Murder at the Castle (25 page)

Anger had replaced her tears, but the tears wouldn't be long in coming back, and this time she'd really break down, if I was any judge.

‘Pat, you have no reason to protect him,' I said urgently. ‘When did you and James O'Hara part company, and where is he now?'

‘I pushed him out yesterday, and if I had to guess, I'd say he's back in Wicklow, and be damned to him!' And she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

Alan had arranged with Mairi for Pat to stay at Tower for a night or two, if she wished, and as she was plainly in no state to drive back to Penzance, Inga and Mairi helped her up to her room. Inga stayed with her while the rest of us put our heads together.

‘My heart aches for that child,' I said with a sigh. ‘She seems to be quite alone, and she's at an age when even a small crisis can seem like the end of the world, let alone the death of a beloved. I hope she'll be all right. But what are we going to do now?'

‘I'm going back to the police with all this,' said Alan. ‘We have enough now to request a review of the whole case, and enough to ask Inspector Owen to bring James O'Hara in for questioning. Nigel, when do you have to be at the castle?'

Nigel glanced at his watch. ‘Not till two. The concert's at three today. Sir John wants to go over the
Pié Jesu
, but most of us know it quite well, so it's just a matter of balance and his own interpretation, that sort of thing. It's only ten thirty, so we've piles of time.'

‘Good. Then I'd like you to phone the festival office – you'd better ring Sir John first, so you won't run into roadblocks – and find the Andrews twins. You know where they're staying, yes? Then go and talk to them about, first, James and what led Larry to think he might have engineered Delia's death, and second, what either of them might know about Ben Peterson. If I can get back to the castle by one I will, or a little earlier if possible, because I want to talk to the twins too, and to Mr Peterson. Dorothy, if you will, I'd like you to come with me. I'll drop you off at Soughton Hall, and you can make sure all is serene there. Tell them not to worry any more. Oh, and you might say I think I know who sent the letter.'

‘What? Who?'

‘What letter?' asked poor Nigel.

‘Later,' shouted Alan, heading for the front door.

Nigel turned to me. ‘What letter?'

‘I can't tell you just now. I'm beginning to have a glimmer, but . . . I'm sorry, I can't tell you. It's not my secret. I have to go.'

And I hustled to the car. I sincerely hoped I'd have time to change clothes before the concert. Jeans and sneakers aren't my idea of proper concert attire, even an al fresco one. I could have asked Inga to bring me something if I'd thought of it. Never mind.

‘Who?' I asked Alan the minute I was settled in the car.

‘Haven't you worked it out?'

‘Maybe. It all depends on the postmark, doesn't it?'

Alan beamed at me. ‘I knew you'd get it.'

Soughton Hall, which had been slumbering peacefully when we left it earlier, was now bustling with activity. A marquee had been set up in the back garden, and the staff were carrying tables and chairs and china and cutlery and flowers out to it.

Somebody was getting married. Well, they had a beautiful setting for it.

When I inquired after the Warners, the desk clerk told me she thought they had taken the children for a walk in the garden. It must, I thought, be difficult to keep two active toddlers busy and happy for such an extended stay away from home, and now that their nanny had flown the coop, Cynthia certainly had her hands full. Not for the first time, I wished I were better with small children. School-age ones, the middle grades, I could deal with, but the little ones . . .

I had wandered past the marquee by now and into the gardens, which were formal and not, I thought, terribly child-friendly. For one thing, there was a pond which any right-minded child would find irresistible.

Sure enough, there they were at the other end of the pond. Jack was throwing bits of gravel into the water, while Jill was leaning over it, gazing intently. Her father squatted beside her, a firm hand on the waistband of her skirt.

‘No fish,' said Jill in a tone of disapproval.

‘No, darling, I don't think this is the kind of pond with fish.'

‘Jack's scaring them away. You stop, Jack!' She tried to move toward her twin, but her father's grip kept her where she was. ‘Let go, Daddy!' she commanded.

‘Let's go see what the chipmunk is doing, shall we?' He scooped her up in his arms, and turned and saw me.

‘Getting just a little bored, are we?' I said. ‘Hello, Jill.'

She buried her head in Sir John's shoulder.

‘Bored and restless. Frieda had promised them a little jaunt to the seaside today, and they're not very happy about missing it.'

‘I wish I could help, but I'm terrified at the idea of supervising two active children at such a hazardous place as the seaside. Oh!'

Sir John raised his eyebrows. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘No. I've just had an idea. Inga and Nigel have a little boy almost exactly the same age as your two, and I know she's missing him dreadfully. Well, they both are, but Nigel has such a lot to do, and Inga's more or less along for the ride. What if she were to take the children out today? She's perfectly reliable, I can attest to that, and I know she'd love to do it.'

‘Want to go to seaside!' Jill cast her vote in favour of the proposition.

‘Let's ask Mummy, shall we?'

Cynthia, who was looking frazzled, agreed with enthusiasm, so all that remained was to phone Inga to see if she was agreeable.

‘Oh, I'm glad you called. Of course I'd love to take the kids to the beach. Nigel can take us, on his way to talk to Larry and Laurie, and we'll get a cab or a bus or something when everyone's tired. I don't mind missing today's concert;
Carmina
isn't one of my favourites. And I think we should take Pat along. She's feeling better, having got all that off her chest, but she needs some distraction, and I could use a second pair of hands and eyes. We'll be there in . . . half an hour? And would you like me to bring you some smarter clothes? I thought of it after you left.'

I thanked her for everything and reported to the Warners, who were delighted. The twins, of course, were overjoyed. The half-hour sped past as we got the children ready and assembled all the necessary paraphernalia. We spent the last few minutes outside watching the final preparations for the wedding.

‘Birthday party?' queried Jill.

‘Even nicer,' said her mother. ‘A wedding.'

‘With cake and games?'

‘Cake, but probably not games.'

‘Birthday party's better,' she said with finality.

There were a few sticky moments when the children realized they were going off with people they didn't know, without their parents, but Inga and Pat dealt with them competently, and when they'd left both parents heaved a great sigh of relief.

‘Now, I may have to impose upon you for a ride to the castle,' I said as we went back inside. ‘Alan's off to Wrexham to talk to the police and set some things in motion. And I was to tell you not to worry, that everything's under control, and he thinks he knows who wrote the anonymous letter.'

‘Who?' they asked in unison.

‘He didn't say. He can be terribly annoying at times. And I think I'm beginning to have an idea, but I'd better not say, in case I'm wildly wrong. But we really are on the right track at last, I think, and truly, this nightmare is nearly over.'

They looked at me searchingly, but I simply smiled. Alan could tell them the whole story, if we ever did work it out. I wasn't going to tantalize them with hints and guesses.

They treated me to an excellent early lunch at The Stables, then I changed clothes, begged a toothbrush from the management, said goodbye to Cynthia, who had decided to stay behind and rest, and was ready to go back to the castle.

For the last time. The last concert. I found myself hoping with ridiculous fervour that it would go well, that there would be no untoward incidents to spoil it, that the musicians and the audience alike would be lifted to that exalted state of consciousness that only music can evoke. I wanted to learn who had killed Delia, and how. I wanted the Warners out from under the cloud of doubt and suspicion. But I wanted none of the solution to cast a pall over the concert.

John cast a wary eye at the sky as we set out. ‘I hope the weather holds. We've been unbelievably lucky so far, but this fine weather can't last forever. Those clouds . . .'

I peered out the window. ‘They look like fair-weather clouds to me. I'm sure it'll be all right.' But there was a heaviness to the air that, back home in the States, might have boded a storm.

Things are different here in Wales, I reminded myself.

We were very early. Alan had arrived, but the only musicians there were Nigel, the Andrews twins, and a disgruntled concertmaster, who was inclined to be snappish.

‘I have a demanding concert to play this afternoon, in case it had escaped your notice,' he snarled.

‘I need only a few minutes of your time,' said Alan, but his tone was in no way conciliatory. ‘I believe the late Madame de la Rosa was a . . . good friend, shall we say, of yours?'

‘I don't see that that's any business of yours.'

‘Oh, but it is, you see. It bears on an investigation I have undertaken at the request of Sir John Warner. I understand that you knew who the lady really was, and that she discussed with you some plans for . . . embarrassing Sir John, to put it mildly.'

Peterson opened his mouth, but Alan held up a hand. ‘You needn't bother to deny it. You were seen, and overheard, and recognized, and I can produce a witness to that effect if necessary.'

‘Why should I bother to deny it? The lady never carried out her plans.'

She did too
, I wanted to answer.
She tried to blackmail Sir John, and caused him and his wife great distress, and if this man thought that was nothing, he could think again!
But I kept my mouth shut while Alan continued.

‘I'm not particularly concerned with that aspect of the problem just now, though there might be an interesting point of law at issue. However, my question is this: exactly when did you post a letter for Madame?'

‘There's no law against posting a letter!'

‘Not unless it contains a threat. When did you post it?'

‘A few days ago. I don't remember.'

‘Before or after Delia – to use her proper name – before or after she died?'

‘After! And I had nothing to do with her death! How could I, when I was sitting here playing first fiddle in front of a hundred other people?'

‘And that,' said Alan, turning to me, ‘disposes of the letter.'

‘Delia wrote it herself.'

‘Of course she did. It was meant to soften up Sir John before she started her blackmail, only Mr Peterson forgot to mail it.'

‘Fortunately. But it said he killed his wife. That makes no sense. When she wrote it, she was obviously alive.'

‘The letter said he had
destroyed
his wife and family. Delia was referring to his present wife and children, who, she thought, would be destroyed if it were learned that she was still alive.'

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘She really was a piece of work, wasn't she? I wish I could be sorry she's dead, but I can't find it in my heart.'

‘A thoroughly nasty person,' Alan agreed. ‘She could sing like an angel, though.'

‘That doesn't excuse her, any more than . . .' I didn't finish the sentence, but I glared at Ben Peterson's back as he stalked off, his violin under his arm.

‘H
e'll pay for it,' said Laurie, who had heard part of the conversation. ‘Whatever he tried to do to Sir John, word will get around that he's trouble. Yes, he plays a fine violin, but he's already had a few problems with temperament. That's why he doesn't have a permanent job with a good orchestra. I can't stand him, myself, and there are a few others in the orchestra who think he's an arrogant son of a . . . gun. Now when the scuttlebutt goes around that he tried to sabotage Sir John, he's going to find it harder and harder to get good jobs. Trust me. I'll be the first to make sure it gets to Chicago.'

Larry, who had been lurking unhappily nearby, came up to Alan. ‘Sir, I don't know what you want with me. I don't know any more than I've told you. I don't know where James O'Hara is.'

‘That's not what interests me at the moment. We think we may know where to find him. What I need from you now is a little more information about your conversation with him. He gave you cause for concern. Why?'

Larry shuffled his feet and bit his lip. ‘Look, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but is this really your business? You're not the police.'

‘No, I'm not, not now, though for many years I was. But Sir John has asked me to find the reasons for the terrible events that have so interfered with this festival, and if possible name the person or persons behind them. In order to do that, I must ask questions you may find intrusive. And may I remind you that we have very little time before everyone leaves the area, and even, in some cases, the country?'

Larry made a face and spread his hands. ‘Okay. Shoot.'

‘I want you to tell me what passed between you and James O'Hara. Exact words, please, so far as you can remember them.'

‘I'm not likely to forget.' He took a deep breath. ‘See, it was on the Saturday, the first full rehearsals after that awful boat ride and the accident.'

Alan nodded. ‘The day before she died.' He glanced at his watch.

‘Okay, I'll hurry it up. Anyway, some of us went out afterwards for drinks, and James was drinking quite a lot more than other people, and carrying on about Dan, getting pretty loud. And . . . well, I guess I'd had a little too much, too. Anyway, I got sort of maudlin, and I said . . .' He paused and swallowed. ‘I said what a great thing it would have been if somebody had pushed Gracie in the drink, instead of Dan.'