Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ said Larry, snapping his fingers. ‘I remember now. She wasn’t feeling so good that day. She thought she might be coming down with a sore throat, and that’s serious for a singer. So she decided to rest that day, but she wouldn’t let Dan stay with her. Seems he was crazy about boats, and she didn’t want him to miss it. A shame she didn’t keep him away, as it turned out.’

  ‘We didn’t go, either,’ said Laurie. ‘I . . . well, I hate to admit it, but I’m scared of heights. And Larry wanted to work on a couple of passages in the “Lord Nelson” that he wasn’t real sure of.’

  ‘And what my baby sister isn’t saying is that we were both just a little homesick. I mean, there’s lots of interesting things about this country, but it’s not much like home. So we just holed up in our B & B with some beer and potato chips and wished there were some baseball on TV.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Alan raised his hands in resignation. ‘There was always some hope one of you had heard something, but plainly it’s not going to be that easy.’

  ‘Why don’t you just call her?’ asked Laurie. ‘Or doesn’t she have a cell phone? We didn’t bring ours because we didn’t think they’d work over here, but she’s a Brit.’

  ‘She has a mobile,’ said Alan. ‘She’s not answering.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .’ Larry bit his lip. ‘She couldn’t be in any sort of trouble, could she? I mean, if you’re right, and her boyfriend was pushed off the boat, and she knew something about it . . .’

  Well, I wasn’t going to touch that one. I didn’t see any possible answer that wouldn’t reveal our ideas about the murderer having achieved his goal, and I was sure we weren’t ready to do that yet.

  ‘We have no reason to believe Pat is in any danger,’ said Alan smoothly. ‘I’m inclined, myself, to think she has simply gone off by herself to try to put her life back together. But we’d like to find her, all the same. Too many peculiar things have been happening of late, and we, Dorothy and I at least, would like to make some sense of them.’

  ‘So,’ said Nigel slowly, ‘you think De— Gracie was murdered, too?’

  That one I could deal with. ‘I would like be sure that she was not. Wouldn’t you?’

  Nigel shook his head. ‘Dorothy, it’s just not possible. You forget – I was there. There on that balcony with her. No one pushed her. She just started screaming and backed up too far, and fell. It happened too fast for any of us to try to save her. It was an accident!’

  Laurie shook her head in turn. ‘No, Nigel, that’s not good enough. We know she wasn’t pushed off that balcony. But why did she scream? What frightened her? And why did she wave her arms around like that? It was almost . . . I saw an old movie once about someone who was on some drug, a hallucinogenic, and this person had the most terrible visions. A “bad trip”, they called it.’

  I exchanged an amused look with Alan. This young innocent was describing as history what had been very much a part of our own youth, although I’d never indulged in LSD and I very much doubted that Alan had.

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t think about it at the time, but do you suppose something like that could have happened to Gracie?’

  It was, of course, a perfectly reasonable theory, only most of us knew it wasn’t true. I let Alan field that one again. ‘The police often test for drugs in cases of unexplained death. The only drug in Madame de la Rosa’s system was a trace of acetaminophen. One assumes she’d had a headache.’

  ‘She was a headache,’ muttered Larry. ‘And I’m sorry, but she’s giving me one now. I hate to break up the party, but I need to get back to the B & B.’

  ‘Oh, Larry, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This was supposed to be a celebration and I turned it into a wake.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just reaction. Laurie’ll tell you I get like this after performances. I’ll be fine after a nap. And anyway, now I know what a real English tea is.’

  ‘Welsh,’ said a chorus of voices.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Well, that didn’t get us anywhere,’ I said when we were back at Tower. I had kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed.

  ‘No,’ said Alan, taking off his own shoes. ‘Not very far. We confirmed that Pat wasn’t on the boat. If you nap now, you won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.’

  ‘We already knew she wasn’t on the boat. Or at least we deduced it. I’m not going to nap. I just wanted to put my feet up.’

  Alan chuckled, and that was the last thing I heard for a couple of hours.

  ‘Well, I didn’t intend to fall asleep,’ I said when I finally roused.

  ‘It’s all those carbs. Lays you out flat, every time. Are you ready for some dinner?’

  ‘After “all those carbs”? You must be kidding! I never want to eat again.’

  ‘There are not a lot of other options for evening entertainment in these parts. We could always go for a walk. It won’t be dark for at least another three hours.’

  ‘I don’t feel like a walk.’

  I was feeling, in fact, contrary. It was a predictable result of an afternoon spent on an emotional roller-coaster, with a big meal and an unwise nap. Knowing that didn’t make me feel any less prickly.

  ‘Well, it’s that, or television, or a pub. Or I could borrow a spade from Charles and dig a hole you could crawl into.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Oh, I suppose we could go to a pub. I’m not in the mood for a raucous one, though. And I’d just as soon not run into any of the musicians.’

  ‘Shall we ask Nigel if he knows of a quiet spot nearby? Or does he count as a musician?’

  ‘No, he’s more like a grandson, even if he does sing. I won’t hold his voice against him.’

  Nigel and Inga were amenable, and Nigel was amused at my request that he name a pub. ‘Just because I’m half Welsh,’ he said mildly, ‘you expect me to know all about Wales. I’d never been here before we came to rehearse. And though my mother had learned a little Welsh from my father, I’ve forgotten everything she tried to teach me about the language, except how to pronounce it – after a fashion. But I do know how to use a computer.’ He fired up his laptop, quickly searched the Internet, and found two or three pubs that looked suitable. One was quite nearby and proved to be, as promised, quiet, if unremarkable.

  ‘Beer?’ Alan asked all of us.

  I still felt contrary. ‘Wine for me. A good burgundy, if they have it.’

  Somewhat surprisingly, they did. It was in fact good enough that my mood actually mellowed after a few sips. I even began to feel some pangs of hunger.

  ‘Nigel, do they do food, do you know?’

  ‘Aha!’ said Alan. ‘This is the lady who, about an hour ago, was never going to be hungry again.’

  ‘A lady,’ said Inga firmly, ‘is entitled to change her mind. I’m hungry, too, though I wouldn’t have believed I could be.’

  ‘I think they only do bar snacks,’ said Nigel doubtfully, looking around. ‘I don’t see a menu anywhere. I could ask.’

  Perhaps it was Nigel’s winning ways, but some sandwiches soon appeared, crusty bread with lovely warm bacon and some sort of delectable cheese melting softly into the bread. By the time I’d worked my way through mine, I was feeling civil again.

  My expressive face must have shown my improved mood, because Nigel, somewhat tentatively, brought up the afternoon’s subject again.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve been thinking about Dan Green, and I remembered that there was someone who might help you find Pat. He’s in the chorus, a tenor, and he was by way of being a mate of Dan’s. I think someone said they went to school together, and then Dan did a bit of travelling around Europe before he settled in Manchester. And this chap was with him part of the time. Or something like that. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, and I’ve probably got it all wrong.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t have any friends here. Didn’t Larry say something like that?’

  ‘Well, it was all sort of awkward. I gathered the two of them had
rather gone about together for years, and Pat . . .’

  ‘I see.’ I nodded. ‘Pat was jealous. Understandable, but unwise of her to show it.’

  ‘Yes, well, Dan sort of had to go behind Pat’s back to talk to this chap. I can’t recall his name, but I can point him out to you tomorrow, if you want to talk to him.’

  ‘We very much want to talk to him,’ said Alan. ‘He’ll be singing tomorrow, will he?’

  ‘Oh, yes, in fact he has a solo. Tomorrow’s Gilbert and Sullivan, you remember, and Sir John passed the wealth around. So this fellow gets to sing “A Maiden Fair to See”, from Pinafore.’

  ‘Lucky boy! That’s a great piece,’ I said. ‘Well, we won’t bother him before the concert, but afterwards, maybe we could take him out for a drink or something and pick his brains. Thanks, Nigel!’

  We ended up staying at the pub for another couple of rounds, and as a result I slept much better than Alan had predicted, and much later. I woke up the next morning with the feeling that we were on the way to some solid information at last. The day was gorgeous, and I was in a good mood.

  It was after ten before we finished a leisurely breakfast. We did nothing much for the rest of the morning, and skipped lunch. Nigel and Inga wanted to drive into Mold for a little shopping, so we agreed to meet at the castle in time for the concert.

  We got there early, before the audience was officially admitted, but we walked in through the performers’ entrance and found ourselves in a scene of confusion. Sir John was nearer to a temper tantrum than I had guessed he could approach, and the singers, chorus and soloists alike, were all talking at once.

  ‘Silence!’ thundered the conductor, and silence fell immediately.

  ‘Now. Does anyone know where to find James O’Hara?’

  The silence continued. Sir John smouldered. ‘Sheila. You have tried his mobile again?’

  ‘Every five minutes, sir. Voicemail, every time.’

  ‘Sir.’ It was Nigel’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’ Sir John’s acknowledgement was not cordial.

  ‘I know the Rackstraw role, sir. I could sing it if you like. If no one else would prefer to do it.’

  It took all of two seconds for the conductor to agree. ‘Very well. Mind you watch the stick. You haven’t rehearsed with the chorus, but we have no time for that. Thank you, Nigel.’

  It was as if the castle itself heaved a sigh of relief. Another crisis averted.

  I was not so happy. ‘Alan . . .’

  ‘Yes. Yet another missing person. And unless I’m mistaken, it’s the one who knew Dan Green.’

  ‘Well, it’s the one who was singing the bit from HMS Pinafore, and that’s the one Nigel mentioned, so . . .’

  ‘So.’

  We looked at each other.

  I heaved a great sigh. ‘Alan, the fates are against us. I’m not giving up on this mess, because I feel strongly about justice. You know that. I want justice for Dan, and even for Delia. She was a nuisance, but she didn’t deserve to be executed for annoying people. But I’m for shunting it all aside until we can see a clearer way ahead. I could sit here and stew all afternoon, and it wouldn’t accomplish a thing except making me miss some music I really enjoy. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  I kept my vow. Actually, it wasn’t hard. If there is music more rollicking and infectious and just plain fun than Gilbert and Sullivan, I don’t know what it is. They did the familiar selections from all my favourite operettas, Pinafore of course, Pirates, Mikado, Yeomen, and some I didn’t know at all, Patience, Iolanthe, Sorcerer. It was all good fun, and all performed splendidly. Nigel and the chorus worked together perfectly smoothly as he sang Ralph Rackstraw’s lament about his star-crossed love; if I hadn’t known he’d stepped in at the very last minute, I’d never have guessed.

  The audience loved it. After several days of serious music, we were all ready to come down from the Olympian heights and have a little fun. This time there was no breathless hush at the end of the performance, but an outburst of applause, cheers, and laughter.

  ‘That,’ said Inga with deep satisfaction as we made our way to the exit, ‘was great fun.’

  ‘It was. Those two wrote the most inspired nonsense . . . Hmm?’ For Alan had gestured for me to be quiet.

  Sir John was standing at our side. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, and I’m so happy you enjoyed the concert, but may I speak to you for a moment? All three of you?’

  One does not ignore a royal summons. We followed him through the crowd, stopping with him while he graciously acknowledged comments from the audience, until we reached the relative quiet of the festival office.

  He gestured me to the wooden folding chair, the only one available. ‘Please. I’m sorry there isn’t seating for all of you.’

  I firmly refused. ‘Sir John, we’ve been sitting through an entire performance. You’ve been working. Rest.’

  With a sigh, he capitulated and collapsed on to the hard chair as if it were deep plush.

  ‘Mr Nesbitt, this can’t go on.’

  Alan looked at him with a perfectly impassive face.

  ‘You’re thinking I’m concerned about the success of the festival. I am, of course. I have to be. But I am more concerned about the fate of my musicians. Two of them are now dead. Another two are missing. I can no longer ignore the fact that there is a . . . a malevolence hovering around this festival and these people. How many more? How many more splendid young singers, and possibly instrumentalists as well, are threatened? Am I in danger? Are my wife and children? Cynthia has become quite worried about it, and that’s not at all good for her just now.’ He stood and began to pace the small room. ‘It has to stop. I have to know what’s behind all this. The authorities don’t seem interested. They seem content to regard both deaths as accidental. That’s the easy solution, but I can no longer accept it.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Alan. ‘I never have been comfortable with the notion, and now with this most recent disappearance, I feel quite certain that there is, as you put it, a malevolence at work. My wife feels the same way, and so, I believe, do our young friends.’ He gestured to Inga. ‘The question is, what’s to be done about it?’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘You have already been looking into the matter.’ Sir John’s tone made it a statement, not a question, but Alan and I nodded in confirmation. ‘I would like you to continue to do so. I have no right so to infringe upon your time and energy, but—’

  Alan held up a hand. ‘Please. Dorothy and I are not only upset about the recent events, but I think I may say that we are personally outraged, not only by the crimes against Delia and Dan, and now possibly James, but by the crimes against music itself. That may sound grandiose, but we have loved music all our lives. It has enriched us. Listening to great music is for us almost a religious experience.’

  ‘Not almost,’ I said. ‘It is. And how much more so must it be to make great music. I’m with Alan all the way on this, Sir John. You’ve held up astonishingly well in the face of everything that’s happened, but you’re quite right. It can’t go on. We’re eager to do anything we can to stop it. Of course we have no official standing, so we’re a bit limited in what we can do.’

  ‘I may be able to help with that problem. I’ve thought about it, of course. Dear heaven, I’ve thought about nothing else for the past week! Of course I’ll put the full resources of the festival staff at your disposal. And then, I’m not without influence in certain circles. I think I can assure you that the police will at least not interfere with your investigations. And of course with the musicians . . .’ He made a deprecating gesture.

  ‘Your wish is our command,’ said Nigel. His tone was light, but he meant every word.

  ‘Well, at any rate, I shall ask everyone to cooperate with you to the fullest extent, and I think they will. They’re a fine group of musicians, and a fine group of people.’

  ‘Except for one of them, Sir John,’ said Alan a trifle grimly. ‘Except for one.’

&n
bsp; ‘And therein,’ I said later, ‘lies the rub. It’s the same old problem. We can talk to the musicians and ask them questions till we’re blue in the face, and we may get truth from most of them, but all we’ll do with the guilty one is warn him, or scare him away.’

  ‘The trouble is, there are so many of them!’ said Nigel. ‘If there were some way to eliminate the impossible ones, I should think it would make things a bit easier.’

  Nigel and Inga were sitting with us in our huge bedroom at Tower, trying to come up with a plan of action. They had entered enthusiastically into the spirit of things. ‘You know,’ said Inga, ‘I do rather fancy myself as a detective. I learned a bit about people, all those years serving in the pub.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alan, ‘the first thing is to determine for certain who was on the canal boat. That would eliminate a great many people, for a start, at least for the murder of Dan Green.’

  ‘Wait a minute! Are you saying that the same person didn’t murder Delia?’

  ‘I think, my dear, that we had best remember to call her Graciosa, or Madam de la Rosa, or even Gracie. Anything but Delia. And to answer your question, I’m not saying anything of the kind. I’m saying only that we don’t know enough to assume that the same person is responsible for both deaths.’

  ‘Two murderers! In a group of peaceful musicians! It’s hardly credible.’ Nigel shook his head, some of his enthusiasm dampened.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ I pleaded. I dug out of my handbag a pen and the little notebook I always carry, and began to make a list. ‘First thing, find out who was on the canal boat. Shall we do that by talking to the musicians or to the boat people? Did they take names when you booked us for the trip, Nigel?’

  ‘Yes, but do you think they’d tell us?’

  ‘They might,’ said Alan, ‘with Sir John’s name behind our request. The Welsh love and respect musicians, even English musicians. But I think we’d also learn a good deal by questioning the members of the chorus. You did say, didn’t you, Nigel, that the orchestra was rehearsing that afternoon?’