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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Amory Ames
- Sprache: Englisch
The unexpected reconciliation between Amory Ames and her reformed playboy husband Milo is still on a fragile footing when Amory is drawn into an investigation into the disappearance of valuable jewellery. Unable to say no to an old family friend, she agrees to help lay a trap to catch the culprit at a lavish masked ball. But when a guest is murdered, Amory is pulled even further into the enquiry.
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Seitenzahl: 456
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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DEATH WEARS A MASK
ASHLEY WEAVER
For Amelia Lea and Dan Weaver, the best little sister and brother a girl could ask for. Love you, Mills and Danny!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
London August 1932
It was amazing, really, what murder had done for my marriage.
Not that I wished to speak flippantly of such tragedy, of course, but I couldn’t help but marvel at the way in which a brush with death had done wonders to improve things between my husband and me.
It had been two months since the events at the Brightwell Hotel, in which a holiday at the seaside had evolved into a double homicide and my nearly being killed. Murder was the last thing on my mind as I sat at my dressing table sipping a strong cup of tea in an attempt to fortify myself for the long evening ahead. Milo and I had been in town for less than a week, and I was still adjusting to the hours required by re-emergence into society after an extended period of quiet country living.
A retreat to the country had been necessary after that dreadful holiday. Murder alone was enough to try anyone’s nerves. But coupled with that awful event was the fact that my marriage had very nearly dissolved over the same period – not to mention that the entire thing had played out in lurid detail in every gossip rag in the country. Needless to say, it had proved to be a singularly unpleasant trip. It hadn’t helped matters that I had very briefly and quite erroneously suspected that my husband might be a murderer. We all make mistakes.
The mystery solved and misunderstandings resolved, we had departed for Thornecrest, our country home, and managed to smooth out the majority of our differences. However, such an idyll couldn’t last forever. Milo’s occasional visits to town increasing in length and frequency, it had become apparent to me that he was growing restless. Though I suspected London society was not exactly the place to live down such events in quiet anonymity, I thought it better to accompany him back to our London flat than leave him to his own devices.
Things weren’t yet perfect, perhaps, but I was happy. We were happier together than we had been in a very long time.
I glanced at Milo’s reflection as I powdered my nose. He was seated behind me on an ebony velvet chair, resplendent in his evening clothes, flipping through a magazine while he waited for me to finish dressing.
‘Have you seen this issue of The Mirror?’ he asked.
‘You know I don’t like to read that tripe,’ I replied. ‘Why? Are you in it? I shouldn’t think you’ve been in town long enough to garner any such attention.’
‘You are, in fact, wrong. But this time I am not alone. Allow me to read you this rather juicy bit of gossip.’ He cleared his throat for dramatic emphasis. ‘“Mr and Mrs Milo Ames have been seen together in public again after the Brightwell Hotel Affair, quelling, at least temporarily, the speculation that a split is imminent.”’
‘Does it really say that?’ I asked, horrified. Despite my hopes that things would have died down by now, it appeared the gossipmongers were still atwitter.
‘It certainly does,’ he answered, ‘complete with photographic evidence of our blissful reunion. It’s a rather good picture of you, Amory.’ He folded the paper and held it up so I could see the photograph of the two of us emerging from a restaurant two nights before. I turned from the mirror for a closer inspection. I was certainly not the person to whom the eye was drawn. That honour, as usual, belonged to Milo. He looked superb in his evening clothes, his smooth, handsome features in three-quarter profile, light from the flashbulbs glinting off his black hair. It was absurd, really, how well he photographed.
‘The prime minister went out just before us,’ I said. ‘I thought they were photographing him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Milo said dismissively. ‘Why should they want MacDonald when they could photograph you?’
‘Or you for that matter,’ I replied, knowing from long experience that my husband was a favourite subject of the society columns. His cinema-star good looks and the endearing tendency to find himself in compromising situations had earned him that dubious distinction. I didn’t add aloud what I was really thinking: that it was nice to be the woman in the photograph with him for once. Things had certainly improved.
I turned back to the mirror and picked up the necklace of sapphires that lay on the dressing table, raising it to my throat. ‘Help me with this clasp, will you? It always sticks.’
‘Certainly.’ He tossed the magazine aside and rose from the chair.
Coming up beside me, he fastened the necklace, his fingers warm against my skin. This was one of my favourite pieces. The sapphires complemented the backless blue gown and emphasised my dark hair and fair colouring.
Milo’s bright blue eyes met my grey ones in the mirror. ‘You’re very beautiful, Amory,’ he said.
Then, his hands on my arms, he leant down to kiss my neck, sending a shiver right through me. ‘Remind me again why we’re going to the Barringtons’ tonight,’ he murmured against my ear.
At the moment I was having a hard time remembering. ‘Mrs Barrington is an old friend of my mother’s,’ I said.
‘All the more reason to avoid her.’
I ignored this remark and went on, despite the fact that Milo was making it very difficult to concentrate. ‘When she found out we were in town, she was most anxious that we should come and dine with her, and I think it was very nice of her to ask us.’
She had been rather insistent on it, in fact. I had been a bit puzzled by her eagerness to see me, considering we had not crossed paths in years, but I thought it could certainly do no harm to spend an evening in her company.
‘It will be a lovely evening,’ I said in an unconvinced tone.
‘It would be a much lovelier evening if we stayed at home.’
I turned to look disapprovingly at him, and he seized the opportunity of access to my mouth, kissing me even as he pulled me up from my seat and into his arms, knocking over the dressing table stool in the process.
I dimly heard the telephone in the foyer ring and Winnelda, my maid, answering it. A moment later, she tapped hesitantly on the door. ‘She’ll go away,’ Milo whispered.
‘You’re quite incorrigible.’ I laughed, pushing myself back from him.
He released me, somewhat reluctantly, and I turned to right the stool and smooth my dress and hair before calling, ‘Yes, Winnelda? Come in.’
She opened the door the barest of cracks, as though afraid to look in. ‘Your car is ready, madam.’
‘Thank you. We’ll be right out.’
She closed the door, and I turned to my husband. ‘We’d better go.’
Milo sighed heavily; I couldn’t have agreed with him more.
Half an hour later, we pulled up in front of the Barringtons’ home in one of the more fashionable districts of London and were welcomed into the marble-floored foyer, where my furs were whisked away by a silent maid as the butler led us towards the drawing room.
Before we could enter the room, however, Mrs Barrington came sailing out of it, arms extended, the rings on her fingers flashing like flames in the light of the crystal chandelier.
‘Mr and Mrs Ames, I’m delighted that you’ve come!’ Mrs Barrington was an attractive, buxom woman who looked remarkably hearty for her sixty-odd years. Her features were strong and distinct, keeping her from conventional beauty, but she was striking nonetheless. Her Christian name was Serena, but it was hearty robustness rather than serenity that radiated from her. As she came towards me, I had the feeling that she might pull me into a tight embrace.
Instead, she squeezed my hand rather enthusiastically. ‘Amory, my dear, I’m so pleased to see you. I feel as though it’s been ages.’
‘It has been rather a long time, Mrs Barrington. Before my marriage, I think.’
‘I believe you’re right. And speaking of your marriage, this charming gentleman must be your husband,’ she said, turning to Milo.
‘Yes. Mrs Barrington: my husband, Milo Ames.’
She held out her hand and he took it. ‘How do you do, Mrs Barrington,’ he said.
She gave him an appraising look, and her approval was plain on her features.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr Ames.’ It seemed that she had decided to like him despite that fact, for she smiled brightly at him. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’
‘The pleasure is mine, Mrs Barrington, I assure you. You have a lovely home.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing compared to your house in Berkeley Square. Are you staying there now?’
‘No, the house is closed for the time being. We’re at our flat. It’s much more convenient.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is. I’m sometimes of a mind to get a flat myself. So much less space to look after. Well, if you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to the others.’
The drawing room was a large, lovely room with dark panelled walls, high moulded ceilings, and parquet floors covered with very good rugs. There were several pieces of quality furniture scattered about, many of them occupied by our dinner companions.
‘Delighted to see you again, Mrs Ames,’ said Mr Lloyd Barrington, rising to greet us. He was a stout, moustachioed gentleman with greying dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a winning smile. There was something calm and steady about him that complemented his wife’s exuberance.
Mrs Barrington introduced other guests in turn. They were Mr Douglas-Hughes and his American wife, whose names were familiar due to the sensation their marriage had caused the previous year; the tennis star, Mr Nigel Foster; Mrs Barrington’s nephew, James Harker; pretty blonde sisters, Marjorie and Felicity Echols; and a stunning, dark-eyed woman named Mrs Vivian Garmond, whose name I had heard in some capacity I couldn’t quite recall.
In my head I counted off the guests and realised that we were still short one gentleman. I was only vaguely curious who it might be, which made the answer all that more surprising.
‘Mrs Barrington, I must insist that you introduce me at once to this lovely stranger in our midst.’ These words were spoken in a low, pleasant tone by a gentleman who had just come in from the foyer.
‘Oh, Lord Dunmore,’ said Mrs Barrington, and something in the way she said it made me feel as though his sudden presence was not quite a pleasant surprise. ‘I didn’t know you had arrived.’
Lord Dunmore. The name was very familiar. The increasingly outlandish exploits of Alexander Warrington, the Viscount Dunmore, were currently an excessively popular topic of London gossip, proving a welcome distraction from my own little scandal. A recent string of lavish parties had resulted in some particularly sordid rumours. I didn’t pay much heed to the details, so I was not certain of all the social improprieties of which he had been accused. I knew enough, however, to be slightly surprised at his presence.
‘Only just, Mrs Barrington, but I see I’ve come at the right time.’ He walked to where Milo and I stood with our hostess.
His gaze flickered over the gathering, encompassing the other guests, and I took a moment to appraise him. He was indeed handsome, though there was nothing in particular that made him so. It was just an overall attractiveness, a combination of well-formed features, a rather nice figure, and an unmistakable air of confidence. His dark brown hair was neatly parted and fashionably slicked. Eyes of a pale blue that might have tended towards coolness were warmed by a pleasant expression. I could see at once why he was successful with women.
‘Lord Dunmore, allow me to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Ames.’
‘Mr Ames and I know each other. How are you, Ames?’ Lord Dunmore answered, glancing at Milo by way of greeting before coming back to me. ‘But Mrs Ames and I’ – he took my hand in his – ‘have not yet had the pleasure.’
‘How do you do, Lord Dunmore.’
His eyes stayed on mine for a fraction longer than was customary, and his hand had not yet released mine when Mrs Barrington spoke.
‘I suppose now that everyone is here, we may as well go in to dinner.’
‘You have assembled the usual group, I see,’ Lord Dunmore observed, relinquishing his hold on me to cast his gaze around the room once more. He seemed to be looking at one person in particular, but when I turned to follow his gaze I could not determine on whom it had rested.
‘Yes, I suppose I have,’ Mrs Barrington said absently. ‘Shall we?’
Everyone began rising from their chairs, preparing for the migration to the dining room. As a general hubbub ensued, Mrs Barrington suddenly clutched my arm, pulling me slightly aside, and leant to whisper in my ear. ‘Watch my guests, Mrs Ames. I should like your opinion of them.’
I looked at her, my surprise and confusion apparent on my face.
‘It’s a delicate matter. I’ll explain later,’ she whispered as Lord Dunmore approached to escort her into the dining room.
I glanced at Milo to see if he had witnessed that rather strange interaction, but he was talking to one of the Miss Echols and didn’t seem to have noticed.
I took Mr Barrington’s proffered arm somewhat distractedly. Very much perplexed by my hostess’s mysterious appeal, I cast a look around at my fellow guests, feeling vaguely uneasy as we all went in to dinner.
CHAPTER TWO
Seated at the table and pondering Mrs Barrington’s strange request, I found myself, despite my reservations, trying to detect within the dinner guests any hints of illicit conduct. I really couldn’t imagine what it was I was meant to observe, for the company was excellent.
Mr Nigel Foster sat to my right. As befitted an athlete of his calibre, he was fit and trim. Wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes resulted in the boyish good looks that his legions of female fans adored, and the quickness of his movements gave the impression that he contained a great welling of energy just below the surface.
‘I’m a bit starstruck sitting beside you,’ I told him. ‘I’ve seen you play many times and have always greatly admired your tennis game.’ That was an understatement. His skill on the court was exceptional, and, despite an unfortunate loss at Wimbledon the year before, his name was usually mentioned among the greats of the sport.
He offered me a ready smile as he waved away the compliment. ‘I play because I love the game,’ he said. ‘It has afforded me the opportunity to travel a great deal, another of my passions. I have been fortunate in that respect.’
‘You’ve been on a tour, I believe?’
‘Yes. And afterwards I had a rather long holiday in Greece and then Italy. I haven’t set foot in England for nearly a year, so it’s been nice to be home.’
‘It’s been rather a long time since I’ve been to Greece,’ I told him.
‘I’ve always longed to go there,’ Felicity Echols told me quietly.
‘I’m sure you’d enjoy it,’ Mr Foster said with a smile.
‘Felicity and I both long to travel,’ Marjorie, her sister, added. ‘We’ve never been outside England, but one day soon we shall see the world.’
Though they were similar in appearance, it had not taken me long to distinguish between the Echols sisters. Felicity was a sweet, somewhat vague young woman with wide green eyes and glossy golden hair. There was something bolder, sharper about Marjorie. She had clear blue eyes and a quick, lively manner that I expected could turn boisterous given the right occasion. Her words were spoken with a decisive air that was in marked contrast to her sister’s soft, somewhat breathy voice.
‘I wouldn’t care to go to Greece just now,’ said Mr Barrington, ‘what with the political situation there.’
‘Oh, Lloyd. Let’s not talk politics.’ Mrs Barrington sighed.
‘Well, Mr Douglas-Hughes will agree with me, I’m sure.’
‘The political situation has certainly been a bit unstable as of late,’ answered the gentleman in question cautiously. ‘What the elections will bring remains to be seen. If Venizélos is not re-elected, it is difficult to say what the effect will be.’
Connected to the Foreign Office, Mr Sanderson Douglas-Hughes was quite well informed on political matters, I was sure. However, it was not solely in that capacity that his name was familiar to me. I had been interested to meet him and his wife because we shared the unfortunate distinction of having our marriages publicly picked apart by society columnists. Mr Douglas-Hughes came from a very old and wealthy family, and I well recalled the sensation it had caused when he had married an American dancer named Mamie Allen.
The gossips had played up her occupation as a dancer, lending it sordid undertones as if to imply she had spent her nights dancing the hoochie-coochie in some New York burlesque, but I had heard that she had, in fact, been a ballroom dancer on Broadway. She was tall and extremely thin, and there was a calm gracefulness about her that I was sure must have pleased even the stoutest defenders of the Douglas-Hughes legacy. She was a lovely woman, pale with a halo of striking red hair that could only have been a natural hue. There was something very warm and open about her, and I found myself liking her at once.
‘There are so few places Sandy will take me for fear of sudden rebellions or uprisings,’ she teased. ‘I am really beginning to believe that ignorance is bliss.’
It took me a moment to realise that she was referring to her husband. It amused me to learn that the elegant Mr Sanderson Douglas-Hughes had been given the pet name ‘Sandy’ by his wife.
‘Bliss is being married to you, my love,’ he returned with a smile, ‘which is why I find it prudent to be cautious.’
As his wife had done, Mr Douglas-Hughes impressed me favourably. In addition to his obvious affection for her, there was an easy friendliness in his manner, a sense of calm that matched her quiet poise. I imagined a pleasant demeanour and a cool head were assets in the Foreign Office.
‘Mr Ames, I understand you’re acquainted with Helene Renault. A friend of mine said he’d seen you together last weekend. She’s a lovely woman. I’ve never met a film star. What’s she like?’
This abrupt and rather startling speech came from Mr James Harker, Mrs Barrington’s nephew. Like his aunt, Mr Harker was also robust and lively of manner. He had a round, pleasant face that lit up when he smiled, which he seemed to do often. He had reminded me of a happy and amiable child upon introduction, and the impression was strengthened now as he waited with apparent guilelessness for the answer to his question.
It seemed to me that conversation faltered a bit as those around me tried to listen without appearing to do so. I had no knowledge of Milo’s acquaintance with the French actress, so I was as curious as anyone to hear what his answer would be.
Schooling my features into polite disinterest had become habit when discussing Milo’s behaviour with strangers, so I fancy there was no expression on my face as my eyes rose slowly from my plate to look at my husband across the table. His gaze was awaiting mine, and I could read no sign of discomfort in it.
‘I don’t know her at all well,’ Milo answered with perfect ease. ‘We’ve met once or twice at social events.’
‘I was certain someone told me that the two of you were quite good friends.’
An awkward silence descended like a veil over the table, and I felt suddenly cold. A sad sort of sinking feeling that I had not experienced as of late seemed to hit me squarely in my chest.
It seemed Mr Harker was the only one at this dinner unaware of the fact that this entire conversation was extremely uncomfortable for everyone, except perhaps Milo, who remained completely unruffled in the face of Mr Harker’s clumsy interrogation.
‘I’m afraid you were misinformed,’ he replied smoothly.
‘Yes, but …’
‘This crème anglaise is quite delicious,’ Mrs Vivian Garmond said suddenly. It was almost the first word I had heard her speak at the dinner table. So calm and natural was her delivery, however, that her deflection seemed the normal course of conversation.
‘Yes, it’s wonderful,’ Mrs Douglas-Hughes put in. ‘The entire meal has been lovely.’
Conversation ensued again as the guests sent their compliments to Mrs Barrington’s chef, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief. I had no wish to air out the difficulties of my marriage before a room full of strangers.
Everyone went on as though nothing had happened, though I saw Lord Dunmore looking in my direction, a vague expression of amusement on his features.
Mrs Garmond was sitting directly across from me, and when she looked at me I thought I detected something like understanding in her expression.
I was curious about Mrs Garmond, for she did not seem to be on particularly friendly terms with any of our fellow guests, let alone our hostess. If anything, it seemed that Mrs Barrington had avoided her throughout the evening. I had noticed, however, the way her dark eyes followed Lord Dunmore when he wasn’t looking. I could not help but wonder if there was some sort of connection between the two, although I had also noticed that the viscount had not glanced at her more than once or twice throughout the course of the meal.
What Milo thought about the incident with Mr Harker I didn’t know, for I studiously avoided his gaze. Though he was not technically responsible for my current embarrassment, it was not the first time his conduct had subjected me to a dreadfully uncomfortable moment, and I felt no inclination to be gracious in the face of Mr Harker’s implications. I was all too aware of the plausibility of the story.
As to the question of the true nature of his acquaintance with Mademoiselle Renault, that was something I didn’t care to ponder at the moment. There would be time enough for that particular discussion in the privacy of our home.
I forced the issue from my mind, determined to think instead of Mrs Barrington’s puzzling request that I observe her guests. As I wondered what could be so mysteriously noteworthy about someone seated at the dinner table, I had no way of knowing that Milo would soon be the least of my worries.
The last course finished, we stood to move back to the drawing room for coffee. Mrs Barrington came to me as we entered the room, distress evident on her features, and spoke in a low voice. ‘You must forgive James his faux pas, Mrs Ames. He’s always saying the wrong things.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mrs Barrington. You needn’t apologise.’ The less said about it the better, in fact.
She shook her head. ‘He doesn’t think before he speaks. It’s always been an unfortunate habit of his. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s a sweet boy, but so gauche at times. I’m sure he didn’t mean to imply that … I’m sure your husband isn’t … well, most of the time, James doesn’t even realise that he’s said anything offensive.’
‘Milo knows rather a lot of interesting people,’ I replied vaguely. ‘I was not at all offended. Truly.’
‘It’s good of you to say so, dear.’ She was frowning, looking not at me but at her nephew, who was talking animatedly to his uncle. ‘And yet … I worry sometimes that his tongue will get him into trouble.’ Still looking preoccupied, she moved away to see to the coffee.
People naturally fell into little groups for conversation, and I took a seat on a burgundy-upholstered divan near the fire with my cup and saucer in hand. I would do my societal duty and mingle in a moment, but I needed a bit of fortification first. The incident at dinner had thrown me a bit more than I liked to admit. I had been certain my marriage was improving these past two months, but perhaps I had been mistaken. I had been wrong before.
I hazarded a glance in Milo’s direction. He was engaged in conversation with Mrs Barrington, who was no doubt repeating her apologies. He laughed at something she said, touching her arm in a reassuring manner, and she smiled, clearly relieved. There was no sign of discomfiture in his demeanour, and I found his imperturbability to be highly irritating.
‘Are you by nature a solitary soul, Mrs Ames?’ I looked up, surprised to see Lord Dunmore standing before me, drink in hand. I hadn’t noticed him approaching.
I could hardly deny it, as he had caught me in an isolated reverie. ‘I do find myself enjoying solitude upon occasion, my lord.’
‘Perhaps that explains why I’ve never had the pleasure of your company before tonight. I’m surprised we haven’t had more mutual engagements. But perhaps you are often abroad with your husband.’ He indicated the divan. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
He took a seat beside me. It was not a very large piece of furniture, and I felt his nearness at once. There was nothing at all improper in his manner, but there was a certain sort of pull about him, a confidence that I suspected stemmed from his rumoured popularity with women.
‘I was delighted to meet you this evening, Mrs Ames. Had I known that you and your husband were friends of the Barringtons, I should have urged them to invite you long before now.’
‘Oh, are you an old friend of the Barringtons?’
‘Yes. My father and Mr Barrington were at school together. They’d meet up for drinks or to go the races, and my father would sometimes bring me along. Mrs Barrington sends along the odd invitation when she’s in need of another gentleman.’
‘I should hardly call you merely “another gentleman”, Lord Dunmore. I imagine your attendance at dinner is something of a social coup.’
He smiled. ‘You flatter me, Mrs Ames. I am not as intriguing as all that. Besides, I rather like Mr and Mrs Barrington. Dinner with old friends is often so much less tiresome than dinner with a group of strangers. Although, I will say that the Barrington dinner parties usually include many of the same people, so I was delighted to see fresh faces this evening … your fresh face, in particular. I suspected the wife of Milo Ames was likely to be a beauty, but you surpassed even my high expectations.’
It seemed the viscount’s reputation for excessive charm had not been exaggerated.
‘Now it is you who are flattering me, Lord Dunmore,’ I said.
‘Not at all.’ His eyes flickered over my face, and he smiled. ‘One cannot flatter with the truth, after all.’
‘Mrs Barrington was kind to invite us this evening,’ I went on, trying to divert the conversation back along a more suitable course. ‘She and my mother are quite old friends. I am not much familiar with any of the others, however. Are you very well acquainted with them?’
‘I know them all in one way or another.’ His gaze travelled around the room as he detailed his connections to our fellow guests. ‘Like your husband, Mr Douglas-Hughes belongs to my club. We cross paths occasionally. He’s a very proper gentleman.’ I suspected that, coming from the viscount, this remark was meant to be disparaging.
‘James Harker and I were at school together,’ he continued. ‘The man’s a thorough dolt, though I suppose you’ve realised as much. Even at school he was a snoop and a talebearer. Mrs Barrington adores him, of course, but he’s always in one awkward scrape or another.’
I digested this bit of information without comment.
‘And Mr Foster?’
He hesitated ever so slightly. ‘Mr Foster I don’t know well, though I’ve long been an admirer of his tennis game. We’re often thrown into society events together. I believe he and Mr Barrington have bonded over a love of sport.’
I noticed that the viscount made no mention of the ladies present. Given his reputation, I wondered if he knew any of them better than he let on. It was a wicked thing for me to think, but it did cross my mind.
I looked to where Felicity and Marjorie Echols seemed to be enquiring of Mrs Garmond about her dressmaker. They were examining her gown and motioning to it occasionally, in deep conversation. Mr Harker sat a short distance off, watching the conversation with apparent interest. I wondered if perhaps one of the ladies had caught his eye.
Mr Foster appeared to be surveying the scene with amusement before he moved to Mrs Garmond and struck up a conversation.
‘Are the two of you conspiring?’ asked Mrs Barrington as she approached us.
‘I certainly was,’ said Lord Dunmore, rising until Serena Barrington had seated herself in a nearby chair. ‘I was just about to ask Mrs Ames to come to my masked ball and was trying to think of sufficient inducement for her to accept.’
Mrs Barrington smiled. ‘Oh, yes. The masked ball! You should certainly come, Mrs Ames. It’s going to be quite an event. We’ve been talking of it constantly.’
I was surprised at the urging from Mrs Barrington. From what I had heard, Lord Dunmore’s parties were not the type of thing I would expect her to attend, let alone enjoy. Then again, I was well aware of how gossip and gross exaggeration went hand in hand. Perhaps there was nothing so very wrong in his parties after all.
‘You see, Mrs Ames?’ he asked, turning to me, his eyes alight with amusement. ‘Mrs Barrington insists. Do you enjoy masked balls?’
‘It’s been ages since I’ve been to one,’ I replied, ‘but I very much enjoyed them in my youth.’
‘Come now, Mrs Ames. You still seem very much in the full bloom of youth to me,’ he replied, in a voice that was just low enough not to be heard distinctly by Mrs Barrington. It was not so much the compliment that was inappropriate but the intimacy he ascribed to it.
‘You seem rather young and carefree yourself,’ I answered tonelessly.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps too much so. I expect you’ve heard rumours about me.’
It seemed there was a vague challenge behind the words, as though he knew that I was thinking of what I had heard about his parties. ‘I don’t listen to gossip, Lord Dunmore. I find there are so many more worthy things to occupy my time.’
He lifted his glass. ‘Well said, Mrs Ames …’
Mrs Barrington had watched our exchange with apparent interest, and some other emotion I could not name.
‘I can see we shall get on splendidly. You’ll come to my ball, won’t you?’
‘When is it?’ I asked, not entirely certain I cared to encourage him.
‘Tomorrow night, in fact. But you needn’t wear fancy dress. Many of us wear evening clothes with our masks. I can recommend my costumier at Friedrich’s. Bertelli is his name. Many of us use him. He can make you a mask in no time.’
‘I’ll speak to my husband about it.’
‘I expect he’ll agree if you want to go.’
‘Perhaps.’ I wasn’t certain, however, that I did want to go.
‘It’s short notice, I suppose. If you can’t make it, I plan to have another party in two weeks. If you’re like me, however, short notice is much better. I hate waiting for things.’ He smiled as his eyes came to mine. ‘I find that lengthy anticipation is highly overrated.’
Before I could formulate any sort of response, he had risen to his feet. ‘If you charming ladies will excuse me now, I’ll just go and have a word with Mr Barrington.’
Her eyes on his retreating form, Mrs Barrington leant towards me. ‘Have you encountered him before tonight?’ I thought it an odd choice of words, but I supposed ‘encounter’ was an apt enough description.
‘No. Tonight was the first time I have met him.’
‘He’s handsome, don’t you think?’
I was not at all sure what this was leading up to, so I ventured a hesitant agreement. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘Of course, you’d do well to have little to do with him.’ Under other circumstances such words might have caused offence, but I had the feeling Mrs Barrington was merely trying to offer a friendly warning. From what I had seen of Lord Dunmore, it was probably warranted.
‘We haven’t crossed paths before now, so I doubt we shall see much of one another in the future,’ I replied.
Her gaze came back to me. ‘You think not? I’m afraid you don’t know how persistent he can be. I’ve seen him look that way before,’ she said vaguely.
‘You spoke earlier tonight of my watching your guests, Mrs Barrington. What was it I was to watch for?’ It was something of a non sequitur, perhaps, but I was very curious and our secluded seat by the fire presented the perfect opportunity for quiet conversation.
This captured her attention. She leant closer. ‘I will speak plainly to you, Mrs Ames: someone has been stealing from me.’
I was at a loss as to how to reply to this bit of information, and I could not immediately perceive why it was that she should choose to share it with me. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘I knew at once, of course, that you were just the person to help me.’ Her gaze met mine expectantly. ‘I want you to find out who it is.’
CHAPTER THREE
I did my best to hide my considerable surprise.
‘Mrs Barrington,’ I said carefully, ‘I don’t know how I could possibly …’
‘You investigated that murder business on the coast; theft should be quite a simple matter.’
So there it was. I was taken aback that she should choose to connect the two crimes, if indeed this was a case of theft.
‘That was a very different situation. One I undertook out of necessity. If someone has stolen something from you, you should contact the police.’
‘I don’t want the police here,’ she said quickly. ‘I … I rather think this needs to be kept quiet.’
‘I really don’t think …’ I tried again.
‘Let me tell you the facts before you say no. If you cannot or will not help me, I will accept it.’
‘Very well.’ I had to admit that I was faintly curious. It could do no harm to listen to what she had to say, after all.
She looked around, as though making sure we wouldn’t be overheard, and then began speaking in a low, unhurried voice. ‘My husband has always been fond of giving me extravagant gifts, though he knows perfectly well that it isn’t necessary. He does spoil me so, the dear. As a result, I have rather a good collection of jewellery. It’s only the last few months that I’ve begun to notice that things are missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes. It started first with the loss of a ruby earring. It disappeared from my jewellery box, and I turned my dressing room upside down looking for it. A week later, I found it in the drawer of my bureau, though I’m certain I had searched there.’
‘Perhaps you overlooked it.’
‘I thought so too, at first. But now I don’t know. The next thing to disappear was an emerald ring. It happened a month or so after the incident with the earring. It was a bit large for my fingers, but I wore it to dinner one night, here at home. When I discovered it was missing, I assumed it must have fallen off and one of the servants would discover it, but it has never turned up. Then, not two weeks later, a diamond bracelet that I wore disappeared.’
‘Were you dining at home that night as well?’ I asked.
‘Yes. As with the bracelet, I thought I might have misplaced it. I was certain that it would come to light eventually.’
‘Perhaps it still will,’ I said. I was harbouring the hope that Mrs Barrington might merely have misplaced these things. It would be the simplest and most satisfactory explanation.
‘I hoped so, but I’m rather certain now that that is not the case.’
‘As everything was lost here at your home, do you think, perhaps, one of the servants …’ I hinted delicately. I did not like to insinuate such a thing. One had to be careful when suggesting wrongdoing on the part of the domestic staff. Even the whisper of suspicion could ruin a domestic career. It was unfair to assume that they would resort to stealing merely because they were in a position to do so, but one had to concede that such things had been known to happen.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘At first, I thought that the most likely thing. I’d instructed Fenton, my butler, to keep watch, and I fully expected that the culprit would eventually be caught. Until last week, that is.’
She paused dramatically, raising her eyebrows for added significance.
‘What happened?’ I prompted, sensing this was what was expected of me.
‘While I love everything that Lloyd has given me, the prize of my collection is a diamond brooch he gave me when we became engaged. It was a replica of the Eiffel Tower in gold, encrusted with diamonds and tiny pearls. We met in Paris, you see, and it was a little reminder of how we came to be together. He had it designed especially for me with our engagement date engraved on the back; it’s one of a kind.’
‘It sounds lovely.’ I, too, had diamonds I associated with Paris, a necklace Milo bought me when we honeymooned there.
Almost without thinking, I glanced in Milo’s direction. He and Mr Douglas-Hughes were speaking, but he happened to look my way at almost the same moment I looked his. His eyes caught mine, and I looked away.
‘I had a dinner party a fortnight past,’ Mrs Barrington was saying, ‘and, as it was our wedding anniversary, I wore it. But it seemed the clasp was loose, so I removed the pin and placed it in that little ivory trinket box on the mantel.’ She nodded towards the fireplace. ‘I meant to collect it later and have it sent to be repaired. However, after I had bid all my guests good evening, I went to retrieve it and found that it was gone.’
As much as I had harboured hopes to the contrary, the circumstances certainly were suspicious. This business was becoming more intriguing than I had initially believed.
‘Of course, I was frantic,’ she went on. ‘The thing is very valuable, of course, but it has far more sentimental worth to me than anything else. I searched the room, then the house, hoping I had misplaced it somehow, but I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t. I put it in the ivory trinket box, and at the end of the evening it simply wasn’t there.’
‘But the servants …’
‘There had been no servants in the room all evening, save for Fenton, whom I trust implicitly. And even if I thought him capable of such a thing, I’m quite sure he was nowhere near the mantel all evening.’
‘Then who …’
‘Don’t you see?’ she asked with a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes making a quick sweep of the room. ‘It must have been one of my guests. My dear, who else could it be?’
My impulse was to dismiss the entire thing at once as some kind of misunderstanding, but my instincts told me differently. I thought for a moment, digesting all of what she had just told me. She was quite right, of course; it didn’t seem it could be anything but deliberate theft. Nevertheless, it seemed absurd that anyone wealthy enough to be included in the Barringtons’ circle should be forced to stoop to pilfering from their host. Certainly none of the guests here tonight seemed capable of such a thing. I seemed to recall that Lord Dunmore, for example, was in possession of the Dunmore Diamond, a jewel of some renown. I thought it unlikely he would have use for Mrs Barrington’s Eiffel Tower brooch.
‘Did you ask any of them about it?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said, obviously horrified at the suggestion. ‘I didn’t like to make a scene. You know how poorly people react if they think they are being accused of anything.’
I did indeed. If she thought accusing someone of theft was bad, she had never been forced to confront a murderer. That had proved to be an extremely disagreeable experience.
‘Who was there that evening?’ I asked.
‘The same group that is here tonight.’
And then I understood. The sudden invitation, the insistence that I accept, had all been part of the ploy. The truth of it was that I had been invited to dinner under false pretences. It was perfectly obvious that Mrs Barrington had lured me here under the guise of a simple dinner party in order for me to ferret out a thief in our midst. I didn’t think it was at all a nice thing to do, yet I couldn’t keep myself from asking a pertinent question. ‘Was that the same group that was there each of the three times that something went missing?’
‘Yes, I believe so. I’ve been over it in my mind, and I think it was the very same group each time. Well, all except Mr Barrington. He was called away on some business the night my brooch disappeared. He was so upset, poor dear, when I told him my lovely anniversary gift was missing.’
‘I find it difficult to believe that any of your guests would do such a thing,’ I said carefully.
‘But it seems one of them must have, doesn’t it?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I don’t like to accuse anyone, naturally, but facts are facts.’
‘Perhaps.’ I didn’t quite know what to think. It was all so fantastical.
‘Well?’ She looked at me expectantly.
‘“Well”, what, Mrs Barrington?’
‘Are you going to help me?’
‘As intriguing as this is, I’m still not sure how I can be of help to you.’
She looked disappointed, as though her expectations had not been met. ‘You haven’t any ideas as to how we may catch the culprit?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ I hesitated to venture my misgivings as to the guilt of one of the present company. I thought it much more likely that one of the servants had escaped her notice that evening, though, admittedly, Mrs Barrington did not seem to miss much.
‘Well, we shall think on it,’ she said. ‘I will come up with something. But you will help me, won’t you? I don’t expect you to catch the thief red-handed and wrestle him to the ground or any such thing.’
Well, thank heavens for that.
‘Another dinner party would do, I suppose, though it may be a while before everyone is free again. There are so many parties and such that are … Oh, I have it!’ she cried so suddenly that I nearly flinched. ‘Lord Dunmore’s masquerade ball tomorrow night! He’s invited you to it. Mr Barrington and I are attending as well. Everyone here tonight will be there. It’s the perfect opportunity to lay a trap.’
‘Mrs Barrington …’ I felt I should try to dissuade her, though I had the impression that feat might be comparable to stopping a runaway train at this point.
‘I’m going to wear some jewels to the ball, put them in the path of the suspects, and see if someone will steal them.’
‘I don’t think …’
‘It’s the perfect plan,’ she interrupted. ‘Where I’ll need your help is keeping an eye on each of the suspects, helping me direct them, so to speak. And of course you’ll serve as a witness when we catch the thief.’
‘What exactly do you intend to do if you succeed in your plan?’ I asked, hoping to draw her back to the more realistic side of things. I wondered if perhaps she had not quite thought the plan through, but I should have known better.
‘It’s perfectly simple,’ she said, with a wave of her hand. ‘When confronted, the guilty party will quite naturally be so embarrassed and eager to keep it all a secret that he will return all of my things. That’s all I want: the return of my beloved brooch. Will you help me?’
I hesitated. This entire thing was madness, and I knew perfectly well I should distance myself from any involvement in her schemes. And yet … What could it hurt, really? If there was nothing to it, no one would be the wiser. If she was right, perhaps I could lessen the damage if something socially catastrophic were to occur.
‘I suppose I will, Mrs Barrington,’ I conceded.
‘Splendid! I just knew you would! Let me tell you what I have in mind.’ She outlined a plan in which she would leave a bracelet in a spot where each of the ‘suspects’ would be sure to know about it. Then it was only a matter of waiting for the culprit to take it. My part in the scheme would be to draw attention to her bracelet at some point in the evening so that the thief would know where to find it, and then I could take part in what Mrs Barrington called ‘the negotiations’. That is, convincing the villain to return her purloined baubles.
The plan was simple enough, but I was not at all convinced it was going to succeed. For one thing, I still had my doubts that any of the guests tonight were involved in the disappearance of Mrs Barrington’s jewellery. For another, the entire strategy reminded me of a very poorly-written mystery play I had once attended in the West End.
‘I feel so relieved that you’ve agreed to help me, Mrs Ames,’ she said, grasping my hand warmly in hers. ‘I’m sure we shall straighten this business out in no time, and you’ll be glad you agreed to assist me.’
I highly doubted it. Against my better judgement, I had agreed to help Serena Barrington catch a thief, and I could only imagine what sort of trouble would come of it.
Lost in various disconcerting thoughts, I was silent as we walked from the Barringtons’ home. Milo’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back as he escorted me to our waiting automobile, and I wondered if he could detect the tension in me.
As Markham, our driver, pulled away from the kerb, Milo sank back against the seat and began pulling loose his necktie. ‘Well, that was just as dull as I imagined it would be.’
‘Really?’ I replied, looking out the window at the darkened streets. ‘I thought it was a rather interesting evening.’ It had certainly been more than I had bargained for. My mind was still spinning.
‘What did you make of the viscount?’ he asked. ‘Were you dazzled?’
‘He’s invited us to his masquerade tomorrow night.’
‘Ah, so it’s you who’ve dazzled him. I might have known. He certainly seemed to be enjoying your company.’
I said nothing, and after a moment the silence seemed to grow heavy.
I could feel him looking at me in the darkness. ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked at last.
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re thinking of what that idiot James Harker said.’
I glanced at him. ‘It was of no consequence.’ My tone said otherwise, and Milo knew it.
‘As I said at dinner, I barely know Helene Renault.’
‘I’d rather not discuss it now, Milo.’ I glanced pointedly up at Markham, who could hear every word we said.
Milo took the hint, but rather than letting the subject drop as I had wished, he slid closer to me on the seat, his arm slipping around me, and leant to whisper in my ear. ‘It’s simply another of those nasty rumours.’
I didn’t trust myself to reply.
‘Look at me, darling.’
I turned to look at him, not taking into account how close he sat. My mouth nearly brushed his as I looked into his eyes, so very blue even in the darkness of the car.
‘There’s nothing to it. Truly.’
I knew that I wanted very much to believe him. Perhaps I could. I had doubted him before, and it had very nearly been disastrous. I sighed. ‘Very well.’
He smiled and lowered his mouth to mine.
‘Milo,’ I whispered, pulling back after a moment. ‘Not now.’
Milo shot an impatient glance at our driver before turning his attention back to me. ‘I am sure Markham is aware there are occasions when a man would like to kiss his wife.’
If he wasn’t, I’m afraid he was well aware of it by the time we reached home.
CHAPTER FOUR
I had not found the time by morning to tell Milo of my strange conversation with Mrs Barrington. Very likely he would have brushed it aside as the far-fetched imaginings of a bored society doyenne. And perhaps I was the least bit afraid he would attempt to dissuade me from getting involved in an affair that was, admittedly, none of my concern. That did not prevent me from deciding to attend the ball, however. Milo, though not especially enthusiastic, had agreed to accompany me.
The day was a whirl as I made preparations. Though I was the first to admit I had a very serviceable wardrobe, I could find nothing that I thought suitable to wear to a masquerade thrown by the Viscount Dunmore. Though my modiste had promised to try to find something appropriate, I had not yet heard from her by the time I began to ready myself for the ball, and I had determined that I would have to choose a gown from among my own things.
Winnelda, my maid, stood behind me, watching my preparations in the mirror, her head tilted slightly to one side. She was a petite, pretty young woman, and her reflection reminded me of a woodland pixie standing over my shoulder.
‘Your hair looks lovely.’ She leant to examine it. ‘Just like a cinema star.’
‘Thank you.’ I had had it freshly waved that morning, though I somehow doubted the effect was as glamorous as she seemed to think.
‘I’ve always longed for dark hair like yours,’ she continued wistfully. ‘But both of my parents were pale as winter whey, so I suppose it wasn’t to be. And I don’t suppose I’d look quite right if I dyed it … not that I’d do such a thing.’
‘Your hair is quite pretty as it is, Winnelda.’ It was true. Her natural colour was a startling shade of platinum that would have made Jean Harlow envious.
‘Thank you, madam.’
I reached for my perfume bottle, and she rushed to hand it to me, fairly pushing my hand away in the process. ‘Here you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And which gown have you chosen? Will you wear the blue silk?’
‘The black satin, I think.’ I nodded towards the dress draped across my bed. Though not extravagant, it was a striking dress and would not be out of place at Lord Dunmore’s ball.
Winnelda didn’t care for black, it seemed. I was certain I saw her grimace in the mirror, but I ignored it. It was best, I had learnt, to pay no attention to her frequent opinionated responses.
She was not, strictly speaking, a lady’s maid. In fact, she had been hired by Milo, in my absence, to look after the flat. Before her arrival, we had made a point not to have domestic staff at the flat. A woman had come in to cook and clean, and we had enjoyed the absence of domestics observing our every move.
Since our return to London from the country, however, Winnelda had inserted herself into my daily routine in a manner that was all-encompassing, if not completely effectual. I had found that her enthusiasm was undiminished by any of my tactful attempts at discouraging her, and she had assumed the roles of parlour maid, cook, and housekeeper with undisguised zeal. I hadn’t had the heart to advertise for another lady’s maid, mine having left my service two months before to be married, and so here Winnelda was, making a likable and well-meaning nuisance of herself in every imaginable capacity.
I picked up the dress and moved behind the black lacquer changing screen. Milo entered just then, and Winnelda slipped from the room. She was, it had become plain, somewhat overawed by Milo and made rather obvious attempts to stay out of his way.
‘Darling?’ There was something in the way he said it that roused instant suspicion. He had been on the telephone in the hallway, and I knew instantly that no good had come of it.
‘Behind the screen,’ I answered.
My instincts were confirmed as he continued. ‘I’m afraid something’s come up. I’ve got to dash off. Make my excuses for me, will you?’
‘It’s a bit late to cry off now, isn’t it?’ I asked the question mildly, for I knew perfectly well that there was little chance Milo would be convinced to change his mind. He had never been very reliable, except for when it came to doing just as he pleased.
