Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  He had lost her, he could see. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow.

  ‘Later. Perhaps.’

  He poured the coffee away, made sure he had his passport and camera, and gently closed the door behind him.

  The island was as beautiful as he remembered from past visits. He found a taverna a bit off the beaten track that wasn’t overrun with tourists, and had a tiny cup of coffee so dark and strong it furred the tongue, and a pastry with nuts and honey. He sat thinking until the place became crowded and his seat was needed.

  Wandering aimlessly, he found himself in front of the most famous of Santorini’s many churches, Panagia Episkopi. He paused, and then went inside.

  He got back to the ship just in time; he had wandered farther than he had realized. Delia was not in the stateroom, so after a quick shower he went looking for her. He found her in the bar, surrounded by men. She was flirting, laughing, singing a phrase or two now and then.

  She was having a wonderful time. John stayed at the edge of the room for a moment, and then quietly went back to the room and ordered a whisky and soda. He was sitting nursing it when Delia opened the door to their sitting room.

  ‘There you are, John! You were away all day. Did you have a good time?’ Delia whisked into the room and began to pull off her bright orange blouse.

  ‘Sit down for a moment, Delia. We have plenty of time to dress for dinner.’

  ‘But it is tonight the Captain’s cocktail party, and I must look wonderful!’

  ‘Please sit down.’

  There it was again, his iron face. She shrugged and flounced down into a plush armchair, swinging one bare foot impatiently.

  ‘Delia, why did you marry me?’

  The foot stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I say. I want to know why you married me. You don’t care about the things that interest me. You find me boring. You prefer the company of younger men. I don’t blame you for any of these things, but I would like to know why you wanted me.’

  ‘Because I wanted to be your wife, of course!’

  ‘Yes, you wanted to be my wife. You pursued me. I didn’t see it at the time, but I do now. Don’t lose your temper, my dear. It’s true and we both know it’s true, so there’s no point in making a scene about it.’

  He had never talked to her like this before. She didn’t like it, and she didn’t know how to cope with it. Naked honesty was not her way of dealing with him. Her foot started swinging again.

  ‘I would like an answer, Delia.’ And then suddenly he knew. ‘It was the music, wasn’t it? Your real passion. Not me, the music.’

  ‘All right! Yes!’ She sprang to her feet. ‘You are a famous conductor. I was an unknown singer. Now the world begins to know me. I am good, and I get better all the time. This you have helped me do!’

  He had not thought the pain would be so great. He had thought she had killed his love for her. It was a moment before he could say, very gently and quietly, ‘Do you want a divorce, my dear? Now that I’ve given you the start you wanted?’

  ‘Divorce! No! Not ever! It would make a scandal! And besides . . .’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘Ah.’ He paused again, until he had his voice under control. ‘I see. I am your security. You don’t make enough money yet to support yourself, at least not . . .’ He made a gesture that took in their luxurious surroundings.

  ‘You married me! You made promises. Now you wish to break your promises, to throw me out on the street?’ She stamped her foot. ‘Never will I allow you to do this!’

  John struggled to remain calm. ‘I will not throw you out on the street. I will, and I do, ask you to remember that you, too, made some promises.’

  ‘I have been faithful to you! Do not dare to accuse me—’

  He held up his hand and, amazingly, she stopped in mid-tantrum. ‘Technically, perhaps, you have been faithful to me. In every other way you have shown me, and everyone else, how little you care for me.’ Again he struggled for control. ‘Delia, we made a bad bargain, you and I. I believed I could bring you to love me. You believed you could endure me for the sake of what you wanted: wealth and fame. We were both wrong.’

  He waited for her to speak. She was silent.

  ‘I made a decision this afternoon, Delia. We can’t go on this way. I don’t care for divorce, but if you wanted one, I was prepared to give it to you. Since you don’t, there is another solution. It is best if we live separately. When we get home, I will take steps to set up a legal separation.’

  She opened her mouth, her colour rising. Again he held up his hand, and again she subsided.

  ‘I will make sure you have enough to live comfortably. Not, perhaps, as comfortably as we have been living, but well enough. You will soon earn enough to make up the difference, and we will both be much happier living apart.’ He stood. ‘Now, we won’t talk about it any more tonight. Go and get dressed for the Captain’s party, my dear, and enjoy yourself.’

  Without a word she turned and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  TWO

  They avoided each other at the Captain’s party. It was not the sort of entertainment that John enjoyed. He knew no one on board, except Delia, and she was, as usual, the centre of an admiring crowd of men. John sat at a distant table, sipping at a very pale drink made with inferior whisky, and heartily wished this ill-conceived voyage were over.

  ‘Who is that girl, anyway?’ A middle-aged woman garbed in unflattering sequins sat down at the table. American by accent, she was in a belligerent mood.

  She is my wife. John didn’t say it. ‘I believe she is a singer of some fame.’

  ‘Hmph! A hussy, that’s what she is. And if that’s an old-fashioned word, it’s the right one, anyway. Every young man on the boat’s buzzing around her like bees to honey.’

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ said John neutrally.

  ‘Beautiful is as— What was that?’

  A hard shudder rattled the room. John’s glass slid off the table and crashed to the floor. The string quartet in the corner, inaudible until now over the party babble, continued with a few wavering chords and then stopped playing.

  A man in uniform stepped up to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has asked me to make his apologies. He has gone to the bridge to see what is the matter. Though it’s unlikely in the extreme that there is any danger, he asks you all to remain calm, return to your cabins, and wait for further instructions. I’m sorry to say that dinner may be slightly delayed, but please help yourself to more hors d’oeuvres on your way out of the room.’

  That light-hearted remark did much to allay the passengers’ fears. There was a good deal of ‘But what’s happened?’ and general grumbling, but John’s trained ear didn’t pick up the rising note that would indicate panic.

  The woman who had spoken to him about Delia had vanished, presumably back to her cabin as requested. John looked around for Delia, but couldn’t find her in the crowd that was heading for the rapidly emptying hors d’oeuvre tables and then for the doors.

  He hesitated, then headed for the stairs. Delia was not easily frightened, and she could make her way back to the stateroom without him. He only hoped she had the sense to take the stairs. The lifts were going to be in heavy use.

  As he passed them, however, he saw that stewards were directing everyone to the stairs. ‘A precaution, ladies and gentlemen, only a precaution. In case the electrical service might be temporarily interrupted.’

  John felt the first pang of unease. Under what circumstances might the electrical service be interrupted? A fire?

  Nonsense. Something untoward had probably happened in the engine room. A misbehaving engine might very well make a shudder like that, and since the engines presumably generated the electricity, they might have to shut it off for a moment or two.

  He went up a few steps and then turned to take another look around for Delia. Ah, there she was! She was still in the ballroom, still surrounded by admire
rs. They were shepherding her toward the stairs. She seemed reluctant to go. He waved to try to catch her attention, but she was laughing and talking and didn’t see him.

  He went on up to the stateroom, where they had a balcony. He opened the door and went out.

  There was a good deal of shouting on deck, which increased John’s anxiety by another notch. The crew on a luxury cruise ship did not shout. He could see nothing amiss, except that the ship seemed to have stopped, but on reflection, he went back into the room and quickly changed from his dress suit into slacks and a warm sweater. Then he went to the closet and, feeling more than a little foolish, took out two life jackets.

  He wished Delia would come. Probably she’d be there in a few minutes.

  He stepped across to the stateroom door, and stumbled. Surely there had been a bit of a lurch? That was odd. They weren’t moving.

  But they were moving. John watched as the carafe of ice water slid slowly across the bedside table, stopping against the low barrier that edged the table.

  An alarm sounded, a hideous electronic noise that penetrated to his very soul. After a moment it stopped and a voice came over the public address system.

  ‘This is the captain speaking. All passengers are to bring life jackets and report to the boat deck immediately. Repeat: all passengers report to the boat deck with life jackets immediately. Do not put on your life jacket until you reach the boat deck. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill.’

  Feeling disoriented and somehow empty, John took one more look from his balcony. The crew members were still shouting, but this time their shouts were purposeful. They were removing the covers from the lifeboats and preparing to launch them. And as John watched, the boat gave another lurch. It was now noticeably listing to port.

  Where was Delia? Frantically he tried to decide what to do. Wait here for her? Take her life jacket and try to find her?

  She had heard the announcement. Would she come back here or head straight for the boat deck? There were extra life jackets, weren’t there?

  Another lurch made him realize there was no time to waste. He took the pad by the bedside table, wasted precious moments searching for the pen, which had rolled off, and quickly scribbled: ‘Delia. Gone to boat deck. Have your jacket. Come at once!’

  He affixed it to the door with one of the brooches from her jewel box and hurried to the stairs.

  He thought he’d never get down to the boat deck. The metal stairs from his deck were in truth little more than the ladders they were officially called, and they were jammed with people. Many had ignored instructions and donned their life jackets, and were having trouble manoeuvring the bulk through tight places. It didn’t help that the treads were tilting markedly, and many of the women still had on their high heels.

  Stewards did their best to keep the crowd moving, but now that high note of hysteria was beginning to sound clearly. God help us, John said under his breath, not certain whether it was exclamation or prayer.

  ‘I can’t!’ It was a shrill scream, coming from the woman in front of him. She was, he saw, the woman who had spoken with him at the party. She was at the head of the ladder down to the boat deck, and she was paralyzed with fright.

  ‘Here, I’ll help you,’ he said, with all the calm he could muster. ‘Take off your shoes. It’ll be easier. And I’ll be right behind you. I won’t let you fall. Is your life jacket fastened securely? Then I’ll hold on to the back straps. You won’t fall.’

  It meant he had to put on his own. He couldn’t carry it, hold the railing, and hold the woman at the same time. It also meant he must drop Delia’s life jacket.

  He gave a despairing look around for her, but the scene by now was utter chaos. The crew was having trouble lowering the lifeboats on the starboard side, with the ship now listing heavily to port.

  He took a firm grasp of the woman’s life jacket and followed her, cajoling, soothing, talking her down the ladder.

  Once on the deck, he was at a loss. The passengers were being loaded on to the boats as fast as it could be managed. Many were refusing to board. The boats certainly didn’t look very safe, hanging as they now did against the side of the ship. How could they be safely lowered to the water?

  And he couldn’t board yet. He must find Delia.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  ‘I can’t. My wife—’

  ‘Someone will look after your wife. There’s no time, sir! She’s going down!’

  ‘You don’t understand! I must—’

  And then the lights went out.

  Screams. Panic. The press of bodies. The stink of fear. Then . . . nothing.

  PART ONE

  Ten years later

  ONE

  ‘How would you like to go to a Welsh music festival?’

  ‘An eisteddfod? Or however you pronounce it. I find the Welsh language even more difficult than most Celtic tongues.’

  Nigel grinned. ‘Well, you’re close, except that double d is pronounced th and the f is a v.’ He pronounced it correctly.

  It was the hard th as in them and there. ‘Ice-teth-vawd,’ I imitated tentatively.

  ‘Yes, well . . . anyway, this isn’t a real eisteddfod I’m inviting you to. They focus on solo competitions, largely, and include a good deal of poetry reading. Usually in Welsh.’ He grinned again, more broadly, at the expression on my face. ‘No, this one is much more to your taste, I’d think. There’ll be music of all kinds, solo and ensemble, but it isn’t a competition, just a festival. It’s in aid of the RNLI—’

  ‘What’s that?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Sorry, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. You know, the ones who do sea rescue.’

  ‘Okay, yes, I just didn’t know what they were called. And I still find it odd that that’s a charity here. Back in the States the Coastguard does that. But go ahead. A festival to raise money for the RNLI . . .’

  ‘And it’s to be held in a castle, an honest medieval castle, not one of your Victorian fakes.’

  ‘Well, that seals our fate,’ said Alan. ‘Dorothy is totally unable to resist castles. When is this extravaganza to take place? We’ll need to decide what to do about Watson.’

  We were sitting in our parlour after dinner, Alan and I, Nigel Evans, his wife Inga and little Nigel Peter, our godson. Rising three, he had been almost too active throughout our meal, but was now contentedly asleep on the hearthrug, guarded by Watson, our mostly-spaniel, and the two cats Samantha and Esmeralda. The fire, which had kept the blustery February night outside where it belonged, had died down to pleasantly glowing coals, and I was feeling cosy and comfortable.

  Inga responded to Alan. ‘It’s not until June, but we need to reserve seats for you now, if you plan to go. Oh, I do hope you will! You see, there’s to be a selection of opera scenes, not staged, of course, but a concert version. And Nigel won’t tell you himself, so I have to say it for him, he’s to be the tenor soloist.’

  ‘Oh, Nigel! Congratulations!’

  Colour rushed into his face. Nigel may have inherited his formidable musical ability from his Welsh father, but his colouring and his temperament sprang mostly from his English mother. ‘It’ll be fun. Now, it’s for a week, and I’m afraid Watson can’t come. We’ll all be staying at a perfectly lovely B&B called Tower Wales, quite near Flint Castle where the festival is being held. The Wynne-Eytons, who own the place, have several dogs of their own, and one never knows . . .’

  ‘Indeed.’ I hesitated. ‘Maybe we should find a place where we could take him?’

  ‘You’d have to leave him behind all day, Dorothy,’ said Alan sensibly. ‘One can hardly take a dog to a concert. Particularly one that sings along.’

  For it was Watson’s occasional habit to show his appreciation of music by howling loudly. Nigel cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and launched into Nessun dorma, perhaps the most famous tenor aria of them all. Neither the baby nor the cats paid the slightest attention. Watson stirred, cocked an ear, opened his eyes, and gave vo
ice.

  ‘Nigel, stop! Between the two of you, you’ll wake the baby!’ Inga’s indignant voice stopped Nigel mid-note.

  ‘Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,’ I said, laughing. ‘So tell us what this place is like.’

  ‘You’ll like it, Dorothy.’ Inga took Nigel’s hand to show she forgave him for showing off. ‘You Americans are all potty about old places, and Tower is over five hundred years old. It’s a fortified border house, if you know what that is.’

  I turned to Alan.

  ‘They go back to the days when the Welsh and the English were on rather unfriendly terms,’ he began. ‘You know about Edward the First and his campaigns?’

  ‘No, but I’ll look it up, or you can tell me later. Give me the pared-down version.’

  Alan sighed histrionically. ‘Very well. The Welsh living along the border in troubled times built strongly fortified houses, to defend themselves against the rapacious English. I had thought that most of them were ruined long ago.’

  ‘They were,’ Inga replied. ‘Almost all except this one, which is perfectly preserved. It really is quite interesting. The walls in the oldest part, the tower itself, are five feet thick. You can’t use your mobile or Wi-Fi! And the great hall has a nice grisly bit of history. The house is not far from Chester, on the other side of the border, and in some century or other there was a little disagreement with the mayor of Chester, who was promptly hanged in the great hall.’

  Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘I trust he does not disturb the present occupants?’

  ‘I’ve never heard any stories,’ said Nigel, with that casual acceptance of the idea of ghosts that I find so typically British, ‘and we’ve neither seen nor heard him when we’ve stayed there.’

  ‘Darn,’ I said mildly. ‘A ghost would have made it perfect, but I guess we’ll just have to do without. Give us the dates, and get us festival tickets, and we’ll make arrangements about the animals.’