Murder at the Castle (12 page)

‘Because she was clever,' said the woman with the cello story. ‘She managed things so nothing could ever be proved. And she slept with enough of the conductors and managers that they'd take her side. At least temporarily. Then if they started to get fed up, she'd threaten to tell their wives and/or girlfriends.'

‘Yeah, we couldn't figure out why Sir John was putting up with her.' That was Laurie again. ‘It's well known that he's incorruptible. He married sort of late, and he's absolutely crazy about his wife and kids.'

I wanted to divert that speculation, and besides I was bursting with my own question. ‘But
why
did she do all those awful things?' I was horrified by the stories, but what seemed to be missing was any compelling reason for such atrocious behaviour. ‘The woman could sing. Why did she have to resort to the whole bag of dirty tricks?'

‘Because she had to get to the very top, and she wasn't good enough to do that on the strength of her voice alone. She had an ego the size of Siberia, and a heart the same temperature.' Larry had taken the floor again. ‘She could have had a very nice career in the third rank of opera. Small roles, regional companies, summer opera. But she wasn't interested in that sort of thing. In fact, we were all surprised to see her here, because this is a great festival, but let's face it, it's not exactly Glyndebourne. And she wanted nothing but the best. She wanted to be Renée Fleming, Deborah Voigt, and Anna Netrebko rolled into one, and the only way she could get to where she wanted to be was by climbing on other people's corpses.'

It was a chilling epitaph. By common consent, we quietly finished our drinks and went home.

S
omehow, when we got back to Tower, we weren't in the mood for bed. Instead I brewed tea for all of us and we sat around in the lounge, pondering.

‘I almost let the cat out of the bag, didn't I?' I said, handing Alan his cup.

‘You let it entirely out, my dear. Fortunately everybody'd had a bit to drink, so I think they didn't notice, particularly.'

‘Such a silly name, Graciosa.' I yawned.

‘Actually it's quite pretty,' said Inga. ‘It was just so wildly inappropriate. Heavens, I knew she was unpleasant, but whole new vistas opened up tonight.'

‘And not very scenic ones, either,' said Alan. ‘Nigel, how is it that you'd never heard any of these stories?'

‘I'm not a real musician.'

‘Indeed you are!' said Inga warmly.

‘All right, I'm not professional, if you prefer that term. I mix with geeks and nerds and students, not singers and violinists and that crowd. I do take in
Opera
– the magazine, I mean – so I follow the gossip about the big names, but as you heard, our nasty little piece of work wasn't quite there yet.'

‘I wish I could think it was a pity that she never will be, but I'm afraid I'm not that nice.' I yawned again. ‘Sorry.'

‘The interesting thing about tonight's little therapy session,' said Alan, ‘is the discovery of how many people are delighted that Delia's gone.'

Nigel started to hum a tune I couldn't quite recognize until he put words to it. ‘Delia's gone, one more round, Delia's gone.'

I sat up straighter. ‘Good heavens! That's a very old song! I heard it first when I was in college, which was long, long before you were born. Harry Belafonte sang it.'

‘And Johnny Cash, and a lot of other people,' said Nigel. ‘My mum liked that sort of thing when she was a kid, and collected it, and played it when I was a kid. I liked it too, and I remember quite a lot of it. Do you know the story behind it?'

‘I didn't know there was one.'

‘There was a real murder. Delia was almost a child, I think, and someone shot and killed her. Not much romance there, one would think, but years later they wrote a beautiful ballad about it.'

‘Well, if there's one thing we know for sure,' I said, standing and beginning to collect cups, ‘it's that this Delia wasn't murdered. Even though a lot of people may have wanted to do the deed. I've had it, folks. See you in the morning.'

‘But, Alan!' I sat up suddenly in bed a few hours later. ‘I think she
was
murdered! And I think I know how they did it!'

‘Lovely, darling. You're quite right.'

I looked at Alan suspiciously. His eyes were tightly closed.

Our window faced east. The sky was that milky colour that comes just before sunrise on a fine June day, which meant it wasn't yet five in the morning. I suppose Alan had a perfect right to be sound asleep, but I was absolutely awake and, I knew from bitter experience, was not going to be able to get back to sleep. I sighed loudly.

Alan didn't stir.

Very well. I had to try this theory out on someone. Would either of the Wynne-Eytons be up at this hour? Probably not.

I got up, used the bathroom, and made myself a cup of tea, hoping that perhaps the hideous scream of the kettle might wake Alan. I let it sound for only a second, though. In the calm of early morning it sounded loud enough to wake the whole house, and quite possibly rouse Delia at the morgue, or wherever she was.

When there was still no response from Alan I realized I was on my own, unless I woke him forcibly, and for various reasons I didn't want to do that. Not least that I wanted him in a good mood when he did finally come to.

I drank my tea and thought about my idea. The more I considered it the more sense it made. I would have to check it out, of course. Did I know someone who could provide me with the evidence I needed?

The trouble was, I didn't really know anyone much around here. Back in Sherebury there were any number of people I could ask, but here? Alan and Nigel and Inga. And our hosts, of course, but I didn't really know them well. Maybe tomorrow morning – well, this morning, actually – I could go into Mold and see if there was a shopkeeper who could help. I tried to remember the shops I'd seen in Mold. Clothing stores, a charity shop, pubs, a library, a police station. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker . . .

‘Having a nice snooze, love?'

I started awake at Alan's touch. The sun was shining in the window brilliantly, and I had a terribly stiff neck.

‘Was I snoring, or thrashing about, or something?' Alan went on.

‘Oh. No. No, I woke up really early with something important to tell you, but you were still asleep, so I got up to wait until I could decently wake you, and I must have nodded off.'

‘And now we're both awake, so are you going to tell me how Delia was murdered?'

‘You heard me! You were awake! And you made me wait all this time!'

‘I was asleep. Some things one remembers even if one heard them while sleeping. So . . .?'

I contemplated remaining in my snit, but only briefly. I was too eager to hear Alan's reaction to my idea.

‘Well, it started with a dream, or a nightmare, really. I was back in that awful passageway in the castle, and there were spiders everywhere, and I was trying to brush them away.'

‘I remember that, too. At least I remember you crying out in your sleep.'

‘Yes. In my dream you said something soothing. Or was that real?'

Alan shook his head. ‘Reflex on my part, perhaps. Go on.'

‘Then I was seeing Delia fall again, and again, and again. And each time, before she fell, she was trying to brush spiders away.'

Alan got the point at once. ‘Those motions she made. Yes, you could be right. But are you suggesting that someone salted that balcony with spiders, or planted a fake one?'

‘No, something much simpler than that. Actually, it was something Penny said that brought it to mind. Not spiders. Spider webs.'

‘That disgusting spray people use at Halloween? The singers would have seen it immediately. We'd have seen it from the audience, come to that.'

‘No. Something much more subtle. Violin strings.'

Alan looked at me and waited.

‘They're thin and lightweight and neutral in colour. If they were hung from the roof of the balcony, dangling just far enough to blow in Delia's face or hair, I don't think she or anyone else would have noticed them until she felt them.'

‘Hmm. And that girl Laurie says her spare set went missing.'

‘Exactly.'

‘But the question is, when? Nigel told us about the problem as part of the pre-concert madness yesterday. Delia died on Saturday, two days before.'

‘Well, I thought of that, of course. The thing is, Laurie's e-string didn't break until just before the concert, so she didn't need a new one till then. Would she have noticed that the spares were gone?'

‘I hope you don't plan to ask her,' said Alan.

‘Why not? How else will I know?'

‘Think, dear heart! Either she is telling the truth, and someone stole her strings – how absurd that sounds! Wasn't there a ridiculous song some years back about someone stealing someone's heartstrings? Whatever they might be.'

‘Probably. But go on.'

‘Very well. Either she's telling the truth, or she is not. If she is, and you start her thinking about when the strings vanished, she may start wondering why you want to know, and that may lead to her questioning others. Then, if your theory has any validity—'

‘She could be in danger. Yes, I do see. And of course, if she's lying, if she laid a booby-trap herself with her own strings – you're right, it does sound odd – then I've alerted her, and she could run away or . . .'

‘Or decide that you, or we, pose a danger to her. Don't speak to her about it, Dorothy.'

He stalked into the bathroom, and I sat, somewhat deflated, trying to work the crick out of my neck. He was right, of course. Now that I had what I was perfectly certain was a sound theory about a way Delia could have been murdered, I couldn't see any way of taking it further. Any questioning of anyone concerned with the festival could raise suspicions in the mind of whoever was guilty.

Well, perhaps I could find a music store somewhere and at least take a look at violin strings. I realized I actually had little idea what they looked like off the instrument. And surely I could find some way to examine that balcony. If someone had hung something from its ceiling, there ought to be some trace.

The strings might even still be there! If the castle had been locked up since the rehearsal . . . if no one had been up there . . . And then I was deflated again. The police had been up there. They had presumably investigated thoroughly. If there had been anything hanging from the ceiling, they would have noticed.

But wait. Delia had been pawing at her face and hair. Suppose she had torn them down. Would they have been clasped in her hands as she fell?

Slowly I shook my head. If she had felt something in her hands, she would have thought it was part of a spider web, and would have been frantic to get rid of it. I knew that for a certainty. My arachnophobia isn't as severe as my claustrophobia, but it's bad enough that I knew exactly what Delia would have done.

And in that case . . .

Alan came back into the room, freshly showered and shaved. ‘You have an “aha” look about you, woman,' he commented.

‘My famous un-poker face again, eh? I'll tell you all about it after I've cleaned up.'

So, fifteen minutes later, while I was combing the tangles out of my wet hair, I told him where my train of thought had led me.

‘You're quite sure she wouldn't have grasped them?'

‘Quite sure.' The mere thought made me shudder.

‘What
is
it about women and spiders?' Alan inquired, shaking his head a little.

‘I don't know. I have no idea. Some of them are poisonous, of course, but not many, certainly not most. It's no more rational than any other phobia. I know spiders are very useful creatures that eat things like flies. I know they're amazing engineers, that their webs are admirable structures and often very beautiful. I also know that when I see a spider, or especially when I brush up against a web, my skin starts to crawl and I have to get away.' I shuddered again. ‘I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.'

Alan accepted that, though still obviously wondering how an otherwise intelligent and fairly sensible women could so fear a harmless creature perhaps a millionth her size. ‘So what do you think happened to your hypothetical violin strings?'

‘I think she pulled them down. Now that I come to think of it, that could have been what made her fall. They caught in her fingers, and they offered some resistance. That is, if they were taped or glued to the ceiling. She wouldn't have expected that and – oh, Alan, that would have made it much, much worse! It would have been as if the spider was pulling back – quite irrational, but dreadful. She would have fought all the harder, and when the strings suddenly gave way, her momentum . . .'

‘You have too good an imagination, love. You're looking quite distraught. What you need is some breakfast to take away the nightmares. Get into some clothes, and let's see what Charles and Mairi have for us this morning.'

I was happy enough to drop the subject of spiders, but on the way downstairs I said, ‘After breakfast, I want to find a music shop and look at some violin strings.'

N
igel and Inga were just finishing their last pieces of toast when we walked into the breakfast room. ‘Morning, sleepy-heads,' Nigel greeted us.

‘Ah, youth,' I declaimed. ‘Up with the birds, full of energy. Actually, I was up before any of you. Only I fell asleep again.'

‘Ah, age!' said Nigel wickedly. ‘The privilege of sleeping late, dreaming away one's days, basking in the golden years.'

‘A little respect for your elders, boy,' said Alan. ‘And since you're astir so early, what are your plans for the morning? The concert's not until three, if I remember correctly.'