Murder at the Brightwell: A Mystery by Ashley Weaver

had given her that impression. I remembered what her husband had said about her dislike of the sea.
    “You’re all alone here?” I asked.
    “Nelson has gone down to the beach.” She nodded her head toward the stretch of ground below. I imagined that, by leaning slightly in her seat, she would be able to make out the guests there at the water’s edge. I wondered if she liked to keep an eye on her husband. “I don’t care for it myself. I thought tea on the terrace would be lovely. Then perhaps I shall find a nice quiet place to read. I’m told the hotel has a comfortable sitting room. I rather like to be alone.”
    So I had surmised correctly that Larissa Hamilton was not enjoying her holiday at the seaside. No doubt her husband had convinced her to come. Nelson Hamilton was undoubtedly the decision maker in their marriage. And he seemed more than happy to indulge her in her proclivity for solitude.
    As if she could read my thoughts, she smiled. “I don’t mind. Really. I’m happy to sit alone reading. I’ve the latest Warwick Deeping novel to keep me company.”
    “Sometimes it’s rather nice to have a bit of time to oneself,” I agreed.
    “Yes. I’ve been accused of being unfriendly, but it’s really just that I’m not very good with people, especially those I don’t know.”
    “That’s perfectly understandable,” I told her.
    Her smile returned, as though she was glad to have found someone who understood her. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time at the beach,” she said.
    “And I hope you enjoy your tea and reading,” I said sincerely as I continued my journey toward the water.
    A set of white wooden stairs at the end of the terrace led downward toward a little landing at the top of the cliff. From there two steps of staircases led ever downward, the steps on the right leading toward the path to the beach, the stairs on the left coming to the terrace partway down the cliff, the one about which Gil had told me yesterday.
    I took the steps to the right, which led downward until they ended in a pebbled path that snaked its way down to the beach. There were other hotels, I supposed, that offered visitors easier access to the water. However, an establishment such as the Brightwell was not one to make apologies. Indeed, the private beach it offered its guests was well worth the slight inconvenience of access. The beach at the base of the cliff was cut off on either side by cliffs that extended farther into the water, creating its own secluded beachfront. There was no access except by the Brightwell steps or by boat.
    A good number of Brightwell guests were at the beach, and I saw several members of our party. Emmeline sat in a chair not far from the path. Beyond her, Lionel Blake sat reading, his lips moving silently. I wondered absently if it was a script he was memorizing.
    Veronica Carter lay in the sun, posing in a rather small bathing suit. She seemed to be tanning nicely, and I suspected that her red hair might not be natural; her skin tone was certainly not like that of most redheads I had known. Olive Henderson sat beneath an umbrella in striking green and blue printed beach pyjamas, looking out with disdain upon the proceedings.
    Beyond them, I saw Nelson Hamilton talking to Anne Rodgers, who stood in her figure-hugging pink bathing suit, hands on her hips, bright blond hair shining in the sunlight. I wondered briefly where her husband might be but decided that he didn’t seem much the type to enjoy lounging by the sea.
    The only other person I recognized was Yvonne Roland, who was walking along the surf much farther down the beach, her gaudy red robe flapping in the wind like a brilliant cape.
    I stepped off the path and into the shingle beach, walking toward the others, enjoying the warm wind whipping at my hair beneath my hat. The walls of the cliff caught the sound of the sea, and the crash of the waves echoed around us.
    Emmeline was alone for the moment, as Rupert was frolicking in the