Murder at the Castle (7 page)

W
e continued the discussion over dinner. We'd decided to dine in style at The Stables Bar, the restaurant at a luxury country house hotel called Soughton Hall. ‘Some of the more affluent musicians are staying here,' Nigel confided, ‘including Sir John and his family. Inga and I actually prefer Tower, though. It's not only cheaper, but we're very fond of Charles and Mairi.'

‘They're delightful people,' I agreed. ‘But I wondered where the dogs were.'

‘They keep them out of the way of guests,' said Inga, ‘and this morning Mairi told me Judy has young puppies, so she's a bit skittish.'

‘But I want to see the puppies!' I exclaimed. ‘If Judy will let me. Nigel, is Sir John here?'

He looked around the crowded room. ‘In the corner, there, with the woman and the two small children.'

‘Oh, but they're adorable!' I exclaimed. The children were dressed in pale blue, the little boy in shorts and a soft white shirt, the girl in the same shirt, with a blue skirt and a blue bow in her hair.

‘They are, aren't they?' said Inga softly, and I knew she was thinking about Nigel Peter.

The twins had been so well behaved that I hadn't noticed their presence earlier, but it was late for such young children to be up, and the boy was beginning to fuss.

The two parents worked together like a smooth team. The mother spoke gently to the little girl, pointing out something of interest in the room, while Sir John picked up the boy and hoisted him on to his shoulders. ‘Shall we go for a ride?' I heard him say, and the two of them made for the door, while the woman and girl followed hand in hand.

They passed near our table, and I got a good look at Sir John. He looked infinitely weary, though when he turned to answer a remark from his son, he made an effort to smile.

Alan saw it, too. ‘Did rehearsals go any better this afternoon?' he asked Nigel.

‘Worse, if anything. All the soloists are demoralized. We missed our cues, forgot the words, and lost our tempers. Sir John was positively haggard by the time he finally turned us loose. We were an hour late, and that's going to cost the festival quite a lot, even though the instrumentalists weren't with us. Tomorrow we have dress rehearsals, with orchestra and chorus, and it's going to be bloody. Sorry, Dorothy, but I meant that almost in the literal sense as well.'

‘He certainly looked haggard just now, and it surprised me. He seemed so happy a moment before, with those delightful kids. And you didn't tell me his wife was pregnant.'

‘I didn't know. That's probably one reason why she's with him on this jaunt. She's fairly far along, isn't she? He probably didn't want to leave her. He's besotted with his family, or so the gossip has it. But he's definitely worried about the festival. If there isn't some sort of blow-up before it's all over, I'll be very much surprised.'

‘Hmm,' said Alan thoughtfully. ‘Has any security been arranged?'

Nigel looked startled. ‘I hardly think so. This isn't a football match. One doesn't expect a scrum at a performance of
The Creation
!'

‘Perhaps not,' said Alan, ‘but I think Dorothy and I will take in the final rehearsals. They should be interesting, at the very least. Are you still in the church tomorrow, while they get the castle ready for you?'

‘No, we really have to do these last ones at the castle, to get comfortable in the space and work out technical problems.'

‘Not to mention personnel problems,' I muttered as our dinners arrived.

The lovely weather broke next day. Alan and I looked out our window and could see nothing of the hills, only the pond, dimpled with raindrops, and the trees, blowing madly in the wind. Nigel was depressed and silent at breakfast, so we let him alone, but I couldn't help wondering how much shelter tents and canopies would provide in a gale.

The castle, when we got there, was the scene of barely controlled chaos. The wind had indeed torn ropes from their moorings, and canvas flapped wildly as shouting crews attempted to subdue it. Electrical cables snaked everywhere, posing hazards for unwary walkers, and musicians wandered about looking lost while stagehands set up chairs and risers and music stands that kept falling over in the wind. Shouting, a good deal of swearing, and the scrapes and tootles of instrumentalists trying to tune and warm up competed with the howl of the wind and the crash of flying objects in an almost solid wall of noise.

‘Nigel, this is impossible!' I shouted against the clamour. ‘Nobody can rehearse in this!'

He simply nodded and went off in search of someone who might know what was happening.

Alan pointed the way under the main gate, which still had a roof and provided some shelter from the stinging rain. Of course a lot of the others had the same idea, and the space was crowded with disgruntled musicians. Above the other voices rose a powerful, rich complaint. ‘I will not risk my voice in this weather. I will not rehearse here! It is r-r-ridiculous!'

If I had needed any clue to make assurance doubly sure, that extravagantly trilled
r
would have decided that matter. I raised an eyebrow to Inga, who nodded. Indeed, it was Madame Graciosa de la Rosa, holding forth.

‘She's risking her voice all right, having a temper tantrum at that volume,' I said close to Inga's ear.

‘One can only hope she'll lose it altogether,' was the reply.

Gracie couldn't possibly have heard the exchange. I had barely heard Inga myself. But the diva shot us a look so venomous that I clutched Alan's arm. Could the woman read minds? Or lips?

Alan covered my cold hand with his warm one and mouthed, ‘Careful, love.' I noticed he turned his head away from la Graciosa when he did so.

Nigel reappeared and formed his hands into a megaphone. ‘We're to go back to St Elian's,' he roared. ‘BACK TO ST ELIAN'S. Half an hour. Pass it on!'

Amid grumblings, the crowd began to disperse, pulling jackets over their heads, or over their instruments, and moving towards the car park. Soon only the diva was left, drumming her fingers impatiently on the ancient stone wall as our small party left. ‘Nigel!' she called imperiously.

‘Ignore her,' said Inga, but Nigel turned, with reluctance.

‘Find John and tell him I must ride with him to the church. My driver has left. Or I will go with you. Yes, that will be better.'

‘Sorry, my car's full. I'll tell Sir John.' And Nigel pushed us out the doorway at what was very nearly a run.

Fortunately the conductor was approaching his car as we reached ours. Nigel hailed him. ‘Sir! Madame la Rosa is stranded without a driver. I'd give her a lift, but as you see . . .' He gestured to our small car and largish party.

‘Oh. Oh, of course.' He managed a smile and waved us on.

‘Nigel, what is wrong with that man?' I demanded when we had achieved the safety of the car and Nigel had cranked the heater up to its highest notch. ‘It's more than just the stresses of the weather and an uncooperative mezzo. He looks absolutely ill.'

‘I don't know.' Nigel sounded miserable. ‘I've never seen him like this.'

‘Darling, you've not seen him all that often in any condition, have you?' Inga put on her most practical, matter-of-fact voice. ‘He's probably coming down with a cold, and some men are no good at being ill. You droop like a wounded heron whenever you have a sore little finger, you know.'

‘I do not droop!' said Nigel, enraged. ‘I am very careful to suffer in silence.'

‘Loudly,' said Inga.

They bickered happily for the short drive to the church.

It was, of course, a good deal longer than half an hour before the rehearsal got under way. No sound or lighting equipment was needed here, but chairs had to be brought back from the castle, dried off, and set up. Risers had to be assembled for the chorus. Instruments had to be retuned. Then everyone had to wait for Sir John, who was, inexplicably, late.

And then the miracle happened. Maybe it was the critical nature of the situation. There was now less than one full day of rehearsal, in the wrong venue, before the festival opened. Crisis does sometimes draw people together, and does sometimes bring out the best in even the most difficult personalities. For whatever reason, even though Sir John still looked very ill indeed, the morning rehearsal went as smoothly as a bowl of cream. Voices blended. Violins soared, trumpets sounded clear and bright and joyous. The opera scenes brought tears to my eyes more than once.

Most miraculously of all, Gracie, the erstwhile blight of the festival, was all sweetness and light. She sang gloriously, cooperated with the other singers, followed the conductor flawlessly and, as Carmen singing the ‘Habanera', won the applause of the other musicians, a rare accolade which she acknowledged with becoming modesty.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' said Sir John when the applause had died down. ‘You have worked splendidly this morning, and I am most grateful. I am also happy to tell you that the weather has improved a great deal, and we will be able to continue our work this afternoon at the castle. We have very little time, as you know, so may I ask you, please, to hold very strictly to one hour for lunch. Sandwiches have been provided for those who do not wish to find a nearby eating place. We will begin again at one thirty. Thank you very much.'

‘I, for one,' I said when we had settled ourselves in the car with some excellent sandwiches and bottles of water, ‘would not have believed it. What happened to turn that surly mob into a well-oiled musical machine?'

‘The music, of course!' Nigel waved his bottle of water in the air as though saluting St Cecilia, the patron of music. ‘It hath charms to soothe the savage breast, as is well documented.'

‘Hmm,' said Alan. ‘I remain an agnostic on that point. Certainly it wasn't doing much charming yesterday, by your account.'

‘Well . . . no. But Graciosa had just joined us. Sometimes it takes a little while to adapt to a group.'

Graciosa
, I noticed. Not
Gracie
. Nigel had adapted quickly, it seemed. I shot a glance at Inga to see how she was taking this. Her face was unreadable. I changed the subject. ‘You know, I thought I recognized Madame this morning. I'm sure I've never seen her perform, but there was something familiar about her, something . . . I can't put my finger on it.'

‘The universal diva personality,' said Inga, her tone extremely dry. Nigel gave her a puzzled look and then applied himself to his sandwiches and a study of the music to be rehearsed in the afternoon.

‘Clueless,' Inga murmured to me.

I nodded and shrugged. ‘Men,' I murmured back.

I would just as soon have skipped the afternoon rehearsal. Though I am ashamed to admit it, an afternoon nap has become more and more appealing with my advancing years. But Alan pointed out that we had only one car, which would have meant delivering Nigel and Inga to the castle, delivering me to Tower, and then going back later to pick them up.

‘You could take me home first,' I argued, ‘and Nigel could get his own car.'

‘I doubt there's time for that, if we're to get Nigel to the rehearsal on time. In any case,' he said, lowering his voice, ‘I want to be there. There's thunder in the air.'

The other two had gone to dispose of our rubbish in a bin, so I was the only one to give him a questioning look. The sky had cleared to a benign June blue, with nary a cloud in sight, and the wind was now the merest zephyr.

Alan simply shook his head and started the car. ‘Come, you two. Your carriage awaits.'

I had expected the castle to be as chaotic as before, but Sir John, or one of his minions, had accomplished yet another miracle. The crew had evidently got to work the moment the weather improved, and worked furiously ever since. The pavilion for the spectators had not yet been erected, but all the arrangements for the musicians were complete, right down to music stands that now stayed quietly where they belonged and cables that were decently placed out of traffic areas.

‘It's a different world!' I exclaimed as Nigel went off to his assigned spot, Inga determinedly following him.

‘But with the same inhabitants,' Alan replied.

I was annoyed. ‘Why are you so determined to be gloomy? It's a beautiful day, everything is going well. Why borrow trouble?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't know. You're well aware that I'm not subject to premonition, but a policeman learns to be attuned to atmosphere, and I just don't like the atmosphere around this festival. Nor do I have great faith in sudden conversions. I may be wrong. I hope I am. But when people I love could find themselves in trouble, I'd rather be there, to prevent if possible, to help if not.'

I gave his arm a squeeze, and we walked over to a convenient bit of wall where we could sit and watch.

This afternoon they were rehearsing some of the sacred music, a full rehearsal with all forces, soloists, chorus and orchestra. They began with the most complex work, the ‘Lord Nelson Mass'. In a departure from the usual format, for that work the conductor had chosen to put the soloists in the part of the castle I'd called the balcony. As they assembled there, Inga, rejoining us, explained, ‘Because of the acoustics of the place, Sir John thinks their voices will carry over the chorus and orchestra better from up there. We'll see, of course. It depends on how well the sound engineers have done their work.'

The usual preliminaries took less time than usual. The orchestra got itself tuned without an undue amount of the fifty-stomach-ache noise, the chorus settled into its sections, Sir John tapped his baton and captured everyone's eye, and they were off.

Those opening measures of the ‘Lord Nelson', with their almost harsh military overtones, always send chills up my spine, and here, in what once had been a fortress and a garrison, I could almost hear the thunder of hoof beats as the enemy approached. Then the chorus came in with their demand – yes, demand! – for mercy, and I was caught up in the splendour of the music. The soprano soloist was excellent, soaring into difficult, high passages with apparent ease and total control, and the acoustics from the balcony seemed to me to be working exactly as intended.