“You’re quite sure she was in fact getting the money?” Madoc asked gently.
“Oh yes, I know she was.” Dai flushed again. “I happened to see her bankbooks one day last week. She’d left her handbag on the workbench while she went out to the back to do something, and I—I suppose it wasn’t the sort of thing good lads do, but there it was, and I thought I might as well have a look. She’d been so strange, you know; I was sure she must be up to something. Anyway, the books showed over a hundred thousand pounds on deposit, and she’d just that morning put in another five hundred.”
Sir Caradoc grasped at the only straw he could think of. “But could this money not have come from her gem-cutting?”
“No, sir, not possibly. Uncle Bob has all the payments sent directly to him. He handles the bookkeeping and banking, and pays the bills. Aunt Mary didn’t get to touch a penny except when she went abroad. He never wanted her to have any, he said she’d only spend it. She had to have some cash when she went on business trips, but he’d make her keep count of what she spent so he could take it off the taxes. He wouldn’t even let Aunt Mary buy so much as a pair of slippers by herself; he’d go with her to the shop and raise a stink if she didn’t like what he picked out. At least he used to, till she started getting that annuity.”
Now that he’d got used to being the center of attention, Dai was becoming quite the raconteur. “I’ve thought right along there must be something awfully fishy about that. Why would anybody in his right mind want to play Father Christmas to a nasty old witch like her?”
“It was shortly after Mr. Arthur Ellis died that the checks began coming, right?” said Madoc. “You’d have been how old then? About eleven?”
“Yes, that’s right. I hardly knew Mr. Arthur. He never came to the house, only to the shop, and I wasn’t there much then, except on weekends to sweep out and tidy around. Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob talked about him a lot, though—they made him sound like Count Dracula. After he died, they really ripped him to pieces. They claimed he’d been killed in a—a place where there are girls who—”
Dai glanced at Sir Caradoc and left off trying to think of a euphemism. “Uncle Bob was livid, not because somebody murdered Mr. Arthur, but because the gossip about how he died might reflect badly on the business. Aunt Mary didn’t say much at the time. She’d just sit there with a revolting smirk on her face, as if she knew something he didn’t and wasn’t going to tell.”
“What did your uncle say to that?”
“I don’t think he ever noticed, till the checks began coming and she told him about her so-called annuity. Then he went straight through the roof. He kept yelling, ‘Where are you getting that money?,’ and she’d just say ‘Through Arthur.’ So he charged off to that place where you look up people’s wills and came back and called her a liar because Mr. Arthur hadn’t left her a penny. I thought he was going to strike Aunt Mary that time, but she wasn’t a bit frightened. She just smiled the way she’d do when she was telling me how stupid I was, and told him that if he ever expected to get anything out of her again, he’d better shut up and quit his bullying. She told him flat out, ‘I’ve got the upper hand now, brother dear. If you don’t like it, I’ll just nip off by myself where you can’t find me, and you may sit here alone and starve to death.’”
“Do you think she really meant it?” said Janet.
“Oh yes.” Dai was grinning now. “After that, every time Uncle Bob tried to bring up the subject, Aunt Mary would simply pretend she didn’t hear. One morning at breakfast, she got him so furious that he threatened to put a curse on her.”
“That is terrible!” cried Constable Cyril. “To lay a curse is the height of impiety.”
“Oh, Aunt Mary didn’t bat an eyelid. She just gave him another of those forbearing smiles and said, ‘But, brother dear, you’ve taught me how to turn a curse back on the curser, don’t you remember? You have always been so ready to instruct your dim little sister, and I have always been so dutiful a pupil. Do go ahead with your curse. I’m itching to practice my lesson.’ Uncle Bob was in such a rage he couldn’t even talk. He sat there all swelled up and purple in the face, gobbling like a turkey. That was the only meal in their house I’ve ever enjoyed.”
Madoc’s lips twitched, partly in sympathy, partly in amusement. “Getting back to the emerald, Dai, what do you suppose your aunt might have done with it? It wasn’t found last night when her room was searched.”
“She wouldn’t have put it there, she’d know Uncle Bob would come snooping. Why not in her handbag? That’s where she kept the bankbooks.”
“That’s a thought, certainly. But it didn’t turn up in the bonfire ashes, I sifted them myself. Jenny, do you recall whether Mary had a handbag with her yesterday?”
“Yes, she did, a soft black leather pouch that she’d strung on her belt like an old-fashioned reticule. But I’m quite sure she wasn’t wearing it when she and Bob were doing their dance in the chapel. Because there were coins inside, I suppose, and metal on the belt buckle. That was one of Bob’s taboos, remember? He may have made her take it off. And I don’t recall her having put it back on when she leaped the fire.”
“Aunt Mary wouldn’t just have left it lying around, though,” Dai insisted. “She’d have hidden it away where Uncle Bob wouldn’t find it.”
“Or anybody else, if that great chunk of emerald was inside,” Madoc agreed. “Right, then, we’d better organize a hunt. Cyril, that’s a job for you. And a nasty one, I’m afraid, Mary was all over the lot yesterday. She could have stuffed it down a rabbit hole or high up in the chapel, there’s no telling. Dai, you’d better go with him and find that ladder of hers, you may want it to climb on. Just don’t break your neck. You might recruit some of Owain’s lot to help, else you’ll never get through.”
“Will we also be asking the grown-ups to join in the searching?” asked Cyril.
“Not yet, I need to talk to them. Particularly Uncle Huw. He’d better know what’s going on.”
There was also the open question of the ram. Huw wouldn’t be able to keep the lid on much longer, not if Scotland Yard had to become involved, and what would be the point? That crude slaughter seemed a paltry affair now, in view of the greater horror. Unless it had, as Madoc suspected, been the first act of some quasi-operatic tragedy, and Mary’s bizarre death perhaps only the second.
This was no time to sit spinning fantasies. He stood up. “We’ll have to search this house more thoroughly too, Uncle Caradoc.”
Sir Caradoc gathered his bones together and rose also. “Whatever may be necessary must be done. What happened last night has made it impossible for us to be nice about observing the usual courtesies. Come, Madoc, you and I will go together to the farmhouse. Dai lad, you have had nothing to eat but a few cakes. You must stop in the kitchen before you go hunting and ask Betty for some proper food to sustain you. Cyril Rhys, we are grateful for your concern and your diligence on behalf of this grievously troubled family.”
The constable stood smartly to attention. “Sir Caradoc, sir, it is an honor and a privilege to be serving you. Mr. Dai Rhys and I shall be procuring from Betty some bread and cheese to be eating whilst we search, and we shall be going directly to the chapel lest some unauthorized busybody will have been finding Miss Mary Rhys’s handbag before we are getting there.”
It needed only a flourish of bugles. Helmet straight, buttons all ashine, the doughty Cyril marched firmly kitchenward. The weedy Dai followed a respectful pace or two behind, as purposefully as he could manage in his scruffy jeans and wilted shirt. Sir Caradoc and Madoc went off together. Left alone, Janet decided she’d better find out what the grandparents had done with her child.
Dai and the constable were already shutting the door behind them, each carrying a great wedge of bread and cheese. Iseult was sitting alone at the long table. The older woman, and Iseult was certainly that, had a cup of tea in front of her but wasn’t doing much about it. Catching sight of Janet, she shrugged and tried to work up a smil
e.
“No room service at this hotel. Don’t look at me, I haven’t put my face on yet.”
Iseult hadn’t put on much of anything else, if it came to that, just a slinky green wrapper over a nightgown that seemed to be, what Janet could see of it, hardly more than a figment of the imagination. It stood to reason she’d be wearing green satin mules with marabou trimming. Janet peeked under the table on the flimsy pretext of looking for Bartholomew, and she was. The shape those leg veins were in, the silly woman ought to have had on flat heels and support stockings.
This must be why Iseult was so partial to floor-length skirts and floppy-legged pants. Forty if she was a day, and maybe a few years more. Janet began to feel sympathy; at least the old trouper was putting up a good battle, even though she looked right now as though she knew she’d already lost the war.
Betty, true to form, was waving the teapot and suggesting a little something to stay Mrs. Madoc’s stomach until lunchtime. Janet shrugged.
“Why not? I’ll sit here if it’s all right with you, Iseult. What’s happened to Dorothy? Do you know, Betty?”
“Ach, the little love will be up at the farm with Lady Rhys and Sir Emlyn. It was Tib’s pram they were pushing her in, with her sitting up in her pretty bonnet like a daisy in the sun, God bless her. Is it a new-laid egg I could be poaching for you to eat, Mrs. Madoc?”
“Thanks, but one breakfast a morning’s about all I can manage. I might just cut myself a sliver of your wonderful bread, though. Go ahead with whatever you’re doing, Betty, I’m not that helpless. What’s on your agenda for today, Iseult?”
“Good question. Things don’t seem to be exactly bright and peppy around here this morning, do they? I suppose one could hardly expect fun and games after last night’s horror show. I was rather hoping I might persuade Tom and Dafydd to drive me somewhere away from the smell of toasted Rhys. Have you seen them around?”
“No, nor Reuel either.” It occurred to Janet that she hadn’t reminded Madoc of that remark Mary had made about the scriptwriter’s having profited from her program on gem-cutting. Had Mary simply been angling for more attention, or had the remark carried a double meaning? No matter. Madoc would have remembered; he always did. “Is he still asleep?” she added in all innocence.
Iseult took umbrage. “I wouldn’t know, contrary to what everybody’s no doubt been assuming. Reuel came with me for two reasons: one, that I needed a lift and he has a car; two, that he’s supposed to be gathering local color with which to write me a script, and it had jolly well be a better one than last time, or I shall be in the market for a new writer. I’ll have a slice of that bread if I may, since you seem to know how to cut it and I don’t. What do you do besides mothering, Jenny?”
Janet didn’t suppose Iseult actually gave a hoot, but a civil question deserved a civil answer. “I housewife. Shop, cook, bake, sew, paint furniture, hang wallpaper, chase down the odd antique. You know.”
“No, I don’t, thank God. Is that all?”
“Oh no, we do a lot of entertaining, what with family and neighbors and unexpected company Madoc’s always dragging home at odd hours. Fredericton’s a university city as well as our provincial capitol, so there’s always something to go to: concerts, art shows, plays, and whatnot. On weekends we often drive over to my brother’s farm, sometimes we fly to Toronto or wherever one of Madoc’s family happens to be performing. This is our second trip to Wales since we’ve been married, I expect we’ll come again before too long. This must sound awfully dull to a famous film star.”
“Huh.” Iseult slapped butter on her bread with a to-hell-with-the-calories air. “Do you know what film stars spend most of our time doing? We sit. That’s how glamorous filmmaking is, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. One sits until one’s bloody ass of a director makes up his mind what he wants one to do next, which may take days. Then one sits some more while the camera crew try to get the right angle and the electricians fiddle around with the lights. Then one gets up and goes through some stupid piece of business and speaks one’s silly lines. Then one does the same thing over again, and again, and again till one’s ready to scream; all because some idiotic bit player doesn’t know how to get through a door without falling over his feet. At last everything goes like a bomb, and that’s when the props girl happens to notice that somebody’s pushed a flowerpot two inches out of line, so it’s all to be gone through yet again. And there’s dull little housewife you, giving parties and buying antiques and flying around to concerts. Do you have servants?”
“Not to say servants. We have a woman who comes in to clean two or three times a week and helps out if we’re having a formal dinner or something, which we don’t very often. And a man who cuts the grass in the summer and shovels us out in the winter, and a neighbor who waters the plants and feeds the cat and takes in the mail while we’re away. We haven’t found a baby-sitter yet because we’ve either stayed home ourselves or taken Dorothy with us; but I expect we’ll be coming to that sooner or later. What about you, Iseult? Where do you live?”
“In London, like everyone else. In a rather pleasant flat, with a daily to clean and plenty of restaurants nearby. One doesn’t go in for cozy home cooking, I’m afraid.”
One might look a few shades less godawful without one’s makeup if one did try to get some honest plain grub under one’s belt now and then. Janet didn’t suppose Iseult wanted to be told so, nor did she want to break up this tête-à-tête just yet. She wasn’t a gushy person, but this was a case where a spot of gush might be in order.
“Eating out all the time, I suppose you always have people rushing up to your table begging for autographs. That must be a thrill.”
Iseult shrugged. “It’s a nuisance, actually. They want to stand and chat, and one’s food gets cold. Fortunately the celebrity game is played much less seriously over here than in America. One doesn’t think of oneself as a star, you know; one’s simply an actress. One wouldn’t turn down a good supporting role merely because one’s accustomed to playing leads. That’s why one’s always in work, both here and abroad.”
“Do you mean in other European countries, like France and Italy?”
“Oh yes. And Spain, Morocco—one manages to get around a fair amount. One even squeezes in a bit of fun here and there.”
“I should hope so. What’s your favorite city?”
“Rome, I suppose. The Italians are always so appreciative. Paris can be amusing, and Cannes. I do like Cannes.”
“That’s down near Marseilles, isn’t it? I read somewhere that if you were to sit at an outdoor café on the Cannebière long enough, you’d see everybody you’ve ever known walk by. Have you ever tried?”
Iseult lifted one finger, signaling for Janet to hold on till she’d taken a sip of her tea; it must be stone-cold by now.
“Oddly enough, Marseilles is one place I’ve never been. Now I must dash upstairs and pull myself together. You’ll be around, I suppose?”
“As far as I know. What I’m planning to do right now is track down my child. If I see Dafydd or Tom, I’ll tell them you’ll be down and not to go off without you.”
“Lovely. Pip-pip.”
So they really did say “Pip-pip.” Or was that just a line from one of Reuel’s scripts? Janet carried the empty cups over to the sink and left them for someone else to wash. It went against the grain, but she knew Betty’d have a conniption if Mrs. Madoc were caught rinsing them out herself. She was halfway to the farmhouse when she heard hooves clattering on the path behind her. She moved out of the way, but the rider pulled up beside her.
“Aunt Jenny?”
Janet wasn’t anybody’s aunt over here that she knew of, but it was polite of Lisa’s daughter to grant her the title. “Hello, Tib. What’s doing?”
“Mother sent me to tell you she’s found a leek pie that didn’t get cut, and would you and Uncle Madoc come to luncheon? Please say yes, I’m afraid Mother’s about to pull in her neck. She’s dreadfully shaken up about Miss
Mary. Not that she liked her much because how could one? But it was a shock, you know, and Mother doesn’t handle shocks very well. On account of Daddy, I expect. It’s not something we talk about, you understand, but there it is. Anyway, do please say you will. And may I get to hold Dorothy?”
“Thank you, Tib, I’d love to come.” Here at least was a way she might be helpful. “I can’t answer for Madoc; he’s busy with Uncle Caradoc. As for Dorothy, it’s a question of whether I can pry her away from her grandparents. What time would your mother want us?”
“Whenever you’d like to come. One thing about Mother, she’s flexible.”
“Then would you tell her please that I’ll be along in a little while, with or without Madoc and Dorothy, as the case may be? I’m afraid that’s the best I can do right now.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Mother won’t care so much about Uncle Madoc, she gets a bit sick of men when Uncle Tom’s around. But she thinks you’re lovely.”
Tib wheeled her pretty mare and trotted off. Janet stood looking after her for a few seconds, then went on up to the farm. Her parents-in-law were exactly where she’d expected they’d be; sitting at the kitchen table with Elen and Mavis, drinking tea and hashing over the party, trying to avoid mentioning what had happened at the end. Dorothy was on the floor, having a serious conversation with a handsome ginger cat. Fortunately she was encountering no dearth of feline companionship in Wales so far.
Elen’s hand automatically went out to the teapot. “There you are, Jenny. We were just talking about you. Sit down, I’ll pour you a cup.”
“No, really, Aunt Elen. I’ve just had a second breakfast with Iseult and Lisa wants me over there for luncheon. She’s found a stray leek pie that needs to be eaten up and Tib wants a turn at holding Dorothy.”
“Well, she can’t have her.” Sir Emlyn was growing positively belligerent over his grandchild. “Dorothy’s planning to take a nap with her grandmother and me, if this Mad Hatter’s tea party ever finishes. What’s Madoc up to?”
The Wrong Rite Page 17