by Amy M. Reade
As I reached for the giant handle on the castle’s front door, I was startled when the door swung open. Stepping backward, I almost stumbled on the top stone step. Rhisiart stood in the doorway, looking concerned.
“Eilidh! You startled me. Are you all right?” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “You didn’t hurt me—just scared me.”
“Sorry about that,” he said, opening the door wider so I could step into the great hall. “Where are you coming from?”
“The coach house. I feel bad that Sylvie is here on holiday and I haven’t really been able to spend much time with her, so I’ve tried to go over there in the evenings and chat.”
“I’m headed out to the pub in the village. There wasn’t nearly enough food for dinner and I’m ravenous. Care to join me?” he asked.
“Have you looked in the kitchen downstairs?”
He shook his head. “The only thing that will satisfy me right now is a shepherd’s pie. I hope the pub’s serving food this late.”
“I’m sure you can get something there, even if it’s not shepherd’s pie,” I said.
“Are you coming?” he asked with a hint of impatience.
“All right. I’ll go.” I was feeling a bit peckish, too, and the wine would keep me up all night if I didn’t have food in my stomach to counteract its effects.
We went around to the parking enclosure and got in his little runabout. He drove fast, like someone from the city who didn’t get to the countryside very often. We were in the village in no time, and pulled into a spot across the road from the pub. There were still a number of cars parked outside, so I knew it would be crowded.
We found two spots at the bar and ordered food and two pints. He got his shepherd’s pie and I ordered a Thai green vegetable curry. Once we had ordered, Rhisiart leaned back on his stool and gazed around the room, taking it all in slowly. “Sometimes I miss being in a little village,” he said wistfully.
“It’s funny how people sometimes long for the things they don’t have. I think it would be thrilling to live in London.”
“It can be thrilling, but there’s just something about a Welsh village that brings back fond memories and makes me feel nostalgic,” he said.
I nodded, but wondered how he could feel nostalgic in the village where his brother was murdered. He must have sensed what I was thinking, because he gave a slight smile. “I guess I should rephrase that. I generally feel nostalgic. Maybe not so much at the moment, knowing how Andreas died.”
“What do you think happened?” I blurted out. I hadn’t meant to ask him, but the wine and a few sips of beer had loosened my tongue. He looked surprised.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Andreas in a long time. I hate to say it, but I really didn’t know him very well. I don’t know if it was a random act of violence or if he was deliberately targeted.”
“How are you going to write his obituary if you didn’t know him?”
“I’m a writer. That’s what I do. I’ll write something that’s appropriately mournful and respectful. Don’t worry. It’ll sound fine.”
Through the fog in my mind it took me a moment to understand what he was saying. It seemed callous. Coming from a close-knit family, I found it unfathomable that one sibling wouldn’t know another well enough to compose a thoughtful, heartfelt tribute. But my family was nothing like Annabel’s—that much I already knew.
I had heard rumblings of the problems in Annabel’s household when the boys were young, when Annabel was married to her first husband, who died under unusual circumstances many years ago. They were usually in the form of sotto voce conversations between my Aunt Margot and her late husband, my Uncle Mack. I had spent untold hours at their house playing with Greer and Sylvie. I always lent an ear when I heard them discussing Annabel because I remember thinking “Annabel” was the most beautiful name I had ever heard and I loved to hear it spoken.
Aunt Margot and Uncle Mack would have their heads together and I would hear words and phrases like “Annabel’s boys” and “poor things” and “monster.” Sometimes I was scared by the things they said, but that only made me listen harder. When they realized I was nearby, they always stopped their whispering and put smiles on their faces. I always wondered what they were saying and hoped they weren’t calling Annabel a monster. I hated to think she wasn’t as wonderful as her name.
I didn’t hear those conversations very often, but I do remember clearly the few times I heard them. And I remember distinctly the day I realized what they were discussing.
Annabel’s first husband, Arthur, was a wealthy man with a hot temper. Annabel had no need to work outside the home in the years they were married because he provided very well for the family. According to what I overheard from my aunt and uncle, he provided well for them because he felt it to be his duty. He also loved impressing the people of the small village where they lived and the best way to do it was to show everyone how well the Tucker family lived.
But things inside the castle were not as rosy as they seemed. Arthur drank heavily and was brutally beating his sons and his wife. Because the boys did not attend school with the other children in the village and because the family had a governess who would only come to the castle on the days she was summoned, their bruises would remain hidden and no one would speak of them. No one knew what compelled Arthur to beat his family. Aunt Margot would visit Annabel and glimpse the welts and bruises on her and her sons. Annabel would try to hide the raw marks, but Aunt Margot spotted them.
The worst part, as I heard Aunt Margot express it, was that Annabel did not protect her boys from their father. This, I assumed, was the reason the boys rarely, if ever, visited their mother after they had grown up and moved away. Then there was the confusion surrounding the death of Arthur Tucker. Someone had called the ambulance after finding Arthur dead one night, but no one ever admitted to having been the caller. There was never much of an investigation into Arthur’s death because his blood alcohol level was so high that night; it was assumed he fell, sustained a head wound, and bled to death. But the mystery of who summoned the ambulance to the castle was never solved.
After Arthur’s death Annabel had married Brian Baines, a man who, by all accounts, was kind, generous, and loving to Annabel and her sons. But still, Hugh and Rhisiart didn’t return.
But Andreas did. He didn’t come often, but he came and that meant the world to Annabel. That’s why Andreas was her favorite, and though it pained me to think that any mother would choose a favorite among her children, I understood why. I believe Annabel feared that since Andreas was gone now, she would never see any of her family again, including the grandchild she so longed to meet.
“Are you all right, Eilidh?” Rhisiart asked. His words jolted me out of my thoughts and brought me back to the tiny village pub.
“Yes, sorry about that. I guess I let my mind wander a bit.”
“That’s all right. Ready to go back?” he asked.
I nodded. He paid the bill for our food and drinks and I was pulling my coat on when I caught a glimpse of someone I recognized. Griff was standing with a small group of men, all dressed in work clothes and boots, over in the corner at a high table. I didn’t know if he had seen me, but I raised my hand in greeting. He raised his glass in return. So he had seen me. I glanced once over my shoulder as I walked through the pub door into the cold darkness; he was still watching me.
Rhisiart drove more slowly on the way back to the castle, for which I was grateful. I was afraid he wouldn’t remember the roads in the area as well as he thought and would run us off the road or worse, run us straight into the river. But we arrived at the castle safely and he pulled round to the parking enclosure. We entered through one of the back doors of the castle and I thanked him for dinner.
“You’re quite welcome,” he replied. “And thank you for the company. Maybe we c
an do it again sometime.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so I didn’t answer, but gave him a quick wave and turned down my hallway. I was ready for bed and I hoped that the food would do its job and help me get to sleep and stay asleep all night.
I woke up the next morning refreshed, but with a slight feeling of dread, knowing Andreas’s funeral service was just hours away. I wondered how Annabel and Sian would handle the emotion of saying goodbye to him.
After breakfast Sylvie raided my closet for clothes that would be suitable for the funeral. Since we were about the same size, I had told her not to bother buying anything new for the service. There was no reason to spend a lot of money in one of the village dress shops for something she hadn’t intended to buy. It was fun helping her pick out the clothes she would wear, because we treated it like a fashion show. It would be, I knew, the only lighthearted time either of us would enjoy all day. Once she had decided what to wear, she left the house to go for a walk and I went to see if there was anything Annabel wanted me to do before the funeral.
She was crying softly in her bedroom when I found her. Wiping her eyes at the sight of me, she smiled tremulously and asked if I was ready for the service. “I’m ready,” I answered. “Do you think you’ll be all right this afternoon?”
“I think so,” she said, straightening up a bit. She knew all eyes would be on her and Sian this day, and she wanted to put on a brave front.
Sian was in the dining room when I went in for a cup of tea. She looked worn and tired, but I was glad to see she was trying to eat something. She couldn’t afford to add to her grief by not eating enough for her child. “How are you doing today, Sian?” I asked her.
She looked at me sadly. “All right, I suppose, all things considered. I just want it all to be over.”
I nodded, remembering the day of Uncle Mack’s funeral. The sadness was palpable, but the predominant feeling was of wanting everything to be over so people would go home and leave the family alone. I could understand Sian’s sentiments.
When it came time to leave for the funeral, I piled into Sylvie’s car with Maisie and Brenda. It was a wonder we fit four grown people into Sylvie’s tiny auto. We drove slowly to the church in the village, the last in a line of cars from the castle. Annabel and Sian were already seated in the front pew of the church when my companions and I walked in. We had spent several minutes looking for a parking spot. The street had already been lined with funeral attendees. I wondered if they were all people who had known Andreas or if they knew Annabel or if they simply came out of respect for the family. Probably a combination, I supposed.
I sat several rows behind the rest of the family. Annabel craned her neck and I gave her a little wave when she saw me. She had probably been wondering what had taken us so long. Her eyes were dry and her mouth had a determined shape to it, as though she refused to allow herself to cry yet.
I sat with Sylvie on one side of me and Maisie and Brenda on the other. I tried to ignore Brenda’s sniffles and noises, but I found it difficult. As sorry as I felt for her, she was behaving inappropriately for the funeral of someone else’s husband. Maisie whispered something sharply in Brenda’s ear and most of the noises stopped.
The funeral service was not long, as the family had requested that mourners not be invited to share personal stories about Andreas. Annabel and Sian had agreed from the start that hearing such stories would only make a difficult day much harder to bear.
When the service was over we all stood in the cemetery in back of the church and watched as Andreas’s burnished walnut casket was lowered into the earth. The family members each threw a handful of dirt onto the casket before turning around to resume their positions around the grave. Rhisiart held one of Annabel’s arms to give her the support she seemed to need, and Hugh and Cadi did the same for Sian. I stood aside with the other mourners; Sylvie, Maisie, Brenda, Griff, and the other two men who worked with Griff stayed with me. When the burial ceremony ended, we all returned to our cars and drove back to the castle, where a light meal awaited all the mourners, as was the custom in the small village.
I had hastily arranged the meal earlier, knowing Maisie and Brenda would be at the funeral service and unable to prepare food. They had set out chairs and small tables around the dining room of the castle during the morning, expecting a large crowd of mourners. The caterer, a friend of Annabel who had kindly offered her services, had arrived early in the day and set up all the food, which was kept warm in silver chafing dishes. As people began to arrive after the burial, Brenda ushered them into the dining room where they could help themselves to food. Annabel and Sian accepted mourners in the drawing room, where a fire in the large fireplace warded off the chill of the day.
I was at a bit of a loss during the afternoon. Sylvie went back to the coach house after she had expressed her condolences to Annabel and Sian, but I felt I should stay in the castle in case I was needed by someone. There were quite a few people milling about; I didn’t know most of them and most of them had never seen me. I introduced myself to a few people as they departed the castle having paid their respects to Annabel and Sian, but in general I kept to myself and simply made sure there was enough food and drink for all the guests.
As often happens after a funeral, particularly a funeral for someone of Andreas’s age, talk turned to whispered speculation as to the cause of death.
In particular, as I sidled over toward a group of young men of Andreas’s approximate age—probably old friends from the village—I heard them talking about possible reasons for the tragedy.
“Poor bloke. And with a baby on the way,” one said softly.
“Who do you suppose did it?” another asked.
“It could have been any number of people, really, given the business he was in,” the first one said. All his comrades nodded.
“Someone from around here?” the second man asked.
“Who knows?” the first man answered. “Someone easily could have followed him up from London.”
“I wonder how the coppers’ll narrow it down,” one of the men said with a smirk. “So many suspects.”
Just then one of the men looked over his shoulder and realized I had been lingering near the group. He nodded his head ever so slightly in my direction and the group changed the subject to the latest sports news. I moved away, trying to remember what I had heard about Andreas’s work.
Was he in advertising? Some kind of high-pressure business? Banking, perhaps? I couldn’t recall. I would have to ask someone. But the family wasn’t ready to answer questions like that, especially from me. I may have been good friends with Annabel, but I was still her employee.
But they would have to answer such questions soon enough from the police.
Chapter 7
Indeed, the police arrived at the castle first thing the next morning. I had just gotten to the dining room when the front doorbell sounded and I could hear Brenda hurrying through the great hall. When she entered the dining room with two officers in tow, she looked scared. She announced in a quivery voice that the officers wanted to speak to Sian. I told her to wait with the officers while I went to find Sian.
She was in her room, trying to fit into a sweater that was clearly too small for her growing frame. She turned to me with tears in her eyes and threw the sweater on the floor.
“Damn this thing!” she yelled, then took a steadying breath and made an effort to calm herself. “What do you need, Eilidh?”
“There are two police officers in the dining room to see you.” I reached down to pick up the sweater from the floor. I folded it and laid it on her bed. “What about that one?” I asked, pointing to a sweater that lay over the back of the armchair next to the fireplace.
“I feel so fat in that one,” she said miserably.
“It brings out the green in your eyes.”
She smiled and reached for the sweater. “Thank you. I don’t suppose
it really matters how fat I feel, does it? It just means the baby’s getting bigger.” She rubbed her hand on her belly slowly, a faraway look in her eyes. I didn’t have to ask what she was thinking about—that Andreas would never see the baby.
She sighed. “I suppose the sooner I answer their questions the sooner they’ll leave and the sooner we’ll have an answer about how Andreas died.”
I could tell from the look in her eyes that she had had enough of the questions, enough of the speculation, and probably enough of the castle and its inhabitants. “Will you tell them I’ll be there in a minute?” she asked.
I returned to the dining room, relayed the message, and left to find Annabel. She needed to know the police were back and asking more questions. I was surprised to find her outside, wandering in the English garden.
It was early for her to be outside. I debated whether to disturb her, but she heard my footsteps and beckoned me to join her.
“I already know the police are here,” she began, bending down to deadhead a flower. “Have they asked for me?”
“They’ve only asked to talk to Sian so far.”
“It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure.”
I nodded. “Is there anything you’d like me to do today?”
“I’d like to go riding. That would be good for me, I think. Can you get hold of Griff and ask him to have Miss Muffet ready after lunch?”
Miss Muffet was Annabel’s favorite horse. She was gentle, sweet, and obedient. Many times she and Annabel would disappear across the fields and be gone for hours, simply enjoying the outdoors and each other’s company.
I left Annabel in the garden and returned to the castle, where I rang up Griff. He answered his mobile phone as I walked into the sitting room, and I was shocked to see him in there, standing by the mantel looking uncomfortable.
“Griff!” I said in surprise, laughing. I put away my phone. “I didn’t know you were in the house.”
“I came up because Mr. Rhisiart called for me,” he answered.