Murder at the Castle (30 page)

‘Pat!' I said more loudly. ‘Pat, do let me in. I've travelled for hours and I'm awfully tired, and . . . well, to tell the truth, I need to use the loo.'

I don't know if it was the pathos in my voice, or a woman's response to another woman's need, but the door, quite soundlessly, opened a crack and Pat peered through the gap.

‘It really is you,' she said in a voice devoid of expression. I was reminded of Mrs Danvers, and a chill ran down my back, but I pushed in anyway.

‘Yes, and I'm so glad you're home! I've been thinking about the children, and hoping you and – Frieda, is that her name? – have been coping. I'm sure they're happier now that they're back in their own home. Goodness, what a lovely house! And I'm embarrassed to waltz in here and ask for the loo first thing, but . . .' As I talked I was walking farther into the house, looking and listening. ‘I suppose it would be upstairs in a house this age,' I continued brightly, and was halfway up the imposing staircase before Pat could react.

‘No!' she said loudly. ‘I mean, there's one just off the hall, down here.'

‘That's all right, dear. I've been sitting a long time and I need a little exercise.' It wasn't a very good excuse, but I didn't have time to think of a better one. And I was determined to get upstairs, because when Pat shouted at me, I thought I'd heard a faint cry from somewhere in the upper regions.

A child's cry, immediately hushed.

It was lucky for me that all the doors off the hallway on this floor were shut. It meant I had to open every one in my supposed quest for the bathroom. I didn't find anything or anyone interesting, however, except an elegant, beautifully equipped bathroom, complete with bidet and whirlpool bath. By this time nerves had made my need real, so I used the toilet, but I didn't flush it immediately. I wanted time to think.

The nursery was probably on the top floor. If all the old English mysteries I'd read were accurate, the nurseries always were at the top of this sort of house. I suppose it kept the children farther away and less apt to be either seen or heard.

How was I to get to the top floor?

Keep it simple, Dorothy. Tell the truth. I flushed the toilet. The old-fashioned (though quite new) water closet produced a great rush of water, easily heard downstairs. I stepped out of the room and called down the stairs. ‘Pat, I'm longing to see the children. I thought I heard them just now, so they must not be napping. I'll just go on up and pop into the nursery.'

To my own ears I sounded perfectly convincing, but Pat must have been even more on edge than I supposed, because she was at my heels before I had taken two steps up the steep, narrow staircase that led to the top floor.

‘No! You mustn't! That is, I don't want – Frieda and I don't want the children disturbed. They've been upset. We've only just got them settled and you mustn't—'

‘Why, Pat! Whatever is the matter?' I kept on climbing, wondering if she was going to try physically to stop me. ‘You sound distraught. I'm sorry the children have been such a handful, but as you say, they've had a trying time. I'm sure they'll be fine now that they're in familiar surroundings. Is it this way?'

‘No! Stop! I don't want . . . you mustn't go in there!'

I had reached the top floor. I stopped. I was disturbing an already disturbed woman, more with every step I took. It occurred to me, belatedly, that this was not wise. I turned to face Pat.

‘My dear, something's wrong. I'm sorry I didn't notice until just now. What is it?'

‘I . . . nothing, it's only . . . oh, what's the use?' And she collapsed against the wall, her head in her hands, sobs racking her body.

The noises from behind the door at the end of the hall were becoming louder every moment. Muffled young voices blended with quieter adult ones. I looked from Pat to the door, torn between ministering to this deeply distressed woman and checking on the twin situation.

The twins won out. I left Pat where she was, moved to the door, and put my hand on the knob.

It was locked.

‘Open the door, Frieda, or Nigel, or somebody,' I called over the increasing noise from the children. ‘It's Dorothy Martin.'

‘We can't,' said a voice I recognized as Nigel's. ‘Pat's locked us in!'

‘Are you all right in there?'

‘We are fine,' said a clipped German voice, ‘but we want to get out!'

I looked at Pat, who was showing signs of recovery. I looked back at the nursery door, behind which the children were beginning to wail loudly. Back at Pat. Back at the nursery.

‘DOROTHY!' The bellow from the downstairs hall was the most welcome sound I've ever heard.

‘S
o, Dorothy, how did she do it? I gather she still hasn't told the police very much, except that she's not sorry she did it, that Delia ruined her life and deserved what she got.'

It was a month later. We were gathered around the remnants of a lavish meal at the Rose and Crown in Sherebury's Cathedral Close, Alan and I, Nigel and Inga, and John and Cynthia, along with Inga's parents Peter and Greta Endicott, owners of the inn, and my next-door neighbour and good friend Jane Langland. Nigel Peter was sound asleep upstairs and the Warner children were safely at home with Frieda. Now Jane (my pet-sitter) and the Endicotts (babysitters for Nigel Peter), who had missed out on all the action, wanted to be brought up to date, while the rest of us traded details to complete the story.

‘How did she do it?' Inga persisted.

‘Oh, didn't I tell you? She told me a day or two ago when I went to visit her in the jail. I'm glad you managed that for me, Alan. I really do feel sorry for her, despite everything.'

‘I'm growing dangerous, Dorothy,' said Inga, looking about as dangerous as a month-old kitten.

‘It was so absurdly simple. I should have figured it out at once, but no, I had to go inventing elaborate plots about violin strings and dental floss. Yes, I'm getting there, Inga! You know how we admired that crocheted lace she had all over her clothes? And she told us she made it? It was unusual, because it was black.'

I waited for them to get it.

‘Crochet thread,' said Jane, slapping her hand on the table. ‘Black crochet thread. Heavy enough to hang nicely, fine enough to be almost invisible, easy to tape even to stone.'

I nodded. ‘And she said she bought a small plastic spider at a novelty shop in Wrexham, to stick at the top of one of the strands of thread, just to reinforce the illusion. You remember how Delia looked up as she hit that high note, just before she started screaming? She must have seen the spider then, and then felt the threads as she waved her hands around, and then . . .'

‘And speaking of violin strings,' said Nigel, ‘I wonder who did steal them from Laurie. I don't think she ever found out.'

‘This is guesswork,' said Alan, ‘but it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that it was Delia herself. We don't know that she had anything against Laurie, but Laurie and Ben didn't get along any too well, and I can see Delia thinking she'd play a spiteful trick on Laurie just to please Ben.'

‘I don't think,' said Cynthia, ‘from what I've learned of Delia, that she ever in her life did anything to please anyone else. It's certainly no thanks to her that she didn't succeed in ruining our life.' She put out a hand to John, who clasped it with a smile that warmed even me, old and long-married as I am. ‘And I hope nothing very dreadful happens to Pat.'

‘That's up to the judge, of course, assuming she's convicted of malicious mischief, as charged. But she's not displaying very rational behaviour at the moment, so I suspect the problem will be dealt with medically.'

‘She told me a lot, while she had us cooped up in your house,' said Nigel soberly, nodding to John and Cynthia. ‘She was rambling, really, but it was quite clear that she'd always been a loner, with music her only joy in life. Her family hadn't been very stable, moving about a lot, not taking much notice of her.'

Well, I thought, Nigel, whose family background had also been troubled, could certainly sympathize with Pat there.

‘Then she got fed up with her family, such as it was, moved to Manchester, and met Daniel. Another musician, you see. She thought her life had finally turned around. So when Daniel was killed, there seemed to be nothing left for her.'

‘But what I still don't understand,' said Inga, ‘is why James tried to make us believe he'd set up the trap for Delia. Why would he bother to protect Pat? We could all see how jealous he was of her, coming between him and his friend Daniel.'

‘I didn't see that for a long time, either,' I said, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. ‘James was certainly jealous. But of Daniel, not of Pat. He and Daniel had been best friends, and then they both met Pat. And both fell for her. And Daniel won out. James, being Irish, raged about it, but the trouble was he was still bound by strong ties of friendship to Dan. So he didn't do much of anything about it, except drink too much. But when Dan died, he thought maybe he had a chance with Pat. And when he realized what she'd done, he thought he could protect her and . . .'

‘And make her love him,' said Greta softly. ‘And instead she rejected him. And still he tried to protect her.'

‘Unrequited love,' said Alan. ‘Another stock situation in grand opera.'

‘As in real life,' said John. ‘I've always thought that one reason for the perennial popularity of opera is that it does deal with genuine human problems, genuine emotion. Oh, writ larger than life, perhaps, magnified and enhanced by the glorious music, but with a firm basis in reality.'

‘That's a new idea for me,' I said thoughtfully. ‘I'd always considered opera plots, tragic opera at least, to be the purest melodrama. That's why I've preferred to listen to them in what someone called the decent obscurity of a foreign language.'

‘You're right about the melodrama,' said Alan. ‘But that's the point, surely. Most of us, at least we English,' he said, patting my hand, ‘have been brought up to suppress our violent feelings about love and betrayal and death and revenge. Opera lets us experience those feelings vicariously.'

‘I think all music does,' said Nigel. ‘A great catharsis.'

‘A healing.' I nodded, remembering the way the
Pié Jesu
had healed me. ‘So I'd like to propose a toast.' I raised my glass. ‘To the beauty and power of music, and to the musicians who make it so.'

‘To music!' they chorused, and if there were some tears mixed with the smiles, it seemed only right. Lives had been lost. Other lives had been tragically changed.

Dona eis requiem sempiternam
. Grant them rest eternal.