Murder at the Castle (8 page)

I glanced at Alan. He appeared to be lost in the music. Or was his rapt concentration fixed rather on the musicians?

Sir John let the ‘Kyrie' run through to its conclusion before stopping. He ran the first few bars of the chorus entrance again, insisting on perfectly clean articulation of the eighth-notes, and perfect, clipped diction. By the second repetition, he had what he wanted, and they went on to the ‘Gloria'.

This was the first chance I'd had to hear Nigel, since the full quartet sings in this movement. I leaned forward to catch his full, rich tenor as he and the baritone sang together in a lovely and moving duet.

Then Madame de la Rosa joined them, and I could hear only her superb voice. Not that she overpowered the others. She was behaving impeccably, keeping her voice and her temperament under control. But my word, the strength of that voice! She made the others sound like amateurs, even Nigel, dearly as I loved him.

Now all four were singing together, and Graciosa raised her head as her voice soared to what must be the very top of her range . . . and then higher, and higher, into a terrified, terrifying scream. She dropped her music, clawed at her face and neck and hair, turned around, screamed again, backed up against the stone railing of the balcony . . .

And as the music faded disjointedly away, and in what seemed almost like slow motion, she was over the railing and pitching to the stone pavement twenty feet below.

A
lan was on his feet running toward Graciosa before anyone else had much chance to react. I stayed where I was, but Inga, after a moment, followed Alan. Sir John got a slower start, but with less distance to cover he beat Alan by a nose. He started to kneel.

‘Don't touch her, if you please, sir. I am a policeman, and must make sure that she is not disturbed until the local police arrive.'

‘But she needs medical help! We have to get her to a doctor!'

Alan had laid his fingers lightly on her neck, the neck that was twisted in a very odd way. ‘I'm afraid she is beyond any human help, sir.'

‘No . . . You don't mean . . .'

‘I'm afraid so. Now, Sir John, you can be a very great help if you will. Please ask the musicians, and the crew and so on, to stand clear, but to
stay on the premises
.' He already had his phone out and was punching in the familiar number. ‘And someone – ah, Inga, my dear. Would you go up to the balcony – gallery – whatever the thing is called, and make sure no one disturbs anything up there.'

Inga looked horrified. ‘Then you think . . .?'

‘I don't think anything at the moment, but you know any sudden death must be investigated. Go, child!'

She went.

I very much wanted, needed, to talk to Alan, but now was perhaps not the time. He had his hands full. I would wait until the official police arrived.

Meanwhile I tried to make myself useful. I thought I could perhaps assist Sir John, who seemed to have his hands very full of assorted musicians, all of whom were upset. He didn't seem to be doing too well himself, for that matter. There was sweat on his brow, and his hands were trembling.

‘Sir John,' I said tentatively. He turned around and looked at me blankly.

‘Do I know you?'

‘No, but I'm a good friend of Nigel Evans.' Then, when he still looked blank, ‘Nigel Evans. Your tenor.'

‘Oh, yes, of course. Did you want to speak to him? Because I think he's still up . . .' He gestured towards the balcony, without looking at it.

‘No, I don't need him. I think you need help, though, and I came to offer it. You'll forgive me for saying you don't look at all well. May I bring you some water?'

‘No, no, I'm fine, really. Someone told me to . . .' He looked helplessly at the crowd of musicians, who were milling around and getting far too close to the pathetic body of Graciosa.

‘That someone was my husband, and he wouldn't want you to overtax yourself. If you'll sit down, I'll find someone to bring you some water – and is there some medication you should be taking?' I didn't quite want to say so, but the poor man looked very much as if he might be having a heart attack.

‘No, I . . . Very well. I do feel a bit odd. But it's nothing serious, madam, I do assure you.'

‘Good.' I half pushed him into the chair recently occupied by the concertmaster, and snagged a wandering clarinettist. ‘Go to the gift shop and buy this man some water,' I ordered her. ‘Do you have money?'

She took a good look at Sir John, then nodded and set off at a brisk pace.

‘But the musicians . . .'

‘You leave the crowd control to me. I used to be good at it.'

I grabbed Sir John's microphone from its stand and bellowed into it. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Your attention, please! QUIET, please!' These were not the schoolchildren I used to be able to quell with my voice alone, but they responded gratifyingly. ‘Thank you,' I said in a slightly more restrained tone. ‘As you know, there has been a tragic accident. If you have not already realized it, I am sorry to tell you that Madame de la Rosa died in the fall.' A little ripple of shock and unease. ‘The police will be here soon, but until they arrive, you are asked please to keep well away from the scene of the accident, but remain within the castle precincts. Thank you.'

‘What will happen with the festival?' shouted one of the crowd.

There were murmurs of disapproval, and I was a little shocked myself, but it was a legitimate question.

‘I don't know. I'm sure Sir John will work that out with the police, and you'll be informed as soon as possible.' I switched off the mike and put it back on its stand. The noise level picked up again as everyone began to buzz about the situation, but over it I heard, with great relief, the sound of sirens. The Force had arrived.

Then of course Alan was kept busy talking to the officer in charge, while another, his second-in-command, presumably, attended to Sir John. Still others began to separate the musicians into manageable groups for interviews. Eventually one of the lesser lights, a beefy, rather sour-looking man of about fifty, approached me.

‘And you'd be Mrs Nesbitt?'

‘Mrs Martin. But yes, Mr Nesbitt's wife.'

His expression told me what he thought of women with names different from their husbands'. ‘Right,' he continued, making a note. ‘And what can you tell me about all this?'

He wasn't Welsh, that was certain. There was none of that Welsh lilt, that softness of accent. Nor was there the courtesy of manner I had met with so far. What was he doing in the police on this side of the border, I wondered. Besides annoying the natives.

Those thoughts took only a portion of my brain, while I framed an answer to his question. ‘I was in a good position to see her fall, better than most people here, because they were busy playing and singing, and I was merely observing. She was singing, and hit a high note, and then it went higher and higher and turned into a scream, and then she fell.'

‘She screamed
before
she fell? Are you sure?'

‘I can,' I said, very much on my dignity, ‘tell the difference between singing and screaming. And yes, it was before she fell. And now I stop to think about it, she was also sort of flailing about, slapping at her hair and neck.'

‘Hmm. A bee, maybe. And who was near her at the time?'

‘The other three soloists.'

‘Names?'

‘I don't know all their names. The tenor is Nigel Evans.'

‘A Welshman, then?'

‘His father was. Nigel has lived in England since he was very young.'

‘And how do you know so much about him?'

My irritation with this mannerless oaf was growing. ‘He has been a good friend for many years,' I said frostily.

‘I see.' He made another note. ‘Know anything about the others?'

‘Only that they sing like angels.'

‘Yes, well, maybe one of them wasn't so angelic.' He slapped his notebook shut. ‘That's all for now, Mrs Nesbitt.'

‘One moment, young man.' I let him see my anger. ‘For one thing, that is not my name. As you know perfectly well. For another, if you think that one of the other soloists pushed Madame de la Rosa to her death, you are quite mistaken. They were not near enough to her to trip her, their hands were occupied with their scores, and their minds and souls with the music.
Good
afternoon!'

I stalked off, seething.

‘Problems, love?'

Alan had come up behind me. I turned to him. ‘Not really, I suppose, except that I just had a close encounter of the idiot kind.'

‘Ah, that would be Sergeant Blimp, I expect. I saw him arrive and pegged him as one of those coppers who's never done anything useful in his life, but has also never done anything quite stupid enough to get him sacked.'

‘The name would be appropriate,' I agreed. ‘I don't know what his real name is, as he didn't bother to introduce himself. He pretended not to know what my real name is, either. But the worst thing is that he didn't listen to a thing I told him. He's decided Nigel probably did it, because he has a Welsh name. He's English – Sergeant Blimp, I mean.'

Alan looked grave. ‘If he were under my supervision, that sort of attitude would be just cause for a dressing-down, if not worse disciplinary action.'

‘He wasn't overt about it, but his face, like mine, shows his thoughts only too clearly. But never mind him. I've been wanting to talk to you, because I finally remembered something important. You know I said I thought I recognized Graciosa?'

‘You've remembered why?'

‘Yes, and I think we ought to pass it along to the police. Alan, she was on that canal boat.'

‘But she said she didn't even get to England until that night!'

We were on our way back to Tower. We were all exhausted. The police had questioned everyone at length, though they had not, to my relief and Sergeant Blimp's apparent consternation, questioned Nigel any more closely than anyone else. Apparently the inspector in charge, whose name was Owen, was aware of Blimp's bias against the Welsh and discounted it automatically.

The fate of the festival had still not been decided. The next day, Sunday, had always been scheduled as a day of rest for most of the participants before the gruelling week ahead. But Nigel was more interested, just now, in my insistence that Graciosa had been on board the canal boat when the unfortunate baritone fell overboard.

‘You're sure?' he said for the fourth or fifth time.

‘Nigel, I'm sure.' I tried to be patient. We were all upset. ‘I didn't recognize her for certain this morning, but when she fell and I got a good look at her, something clicked, and I remembered. I'm terrible with names, as you probably know, but I remember faces. She was on board that boat.'

‘Then why did she lie about it?' Nigel said, running his fingers through his hair so it stood up on end. ‘When do you think she really did come into the country? Did she miss the early rehearsals on purpose? It's an extremely unprofessional thing to do.'

‘You're not a professional singer,' I reminded him. ‘Maybe she wasn't either.'

‘But we're all being paid for this gig,' Nigel retorted. ‘Not a lot, but we are receiving payment. That makes it a professional engagement. But she wasn't behaving like a professional, even after she turned up. I can't make any sense of it at all.'

‘The police would like to know the answers to those questions, too,' said Alan soberly. ‘It should be easy enough to find her passport and check the date of entry. After that, though, the waters become murkier. She was the only one who could have answered most of your questions.'

‘And what I'd like to know, most of all,' I said, ‘is the reason for her sudden reversal of personality. Fire-breathing dragon one moment, angel of sweet reason the next. Frankly, at the moment I can think of only one explanation for such a dramatic change.'

‘Drugs,' said the other three in near-unison.

Alan smacked his knee. ‘Dorothy, you may have hit on it! A drug reaction might also explain that odd sort of fit she went into just before she fell. It looked to me almost like a severe allergic reaction. I need to mention this to the inspector.' He looked for a place to pull off the road, and found none.

‘I did tell Sergeant Blimp about her peculiar behaviour,' I said. ‘It actually looked to me more like an attack of hysteria, but I suppose drugs could cause that. Maybe a hallucinogenic? Anyway, he wasn't impressed. He barely listened, in fact, because he'd decided you pushed her, Nigel.'

He chuckled. ‘Yes, I picked up on that. I tried hard to summon up a Welsh accent to make him even happier with me, but as I've never lived in Wales nor learned the language, I couldn't do it. I'm not worried about him. That type is all froth and no beer.'

‘And Inspector Owen has the measure of him, I think,' said Alan. ‘I'd like to phone him, but there doesn't seem to be a pullout. It will just have to wait until we get back to Tower.'

We were only a few minutes away, but we drove on into Mold to pick up some provisions for supper. None of us felt like going out. While Inga and Nigel and I did a little quick shopping, Alan made his phone call.

‘He was polite about it, but I rather got the impression he thought I was meddling,' he reported when we got back to the car with our bags. ‘Apparently the medical examiner found no outward signs of drugs use. They routinely check, of course. But I think he will now order drugs tests with the autopsy. He wasn't happy about it.'

‘Expense, delay?' I queried.

‘Not to mention interference from a superannuated retiree. And an Englishman, to boot.'

We ate our suppers sitting in a pleasant gazebo at Tower, but the picnic spirit was notably lacking.

I
was wiped out by bedtime, and had intended to sleep late the next morning. But with its usual perversity, my brain started functioning at sunrise, which is very, very early in June in Wales. I got up, went to the bathroom, and then tried to get back to sleep, but every time I edged over into a nice fuzzy state I would see and hear Graciosa, screaming and then falling, falling, and my eyes would pop open again. I finally gave up, got up and dressed as quietly as I could, and made myself a cup of instant coffee, which I loathe but drank anyway for the caffeine. Then I let myself out of the room, closed the door softly behind me, and walked downstairs. It still wasn't six o'clock, but to my great relief, Charles was already up, attending to the dogs.