‘But it makes her relationship with Ben Peterson irrelevant,’ Nigel objected.
‘Maybe it is,’ began Inga.
‘Or maybe not!’ I interrupted eagerly. ‘I have an idea. Wait a minute while I work it out.’
There was the kind of pause that used to be called pregnant while I sorted out my thoughts.
‘Suppose,’ I said slowly, ‘that Dan knew who Delia was.’
‘How?’ It came in a chorus.
‘Never mind how, for the moment. He was a singer. He travelled around. We don’t know where Delia’s been for the past ten years. Let’s suppose, for the sake of the argument, that he knew. Knew that Madame de la Rosa was really Sir John’s wife, or at least had been at one time. And maybe he didn’t know about the legalities that had intervened.’
The response was grudging, but I ploughed ahead. ‘All right. What would he have done with that knowledge? Never forget that he was a singer. According to Nigel, singers all over the world admire, even revere Sir John, not only for his skill as a conductor, but for his sheer . . . goodness, for lack of a better word. So let’s suppose that Dan, also knowing Delia’s reputation for troublemaking, feared that she would try to make big trouble between Sir John and his wife. What was Dan like, Nigel? Did you have a chance to know him well enough to judge his character?’
‘Not really. We had only just begun rehearsals, you know, when he died. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Dorothy.’
‘I’m trying not to lead the witness! But since you won’t play, what I want to know is whether Dan was bold enough, brave enough, if you will, to confront Delia and ask her what she planned to do.’
Nigel shook his head. ‘I can’t answer that. The little I saw of him, he seemed wrapped up in Pat to the exclusion of any other ideas. But aside from that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Certainly he never seemed to stick out from the crowd in any way. I think most of us were barely aware of his existence, except of course for Pat. And James.’
‘Pat and James. It keeps coming back to those two.’ I slapped the arm of the sofa in frustration. ‘We need a talk with them, and we need it now!’
We all looked at our phones, Alan’s and mine, which we had laid on end tables. They were stubbornly silent.
‘But since we can’t talk to them just now, you might as well go ahead with your theory, Dorothy.’ Alan sounded wearily indulgent, and I might have resented the tone if I hadn’t been so unsure of my theory myself.
‘All right, but try not to poke holes in it until you’ve heard it all. I just want to know if it hangs together logically. We can try to find proof later. Okay?’
The nods were dutiful, if not enthusiastic.
I took a deep breath. ‘What I think happened is this. Dan knew who Delia was, and found out she planned to blackmail Sir John on the strength of it. I think he overheard Delia talking about it, gloating about it, in fact, with Ben Peterson.’
Shaking heads and negative sounds all over the room. ‘She didn’t even show up at rehearsals until after Dan was dead,’ said Nigel, with laboured patience.
‘I know that! I also know, and so do you, that her story about a delayed flight from Brazil was sheer fabrication. She entered this country months before she made her appearance at rehearsals. We know that from her passport. We don’t know where she was during all that time, but if her affair with Peterson had already begun, she was probably with him. And Dan saw them somewhere, and heard them laughing about what she planned. Oh, and it just occurred to me. At that point Dan didn’t know she was the mezzo soloist for the festival. So he might not have understood some of the references she made until . . . no, that won’t work, will it? He never saw her at a rehearsal.’
‘No, I think it does work, Dorothy.’ Alan leaned forward, becoming interested in spite of himself. ‘Delia was on that boat; we know that for a fact. Peterson was busy that afternoon; there was an orchestral rehearsal, remember? So Delia was at a loose end and had to amuse herself somehow. Although a canal boat ride wouldn’t seem to be her usual style of entertainment. In any case, finding herself in a nest of the festival singers, do you think she could have avoided boasting about her starring role?’
‘Of course!’ That was Inga, who abandoned her sculptural pose and leaned forward, eyes bright. ‘That’s why she chose to be on the boat in the first place; it was a place where she could be admired.’
‘Yes, and when Dan heard her bragging all about her appearance at the festival, his uneasiness about her would have shot up about sixteen levels. Here she was, poised not only to wreck Sir John’s life, but to wreck the festival at the same time. I think he would have said something to her, tried to reason with her – maybe on the bus, on the way to the boat. She would have laughed him off, or else used her feminine wiles to try to persuade him he was imagining things. But if he was as besotted with Pat as everyone says, she wouldn’t have succeeded, be she never so wily. So then when everyone crowded to see the drop to the river, and she saw her chance . . .’
The silence this time had a different quality. They were considering.
‘It hangs together,’ said Alan at last. ‘Of course it’s hanging from invisible hooks, and we can never prove any of it.’
‘And even if it’s all true, every word of it – and I’ll admit it’s convincing – it doesn’t matter,’ said Inga. ‘If Delia is a murderer, she’s been punished, far more severely than she would have been by law.’
‘It does matter, though,’ said Alan, and he sounded grim. ‘It matters because, if this tissue of assumptions we’ve woven has any strength to it, it provides a clear motive for James O’Hara to have killed Delia.’
‘Which he could not have done,’ said Nigel, but he said it very quietly. He sounded very tired of having to repeat his objection.
‘The only thing we can do now, until Pat calls – if she does – is talk again to Ben Peterson,’ I said with determination. ‘Did you get his phone number, Alan?’
‘I did.’ He made no move toward his phone. ‘Dorothy, have you any idea what time it is?’
I looked at the clock on the mantle, a lovely antique which, I remembered now, had showed five thirty-seven every time I’d glanced at it. ‘No,’ I said brandishing my empty wrist. I seldom wear a watch.
Alan opened his mouth to speak, but the tall clock in the hall, which does still keep time, forestalled him by chiming sonorously, and for what seemed like forever.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I suppose midnight is too late to call even a musician. Although I had an idea some of them kept very late hours indeed. Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, my love. If I were still an active policeman I might, with profuse apologies, bother the gentleman at this hour. As I can no longer claim police powers, and as we would like Mr Peterson’s cooperation, we’re going to have to leave it until morning.’
‘Besides,’ said Inga, yawning, ‘coffee or no coffee, I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, raising a hand to Alan so he could help me out of the sofa’s squashy embrace. ‘But the time is so short!’
‘Perhaps Pat will call before morning,’ said Nigel. ‘At least we’ll all be fresh by then. I can’t think any more.’
And when someone his age admits to weariness, the game is up.
We tidied up our coffee things and went up to bed.
TWENTY-ONE
The phone call, the one that woke us a little after six, was not from Pat.
‘Mr Nesbitt? John Warner here. Did I wake you?’
There is of course only one possible answer to that.
‘Good. I’m afraid it’s rather early, but I simply had to talk to you. I’m afraid my household is in rather a crisis.’
Alan was instantly wide awake. ‘Not the twins!’
At those ominous words I was wide awake, too.
‘No, no, at least, not in the way you mean. It’s . . . look, I know it’s a terrible imposition, but do you suppose you could drive over and have breakfa
st with us? There’s been . . . a development.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
I was up and struggling into my clothes before he signed off. ‘What?’ I asked, trying to remember where I’d put my cleanest pair of slacks.
‘I don’t know. That was Sir John. Something’s happened.’
‘I gathered. But the twins are all right?’
‘It sounded that way, though he was rather odd about it. Are you ready?’
There was a slight delay while we roused Mairi and Charles; we hated to do it, but the alarm system was armed, and we would have brought the police out had we opened the front door.
It was a lovely, fresh morning. The coots on the pond in front of the house were teaching their babies how to swim, and making a great fuss about it. Dew hung heavy on every rose, every oak leaf. I barely noticed, and Alan would have driven straight off without a glance if he had not had to wipe condensation off the windscreen.
There was another delay on the road while a herd of sheep, being transferred from one pasture to another, ambled along at their own leisurely pace and voiced their complaints about our presence. But it was, after all, not much more than twenty minutes before we rolled up to the entrance of Soughton Hall.
Sir John was waiting for us out on the gravel sweep. He looked as if he had slept even less than we had.
‘I do apologize, Mr Nesbitt, but I couldn’t think what to do. And I’m so glad you’re here, too, Mrs Martin. My wife is in something of a state, I’m afraid.’
‘Then suppose you tell us what’s happened, before we go in.’
‘We’ve had an anonymous letter. Our au pair found it when she came to see to the twins early this morning. She has left us in consequence.’
‘And it said?’
‘That I killed my wife; that I was a bigamist and the twins are bastards. That’s the expurgated version.’ He mopped his brow.
‘Good Lord! I can see why Lady Cynthia is upset,’ said Alan, shocked.
One of the reasons I love my husband so much is that, despite long years spent in law enforcement, having seen almost every evil that humans can perpetrate, he has never lost his compassion. He must, of course, keep a certain professional detachment, but he has never become calloused.
As for me, I was quite simply appalled. ‘Where is she?’ I asked Sir John.
‘Upstairs with the twins. I’ll take you through.’
Their room, large and luxurious, was at the moment in considerable disarray. The twins were huddled close to their mother on the big bed. All were still in their night clothes, and all were, or had been, crying.
‘Oh, dear, this won’t do at all, will it?’ I sailed in, my years as a schoolteacher coming to the fore. ‘Sir John, if you’ll look after these darling children, I think they need a bath before they get dressed. Lady Cynthia, let me make you some coffee before you do another thing. Or would you prefer tea?’
She whispered something so softly I ignored it and busied myself with the kettle, filling it, arranging teabags, milk, sugar, cups. I could have ordered tea from room service, of course, but I thought watching the homely activities of tea-making might soothe the poor woman a little. I kept up a stream of chatter while the water boiled.
‘My, this is a lovely hotel, or B & B, or whatever it is. Myself, I’d certainly call it a hotel, given the level of luxury. But of course it has the privacy of a B & B, almost the ambience of a private home. I’ve never visited Wales before, and I had no idea there were so many beautiful old manor houses in this part of the world. Do you know the history of this one?’
Obviously nothing could interest Lady Cynthia less at that moment, but she was a courteous woman. ‘I . . . I’m not sure. There’s a brochure somewhere.’ She looked vaguely around the room.
‘Goodness, never mind! The staff can undoubtedly tell me. Meanwhile, it’s a lovely place to stay, isn’t it?’ I cast about for some other innocuous remark. I couldn’t talk about the festival, or Sir John, or the twins, without precipitating more tears. ‘And I believe the weather’s unusually fine for this time of year, isn’t it? Though as I say, never having been here before, I’m really not a good judge, am I?’
I sounded like a bad imitation of a nattering old woman. I was even boring myself. However, Lady Cynthia was quieter.
‘I . . . it’s very kind of you to do this for me, but I’m fine, really.’
The crack in her voice brought my real personality back. ‘No, you’re not. You’re distraught, and have every right to be. You drink this right down, the moment it’s cool enough.’
I handed her the brimming cup. She took a tentative sip, made a face, and set it down, perilously, on the bed. ‘I don’t take sugar, thank you.’
‘You’re taking it now. Come sit over here at the desk.’ I rescued the cup and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Sugar’s good for shock, and you’ve had a bad shock.’
‘How did you know that?’ For the first time she seemed to focus on me.
‘Your husband phoned my husband this morning. He thought we might be able to help.’
‘I don’t think anyone can help.’ Another tear rolled down her cheek.
‘Now that’s just the shock talking. Of course they can help. We can help. For a start, I know what that letter said, and there’s not a word of truth in it.’
‘You don’t know . . .’
‘Yes, I do. I may know more about it than you do. I know you are Sir John’s lawful wife, and those two lovely children are perfectly legitimate, and Sir John had nothing whatever to do with that awful woman’s death.’
‘I knew, you see,’ she said, as if she hadn’t heard. ‘John tried to keep it from me, but I knew the moment I saw her. I’ve been so afraid . . .’
‘My dear, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re a strong woman, and that wonderful husband of yours thinks the sun rises and sets on you. Anyone can see that. So just you drink that tea before it gets any colder than it already is, and then get dressed and see what sort of hash the men are making of getting the children bathed and dressed. Though from the noise, I’d say the twins are having a good time in the bath.’
The splashes and shrieks coming from the bathroom next door sounded happy, if not necessarily productive of useful cleansing. Never mind. The object had been to cheer the children up. Further washing could follow when they felt secure again.
‘They are, aren’t they?’ A watery smile from Cynthia. ‘I’d better tidy myself a bit so I won’t terrify them again. I never meant to break down in front of them, but . . .’
‘Now don’t start again! You’ve got to think about young Snickelfritz there, for one thing.’ I pointed to her bulging belly. ‘We’re going to find out the truth, and the truth, as the old saying goes, will make you free. Off you go.’
I said a little prayer as she made her way to the bathroom that I could make good on that promise.
That was when my phone rang.
I didn’t know that was what it was, at first. I so seldom use the thing that I don’t even recognize the jangly noise it makes, to me utterly unlike the way a phone should sound. Then when I did realize what it was I had to find the thing, and by the time I did, it had stopped. But I did remember how to make it call the last number that had called it. I pushed the appropriate buttons and waited, quite literally with bated breath.
‘Hello? Is this Mrs Martin?’
‘It is. And am I speaking to Pat – I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten the last name?’
‘Stevens. Pat Stevens. I’m sorry it’s so early, but I’m going out soon, and your husband did say that it – it was your husband who called, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, and you can’t imagine how glad I am to hear your voice. We’ve been really, really worried about you ever since you disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Well, we couldn’t reach you, and your phone wasn’t taking messages, and then it wasn’t working at all, and we were afraid something had happened to you. We knew you
were . . . well, pretty upset about Dan’s death, and . . .’
‘I’d forgotten to charge the phone. Did you say you had something to do with the festival?’
‘Only that we’ve come to hear the concerts, and one of the soloists, Nigel Evans, is a great friend. So, tell me, Pat, where are you? We thought you might have gone back home to Manchester.’
‘No. There’s nothing for me there any more, now that Dan . . .’
‘What about your home? Your job? Your family and friends?’
‘It’s only a small flat, and a nothing job. I can find another easily enough. Daniel was my only friend there. I’m from the West Country, you see, and I hope I can find something here.’
‘Where are you now, then? And are you really all right?’
‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go. I’m meeting someone in a few minutes. And I don’t know you, and I don’t know what business it is of yours where I am and what I’m doing. I’m fine, I tell you, with a friend to look after me. Thank you for your concern, but you can tell everyone not to worry about me. Goodbye.’
‘No, don’t hang up!’ But it was too late. She was gone. And far from being reassured, I was more worried about her than ever. There had been a note of near-hysteria in her voice.
The splashing sounds next door had ceased, and two small naked bodies burst into their parents’ bedroom, chasing and squealing. They stopped abruptly at the sight of a stranger instead of their mother.
‘Well, don’t you two look lovely and clean!’ I said warmly.
The little girl stuck a thumb in her mouth and stared at me. ‘Mummy?’ she said doubtfully.
‘Your mummy is getting all nice and clean, too. Shall we go and find some clothes for you to put on?’
‘No,’ said the boy firmly.
‘There’s my naughty Tom kitten,’ said his father, snatching him up under one arm. ‘And you, too, Thomasina.’
‘That’s not my name, Daddy,’ said the girl, giggling.
‘No? Well, we’ll go in and get you dressed, and both of you can tell me what your names are.’
Murder at the Castle Page 17