The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes

“In the finest tradition of Agatha Christie . . . Ace brings us the closed-room drama, with a dollop of romantic suspense and historical intrigue.” —
Library Journal

“Touches of Christie or Marsh but with a bouquet of Kinsey Millhone.” —
Globe and Mail

“A sparkling, well-plotted, and quite devious mystery in the cozy tradition.” —
Hamilton Spectator

“Perfect comfort reading. You could call it Agatha Christie set in the modern world, with great dollops of lovingly described food and drink.” —CrimeFictionLover.com

This book is dedicated to my sister, Sue.

Hywel ap Idris Cadwaladr (1815–1885)

Married

Eleri,

one son

He built the family fortune on copper, and was inspired by the Norman Keep at Cardiff Castle to build a Norman-style castle on a clifftop in the Gower Peninsula, near Swansea, South Wales.

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Ieuan ap Hywel Cadwaladr (1855–1935),
anglicized name to Powell Cadwallader

Married

Iris,

one son

He continued the family business, building it from just copper to also include steel, nickel plating, slate, and coal. He was very successful and mixed in the highest society. He built the Gothic-revival wing of the castle, where the “guest rooms” are situated, between 1880 and 1889, then built the final wing from 1889 to 1899 for his new wife, Iris, who loved the Jacobethan style because she was obsessed by Hatfield House. As well as building onto the castle, he added Tudor-style stables.

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Gryffudd Cadwallader (1890–1976)

Married

Alice (1920–),

two sons, one daughter

See the end of the book for some hints and tips for pronouncing Welsh names and words.

GENERALLY SPEAKING, I BELIEVE THAT
when life gives you lemons, you should make yourself a large gin and tonic. Or a lemon mousse. Okay, preferably both. There's always a bright side. But here I was, due to marry Bud Anderson in two days' time at a clifftop castle in Wales, and the apocalyptic weather system swirling above us didn't seem to have a silver lining. It had turned my wedding venue into a creepy place to be. All my romantic notions about Gothic-revival architecture had been blown away.

As I shivered in the drafty bridal boudoir of Castell Llwyd, my sister, Siân, tried to comfort me, but my mood was as gloomy as the skies.

“Buck up, sis. The storm will blow itself out by Monday. It didn't stop you and Bud getting here from Canada, or me from Australia. We're all here, safe. Though why you chose this place to get married, I'll never know. It's like something out of a Vincent Price movie.”

“Why here? Because I allowed myself to believe I could celebrate the start of my new life in a fairytale castle. For once, just once, I wanted to be a giddy, giggly romantic and wallow in luxury. I suppose it serves me right for trying to do something just a bit impractical, for a change.”

“Come on,” said Siân gently, rubbing my back as though I were a sick child. “It'll be alright. It can't get any worse. Now, show me your wedding dress, I can't wait to see it.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. I raced across the glacial room and perked up immediately when I heard Bud's voice in the hall outside.

“Cait, can I come in?” His tone was urgent. As I pulled open the heavy oak door, smiling expectantly, Bud set my nerves on edge by using his calming voice. “Now, don't panic, Cait. And don't get cross. You don't need to do anything. Mrs. Jones has everything under control. Besides, he's dead anyway, so there's no real rush. Don't panic. Right? This death will
not
spoil our wedding on Monday. I promise.”

“Death? What death?
Who's
dead?”

Siân gasped. “Someone's dead? Oh, Cait, not this weekend.”

Bud hugged me tight, then drew back, held onto my hands, and sighed as he spoke. “The choirmaster fell down the stairs to the kitchen and broke his neck, Cait. He's dead. I'm very sorry for the guy, of course, but we won't let this terrible accident affect our wedding.”

His tone was measured and sounded almost matter-of-fact. Decades in law enforcement will allow you that ability, and I knew that Bud had delivered difficult news to too many people over the years, especially during the latter part of his career when he'd held a command post in homicide in British Columbia. However, a year or so of retirement seemed to have softened him around the edges a little, and his facial expression as he spoke showed concern and real sadness. I dared to hope this was for
us
.

Bud said quietly, “I'll tell you about it, once we get off this drafty landing. Let's all go into your room, Cait.”

I replied, “It's not much better inside, but you're right, let's go in.” My voice had as much spark in it as the dead choirmaster now had. I shut the door behind Bud, who sat in an oversized wingback chair upholstered in the same deep pink brocade that hung in front of the sadly inadequate shutters. Siân perched on a stool next to the dark wood dressing table. I pushed back one of the drapes surrounding the massive four-poster bed and jumped up onto the high mattress, dangling my legs, shoulders hunched.

Bud said, “I booked a male choir to sing at the ceremony on Monday. You enjoyed the concert at Brangwyn Hall in Swansea in October so much, I thought it would be a good idea. You know, a special treat from the groom for the bride.” He adopted his “cute puppy” expression, but he could obviously see he wasn't winning me over because he added quickly, “Not a whole bunch of guys like we saw on stage, just a chorale, he said. They do it all the time, he said. But he fell, and, well . . . there you are.”

As Bud talked, I could feel my chin pucker. The past twelve weeks had comprised a heavy teaching schedule, clearing out the house that had been my home for a decade, selling it, finding a new one to live in with Bud, buying it, moving in,
and
planning our wedding in Wales. As a psychologist I knew that I had not coped well with the strain. I'd even lost my stress-reliever of decades past—my cigarettes. I'd given them up when Bud and I had set a date for the wedding.

Suddenly, I felt the wall of exhaustion I'd been pushing back for months smack me in the face, and I burst into tears. These should have been the most romantic days of my life. I'd fully expected that returning to Wales, where I was born and raised, to start my new life as the wife of the man I loved would be an excellent idea.

But my dreams of a fairytale wedding were falling to pieces. So far our trip had been a litany of trials and frustration. A flight delayed by four hours in Vancouver; the panic-inducing temporary disappearance of the suitcase containing my wedding outfit; a motorway awash because of the record-breaking rainfall; no time for a nap when we'd arrived; a wedding venue that had seemed more than acceptable at our October viewing, but which was clearly lacking in adequate heating and insulation against the inclement winter conditions—and now the corpse of a choirmaster. As I let it all flow over me, I miserably accepted a tissue from Siân, who then gave me the whole box. For several moments I blubbered like a child.

LEARNING OF THE UNEXPECTED DEATH
of a stranger is not unusual for me, so I was surprised at how poorly I was taking this. Bud and I had met when he decided his Integrated Homicide Investigation Team could use my expertise as a victim profiler, which is my chosen field of research as a professor of criminology at the University of Vancouver. I suppose it could be said that death was how we met, and it's a thread running through our lives. Certainly it was what brought us together as a couple—if Bud's wife, Jan, hadn't been tragically killed, we'd have remained simply colleagues.

Eventually, my sobbing subsided. I sighed determinedly. “You know what, Bud Anderson? Nature in all its wrathful glory has done its best to stop us from getting to Wales. But here we all are. Storms or no storms, dead body or no dead body, you and I
will
be married on Monday. I'm very sorry for the choirmaster, and for those who will be more personally impacted by his death than us. But—let's be practical. Are you sure we don't need to do anything? I know we're just paying guests here, but should we really just stay in our rooms and let the folks who live here get on with it?” My tummy rumbled. I looked at my watch. “Oh heck, we were due to have dinner in an hour or so, and I'm starving. I wonder how a fatal accident will affect that plan.” I stopped myself before I said more. “That's a terrible thing to say. I know I shouldn't be thinking about food at a time like this. You're one hundred percent sure that it
was
an accident?”

“Of course it was an accident.” Bud sounded very sure of himself.
Maybe a bit too sure?
“I'm glad to see you've pulled yourself together enough to be thinking about your stomach.” He smiled, but I noticed Siân shaking her head in disbelief. “Cait, you need to drop this idea of yours that there are hordes of murderers all around the world just waiting for you to show up so they can go ahead and kill someone.”

His grin widened, and I finally returned his smile; my habit of encountering foul play was our little “joke,” though not a very amusing one to an outsider, or the victims in question, of course.

Bud looked serious as he continued, “We managed to be here in Wales for a whole eight days in October without so much as a hint of a body showing up, so let's just accept that this is a very unfortunate accident and move on as best we can.”

I nodded, though there was something about his tone that made me feel uncertain.

“Besides,” he continued, fiddling with one of the buttons on the arm of his chair, “I cannot imagine that anyone would have a good reason to push a choirmaster down a flight of stairs—unless he was a terrible conductor, of course.” He tried raising an eyebrow in my direction, but merely ended up looking surprised.
He's not a pro at eyebrow manipulation, like me.

“Bless you for trying to cheer me up, Bud Anderson,” I said. “It's working.”

He cocked his head lovingly and said, “Good, I'm glad. You deserve to be happy, especially this weekend—the only time in your life you'll be a bride. Besides, I happen to know he lived here, so you'd think anyone who wanted him out of the way would have chosen a time to kill him when there wasn't a retired homicide detective and a famous criminal psychologist staying here, right?”

I shrugged my agreement.
You've thought this through, Bud. Why?

“Don't forget me. I'm here too,” added Siân. “I might not be a super-sleuth like you two seem to be, but I could do my bit in an emergency. Remember, before I had the kids I was a very accomplished theatre nurse. I could do the medical assessment of a body.”

Bud tilted his head toward Siân and winked. “If we happen to find a corpse that needs a physical exam, we'll call you, Siân. But Mrs. Jones told me she found the body and it was clear he'd fallen. So let's leave it at that. This is nothing for us to get involved with, Cait. It's terribly sad, but there's nothing we can do and no need for us to get involved
at all
. I dare say the authorities might want to speak to us when they get here, because we were on the premises when the poor guy fell. I cannot imagine it will affect anything important that we've arranged but—you know what—?”