Murder at the Castle (15 page)

‘Oh, but I'd much rather see her, talk to her, if she lives anywhere near here . . .'

‘Well, then,' said Alan, rising from the breakfast table. ‘Perhaps we can convince Sir John to give you what you want, Dorothy. And the impulse does you credit, love. Is there a rehearsal this morning, Nigel?'

There was. This afternoon's programme was the Haydn oratorio
The Creation
, and as the new mezzo had had no opportunity to rehearse it with the orchestra and chorus, they were going to run through bits of it this morning.

‘Good. When does it begin?'

‘We're called for nine thirty,' said Nigel, looking at his watch. ‘I've plenty of time.'

‘Ah, but I'd like to chat with Sir John before you get started. Do you want to come with me in, say, fifteen minutes, or would you rather leave a bit later?'

Nigel elected to relax for a little longer, so I rushed to get teeth brushed and hair combed, while Alan did everything but jingle his car keys. His impatience made it easier for me to skip flossing once more. ‘My teeth are going to fall out one of these days,' I complained as I fastened my seat belt.

‘What's that in aid of?' he asked, heading up the drive.

‘You keep on hustling me out of the house before I have time to floss. My dentist says it's so important.'

‘Hmph. You never have been very faithful about it, that I recall.'

‘True. But what's the hurry, anyway?'

‘I'm not sure. I just feel finding this Pat person might be important. Don't ask me to explain why. I don't know.'

I'm usually the one with the illogical hunches. Alan has been known to tease me about them unmercifully. I opened my mouth, took a look at his intent face, and decided it was wiser to keep still.

Sir John had just arrived at the castle when we got there. We found him conferring with the festival secretary in a small room they had set up as an office. The snaking electrical cables, the laptop and printer and boxes of programmes looked very odd juxtaposed against the ancient stone walls. The sun beat down, warm even at nine in the morning. I tried not to imagine what effect rain would have on the electronics, in a roofless room.

‘Mr Nesbitt!' said the conductor, looking up in evident surprise. ‘What brings you here at this hour?'

‘I'm afraid I need to ask a favour. There was a young woman here yesterday, Nigel tells me, a Pat something, who was a member of the chorus but dropped out. I'd like to speak to her, but your excellent secretary didn't think she should give Nigel her phone number. I thought perhaps you might reconsider.'

‘Of course. Sheila, do you know the girl's last name?'

Sheila did. She was very efficient, and like functionaries everywhere, somewhat protective of her territory. She found the information, wrote it on a slip of paper, and gave it to Alan without speaking a word. We walked out of the office.

‘How did the police react to the news about Gracie's real identity?' Alan asked Sir John in an undertone.

‘They seemed grateful, since it meant they could trace her movements somewhat more easily. If they decide to do that. I got the impression they had more or less decided to write off the incident as an accidental death.'

‘There will have to be an inquest, though,' said Alan, frowning.

‘Yes, they told me that. But they've kindly put it off until the festival is over. This is Wales, after all, and apparently several of the men in the force sing in local choirs. Anything that interferes with music is more or less heretical.'

‘And how right they are!' I said. ‘I'm glad they didn't give you any trouble about it. And, Sir John, I'm so sorry about all this. It must be very difficult for you.'

‘Not so much as you might think,' he said. ‘It was a terrible shock to see her again, and then to have her die that way . . . but I lost Delia years ago, and Cynthia and the twins are my world now.'

‘And music.'

‘And music, of course. I would die without music.'

He said it without emotion, a simple statement of fact. I found it extremely moving, and would have made some comment, but Alan was so eager to be off, and trying so hard to conceal it, that I forbore.

The minute we were out of the castle precincts, Alan phoned the number he had been given for Pat Stevens. He tried it twice, in case he'd punched in the wrong number the first time.

‘Voicemail. Let's go.'

He handed me an OS map and the paper he'd been given. There were two addresses, one a B & B in ‘Northop, nr. Flint', the other in Manchester.

‘But Alan,' I pointed out, ‘she won't still be at her B & B, will she? She took that just for the festival. Nigel said she was going home.'

‘We'll try the B & B first,' he said.

I said no more. Obviously ‘first' meant that if we didn't find her there, Alan planned to go all the way to Manchester. I hadn't the least desire to do so today. It wasn't all that far away, really, but it's a huge and largely modernized city, and the chances of getting lost in it were great. If she really had left for home, I'd content myself with a card, and try to phone her later. And I wanted to be back for the afternoon concert. But Alan had a bee in his bonnet. I kept my opinions to myself and my eyes on the map.

We found the B & B with no trouble. It was a smallish stone cottage set in an attractive garden, not actually in the village of Northop but on the outskirts. The young woman pulling weeds from around the roses was pleasant, and fortunately not terribly inquisitive. Yes, Pat Stevens was staying there, she told us in a marked Welsh accent. No, she hadn't yet left, though she was planning to do so later today. There was nobody at her home, her hostess thought, but with the terrible thing that had happened – we knew about that? Well, one could understand that she found it too hard to stay near the festival. No, the hostess wasn't planning to attend any of the concerts. She loved a good men's choir singing Welsh songs, but this other sort of music wasn't her cup of tea. And would we in fact like . . .?

‘Thank you, no. We'd like to talk to Miss Stevens. Is she in?'

In, but still in bed, the hostess thought. She hadn't even got up for breakfast, though as to that, she hadn't been eating well, or sleeping well, either. She, the hostess, had heard her pacing the floor last night till all hours.

Alan and I looked at each other. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly ten.

‘Would you mind if I just went up and knocked on her door?' he asked. ‘My name is Alan Nesbitt, and I've come from the festival with a message for her. I was told to deliver it personally. Perhaps she's up but not ready to come down.'

‘Happy to meet you. I'm Bronwen Thomas.' The hostess looked slightly dubious. ‘I don't like to disturb my guests, but I suppose . . . Oh, well, come up, then.'

Mrs Thomas brushed the dirt off her hands and knees and led the way up a narrow staircase to a minute landing with two doors. She tapped on the closed one. ‘Pat,
fach
,' she said softly.

I raised my eyebrows at Alan.

‘Small, I think, literally,' he whispered. ‘I believe it's also used as an affectionate term.' His eyes were on the door.

‘Pat, there are some people here to see you,' said Mrs Thomas, a little more loudly.

‘Allow me,' said Alan, and although his voice wasn't loud, it was commanding. The woman ceded her place without question.

‘Miss Stevens, I'm here from the festival. Open the door, please.' He rapped on it.

No response.

He put a hand on the knob. It turned readily. Mrs Thomas made a little noise of protest.

The room was empty. The bed had been neatly stripped, sheets and blankets folded and piled on the mattress. Wardrobe doors gaped open.

Pat was gone.

T
here was an envelope on the bedside table. Mrs Thomas picked it up, opened it, and pulled out a folded piece of paper and some banknotes. She read the message, tears starting in her eyes. ‘She's gone. Here, if you're her friends you'll want to read it.'

She handed the note to me. Aware that I was not really Pat's friend, privy to her correspondence, I nevertheless read:

Dear Bronwen,

You've been kind and I knew I'd cry if I had to say goodbye, so I'm just leaving. I don't know quite where I'll go from here. I can't go back to Manchester just yet. It wouldn't be the same without Dan. There's no one else. I hope this is enough to pay for my stay. If I've left anything behind just keep it, or toss it.

Pat

‘Dan was her young man,' said Bronwen sadly. ‘And that fond of each other! They lit up a room with the looks they gave one another. Ah, it's a great pity!'

I got teary, too. ‘That poor girl! Alan, I must write to her. Maybe when the festival's over we could go see her on the way home. Oh, I know Manchester isn't on the way home, but you know what I mean.'

‘Hmmm,' was all Alan said. He's fond of those ambiguous noises, and I've become quite good at interpreting them. This time, though, I couldn't catch his thoughts. He thanked Mrs Thomas and we went on our way.

We came to a crossroads and Alan hesitated. ‘I've half a mind . . .' he muttered.

That I
could
interpret. ‘No, Alan. We don't have time to go to Manchester and get back in time for the concert. And anyway she wasn't going there yet, so we don't know where she might be. Not to mention the little matter of lunch. And I want to hear
Creation
. I've never heard it, only a couple of bits. And there's not all that much hurry to see Pat.'

‘You're right. Yes, of course you're right. It's only . . . Dorothy, did you ever consider that Daniel Green might have been pushed out of that boat?'

I opened my mouth for an automatic reply, and closed it again. After some thought, I said, ‘At the time I didn't even give it a thought. Now, with everything else that's been happening, I don't know. What gave you the idea?'

He ran a hand down the back of his neck. ‘Just that, I suppose. You know I don't like coincidence, and I get suspicious of a string of “accidents”.' His tone put clear quotation marks around the word. ‘When several odd things happen within a given group of people, and one of them is acknowledged to be a troublemaker, I begin to wonder.'

‘But the troublemaker is dead herself – and, we think, murdered.'

‘She was on that boat, though. You saw her. What if someone was aiming for her and missed?'

‘What a dreadful thought!' I shuddered. ‘Someone would have had to really hate her. So far all we've learned is that a lot of people had grudges against her. A grudge is scarcely enough to lead to murder.'

‘It is if you live and move and have your being in the world of grand opera. A grudge murder is almost a cliché plot device in a tragic opera. And from everything we've seen and heard, that was the way Delia operated. Her emotions were all on top, and precious little restraint did she exercise over them. What if someone else had that same outlook on the world? It's my opinion that a person with that mindset, given the opportunity, would have given Delia a push without the slightest qualm.'

I thought about that for a mile or two. ‘I suppose someone might have done such a thing,' I said finally. ‘But surely, when he realized his mistake, he wouldn't have tried again.'

Alan shrugged. ‘The mistaken-identity thread runs through a lot of opera, too. If we're talking about a complete egoist, he isn't quite sane. Anyone who gets in his way can be brushed aside like a bothersome fly. As easy to brush away two flies as one.'

I shuddered. ‘That's a truly terrifying idea. The thing is, the only person in this entourage who fits that description – the complete egoist – is Delia. And Delia was the victim.'

‘Delia was the only one who displayed that personality openly. There are nearly two hundred people involved in this festival, one way and another, including the support staff. Are we in a position to say that none among them harbours that kind of overweening pride and arrogance?'

‘No, of course not. It's just – it's awful to think about someone so eaten up with hatred. And I still can't imagine a motive strong enough . . .' I trailed off, suddenly appalled at where our thoughts had led.

‘He wasn't on the boat, Dorothy. He was rehearsing with the orchestra that day. Remember?'

‘Thank God. I couldn't bear the thought – and he's just not that sort of person.'

‘He's a musician, Dorothy, and a damn good one. He's bound to have a fair-sized ego. But I agree, he seems a decent sort of man. And in any case he's completely out of the picture, for either death.'

‘All right, here's another thought. Where was Pat while all this was going on? Alan, I remember that scene. I wish I could forget it. There was a general outcry when Dan fell, but no single outpouring of grief. No one seemed to care very much, in fact. Which was rather callous, I suppose, but certainly human nature.'

‘Plainly, Pat wasn't there, for whatever reason. But Delia was. I keep coming back to that. Could she have suspected that the push was meant for her? How would one have expected Delia to react? How did she, in fact?'

I racked my brains. ‘The only thing I remember, or think I remember, is her complaint about the delay. At least someone with a loud voice and a foreign accent complained. It could have been Delia.'

‘Or almost any other woman.' Alan sounded dispirited as we turned into the car park of a promising-looking pub.

‘The trouble is,' I said as I made my careful way over the gravel, ‘that we don't know enough.'

‘And of course, as usual, we haven't the slightest excuse for asking questions. After you, my dear.' He ushered me into the pub with a gallant gesture.

We continued to discuss it over lunch. ‘We could go to the police,' I offered with little enthusiasm. ‘The official police, I mean. Inspector What's-his-name.'