The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes

by Cathy Ace

  I wondered who “Gwen” might be, but it didn’t seem to be the right time to ask.

  Mair’s anger seemed to subside into regret as she continued, “You never, ever showed me any affection, Mother. You didn’t need me with you all these years, you just wanted a lapdog you didn’t have to pet. Someone you could order around who couldn’t resign. That’s why all the nurses leave, Mother. They cannot put up with you. You. You’re a pain in the . . . everything. But most of all you’re a pain in the heart. My heart. I’ve only ever wanted you to love me. But I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.” Mair wiped away what I judged to be tears of anger and sadness, in equal measure, with her napkin.

  “And you do, do you?” Alice’s voice had a cruel edge.

  “What?” Mair sounded impatient, to say the least.

  “You think you know what love is, do you, girl? And how would that be, then? What secret life have you been living that would allow you to know that?” Alice managed to throw this barb in her daughter’s direction while moving to one side so that Dilys could reach to place a bowl in front of her.

  Mair plopped down into her seat, seemingly defeated. “Oh, Mother, not that again. Please?”

  We’d all been embarrassed spectators, and it took Dilys’s serving of the cawl to break the tension. For once the cook seemed quite jolly, at least proud of her offering.

  As we all ate, with maybe a little too much gusto, there were lots of compliments about the hearty soup.

  “This is delicious,” said Bud with great enthusiasm. “What’s in it?” I allowed my surprise to show. Bud never knows, or cares, what’s in his food.

  “It’s cawl,” replied Siân. “It could be anything.” I could tell by her tone of voice that she was very tired. I suspected that her jetlag was kicking in.

  “Dilys makes beef cawl,” added Eirwen. “She’s very good at it. Hearty, but not heavy.”

  “What’s the green?” asked Bud.

  “Leek tops,” I replied. “And the yellow is swede.”

  “Swede?” asked Bud.

  “We call it rutabaga in Canada; it’s Swedish turnip—which is quite appropriate for a Swedish cop.” I flashed a smile as wide as I could, and Bud reciprocated.

  “You’re a policeman?” asked Alice, sounding surprised.

  “Used to be,” replied Bud, “but I retired. It was time.”

  “Lost your nerve?” asked Alice dismissively.

  Bud didn’t miss a beat. “No, I lost my wife, then I decided it was time to quit.” My heart went out to him.

  “By ‘lost,’ I assume you mean she died?” asked Alice. I wanted to hit the woman, no matter her age.

  “Sadly, yes,” replied Bud. Realizing it was best to be direct, he added, “Cait and I were colleagues when my wife was alive. In case anyone gets the wrong idea, Cait and I were never anything more than respectful, friendly workmates during my wife’s lifetime. It wasn’t until Jan, my wife, was gone that Cait and I began to get to know each other as more than friends. We’ve been together as a couple for over a year now, and we are very much looking forward to our wedding here on Monday. Does that answer all your questions?”

  Bud’s good at being quiet when it’s the right thing to do, but he’s just as good at taking the bull by the horns when that’s appropriate.

  “Good for you,” said Alice. “People don’t often get a second chance. You should take them when they come along. I never had one. I was too old and ugly when Gryffudd died to turn any heads.”

  No one dared say anything, except Janet, who seemed to have been grinning for the whole evening. “Oh come on with you, Alice, you’d have any man you wanted wrapped around your little finger in an instant, I bet.”

  It was exactly what Alice had been fishing for, and she smiled at her nurse like a naughty child. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, yes you do.” Janet’s grin grew. She seemed to be the only person in the room with the energy and will to buoy up Alice. I suspected that the Cadwallader family was completely worn out by fulfilling the matriarch’s desperate need for attention, and that maybe each nurse she hired gradually reached the same conclusion and left, the aged woman having fed upon their energy like a vampire, finally sucking them dry. I wondered how long the nurses lasted before they reached the “husk” stage and resigned.

  As I sipped my tasty broth and nibbled on the delicious meat and vegetables it held, I contemplated the dysfunction of the Cadwallader clan.

  Breaking the no-longer-heavy silence, Siân piped up with, “Do you have a very Swedish name, Bud? I’ve just realized that Cait’s never told me your surname. Will I be able to pronounce it? Or will I need lessons?”

  “Oh, I should think so,” replied Bud smiling. “It’s Anderson. Not so very exotic.”

  “You’re kidding,” exclaimed Siân. “An-der-son?”

  Bud nodded. “Yes. Why? Is that an unusual name in Australia?”

  “Not very,” replied Siân. “In the town and shire of Dowerin, where my husband is from, there are a lot of Andersons. And it’s especially popular at our house. It’s my husband’s name. It’s my name, and my children’s name. We’re ‘Anderson’ too. I’m Siân Anderson. And my big sister will become Cait Anderson. Strewth. We’ll have the same name again.”

  “No, we won’t,” I replied. “I’m keeping ‘Morgan.’”

  “You didn’t tell me Siân’s married name was ‘Anderson,’” said Bud, at roughly the same time that Siân said, “You didn’t tell me Bud’s name was ‘Anderson.’”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to tell either of them about the other’s name. To be honest, I’ve never thought of Siân as an “Anderson” at all. She’s always just been Siân to me.

  “I’m glad we’re not the only family that keeps secrets,” said Mair.

  I must have been feeling defensive, because I snapped, “A name’s just a name, it’s no big deal.” Stupid of me.

  “I have to disagree with that,” replied Owain, who’d been largely silent since we’d entered the dining room. “A name is a signifier of belonging, of rights, of ownership, and of heritage. It can mark your place in society, in geography, and in history. It is a part of you. It’s a vital part of everyone. You shouldn’t belittle the importance of a name. Just look at us, the Cadwalladers. My grandfather changed his name from Ieuan ap Hywel Cadwaladr to Powell Cadwallader just so he’d be better accepted in the world of business, especially by the English. Even mother here changed her name from Alicia, her given name, to Alice, in order to be better accepted. Less Roman Catholic, I believe, isn’t that right, Mother?”

  Alice stared at her son. It was difficult to read the emotion in her glittering eyes, but I settled upon interpreting it as contempt.

  “None of your cheek, Owain. Your father preferred Alice. That was that.”

  Her response made me wonder if her dismissiveness was directed toward her son or her late husband.

  “Why will you be keeping ‘Morgan,’ Cait?” asked Siân.

  Bud and I had covered this ground pretty comprehensively, so I smiled warmly at him and felt able to say, quite lightly, “It’s the name I’m known by in my professional life, and it would be confusing to change it, given that it’s the name that appears on all the research I’ve done to date. Cait Anderson didn’t get a PhD, or put forward theories that challenged the criminology community, so she doesn’t exist in my working world. Cait Morgan does. I’ll be better off sticking with the name that’s known.”

  “But you could be Mrs. Anderson too, like me,” said Siân. As she spoke she allowed her spoon to plop into her still half-full soup bowl. It seemed she wasn’t going to make the most of her main course, either.

  “Jan was Mrs. Anderson,” I snapped, immediately wishing I could recall the anger with which I’d spoken Jan’s name. I made sure my tone was gentler as I said, “And Bud’s mother is Mrs. Anderson. I’ll be Cait Morgan. It’s who I know how to be.”

  “Ah-ha! You prove my point for m
e. Exactly,” said Owain triumphantly, “names define us.”

  “Like ‘Davies the Eyes’ defined poor David Davies?” asked Eirwen.

  And we were back to the topic of the dead man. Inevitable, I suppose.

  “Only in that he used those eyes to get whatever he wanted, from everybody,” said Dilys Jones as she re-entered the dining room to gather our used dishes.

  “What do you mean?” asked Eirwen and Mair in chorus.

  “You know very well what I mean,” said Dilys spitefully. “After that treasure he was, and made no bones about it.”

  “Our treasure?” exploded Owain. “He’s been hunting for our treasure?”

  “My treasure,” said Alice. “And what do you mean exactly, Dilys?”

  “I know what I knows,” said the cook, tapping her nose. Thrusting herself between diners, she picked up the priceless nineteenth-century Swansea china soup plates and allowed the silver spoons we’d been lucky enough to use to clatter about in them as though they weren’t worth a fortune.

  “And what would that be?” asked Mair.

  Dilys looked across the room toward the impressive, dark oak dresser that stood between two of the sets of curtains. “Never could take his eyes off that, could he? Always staring at it, mumbling, he was.”

  I followed her gaze and noticed the large, rectangular platter that had pride of place on the middle shelf of the dresser.

  “Is that the puzzle plate you were all talking about before dinner?” I asked.

  “It is indeed,” replied Owain. “Please, feel free to take a good look at it, Cait. It is there for anyone to see, though of course we remove it, along with all the other china, before members of the public are allowed to troop through this room. Some people are very light fingered, you know.”

  I took my chance, left my place at the table, and was peering at the plate in less than a moment. It measured about two feet long by eighteen inches high, with slightly rounded corners. All the decoration was in a mid-blue on a white background, typical of Swansea willow-pattern china, and its border was painted with a pseudo-Chinese design, which I found curious. The center was hand painted with a verse:

  Where the fire meets the earth, where the water meets the air,

  Where the face of beauty smiles, the treasures will be there.

  Black gold in a seam, now popping with a spray,

  For every humble man, there is a time to pray.

  The breath of Llŷr and Neptune’s tears—the same, there is no doubt,

  When they are gone, what gold is left, we cannot live without.

  The worthy man sees treasure through the silver and through glass,

  The vain man only ever sees the beauty that will pass.

  Cadwalladers will never leave the castle of the gray,

  As long as ancients rest in peace and old walls not give way.

  By the rushing of my lifeblood, I swear this on my grave,

  The wise man will discover them, and my kin be ever saved.

  “It’s beautifully painted,” I noted.

  “It is a good deal more than that,” said Owain proudly. “It is proof that the original Cadwalladers hid a treasure hereabouts, and I intend to find it. The clues are tantalizing, and I believe I am making headway.”

  “You say it’s from the Swansea Pottery?” I asked.

  Owain nodded. “Founded in 1790, closed in 1870. Very sad. Produced the best wares between 1814 and 1817. I’m pretty confident that was when this plate was made.”

  He looked very pleased with himself, which rankled me. I felt like telling him what I really thought, but I satisfied myself with a polite, “Surely it can’t be that old.”

  “Know a lot about the Swansea Pottery, do you?” challenged Owain.

  Bud glared at me, but it was too late. I bit. “I’m familiar with the writings and collections of W. J. Grant-Davidson, as well as the Glynn Vivian and Swansea Museum collections. I would say this plate is much later than the true period, dating to maybe the late nineteenth century, or maybe even the twentieth. The glaze is all wrong, and the body seems far too thick.” Maybe I bit a little too hard.

  Owain was red in the face. “Preposterous!”

  Bud looked horrified, Siân worried and strangely tense, and I noticed a wicked smile play at the corners of Mair’s mouth.

  “That’s shut you up for a while,” said Owain’s mother to him, as though he were a naughty boy. “Told you she was brainy, that one. Been here two minutes and she’s already seen something you couldn’t, even though it was staring you right in the face.”

  “True,” said Mair quietly, though I got the impression she wasn’t referring to the puzzle plate.

  “What do you make of the puzzle then, Cait?” continued Alice. “Does that gibberish mean anything to you?”

  “She barely looked at it, Mother, what can you expect?” was Owain’s angry retort.

  Having retaken my seat at the table I decided that I didn’t want to play nice anymore; I’d give the overbearing Owain a run for his money. “I can come up with several theories,” I replied.

  I think Bud wanted to kick me under the table, but he couldn’t reach.

  I began quietly enough. “I believe that the first couplet is a very general introduction, telling us that there is treasure in three different places, those being where some sort of fire meets some sort of earth, where air and water meet, and where ‘beauty smiles,’ which might be a literal place, such as on a face, or could be more metaphorical, meaning a natural beauty of some sort, rather than a human being. I believe that each of the next three couplets then refers to each one of the three different places in turn—following the order of the introduction. So, ‘Black gold in a seam, now popping with a spray / For every humble man, there is a time to pray’ refers to the location introduced as ‘Where the fire meets the earth,’ and so on. I see the final four lines as an acknowledgment that the discovery of the treasure would allow the Cadwalladers, somehow, to retain ownership of the ‘castle of the gray,’ or Castell Llwyd.”

  “Rubbish,” said Owain. “All the treasure is in one place—why would anyone spread it around? It’s quite clear that all three clues have to be taken as a whole. Believe me, Mother, I have spent years researching this. With respect to our guest, she’s given it no more than a few moments’ thought.”

  “And yet she’s said more about it in those minutes than you have in all those years,” said Alice. She turned from her son in disgust and said to me, “Tell us more, Cait. What do you think the treasure might be?”

  Bud was glaring at me, and I took the hint. We weren’t on a treasure hunt.

  “Oh, now there’s a turn up for the books,” interrupted Dilys, who’d been listening with lively eyes alight with scandal, “her just being here a little while. I think David thought a bit different about them clues than you did too, Owain.”

  “Don’t say anything to this lot, Dilys,” said Alice quickly. “If anyone should know what David Davies was up to under my roof, it should be me. You can tell me after dinner. Now serve the trifle and let’s be done with this evening. I’m very tired and I want to go to bed.”

  It seemed that Alice was determined to shut down the conversation.

  From the far end of our group Janet called, “You won’t be able to go to bed for an hour after you’ve eaten, and you know that. So why not give the trifle a miss for now, Alice, and I’ll wheel you to your little chair lift. Then I can get you some nice hot milk with a drop of something in it, and you can sip that while your dinner settles, alright?” She smiled indulgently at her charge as she spoke, and, as always seemed to be the case when Janet said anything, there was a chuckle in her voice.

  “Can I have a drop of my special whiskey in it?” Alice brightened.

  “If you’re a good girl, yes.” Janet smiled.

  “Right then,” said Alice with determination, “goodnight all, I’ll see you in the morning. Help me reverse, Janet, then I’ll meet you at my lift.” As soon as she wa
s out from under the table, Alice pushed a little stick on her armrest and zoomed off across the dining room. I was pretty sure I could hear the squeal of brakes echo in the great hall as she took corners.

  “She’ll be the death of me, that one,” said Janet as she rushed after Alice.

  I realized that Dilys Jones had vanished too, and we were all left to contemplate what she’d meant about David Davies hunting for the treasure. I couldn’t help but wonder if it might have something to do with his death. Then I told myself off and turned my attention to the dessert that Dilys had plopped in front of each of us before she’d dashed away.

  Saith

  I ENJOYED EVERY MOUTHFUL OF the small portion of sherry trifle. I hadn’t tasted a real trifle in years, so the thick, golden custard topped with smoothly whipped cream, the sponge fingers generously soaked in sherry, and the scarlet fruit—strawberries, raspberries, and cherries—suspended in the blackcurrant-flavored jelly were a joy in which I reveled for a few, brief moments.

  Too brief, it seemed, because I was called back from taste bud heaven by my sister saying, “I can’t keep my eyes open any more, folks. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to hit the hay.” It looked as though she’d eaten half a spoonful of jelly, and that was it. No wonder she’s so thin, she hardly eats at all.

  As Siân stood to leave the table, she swayed alarmingly. Both Bud and I jumped to our feet and rushed to her side.

  Owain’s reaction was surprising. “It’s a heck of a trip from Oz. She’ll need a good sleep, and no mistake.”

  Siân rallied and replied, “Been there, have you?” She spoke as though the idea seemed unlikely, and swatted Bud and me away at the same time.

  “Once or twice,” replied Owain. “Geology is a passion of mine, along with history. The two are so inextricably linked. And, of course, both my father and grandfather were well known for their geological knowledge, and their ability to exploit it. I’m afraid I’m rather lacking in that particular ability.” He sounded as disappointed about this circumstance as I suspected his mother might be.