Death Wears a Mask (36 page)

“I didn't want to do it. I had to,” he said again. “Don't you see? There wasn't any other choice.”

“He was your nephew,” I said. “He would have known to keep quiet.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “James couldn't keep his mouth shut about anything. It was as if information just poured out of him at the most inconvenient times.”

I remembered what Milo had told me. James Harker had blurted out his uncle's financial difficulties at an inopportune moment, and it had cost Mr. Barrington a business deal. I hadn't thought revenge was likely, but I had never considered that there might have been a greater secret that Mr. Barrington thought was worth killing for.

“I knew that if this came out, it would cause an immense scandal … for me and for Foster.”

I thought of Nigel Foster's part in this for the first time. Surely he must have suspected that Mr. Barrington might have killed James. But the secret was his as well, and he had been unwilling to risk his own reputation.

“I didn't have time to collect the paste gems from his pocket after the shot sounded. I hurried from the room, hiding the mask and bracelet in the first place I saw, that clock. I shoved them inside, intending to come back for them later. Then I walked back toward the room as though I was investigating the shot.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I have relived that wretched night in my mind a thousand times.”

“Mr. Barrington,” I said soothingly, “perhaps the best thing would be for you to turn yourself over to the police.”

“No!” he said. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pistol.

Now was not the time to reflect on the irony of facing down the barrel of a gun held by a killer for the second time in as many months.

“This is getting to be a very bad habit of yours, Amory,” Milo remarked, as though he had followed my train of thought.

I ignored him, my eyes still on Mr. Barrington. Great beads of sweat quivered on his forehead and began to roll down his face, and I could see that his hand was trembling. I hoped he was not gripping the trigger too tightly. Perspiration and unsteady hands seemed a very poor combination.

“Dunmore was so very smug about tonight. I was sure he knew something. I brought this gun along in case I needed to deal with him, too.”

“There's no need to do anything desperate, Mr. Barrington,” I said calmly. “The police are in the house, and you'll be caught. The best thing to do is just to give yourself up.”

He seemed suddenly sad, defeated. The gun wavered in his hand, almost as though he had deflated. I was aware of Milo moving slowly to stand beside me, and I wondered what he intended to do.

“Let me have the mask and bracelet, Mr. Barrington,” I said gently.

I took a step forward, and he pulled the gun upward. “No,” he said, jerking his hand back. At the same moment, Milo pushed me behind him even as the gun went off with a deafening boom.

Mr. Barrington stared at us for a moment, as though he was more surprised than anyone that he had done it. Then he turned and fled from the room.

I turned back to Milo, and something about his face stopped me cold.

“What is it?” I asked, a strange sense of dread creeping over me.

“I don't want to alarm you, darling,” Milo said, pulling back his dinner jacket to reveal a growing red stain on the white shirt beneath, “but I'm afraid I've been shot.”

 

31

“MILO,” I GASPED.
I rushed to his side, fear coursing through me with such force that I felt almost dizzy. I realized instantly what had happened. Milo had pushed me aside, but, in doing so, he had put himself in the path of the bullet.

“It's all right,” he said calmly. “I'm fairly certain it's only a scratch, but perhaps I'd better sit down nonetheless.”

As he moved to a chair, there was a shout from the hallway and the sound of a scuffle. A moment later, Inspector Jones came into the room, followed by Mr. Douglas-Hughes. The inspector's eyes fell on Milo, and he came quickly to his side.

“Inspector Jones, please call for a doctor. Milo's been shot,” I said, as though he couldn't see for himself. My voice sounded calm to my own ears, but it seemed as though it had come from very far away, as though I wasn't the one talking at all.

Inspector Jones turned back to Mr. Douglas-Hughes. “Will you telephone, sir?”

“Certainly,” he replied promptly, going from the room.

“Did you catch him?” Milo asked conversationally.

“Yes. We apprehended him in the hallway. Sergeant Lawrence has taken him in charge,” Inspector Jones replied, his calm gaze taking in the location of the blood on Milo's shirt.

“Excellent work,” Milo said in congratulation. “I didn't have much time to think about apprehending him after the gun went off.”

“We'd better take off your jacket, sir.”

He helped Milo gently out of it. Milo appeared as unperturbed as ever, but his face had gone pale. I had never seen him any shade but bronzed, and it frightened me badly to see the color leeched from his face. He was in pain, and I feared that he was losing too much blood.

My eyes fell to the steadily growing red stain against his white shirt, and I felt my legs go a bit weak as the corners of my vision began to swim.

“It's all right, Amory,” Milo said soothingly as he reached out and took my hand. It was not until his warm fingers enclosed my icy ones that I realized he was trying to comfort me and not the other way around. “Sit down, darling,” he said. “You've gone all white.”

I pulled over a chair and sat at his side. I was glad for the support; my legs felt like straw.

“Oh, Milo, does it hurt very much?” I was fighting tears. I didn't want him to know how afraid I was, for that would only make him more uncomfortable than he already was. I had never felt so helpless.

“Not at all,” he said, lying. My eyes searched his face, and he smiled, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

“It appears it's only a flesh wound,” Inspector Jones said.

“Oh, thank God,” I whispered.

“He didn't really mean to shoot me,” Milo commented. “Amory made him uneasy, and the gun went off.”

“It seems Mrs. Ames is always confronting armed killers just before the police can arrive,” Inspector Jones said dryly.

“At least this time I was able to intercept things, so to speak.”

“Perhaps you shouldn't be talking, Milo,” I said.

“I'm not dying, darling. I'm perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation.”

Inspector Jones pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound. Milo's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Are you certain he's going to be all right?” I whispered to the inspector. “Is he losing too much blood?”

“I haven't been shot in the ear, Amory,” Milo said. “You needn't talk about me as though I can't hear you.”

I frowned at him affectionately. “Do be serious for once, Milo. You've got a bullet in you.”

“I don't think the bullet is in him,” Inspector Jones reassured me. “I think it merely grazed him. Quite a lucky thing.”

“You see?” Milo told me. “A scratch.”

He was being brave to reassure me, and I adored him for it. I still felt like I was one step away from falling into sudden hysteria. My husband had been shot protecting me from a desperate murderer. It sounded too melodramatic to be true.

“The doctor will be here shortly,” said Mr. Douglas-Hughes, coming back into the room. “Is everything all right?”

“I think so,” Inspector Jones said. “I think Mr. and Mrs. Ames may be more careful about confronting killers in the future.” He smiled to soften the reprimand. “I must commend you both, however. You've managed to see yet another murderer brought to justice. Well done.”

Coming from Inspector Jones, this was high praise indeed.

“That wretched man killed his nephew for fear of being found out in a gambling plot,” I said, feeling extremely uncharitable toward Mr. Barrington. “Mr. Harker had overheard his uncle plotting with Mr. Foster to throw a match in Switzerland next month. He'd done it before, you see, at Wimbledon. There were rumors circulating at the time that there was something wrong about his loss, and he left the country while things died down.”

“And yet he planned to do it again,” Inspector Jones said.

“It's nothing along the scale of Wimbledon, of course. They probably could have managed it without much suspicion. But even a hint of scandal could have ruined both of them. Mr. Barrington felt Mr. Harker must be silenced.”

“Did he say if Foster has anything to do with the murder?” questioned the inspector.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I wouldn't put it past him, though it's more likely that he suspected that Mr. Barrington had something to do with it but chose to keep silent.”

“We'll find out what his involvement in all of this is,” Inspector Jones said.

“I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes said calmly, breaking into the conversation for the first time. I looked up at him, surprised.

He went on in his cool, steady voice. “Mr. Foster is involved in some, shall we say, highly sensitive work with the Foreign Office. I'm afraid we can't jeopardize that.”

“Not even if he's an accomplice to murder?” I asked.

He looked at me gravely. “There are more lives at stake than you know, Mrs. Ames.”

I thought it somewhat unjust that Mr. Foster, a liar, a cheat, and a violent man, was outside the reach of the law.

Mr. Douglas-Hughes seemed to have read my thoughts, for he continued. “I know he is an unsavory character, Mrs. Ames. And believe me when I say that measures will be taken to ensure he puts no one else in jeopardy.”

That would have to be sufficient, I supposed. However, it still left my question unanswered.

“You came here that day claiming to be looking for your wife's missing earring, and she confirmed your story later. But Mrs. Douglas-Hughes wore no earrings to the ball.”

Mr. Douglas-Hughes smiled. “You're very perceptive, Mrs. Ames. We could use more people like you in the Foreign Office.”

“Don't give her any ideas,” Milo said.

“I thought,” Mr. Douglas-Hughes said slowly, carefully weighing his words, “that it might be possible that Mr. Foster was somehow involved with Mr. Harker's death. He had been much interested in Miss Felicity Echols, with whom Mr. Harker was on friendly terms, and I thought Mr. Foster might have wanted his competition out of the way. My wife and I were in the card room at the time the shot sounded, and Mr. Foster came in from the balcony. I came back to check the door to the murder room, just to ascertain whether it might have been possible for him to lock the door behind himself and then retreat to the balcony. I found the bolt could only be activated from inside, and I was satisfied that he was not the killer.”

Not the killer, perhaps, but despicable nonetheless.

I thought suddenly of Mrs. Barrington and felt very sorry for her. I knew it would come as a dreadful blow after the death of her nephew to find out that her husband was responsible. I felt sorry, too, for poor James Harker, who had trusted his uncle and had been sorely deceived.

It seemed proper, somehow, that this had started at a masked ball, for nothing had been as it seemed. Even death had worn a disguise.

*   *   *

THE DOCTOR ARRIVED
and confirmed Inspector Jones's assessment of Milo's injury. He cleaned and bandaged the wound, which thankfully hadn't even required stitches, and instructed Milo to consult with our doctor in a day or two.

After he had gone, Milo and I were left alone for the moment, Inspector Jones and Mr. Douglas-Hughes having gone to tend to the unpleasant aftermath of the investigation. I could only imagine what sort of chaos was happening downstairs as the guests began to realize what had occurred.

“The worst part in all of this,” Milo said, examining the bullet hole in his dinner jacket, “is how furious my tailor is going to be.”

“He can't fault you for being shot at.”

“Trust me, darling. He can fault me for anything.” He stood and gave a slight wince. “I will admit that being shot is not as glamorous as it has been made out to be.”

“You're going to relish this story for years to come.”

“Naturally. One doesn't get shot every day.”

Despite the levity of his words, I knew that he had likely saved my life. Had he not pushed me aside, the bullet would have hit me squarely. I stood and went to him, taking his hand in mine.

“Thank you, Milo,” I said, sincerely.

This seemed to surprise him. He hadn't been expecting me to grow suddenly sincere. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat,” he replied.

“Yes, well. Next time we face a killer, I hope he or she will use something other than a gun.”

“Good heavens, Amory. Next time?”

I laughed. “Never say never.”

“Speaking of never, you do realize,” he said suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “that it will hereafter be impossible for you to divorce me.”

“A pity,” I said, in keeping with his lack of gravity. “I might have been a viscountess.”

“Only a viscountess?” he chided. “If you're going to do something, do it right. I expect you could get an earl, or perhaps even a marquess if you set your mind to it.”

“Why stop there? What about a duke? Or even a prince?”

“Not as a divorced woman. Unless perhaps you went to the Continent.”

I laughed. “I don't want a prince.”

“Well, that's a relief. Life would be much too dull without you, darling.”

“It would be less constraining,” I said. “You could do as you pleased without having me to answer to.”

“Nonsense. Who would there be to drag me about solving murders and getting shot?”