Free Death Wears a Mask by Ashley Weaver Page B

evening.”
    â€œI’d like to ask you a few questions. You were, I understand, in this room at the time of the incident?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat time was it that you heard the shot?”
    â€œSometime near midnight, I think.”
    â€œAnd had you seen Mr. Harker earlier in the evening?”
    â€œI saw him once.”
    â€œHere on the first floor?”
    â€œNo, on the stairwell, but it was quite some time ago.”
    â€œDid he strike you as behaving oddly?”
    â€œNot particularly, no. I didn’t know him at all well, of course.”
    Harris nodded, as though he had suspected as much. “Very good. I think that will be all. If there’s anything else, I will let you know. Good evening.”
    He turned and left the room without further ado.
    â€œCharming fellow, isn’t he?” Dunmore said with a wan smile. “Forgive me for leaving you alone again, Mrs. Ames, but I suppose I had better follow him to the library. The others are all quite shaken up.”
    â€œYes, of course,” I said.
    He went again from the room, and I was left alone with my thoughts.
    I couldn’t understand why Mr. Harker had killed himself. I cast my mind back to our encounter. He had seemed a bit harried, perhaps uncomfortable in his surroundings, but I had had no inkling that he was about to do anything drastic. In fact, he had expressed plans for the rest of the evening that seemed at definite odds with the contemplation of suicide. I supposed one never really knows what is going on in the minds of other people, but there was something about it that didn’t seem right.
    A few moments later, his business with Mademoiselle Renault apparently concluded, Milo came to collect me.
    â€œI’ve had the car brought round,” he said. “Are you ready?”
    â€œHave you spoken to that police inspector?”
    â€œYes. I had nothing of interest to tell him. I’ll carry you to the car.”
    â€œVery well.” There really was no point in resisting. I knew perfectly well that I couldn’t walk. “Get my shoe, will you?”
    He picked it up and put it in his pocket, ignoring the discarded stocking. Then he scooped me up and carried me from the room. Lord Dunmore met us in the hallway. “Going so soon?” he asked with a smile. He kept up a façade of casual affability, but his eyes looked tired.
    â€œThank you for your hospitality, Lord Dunmore,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry about everything.”
    â€œIt is I who am sorry about all this,” he said, taking my hand. “I can’t imagine why…” His voice trailed off, and he went on with grim cheerfulness. “I’ll drop round in a day or so to be certain your ankle is mending.”
    â€œYou needn’t inconvenience yourself, my lord.”
    â€œOn the contrary, Mrs. Ames. I shall look forward to it immensely.” His gaze moved then to Milo, as though he had forgotten I had been resting in my husband’s arms for the duration of our conversation. “Good night, Ames,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”
    â€œGood night, Dunmore.”
    Milo moved down the hall. As we passed the room where James Harker had shot himself, I couldn’t resist looking through the open door. The body had been covered, and it felt immensely unreal that the shapeless lump on the floor had been an affable young man conversing with me in the foyer only an hour or so before.
    There was a policeman on his hands and knees on the rug beside the body, closely examining the floor. It struck me as vaguely odd, though I couldn’t quite make out why.
    I couldn’t help but think there was something peculiar in all of this. For one thing, it was very strange indeed that all of the guests at Mrs. Barrington’s dinner should have been in such close proximity to this tragedy. In the next few days, I would pay my respects to