The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes

by Cathy Ace

  “So,” said Siân, “other than this Mrs. Jones, who’ll probably now make me want to laugh out loud when I meet her, who else is there here? I promise to listen carefully and try to keep up, but I haven’t got a photographic memory like yours, Cait, so I might forget one or two details.”

  “Then I’ll keep them to a minimum,” I replied, arching my right eyebrow in its most disdainful manner.

  “Does that eyebrow thing of hers work on you, Bud?” asked Siân.

  Bud shook his head, smiling. “Not anymore.”

  “Me neither, sis, so you can cut it out,” said Siân with a grin.

  I conceded defeat. “There’s the family, then there are those who live and work here. First, the family. Alice Cadwallader is the matriarch. She’s very old now, in her nineties, I believe, but I gather she was a real beauty in her day. The parties she and her husband, Gryffudd Cadwallader, hosted here were legendary. Alice’s son, Owain, and daughter, Mair, live here as well. He’s got a reputation as a historian and a scholar; I know nothing about the daughter. Neither are married, and no children. Also living here are Alice’s grandson, Idris, and his wife, Eirwen. Bud and I have met both of them, but not the rest of the family. We were all supposed to get together at dinner tonight. Idris is Alice Cadwallader’s grandson by her late son, Teilo. Idris and Eirwen have two children, though I was told by Idris when we arrived today that they have gone to stay with his wife’s family for the New Year, having just enjoyed Christmas here at Castell Llwyd. So there won’t be any children running around the place, which is just fine by me.”

  “This must be a great place for kids to spend Christmas,” Siân said, quite wistfully. She had traveled alone, leaving her husband in charge of their two offspring. “I know it’s gloomy and brooding, but they’d love its quirkiness, and that massive tree in the main hallway is quite something. I took a look at the decorations earlier on—they must go back some years. Very intricate, some of them.” Siân smiled a little as she added, “We have a little Christmas tree made of silver foil, back home in Perth. But, of course, it’s all a bit different there. Christmas Day this year it was over thirty degrees in the morning—we couldn’t wait for the Fremantle Doctor to blow in. Too hot to roast a bird, so we had fish on the barbecue.”

  “Not shrimp?” I grinned.

  “Ha ha, sis, very funny,” replied Siân. “No, there wasn’t any room next to the kangaroo steaks,” she quipped.

  “The doctor? Was someone sick?” asked Bud, sounding concerned.

  “You’re sweet, Bud,” replied Siân, “but no, no one was sick. The Doctor is a wind that blows into Perth every afternoon; it makes us all feel better when it’s hot. It’s very special. You two should come and feel it one day, and meet the children. They’ll be off to university before you’ve so much as met them face to face, Auntie Cait,” she chided lovingly.

  “I’d like that,” replied Bud seriously, “and I’m sure Cait would too. I bet she could arrange a good, long break from her teaching, or maybe a couple of semesters of sabbatical?” He was slyly tackling a topic we’d touched upon several times before—and it never ended well. For him.

  “Not now, Bud. Let’s get this trip over with first, eh? I mean, let’s enjoy our wedding as best we can, right?”

  I returned my attention to Siân. “So, to continue—that’s the Cadwallader family. Then there’s Rhian Davies, the woman who’s the event planner here—she’s the one I’ve been emailing about all the arrangements. And, of course, Mrs. Jones, who’ll be preparing our wedding luncheon. Other than that, I have no idea who else lives in, or helps out. Though I dare say we’ll find out over time. Or maybe at dinner, if we dine. But that’s enough about them and my ever-sharpening appetite. Bud, how did you get hold of the late David Davies in the first place?”

  “Remember you went to the washroom in the interval of that concert in the Brangwyn Hall?” I nodded. “Well, he came and had a pint of beer in the bar where I was getting you a drink. I’d seen your face as you listened to the men singing on the stage and you looked transported—when you weren’t admiring the art on the walls, of course. I got the idea right away, so I approached him and got his card. We later exchanged a few emails, and he told me he had a pared-down chorale that often performs at weddings here, so it was an easy thing for me to organize. He mentioned that he lived here, though he never told me why, and I guess I just didn’t think to ask. There’s been so much going on back home I was just glad it seemed such a simple thing to arrange.”

  Every time I looked at Bud, I knew how lucky I was to be marrying him. “You’re a thoughtful, loving man, Bud Anderson, and it was, indeed, a delightful idea. I adore the sound of male voice choirs, and that night was as wonderful as I had imagined it would be. I know that my eidetic memory allows me to recall things at will, but it’s always a joy to be able to experience them again. I often sang in that very hall when I was in the West Glamorgan Youth Choir, back when I lived in Swansea, as did Siân, years later. I attended a good number of other concerts there over the years, too. As for admiring the paintings, I have never, ever taken Frank Brangwyn’s incredible work for granted, whether the performance was André Previn conducting Vladimir Ashkenazy, David Essex, or even Queen.” I reached over and took Bud’s hand. “But it’s not the end of the world, my darling. And thank you for trying.”

  “I tell you what,” said Bud, leaping up from the bed. “I’m going to go hang about downstairs so I can see whoever needs to take my statement as soon as possible, and I’ll check with them whether they even need to talk to you two at all. You can get yourselves all gussied up for dinner and ready to join me downstairs. By the way, are you going to be okay in this room, Cait? It’s not as warm as mine. Of course, it’s three times the size. Mine seems a good deal cozier—wood paneling is more welcoming than the painted plaster you have in here. Though those scenes on the walls are quite something. Amazing. I expect you’re enjoying them.”

  “You’re right,” I replied, looking up at the scenes from Welsh mythology that had been painstakingly composed and expertly painted onto the walls above the chair rail, and across the ceiling of my circular bedroom. “I’ll be fine, thanks. I’ve never spent a night in my very own turret before, so this is an opportunity not to be missed. I could do without the windows rattling behind the shutters; however, so long as none of the figures from the Mabinogion step down from their painted scenes, I’ll probably survive.”

  “I don’t know how you could bear to sleep in here,” Siân said as she looked around the room. “All those eyes staring down at me would freak me out. Weird characters to have painted in here in any case. Ancient stories full of death, retribution, and lots and lots of begetting.”

  “The Mabinogion?” Bud mangled the pronunciation a little. “I guess that’s something I’ll get the chance to learn about when you school me later?” he asked, looking wary.

  I could feel the corners of my eyes crinkle as I replied, “I’ll catch you up on millennia of Welsh history, including medieval mythologies, before you know it. Then you can do the same for me one day about Swedish culture—how about that?”

  Bud shook his head vigorously. “I’d have to learn about Swedish stuff first, Cait. I might have been born there, but my parents never saw fit to immerse me in my birth culture, just my adopted one of Canada. Now, Canadian history? Well, there I am pretty good. You get a real sense of place and history being in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—you have to, or you won’t understand all the communities you’re dealing with, all the cultural variations, you know? I could tell you tales from ancient, and more modern, Canadian history that would make your hair curl. You could test me if you like.”

  I grinned. “This is only for tonight and tomorrow. Then you can leave your cozy groom’s room and join me here, where we can snuggle for warmth in the conjugal bed.” I threw Bud an impish grin.

  “Two nights is a long, long time,” he sighed.

  “Well, two nights it is,” I replied, wag
ging my finger at him. Then, in a slightly more serious tone, I said, “Okay, Bud, while I try to make myself acceptable for public consumption, maybe you could find out what’s happening about everything downstairs. I hope this doesn’t mean that we won’t be able to eat here at all tonight. It’s the best part of an hour by car back into Swansea for food. We’re really out in the wilds here—on the edge of civilization to be sure.”

  “I’ll go and sort everything right now, and you can come find me when you’re ready. You’d better get on with it, you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.” Bud chuckled as he moved to leave.

  “Hey, before you leave us, Bud,” Siân said, “I promised Mattie and Beccie that I’d give you this right away. Go on, open it.” Her face was alight with anticipation, so I took the package she’d thrust toward us, and pulled at the packaging. “Careful,” she warned, watching my every move.

  As the paper fell open I found myself looking at a framed photograph of an apple-cheeked little girl with innocent, cornflower eyes, holding an infant in her tiny arms as though it were a doll. Sitting, once again, on the edge of the bed, I felt my face—and my heart—smile. We made a pretty picture, my sister Siân and I, all those decades ago. Unfortunately, the frame surrounding the image was less appealing. Its ugliness belied the undoubted enthusiasm with which Siân’s children, Mattie and Beccie, had constructed it in Perth, and the care with which Siân had transported it halfway around the world. Youthful fingers had studded gaudily painted papier-mâché with an array of tiny shells and stones that should have spelled out, in celebratory capitals, the word family. Sadly, the items forming the two down-strokes of the letter M had fallen off, so the frame seemed to make an accusation. FAIIILY.

  I was aware that Siân was monitoring my expression as I looked at the photograph. When I looked up, I knew my eyes were full of tears.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, sis,” she said quickly. “I thought you’d like it. I know you don’t have many photos of us from when we were little. You got Mum and Dad’s ashes; I got the photo albums. As we agreed after their funeral, you don’t really need photos, with that memory you’ve got. But I thought this would be a nice gesture. And the kids loved making the frame for Auntie Cait. Do you remember when the photo was taken?”

  I wiped my eyes. “It was Whitsun Sunday, before you turned one year old. Dad had that new instant camera. It seemed like magic to me at the time. He clicked a box, ripped some paper, counted, and there it was—a color photograph. Magic.” I looked at our faces again, well, my face really, because Siân wasn’t much more than a forehead, a cap, and a blanket. “It’s faded a lot, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it has,” replied Siân sadly. “But our sisterly love hasn’t, right?”

  “Absolutely not. Here you go, Bud, what do you think of me when I was a child?”

  Bud took the photograph from me and smiled. “I haven’t seen one of you this young,” he remarked. “Cute as a button. Yes, cute. Funnily enough, that was what Mrs. Jones said about David Davies . . .” He paused, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to break the moment by mentioning him again.”

  I sighed, then shrugged. “Well, you have now. Mrs. Jones said he was ‘cute’? That’s an odd thing to say about a body.”

  “I thought that too,” replied Bud.

  Tri

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, I’D MANAGED to slap on some makeup, jump into my new stretchy-bouncy charcoal pantsuit, tie my hair into a neat ponytail finished with a charcoal silk scarf, and spritz myself with some of my favorite perfume—Coco by Chanel, Bud’s Christmas gift to me. The mirror in my delightfully art deco, but woefully chilly, bathroom informed me that I needed sleep. I shoved my reading specs into my evening purse and headed off to see how Siân was doing.

  My hesitant knock at her door was greeted with a loud, “Come on in!”

  The vast oak door to my sister’s room creaked as I pushed it open. Siân was clearly ready.

  “You look great,” I said. She did. My baby sister was slim and trim, tanned and toned, and looking effortlessly elegant in a long-sleeved amethyst jersey shift, belted with a gold chain. I sighed.

  “You look lovely too,” said Siân lightly.

  “Thanks, sis, but I know I don’t.” I couldn’t help but sound down.

  “Oh come on, Cait, I’d give anything to have your curves,” she said almost kindly as we left the room. “No matter how I exercise, I can’t make myself look as good as you could. I mean, yes, you could lose a few pounds, but who couldn’t?”

  “You,” I said, a little enviously.

  “So do something about it then,” she replied sharply.

  Our entrance into the drawing room meant I didn’t have time to utter a single sisterly expletive, which also meant I wasn’t in the best of moods when Idris Cadwallader greeted us. I forced a smile as I shook hands with Idris, and then his wife, Eirwen.

  I’d expected the tone of the room to reflect the seriousness of a recent death on the premises. Once it was clear that, surprisingly, this wasn’t the first topic of conversation, I tuned out of the general chitchat between Siân and our hosts. It meant I had a chance to take in the rest of my surroundings.

  Upon entering the room, the fire that roared and crackled in the massive carved-stone fireplace had been the first thing to catch my attention. It glittered in its surrounding of gold-backed tiles, filling the space with light and warmth. It was certainly a grand room. The oak paneling reflected the glow of the flames, the eclectic furnishings looked as though they’d lived together for decades, lamps added subtle pools of light throughout the space, and the ornate plaster ceiling danced with shadows. Watched over by the dead-eyed portraits with which the room was hung, Bud was warming himself beside the hearth and seemed to be enjoying a joke with a woman who, from the back, looked to be about seventy, with stooped shoulders and short, grayish hair. She was wearing a wooly black cardigan spotted with black sequins, atop a black jersey skirt, which skimmed her unfortunately thick ankles. I wondered who she was.

  Idris Cadwallader, who stood no more than a couple of feet from me, was a pleasant-looking man of average size, about thirty-five years of age. He was an animated speaker, making liberal use of his hands as he spoke. His coal black curls and even white teeth weren’t so unusual for a Welshman, but the darkness of his chocolate eyes was remarkable. Bud and I had met Idris during our visit in October, and he’d also been the one who’d welcomed us when we’d arrived earlier that day. Castell Llwyd wasn’t a hotel by any means, and we’d known to not expect many staff. He’d graciously welcomed us into his home, and he’d given Bud a hand with the bags. He’d led us to our rooms, reminded us that there wasn’t any room service, and shown us how to operate the beautifully chromed, if temperamental, bathroom fittings.

  We’d learned in October that Idris was the person who ran Castell Llwyd as a business, much against the wishes of his grandmother, Alice Cadwallader, who hated having paying guests in her home. While we walked through the gardens on a crisp autumn morning, he’d told us it was a choice between selling up or accepting paying guests and holding events at the place, so Alice had withdrawn to the west wing of the house, where she was able to maintain her privacy, and the rest of the place had been “commercialized.” He seemed to be an amiable young man, with a winning smile and a head for profit, which wasn’t entirely surprising, given the family’s background of making its fortune from mining and minerals, in the days when Swansea had been known as “Copperopolis.”

  Standing beside him was his wife. When I’d told Bud her name, and he’d tried to pronounce it, he’d ended up growling like a pirate. He’s not that good at rolling his Rs, so to push “Eye-rrr-wen” out had been a struggle for him. I suspected he would be doing all he could to avoid having to say the poor woman’s name aloud throughout our entire visit.

  Compared with her husband, Eirwen Cadwallader seemed almost insubstantial. Her straw-colored hair blended with her pallid skin, making her look very drab. Thou
gh short, she also seemed bowed, which, for a woman who I guessed was also in her mid-thirties, was interesting. Sometimes tall people will develop a stoop, particularly when they’ve sprouted as teens, because they are trying to fulfill a psychological need to, quite literally, “not stand out from the crowd.” In short people, like Eirwen Cadwallader, I’ve grown to suspect that stooping is a posture they’ve adopted in order to meet a psychological desire to “disappear.” I wondered who in her life had made her feel that she had to.

  “Isn’t that exciting, Cait?” asked Siân.

  I tried to not give away the fact that I hadn’t been listening to a word the three of them had been saying by replying, “Absolutely.”

  Siân’s eyes rounded with annoyance as she said, “Cait was probably off in her own little world, Idris, or she’d have sounded much more excited to know there’s a hidden treasure here at the castle, wouldn’t you, Cait?”

  “I had no idea,” I said truthfully. “There’s no mention of it on your website, is there?”

  “Oh no,” said Eirwen quickly. “Imagine what would happen. There’d be people poking around the place, damaging the ancient ruins in the front, or the gardens at the back. It would be a disaster. Alice would probably have a stroke. She’ll be here any minute, I expect. Are we ready, Idris?” The woman looked twitchy and seemed to hunch even more. I suspected I had discovered whom it was who made her so keen to be invisible.

  “I can understand your concerns, Eirwen,” I said, resigning myself to the conversation about the castle. “I read that the stone circle surrounding the Roman ruins, just outside your front door, was put in place at about the same time as the bluestones and sarsens at Stonehenge. So about forty-five hundred years ago, and with stones from the same bluestone quarry in the Preseli Hills in Pembroke, no less. You wouldn’t want those being damaged or disturbed, nor the remains of the Roman temple to Neptune. I understand the layout of the temple is either unique, or puzzling, depending upon whose opinion one believes.” I noticed Eirwen’s eyes begin to glaze over.