Murder at the Castle (6 page)

‘Sure. I want to see the chapel.'

There was an arrow pointing the way, up a steep and narrow stairway edging a wall. I was willing to bet it had not had a railing back when the castle was in daily use, and was profoundly grateful that it had one now, especially since it leaned noticeably outward.

It led us to a narrow interior passage lit mostly by widely spaced arrow slits. Oh, there was an occasional electric light, but not enough to make me happy. I fought to stave off claustrophobic terror. There was, I kept telling myself, nothing to be afraid of. Alan was here, the passage wasn't going to close in on me, there was plenty of air to breathe.

We couldn't walk abreast, but I stayed so close behind Alan that I was in danger of stepping on his heels. After several centuries the passage widened out into a well-lit space. I took a few deep breaths. ‘The chapel?' I said hopefully, though it certainly didn't look like one.

‘A latrine,' said Alan, pointing to a sign on the wall. ‘Sorry. Are you all right?'

‘No, but let's push on. We're bound to get there eventually.'

‘Why don't you go first? Is it better when you can see a clear space in front of you?'

‘Marginally.' I gritted my teeth and moved out of the light.

‘Aaaahhh!'

‘W
hat? What is it, love? Are you all right?' Alan asked frantically.

I flailed wildly at my face and neck. ‘A spider! There was a web, and I ran into it, and this huge spider . . . oh, Alan, can you see it? Did it get into my hair?'

I was trembling and my heart was racing. Alan pulled me close to him and held me with one arm while with the other he patted me down like an efficient policeman.

‘It's all right, love. No spider. It's all right. Easy, dear heart. Here, let's go on to where it's lighter.'

Murmuring encouragement, he pushed me ahead, and finally, finally, we were in the ancient chapel, a place of light and peace and calm. There was a bench in front of the simple wooden table that served as the altar. I sank down on it and tried to catch my breath.

Alan waited patiently, his hand warm on my shoulder.

‘I'm sorry,' I said finally. ‘I didn't mean to make a fool of myself. Maybe there never was a spider. But there was definitely a web. It brushed my face, and . . . well, I wasn't quite myself anyway.'

‘Don't worry. No one else was around, and I'll never think you a fool. Look, love, these walls were painted once. See the remnants?

I appreciated Alan's attempt at distraction and tried to respond. There were certainly tiny flakes of colour still adhering to the walls. ‘What a shame it's all gone. Do you suppose there was once stained glass in the windows?' The tiny lancet windows were still attractive with their simple, clear diamond panes.

‘Probably. And a much more elaborate altar. It's remarkable, though, that this much has been preserved.'

I sat and let the peace replace my irrational fears, until a small group of tourists appeared and we left to make way for them. The way out, fortunately, was far less convoluted than the way in, and we were back on the grass of the inner ward.

‘This must be where they're going to hold the festival,' I said, looking around. ‘That sort-of window over there would serve as a perfect balcony for an antiphonal choir, or trumpet fanfares. But goodness, there's no shelter at all. What on earth are they going to do if it rains?'

‘Carry on, I expect. We are rather renowned for that approach, you know.'

‘Keep calm and carry on, as the wartime posters said. I want one of those T-shirts. But seriously, wouldn't the singers worry about their throats and the players about their instruments?'

‘Perhaps, but . . .'

‘Dorothy Martin?'

The accent was Canadian, the voice familiar. I turned around. ‘Penny? What a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?' Penny Brannigan, an ex-pat like me, had moved from Canada to a small Welsh village some years ago. We met when I dropped into her salon one day to have my first-ever manicure, and again while Alan and I were doing some walking in the Cotswolds.

‘The same as you, I imagine,' she replied. ‘Touring Welsh castles. This is a terrific one, isn't it? Lots of atmosphere. I even imagined I heard a bloodcurdling scream a few minutes ago. A ghost in the dungeons, no doubt.'

‘Oh, dear.' I could feel my face growing warm. ‘That was me. I'm an absolute idiot about spiders, and I thought I saw one. I know for certain there was a web.'

‘Ooh! I hate spiders! I was shut up in an old basement once when I was a child, and it was full of them.' She shuddered. ‘And the webs are just as bad. When they brush against your face . . .'

Alan's mobile tootled just then. He glanced at it, then answered. ‘Ah, Nigel. We were beginning to wonder what had become of you two.' Pause. ‘Yes, we gathered as much. No, we're having a fine time exploring Flint Castle. Are you going to have time for lunch?' Pause. ‘Right. Give me directions, and I'll repeat them to Dorothy so she can write them down.'

He dictated Nigel's directions to a pub not far away. ‘Penny,' he said courteously, ‘we're about to have lunch with some friends. Will you join us?'

‘Thanks, but I'm meeting someone for lunch, too. Great to see you again!'

We waved and made our way to the car park. I left the castle somewhat reluctantly, spider and narrow passages notwithstanding. Now that we were out in the sunshine, I was once more fascinated with the labyrinthine design of this remarkable structure, with its spaces for living and working and sleeping and praying, its massive defences, and its ability to withstand its enemies, except for the final and inexorable one of time.

‘Let's come back after lunch,' I urged Alan as he looked for the way out. ‘I want lots of time to explore this place.'

‘Excepting the inner passageways, I presume?'

‘We can buy a flashlight somewhere. Light helps a lot.'

When we met up with Nigel and Inga, everyone was full of explanations and apologies.

‘I thought I'd said where we were rehearsing,' said Nigel. ‘No, no, this round's on me. What's everyone having?'

The day had become very warm, so I opted for cold lager, the rest jeering at my American tastes, ‘wanting every drink to freeze one's teeth'. I ignored them. ‘So where are they in fact rehearsing?' I asked Inga, while Nigel and Alan went to the bar to get the beer and order our food.

‘Well, they couldn't very well keep the castle closed to the public for two whole weeks, not in high tourist season, so Sir John, or his secretary probably, found a nice big parish church nearby. The acoustics are quite different from an outdoor venue, of course, but there's plenty of space, and there'll be mikes and speakers at the castle, so Nigel thinks it should work out. That's not the problem.'

‘So what is? Thank you, Nigel.' I raised my glass in salute.

‘You tell them, Nigel.'

He nodded, but first buried his face in his pint. ‘Ahh! That's better. Good beer in this place. So Inga's been telling you about our prima donna, has she?'

‘No,' I said, ‘she's left the story to you. Tell.'

He downed another healthy swallow of beer. ‘Well, you know I told you the mezzo hadn't got here when she was supposed to? She lives in South America somewhere – Brazil, I think – and there was some problem about flights. Weather or something. Anyway, she's here now, so we're doing the opera scenes, without the chorus, just the quartet. And I personally think she'd have done us a favour by staying away.'

‘Oh, dear. Why? Can't she sing?'

‘Oh, she can
sing
.' Nigel finished his beer. ‘She's not perfect, but who is? Lots of power, lots of drama, and she'll make a fantastic Carmen. What that woman doesn't know about sex . . .'

‘Right,' said Inga, addressing her own beer.

‘I see,' I said, somewhat amused. ‘So she's flirting with all the men in the festival and alienating all the women?'

‘Yes, but it isn't just that. I mean, one almost expects that sort of thing from her type. It doesn't mean anything. But Gracie—'

‘
Gracie
? You're not telling me someone who can sing Carmen and incidentally set the whole festival on its ear is named Gracie!'

‘Her name,' said Inga, deadpan, ‘is Graciosa de la Rosa. I'm told the word means “enchanting” in Portuguese.'

‘Not her real name, then?' I asked the question in all seriousness, but Nigel howled.

‘Everything about her is unreal, right down to her fingernails! I don't know where the woman's from, originally. She's certainly of some Latin background; you've only to look at her. And she speaks English with a sort of all-purpose Latin accent, but even that might be put on. I'd bet my last vocal cord that her name is a Latina equivalent of Jane Smith. At any rate, “Graciosa” is absurd. So we call her Gracie. She hates it.'

‘Which must improve her temper mightily,' said Alan. ‘You're implying that no one in the company can bear her. What has she actually done to set you all against her in one morning?'

‘Let me count the ways! She's still using music for some of her arias, and what she has memorized, she gets wrong. She takes her own tempo, whether or not it's what Sir John wants, and very sweetly says she “feeeels it” her way. She upstages everyone, and manages to ruin our sightlines to Sir John, so we miss some of the subtleties. We're not working with the orchestra yet, and she's managed to infuriate the pianist already.'

‘I take it the pianist is a woman,' I suggested.

‘Of course,' Inga murmured.

‘Why doesn't Sir John simply sack her?' asked Alan. ‘Oh, thank you.'

Our food had arrived, a ploughman's lunch for everyone, with local cheese that looked extremely inviting. We dug in, and no one spoke for a bit.

‘More beer, anyone?' Nigel asked when he'd taken the edge off his hunger.

We all turned him down, I because beer makes me sleepy after lunch, the others because they were driving.

‘I won't, then. Well, you ask, Alan, what we've been asking ourselves since ten minutes into the rehearsal. Which was when Gracie condescended to show up, by the way. Sir John is wonderful to work for, as I've said, but he is demanding. None of us can understand why he puts up with this . . . er . . . witch.'

Nigel has always had a tendency to watch his language around me. I find it charming, even though my own language can get a trifle salty now and again. ‘So what
has
he done about all her mistakes?' I asked.

‘Damn all, really,' said Inga crisply. ‘He stops rehearsal and takes it again. And again, and again. Sometimes he'll make a mild comment like, “
Pianissimo
, please, Madame de la Rosa.” Which she pays no attention to, of course. Mostly he just does it over and over until either she gets it right or he gives up and goes on.'

‘Which,' said Nigel gloomily, ‘has got our rehearsal schedule even more wildly out of whack than it already was. So I'd best get back. Inga, are you coming with me, or do you want to go with Dorothy and Alan?'

‘We're going back to the castle,' I said firmly. ‘I haven't seen nearly enough of it yet. But we could run you back to the Tower, if . . .'

‘Of course I'd love to see the castle with you. I've not really toured it myself, and today's our last chance before the festival takes over.' She gave Nigel a peck on the cheek. ‘Good luck, darling. Stiff upper lip and all that!'

We had a wonderful time at the castle. I decided to give the interior passages a miss, but there was certainly enough to see outside. We walked along the tops of the walls, where sentries would have patrolled back when the castle was a living fortress.

‘You were going to tell me something about Edward the First,' I said suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Alan got that lecturing gleam in his eye. ‘Yes. He's the reason most of the Welsh castles exist.'

‘The Welsh built them to defend themselves against Edward?'

‘Quite the opposite. Edward was waging campaigns against the Welsh. This was in the late thirteenth century, and Llywelyn – you know about Llywelyn?'

‘Vaguely. Prince, or princeling, of at least part of Wales. Go on.'

‘Well, Llywelyn was causing Edward lots of trouble, rebelling and so on, and Edward decided to put a stop to it once and for all. He mounted a huge army and quelled the rebellion, killing Llywelyn in the process. Then, to maintain his hold over Wales, Edward built castles at a great rate, impressive castles meant to keep the Welsh under his eye.'

‘Under his heel, Nigel would say,' murmured Inga.

‘That too,' Alan admitted. ‘But some of the castles were never finished, and others were used by the English for a relatively short time, because Edward turned his attention to the troubles he was having with the Scots, on his other border, and those occupied him the rest of his life. So there you have it. Potted history of Edward the First. Probably wildly inaccurate. My school days are a long way behind me.'

‘Most of it's in the guidebook,' said Inga with an impish grin.

‘Hush, child! I must preserve my image. Dorothy thinks I know everything.'

I laughed rudely at that, and we walked on to the grassy expanse that, according to the signs, was once the banqueting hall.

‘Inga, there's nothing much in the way of a roof anywhere. What are they going to do if it rains for the festival?'

‘Tents. Big pavilions for the audience are easy, and they've found someone who can rig canopies over some of the performing areas. Nigel tells me they're going to use almost the whole castle, using the passages and stairs as entrances and exits, and that bit over there –' she pointed to the window I had already noticed – ‘for antiphonal effects. It should be quite splendid, really. If only that idiotic woman doesn't spoil it!'