Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  The minute we were out of the castle precincts, Alan phoned the number he had been given for Pat Stevens. He tried it twice, in case he’d punched in the wrong number the first time.

  ‘Voicemail. Let’s go.’

  He handed me an OS map and the paper he’d been given. There were two addresses, one a B & B in ‘Northop, nr. Flint’, the other in Manchester.

  ‘But Alan,’ I pointed out, ‘she won’t still be at her B & B, will she? She took that just for the festival. Nigel said she was going home.’

  ‘We’ll try the B & B first,’ he said.

  I said no more. Obviously ‘first’ meant that if we didn’t find her there, Alan planned to go all the way to Manchester. I hadn’t the least desire to do so today. It wasn’t all that far away, really, but it’s a huge and largely modernized city, and the chances of getting lost in it were great. If she really had left for home, I’d content myself with a card, and try to phone her later. And I wanted to be back for the afternoon concert. But Alan had a bee in his bonnet. I kept my opinions to myself and my eyes on the map.

  We found the B & B with no trouble. It was a smallish stone cottage set in an attractive garden, not actually in the village of Northop but on the outskirts. The young woman pulling weeds from around the roses was pleasant, and fortunately not terribly inquisitive. Yes, Pat Stevens was staying there, she told us in a marked Welsh accent. No, she hadn’t yet left, though she was planning to do so later today. There was nobody at her home, her hostess thought, but with the terrible thing that had happened – we knew about that? Well, one could understand that she found it too hard to stay near the festival. No, the hostess wasn’t planning to attend any of the concerts. She loved a good men’s choir singing Welsh songs, but this other sort of music wasn’t her cup of tea. And would we in fact like . . .?

  ‘Thank you, no. We’d like to talk to Miss Stevens. Is she in?’

  In, but still in bed, the hostess thought. She hadn’t even got up for breakfast, though as to that, she hadn’t been eating well, or sleeping well, either. She, the hostess, had heard her pacing the floor last night till all hours.

  Alan and I looked at each other. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten.

  ‘Would you mind if I just went up and knocked on her door?’ he asked. ‘My name is Alan Nesbitt, and I’ve come from the festival with a message for her. I was told to deliver it personally. Perhaps she’s up but not ready to come down.’

  ‘Happy to meet you. I’m Bronwen Thomas.’ The hostess looked slightly dubious. ‘I don’t like to disturb my guests, but I suppose . . . Oh, well, come up, then.’

  Mrs Thomas brushed the dirt off her hands and knees and led the way up a narrow staircase to a minute landing with two doors. She tapped on the closed one. ‘Pat, fach,’ she said softly.

  I raised my eyebrows at Alan.

  ‘Small, I think, literally,’ he whispered. ‘I believe it’s also used as an affectionate term.’ His eyes were on the door.

  ‘Pat, there are some people here to see you,’ said Mrs Thomas, a little more loudly.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Alan, and although his voice wasn’t loud, it was commanding. The woman ceded her place without question.

  ‘Miss Stevens, I’m here from the festival. Open the door, please.’ He rapped on it.

  No response.

  He put a hand on the knob. It turned readily. Mrs Thomas made a little noise of protest.

  The room was empty. The bed had been neatly stripped, sheets and blankets folded and piled on the mattress. Wardrobe doors gaped open.

  Pat was gone.

  FIFTEEN

  There was an envelope on the bedside table. Mrs Thomas picked it up, opened it, and pulled out a folded piece of paper and some banknotes. She read the message, tears starting in her eyes. ‘She’s gone. Here, if you’re her friends you’ll want to read it.’

  She handed the note to me. Aware that I was not really Pat’s friend, privy to her correspondence, I nevertheless read:

  Dear Bronwen,

  You’ve been kind and I knew I’d cry if I had to say goodbye, so I’m just leaving. I don’t know quite where I’ll go from here. I can’t go back to Manchester just yet. It wouldn’t be the same without Dan. There’s no one else. I hope this is enough to pay for my stay. If I’ve left anything behind just keep it, or toss it.

  Pat

  ‘Dan was her young man,’ said Bronwen sadly. ‘And that fond of each other! They lit up a room with the looks they gave one another. Ah, it’s a great pity!’

  I got teary, too. ‘That poor girl! Alan, I must write to her. Maybe when the festival’s over we could go see her on the way home. Oh, I know Manchester isn’t on the way home, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ was all Alan said. He’s fond of those ambiguous noises, and I’ve become quite good at interpreting them. This time, though, I couldn’t catch his thoughts. He thanked Mrs Thomas and we went on our way.

  We came to a crossroads and Alan hesitated. ‘I’ve half a mind . . .’ he muttered.

  That I could interpret. ‘No, Alan. We don’t have time to go to Manchester and get back in time for the concert. And anyway she wasn’t going there yet, so we don’t know where she might be. Not to mention the little matter of lunch. And I want to hear Creation. I’ve never heard it, only a couple of bits. And there’s not all that much hurry to see Pat.’

  ‘You’re right. Yes, of course you’re right. It’s only . . . Dorothy, did you ever consider that Daniel Green might have been pushed out of that boat?’

  I opened my mouth for an automatic reply, and closed it again. After some thought, I said, ‘At the time I didn’t even give it a thought. Now, with everything else that’s been happening, I don’t know. What gave you the idea?’

  He ran a hand down the back of his neck. ‘Just that, I suppose. You know I don’t like coincidence, and I get suspicious of a string of “accidents”.’ His tone put clear quotation marks around the word. ‘When several odd things happen within a given group of people, and one of them is acknowledged to be a troublemaker, I begin to wonder.’

  ‘But the troublemaker is dead herself – and, we think, murdered.’

  ‘She was on that boat, though. You saw her. What if someone was aiming for her and missed?’

  ‘What a dreadful thought!’ I shuddered. ‘Someone would have had to really hate her. So far all we’ve learned is that a lot of people had grudges against her. A grudge is scarcely enough to lead to murder.’

  ‘It is if you live and move and have your being in the world of grand opera. A grudge murder is almost a cliché plot device in a tragic opera. And from everything we’ve seen and heard, that was the way Delia operated. Her emotions were all on top, and precious little restraint did she exercise over them. What if someone else had that same outlook on the world? It’s my opinion that a person with that mindset, given the opportunity, would have given Delia a push without the slightest qualm.’

  I thought about that for a mile or two. ‘I suppose someone might have done such a thing,’ I said finally. ‘But surely, when he realized his mistake, he wouldn’t have tried again.’

  Alan shrugged. ‘The mistaken-identity thread runs through a lot of opera, too. If we’re talking about a complete egoist, he isn’t quite sane. Anyone who gets in his way can be brushed aside like a bothersome fly. As easy to brush away two flies as one.’

  I shuddered. ‘That’s a truly terrifying idea. The thing is, the only person in this entourage who fits that description – the complete egoist – is Delia. And Delia was the victim.’

  ‘Delia was the only one who displayed that personality openly. There are nearly two hundred people involved in this festival, one way and another, including the support staff. Are we in a position to say that none among them harbours that kind of overweening pride and arrogance?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just – it’s awful to think about someone so eaten up with hatred. And I still can’t imagine a motive strong enough . . .
’ I trailed off, suddenly appalled at where our thoughts had led.

  ‘He wasn’t on the boat, Dorothy. He was rehearsing with the orchestra that day. Remember?’

  ‘Thank God. I couldn’t bear the thought – and he’s just not that sort of person.’

  ‘He’s a musician, Dorothy, and a damn good one. He’s bound to have a fair-sized ego. But I agree, he seems a decent sort of man. And in any case he’s completely out of the picture, for either death.’

  ‘All right, here’s another thought. Where was Pat while all this was going on? Alan, I remember that scene. I wish I could forget it. There was a general outcry when Dan fell, but no single outpouring of grief. No one seemed to care very much, in fact. Which was rather callous, I suppose, but certainly human nature.’

  ‘Plainly, Pat wasn’t there, for whatever reason. But Delia was. I keep coming back to that. Could she have suspected that the push was meant for her? How would one have expected Delia to react? How did she, in fact?’

  I racked my brains. ‘The only thing I remember, or think I remember, is her complaint about the delay. At least someone with a loud voice and a foreign accent complained. It could have been Delia.’

  ‘Or almost any other woman.’ Alan sounded dispirited as we turned into the car park of a promising-looking pub.

  ‘The trouble is,’ I said as I made my careful way over the gravel, ‘that we don’t know enough.’

  ‘And of course, as usual, we haven’t the slightest excuse for asking questions. After you, my dear.’ He ushered me into the pub with a gallant gesture.

  We continued to discuss it over lunch. ‘We could go to the police,’ I offered with little enthusiasm. ‘The official police, I mean. Inspector What’s-his-name.’

  ‘Owen. As Welsh a name as you’ll find anywhere. And exactly what would we tell him? That we have a great many unsupported suspicions?’

  ‘You think too much like a policeman. Our ideas may not have a lot of evidence behind them, but they’re not exactly unsupported. We have experience of crime and criminals, you over a lifetime, and me for a good few years now. And we have experience of life, and the way people behave, and misbehave. When we form opinions, they’re worth considering.’

  Alan smiled at me. ‘I’m not the one you need to convince. I agree with every word you say – as an individual. But as the policeman I once was—’

  ‘And still are and always will be,’ I interrupted.

  ‘As a policeman I have to look at evidence. And we have none, not one jot or tittle, that either Daniel Green or Delia Warner was murdered.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to get some, won’t we?’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  ‘First of all, by talking to Pat as soon as we can reach her. Why don’t you try her phone again?’

  But again there was no answer, and it was time we headed to the afternoon concert.

  The music took my mind off everything else for a blissful afternoon. Sir John had chosen to use the English translation of the oratorio, and the setting of those familiar words was glorious. I could hardly believe that in a lifetime of enjoying great music I had never heard this before. The critics would later speak of the performance in awed terms, calling it perhaps the best Creation ever performed with semi-professional musicians. They didn’t put it quite that way, of course, but that was what they meant. I only knew that I was transported, transformed.

  When it was over, the audience simply sat in silence for a long moment before breaking into wild applause. I clapped until my hands hurt, and Inga and Alan right along with me.

  When Nigel joined us, flushed with the thrill of performance, he brought the American twins with him. Amid a spate of mutual congratulations, Laurie turned to me. ‘Hey, I owe you a lot, Mrs Martin. That new string made all the difference! Could you hear it?’

  I smiled and shook my head. ‘Not with all the other glorious noise going on! I don’t have that good an ear. But the whole thing was splendid, orchestra, chorus, soloists and all. Look, if you two don’t have any plans right now, how about going with us for a magnificent tea, or a drink if that suits your American tastes better?’

  ‘Hey, I don’t have anything against tea,’ said Larry. ‘And by “a tea” they mean a meal over here, don’t they?’

  ‘They do indeed. And I’ll bet that hotel – what’s its name, Nigel, where we had dinner that one night?’

  ‘Soughton Hall. They don’t do teas in the normal run, but Inga and I found a place that does, called Bodysgallen Hall. It’s a hotel in a seventeenth-century manor house, near Llandudno. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Alan, beaming, ‘we’ll go to your unpronounceable hotel and celebrate with a fine feast of carbohydrates. Nigel, if you’ll lead the way, and take Inga and Larry, I think we can fit Laurie and her violin into our car.’

  On the way the conversation was all about the concert, revelling in one glorious moment after another. ‘It’s funny. You know how they say the onlooker sees most of the game? Well, in a concert, the orchestra doesn’t usually hear much of the music. We’re too close to it. I can hear the violins, and sometimes the other strings, and everyone can hear the brass!’

  ‘I imagine sometimes you wish you couldn’t,’ I put in.

  ‘Well, they do get loud! But everything’s different in an outdoor setting. The acoustics don’t work at all the same way as in a concert hall. And this afternoon – oh, it was almost as if I were in the audience, only better. I could hear everything, and how it all blended together, and yet I was a part of it, helping make that fantastic music! It was . . . I can’t even describe it!’

  ‘You really love what you do, don’t you, Laurie?’

  ‘When it’s like today, more than anything in the world.’ She thought about that for a little, and then giggled. ‘Well – there’s a guy back home . . .’

  And we all laughed. ‘But,’ I said, ‘if you had to choose between him and music . . .’

  ‘Well, I guess I did that this summer, didn’t I?’ she said, after a moment. ‘He wanted me to stay home and party with him. He’s got a lake cottage in Michigan somewhere, with a sailboat, and it would have been fun. But I couldn’t pass this up!’

  ‘Does your brother have a girl in the States?’ asked Alan.

  ‘No one serious. It’s all about music with him, too. He’s even more intense about it than I am. He’ll never settle down, I don’t think, unless it’s with another musician. And that doesn’t always work out so well, if either of them tours at all.’

  ‘I’ve always thought,’ I said, ‘that a musician’s life wasn’t an easy one. Unless you’re in the very top rank, there’s always financial insecurity. And as you say, schedules can really complicate family life.’

  ‘No, it isn’t easy, not unless you get a good teaching position in a university someplace. But that can be maddening, trying to teach kids who have no talent, or no ambition. Maybe it was better back in the days when musicians were hired by kings and people like that, and worked in the court.’

  ‘Like Haydn’s musicians. A friend of mine wrote a book about Haydn once, and I read bits of it. He’d managed to find rosters of the court musicians of the time, even including what they were paid! It would have been a lot more interesting if he’d been able to figure out what that equalled in present-day dollars, but even without knowing that, it obviously amounted to a handsome chunk of money for the Austrian princes to shell out.’

  And we went on talking about Haydn and the Viennese court until we got to the hotel.

  They were able to provide us with as lavish a spread as anyone could have asked for. ‘Good grief, I’ll gain five pounds just looking at all this,’ I groaned, while loading my plate with three sandwiches, a scone, and a slice of bara brith, the Welsh fruit bread. ‘Tomorrow I’ve got to take a long walk. I’ve been sitting too much.’

  Alan very wisely said nothing at all.

  When my appetite was at last sated, I refilled my teac
up and raised it in a toast. ‘Here’s to a host of fine musicians, making beautiful music!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Alan.

  I had come down somewhat from my Haydn-high and thought it might be time to ask a few searching questions. ‘And speaking of musicians, did any of you get to know Pat Stevens? She was the singer whose fiancé fell off the canal boat.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, you were going to talk to her today,’ said Nigel. ‘Is she coping?’

  ‘She had already left when we got to her B & B.’ Alan stepped smoothly into the conversation. ‘She left a note for her hostess, saying she wasn’t going home yet a while. Would any of you know where she might have gone, instead?’

  The three musicians looked blank. ‘I suppose I knew her a little,’ said Larry slowly, ‘but she wasn’t an easy person to know. She and Dan were so wrapped up in each other, there wasn’t much left for anyone else.’

  ‘We’d very much like to find her,’ said Alan. ‘Did you happen to overhear anything about her family or friends?’

  Larry’s face changed. ‘Say, what is all this, anyway? You’re sounding like a cop. Why do you want to know so much about Pat? She didn’t do anything!’

  I sighed. ‘Oh, dear. The thing is, kids, Alan was a cop. He’s been retired quite a while, but he was a chief constable for years, if you know what that is.’

  ‘I think I do,’ said Laurie. ‘I’ve read a few Agatha Christies. Sort of like a fancy sheriff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sort of. Anyway, he can’t help sounding like a policeman sometimes.’

  ‘But to answer your question, Larry,’ said Alan, ‘no, there’s no question of Pat having “done anything”, as you put it. We’d just like to talk to her because, frankly, we think there might be some question about how Dan met his death.’

  ‘You’re not saying she had anything to do with it!’ Larry was getting upset.

  ‘Look, we seem to have got off on the wrong foot somehow,’ I said in a placating tone. ‘Nobody thinks Pat did anything wrong. It’s just that we got to thinking, Alan and I, that it was a little odd, Dan falling off the boat that way. We don’t think Pat was even with him on that little trip.’