The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes

by Cathy Ace

  I wondered if the neatness was one of David’s attributes, or whether his wife was responsible. Opening the second wardrobe told me it wasn’t Rhian who was careful with their clothes. Rhian’s clothes were hung higgledy-piggledy, barely clinging to cheap wire hangers. Shoes lay jumbled in the bottom of the wardrobe—dozens of pairs of cheap navy, black, and brown shoes in a heap. All showed considerable signs of wear; some were even losing their soles or had stitching breaking apart. It made me wonder how poorly matched the couple’s other habits might have been. The drawer at the base of Rhian’s wardrobe contained a nest of underwear, tights, socks, gloves, and mittens.

  Next, I ventured into the bathroom, which felt claustrophobic, but was sparklingly clean and smelled of bleach. I pulled open the mirrored door of a medicine cabinet that hung above the washbasin. There being no real surfaces in the bathroom, this was where I found shampoo and conditioner, a couple of bottles of painkillers, a bottle of eye drops, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and face-cleansing wipes. I wondered where these people kept all the “stuff” with which my own bathroom always seems to be cluttered, and reasoned they must just be better at editing their needs.

  Re-entering the bedroom I investigated the contents of the two bedside cabinets. Bearing in mind the different levels of neatness displayed in the closets, it wasn’t difficult for me to work out which side of the bed “belonged” to David, and which to Rhian. Rhian’s little cupboard contained a couple of romance novels, a pair of reading glasses, some hand cream, and a pair of socks. David’s contained two flashlights, neither of which worked, and a pamphlet about Roman mythology.

  Finally back in the living room I noted the lack of any personal items to speak of, save one wedding photograph of the Happy Couple on their Big Day.

  My overall impression of the apartment was that it didn’t have a true “lived in” feel to it. It looked and felt as though two very different people were roommates, and that was it. There was no sense of a shared life there. Before I moved on to my next area of inquiry I allowed myself a final scan. Having just pared down my own belongings and moved my stuff into our new home, I understood how the belongings of two separate people who had just decided to share a space would highlight two different personalities. But I also knew, from my profiling experience, that these distinguishing features are gradually tempered over time, with possessions, taste, and space gradually taking on the personality of the pair, the new unit. That didn’t seem to have happened in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Davies—not even after six years of co-habitation. It was certainly food for thought.

  Just before I closed the door, a thought occurred to me—Gwen’s large overnight bag had been sitting next to the sofa, and I hadn’t looked in it. I retraced my steps, bent down, and flipped open the unzipped cover of the bag. I poked around a bit. There wasn’t anything surprising to be found, just the standard overnight stuff: a toiletry bag, a change of clothes, a giant sweatshirt—which I assumed was what she’d worn to sleep in. Everything was folded neatly and placed in the bag just so, with a pair of slippers on the top.

  It was only as I joined Bud, who was already back in the hallway outside the apartment, that a little niggle crept into the back of my mind. Why did Gwen arrive the previous day to tune the piano with an overnight bag? I’d have to find a chance to ask her.

  Un ar hugain

  “CAN WE EXCHANGE NOTES AS we go?” I asked Bud, eager to get to the basement.

  Bud nodded and we set off down the narrow staircase that had obviously been designed to give servants living on the top floor of the castle direct access to the kitchen and basement areas. I walked carefully, because the stairs were steep.

  “Let me go first,” said Bud, “then at least if you fall you’ll have a soft landing.”

  I followed Bud and said, “You tell me your news first,” as I came to terms with the rake of the stairs.

  “Okay—here goes. Mrs. Dilys Jones likes photographs, that’s point number one. Every surface is covered with them. Mostly of Rhian, but some of her with, I am assuming, the late Mr. Jones—who was as round as she is slim—and just one wedding photo of Rhian and our victim. Her choice of artwork other than that is minimal and runs to children with large eyes, cats, and a few prints of Welsh castles, which I found bizarre, given that she lives in one. She has three rooms: a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom.”

  “Same as Rhian and David,” I said.

  “Good. So you have the layout. The sitting room isn’t anything out of the ordinary, except for all the photographs. A TV, a sofa, a couple of chairs, a small table, a few magazines, and a lot of cookbooks piled on a bookshelf. It looks like she reads romance novels and paperbacks. They’re all in poor shape, so either she buys them used or she wears them out by reading them over and over.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “I thought you’d like that,” replied Bud. “What does it tell you?”

  “The first thing that comes to mind is that the stall in Swansea Market where my grandmother used to swap used romance novels seems to still be in business.”

  Bud sounded disappointed as he continued. “Her bedroom was neat and tidy, in fact the whole place was. She doesn’t seem to have a lot of stuff—though I did find a collection of those pinafore things she wears hanging in her closet. Looks like she’s got about twenty of them, all very well worn, but neatly hung. She’s also got a few more of those uniform type dresses, like the one she wore when she was serving in the dining room. The bathroom? Small—compact, as those realtors we’ve seen too much of over the past few months might call it—and very, very clean. The place smelled of bleach.”

  “Rhian’s bathroom was the same,” I said.

  “Clean freaks, or hiding something?”

  “I suspect just being clean, Bud. So nothing of any note is what you’re saying.”

  “Other than the photos, not a thing. It’s clear that there wouldn’t be anywhere for someone to hide out there, and no easy access from outside—too high, and the windows are very small. She looks out over the sea, which wouldn’t be a bad view, if the windows weren’t so high up. Come on, we’re there.” Bud brightened.

  I took the last few steps slowly, then paused to allow my head to stop spinning. I took in our surroundings. “We’re in the basement again, but we’re at the back of it this time, near the back kitchen where they stored the body, rather than at the front of the castle, where the stairs come down from the main hall. A very Upstairs, Downstairs layout, don’t you think?”

  Bud nodded. “Where next? Try to find the coal cellar?” he suggested.

  I strained my ears for sounds of anyone close by, but could hear nothing. “I wouldn’t mind taking another quick look at the body, since we’re so close to it,” I whispered. I darted off before Bud could stop me.

  The day outside the castle had never been bright, and the windowless back kitchen needed the lights turned on. Even then, the stone walls were as forbidding as they had been the night before, and seeing David Davies’s body lying on the table was, once again, a sobering sight. However, I knew that I needed to examine him one more time, so I pulled back the cloth. I got close—I wanted to be close enough that I could see the pores on his skin, so I could examine the way that the stone of the steps had deeply grazed his chin, though I didn’t plan on touching the body, now that Bud and I were pretty certain that foul play was to blame for his demise. Even though the poor dead man had been hauled about the place, I was well aware that there might still be trace evidence on the body that could prove useful once the police arrived. And not just the obvious smudges of coal dust. I wanted to re-examine the marks on his pants. But they were gone.

  “He’s changed his clothes,” I said, quite loudly as it turned out. “These aren’t the pants he was wearing when we saw him last night. Then he was wearing jeans. Now he’s wearing brown dress pants. And he’s wearing different shoes. These are brown; the others were black. But these are the same socks.”

  Bud looked as puzzl
ed as I felt. “Why would someone change his clothes? And only his bottom half, at that. I’m remembering correctly, aren’t I? This is how he was dressed above the waist? That is the sweater that had handprints on it?” asked Bud.

  I nodded. “Yes, the top half hasn’t changed, only the bottom half. Hang on, let’s have a look at his back again.”

  “No, no more rolling him about,” said Bud sternly.

  I tutted, knowing he was right, then had a thought. I darted to the corner of the room, where I’d seen a box of kitchen supplies the night before. I rustled about and finally pulled out a couple of pairs of Marigold kitchen gloves, still in their wrappers.

  Once we’d pulled on the gloves, Bud and I rolled the body far enough for me to be able to see that the grubby handprints on his back had disappeared.

  “Maybe someone brushed them off?” mused Bud.

  “Maybe,” I replied thoughtfully.

  “But why change only half his clothes?”

  “Exactly,” I replied. “Why indeed?”

  As I mentally ran through the several reasons I could think of for someone changing only some of David Davies’s clothes, Bud said, “Are you done with him now?”

  I nodded, and we let him roll back into his original position, then replaced the sheet.

  “What did you learn about him from his rooms?” asked Bud, carefully tucking the sheet around the edge of the body.

  Pulling the yellow gloves off my hands, I looked at what had become of David Davies and said, “He was neat, very keen on looking his best in all ways. Rhian was either too busy to keep herself and her belongings in good condition, or she’d stopped caring. Her mother said that she’d let herself go—I saw signs of that. But David? No, he was clean, neat, tidy. His concert-wear was immaculate. He wanted to make a good personal impression.”

  Bud nodded sagely. “So, your assessment?”

  “Taking the evidence of their living quarters together with what I’ve seen of Rhian, and judging by our interactions with her, I would say that David was keeping himself looking good for someone other than his wife, whereas she felt abandoned, yet still in love with the man. One thing that puzzled me was that I found nothing to do with music there. Yes, there were the clothes he’d wear to conduct the choir, but that was it. I’d have thought that a choral director would have a large amount of music—you know sheet music, different accompanist parts, maybe even orchestral parts—close at hand. I also didn’t find any work clothes to speak of. He had some clothing there that suggested light DIY duties, but nothing that looked like it had been knocked about in a garden or while doing anything very dirty or involving manual labor, like fixing problematic radiators. Yet his hands suggested he did do work like that, and Rhian told me he did. So I believe that David had at least one other location where he kept belongings. We need to find that, I think.”

  “Unlikely to be the coal cellar,” said Bud glumly.

  I nodded. “True, but I want to look at it anyway. Let’s find it and check it out, however dirty we might get. Hopefully, we’ll discover why there’s so much coal dust involved with this mystery.”

  We left the confines of the dank, abandoned back kitchen, and moved toward the wonderful smells coming from the working one. I couldn’t help myself, my saliva glands kicked in and I drooled at the thought of the roast beef dinner to come. Judging by the aromas wafting about us, Dilys was well ahead with the cooking of the meat. I poked my head into the kitchen, which looked quite different now that pots and pans were in use on the stovetop and Dilys herself was bustling around the large central table.

  As she noticed us, her head snapped up and she glared at us both. “Finished poking about in all my stuff, have you?” She sounded angry.

  “Thank you very much for your patience, and your understanding,” said Bud smoothly. “As a retired police officer who has, sadly, had to conduct many such searches, may I say what a beautiful home you have? I was very respectful of your property, Dilys, and I hope I haven’t disturbed anything. I’d hate to have left things less than perfect for you, as you clearly take such good care of your personal space.”

  Dilys glowed with pride. She grew at least an inch, and her eyes softened. For the first time since I’d met her I saw a genuine smile flood her face with a warmth I couldn’t have believed possible of the woman.

  “Oh, go on with you now.” She smiled coquettishly at Bud. “Saying nice things like that about me? It’s just a few rooms, and not much to show for my life in them. But I do like to keep things tidy, see. Important that is, especially when you haven’t got a lot of space. I don’t know how that Rhian of mine can’t see it. Terrible mess her place gets in sometimes, and I’m the one who has to go in and clean it all up.”

  “Well you do an excellent job, Dilys. And I wanted to thank you for letting me into your place.” Bud is very good at this.

  “I know that Cait was just as respectful of your daughter’s living quarters,” he added, “but we did just have a couple of questions.”

  Dilys beamed at him. “Ask away, go on, just ask away.”

  “We wondered if you knew of another area where David might have kept other personal effects. There didn’t seem to be much music, or anything much associated with his work as a musician. Do you know where that might be?”

  As Dilys wiped imaginary crumbs from the table, she said lightly, “Yes, he keeps a lot of his bits and bobs out in the old stable building. It’s where they park the cars, you know?” Bud nodded and she continued, “He spends a lot of his time there, or spent it I should say. Liked to skulk about, he did. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I thought Rhian could have done better, and she should have done, but he was a charmer, that one. Sly with it too. And he drank.”

  Dilys stopped wiping and looked at Bud. “One thing I can tell you is that the stable block is where he used to say he was going, but I don’t know how he ever got as dirty as he did when he was there. I’ve seen him walking upstairs looking a right mess, and I’ve seen him stuffing things in the washing machine out the back here that he didn’t know I saw.”

  “For example?” I asked, determined that I wouldn’t be ignored.

  Dilys gave me a withering look—it seemed that her warmth was reserved solely for Bud—and replied, “I can’t remember specifics, but trousers, shirts, and things like that. Things it was his wife’s job to keep clean for him. Mind you, keeping house isn’t Rhian’s strong point, I’m sorry to say.”

  Once again Dilys had managed to talk a lot but say very little. The only grains of insight I’d gleaned from our conversation was that David sometimes did his own laundry, and that Bud and I should probably brave the elements once again and traipse over to the stable block to try to discover more about the dead man’s life.

  “If you’d be kind enough to point us in the direction of the coal cellar, the laundry area, and maybe the boiler room and so forth, then Cait and I can hunt about in those areas. Also, if we’re going to do that, would we need flashlights?”

  “Flashlights? Oh, you mean torches,” said Dilys. “Well, you won’t because there’s lights everywhere you’ve just mentioned, but you can have this one just in case.” She reached into a cupboard beneath her capacious sink and pulling out something that looked like a small cannon. As Bud took it from her I noted the surprise on his face as he felt its weight.

  Dilys walked us to the end of the kitchen. “Go in the opposite direction to the back kitchen and go alongside the stairs, and there’s another little corridor behind there, and then it opens out into my room for doing the laundry. Farther along is another door into the boiler room. For the coal cellar you’ll have to go right through; the cellar’s on the other side of the house. You can’t miss it. Like I said, there are lights everywhere, even if it’s just a bulb hanging, but please turn everything off as you leave.”

  It seemed that the woman was dismissing us because she turned to the oven, looked at her wristwatch, and said, “That’s that then.”

>   I looked at my own watch. It was only just two o’clock, so the roast beef, which we were due to eat at five o’clock, couldn’t be ready. I wondered what she had in the oven if it wasn’t the beef, but I didn’t get to find out because Bud all but dragged me out into the corridor on the side of the coal cellar. It seemed I was going to find out why David had been so grubby after all—at least, I hoped I was.

  Dau ar hugain

  FOLLOWING DILYS’S INSTRUCTIONS WAS A lot easier than she’d made it sound. The laundry room had been painted white, so the lights in there made the walls glare, and it was as clean as I imagined Dilys could manage, given its great age and location. The two washing machines and two dryers had seen better days. Beyond the laundry room was a grubbier area, full of heating equipment, which whirred and roared, and then we finally stood in front of what had to be the door to the coal cellar. It was very large, made of thick, rough-hewn planks of wood, and extremely dirty. A giant iron bolt was all that held it closed, and it slipped open easily in Bud’s hand. Interesting.

  Looking at his hand already covered with coal dust, Bud remarked, “Keeping those rubber gloves on might have been a bright idea.”

  He shrugged, pulled open the door, and reached around inside the room for a light switch.