here's one on Mr. Nigel Foster, madam,” Winnelda said, rousing me from my unpleasant reveries. She handed the paper over to me. She had been gleefully scouring page after page, pouncing upon tidbits of news that related to anyone involved in the case.

It wasn't much of a notice. “Tennis star Nigel Foster, who has been out of the country for several months on tour, missing Wimbledon after his failure to win last year, left his racket at home yesterday to attend a yachting race in the company of the Barringtons.”

“Well, Winnelda,” I said with a sigh, tossing the issue away. “I'm afraid we've reached the end of our stack.”

“Would you like me to go out and buy some more?” she asked hopefully.

I stood, stretching my stiff neck. I had been sitting in one position for entirely too long. “I think we've had enough for now. My head is swimming.”

“Oh! I think perhaps there's an issue in my room that I haven't read yet!” she said. “I'll fetch it.”

The telephone rang, and Winnelda made a move in that direction, but I waved her away. “I'll get it,” I said, already moving toward the foyer. At least I was finally able to walk without the assistance of my cane. I hoped I never had to see the wretched thing again.

“Hello?” I said, wondering who might be calling. I would not allow myself to hope that it might be Milo, for he rarely ever phoned when he was away.

“Hello, Amory?”

“Yes?”

“It's Mamie Douglas-Hughes.”

“Oh, hello,” I said, glad somehow to hear the friendly American voice on the other end of the line. “How are you?”

“I'm very well, thank you. I'm calling to see how your ankle's mending.”

“It's much better, thank you. I'm getting around without my cane now.”

“I'm so glad. Then on to my second reason for calling. I know it's short notice, but I was hoping you'd be able to join me for tea this afternoon.”

“I'd love to,” I replied immediately. I was sorely in need of a change of scenery, and this also presented a perfect opportunity to interact with another guest who had been at the “death party,” as the papers were wont to call it, with typical lack of imagination.

The papers had initially reported that Mr. Harker had killed himself, and the speculation as to why had been varied and absurd, with hints that there had been some sort of torrid romance gone awry. After the inquest found that Mr. Harker had been murdered, however, the suggestions had become even more preposterous. My favorite of the theories put forth by the press was that there was a madman jewel thief loose in London whose true objective had been the theft of the illustrious Dunmore Diamond and who had killed Mr. Harker by mistake.

I had heard no more from either Mrs. Barrington or Inspector Jones. Mrs. Barrington had, I was sure, been attending to the details of her nephew's funeral, and I could only suppose that Inspector Jones was waiting for me to discover something useful.

Thus far I had been unable to determine the best course of action for gaining information directly from the sources, and so Mamie's invitation had come at just the right moment. I had had enough of research. I craved action.

“Wonderful!” she said. “Four o'clock?”

“I'll look forward to it.”

We rang off, and I returned to the sitting room, where Winnelda was leaning over what I assumed was the magazine she had retrieved from her room.

She closed it guiltily as I came in and stood quickly, trying very hard to look casual, despite the fact that she seemed to have gone pale. She was a sweet girl, but there was not a subtle bone in her body. There was something she was trying to keep from me, and I could only suppose it was about Milo. No doubt she had come across some lurid account of his having appeared at the ball with Helene Renault.

The buzzer rang before I had time to question her. “I'll get it, Winnelda,” I called, walking once again toward the foyer.

I had no idea who might be calling. I pulled open the door to be faced with perhaps the last person I had expected.

“Lord Dunmore,” I said, concealing my surprise. I had sent a note thanking him for the flowers and had not heard from him since.

“Hello, Mrs. Ames,” he said, removing his hat.

I issued the invitation automatically. “Come in, won't you?”

I stepped back, and he came into the foyer, casting a brief glance at the black-and-white marble floors and gray-striped papered walls before turning his attention back to me. “I hope I'm not intruding.”

“Not at all.”

“How's your ankle? On the mend?”

“Yes, it's much better, thank you.”

I wondered why he was really here, but I did not have long to wait.

“I was passing by and thought perhaps you'd like to go for a drive with me.”

Passing by, was he?

“It's a lovely day,” he continued. “I heard that your husband has gone away, and I thought perhaps you could use some company.”

News certainly traveled quickly. I wondered who had told him that Milo had gone to Bedfordshire.

“We could drive out to the country,” he went on. “I know several very nice scenic spots. Then perhaps lunch and…” He shrugged as his voice trailed off, leaving his meaning to hang in the air between us. Lunch and whatever happened to come afterward.

I found myself surprised at his directness. I had been warned that the viscount moved swiftly and without hesitation, but I had not expected anything of this sort. “Thank you, Lord Dunmore, but I don't think that will be possible.”

“Have you another engagement?”

“Yes,” I answered. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

“What about tomorrow?”

I hesitated, not wanting to be rude but wishing my disinterest to be clear. “While I appreciate the offer, I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“Surely you don't object to my company?” He smiled as if the question was absurd, and there was something strangely appealing about his utter lack of self-consciousness.

“I am certain that you are excellent company, my lord, but I am sure you are aware how it would look if we were seen driving about together.”

“I thought you didn't read the gossip columns.”

“That doesn't mean I wish to be maligned in them.”

“Maligned?” His brows rose. “For taking a simple drive with me?”

We were both very aware that he was offering more than a drive, yet we both went on politely ignoring the fact.

“I am married, after all,” I said at last, making note of what should have been the most obvious point.

“But not happily, I hear.”

I stiffened slightly at the inference. “Even if that was true, it wouldn't make any difference.”

His mouth tipped up at the corner. “It does to most women.”

“I am not most women, my lord,” I answered coolly.

He smiled suddenly, quite a warm smile that seemed to evaporate whatever tension had been rising. “No. No, I can see you are not. I apologize if I've caused offense.”

“Not at all,” I said, as though I received such propositions every day. “I appreciate your invitation, but I'm afraid I must still decline it.”

He nodded his acceptance good-naturedly. “I hope to see you again, at any rate. You'll come to my ball this weekend, won't you?”