Table of Contents
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Prologue: June 2003
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Part One: Ten years later
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Interlude
Part Three
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries from Jeanne M. Dams
THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT
TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL
HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES
MALICE IN MINIATURE
THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION
KILLING CASSIDY
TO PERISH IN PENZANCE
SINS OUT OF SCHOOL
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT *
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO *
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S *
MURDER AT THE CASTLE *
* available from Severn House
MURDER AT THE CASTLE
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9 – 15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.
Copyright © 2013 by Jeanne M. Dams.
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Dams, Jeanne M.
Murder at the castle.
1. Martin, Dorothy (Fictitious character)--Fiction.
2. Women private investigators--England--Fiction.
3. Music festivals--Wales--Fiction. 4. Americans--
England--Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
813.5'4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8259-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-400-3 (epub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Some of the people and places in this book are real; others are fictitious. I’m happy to say that Tower Wales is a real B & B and Charles and Mairi Wynne-Eyton are real people, and both house and hosts are every bit as charming as I’ve described them. (Mairi is Scottish, and her name is pronounced Maw-ree, accent on the first syllable.) Flint Castle, on the other hand, has for centuries been only a ruin. For my own purposes I’ve rebuilt it at some distance from its real site, basing its design on an amalgam of Beaumaris and Conwy Castles, marvellous survivors from the time of King Edward I.
I am deeply indebted to the Wynne-Eytons for making my stay in Wales so pleasant and so informative, for introducing me to the Llangollen canal boats, and for their patient answers to my many questions. I thank my friend and mentor Bob Demaree for his expertise on matters related to choral music, especially that of Joseph Haydn. Tuck Langland also gave me excellent advice about opera, and my dear friend Christine Seitz was kind enough to read the whole manuscript and make some valuable suggestions. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Lise Hull and the other contributors to the extremely attractive and informative website www.castlewales.com. I spent entirely too many hours happily perusing the site when I ought to have been writing!
PROLOGUE
June 2003
ONE
‘You look beautiful, Delia. Is that a new dress?’
She frowned and sighed. ‘Always you say the same thing. You are not observant, John. I have worn this gown at least twice before, and every time you ask is it new.’
He turned away to adjust his black tie, and to hide his face from her. It was true. He did always say the same thing, or if not the same, always the wrong thing. He must try harder. Sixteen days. They had sixteen days together. If it was to begin with an argument, it might go on that way, and this might be their last chance.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m blinded by your beauty!’ He took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Take care! I wish to look fresh when we go down.’ She pushed him off and smoothed the flounces of her crimson skirt. ‘This first night is important. I wish everyone to say, “Who is she? So beautiful, so well dressed, such jewels . . . she must be someone important.” And later I will sing, just a little, you understand. I will sing along with the dance music, as if to myself, and those around me will hear and will ask me to sing with the orchestra, and they will be amazed.’
To John it sounded a little like the plot of an old Andy Hardy movie: ‘I know! Let’s put on a show!’ But this cruise was his final desperate attempt to put his marriage back together. He said only, ‘You’ll knock them for six, darling. Shall we?’
He bowed her through the door of their stateroom, then offered his arm, but she ignored it. ‘My dear girl!’ he murmured. ‘The motion of the ship . . . your shoes . . . you wouldn’t want to break an ankle, your very first day out.’
‘I have perfect balance, and there is nothing wrong with my shoes. You forget that I am also a dancer.’
He’d said the wrong thing again. There was, in his opinion, everything wrong with her shoes. The four-inch heels were far too thin, the straps holding them on were far too insubstantial, and they were far too bright a gold. She might have got by with them – just – if she’d worn them over sheer, expensive stockings. On bare feet with crimson-varnished toenails they were . . . he winced at the word, even in his mind, but they really were unmistakably vulgar.
There was a time when he would have said so. Now he shrugged, but only mentally. ‘Mind how you go, then,’ he said, and followed her to the lift. The restaurant was several decks below their luxurious suite, and she should definitely not risk those heels on the perforated metal ‘ladders’ that were the only stairs provided for the first two flights. ‘Perfect balance’ or not.
Delia had taken a tour of the ship as soon as they had boarded that morning, securing, with a ravishing smile, the services of one of the overworked crew to lead her around while John unpacked. Now she pressed a button in the lift wit
h assurance.
‘I believe the restaurant is on the next deck down, darling.’
‘Two decks. It is below the ballroom. There is a grand staircase down to the ballroom. I will make my entrance there.’
The combo playing in the ballroom lounge sat where they had an excellent view of the grand staircase. They paid Delia the tribute of a sudden silence, and then struck up a lively Latin tune as she glided down the last few steps.
She is so lovely, he thought. Then he amended it. She looks so lovely.
It was her incredible beauty that had first pulled him under till he drowned. Oh, her voice was very nice, though untrained, a warm natural mezzo brimming with fire and brio. She had auditioned for him on an aria from Boris Godunov, and he was lost. Some of the notes had been flat, some of the text garbled, but the passion of it! The bravura! She was young for the piece, her voice a bit light, but she put her soul into it, and John was enchanted.
It didn’t occur to him until much later that it was an odd piece to choose when one was auditioning for an oratorio. But by that time he understood that Delia had also been auditioning for quite a different role.
She got both roles, of course. She sang the oratorio adequately, and her self-confidence and stage presence convinced almost everyone that she had been brilliant. And a month later Delia Lopez and John Warner were married in the little parish church where he had been christened twenty-eight years before. She wore a white lace mantilla that emphasized her lustrous black hair and smooth olive skin and made her look, to John’s adoring eyes, like the Madonna. She was just nineteen.
There hadn’t been time for a honeymoon. Big celebrations were planned all over the world for the Millennium, with music featured at many of them. John had performances scheduled every weekend, with rehearsals daily. His name as a choral conductor was already one to be conjured with, and Delia’s reputation as a singer began to grow along with John’s fame.
Delia’s was not, perhaps, an untarnished reputation. She had somewhat more of the infamous artistic temperament than was quite justified by her abilities, according to some critics. But they were careful not to say so in John’s hearing. His was as equable a temper as one was apt to find in a first-class conductor, but he would tolerate no criticism of his wife.
Maybe that was his big mistake, he thought as he followed her down the stairs. Should he have let her take her knocks and learn to deal with the real world? But how could he? She didn’t take criticism at all well. The few times he had ventured to offer gentle direction of his own, she had either dismissed it with an airy wave of her hand or flown into a rage. The time she had thrown the small Henry Moore sculpture out of the window, narrowly missing a passer-by before it shattered on the pavement, was his last attempt to guide her.
The last attempt until now. He followed her to the bar, where she seated herself with a graceful swirl of skirts and looked up at him with an angelic smile.
‘What would you like, love?’
‘Something rich and dark and sweet.’
‘Like you,’ he answered, but his answer came too pat. She frowned. She was the better actor, and she could say the line as if newly minted. His response sounded as automatic as it was.
He bit his lip and asked the bar steward for a planter’s punch for Delia. ‘Do you have Myers’s rum?’ And at the man’s nod, ‘A double shot, then, please.’
‘Certainly, sir. And for yourself?’
‘Small whisky and soda. Er . . . scotch and soda, that is.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The steward sounded mildly affronted.
‘Sorry . . . your accent . . . I wasn’t sure . . .’
‘I am from Bermuda, sir. I grew up with the English.’
‘So of course you know that “whisky” means to us what some of the world calls “scotch”.’
‘Indeed, sir. Here you are, sir. Madam.’
Delia took a sip of her drink and then gave the steward a long, smouldering look. ‘It is delicious. You are very good.’
‘A lovely drink for a lovely lady.’ He returned the look, with interest, and then had to turn away to serve another couple.
John gulped down his drink and wished he had another as he waited for Delia to finish hers. But the bar had become very busy, and though both Delia and John tried (for different reasons) to catch the steward’s eye, he didn’t return to their end of the room.
John was suddenly sick of the game. ‘Let’s go and eat, Delia. I’m hungry.’
She looked at him in irritated surprise. ‘I am not. You may go if you wish.’
‘I do wish. And I wish you to come with me.’
He could see her thoughts chasing across her face. A frown, then a pout, then the angelic smile. Shall I make a scene? Perhaps not in so public a place. I will wheedle, instead. But no, that is his iron face. I will do as he wishes. For now.
He laughed in genuine amusement and took her arm. ‘Never, never take up poker, my darling wife.’
That was met with blank incomprehension.
The evening proceeded as planned. As Delia had planned, at least. She came, she was seen, she conquered. They had no sooner been seated at their table for two than the steward reappeared. ‘I am so sorry, sir, for the mistake. The Captain invites you and your lady to dine with him.’
John would have liked to beg off. He had a fixed dislike of ‘social’ meals, preferring to eat in peace. But Delia was already on her feet and following the steward, her face alight with satisfaction. It was another rung on the ladder.
The meal was indeed a social occasion, and Delia made the most of it. She was brilliant at this sort of thing. She made every man at the table, even including her husband, feel he was a bit wittier than usual, a bit better-looking. Somehow, with subtle lifts of her eyebrows and little private smiles, she even managed to keep the women from being jealous. They were made to feel part of a minor conspiracy, we-girls-together, and quite clever to have landed men so dashing, yet so easily manipulated.
After dinner they went up to the ballroom, and again Delia sparkled. She danced every dance with one partner after another, the staid waltzes and two-steps as well as the Latin numbers that the orchestra played, John was sure, especially for her.
John wasn’t a dancer. He sat watching her, her lovely head held high, her body as proud and taut as a flamenco dancer’s, her face aglow as she moved through the intricate steps. She exuded excitement, sexuality, animal passion.
I am not the right man for her, he thought, sunk in something like despair. I can never make her happy. I should never have married her. I’m not old, but around her I feel old. Old and stodgy.
As she danced she began to hum, and finally to sing quietly. She manoeuvred close to the orchestra, without letting her partner know she was leading him. She sang a little louder. The conductor heard her. With a broad smile he brought the rumba to a premature end and pulled the microphone closer to him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very fine singer in our midst. Come here, my dear.’
With a shy smile, Delia apologized to her partner and approached the conductor.
‘What is your name, lovely lady?’
‘Delia Lopez, sir.’
‘I hope you will consent to sing for us, Delia. Your voice is as beautiful as you are.’
‘Well . . . if you would like me to sing . . .’
The men in the audience applauded enthusiastically.
‘Then do you know “Granada”?’
The orchestra knew ‘Granada’. It is a song meant for a man, but most of the audience didn’t know that, and certainly Delia’s dramatic mezzo voice suited it well. She sang in the original Spanish, and when she had finished the delighted audience demanded more. She obliged.
What seemed to John like hours later, the orchestra finally stopped playing and she came back to the table, breathless and exhilarated. ‘They will not play any more, those boring men. What shall we do now?’
John roused himself. He had been nearly asleep. ‘We go
to bed. It’s nearly two, and we made a very early start this morning.’
She stamped her foot. ‘I do not want to go to bed! I am not sleepy. I want to sing some more, but I am thirsty.’
‘Delia, the bar is closed. The orchestra is finished for the night. Come to bed.’
The room was clearing, but several people lingered, a few of them eager to talk to Delia, to congratulate her on her performance. One young man who had partnered her for several dances spoke now, in an American accent. ‘I’d be glad to take you for a walk around the decks, ma’am, if your husband doesn’t mind. It sure is a beautiful night, and the stars are something to see out here in the middle of nowhere.’
Delia smiled beguilingly up at John. ‘Please, John? It will be only for a moment. Do you mind?’
Anger rose in John for a moment. It was all an act, of course, Delia’s sweet submission put on for the boy’s benefit. Then his anger fled. The boy, he thought. I think of him as a boy. He must be just about Delia’s age. Children, both of them.
He smiled and kissed Delia’s perfect cheek. ‘Stay as long as you like, darling. It is indeed a beautiful night.’
He went back to the stateroom, crawled wearily into the supremely comfortable bed, and prepared for a long night. He tried to read, but after lying for half an hour without turning a page, he gave up, turned off the light, and simply waited.
The sky and the sea had taken on their pearly pre-dawn hues before Delia crept back into the cabin and John could at last sleep.
The next day they arrived at their first port of call, Santorini. They had docked long before Delia awoke, and she was cross when John brought her coffee.
‘Always you wake me before I am ready! I do not want to get up. I am sleepy!’
‘We’re at Santorini, darling. I didn’t want you to miss it. We’re here only through the afternoon, you know.’
‘What does one do at this place?’
‘It’s not so much a place to do as to see. There really are the most beautiful churches, all white outside, with blue domes, and ancient mosaics inside, icons, you know, and the views all over the island . . .’
Murder at the Castle Page 1
