The Wrong Rite

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Tib came in about then, to Janet’s relief, smelling like a horse but clean enough as to hands and face; she must have washed under the stable pump. Lisa got the leek pie out of the warming oven, Tib cut the loaf, Dafydd set the salad where everybody could get at it. This was the way things happened back at the farm, or at Janet’s own table when she wasn’t having to put on the dog for some big bug from Ottawa. Too bad Madoc and Dorothy couldn’t be here; this was the coziest meal she’d sat down to so far in Wales. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the others, but it was pleasant to be with a few instead of a multitude for a change.

  Dafydd cut and served the leek pie with careful impartiality. Its undercrust had got a trifle soggy by now, as undercrusts will. Lisa apologized, but Janet said the pie tasted fine anyway and anybody who objected to soggy undercrust didn’t have to eat it; so everybody did and liked it fine. Dafydd and Tib both had seconds, leaving none for Tom assuming he showed up.

  “Let him stop at the pub and spend his own money for a change,” Dafydd said callously, scooping out the last of the salad and putting it on Lisa’s plate. “Want to go out somewhere again tonight, just us? And Madoc and Jenny, if they’d like to come? You can park the kid with Mother, can’t you, Jenny?”

  “It would be fun, Dafydd, but I don’t know. They’ve had her all day, and there’s no telling when Madoc will be free. That idiot of a chief constable isn’t lifting a finger. Constable Cyril seems to be a good man and nobody’s fool, but I don’t suppose he’s ever had to cope with anything worse than dogs killing sheep, which of course is bad enough. Let’s talk about something else for a change. How did you get started on tortoises, Lisa? And when are you going to show me some of your books? I’ve never seen one.”

  “Show her Tessie Goes to the Opera,” Dafydd coaxed. “No, Lisa; sit still, I’ll get it.

  “I was technical editor on that one,” he explained when he came back with the book; he made sure Janet noticed the dedication. To Dafydd, with thanks. Very nice.

  The drawings were adorable. Tessie the Tortoise made a smashing Brunhilde, though Janet herself inclined more toward Wild-West Tessie, in which the hard-shelled heroine became a deputy sheriff and rounded up a bloodthirsty gang of corn-rustling weasels on her trusty tricycle. They’d finished their strawberries and cream and were sitting around the table, drinking their tea and thinking up insane new adventures for Tessie and her klutzy boyfriend, when Tom burst in, footsore and furious.

  “Lisa! What the hell’s got into you, telling Billy not to work on my car?”

  Lisa had no doubt expected the onslaught; she was perfectly calm. “I didn’t tell Billy not to work on your car. I merely told him not to charge the work to me.”

  “Why not, for God’s sake? He always has before.”

  “I’m all too well aware of that, Tom. And you’ve always told me you’d settle with me later.”

  “And I always have, haven’t I?”

  “No, Tom, you have not. Never. Not once. No more than you’ve ever paid back one penny of all the hundreds and hundreds of pounds you’ve been wheedling out of me on one pretext or another since Arthur died. I’ve let you get away with far too much because I hate it when you go into one of your tantrums, as you well know. But what I hate worse is pouring good money into leaky barrels, and that’s what you are, Tom. You think you can throw it away on any bit of nonsense that takes your fancy, and little stepsister will be fool enough to give you some more; but I’m finished, Tom. You’ve tried me once too often. Feel free to make a scene if you like, it won’t bother me a bit. Jenny, you won’t mind if Tom has a tantrum, will you?”

  “Not at all. Canadians tend to be on the reserved side, generally speaking, so I don’t get to hear much really inspired cussing and yelling. This is going to be a real treat.”

  Janet touched her napkin to her lips, laid it decorously beside her plate, and sat up straight with her hands folded in her lap, like a good little girl at a Sunday School concert. “Go ahead, Tom. Let ‘er rip.”

  “Let what rip?” The voice, and the body that followed it, were Iseult’s. “May I join the party? I’ve been wondering where everyone had got to.”

  “Sit down, Iseult,” said Dafydd. “You’re interrupting Tom’s tantrum.”

  “Oh, is he having one? What’s it about this time?”

  “He’s upset about his car,” Lisa told her somewhat curtly. “There’s nothing left to eat but bread and butter. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Never mind the refreshments, let’s get on with the show. What’s wrong with the Daimler, Tom?”

  “You wouldn’t be interested,” he snarled.

  “Nonsense, I’m passionately interested. I was hoping to cadge a ride.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, then. It’s down at Billy the Grease with its brakes hanging loose.”

  “Oh, bother! Can’t Billy tighten them?”

  “That was the objective one had in mind. Unfortunately my helpful stepsister has put him off doing the work.”

  “But it’s your car. How could she?”

  “Quite simply,” snapped Lisa, “by telling Billy I’m not going to pay the bill. If Tom wants his precious car fixed, he’ll have to bite the bullet and spend his own money for a change. Go ahead, Tom. Let ‘er rip.”

  “Lisa, don’t be such a beast. Quit baiting the poor fellow.” Iseult wasn’t about to give up her outing that easily. “We could pass round the hat, I suppose. On the other hand, you’re not going anywhere, are you? You never do. You might be kind enough to lend us your car.”

  “She’s not going to lend anything,” said Dafydd. “Drop it, Iseult.”

  “Well, get you! When did you begin singing Parsifal, Dafydd? One’s always thought Don Giovanni was more your thing.”

  “Very funny, Iseult. In point of fact, Don Giovanni’s not a tenor role. Reports of my alleged gallantries have been grossly overstated. Moreover, I’m fully aware which two of my so-called friends have generated most of the overstating. Don’t you two think your little joke is wearing a trifle thin?”

  “No, indeed, we don’t think so at all. Do we, Tom?”

  “Far from it.” Tom was grinning now like the wolf in Grandma’s bed. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. Let’s talk to Reuel, Iseult; we might get him to write a nice, steamy roman à clef with a handsome Welsh opera star for its key figure. He can have a little list, like the Don.” Tom began to sing, wretchedly off-key, with operatic flourishes. “‘In Italia seicento e quaranta, in Alemagna duecento e trent’una, Cento in Francia, in Turchia novant’una, Ma, in Ispagna son già mille e tre!’ And that doesn’t count the—”

  “Oh, stop it!” cried Lisa. “Go take a walk or something, I don’t want to see you around here. And you needn’t come back to supper, because there’s not going to be any.”

  “Yes, stepsister dear. I shall expect to find my jammies and teddy bear out on the front steps when I return. Or shall I take them with me now?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Janet would have been all for getting rid of Tom too, but she thought she’d better intervene. “Just don’t leave the village, Tom.”

  Naturally Tom put the wrong twist on her words. “Jenny darling, can’t you bear to part with me? I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I don’t, but the chief constable does, or darned well ought to. The cause of Mary’s death hasn’t yet been established. Until it is, we’re all having to be detained as possible suspects.”

  “My God! Jenny, you’re not serious?”

  “I don’t tell bad jokes about murder, Tom. If you don’t believe me, ask Madoc.”

  Oh good Lord, what had she done? Lisa’s face was white as chalk. Dafydd snatched her close to him, he was glaring at Janet as if he’d like to commit murder himself.

  “Damn you, Jenny! Can’t you shut up? Lisa, Lisa darling, it’s all right. She didn’t mean—”

  To sink through the floor would hardly be practical. What could Janet do but apologize? “Lisa, I�
�m sorry. I should have known better.”

  “It’s all right, Jenny.” Lisa was pressing herself against Dafydd’s chest, wedging her head under his chin, grasping his wrists, making sure he wouldn’t let go of her. “You weren’t here when Arthur was killed, you can’t know what it was like. The worst of it was we never found out who did it. The French police are still convinced I hired an assassin. Jenny, we’ve got to find out this time, no matter what happens. Get Madoc. I have to make him understand. Now, Jenny. Please!”

  “Of course, Lisa. I’ll be back as soon as I find him.”

  Janet walked fast. It would have been quicker to telephone the manor, but she needed a chance to talk with him before he had to face his brother. What in God’s name was she to say?

  What could she say? Tell the truth and shame the devil, what else was there? She wouldn’t have to mention what conclusions a person might draw. Madoc would be a jump ahead of her, he was too much a professional to shut his ears to what he’d rather not hear.

  He must have spied her through one of the bedroom windows, he was swarming down the ivy. She stopped halfway up the drive and waited for him.

  “Jenny, what’s up? I thought you were lunching at Lisa’s.”

  “She sent me to get you and I think you’d better come. Madoc, we have to talk.”

  “If you say so, love. What about?”

  She swallowed. “It’s about Dafydd. Remember I told you he’d been in Marseilles on the night Arthur Ellis was murdered?”

  “Yes, and so what? Arthur was robbed, as I understand it. Jenny, you don’t think Dafydd would kill somebody just to get his hands on a few bits of colored stone?”

  How can you tell what he wouldn’t do? Janet thought. You’ve said yourself you don’t even know him. All she could say was, “It wouldn’t have been about colored stones.”

  “What, then?”

  “Lisa. He’s in love with her.”

  Madoc actually laughed. “My brother? With Lisa? Little brown Lisa with her head tucked underneath her shell? Jenny, are you serious?”

  “I’m not one to tell sick jokes, Madoc, you ought to know that. It sticks out a mile, and it’s not something that’s happened all of a sudden. He was showing me one of her Tessie books, that he’d helped her write. It was dedicated to him, and copyrighted nine years ago. I know because I looked.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean—but then why hasn’t he—oh hell!”

  “My feelings exactly. I grant you it doesn’t sound very plausible, considering Dafydd’s reputation, but don’t you think it might explain why he’s been acting so strangely ever since we got here? Either he’s eaten up with remorse over having murdered her husband and hasn’t been able to bring himself to cash in on his perfidy, which would be a fine operatic reason why he hasn’t popped the question, or—” Janet shrugged. “Or else he fell in love with her by accident and can’t bear the thought of settling down into a faithful husband instead of a round-the-world Romeo. That’s the best I can do, Madoc. Take your pick or think up a better one.”

  “The second, for choice. But it needn’t be Dafydd, Jenny. We do know from what Dai told us that Mary’s death may well have something to do with what happened to Lisa’s husband. How did this get started anyway?

  “She had a fight with Tom. Evidently he’s been hitting her up for money ever since Arthur died, and never paying it back. This morning he’d taken his car to Billy’s garage—I suppose you know where that is.”

  “Just beyond the village. What’s the matter with it? It seemed to be running fine the other day.”

  “Don’t ask me. Anyway, when I got there, Lisa was on the phone telling Billy not to let Tom charge the work to her account, as he’d always been in the habit of doing. A while later, Tom came storming into the house, mad as a wet hornet. He started to bully her and she told him where to get off—Dafydd had given her a pep talk about standing up for her rights. So they all three got into a hair-tangle, and Tom decided to pack up and leave. I thought I’d better tell him he couldn’t go far because we’re all caught up in a murder investigation, and Lisa flipped. That’s when she begged me to get you over there.”

  “Do you think Lisa knows what Mary’d been up to?”

  “The blackmailing? She didn’t say so, but she did say there’d been bad blood between Mary and Arthur for years. She may think there’s a connection between the two murders, or it may simply be that she can’t bear the thought of another one going unsolved after all she’s gone through since the first one. Whatever it is, she’s horribly upset and I do wish you’d come with me right this second.”

  “Of course, love. Hop aboard.”

  Janet had been too agitated to notice the bicycle Cyril Rhys had left standing at the foot of the drive, no doubt to save himself the labor of pedaling up. Madoc hoisted her up on the seat, swung his leg over the crossbar, and started to pedal for all he was worth.

  This wasn’t the pleasantest ride Janet had ever experienced; she clutched desperately at Madoc’s belt, struggling to keep her behind on the saddle and her feet out of the spokes. She was no end relieved to find herself still in one piece when Madoc pulled up at Lisa’s side door. Tib ran to meet them, with a tortoise in each hand.

  “Aunt Jenny, I’m so glad you’ve come back! Mother’s dreadfully upset. I thought I’d better take Tessie and Jonathan in to cheer her up.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “Iseult and Uncle Tom have gone off to the pub. Uncle Dafydd’s with Mother. He just keeps hugging her and patting her back and saying it’s all right, when anyone with half an eye can see it’s not. Men are so helpless, don’t you think. Aunt Jenny? Oh, Uncle Madoc, I’m sorry. That wasn’t awfully tactful of me was it? Now that you’re here, shall I take the tortoises back to the garden?”

  “I think we can manage without them,” Madoc assured her. “And would you mind doing me a very big favor? You see, I’ve borrowed the constable’s bike, and I’m afraid I didn’t stop to ask his permission. Could you possibly sneak it back to Uncle Caradoc’s and park it down by the gate before he finds out it’s gone and comes to pinch me?”

  Tib grinned. “You’re making me an accessory after the fact, you know.”

  “If I get you in trouble, I’ll bail you out. Scout’s honor. Oh, and you might find my parents and tell them where we’ve gone. Tell them I said you could hold Dorothy.”

  “Good show!”

  She ran back down the garden path, waving goodbye with Tessie or Jonathan, as the case might have been. Madoc said, “Nice kid,” and held the door for Janet.

  Lisa was sitting in one of the yellow-painted chairs. Dafydd had pulled another chair close to hers, he was holding a tot glass to her lips.

  “Come on, love, take a sip. That’s my girl, now another.”

  Lisa obeyed, then turned her head away. “Ugh! Hateful stuff. No more, please, Dafydd, I’d be sick. You finish it for me. Jenny, is there any tea left in the pot?”

  Trust a man not to think of the obvious. Janet lifted the lid. Down to the tea leaves, but the kettle was simmering on the Aga. She did what she could.

  “There you are, Lisa, a bit weak but better than nothing. I’m putting in extra sugar, you need it. Dafydd, you’d better steady the cup for her.”

  Might as well give him a legitimate excuse to keep his arm around her, poor devil. Janet felt sick herself. God alone knew what Madoc must be feeling. His own brother, what a mess!

  At least a little color was creeping into Lisa’s face. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, you people must think I’ve gone batty. I’d thought I was over that ghastly time about Arthur, but—” She’d begun to shake again. “Oh God, is it never going to be over?”

  Chapter 20

  JANET GRABBED FOR THE teacup. Lisa’s face was wholly buried in Dafydd’s pullover, she was sobbing without any attempt at restraint. Dafydd had both arms tight around her, rocking her back and forth like a father with a colicky child. It was agony to watch, Janet tu
rned her head away. Madoc was the only one of the four who stayed calm.

  “Lisa, you sent Janet for me because you wanted to tell me something. What is it you want to say?”

  “For God’s sake, Madoc!” Dafydd was furious, mainly at his own helplessness, as was only natural. “Let her alone, can’t you?”

  “No, Dafydd.” Lisa was making a truly heroic effort to pull herself together, struggling loose enough from Dafydd’s grasp to grope a yellow napkin off the so prettily laid table, mopping at her wet, swollen face. “We have to tell him. We can’t go on the way we’ve been, just never—I can’t stand it! Madoc, why was Mary killed last night?”

  “I don’t yet know, Lisa. I think it’s very doubtful that she committed suicide. If you’re asking whether her death might have had something to do with your husband’s, it’s quite possible the answer may turn out to be yes. Dafydd, you and I need to talk, we may as well get on with it. Could we go somewhere by ourselves?”

  “No!” Lisa took a firmer grip on the much-tried pullover. “Whatever it is, I have to know. More likely than not, I already do know. Go ahead, Dafydd, tell him.”

  “Yes, Lisa.”

  Dafydd was looking at Madoc as though he’d never really seen him before. This was no younger brother. This was a man used to authority, somebody in charge, somebody competent, God willing, to do what must be done. “What do you want of me, Madoc?”

  “First, I need to know whether you’ve paid any blackmail during the past eight years.”

  “What? My God, that’s one I didn’t expect. No, of course I haven’t. I’ve never in my life paid one pennyworth of blackmail to anybody, for any reason. Nor have I ever been approached to do so. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, Dafydd, quite satisfactorily. Thank you.”

  “But why did you ask?” Lisa demanded. “Had it something to do with Arthur?”

  “There’s reason to believe it has a great deal to do with Arthur. According to information received a short while ago”—since he’d been shoved into performing as a policeman, Madoc decided he might as well talk like one—“about six months after Arthur Ellis was found dead, Mary Rhys began receiving substantial sums of money on a fairly regular basis, which she gave her brother to understand were some sort of annuity. Were you aware of that, Lisa?”