‘Tea, yes, but also beer and wine. I’ll leave the varieties up to you, but I want plenty. These people are going to be thirsty, especially the singers.’ And it won’t hurt a thing if they’re well lubricated, I added mentally. We may have to arrange for some of them to be taken home.
I’d leave that up to Alan.
We settled details of tables and chairs, plates and glasses and napkins, and got down to the bottom line. I took a deep breath and asked.
It was fortunate for my peace of mind that Alan came up just then, mobile in hand. He simply smiled and nodded as I passed along the awesome total. ‘You’ll only be charged for the drinks that are consumed, of course,’ she assured me.
‘It’s not a problem. Sir John Warner, the music director of the festival, will be paying the bill. Will you require a deposit?’
We settled that, too, and I punched the phone off and stood, weak-kneed. ‘You came along in the nick of time. I think I might have had a seizure. I hope Sir John knows what he’s getting into.’
‘He said not to worry about the cost. He wants this matter settled and is willing to do whatever it takes. He thought it a brilliant idea, by the way.’
‘And he wasn’t upset about being interrupted in rehearsal?’
Alan chuckled. ‘He wasn’t. His secretary was. I had to do quite a lot of convincing before she’d let me talk to him, but he seemed unperturbed.’
‘You can be very persuasive in full chief-constable mode.’
Inga came down the stairs, dressed rather more quietly than usual. Not that she’s ever a flashy dresser, but she likes bright colours, and they set off her exquisitely fair colouring, inherited from her German mother. This time, though, she was dressed in monochrome, shades of black, white, and grey. The individual pieces of her ensemble were quite attractive, but they didn’t go together. She looked a trifle dowdy, in fact.
Alan was somewhat taken aback, but I grinned. ‘The harmless gossip, interested in the glamorous lives of others.’
‘Got it in one.’ She grinned back. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’
‘Yes, the sooner we get there, the better.’ I was having a serious attack of nerves. ‘I think I understand a little of how Eisenhower must have felt just before D-Day. And don’t you laugh at me, Alan Nesbitt!’
He composed his face, with an effort, and led the way to the car.
The concert was over an hour away and the musicians were still rehearsing when we got to the castle. It was surprising how little of the sound escaped the thick walls. We could hear only isolated high notes from the car park, where we were nearly the first to arrive, the musicians all having strict instructions to park elsewhere.
I headed straight into the castle, without waiting for Alan and Inga. My first job as general of this operation was to find a place for the party. I had forgotten to bring my guidebook to the castle, with its convenient map, so I snatched one from the gift shop display rack as I went past. ‘I’ll pay later,’ I called to the outraged clerk, and sailed into the castle proper.
The entire inner ward was occupied by the festival, both performers and, soon, audience. The anterooms along the way were also in use, for the office, storage, and the like. But the outer ward, some little distance away, had great possibilities. It was floored in nice soft grass, and one end of it was the right shape for a long table or two, to hold the food. There was also plenty of room for chairs, not in rows, but set about informally, the better for people to talk. They’d have to juggle their drinks, but party-goers everywhere have to learn to do that.
Yes, this would do. And it was, I judged, far enough away from the inner ward, with lots of nice thick walls between, that the caterers wouldn’t disturb the concert as they set up. There was even, thanks to a wall that had crumbled centuries ago, access to the area that didn’t lead right through what I now thought of as the concert hall.
Now, if only the caterers would get here with the tables and chairs and other paraphernalia before most of the audience began to arrive . . . And here, if I wasn’t mistaken, they were.
At least, a woman in a white jacket was approaching me with a businesslike air. ‘I’m looking for the person in charge,’ she said briskly. ‘No one in the gift shop seemed to know.’
‘You must be Mrs Williams.’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Martin. I talked to you earlier.’
‘Yes. Wanted the impossible, you did, and here am I to make it happen. You have a cheque for me?’
‘Sir John does.’ At least I sincerely hoped he did. ‘They should be finished in a few minutes – or do I hear them breaking up now?’
The music had ceased, and we could hear Sir John’s voice, carrying more clearly than the music had a moment before. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for an admirable rehearsal. I am greatly privileged to work with such a fine group of dedicated musicians, both professional and amateur.’ He pronounced the word the French way, with its implication of lover, devotee. A nice touch, I thought. ‘I have what I hope will be a pleasant surprise for you after the concert. Because I’ve had to call you in early for this rehearsal, many of you will have had to do without your lunch. Therefore, I’ve arranged a party after the concert. This has been organized in some haste, so I’m not quite sure in which part of the castle it will be held; I’ll let you know before the end of the concert. I’ve been assured that there will be plenty of food for all.’ He paused artistically. ‘And plenty of drink!’
That brought a roar of approval. Mrs Williams smiled.
‘Two requests, then,’ Sir John went on. ‘I would like to ask you all to stay for the party, at least briefly, as I will have some important announcements to make. Second, please be discreet about mentioning it to any of the audience, as the festival can’t quite afford to feed all of North Wales.’
And with that he dismissed them on a wave of laughter, and Mrs Williams and I could approach him about that little matter of money.
With that settled, Mrs Williams went efficiently about her business, directing the men bringing in the tables and chairs and beginning to unload coolers full, presumably, of food. I was sorely tempted to filch some of it; lunch had been awfully skimpy. But I refrained. There were much more important things to worry about than my stomach.
Inga had, I felt, the easiest assignment. She had only to encourage gossip, never the hardest thing to do in a group of people, especially when the beer and wine were flowing.
Alan was seeking some specific information, about who was on the canal boat on that fateful day. That might be hard for me, but he was trained to conduct interviews, and was very good at it.
Nigel and I, on the other hand, had no training at all. Nigel at least knew some of these people, having worked with them for two or three weeks. I had an acquaintance with the twins, Larry and Laurie, and less than that with the people who’d joined us at the pub a few nights before. What possible excuse could I make to justify my questions about Pat and James?
With my head empty of anything except forebodings, I found Alan and Inga and we took our seats for the next-to-last concert of the series.
NINETEEN
I’d been looking forward to this particular concert for a long time. The programme featured sacred music, mostly choral, mostly short and familiar. The first piece, and the last, were Alleluias by Randall Thompson and Mozart, respectively. In between were selections by composers as diverse as Bach and John Rutter. Every now and then an especially lovely passage would catch my attention, but then I went back to worrying about what was to come.
This was crunch time. By suppertime tomorrow, all these people would have dispersed, scattered to the four winds. If we hadn’t found our murderer by then, it would be too late. The official police were not inclined to treat either death as murder and would have no interest at all in pursuing someone to another country, if that was the way our investigation pointed.
If it pointed in any direction at all. I faced the terrible possibility that we would never come to any conclusion – that th
ese murders, if such they were, would never be solved, and that Dan Green and Delia Warner would never be granted the justice that was surely their due.
That was one of the times when the music broke in to my distracted consciousness. They were singing ‘The Lord Is My Light’, the old anthem I remembered from my youth in Indiana. It’s always been one of my favourites, with its stirring music and its message of reassurance from Psalm 27. ‘Whom then shall I fear?’ And for a little while my fears were stilled, only to return when Sir John launched his forces into something I didn’t know.
All too soon the final brilliant ‘Alleluia’ sounded, followed by thunderous applause that went on and on. I agreed with the sentiment, but wished they would stop and go home, so I could tackle my uncertain duty.
Sir John held out his hands to still them. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you would like one more—’
He wasn’t allowed to finish. The crowd roared their approval.
‘Then we’ll play and sing something I suspect you all know, and you’d be very welcome to sing along with us. In English or Welsh, as you choose.’
The orchestra played the last few bars of the great Welsh hymn that Nigel had led us in singing on the canal boat. Then Sir John turned around and gave the audience their cue.
They sang lustily. The words were incomprehensible, because even the English words had several variations, and with the Welsh mixed in, all that could be heard was the blending of voices and the strong goodwill that rose like a visible cloud from the hundreds of singers.
I tried to sing along, but I couldn’t utter a sound. Alan took my hand and squeezed it, and of course that made things worse. When they had finished, to another round of applause, I had to find a tissue and dab away the tears.
‘Okay?’ Alan murmured in my ear.
‘Okay. It was just . . .’
‘I know. You can’t listen to that sort of music impassively, can you?’
It was more than that, of course. Yes, I choke up when music touches me deeply, but I was also remembering the last time I’d heard this hymn, on the boat with the strong young voices singing in perfect harmony. And two of those voices were silenced forever.
It didn’t do to dwell on that now. I had a job to do. Alan gathered Inga and me with a glance, and together we moved into the fray.
It wasn’t yet four in the afternoon, not my usual hour for libations, but I felt an abstemious glass of wine would ease my nerves.
‘Best have some food to go with it,’ said Alan at my elbow. ‘Find a place to sit down, and I’ll bring you a plate.’
‘But I need to circulate, mingle.’
‘After you have some sustenance, love.’
I obeyed, the more meekly as I hadn’t an idea what else to do. I looked around for any familiar face and spotted the twins sitting together with a small group. They had got their food and drink and were talking with animation. As I hesitated, Laurie looked up and saw me, and waved.
With dragging feet and a phoney smile, I walked over to join the group.
And the very first remark nearly undid me. ‘Nigel tells me this party was your idea!’ Laurie said brightly.
‘Well,’ I said, trying to give myself time to think, ‘it was everyone’s, really. Alan’s and Inga’s and mine, I mean. We thought it would be nice, after all your hard work, and so we suggested it to Sir John, and he agreed. So . . .’ I waved my hand around. ‘Everyone seems to be having a good time, don’t you think?’ I wished I had that wine in front of me. Teetering on the brink between truth and perjury is a nerve-wracking exercise.
‘Brilliant,’ said one of the other musicians, English by her voice. ‘And we really did need it, especially after the encore.’ There were nods and murmurs of agreement. ‘He sprang that on us with no warning, and I don’t mind saying it was hard to sing, after . . .’
She trailed off, and one of the young men finished for her. ‘We sang it on the canal boat, you see. Nigel started it, and we all sang along. Dan sang with us, and then . . .’
Well, there was my opening. Would Alan never bring me my food and wine? I licked dry lips and said, ‘Yes, I know. Alan and I were on the boat, too. In fact I’ve been trying to reach Pat – his fiancée?’
They nodded.
‘I’m worried about her. She seems to have gone off into the blue, and I’m not sure she should be alone just now. I suppose I’m being an old mother hen, but . . .’
‘She lives in Manchester, didn’t she say?’ someone said, and there were murmurs of agreement.
‘We’ve tried to ring her mobile, and there’s no answer. I suppose she could have forgotten to turn it on, or charge it, or something.’
‘Or she’s just ignoring it,’ said Laurie. ‘She might not feel like talking to anybody at this point.’
‘She was talking to O’Hara,’ said one of the men. ‘When she came to say goodbye. Day before yesterday? I’ve lost track.’
‘Day before that. Tuesday, it was. She came round because she was going back home. Didn’t want to carry on with the festival. Which was understandable.’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t going home. I heard her say so. Too lonely without Dan, she said.’
I leaned forward toward the young woman who had contributed this bit of information. ‘Did she say where she was going?’ I asked, trying to display only mild interest.
The group exchanged glances, but no one seemed to have heard Pat say anything definite about her plans.
‘Gone off with O’Hara, hasn’t she?’ said one rather loud young man. ‘Off with the old, on with the new.’
‘She’s not a bit like that!’ said a young woman indignantly. ‘She was really in love with Daniel. They were planning to be married in October.’ She dashed tears from her eyes. ‘And James was Dan’s best mate. They went off to mourn him together. That’s all!’
‘But where have they gone?’ The mildly interested pose was getting harder to maintain.
General shrugs. ‘Really, you mustn’t worry about Pat,’ said the earnest young woman. ‘She’ll be quite all right with James.’
If Alan hadn’t turned up just then with food and drink, I think I might have screamed with frustration. I could only hope that Inga and Alan had better luck with their missions. I had made absolutely no headway at all.
But I despaired too soon. The party began to wind down, and the musicians were looking around for Sir John and his promised announcements, so that they could leave. I picked up my empty plate and glass, heading for a rubbish bin. Laurie stood at my side.
‘Dorothy, I have to talk to you,’ she said in a near whisper. ‘Can we go someplace away from all this?’
It was important. I knew that after one quick glance. I took her arm. ‘Here. Up this stairway. Quick.’
I was counting on the musicians’ lack of interest in narrow, poorly lit passages. The fact that I wasn’t any too fond of them myself was irrelevant at this point.
We made our way along to one of the wider places where there was a window. There wasn’t another soul around. I turned to face Laurie. ‘We won’t be interrupted here. Tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I think Larry knows something about Pat and James.’
‘Larry? But why hasn’t he said anything? He knows we’re all trying to find them.’
‘I don’t know! He won’t even talk to me about it, and we’ve never hidden anything from each other!’ She was nearly in tears. ‘It’s a twin thing, you know? I mean, we fight like crazy over all sorts of things, but we don’t lie to each other, and we don’t keep secrets from each other. When we were kids,’ she went on, speaking from the great distance of her twenty-some years, ‘we told each other everything, even the things we’d have died rather than tell our parents. I knew all about his first joint, and he knew about my first serious love affair – and calmed me down when it was over. It was nothing at all like what my girlfriends went through with their brothers. Larry’s . . . well, it sounds sort of dumb, but he’s my best friend. And I tho
ught I was his. And now he’s gone all quiet and moody, and that’s not like him at all. And when I tried to talk to him about Pat and Dan and James and the whole situation, he just walked away.’
The tears were rolling down her cheeks now, and I put an arm around her shoulders and just held her for a few minutes.
This was a most unexpected development, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. If I tried to talk to Larry myself, and if by chance he’d seen us go off together, he’d think Laurie had betrayed him. As, in a way, she had.
On the other hand, if Alan were to question him, Alan who was trained for such things and had the benefit of a sort of semi-official status – well, not really, not any more, but would a young American know about the finer points . . .?
It might be worth a try. Alan would be able to make it seem as if he was asking everybody the same questions – as indeed he probably was.
‘Look here, Laurie.’ She had control of herself now and was fishing in her handbag for a tissue. I pulled one out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘Crumpled, but clean. Now what I propose to do is this. I don’t want to talk to Larry myself.’
‘Oh, no, you can’t!’ she wailed. ‘He’d think—’
‘Exactly. But what if I tell Alan what you’ve told me – privately, of course – and he asks Larry some questions? No, wait till I’ve finished. You’ll remember we told you Alan used to be a policeman.’
She looked instantly apprehensive.
I gave her arm a little shake. ‘Stop being so scared! He has no official standing any more, and anyway this is Wales, not England. I’m a little hazy about the laws here, and the differences, but the point is he couldn’t clap handcuffs on anyone any more than I could, or you, for that matter. What he can do, though, is ask questions, and he’s very good at that. And I promise you, Larry won’t have any idea you’ve said a word to anyone. Will you let me drop Alan a hint?’
Murder at the Castle Page 15
