Murder at the Castle

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9 â 15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Dams, Jeanne M.

Murder at the castle.

1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)--Fiction.

2. Women private investigators--England--Fiction.

3. Music festivals--Wales--Fiction. 4. Americans--

England--Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

813.5'4-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8259-2 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-400-3 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Some of the people and places in this book are real; others are fictitious. I'm happy to say that Tower Wales is a real B & B and Charles and Mairi Wynne-Eyton are real people, and both house and hosts are every bit as charming as I've described them. (Mairi is Scottish, and her name is pronounced Maw-ree, accent on the first syllable.) Flint Castle, on the other hand, has for centuries been only a ruin. For my own purposes I've rebuilt it at some distance from its real site, basing its design on an amalgam of Beaumaris and Conwy Castles, marvellous survivors from the time of King Edward I.

I am deeply indebted to the Wynne-Eytons for making my stay in Wales so pleasant and so informative, for introducing me to the Llangollen canal boats, and for their patient answers to my many questions. I thank my friend and mentor Bob Demaree for his expertise on matters related to choral music, especially that of Joseph Haydn. Tuck Langland also gave me excellent advice about opera, and my dear friend Christine Seitz was kind enough to read the whole manuscript and make some valuable suggestions. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Lise Hull and the other contributors to the extremely attractive and informative website
www.castlewales.com
. I spent entirely too many hours happily perusing the site when I ought to have been writing!

PROLOGUE
June 2003
ONE

âY
ou look beautiful, Delia. Is that a new dress?'

She frowned and sighed. âAlways you say the same thing. You are not observant, John. I have worn this gown at least twice before, and every time you ask is it new.'

He turned away to adjust his black tie, and to hide his face from her. It was true. He did always say the same thing, or if not the same, always the wrong thing. He must try harder. Sixteen days. They had sixteen days together. If it was to begin with an argument, it might go on that way, and this might be their last chance.

âI'm sorry, darling. I'm blinded by your beauty!' He took her in his arms and kissed her.

âTake care! I wish to look fresh when we go down.' She pushed him off and smoothed the flounces of her crimson skirt. âThis first night is important. I wish everyone to say, “Who is she? So beautiful, so well dressed, such jewels . . . she must be someone important.” And later I will sing, just a little, you understand. I will sing along with the dance music, as if to myself, and those around me will hear and will ask me to sing with the orchestra, and they will be amazed.'

To John it sounded a little like the plot of an old Andy Hardy movie: âI know! Let's put on a show!' But this cruise was his final desperate attempt to put his marriage back together. He said only, âYou'll knock them for six, darling. Shall we?'

He bowed her through the door of their stateroom, then offered his arm, but she ignored it. âMy dear girl!' he murmured. âThe motion of the ship . . . your shoes . . . you wouldn't want to break an ankle, your very first day out.'

âI have perfect balance, and there is nothing wrong with my shoes. You forget that I am also a dancer.'

He'd said the wrong thing again. There was, in his opinion, everything wrong with her shoes. The four-inch heels were far too thin, the straps holding them on were far too insubstantial, and they were far too bright a gold. She might have got by with them â just â if she'd worn them over sheer, expensive stockings. On bare feet with crimson-varnished toenails they were . . . he winced at the word, even in his mind, but they really
were
unmistakably vulgar.

There was a time when he would have said so. Now he shrugged, but only mentally. âMind how you go, then,' he said, and followed her to the lift. The restaurant was several decks below their luxurious suite, and she should definitely not risk those heels on the perforated metal âladders' that were the only stairs provided for the first two flights. âPerfect balance' or not.

Delia had taken a tour of the ship as soon as they had boarded that morning, securing, with a ravishing smile, the services of one of the overworked crew to lead her around while John unpacked. Now she pressed a button in the lift with assurance.

âI believe the restaurant is on the next deck down, darling.'

âTwo decks. It is below the ballroom. There is a grand staircase down to the ballroom. I will make my entrance there.'

The combo playing in the ballroom lounge sat where they had an excellent view of the grand staircase. They paid Delia the tribute of a sudden silence, and then struck up a lively Latin tune as she glided down the last few steps.

She is so lovely
, he thought. Then he amended it.
She looks so lovely
.

It was her incredible beauty that had first pulled him under till he drowned. Oh, her voice was very nice, though untrained, a warm natural mezzo brimming with fire and
brio
. She had auditioned for him on an aria from
Boris Godunov,
and he was lost. Some of the notes had been flat, some of the text garbled, but the passion of it! The bravura! She was young for the piece, her voice a bit light, but she put her soul into it, and John was enchanted.

It didn't occur to him until much later that it was an odd piece to choose when one was auditioning for an oratorio. But by that time he understood that Delia had also been auditioning for quite a different role.

She got both roles, of course. She sang the oratorio adequately, and her self-confidence and stage presence convinced almost everyone that she had been brilliant. And a month later Delia Lopez and John Warner were married in the little parish church where he had been christened twenty-eight years before. She wore a white lace mantilla that emphasized her lustrous black hair and smooth olive skin and made her look, to John's adoring eyes, like the Madonna. She was just nineteen.

There hadn't been time for a honeymoon. Big celebrations were planned all over the world for the Millennium, with music featured at many of them. John had performances scheduled every weekend, with rehearsals daily. His name as a choral conductor was already one to be conjured with, and Delia's reputation as a singer began to grow along with John's fame.

Delia's was not, perhaps, an untarnished reputation. She had somewhat more of the infamous artistic temperament than was quite justified by her abilities, according to some critics. But they were careful not to say so in John's hearing. His was as equable a temper as one was apt to find in a first-class conductor, but he would tolerate no criticism of his wife.

Maybe that was his big mistake, he thought as he followed her down the stairs. Should he have let her take her knocks and learn to deal with the real world? But how could he? She didn't take criticism at all well. The few times he had ventured to offer gentle direction of his own, she had either dismissed it with an airy wave of her hand or flown into a rage. The time she had thrown the small Henry Moore sculpture out of the window, narrowly missing a passer-by before it shattered on the pavement, was his last attempt to guide her.

The last attempt until now. He followed her to the bar, where she seated herself with a graceful swirl of skirts and looked up at him with an angelic smile.

âWhat would you like, love?'

âSomething rich and dark and sweet.'

âLike you,' he answered, but his answer came too pat. She frowned. She was the better actor, and she could say the line as if newly minted. His response sounded as automatic as it was.

He bit his lip and asked the bar steward for a planter's punch for Delia. âDo you have Myers's rum?' And at the man's nod, âA double shot, then, please.'

âCertainly, sir. And for yourself?'

âSmall whisky and soda. Er . . . scotch and soda, that is.'

âOf course, sir.' The steward sounded mildly affronted.

âSorry . . . your accent . . . I wasn't sure . . .'

âI am from Bermuda, sir. I grew up with the English.'

âSo of course you know that “whisky” means to us what some of the world calls “scotch”.'

âIndeed, sir. Here you are, sir. Madam.'

Delia took a sip of her drink and then gave the steward a long, smouldering look. âIt is delicious. You are very good.'

âA lovely drink for a lovely lady.' He returned the look, with interest, and then had to turn away to serve another couple.