Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Many of the passengers stood, and the boat rocked a little. ‘Careful, now,’ said the guide. ‘Perfectly good view out the windows; we can’t have everyone at the door. Careful, there. Don’t crowd!’

  For despite his words, many of the younger passengers knotted around the door, which was open, with only a rope barring the way.

  I clutched Alan’s arm. ‘Alan, they mustn’t – there’s no guard rail!’

  There was a scuffle, a confusion of voices. A sound, something vaguely familiar . . . a scream, more screams.

  The boat rocked as everyone rose and tried to see what had happened.

  ‘Quiet, everyone!’ The voice wasn’t loud, but it was commanding. ‘This is the skipper. There’s been an accident. We’ll stop as soon as possible, and meanwhile I’ll push her as fast as is safe. Please sit down and remain seated until you’re told you may move.’

  ‘But what happened?’ questioned voices all over the boat.

  A pause. Voices from the front sounded like a private consultation between guide and skipper. Then the guide cleared his throat and told us in a shaky voice what we all, in our hearts, knew already. ‘One of the passengers has fallen overboard. We know no more than that. Please be patient until we reach a stopping place.’

  THREE

  ‘What happens now?’ I asked Alan in an undertone.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly what the procedures are in Wales,’ he replied. ‘In England it would be turned over to the local police, who would find and identify the victim and try to determine how he, or she, happened to fall.’

  I shuddered. ‘There’s no chance at all, I suppose, that . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid not, love. A fall of well over a hundred feet . . .’

  ‘But the river was below. If he – she – whoever could swim . . .’

  ‘The Dee is not terribly deep just here, my love. And it is very rocky.’

  He took my hand in a comforting grip and we sat in silence until the skipper spoke again.

  ‘We’ll stop just ahead. There’s no mooring, but the canal is wide enough there that we can pull to the side. I’ve phoned Llangollen to explain, and they’ll stop our tour boats and phone the other companies. There’s nothing to be done about private boats except stop them one by one.’

  ‘But why must we stay here? Why can we not get on another boat and go on to . . . to wherever we are going?’ It was a rich female voice, foreign in accent and peevish in tone, and others joined in her query.

  ‘There has been an accident. Accidents must be investigated. The police will want to speak to anyone who might shed some light on the matter.’ The skipper sounded weary, but very much in command. This might be only a small canal boat, but he was as much master of it as the captain of the Queen Mary was of that huge liner, and he intended to keep control of his passengers.

  We bumped up against the side of the canal. Several of the passengers rose. Our guide, less genial than he had been before, reminded them rather sharply that they were to keep their seats. He also took a stance in the doorway (the hatch, I suppose it was properly called), with a muscular arm braced on either side.

  ‘He doesn’t intend to let any of the malcontents make a break for it, does he?’

  ‘And quite right, too,’ said Alan rather grimly. ‘There are a good many foreigners on this boat, if I’m any judge of accents, and one never knows how they’ll behave.’

  It lightened the moment for me. In fact, I had to hide a smile. Alan is as free of prejudice as anyone I know, but at odd moments a Rule Britannia streak shows up. The English, even perhaps the Welsh, could be counted upon to behave themselves in a crisis and do as they were told. Denizens of other nations were unpredictable. Such was the faith that underlay his remark. I thought briefly about football riots, in contradiction of his theory, and then about the orderly throng that made its sedate way up the Mall after the wedding of William and Catherine, held back only by a few policemen, and decided that just perhaps he had a point.

  Was it a pressing crowd of ‘foreigners’ that forced the poor soul out of the boat to his or her death?

  The lighter moment passed. Who had fallen?

  It must have been someone who was travelling alone, or a companion would be prostrated, and looking around, I saw no sign of that. Distress, of course. It was a terrible thing to witness. Some of the women were crying, and the men were sober, but I could see no evidence of personal grief. In fact, if I were to be uncharitable, some passengers seemed to be more upset by the ruination of their pleasant afternoon than the loss of someone’s life.

  The wait for the police seemed endless. We tried to make conversation, the four of us, but no one was in the mood for small talk. I did ask Nigel what effect, if any, this tragedy was going to have on the festival schedule. A trivial matter by comparison, but it was something to say.

  ‘Probably none. We can hardly cancel at this late date, and really, there’s no reason to. It’s as if . . . as if we had seen a frightful road smash, with someone killed. Dreadful, but . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And rehearsals won’t be interrupted if we can get back at some reasonable time this afternoon, or even this evening,’ he went on. ‘Sir John may have to spend a bit of time tomorrow calming everyone down. Musicians don’t have the most tranquil of personalities, and as I said, a good number of the singers are on this boat.’

  ‘And you also said, or implied, that there are problems already.’

  ‘Yes, but nothing I can put my finger on. There’s a feeling. For one thing, the mezzo hasn’t shown up yet, so we’ve had to juggle the schedule. Small disagreements flare up into tempers. No one has actually stomped out of a rehearsal or thrown anything, but there was a moment or two when I thought it might happen.’ He made a frustrated gesture. ‘It’s probably just my imagination.’

  At that point a small group of people strode down the footpath that bordered the canal. They were in plain clothes, but were quite obviously official.

  ‘I believe,’ I said to nobody in particular, ‘that Her Majesty’s Constabulary have arrived.’

  After that things proceeded in fairly good order, if slowly. Every passenger’s name had to be taken, along with address and other contact information. Everyone was questioned briefly about the accident. No one knew anything of importance, except those in the group that had gathered so disastrously around the door. And from the little I overheard of their responses, they were so confused and garbled as to be virtually useless. Summarized, they amounted to: ‘We were trying to get a good look/good picture, but everyone was pushing, and then . . .’

  We were among the last to speak to the police. Alan discreetly pulled out his warrant card and introduced himself. ‘I’ve been retired for quite some time, of course, and I’m here on holiday and entirely as a private citizen. But if I can be of any help, of course I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll bear that in mind,’ said the officer who seemed to be in charge. It was apparent from his tone of voice that he had no intention of calling on Alan for anything whatsoever. Alan smiled and bowed, and moved us away from the little knot of people who remained.

  ‘Well, that’s that. One aches for the poor victim, and the family, if any, but as Nigel says, it’s nothing to do with us, after all. I understand they’ve laid on transport back to Llangollen. So we should get back in good time for you to get your beauty sleep, Nigel. There are several good restaurants in Llangollen, I believe. Shall we try one of them for a spot of dinner?’

  Nigel was inclined, over dinner, to be apologetic. I was not about to put up with that. ‘My dear boy, you couldn’t possibly have predicted a bizarre accident like that! And it was a lovely trip until then. I’ll never forget the views of the mountains. And the river in Llangollen, with those lovely rapids . . .’ I trailed off. I was suddenly reminded of Alan’s comment about the rocks in the River Dee, not something I wanted to think about just then.

  We finished our meal quietly, drove
back to Tower, and went to bed early and with great relief.

  ‘But he was one of ours!’ Nigel looked up in great dismay from the paper he was reading at the breakfast table. ‘The man who fell yesterday. He was in the chorus for the opera scenes, or at least some of them. Remember that baritone I told you about? Daniel Green was his name, I remember now.’

  ‘Oh, Nigel! And you said he was really good, with maybe a career in front of him. What a pity! What happened, does it say?’

  Nigel scanned the item again. ‘No. Just “police are investigating”. That sounds suspicious, wouldn’t you say?’

  He addressed the last remark to Alan, who made a rocking motion with one hand. ‘Perhaps. Most likely they either don’t want to commit themselves at this stage, or have some ideas they weren’t eager to release to the press.’

  ‘It seems peculiar to me,’ said Nigel stubbornly. ‘I mean, if it was just an accident why don’t they say so? And if it wasn’t—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, darling,’ said Inga, ‘but if we don’t start in five minutes you’re going to be late for rehearsal, and you know how much Sir John appreciates latecomers.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, is it that late?’ Nigel pushed his chair back. ‘Just let me brush my teeth and get my music, and I’m right with you. Alan, Dorothy, you’re welcome if you want to come along.’

  I looked at Alan. ‘We might as well,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the castle interesting, and we’ve always liked to listen to a concert taking shape. We’ll take our own car, so if we get bored we can find something else to do.’

  In this unfamiliar part of the world I had no better suggestion, so Alan got the car and pulled it up to the door behind Inga, and when Nigel flew out the front door, his hair in disorder and his shirt untucked, we waited until he had thrown himself into their car, and then followed.

  ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ I asked Alan tentatively. ‘Just in case we lose them?’ I had no idea what kind of a driver Inga was. Some are courteous when being followed, driving fairly slowly, signalling, and so forth. Some emphatically are not.

  ‘I know where Flint Castle is, certainly.’ Alan’s voice was edging toward annoyed. Although he is a most even-tempered man, he tends, like most of the male sex, to be testy about the matter of asking directions.

  I sat back to enjoy the scenery. It was worth seeing. North Wales, where it is not mountainous, is rolling country, beautiful in its variety. I thought I saw a stone circle, or something of the kind, but before I could ask Alan to stop so we could take a look, he said, ‘Drat!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s Flint Castle, just up ahead. And Inga and Nigel are nowhere to be seen. I lost them several curves back, but they were ahead of us until then.’

  ‘Maybe they stopped somewhere, for gas or something.’

  ‘In this country it’s petrol, and I doubt it. I think we’re in the wrong place. I don’t see anyone carrying instruments or the like.’

  Woops! He was definitely getting a bit snappish. He very, very seldom corrects my English.

  ‘Oh, dear. I suppose they didn’t actually say the rehearsal was at the castle, did they? We just assumed. But look, Alan, what does it matter? I’ve heard about Welsh castles all my life, and this looks like a marvellous one. I like this better, to tell the truth. We can wander around at leisure with no rehearsal going on. We’ll hear all the music later, anyway.’

  ‘Are you trying to chivvy me into a better mood, wench?’

  I grinned at him. ‘Worked, didn’t it? Let’s buy tickets and a guidebook.’

  Signs posted at the entrance informed us that the castle would be closed to visitors the following week, because of ‘The First Annual North Wales Music Festival’. I always think it’s pushing one’s luck to call something the ‘First Annual’, because who knows what the future will bring? I kept my thoughts to myself and silently wished them all the best of British luck.

  I had never seen a castle – a real castle – before. I had visited ruins, quite incomplete, but this was so complete as to make it almost possible to visualize it in its glory days. It still had a moat, though now water lilies and swans prettied it up and made it possible for one to forget its defensive purpose. The portcullis was long gone, but the slit through which it descended was still there.

  The guidebook explained the elaborate, multiple systems of defence. Outer bailey, inner bailey, walkways on the outer walls, towers, arrow slits . . .

  ‘Good heavens!’ I said when I had absorbed some of the basics. ‘The remarkable thing is that the defences were ever breached. I would have thought this place would be safe from anything except aerial attack.’

  ‘And siege. Don’t forget siege. If no one could get in, neither could anyone get out if the place was surrounded. An attacking force could starve them out.’

  ‘But if they were prepared for a siege, with food stored away and a source of water . . .’ I studied the plan of the castle provided in the guidebook. ‘And look! There was a well, right there.’ I pointed.

  ‘You’re right, to a degree. But there were forms of aerial attack, you know. No aircraft, but a good catapult could fling a fair-sized boulder over the walls, and then there were flaming arrows and the like.’

  I shuddered. ‘The capacity of man to invent diabolical instruments of destruction hasn’t changed much over the years, has it? The technology is different today, but the will to annihilate is the same. Let’s talk about something else. Did people actually live in this place? Those stone walls couldn’t have done much to keep out the cold and damp.’

  ‘There were fireplaces,’ said Alan. ‘See those recesses in the walls, there, and there? And of course the lord of the castle would have had furnishings to make his household at least minimally comfortable. Cushions, hangings to keep out drafts, shutters for the windows and later even glass. We might not have found it ideal, but they didn’t do so badly for themselves. Shall we wander on?’

  ‘Sure. I want to see the chapel.’

  There was an arrow pointing the way, up a steep and narrow stairway edging a wall. I was willing to bet it had not had a railing back when the castle was in daily use, and was profoundly grateful that it had one now, especially since it leaned noticeably outward.

  It led us to a narrow interior passage lit mostly by widely spaced arrow slits. Oh, there was an occasional electric light, but not enough to make me happy. I fought to stave off claustrophobic terror. There was, I kept telling myself, nothing to be afraid of. Alan was here, the passage wasn’t going to close in on me, there was plenty of air to breathe.

  We couldn’t walk abreast, but I stayed so close behind Alan that I was in danger of stepping on his heels. After several centuries the passage widened out into a well-lit space. I took a few deep breaths. ‘The chapel?’ I said hopefully, though it certainly didn’t look like one.

  ‘A latrine,’ said Alan, pointing to a sign on the wall. ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’

  ‘No, but let’s push on. We’re bound to get there eventually.’

  ‘Why don’t you go first? Is it better when you can see a clear space in front of you?’

  ‘Marginally.’ I gritted my teeth and moved out of the light.

  ‘Aaaahhh!’

  FOUR

  ‘What? What is it, love? Are you all right?’ Alan asked frantically.

  I flailed wildly at my face and neck. ‘A spider! There was a web, and I ran into it, and this huge spider . . . oh, Alan, can you see it? Did it get into my hair?’

  I was trembling and my heart was racing. Alan pulled me close to him and held me with one arm while with the other he patted me down like an efficient policeman.

  ‘It’s all right, love. No spider. It’s all right. Easy, dear heart. Here, let’s go on to where it’s lighter.’

  Murmuring encouragement, he pushed me ahead, and finally, finally, we were in the ancient chapel, a place of light and peace and calm. There was a bench in front of the simple wooden table that served as the altar.
I sank down on it and tried to catch my breath.

  Alan waited patiently, his hand warm on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally. ‘I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself. Maybe there never was a spider. But there was definitely a web. It brushed my face, and . . . well, I wasn’t quite myself anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry. No one else was around, and I’ll never think you a fool. Look, love, these walls were painted once. See the remnants?

  I appreciated Alan’s attempt at distraction and tried to respond. There were certainly tiny flakes of colour still adhering to the walls. ‘What a shame it’s all gone. Do you suppose there was once stained glass in the windows?’ The tiny lancet windows were still attractive with their simple, clear diamond panes.

  ‘Probably. And a much more elaborate altar. It’s remarkable, though, that this much has been preserved.’

  I sat and let the peace replace my irrational fears, until a small group of tourists appeared and we left to make way for them. The way out, fortunately, was far less convoluted than the way in, and we were back on the grass of the inner ward.

  ‘This must be where they’re going to hold the festival,’ I said, looking around. ‘That sort-of window over there would serve as a perfect balcony for an antiphonal choir, or trumpet fanfares. But goodness, there’s no shelter at all. What on earth are they going to do if it rains?’

  ‘Carry on, I expect. We are rather renowned for that approach, you know.’

  ‘Keep calm and carry on, as the wartime posters said. I want one of those T-shirts. But seriously, wouldn’t the singers worry about their throats and the players about their instruments?’

  ‘Perhaps, but . . .’

  ‘Dorothy Martin?’

  The accent was Canadian, the voice familiar. I turned around. ‘Penny? What a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?’ Penny Brannigan, an ex-pat like me, had moved from Canada to a small Welsh village some years ago. We met when I dropped into her salon one day to have my first-ever manicure, and again while Alan and I were doing some walking in the Cotswolds.