Death Wears a Mask (17 page)

“I don't want to talk about this now, Milo. I need some time to think.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” he asked.

I looked up at him. “It means I'd rather you stay at your club, or at the Ritz, or go back to Thornecrest. I don't care where…” He could stay with Helene Renault if he was so inclined. Anywhere but with me at the flat.

“Amory…” He sighed.

“Please, Milo.” The words came out as a whisper, and I drew in a breath before continuing in a steadier voice. “Let's not make things any more difficult than they already are.”

His eyes moved across my face, and I forced myself to meet the searching blue gaze unflinchingly. I needed him to see that I meant it. This wasn't going to be brushed off as easily as all of his past escapades. It was time he realized that I was not going to turn a blind eye forever. There was always a final straw.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I'll go now and send Parks later for my things.”

“I think that would be best.”

And still we stood there looking at one another. There was a wall between us, and I wondered if perhaps it was insurmountable. It all seemed so very hopeless at the moment.

“Shall I telephone you in a day or two?” he asked. His tone was polite, and I could read nothing in it. As usual, he revealed only what he wanted me to know and nothing more.

“Yes,” I said. “That should be fine.”

He reached out and took my hand in his. He held it for just a moment before squeezing it. Then he let it go and turned and walked away unhurriedly without looking back.

I watched him for a moment, and then continued walking toward the park. I tried and failed to sort through the whirlwind of emotions I was experiencing. I didn't know whether anger or sadness was foremost among them. I only knew that, in our conversation, there had been no remorse, only excuses. Time and time again I had accepted his explanations, believed him because I wanted what he said to be true. Well, I wasn't going to do it this time. I couldn't.

I reached the border of the park and sat down heavily on a bench. I felt like I should cry, but in truth I was too weary for that. Things had been building to this moment for a long time, and now that it was finally here, I felt only a numb sort of acceptance. It was as though I had known that our happiness the last two months had been too good to last.

It was all such a wretched, infuriating mess.

And perhaps the most maddening thing of all was that, despite everything, I was still terribly in love with him.

*   *   *

WHEN I FELT
sufficiently composed, I walked back toward the flat. There would be plenty of time for thinking things over when I had fully collected myself. Sitting alone in the park, airing out my emotions for all to see, would not solve anything.

I had nearly reached the flat's entrance when I spotted a familiar figure emerging from it. Detective Inspector Jones.

Given my somewhat flustered emotional state, I will admit that the thought of turning and dodging around the building to avoid him occurred to me. However, by the time it had, I had been spotted. I had wanted to speak to him, at any rate. I supposed now was as good a time as any. Sulking about my rapidly deteriorating marriage certainly wasn't going to solve James Harker's murder.

I waved and walked toward him, hoping the effects of my tumultuous morning weren't apparent on my face, though I rather suspected that was hoping for too much.

“Hello, Mrs. Ames. I've just come from your flat. Your maid told me that you were out.”

“I've been for a walk in the park. How are you, Inspector?”

“I'm quite well, Mrs. Ames,” he replied pleasantly, his eyes resting on my face in that unnervingly perceptive way of his. “How are you?”

There was, I thought, more than common courtesy in the question, but I brushed it aside.

“I'm fine, thank you, Inspector. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking over a couple of matters and wanted to discuss them with you. Won't you come back upstairs?”

Though I was not exactly feeling up to company in my present state, perhaps it would help me to get my mind off things.

We rode up in the lift together, and, once in my flat, Winnelda took his hat and coat with an impressively becoming decorum, considering her views on policemen. The fact that the inspector allowed himself to be divested of his outside garments seemed to indicate a shift in our relationship. Some of his officious formality had eased ever so slightly. Furthermore, he accepted a cup of black tea from the pot Winnelda brought into the parlor. I could not help but feel that we were now practically old friends.

“Mr. Ames has gone out?” he asked, when we had settled into our seats. There was something searching in his gaze that made me suspect he knew more than he let on. I wondered if it was possible he had encountered Milo on his way back from our walk.

I decided to be direct. One could only hide things from a detective for so long, after all. “Have you seen the photograph that has been circulating?”

He did me the justice of not feigning ignorance. “I have.”

“Yes, I thought you might have.” Not much escaped Inspector Jones. “I've asked him to stay elsewhere for the time being. I have a good deal to think over.”

“I see.”

I didn't elaborate, and he mercifully let the subject drop.

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs. Ames?”

I was glad for the change in topic and charged readily ahead. “For one thing, I wanted to ask if you had looked into the possibility that Mr. Harker might have been killed by mistake. After all, it's not outside the realm of possibility that someone might have wanted to kill Mr. Foster. Did you investigate the similarities of their masks?”

“I spoke with Mr. Foster. He seemed unaware that Mr. Harker was wearing the same mask on the night of the incident.”

It was not entirely surprising. The house had been crowded with guests; Mr. Foster might not even have crossed paths with Mr. Harker.

“That doesn't, of course, preclude the fact that someone might have mistaken one man for the other,” I persisted.

“That seems unlikely. You see, we have positively identified the gun as belonging to Mr. Harker. His valet informed us that Mr. Harker had removed it from the drawer where it was normally kept and put it in his pocket before leaving for the ball.”

This was another development I had not foreseen. “Mr. Harker was shot with his own gun,” I said slowly.

“Yes.”

“But why would Mr. Harker bring a gun to Lord Dunmore's ball?”

“I can only assume he thought he might have occasion to use it.”

“Then he was expecting trouble. But what was Mr. Harker doing in that bedroom with jewels from the bracelet?” I asked, more of myself than of Inspector Jones. And then an idea occurred to me.

“Were you able to determine who he was meeting that night?”

“I'm afraid not. I questioned all the guests, including his aunt and uncle, and they all told me they had no knowledge of Mr. Harker's whereabouts in the hour preceding the murder.”

“Nevertheless, he told me specifically that he was looking for someone. It seems now that that meeting had turned out to be deadly. Perhaps he knew who had been stealing Mrs. Barrington's jewels, decided to confront the thief, and arranged a meeting in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Perhaps things went wrong and the thief killed him.”

It didn't quite explain how the killer might have shot Mr. Harker from behind with Mr. Harker's own gun, but I felt that I was at least getting somewhere.

Inspector Jones seemed less impressed with my theory than I had been. “It's possible, but it still leaves several unanswered questions.”

I resisted the urge to note that it answered more questions than had thus far been addressed by the police.

“As we have ascertained, James Harker was shot from behind,” Inspector Jones said, astutely finding the weak point in my theory. “That seems to indicate he was surprised.”

“He could have set his gun aside and turned his back for a moment. The killer might have taken advantage of the opportunity and killed him with it.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded.

I had the sudden feeling that there was something he wasn't saying.

“There's more, isn't there? There's something you aren't telling me.”

He smiled. “Surely you are aware by now, Mrs. Ames, that I cannot tell you everything I know. After all, you're not working in an official capacity.”

As his irksome officiousness once again raised its ugly head, I noticed that he had not yet so much as sipped his tea. No doubt he had taken a cup simply to appease my desire to be hospitable, but it did not mean that this was a social call.

“It was you who came to me, Inspector,” I reminded him coolly.

His smile broadened at my sudden hauteur, and I wondered if it was possible that he was teasing me. “Indeed, I did come to you, Mrs. Ames. You're a very perceptive woman, and I find our conversations most enlightening.”

I wish I found things enlightening. It was all such a jumble. People had been everywhere, running about in masks. Really, it seemed a setting tailor-made for murder.

“It all comes back to the jewels,” I said, as a theory began to take shape in my mind. “Mrs. Barrington's paste sapphire bracelet went missing while she slept in the library. Suppose the meeting had nothing to do with the murder. Well then, perhaps James Harker saw the thief come out of the library and confronted him. A struggle might have ensued in which the bracelet broke, scattering the jewels across the hallway floor. The thief and Mr. Harker might have gathered them up hastily, missing the one that I later slipped on when going down the stairs.”

I was warming to my imagined account now, and Inspector Jones let me continue uninterrupted, his expression betraying nothing. “That would also account for the jewels found in Mr. Harker's pocket. Perhaps Mr. Harker then suggested that they step into one of the bedrooms to discuss the matter. Perhaps he even put aside the gun he had brought along as a sign of a truce, not knowing the thief would decide to use it against him.” I stopped, quite pleased with my speculations.

“An admirable theory, Mrs. Ames,” Inspector Jones replied. “However, there is one flaw in it.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“You theorize that they struggled over Mrs. Barrington's paste bracelet and that resulted in the loose stone on the steps. Well, I came today to let you in on a little secret. The jewel you found in your shoe was not paste. It was a genuine sapphire.”

 

16

“BUT THAT CAN'T
be!” I exclaimed.

“I'm afraid it is,” he replied calmly.

“I don't understand. Mrs. Barrington specifically told me that they were paste.”

“It seems they were. Mr. Barrington has confirmed that he brought the bracelet to a jeweler and had a paste replica made. Perhaps the bracelet was taken as you theorized. However, at some point during the evening, someone dropped a genuine sapphire in the hallway or on the stairs.”

“But no one else has reported anything missing?”

“No.”

“This is maddening!” I exclaimed. “What of the stones in Mr. Harker's pocket?”

“They were paste.” As was typical of Inspector Jones, he related one astounding piece of information after another without batting an eye. I wondered briefly if he ever found himself flummoxed, but I highly doubted it.

“Were the paste gems from the bracelet?” I asked.

“I've questioned Mrs. Barrington about it, but she can't be sure. It seems likely, but, if so, neither the setting nor the other paste jewels have been discovered.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. It seemed that every time I began to make sense of things, something occurred to turn my theories topsy-turvy.

“You've certainly given me a lot to think about, Inspector,” I mused. Much more than I needed at present.

“Yes, and I've taken up enough of your time, Mrs. Ames. Thank you for the tea.” He took a perfunctory sip and then set the cup on the table before rising from his seat.

Winnelda appeared from around the corner, where she had apparently been lurking, and gave the inspector his hat and coat.

“I'll be in touch.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector.”

He left, and I sipped my cold tea as I pondered these newest revelations.

Inspector Jones had confidently ruled out a case of mistaken identity, and I was inclined to agree with him. Though I hated to admit it, Milo had made a point when he noted that killing the wrong man based on the mask he wore would be a very careless thing to do. Mr. Foster and James Harker had a similar build, perhaps, but that was where the similarities ended. I found it hard to believe that anyone, given a moment to observe Mr. Harker, might have mistaken him for the tennis star. Besides, the killer had used Mr. Harker's gun, so he—or she—must have known on whom they were using it.

There was, of course, another option: that Mr. Harker had been killed because of something that he knew. He might have been privy to information someone was afraid he would share. It was, perhaps, unlikely, given the growing mystery surrounding Mrs. Barrington's jewels. Nevertheless, it was something to take into account.

I sighed again, deeply. It all seemed very like trying to untangle a spider's web.

*   *   *

WINNELDA REMINDED ME
that I had an engagement with Mrs. Barrington that afternoon.

“I'd forgotten all about that,” I admitted, rubbing a hand tiredly across my eyes. So much had happened since I had agreed to have tea with her.

“Shall I telephone and tell her you're ill, madam?” she asked, watching me anxiously. She really was a very sweet girl, and a perceptive one. Despite my best attempts at maintaining a carefree front, I knew that she was aware that everything was not all right.