Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Our pub crawl turned eventually into an early dinner, which became ever more hilarious as several other musicians drifted in, saw us, and joined the party.

  They were an extraordinarily diverse group. They all spoke English, but a lot of other languages were mixing in as well, and accents I couldn’t even begin to identify.

  A few I was certain of, though. Or at least almost certain.

  ‘Are you two American or Canadian?’ I asked a young couple. ‘After living over here for several years, I can’t tell any more, and people can get annoyed if I get it wrong.’

  ‘American,’ they answered with a grin. ‘And which are you? Actually, you sound English, but you said . . .’

  Alan and I both laughed at that. ‘You think I sound English. The English think I sound American. I sometimes think I’m the man without a country.’

  They looked blank at that, and I chuckled again. ‘Sorry. An old story. Very old, come to think about it. Anyway, I was born in southern Indiana, but I’ve lived in England for quite a while now. You sound more or less midwest – am I right?’

  ‘Right on the nail-head. Springfield, Illinois, but we went to the IU School of Music, so we were almost your neighbours for a while.’

  ‘Well, I’m impressed! The School of Music turns out some fine musicians. Are you singers or instrumentalists?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t say “singers or musicians”,’ said the young woman. ‘We’ve had a lot of battles about that over the years, because we’re one of each. I play the violin, and my brother’s a singer, a bass.’

  ‘That’s basso profundo, kid,’ said the young man. ‘I’m Larry Andrews,’ he added, putting out a hand, ‘and this is my twin, Laurie. This is the first chance we’ve had to work together since college.’

  The four of us introduced ourselves. ‘So what have you been doing since college?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ said Larry. ‘We both auditioned all over the place, and we got lucky. I’m with the San Francisco Opera chorus, and Laurie, our virtuoso, plays with the CSO.’

  ‘The Chicago Symphony?’ said Alan, with something like awe in his voice.

  ‘I’m only a ringer,’ Laurie hastened to explain. ‘They’re on tour right now and didn’t need me, and when Larry told me the SFO didn’t need him for a month either, we decided to try out for this, and we got lucky again!’

  ‘I don’t imagine,’ said Alan, ‘luck had a great deal to do with it.’

  ‘Oh, but some of the people here are really good. Nigel, you were fantastic in the opera scenes today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nigel, trying with little success to look modest, ‘but the chorus and orchestra really tied it together.’

  ‘Well, I very nearly came untied, I can tell you,’ said Laurie.

  ‘Or unstrung,’ put in her brother.

  ‘Oh, you’re the one with the broken e-string!’ said Nigel.

  ‘And no replacement, like an idiot,’ said Larry casually.

  She punched him on the arm. ‘I did too have replacements. I always carry them. I told you! Somebody swiped them, not just the e-string, but the whole kit and caboodle. And they were good ones, too, and they don’t come cheap!’

  ‘Hey, admit it, kid, they just fell out someplace. Nobody’d steal ’em.’

  Laurie was getting annoyed. I stepped in hastily. ‘Well, the orchestra sounded wonderful, so you must have managed. With a borrowed string, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, and now I have to find another set someplace so I can replace the one I used. And I don’t know my way around over here well enough to have any idea where . . .’

  Her voice was rising, and Larry draped a casual arm around her shoulders. ‘Relax, kid. It ain’t the end of the world. You did a great job, with a string that wasn’t what you’re used to, and not even broken in or anything. We’ll find you some strings someplace. You probably won’t even have to use them.’

  Laurie leaned back against her brother. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall apart. It’s just . . . with everything happening . . .’

  ‘What you need is another drink,’ said Larry. ‘And just you listen to big brother. Yeah, I’m sorry the woman died that way. But mostly because she made trouble even by dying. I can’t pretend I’m sorry she’s gone, and this festival’s going to work one whole hell of a lot better without her, so buck up.’ He stood. ‘Who else wants another beer?’

  Laurie rolled her eyes at his departing back. ‘He loves to play the big brother and boss me around, just because he’s twenty minutes older.’

  ‘There was certainly no love lost between him and Delia!’ I said.

  ‘Who?’ Laurie looked puzzled, and Alan shot me a warning look.

  ‘Sorry. Grace – the woman who died, whatever her name was. I’m bad at names.’

  ‘Graciosa. That wasn’t her real name, though. I don’t know what her real name was, but she was a real pain. Larry was a little out of line just now, but he was right about one thing. Nobody liked her very much.’

  ‘Nobody here at the festival, you mean?’

  ‘Nobody in the known world of music,’ said Larry, returning. ‘Or at least opera. I only met her once before, in San Francisco, and she nearly killed the production. She’s famous – well, she was famous – for causing trouble wherever she went.’

  ‘She had a beautiful voice,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘There are lots of beautiful voices out there,’ said Laurie, with a little of the instrumentalist’s arrogance she didn’t know she had. ‘It’s nice when they’re attached to decent human beings.’

  ‘But what did she do, to make everyone hate her so? I mean, Nigel here told us she was pretty unprofessional in rehearsal, and that’s certainly enough to get everyone miffed. And I saw her . . . well, I guess you’d call it “temperament” that morning at the castle, when the weather was so awful. But I wouldn’t call any of that “causing trouble”, exactly.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Larry. ‘That sort of thing was just her warm-up routine. The main act was destroying other people’s careers.’

  Larry had maybe had one beer too many, or else his singer’s voice was easily audible by nature and training. At any rate, he’d been getting louder and louder, and we’d gathered a small crowd of the other musicians.

  Now one of them joined in. ‘You’ve got it in one, lad,’ he said. ‘She tried it with me. Nearly pulled it off, too.’

  That started the chorus. The first man who spoke was a singer who’d been trashed by Gracie’s antics in quartet auditions for an opera production in Prague. ‘She’d give me the wrong cue, or come in a half-beat too soon, so my entrance sounded late. And when I lost my temper, she screamed in the middle of my tirade and claimed I’d hit her. She actually gave her own arm a nasty pinch to leave a bruise. Where it didn’t show, of course.’

  I had no chance to express indignation, for the cellist was eager to tell about the time Gracie broke her bow. ‘I was playing in a pick-up orchestra in Strasbourg, and I said something about her to the conductor while we were taking a rehearsal break. Well, he didn’t like her either, and he laughed, and Gracie heard us. She just happened to be standing next to my desk, and she . . . I’m not quite sure what she did, but somehow my bow ended up on the floor in pieces.’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘Fortunately it wasn’t my good bow. I was using a cheap one, because the best one was being re-haired and the music wasn’t all that demanding. But I had to rent another one, which cost just about what I was being paid for the concert.’

  Some of the stories involved people who weren’t there. And the reason they weren’t there was always the same: Gracie had managed not just to damage their careers, but to put an end to them entirely. She had spread rumours, had given misinformation about audition dates and places, had in at least one case caused physical injury to keep someone out of a performance. ‘My wife,’ said the man telling that story. ‘She used a throat spray, and Gracie, who was the understudy, substit
uted shampoo. She just wanted to make Sue sick, but there was an allergic reaction, and she’ll never sing again.’

  That one quieted the crowd enough that Alan could ask, ‘But why did no one ever sue her, or charge her with criminal conduct? These stories are appalling!’

  ‘Because she was clever,’ said the woman with the cello story. ‘She managed things so nothing could ever be proved. And she slept with enough of the conductors and managers that they’d take her side. At least temporarily. Then if they started to get fed up, she’d threaten to tell their wives and/or girlfriends.’

  ‘Yeah, we couldn’t figure out why Sir John was putting up with her.’ That was Laurie again. ‘It’s well known that he’s incorruptible. He married sort of late, and he’s absolutely crazy about his wife and kids.’

  I wanted to divert that speculation, and besides I was bursting with my own question. ‘But why did she do all those awful things?’ I was horrified by the stories, but what seemed to be missing was any compelling reason for such atrocious behaviour. ‘The woman could sing. Why did she have to resort to the whole bag of dirty tricks?’

  ‘Because she had to get to the very top, and she wasn’t good enough to do that on the strength of her voice alone. She had an ego the size of Siberia, and a heart the same temperature.’ Larry had taken the floor again. ‘She could have had a very nice career in the third rank of opera. Small roles, regional companies, summer opera. But she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. In fact, we were all surprised to see her here, because this is a great festival, but let’s face it, it’s not exactly Glyndebourne. And she wanted nothing but the best. She wanted to be Renée Fleming, Deborah Voigt, and Anna Netrebko rolled into one, and the only way she could get to where she wanted to be was by climbing on other people’s corpses.’

  It was a chilling epitaph. By common consent, we quietly finished our drinks and went home.

  ELEVEN

  Somehow, when we got back to Tower, we weren’t in the mood for bed. Instead I brewed tea for all of us and we sat around in the lounge, pondering.

  ‘I almost let the cat out of the bag, didn’t I?’ I said, handing Alan his cup.

  ‘You let it entirely out, my dear. Fortunately everybody’d had a bit to drink, so I think they didn’t notice, particularly.’

  ‘Such a silly name, Graciosa.’ I yawned.

  ‘Actually it’s quite pretty,’ said Inga. ‘It was just so wildly inappropriate. Heavens, I knew she was unpleasant, but whole new vistas opened up tonight.’

  ‘And not very scenic ones, either,’ said Alan. ‘Nigel, how is it that you’d never heard any of these stories?’

  ‘I’m not a real musician.’

  ‘Indeed you are!’ said Inga warmly.

  ‘All right, I’m not professional, if you prefer that term. I mix with geeks and nerds and students, not singers and violinists and that crowd. I do take in Opera – the magazine, I mean – so I follow the gossip about the big names, but as you heard, our nasty little piece of work wasn’t quite there yet.’

  ‘I wish I could think it was a pity that she never will be, but I’m afraid I’m not that nice.’ I yawned again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The interesting thing about tonight’s little therapy session,’ said Alan, ‘is the discovery of how many people are delighted that Delia’s gone.’

  Nigel started to hum a tune I couldn’t quite recognize until he put words to it. ‘Delia’s gone, one more round, Delia’s gone.’

  I sat up straighter. ‘Good heavens! That’s a very old song! I heard it first when I was in college, which was long, long before you were born. Harry Belafonte sang it.’

  ‘And Johnny Cash, and a lot of other people,’ said Nigel. ‘My mum liked that sort of thing when she was a kid, and collected it, and played it when I was a kid. I liked it too, and I remember quite a lot of it. Do you know the story behind it?’

  ‘I didn’t know there was one.’

  ‘There was a real murder. Delia was almost a child, I think, and someone shot and killed her. Not much romance there, one would think, but years later they wrote a beautiful ballad about it.’

  ‘Well, if there’s one thing we know for sure,’ I said, standing and beginning to collect cups, ‘it’s that this Delia wasn’t murdered. Even though a lot of people may have wanted to do the deed. I’ve had it, folks. See you in the morning.’

  ‘But, Alan!’ I sat up suddenly in bed a few hours later. ‘I think she was murdered! And I think I know how they did it!’

  ‘Lovely, darling. You’re quite right.’

  I looked at Alan suspiciously. His eyes were tightly closed.

  Our window faced east. The sky was that milky colour that comes just before sunrise on a fine June day, which meant it wasn’t yet five in the morning. I suppose Alan had a perfect right to be sound asleep, but I was absolutely awake and, I knew from bitter experience, was not going to be able to get back to sleep. I sighed loudly.

  Alan didn’t stir.

  Very well. I had to try this theory out on someone. Would either of the Wynne-Eytons be up at this hour? Probably not.

  I got up, used the bathroom, and made myself a cup of tea, hoping that perhaps the hideous scream of the kettle might wake Alan. I let it sound for only a second, though. In the calm of early morning it sounded loud enough to wake the whole house, and quite possibly rouse Delia at the morgue, or wherever she was.

  When there was still no response from Alan I realized I was on my own, unless I woke him forcibly, and for various reasons I didn’t want to do that. Not least that I wanted him in a good mood when he did finally come to.

  I drank my tea and thought about my idea. The more I considered it the more sense it made. I would have to check it out, of course. Did I know someone who could provide me with the evidence I needed?

  The trouble was, I didn’t really know anyone much around here. Back in Sherebury there were any number of people I could ask, but here? Alan and Nigel and Inga. And our hosts, of course, but I didn’t really know them well. Maybe tomorrow morning – well, this morning, actually – I could go into Mold and see if there was a shopkeeper who could help. I tried to remember the shops I’d seen in Mold. Clothing stores, a charity shop, pubs, a library, a police station. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker . . .

  ‘Having a nice snooze, love?’

  I started awake at Alan’s touch. The sun was shining in the window brilliantly, and I had a terribly stiff neck.

  ‘Was I snoring, or thrashing about, or something?’ Alan went on.

  ‘Oh. No. No, I woke up really early with something important to tell you, but you were still asleep, so I got up to wait until I could decently wake you, and I must have nodded off.’

  ‘And now we’re both awake, so are you going to tell me how Delia was murdered?’

  ‘You heard me! You were awake! And you made me wait all this time!’

  ‘I was asleep. Some things one remembers even if one heard them while sleeping. So . . .?’

  I contemplated remaining in my snit, but only briefly. I was too eager to hear Alan’s reaction to my idea.

  ‘Well, it started with a dream, or a nightmare, really. I was back in that awful passageway in the castle, and there were spiders everywhere, and I was trying to brush them away.’

  ‘I remember that, too. At least I remember you crying out in your sleep.’

  ‘Yes. In my dream you said something soothing. Or was that real?’

  Alan shook his head. ‘Reflex on my part, perhaps. Go on.’

  ‘Then I was seeing Delia fall again, and again, and again. And each time, before she fell, she was trying to brush spiders away.’

  Alan got the point at once. ‘Those motions she made. Yes, you could be right. But are you suggesting that someone salted that balcony with spiders, or planted a fake one?’

  ‘No, something much simpler than that. Actually, it was something Penny said that brought it to mind. Not spiders. Spider webs.’

  ‘That disgusting s
pray people use at Halloween? The singers would have seen it immediately. We’d have seen it from the audience, come to that.’

  ‘No. Something much more subtle. Violin strings.’

  Alan looked at me and waited.

  ‘They’re thin and lightweight and neutral in colour. If they were hung from the roof of the balcony, dangling just far enough to blow in Delia’s face or hair, I don’t think she or anyone else would have noticed them until she felt them.’

  ‘Hmm. And that girl Laurie says her spare set went missing.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But the question is, when? Nigel told us about the problem as part of the pre-concert madness yesterday. Delia died on Saturday, two days before.’

  ‘Well, I thought of that, of course. The thing is, Laurie’s e-string didn’t break until just before the concert, so she didn’t need a new one till then. Would she have noticed that the spares were gone?’

  ‘I hope you don’t plan to ask her,’ said Alan.

  ‘Why not? How else will I know?’

  ‘Think, dear heart! Either she is telling the truth, and someone stole her strings – how absurd that sounds! Wasn’t there a ridiculous song some years back about someone stealing someone’s heartstrings? Whatever they might be.’

  ‘Probably. But go on.’

  ‘Very well. Either she’s telling the truth, or she is not. If she is, and you start her thinking about when the strings vanished, she may start wondering why you want to know, and that may lead to her questioning others. Then, if your theory has any validity—’

  ‘She could be in danger. Yes, I do see. And of course, if she’s lying, if she laid a booby-trap herself with her own strings – you’re right, it does sound odd – then I’ve alerted her, and she could run away or . . .’

  ‘Or decide that you, or we, pose a danger to her. Don’t speak to her about it, Dorothy.’

  He stalked into the bathroom, and I sat, somewhat deflated, trying to work the crick out of my neck. He was right, of course. Now that I had what I was perfectly certain was a sound theory about a way Delia could have been murdered, I couldn’t see any way of taking it further. Any questioning of anyone concerned with the festival could raise suspicions in the mind of whoever was guilty.