Murder at the Castle (9 page)

‘You're up early, Dorothy,' he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I thought Mairi told me late breakfast for you today.'

‘That's what I thought, too,' I said ruefully. ‘I couldn't sleep. I'm not hungry, though, Charles. I wonder if you could disarm the alarm on the front door, so I could go for a walk. When are the others having breakfast?'

‘The alarm is shut off. I leave a rope across the staircase until I do that, so don't worry. And the others have booked breakfast at nine. You won't want to wait that long, I'm sure. Just come to the kitchen when you're ready, and give a shout if we're not in sight.'

I wandered for a while around the extensive grounds, admiring the gorgeous old oak trees, their leaves so much smaller than the ones at home, their shade welcome against the sun that, even at that hour, was hot on my skin. I tried hard to think about nothing but grass and trees and birds and flowers, but every now and then a strain of music in my head would turn into the ‘Lord Nelson', and then of course I was back again, watching her fall . . .

I wondered about Alan's explanation of her behaviour just before she fell. She had acted a lot like someone trying to scratch everything at once, as perhaps in an allergy attack. I tried mimicking her movements, as best I could remember them.

She had started screaming. Or rather her singing had turned to screams. That was, I was reasonably sure, before she began flailing about, although it had all happened so fast. She had pawed at her face, neck and hair, had turned around, facing away from the balcony opening, had screamed even louder and backed up . . .

‘What on earth?'

I screamed myself, or squeaked, at least. ‘Nigel! Don't you ever do that again! You scared me out of seven years' growth!'

‘Sorry! One doesn't make much noise, walking on grass. I came out to tell you we all got up early, and breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes. But what were you doing just now with that St Vitus dance routine? I thought you'd gone mad.'

‘Well, I didn't mean to have an audience!' I turned back to the house with him. ‘I was trying to work out what Graciosa was doing just before she fell. You were there, right next to her. What was your impression?'

‘I don't know that I have one. I was watching Sir John and the score, because I had an entrance just a few bars later, and was sort of caught up in the music, you know?'

‘So was everyone else, I suspect. It really was glorious. I do hope . . . oh, it sounds terribly heartless, but I do hope the festival can continue. Are there any understudies for the soloists?'

‘I don't think so. I don't have one, I know. At least, if I do, Sir John hasn't told me.'

I sighed. ‘It does seem a great pity, when everyone's gone to such a lot of work, to have it end like this. And if that's a selfish thought, well, I'm sorry. But I didn't know the woman, and what I learned of her personality, until yesterday, made me profoundly glad I
wasn't
in her acquaintance.'

‘She could sing, though.' Nigel shook his head sadly at the death of an artist.

We all tried to be cheerful over breakfast. Charles and Mairi knew, of course, what had happened, and had tried to raise our spirits with a breakfast even more splendid than usual. There was a compote of fresh pineapple, strawberries, and kiwi, with thick cream to pour over it, along with the usual eggs and bacon and sausage and mushrooms and tomato and toast and Charles's incomparable marmalade. But we were edgy, waiting for news. News of the festival, news of the investigation.

Alan's phone rang, and we all jumped. He doesn't usually bring it to the table, but today was different. He excused himself, and when he came back, he looked discouraged.

‘There were no signs of drugs in Madame de la Rosa's system,' he told us, ‘and Inspector Owen was remarkably crisp about that report.'

‘Oh, dear.' I sounded as guilty as I felt. I had been the one to hint at the possibility of drugs, and wasting police time and money isn't a joke. ‘It was nice of him to tell you, though. Did he say anything else?'

‘They've found her passport. She entered this country in early February—'

‘February!' said Nigel, enraged.

‘—from New York,' Alan finished. ‘She carried an American passport.'

We sat, stunned. Everything Graciosa had said was a lie. There were too many questions even to put words to them.

‘Well,' I said finally. ‘Well. I don't suppose they've managed to trace her family.'

‘They don't even know her real name at this point. Plainly she used a stage name, but that's the way her passport reads, too. They'll try to trace a next-of-kin, but I don't imagine they'll try too hard. They've really done more than they needed to already, for an accidental death.'

And then Nigel got the phone call that told him that another mezzo had been found, that the festival was continuing, and that special rehearsals had been called for the soloists that afternoon.

Epitaph for Graciosa, I thought. The queen is dead; long live the queen.

We all drove into Mold for church at St Mary's, where, as Charles had told us, memorials to his ancestors were numerous. Afterwards we found ourselves some lunch, and then Alan and I decided to attend rehearsals with Nigel and Inga. They were to be held in the same parish church as the earlier rehearsals, not in the castle. Apparently there was considerable debate about whether to use the castle for the performances.

‘In the nature of a jinx, is that the thought?' asked Alan as we drove through a pastoral landscape that would have made Constable drool.

Nigel laughed. ‘I suppose that may be part of it. But musicians, though they may be temperamental, are a practical lot, you know. I imagine Sir John is mostly concerned about the logistics of a change and the effect on the box office.'

And again I thought what a pity it was that no one seemed saddened by Graciosa's death. Upset by the circumstances, yes, and worried over the fate of the festival, but not grief-stricken.

When we got to St Elian's, I wondered if I was going to have to change my mind. Sir John seemed to have aged several years since yesterday. A person's hair doesn't turn grey overnight, no matter what the writers of romantic fiction would have us believe. But a face can take on a drawn, grey look when its owner is ill or sleep-deprived, or troubled almost beyond endurance. The poor man, who couldn't have been much over forty, looked like a grandfather. A decrepit grandfather.

Surely musical and administrative problems wouldn't cause distress that acute. Could he really be missing his extremely difficult mezzo?

Inga noticed it, too. ‘What's wrong with Sir John?' she whispered. ‘He's coming apart at the seams.'

I nodded. ‘Maybe he has a lot of money invested in this project, and he's afraid it's going to fail.'

‘Maybe,' she said, but she sounded sceptical.

The rehearsal was going badly. The new mezzo hadn't anything like the power and drama of Graciosa (who had?), but she was better than adequate, and note-perfect. It wasn't that. Even I, who know music only as an avid listener, could see that the problem lay behind the baton.

Sir John failed to cue entrances. He turned over two pages of the score at once and got hopelessly lost. He was sweating profusely, though the church, like most medieval churches, was extremely chilly.

After an hour he laid down his baton and cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. I am wasting your time. You are well-prepared; I am not. I apologize, and I promise not to let you down tomorrow.' He cleared his throat again. ‘Taking all circumstances into consideration, I have decided that we will stay at the castle as planned. We'll simply have to keep our fingers crossed about acoustics and moving from place to place. Please be there by noon, so that we will have a little time to review before we begin. Thank you.' He closed his score with a shaking hand and walked over to the pianist.

The singers stood there for a moment, nonplussed. Then, with shrugs all round, they gathered up their personal belongings and walked into the nave.

Alan, Inga and I went to meet Nigel. He was looking stunned.

‘I never would have believed it,' he began. ‘Sir John Warner unprepared for a rehearsal! I'd sooner have expected the Queen to appear in public without a hat.'

He opened his mouth to say more, but I put a hand on his shoulder. Sir John was approaching.

Nigel turned quickly, but the conductor addressed Alan. ‘Am I right, sir, in believing that you are a retired policeman?'

‘Quite right,' said Alan, a trifle startled. ‘Long retired. I was the chief constable of Belleshire for some years.'

‘Then may I speak to you for a moment?'

Alan gave me a what-on-earth-is-this-about look and went with Sir John to a quiet corner. At least it might have been a quiet corner, but for the acoustic properties of an ancient stone church. As it was, the three of us clearly heard Sir John's whispered colloquy with my husband.

It was brief. ‘You see, sir, I'm not sure what to do, and I thought I'd like to speak with you before I go to the local police. I have some information they may need to know.' He paused. His back was to us, but I heard him swallow. Hard. ‘It's . . . the thing is . . . Graciosa de la Rosa was my wife.'

‘T
he poor chap didn't know where to turn, so he came to me.' Alan took a fairly hefty swig of bourbon. ‘What he needs is a solicitor, of course, but he's quite frantic about not letting Lady Cynthia find out, at least not until the time comes, if it comes, when he must. It wouldn't be very good for her in her condition, I shouldn't think.'

We were sitting in the lounge at Tower trying to make sense of the latest development, Alan and I with our bourbon, Inga and Nigel with wine. Charles and Mairi, after providing us with glasses, and plates for our cheese and biscuits, had left us discreetly alone, although I knew they were dying to find out what was going on.

I must have gasped back at the church, or made some noise, anyway, when I heard what Sir John had to say, because Alan had bundled him off to the vestry or someplace where they could talk in genuine privacy. He had obtained Sir John's permission, however, to tell the three of us his story, if we promised not to let it go any further.

‘You remember, of course,' Alan began, ‘the story about the shipwreck years ago.' We nodded. It had been a spectacular news story. More than a hundred lives had been lost, and many more were presumed dead, their bodies resting somewhere in the Mediterranean. ‘Mrs Warner was reported missing. Mr Warner, as he was then, hadn't seen her since the first hint of trouble, when they were separated. He tried to look for her, but the crew insisted that he must board a lifeboat immediately. Then something happened. He still doesn't remember what, but evidently something must have fallen on his head. It was a pretty chaotic scene, I gather.' He paused for another sip of his drink.

‘At any rate, he lost consciousness, and the next thing he knew was waking up in hospital in Athens several days later with only the vaguest memories of the whole affair. He says the doctors told him he was lucky to have survived, for he'd had a severe concussion, with subdural bleeding, the lot. When he began to sit up and take notice, the first thing he wanted to know, naturally, was Delia's whereabouts. That was her name then – Delia Lopez Warner. Sir John is reasonably certain it was her real name.

‘The hospital authorities couldn't, or wouldn't, tell him anything about her, so when they finally turned him loose he hounded everyone he could think of – the Greek police, the shipping company, any other passengers he could find. He made no headway at all. In the end, of course, he had to go back to England and carry on.

‘Reading between the lines, I gathered the marriage had not been a success. He was grieved at her loss. Back then, I mean. I could feel that as he spoke of it. But I could also sense that he was not devastated. He went on with his career, which even then was promising. He was constantly meeting other musicians, naturally, and eventually he met a charming pianist and fell in love with her.'

‘Lady Cynthia,' said Nigel.

‘Yes, but it was just plain Cynthia Hailes then. Well, it had been nearly seven years since the shipwreck, and Warner had heard nothing from or about Delia. He and Cynthia wanted to marry, so Warner began proceedings to have her declared legally dead. There was no trouble about it, and when the formalities were accomplished Warner and his Cynthia were married and started a family.'

‘And then Delia shows up, with a new name and, I'm guessing, malice in her heart.' I groaned and looked at my empty glass. Alan held up the bottle, but I shook my head. A headache in the morning wouldn't help anything. ‘But does it make any real difference? Legally, I mean.'

‘That's what I don't know.' Alan ran a hand down the back of his head in a familiar gesture of frustration. ‘Personally, I doubt that it would. He went through all the proper legal steps, and it would seem apparent that she knew where he was and chose to remain apart from him. She obviously kept in contact with the world of music and could hardly have helped knowing. He could probably have sought a divorce on the grounds of desertion. But of course he didn't, because he thought she was dead.'

‘But you're not a lawyer,' Inga pointed out. ‘You could be wrong. He could still be legally married to her. I mean he could have been, only that now she's dead.'

‘Exactly,' said Alan, and there was a melancholy little silence.

‘Did he tell you what happened when he gave her the ride from the castle to the church? Good grief, only two days ago! Seems like forever.' I shook my head at the elastic nature of time.

‘He did.' Alan seemed reluctant to go on.

‘Let me guess. A nice little spot of blackmail, right? She offered not to spill the beans if he would – do what? Fork over some cash? Use his influence to get her roles?'