Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Most miraculously of all, Gracie, the erstwhile blight of the festival, was all sweetness and light. She sang gloriously, cooperated with the other singers, followed the conductor flawlessly and, as Carmen singing the ‘Habanera’, won the applause of the other musicians, a rare accolade which she acknowledged with becoming modesty.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Sir John when the applause had died down. ‘You have worked splendidly this morning, and I am most grateful. I am also happy to tell you that the weather has improved a great deal, and we will be able to continue our work this afternoon at the castle. We have very little time, as you know, so may I ask you, please, to hold very strictly to one hour for lunch. Sandwiches have been provided for those who do not wish to find a nearby eating place. We will begin again at one thirty. Thank you very much.’

  ‘I, for one,’ I said when we had settled ourselves in the car with some excellent sandwiches and bottles of water, ‘would not have believed it. What happened to turn that surly mob into a well-oiled musical machine?’

  ‘The music, of course!’ Nigel waved his bottle of water in the air as though saluting St Cecilia, the patron of music. ‘It hath charms to soothe the savage breast, as is well documented.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alan. ‘I remain an agnostic on that point. Certainly it wasn’t doing much charming yesterday, by your account.’

  ‘Well . . . no. But Graciosa had just joined us. Sometimes it takes a little while to adapt to a group.’

  Graciosa, I noticed. Not Gracie. Nigel had adapted quickly, it seemed. I shot a glance at Inga to see how she was taking this. Her face was unreadable. I changed the subject. ‘You know, I thought I recognized Madame this morning. I’m sure I’ve never seen her perform, but there was something familiar about her, something . . . I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘The universal diva personality,’ said Inga, her tone extremely dry. Nigel gave her a puzzled look and then applied himself to his sandwiches and a study of the music to be rehearsed in the afternoon.

  ‘Clueless,’ Inga murmured to me.

  I nodded and shrugged. ‘Men,’ I murmured back.

  I would just as soon have skipped the afternoon rehearsal. Though I am ashamed to admit it, an afternoon nap has become more and more appealing with my advancing years. But Alan pointed out that we had only one car, which would have meant delivering Nigel and Inga to the castle, delivering me to Tower, and then going back later to pick them up.

  ‘You could take me home first,’ I argued, ‘and Nigel could get his own car.’

  ‘I doubt there’s time for that, if we’re to get Nigel to the rehearsal on time. In any case,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I want to be there. There’s thunder in the air.’

  The other two had gone to dispose of our rubbish in a bin, so I was the only one to give him a questioning look. The sky had cleared to a benign June blue, with nary a cloud in sight, and the wind was now the merest zephyr.

  Alan simply shook his head and started the car. ‘Come, you two. Your carriage awaits.’

  I had expected the castle to be as chaotic as before, but Sir John, or one of his minions, had accomplished yet another miracle. The crew had evidently got to work the moment the weather improved, and worked furiously ever since. The pavilion for the spectators had not yet been erected, but all the arrangements for the musicians were complete, right down to music stands that now stayed quietly where they belonged and cables that were decently placed out of traffic areas.

  ‘It’s a different world!’ I exclaimed as Nigel went off to his assigned spot, Inga determinedly following him.

  ‘But with the same inhabitants,’ Alan replied.

  I was annoyed. ‘Why are you so determined to be gloomy? It’s a beautiful day, everything is going well. Why borrow trouble?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. You’re well aware that I’m not subject to premonition, but a policeman learns to be attuned to atmosphere, and I just don’t like the atmosphere around this festival. Nor do I have great faith in sudden conversions. I may be wrong. I hope I am. But when people I love could find themselves in trouble, I’d rather be there, to prevent if possible, to help if not.’

  I gave his arm a squeeze, and we walked over to a convenient bit of wall where we could sit and watch.

  This afternoon they were rehearsing some of the sacred music, a full rehearsal with all forces, soloists, chorus and orchestra. They began with the most complex work, the ‘Lord Nelson Mass’. In a departure from the usual format, for that work the conductor had chosen to put the soloists in the part of the castle I’d called the balcony. As they assembled there, Inga, rejoining us, explained, ‘Because of the acoustics of the place, Sir John thinks their voices will carry over the chorus and orchestra better from up there. We’ll see, of course. It depends on how well the sound engineers have done their work.’

  The usual preliminaries took less time than usual. The orchestra got itself tuned without an undue amount of the fifty-stomach-ache noise, the chorus settled into its sections, Sir John tapped his baton and captured everyone’s eye, and they were off.

  Those opening measures of the ‘Lord Nelson’, with their almost harsh military overtones, always send chills up my spine, and here, in what once had been a fortress and a garrison, I could almost hear the thunder of hoof beats as the enemy approached. Then the chorus came in with their demand – yes, demand! – for mercy, and I was caught up in the splendour of the music. The soprano soloist was excellent, soaring into difficult, high passages with apparent ease and total control, and the acoustics from the balcony seemed to me to be working exactly as intended.

  I glanced at Alan. He appeared to be lost in the music. Or was his rapt concentration fixed rather on the musicians?

  Sir John let the ‘Kyrie’ run through to its conclusion before stopping. He ran the first few bars of the chorus entrance again, insisting on perfectly clean articulation of the eighth-notes, and perfect, clipped diction. By the second repetition, he had what he wanted, and they went on to the ‘Gloria’.

  This was the first chance I’d had to hear Nigel, since the full quartet sings in this movement. I leaned forward to catch his full, rich tenor as he and the baritone sang together in a lovely and moving duet.

  Then Madame de la Rosa joined them, and I could hear only her superb voice. Not that she overpowered the others. She was behaving impeccably, keeping her voice and her temperament under control. But my word, the strength of that voice! She made the others sound like amateurs, even Nigel, dearly as I loved him.

  Now all four were singing together, and Graciosa raised her head as her voice soared to what must be the very top of her range . . . and then higher, and higher, into a terrified, terrifying scream. She dropped her music, clawed at her face and neck and hair, turned around, screamed again, backed up against the stone railing of the balcony . . .

  And as the music faded disjointedly away, and in what seemed almost like slow motion, she was over the railing and pitching to the stone pavement twenty feet below.

  SIX

  Alan was on his feet running toward Graciosa before anyone else had much chance to react. I stayed where I was, but Inga, after a moment, followed Alan. Sir John got a slower start, but with less distance to cover he beat Alan by a nose. He started to kneel.

  ‘Don’t touch her, if you please, sir. I am a policeman, and must make sure that she is not disturbed until the local police arrive.’

  ‘But she needs medical help! We have to get her to a doctor!’

  Alan had laid his fingers lightly on her neck, the neck that was twisted in a very odd way. ‘I’m afraid she is beyond any human help, sir.’

  ‘No . . . You don’t mean . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Now, Sir John, you can be a very great help if you will. Please ask the musicians, and the crew and so on, to stand clear, but to stay on the premises.’ He already had his phone out and was punching in the familiar number. ‘And someone – ah, Inga, my dear. Would
you go up to the balcony – gallery – whatever the thing is called, and make sure no one disturbs anything up there.’

  Inga looked horrified. ‘Then you think . . .?’

  ‘I don’t think anything at the moment, but you know any sudden death must be investigated. Go, child!’

  She went.

  I very much wanted, needed, to talk to Alan, but now was perhaps not the time. He had his hands full. I would wait until the official police arrived.

  Meanwhile I tried to make myself useful. I thought I could perhaps assist Sir John, who seemed to have his hands very full of assorted musicians, all of whom were upset. He didn’t seem to be doing too well himself, for that matter. There was sweat on his brow, and his hands were trembling.

  ‘Sir John,’ I said tentatively. He turned around and looked at me blankly.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No, but I’m a good friend of Nigel Evans.’ Then, when he still looked blank, ‘Nigel Evans. Your tenor.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Did you want to speak to him? Because I think he’s still up . . .’ He gestured towards the balcony, without looking at it.

  ‘No, I don’t need him. I think you need help, though, and I came to offer it. You’ll forgive me for saying you don’t look at all well. May I bring you some water?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, really. Someone told me to . . .’ He looked helplessly at the crowd of musicians, who were milling around and getting far too close to the pathetic body of Graciosa.

  ‘That someone was my husband, and he wouldn’t want you to overtax yourself. If you’ll sit down, I’ll find someone to bring you some water – and is there some medication you should be taking?’ I didn’t quite want to say so, but the poor man looked very much as if he might be having a heart attack.

  ‘No, I . . . Very well. I do feel a bit odd. But it’s nothing serious, madam, I do assure you.’

  ‘Good.’ I half pushed him into the chair recently occupied by the concertmaster, and snagged a wandering clarinettist. ‘Go to the gift shop and buy this man some water,’ I ordered her. ‘Do you have money?’

  She took a good look at Sir John, then nodded and set off at a brisk pace.

  ‘But the musicians . . .’

  ‘You leave the crowd control to me. I used to be good at it.’

  I grabbed Sir John’s microphone from its stand and bellowed into it. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Your attention, please! QUIET, please!’ These were not the schoolchildren I used to be able to quell with my voice alone, but they responded gratifyingly. ‘Thank you,’ I said in a slightly more restrained tone. ‘As you know, there has been a tragic accident. If you have not already realized it, I am sorry to tell you that Madame de la Rosa died in the fall.’ A little ripple of shock and unease. ‘The police will be here soon, but until they arrive, you are asked please to keep well away from the scene of the accident, but remain within the castle precincts. Thank you.’

  ‘What will happen with the festival?’ shouted one of the crowd.

  There were murmurs of disapproval, and I was a little shocked myself, but it was a legitimate question.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sure Sir John will work that out with the police, and you’ll be informed as soon as possible.’ I switched off the mike and put it back on its stand. The noise level picked up again as everyone began to buzz about the situation, but over it I heard, with great relief, the sound of sirens. The Force had arrived.

  Then of course Alan was kept busy talking to the officer in charge, while another, his second-in-command, presumably, attended to Sir John. Still others began to separate the musicians into manageable groups for interviews. Eventually one of the lesser lights, a beefy, rather sour-looking man of about fifty, approached me.

  ‘And you’d be Mrs Nesbitt?’

  ‘Mrs Martin. But yes, Mr Nesbitt’s wife.’

  His expression told me what he thought of women with names different from their husbands’. ‘Right,’ he continued, making a note. ‘And what can you tell me about all this?’

  He wasn’t Welsh, that was certain. There was none of that Welsh lilt, that softness of accent. Nor was there the courtesy of manner I had met with so far. What was he doing in the police on this side of the border, I wondered. Besides annoying the natives.

  Those thoughts took only a portion of my brain, while I framed an answer to his question. ‘I was in a good position to see her fall, better than most people here, because they were busy playing and singing, and I was merely observing. She was singing, and hit a high note, and then it went higher and higher and turned into a scream, and then she fell.’

  ‘She screamed before she fell? Are you sure?’

  ‘I can,’ I said, very much on my dignity, ‘tell the difference between singing and screaming. And yes, it was before she fell. And now I stop to think about it, she was also sort of flailing about, slapping at her hair and neck.’

  ‘Hmm. A bee, maybe. And who was near her at the time?’

  ‘The other three soloists.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘I don’t know all their names. The tenor is Nigel Evans.’

  ‘A Welshman, then?’

  ‘His father was. Nigel has lived in England since he was very young.’

  ‘And how do you know so much about him?’

  My irritation with this mannerless oaf was growing. ‘He has been a good friend for many years,’ I said frostily.

  ‘I see.’ He made another note. ‘Know anything about the others?’

  ‘Only that they sing like angels.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe one of them wasn’t so angelic.’ He slapped his notebook shut. ‘That’s all for now, Mrs Nesbitt.’

  ‘One moment, young man.’ I let him see my anger. ‘For one thing, that is not my name. As you know perfectly well. For another, if you think that one of the other soloists pushed Madame de la Rosa to her death, you are quite mistaken. They were not near enough to her to trip her, their hands were occupied with their scores, and their minds and souls with the music. Good afternoon!’

  I stalked off, seething.

  ‘Problems, love?’

  Alan had come up behind me. I turned to him. ‘Not really, I suppose, except that I just had a close encounter of the idiot kind.’

  ‘Ah, that would be Sergeant Blimp, I expect. I saw him arrive and pegged him as one of those coppers who’s never done anything useful in his life, but has also never done anything quite stupid enough to get him sacked.’

  ‘The name would be appropriate,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t know what his real name is, as he didn’t bother to introduce himself. He pretended not to know what my real name is, either. But the worst thing is that he didn’t listen to a thing I told him. He’s decided Nigel probably did it, because he has a Welsh name. He’s English – Sergeant Blimp, I mean.’

  Alan looked grave. ‘If he were under my supervision, that sort of attitude would be just cause for a dressing-down, if not worse disciplinary action.’

  ‘He wasn’t overt about it, but his face, like mine, shows his thoughts only too clearly. But never mind him. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, because I finally remembered something important. You know I said I thought I recognized Graciosa?’

  ‘You’ve remembered why?’

  ‘Yes, and I think we ought to pass it along to the police. Alan, she was on that canal boat.’

  ‘But she said she didn’t even get to England until that night!’

  We were on our way back to Tower. We were all exhausted. The police had questioned everyone at length, though they had not, to my relief and Sergeant Blimp’s apparent consternation, questioned Nigel any more closely than anyone else. Apparently the inspector in charge, whose name was Owen, was aware of Blimp’s bias against the Welsh and discounted it automatically.

  The fate of the festival had still not been decided. The next day, Sunday, had always been scheduled as a day of rest for most of the participants before the gruelling week ahead. But Nigel was more interested, just no
w, in my insistence that Graciosa had been on board the canal boat when the unfortunate baritone fell overboard.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he said for the fourth or fifth time.

  ‘Nigel, I’m sure.’ I tried to be patient. We were all upset. ‘I didn’t recognize her for certain this morning, but when she fell and I got a good look at her, something clicked, and I remembered. I’m terrible with names, as you probably know, but I remember faces. She was on board that boat.’

  ‘Then why did she lie about it?’ Nigel said, running his fingers through his hair so it stood up on end. ‘When do you think she really did come into the country? Did she miss the early rehearsals on purpose? It’s an extremely unprofessional thing to do.’

  ‘You’re not a professional singer,’ I reminded him. ‘Maybe she wasn’t either.’

  ‘But we’re all being paid for this gig,’ Nigel retorted. ‘Not a lot, but we are receiving payment. That makes it a professional engagement. But she wasn’t behaving like a professional, even after she turned up. I can’t make any sense of it at all.’

  ‘The police would like to know the answers to those questions, too,’ said Alan soberly. ‘It should be easy enough to find her passport and check the date of entry. After that, though, the waters become murkier. She was the only one who could have answered most of your questions.’

  ‘And what I’d like to know, most of all,’ I said, ‘is the reason for her sudden reversal of personality. Fire-breathing dragon one moment, angel of sweet reason the next. Frankly, at the moment I can think of only one explanation for such a dramatic change.’

  ‘Drugs,’ said the other three in near-unison.

  Alan smacked his knee. ‘Dorothy, you may have hit on it! A drug reaction might also explain that odd sort of fit she went into just before she fell. It looked to me almost like a severe allergic reaction. I need to mention this to the inspector.’ He looked for a place to pull off the road, and found none.