‘The same as you, I imagine,’ she replied. ‘Touring Welsh castles. This is a terrific one, isn’t it? Lots of atmosphere. I even imagined I heard a bloodcurdling scream a few minutes ago. A ghost in the dungeons, no doubt.’
‘Oh, dear.’ I could feel my face growing warm. ‘That was me. I’m an absolute idiot about spiders, and I thought I saw one. I know for certain there was a web.’
‘Ooh! I hate spiders! I was shut up in an old basement once when I was a child, and it was full of them.’ She shuddered. ‘And the webs are just as bad. When they brush against your face . . .’
Alan’s mobile tootled just then. He glanced at it, then answered. ‘Ah, Nigel. We were beginning to wonder what had become of you two.’ Pause. ‘Yes, we gathered as much. No, we’re having a fine time exploring Flint Castle. Are you going to have time for lunch?’ Pause. ‘Right. Give me directions, and I’ll repeat them to Dorothy so she can write them down.’
He dictated Nigel’s directions to a pub not far away. ‘Penny,’ he said courteously, ‘we’re about to have lunch with some friends. Will you join us?’
‘Thanks, but I’m meeting someone for lunch, too. Great to see you again!’
We waved and made our way to the car park. I left the castle somewhat reluctantly, spider and narrow passages notwithstanding. Now that we were out in the sunshine, I was once more fascinated with the labyrinthine design of this remarkable structure, with its spaces for living and working and sleeping and praying, its massive defences, and its ability to withstand its enemies, except for the final and inexorable one of time.
‘Let’s come back after lunch,’ I urged Alan as he looked for the way out. ‘I want lots of time to explore this place.’
‘Excepting the inner passageways, I presume?’
‘We can buy a flashlight somewhere. Light helps a lot.’
When we met up with Nigel and Inga, everyone was full of explanations and apologies.
‘I thought I’d said where we were rehearsing,’ said Nigel. ‘No, no, this round’s on me. What’s everyone having?’
The day had become very warm, so I opted for cold lager, the rest jeering at my American tastes, ‘wanting every drink to freeze one’s teeth’. I ignored them. ‘So where are they in fact rehearsing?’ I asked Inga, while Nigel and Alan went to the bar to get the beer and order our food.
‘Well, they couldn’t very well keep the castle closed to the public for two whole weeks, not in high tourist season, so Sir John, or his secretary probably, found a nice big parish church nearby. The acoustics are quite different from an outdoor venue, of course, but there’s plenty of space, and there’ll be mikes and speakers at the castle, so Nigel thinks it should work out. That’s not the problem.’
‘So what is? Thank you, Nigel.’ I raised my glass in salute.
‘You tell them, Nigel.’
He nodded, but first buried his face in his pint. ‘Ahh! That’s better. Good beer in this place. So Inga’s been telling you about our prima donna, has she?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘she’s left the story to you. Tell.’
He downed another healthy swallow of beer. ‘Well, you know I told you the mezzo hadn’t got here when she was supposed to? She lives in South America somewhere – Brazil, I think – and there was some problem about flights. Weather or something. Anyway, she’s here now, so we’re doing the opera scenes, without the chorus, just the quartet. And I personally think she’d have done us a favour by staying away.’
‘Oh, dear. Why? Can’t she sing?’
‘Oh, she can sing.’ Nigel finished his beer. ‘She’s not perfect, but who is? Lots of power, lots of drama, and she’ll make a fantastic Carmen. What that woman doesn’t know about sex . . .’
‘Right,’ said Inga, addressing her own beer.
‘I see,’ I said, somewhat amused. ‘So she’s flirting with all the men in the festival and alienating all the women?’
‘Yes, but it isn’t just that. I mean, one almost expects that sort of thing from her type. It doesn’t mean anything. But Gracie—’
‘Gracie? You’re not telling me someone who can sing Carmen and incidentally set the whole festival on its ear is named Gracie!’
‘Her name,’ said Inga, deadpan, ‘is Graciosa de la Rosa. I’m told the word means “enchanting” in Portuguese.’
‘Not her real name, then?’ I asked the question in all seriousness, but Nigel howled.
‘Everything about her is unreal, right down to her fingernails! I don’t know where the woman’s from, originally. She’s certainly of some Latin background; you’ve only to look at her. And she speaks English with a sort of all-purpose Latin accent, but even that might be put on. I’d bet my last vocal cord that her name is a Latina equivalent of Jane Smith. At any rate, “Graciosa” is absurd. So we call her Gracie. She hates it.’
‘Which must improve her temper mightily,’ said Alan. ‘You’re implying that no one in the company can bear her. What has she actually done to set you all against her in one morning?’
‘Let me count the ways! She’s still using music for some of her arias, and what she has memorized, she gets wrong. She takes her own tempo, whether or not it’s what Sir John wants, and very sweetly says she “feeeels it” her way. She upstages everyone, and manages to ruin our sightlines to Sir John, so we miss some of the subtleties. We’re not working with the orchestra yet, and she’s managed to infuriate the pianist already.’
‘I take it the pianist is a woman,’ I suggested.
‘Of course,’ Inga murmured.
‘Why doesn’t Sir John simply sack her?’ asked Alan. ‘Oh, thank you.’
Our food had arrived, a ploughman’s lunch for everyone, with local cheese that looked extremely inviting. We dug in, and no one spoke for a bit.
‘More beer, anyone?’ Nigel asked when he’d taken the edge off his hunger.
We all turned him down, I because beer makes me sleepy after lunch, the others because they were driving.
‘I won’t, then. Well, you ask, Alan, what we’ve been asking ourselves since ten minutes into the rehearsal. Which was when Gracie condescended to show up, by the way. Sir John is wonderful to work for, as I’ve said, but he is demanding. None of us can understand why he puts up with this . . . er . . . witch.’
Nigel has always had a tendency to watch his language around me. I find it charming, even though my own language can get a trifle salty now and again. ‘So what has he done about all her mistakes?’ I asked.
‘Damn all, really,’ said Inga crisply. ‘He stops rehearsal and takes it again. And again, and again. Sometimes he’ll make a mild comment like, “Pianissimo, please, Madame de la Rosa.” Which she pays no attention to, of course. Mostly he just does it over and over until either she gets it right or he gives up and goes on.’
‘Which,’ said Nigel gloomily, ‘has got our rehearsal schedule even more wildly out of whack than it already was. So I’d best get back. Inga, are you coming with me, or do you want to go with Dorothy and Alan?’
‘We’re going back to the castle,’ I said firmly. ‘I haven’t seen nearly enough of it yet. But we could run you back to the Tower, if . . .’
‘Of course I’d love to see the castle with you. I’ve not really toured it myself, and today’s our last chance before the festival takes over.’ She gave Nigel a peck on the cheek. ‘Good luck, darling. Stiff upper lip and all that!’
We had a wonderful time at the castle. I decided to give the interior passages a miss, but there was certainly enough to see outside. We walked along the tops of the walls, where sentries would have patrolled back when the castle was a living fortress.
‘You were going to tell me something about Edward the First,’ I said suddenly, apropos of nothing.
Alan got that lecturing gleam in his eye. ‘Yes. He’s the reason most of the Welsh castles exist.’
‘The Welsh built them to defend themselves against Edward?’
‘Quite the opposite. Edward was waging campaigns agai
nst the Welsh. This was in the late thirteenth century, and Llywelyn – you know about Llywelyn?’
‘Vaguely. Prince, or princeling, of at least part of Wales. Go on.’
‘Well, Llywelyn was causing Edward lots of trouble, rebelling and so on, and Edward decided to put a stop to it once and for all. He mounted a huge army and quelled the rebellion, killing Llywelyn in the process. Then, to maintain his hold over Wales, Edward built castles at a great rate, impressive castles meant to keep the Welsh under his eye.’
‘Under his heel, Nigel would say,’ murmured Inga.
‘That too,’ Alan admitted. ‘But some of the castles were never finished, and others were used by the English for a relatively short time, because Edward turned his attention to the troubles he was having with the Scots, on his other border, and those occupied him the rest of his life. So there you have it. Potted history of Edward the First. Probably wildly inaccurate. My school days are a long way behind me.’
‘Most of it’s in the guidebook,’ said Inga with an impish grin.
‘Hush, child! I must preserve my image. Dorothy thinks I know everything.’
I laughed rudely at that, and we walked on to the grassy expanse that, according to the signs, was once the banqueting hall.
‘Inga, there’s nothing much in the way of a roof anywhere. What are they going to do if it rains for the festival?’
‘Tents. Big pavilions for the audience are easy, and they’ve found someone who can rig canopies over some of the performing areas. Nigel tells me they’re going to use almost the whole castle, using the passages and stairs as entrances and exits, and that bit over there –’ she pointed to the window I had already noticed – ‘for antiphonal effects. It should be quite splendid, really. If only that idiotic woman doesn’t spoil it!’
FIVE
We continued the discussion over dinner. We’d decided to dine in style at The Stables Bar, the restaurant at a luxury country house hotel called Soughton Hall. ‘Some of the more affluent musicians are staying here,’ Nigel confided, ‘including Sir John and his family. Inga and I actually prefer Tower, though. It’s not only cheaper, but we’re very fond of Charles and Mairi.’
‘They’re delightful people,’ I agreed. ‘But I wondered where the dogs were.’
‘They keep them out of the way of guests,’ said Inga, ‘and this morning Mairi told me Judy has young puppies, so she’s a bit skittish.’
‘But I want to see the puppies!’ I exclaimed. ‘If Judy will let me. Nigel, is Sir John here?’
He looked around the crowded room. ‘In the corner, there, with the woman and the two small children.’
‘Oh, but they’re adorable!’ I exclaimed. The children were dressed in pale blue, the little boy in shorts and a soft white shirt, the girl in the same shirt, with a blue skirt and a blue bow in her hair.
‘They are, aren’t they?’ said Inga softly, and I knew she was thinking about Nigel Peter.
The twins had been so well behaved that I hadn’t noticed their presence earlier, but it was late for such young children to be up, and the boy was beginning to fuss.
The two parents worked together like a smooth team. The mother spoke gently to the little girl, pointing out something of interest in the room, while Sir John picked up the boy and hoisted him on to his shoulders. ‘Shall we go for a ride?’ I heard him say, and the two of them made for the door, while the woman and girl followed hand in hand.
They passed near our table, and I got a good look at Sir John. He looked infinitely weary, though when he turned to answer a remark from his son, he made an effort to smile.
Alan saw it, too. ‘Did rehearsals go any better this afternoon?’ he asked Nigel.
‘Worse, if anything. All the soloists are demoralized. We missed our cues, forgot the words, and lost our tempers. Sir John was positively haggard by the time he finally turned us loose. We were an hour late, and that’s going to cost the festival quite a lot, even though the instrumentalists weren’t with us. Tomorrow we have dress rehearsals, with orchestra and chorus, and it’s going to be bloody. Sorry, Dorothy, but I meant that almost in the literal sense as well.’
‘He certainly looked haggard just now, and it surprised me. He seemed so happy a moment before, with those delightful kids. And you didn’t tell me his wife was pregnant.’
‘I didn’t know. That’s probably one reason why she’s with him on this jaunt. She’s fairly far along, isn’t she? He probably didn’t want to leave her. He’s besotted with his family, or so the gossip has it. But he’s definitely worried about the festival. If there isn’t some sort of blow-up before it’s all over, I’ll be very much surprised.’
‘Hmm,’ said Alan thoughtfully. ‘Has any security been arranged?’
Nigel looked startled. ‘I hardly think so. This isn’t a football match. One doesn’t expect a scrum at a performance of The Creation!’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Alan, ‘but I think Dorothy and I will take in the final rehearsals. They should be interesting, at the very least. Are you still in the church tomorrow, while they get the castle ready for you?’
‘No, we really have to do these last ones at the castle, to get comfortable in the space and work out technical problems.’
‘Not to mention personnel problems,’ I muttered as our dinners arrived.
The lovely weather broke next day. Alan and I looked out our window and could see nothing of the hills, only the pond, dimpled with raindrops, and the trees, blowing madly in the wind. Nigel was depressed and silent at breakfast, so we let him alone, but I couldn’t help wondering how much shelter tents and canopies would provide in a gale.
The castle, when we got there, was the scene of barely controlled chaos. The wind had indeed torn ropes from their moorings, and canvas flapped wildly as shouting crews attempted to subdue it. Electrical cables snaked everywhere, posing hazards for unwary walkers, and musicians wandered about looking lost while stagehands set up chairs and risers and music stands that kept falling over in the wind. Shouting, a good deal of swearing, and the scrapes and tootles of instrumentalists trying to tune and warm up competed with the howl of the wind and the crash of flying objects in an almost solid wall of noise.
‘Nigel, this is impossible!’ I shouted against the clamour. ‘Nobody can rehearse in this!’
He simply nodded and went off in search of someone who might know what was happening.
Alan pointed the way under the main gate, which still had a roof and provided some shelter from the stinging rain. Of course a lot of the others had the same idea, and the space was crowded with disgruntled musicians. Above the other voices rose a powerful, rich complaint. ‘I will not risk my voice in this weather. I will not rehearse here! It is r-r-ridiculous!’
If I had needed any clue to make assurance doubly sure, that extravagantly trilled r would have decided that matter. I raised an eyebrow to Inga, who nodded. Indeed, it was Madame Graciosa de la Rosa, holding forth.
‘She’s risking her voice all right, having a temper tantrum at that volume,’ I said close to Inga’s ear.
‘One can only hope she’ll lose it altogether,’ was the reply.
Gracie couldn’t possibly have heard the exchange. I had barely heard Inga myself. But the diva shot us a look so venomous that I clutched Alan’s arm. Could the woman read minds? Or lips?
Alan covered my cold hand with his warm one and mouthed, ‘Careful, love.’ I noticed he turned his head away from la Graciosa when he did so.
Nigel reappeared and formed his hands into a megaphone. ‘We’re to go back to St Elian’s,’ he roared. ‘BACK TO ST ELIAN’S. Half an hour. Pass it on!’
Amid grumblings, the crowd began to disperse, pulling jackets over their heads, or over their instruments, and moving towards the car park. Soon only the diva was left, drumming her fingers impatiently on the ancient stone wall as our small party left. ‘Nigel!’ she called imperiously.
‘Ignore her,’ said Inga, but Nigel turned, with reluctance.
‘Sorry, my car’s full. I’ll tell Sir John.’ And Nigel pushed us out the doorway at what was very nearly a run.
Fortunately the conductor was approaching his car as we reached ours. Nigel hailed him. ‘Sir! Madame la Rosa is stranded without a driver. I’d give her a lift, but as you see . . .’ He gestured to our small car and largish party.
‘Oh. Oh, of course.’ He managed a smile and waved us on.
‘Nigel, what is wrong with that man?’ I demanded when we had achieved the safety of the car and Nigel had cranked the heater up to its highest notch. ‘It’s more than just the stresses of the weather and an uncooperative mezzo. He looks absolutely ill.’
‘I don’t know.’ Nigel sounded miserable. ‘I’ve never seen him like this.’
‘Darling, you’ve not seen him all that often in any condition, have you?’ Inga put on her most practical, matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s probably coming down with a cold, and some men are no good at being ill. You droop like a wounded heron whenever you have a sore little finger, you know.’
‘I do not droop!’ said Nigel, enraged. ‘I am very careful to suffer in silence.’
‘Loudly,’ said Inga.
They bickered happily for the short drive to the church.
It was, of course, a good deal longer than half an hour before the rehearsal got under way. No sound or lighting equipment was needed here, but chairs had to be brought back from the castle, dried off, and set up. Risers had to be assembled for the chorus. Instruments had to be retuned. Then everyone had to wait for Sir John, who was, inexplicably, late.
And then the miracle happened. Maybe it was the critical nature of the situation. There was now less than one full day of rehearsal, in the wrong venue, before the festival opened. Crisis does sometimes draw people together, and does sometimes bring out the best in even the most difficult personalities. For whatever reason, even though Sir John still looked very ill indeed, the morning rehearsal went as smoothly as a bowl of cream. Voices blended. Violins soared, trumpets sounded clear and bright and joyous. The opera scenes brought tears to my eyes more than once.
Murder at the Castle Page 5
