Murder at the Castle (14 page)

Laurie obligingly took out the expensive packet of superior strings. ‘They don't really look like much.' She opened the packet and let the strings slide out on to the table, making sure first that it was clean. ‘Amazing that something so ordinary-looking can make such beautiful sounds, isn't it?'

I
looked at them, and my heart sank. They were loosely coiled, and even without touching them I could see that they could never be mistaken for spider silk. They weren't anything like fine enough, and they looked springy. Still . . . ‘How long are they?' I asked. Inane question. They would obviously be long enough to stretch from one end of a violin to the other. But Laurie obligingly stretched one out for me. And when she let go of one end, it immediately snapped back into its coil.

So much for a lovely theory.

Still, there had to be some reason for someone to have taken Laurie's strings. I spent the rest of our lunch trying to think of one and forgetting to drink my beer.

‘Sorry to break this up,' said Nigel, popping the last fragment of cheese and bread into his mouth, ‘but I have to get to the castle. Laurie, can we drop you somewhere, or did you drive?'

‘Me? Drive in this country? On the wrong side of the road? You've got to be kidding. I took the bus from Flint. The service isn't bad at all.'

‘But a car is a lot quicker,' said Nigel. ‘I'll bring the car round, and you can tell me on the way where you're staying, Laurie.'

‘You went awfully quiet, Dorothy,' said Inga softly to me while we waited for Nigel. ‘Are you not feeling well?'

‘I'm fine, just a bit perturbed. I'll tell you later,' I said, with a sideways glance at Laurie.

Laurie, it turned out, was staying with her brother in a B & B in Flint, so Nigel dropped Inga and me off at Tower, while he and Laurie headed on towards Flint.

‘Right,' said Inga after we'd waved them on their way. ‘What's going on?'

‘Oh, nothing really, except that I had a silly idea, and it was just proven wrong. Let's get Alan, and we'll have some tea and I'll tell you.'

Alan was napping, but he woke readily enough and accompanied me downstairs to the lounge.

I told them the whole thing. ‘And it turns out violin strings aren't a bit the way I thought they were. Not to mention the fact that the new ones come all curled up. You couldn't get them to hang straight down unless you weighted them. Which would sort of defeat the purpose.'

Alan was inclined to be philosophical about it. ‘Ah, well, it was a good theory. Pity it didn't work out.'

‘Yes,' said Inga slowly, thoughtfully. ‘But then why
did
someone steal Laurie's strings? It seems a pointless thing to do.'

‘They wanted a better set for themselves,' said Alan. ‘You said, Dorothy, that the ones she prefers are very expensive.'

‘But that doesn't make sense, either. At least from what I gathered from Laurie, no musician would deliberately switch strings just before a performance. Laurie's doing it with the one string, because she hates her borrowed one. And of course when a string breaks, the player has no choice. But to steal a whole set of strings just before a concert – that seems to me highly unlikely.'

‘I remind you,' said Alan with his infuriating logic, ‘that we don't know when those strings were stolen.
If
they were stolen. We only know when Laurie says she missed them.'

One of Alan's chief constable moments. I find them infuriating, especially because he's always right.

‘Well, then, let's ask her,' said Inga. ‘We don't have to say anything about Delia. Or Gracie, rather. I keep forgetting! We can just say we're disturbed about the theft and would like to catch the rat who did it.'

Alan shrugged. ‘And if Laurie tells you the truth, which is not certain, where will that lead you?'

‘I trust her, Alan,' I said, a trifle huffily. ‘Now that I know her a little better, I like and trust her. She'll tell the truth. As to where it will lead us, who knows until we find out?'

But the fact was, I was stuck and I knew it. I was utterly convinced that Delia had been murdered, but I had absolutely no idea how. It seemed to be an impossible crime worthy of John Dickson Carr.

Alan and I decided to skip the art songs, as neither of us is very fond of them. Inga, of course, was duty-bound to show up, so we dropped her off at the castle and tried to think of something to do with the afternoon.

‘Are there any other good castles around?' I asked. ‘I've developed a bit of a taste for them.'

‘You ask that in Wales?' said my husband with a tolerant grin. ‘This small country has more castles than anywhere else in Europe. The very best, in my opinion, is only a few miles west. You'll like the town, too.'

So we found ourselves in Conwy, which fitted exactly my idea of what a medieval town should be. Small, crowded, surrounded by its ancient wall, and loomed over by its fairytale castle.

‘Oh, that's the castle of my dreams!' I said at my first sight of it. ‘It's perfect!'

It had everything. Lots of towers, battlements, arrow slits. Lots of rooms inside, though none of them, of course, had a roof. It had no moat, but it had not, when first built, needed one, for it was then protected on three sides by the River Conwy and on the fourth by a steep hill. Although I didn't take time to read the guidebook carefully, it looked to me as though the defences had held throughout its history. Certainly it didn't look as though anything short of a bomb could touch it now.

And there were no dark interior passages, thank heaven!

After we'd wandered a bit and got a feel for the place, we went in search of tea and found a pleasant little tea room in one of the steep, narrow streets. ‘It's a good thing we parked down there on the bridge,' I commented, looking out the window at the drivers trying to navigate a street that was plainly too narrow for vehicular traffic. ‘Driving in this place must be a nightmare.'

‘Walking is pleasant, though. How about a turn on the town walls after tea? They're nearly complete, I believe, and have some magnificent views.'

Long ago, before I ever visited England, if someone mentioned walking on walls, I pictured a hazardous activity, teetering along, reminiscent of a cat on a back fence. It isn't like that at all, of course. The wall surrounding a medieval town is really two walls, set five or six feet apart, with the space in between filled with rubble or something. Whatever it is, it's quite solid, because it's paved over at the top, and one can walk quite easily from one guard tower to the next.

Well, I say quite easily. In Conwy it's a bit of a challenge, actually, because of the terrain of the town. The wall had to follow the shape of the hills, of course, and though they smoothed it out a bit with the wall higher in some places than in others, there are still some steep grades on the top, and in some cases a flight of steps up to the tower, and another coming down. Add in the hard round cobblestones underfoot in some sections, and I was quite glad when we came to a place where steps led back down to the street.

‘I'm glad we did that,' I said to Alan when I got my breath back. ‘Most interesting, and you were right about the views. Do those mountains have a name?'

‘That's Snowdonia,' said Alan. ‘The highest mountains in Britain, outside of the Scottish Highlands.'

‘I've heard of Mount Snowdon. Is it one of those we saw?'

‘It's a bit too misty today to see it. I'll show you before we go home, if the weather keeps fine.'

‘I keep wondering how I've managed to reach my advanced age and yet stay so ignorant about most of the world. Here's all this beauty been within my reach for years now, and I never even knew about it.'

‘You're just going to have to live a good deal longer, the better to see more.'

We walked back to the car in companionable silence, but I thought about what Alan had said.

‘Delia didn't get to see as much as she should,' I said in the middle of a long silence.

‘You're really worried about her, aren't you, love?'

‘You know, I am. I think it's sad that nobody liked her. Imagine going through life making enemies. It sounds as though she travelled a lot, but I'll bet she never even saw the beauty wherever she went. I've heard Prague is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, but all Delia wanted to do there was claw her way to a winning audition. She must have been a very unhappy person.'

‘She certainly made a lot of other people unhappy,' said Alan. ‘I'm not sure she deserves your sympathy.'

‘Oh, but that's just it, don't you see? She
didn't
deserve sympathy. She didn't deserve love. But that's an awful way to go through life. I would hate to think of people being glad when I die. And Alan, that's why I'm determined to find out who killed her.'

‘You really believe she was murdered.'

‘Don't you?'

He didn't reply for a beat or two. Finally he said, ‘I suppose I do. I don't want to. There's absolutely no evidence to sustain the notion. But I don't like coincidence. Never have. And it seems too great a coincidence that she was here surrounded by people who had good reason to hate her, and she died in what looked like an accident. No, I agree with you. She was murdered. But I haven't an idea how, much less how we're going to prove it.'

I
nga and Nigel were back at Tower when we got there. We told them about our afternoon, and Nigel came over all Welsh again, taking as much pride in Snowdonia as if he'd invented the mountains himself.

‘So how did the concert go?' I asked when I thought he'd gone on about it long enough.

He shrugged. ‘Well enough. We had a good audience, but somehow none of us were really “on”. I never thought I'd say it, but we missed Gracie.'

‘Goodness! Why?'

‘Well, you wouldn't have thought art songs were her thing. Not dramatic enough. But she did a really good job in rehearsal – the only thing she did right until the Habañera – and somehow it energized us all. Without her, today, it was all sort of flat.'

‘Could it have been the conductor?'

‘No conductor.' Nigel gave me a sideways grin. ‘You really don't know much about art songs, do you?'

‘They've never been my favourites,' I admitted.

‘They're accompanied by piano, and they're really duets between the singer and the piano. No conductor. Sir John sat in the audience the whole time.'

‘Oh. Stupid of me; I should have realized that. I only asked because a conductor's mood can have such an influence on a performance.'

‘You're right, of course. But this afternoon it was the singers. There was . . . I don't know, an uneasiness. Maybe it was what's-her-name – Pat – who set everyone off.'

‘Who's Pat?' Inga asked.

‘Oh, didn't I tell you? It was a bit sad, actually. Did I tell you that some of the singers today were from the chorus? There are some really good voices there, solo voices, but as there's only a quartet for most things, only four of us are officially soloists. But for this afternoon Sir John really spread the wealth around, so to speak. So some of the extras got to talking about Dan Green, that baritone – the one who fell off the boat, remember?'

I was shocked to realize that I had almost forgotten. ‘Oh, dear. I suppose he had friends in the group?'

‘Worse than that. His fiancée.'

‘Oh, dear heaven! One of the singers?'

‘She had been in the chorus. She dropped out when he died, as you'd expect. But she came round today to say goodbye. She's going back home, but she should have known better than to show up just before a concert. It upset the singers.'

‘Nigel, think what you're saying!' I took his hand. ‘She wanted to talk to people who'd known her dead lover, who might sympathize or at least offer her some support. She wasn't thinking about a performance. Did she have any particular friends among the other singers, do you know?'

‘I don't, actually. You understand I didn't really know either of them. There are eighty people in the full chorus, though they don't all sing everything, and I've met only one or two.'

‘Well, if the poor child didn't have any close friends here, or any family – where's home, do you know?'

‘No idea.'

‘I'd like to find out. I feel guilty that I'd forgotten about the man until you reminded me. I'd like to at least send the girl a card, or some flowers, or something.'

‘The world lost a fine mother when God didn't give you children,' said Alan, with that warm note in his voice that always makes me melt.

‘Well, I suppose I've been making up for it ever since. Nigel, do you think you could get her address for me? I'd really like to make sure she's going to be all right.'

‘I suppose the festival secretary would have contact information for all the performers. I could check with her.'

‘Do, please. But not,' I added firmly, ‘until tomorrow. This evening we need to go out for a nice dinner and try to forget about everything but good food and good wine and good friends.'

Next morning, though, Alan and I barely let Nigel finish his breakfast before reminding him of our request. ‘Just a phone number, Nigel, if that's all you can get. But an address would be useful, too.'

‘And what excuse am I going to give to the secretary?'

‘The truth is usually the easiest,' said Alan. ‘Say you learned yesterday that Pat was a good friend of the man who died, and your friend wanted to express her condolences.'

Nigel repaired to the front drive to make his call (the walls of the house being too thick for good mobile reception), but was back in less than a minute.

‘She said the policy is to release no personal information about any of the performers. She suggested I could give her a card, and she'd send it along to Pat.'