Murder at the Castle

by Jeanne M. Dams

‘No, I don’t think that’s a good plan. You need to talk to James, and I want to be with you when you do. I have a better idea. I’ll find out what the train connections are, while you talk to John. Between the three of them, I think Nigel and Inga and Pat can manage, if there aren’t too many changes. You can delay your visit to the police station long enough to take them to Chester, and someone can surely meet them at the station in Kent.’

  ‘Well, perhaps. You check, and I’ll go talk with John.’

  I let the hotel staff do the checking for me. They were eager to cooperate, probably because they were looking forward to the imminent departure of the twins. The news, though, was discouraging. ‘It’s direct from Chester to London Euston, madam,’ said the clerk who rang me back. ‘Every half-hour. But then they’d have to get to St Pancras, which isn’t far, but with two children and luggage, it could be a trial. Then they would take a train to Ashford, and then change to another to get to Appledore. The connections aren’t good, I’m afraid, and there are reports of delays on the line.’

  I rang off, discouraged. ‘You can’t get there from here,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Not travelling with two whirling dervishes.’

  ‘I begin,’ said Inga, ‘to understand the nineteenth-century appeal of laudanum.’ For the twins by that time were whining with sheer exhaustion and resisting all persuasion to better behaviour. They were unhappy, and they wanted the world to know about it.

  It was fortunate for our sanity that Alan called back very quickly. ‘Forget about trains, love.’

  ‘I already have. They’re impossible. I guess you’re our only hope.’

  ‘No, the best solution of all will be at your door in five minutes or so. John agrees that the twins must be taken home, and has hired a car and driver for the trip. If Nigel and Inga and Pat will accompany them, they can return in the same car, and John would like to pay them for their trouble. He’s most grateful to you all for seeing to them, and apologizes for leaving it to you.’

  ‘There’s nothing to apologize for. Tell him I want to see that new baby as soon as we can, and thank him for making this so much easier. And I’ll see you shortly?’

  We made quick work of packing the twins’ things, and when we told them they were going home to Fraülein, they became far more cooperative. The driver of the Bentley helped, too. I had some misgivings about two small children and all that expensive upholstery, and then decided to stop worrying about it. Doubtless John would reimburse the company for any damage.

  Alan arrived before I’d finished seeing off the little party, and he helped, too. When they had finally gone, I turned to him, shoulders sagging. ‘I’m too old for this sort of thing. They’re adorable children, really, but . . .’

  ‘But you’ve had enough of them.’

  ‘At least for now. I have new respect for Nigel and Inga.’

  ‘And they have only one to cope with. Now, my dear, we are going to repair to The Stables for a drink and some dinner, courtesy of John, who told me to put it on his bill.’

  ‘But James . . .’ I protested, weakly.

  ‘James can stew in his own juice a little longer. Come on. You need a rest.’

  The dinner was excellent, and I stood up from it, refreshed and ready to face the next thing. ‘Just let me brush my teeth. I hate furry teeth.’

  One doesn’t expect to be struck by a major revelation in the ladies’ room of a restaurant. I was attending to my teeth, trying to hurry, when suddenly I saw it all.

  I only needed confirmation, and we were on our way to get it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘You’re very quiet, Dorothy,’ said Alan on the way to the police station. ‘Still tired?’

  ‘No. Just thinking.’

  He darted a quick, quizzical look my way, but I closed my mouth firmly. I wasn’t ready yet to talk about my brilliant idea.

  James was not in the best of tempers when we were admitted to the lock-up. In fact, he reminded me of the twins at their worst. He was petulant, aggressive and stubborn, all magnified by his Irish disposition. In short, he was in no mood to cooperate with anyone about anything.

  Alan, with commendable patience, put up with his fury and his language for some time before saying, ‘All right, Mr O’Hara. I’ve listened to you. Now you listen to me for a moment.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll leave you here until Inspector Owen releases you. That could be some time.’

  ‘I’ve not bloody done anything!’

  ‘Then you’d do much better to answer my questions and prove that to me. Or shall I leave now?’

  ‘I don’t have to talk to you!’

  ‘True.’ Alan stood up. ‘I think we’re wasting our time here, Dorothy.’

  We didn’t even get to the end of the corridor. ‘Ah, bloody hell,’ said James. ‘Come and ask your feckin’ questions.’

  We went back.

  ‘No promises to answer them, mind.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Don’t you have to tell me I can have a lawyer?’ he asked truculently, when we had sat down again in the cramped cell.

  ‘You’ve been watching too much American television,’ said Alan amicably. ‘Here in the UK, the caution doesn’t say anything about legal representation. Of course, you’re entitled to have a lawyer present if you want. It would be at your own expense, though. And I remind you that I’m not a policeman, so this is not an official interview.’

  ‘Ah, hell. Get it over.’

  ‘Very well, then. This afternoon when we first talked, you talked about wanting to get even with Madame de la Rosa—’

  ‘Might as well call her Gracie. Or bitch.’

  ‘Gracie will do nicely. To get even with Gracie, then, for what you thought she did to your friend Daniel Green.’

  James said nothing. Alan gave him a moment, and then went on. ‘And you made a further, very interesting statement. You said you only meant to frighten her. What was it that you did to try to frighten her?’

  Again he remained silent, though his eyes darted from one of us to the other like a frightened animal.

  ‘Did you give her something to eat or drink just before she fell?’

  We both knew the answer to that one: no drugs had been found in her system. But James didn’t know that. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I tell you, I didn’t mean to kill her. Only . . .’

  And then he firmly closed his mouth again.

  I decided it was time to explode my little bomb. ‘James,’ I said, leaning toward him, ‘when did you find time to do it? It must have been tricky, with all those stagehands and musicians milling around. Anyone could have seen you.’

  ‘Time to do what?’ He still looked surly, but his voice gave him away.

  ‘Time,’ I said gently, ‘to tape the dental floss to the top of the balcony.’

  The look he gave me showed astonishment mixed with admiration, mixed, I could have sworn, with amusement.

  It took some time for him to tell us the whole story. How he’d become increasingly sure that Gracie, to use his name for her, had pushed Daniel to his death. How Larry’s thoughtless remark had festered in his mind until he decided to do something to get even. How he’d seen Gracie shy in terror at a spider on that ill-fated morning at the castle, before the weather forced the transfer of the rehearsal to the church.

  ‘At first I thought I’d buy one of those fake tarantulas,’ James had said. His speech had changed, his accent less evident, his language far less crude, reinforcing my opinion that much of his Irishness was put on for effect. ‘But I couldn’t find one readily, and anyway it might have been seen too soon. So then I thought that a web would be just as good, and I knew just the way to create that effect.’

  ‘How did you hit on the idea?’ I couldn’t resist asking. ‘It was brilliant, but it took me forever to figure it out.’

  ‘Ah, but you never terrorized your little sister, did you? I learned that trick when I was ten. It was useful in other ways, t
oo. Me mum thought I was being such a good boy, flossing me teeth every time. She used to brag about how often she had to buy the floss!’

  He told us about planning every move, how he’d bought the super-sticky strapping tape ‘because your sellotape would never stick to stone’; how he’d cut the lengths of floss ahead of time, painstakingly painted them with black marker so they wouldn’t be easily seen, and attached them to the tape, which he’d then lightly attached to some aluminium foil to make it easy to carry. How he’d chosen a moment to ‘go to the loo’ when everyone’s attention was elsewhere, sneaking up to the balcony to affix the tape to the lintel of the window opening. He’d even brought along someone’s cello case to stand on, so he could reach high enough.

  ‘It was a lot of trouble to go to for a joke,’ I said to Alan back at Tower later as we were getting ready for bed. The house seemed very quiet and empty without Nigel and Inga.

  ‘It wasn’t a joke,’ said Alan soberly. ‘It was revenge. And it succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.’

  ‘You don’t think he really meant to kill her, then?’

  ‘No, and I think he was terrified by what happened. He thought his only chance was that everyone would think it was an accident. And we very nearly did accept that explanation.’

  ‘If I weren’t so afraid of spiders myself, he might have got by with it. That was the only thing that made me believe she was somehow frightened to death. What will happen to him?’

  ‘That depends on what view a jury takes of his actions. There’s little doubt he caused her death, but I can’t see them deciding it was purposeful. He’ll probably be reprimanded severely and told to take more consideration of his actions in future. Beyond that, not much, I shouldn’t think.’

  ‘And do you think he will? Consider his actions in future, I mean?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Alan yawned, and his phone rang.

  I looked at the bedside clock. Eleven thirty. My stomach lurched. No good ever comes of a call at that time of night.

  ‘Yes. Surely. Goodnight.’

  ‘Not another crisis?’

  ‘No, dear heart. That was Nigel telling me they arrived in Appledore safely, the children are tucked up under the watchful eye of Frieda and Pat, and he and Inga are going to sleep at home tonight before the driver brings them back tomorrow to pick up their car and say their goodbyes here. The drama is over, my dear. Sleep well.’

  ‘Except of course he didn’t do it.’

  Alan was awake, but only just. He turned over, sat up, and accepted the cup of coffee I handed him. ‘What did you say?’ he asked in a rusty, early-morning voice.

  ‘James didn’t do it. Or at least not that way. I was so much in love with my theory last night that my common sense deserted me. Alan, have you ever looked at that man’s teeth?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Alan sipped his coffee. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Yes. I doubt if a toothbrush touches them very often, let alone dental floss.’

  ‘So why did he say he did?’

  ‘He didn’t. I did. I thought at the time there was some amusement mixed with the surprise in his reaction. Now I understand why. I’d come up with a perfect solution to his dilemma.’

  ‘His dilemma being?’

  ‘How to confess to something when he had no idea how he had supposedly done it.’

  ‘But . . . but why did he want to confess if he hadn’t done it? Is there more coffee?’

  ‘Coming right up. I asked Mairi to brew us a potful. And you obviously need it. Think, dear heart! All those years as a policeman . . .’

  He had downed most of the second cup before he replied, ‘He’s protecting someone.’

  ‘Of course! And we know who, don’t we? Who was it he dragged away from here as fast as he could get her? Who was it he stuck to like a burr until she’d had enough of him?’

  ‘And who is it,’ Alan added grimly, ‘who is now helping to look after the Warner twins?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Alan handed me his cup, got out of bed, and headed for the shower.

  We breakfasted quickly on toast and cereal while we discussed what to do. Notify John first, or head for Kent? Call Nigel and Inga and ask them to go back to the Warner home to keep a watching brief?

  We decided to do all those things. Alan called John while I phoned Inga and explained the situation.

  ‘We were just about to leave for Tower,’ said Inga, ‘and bring Nigel Peter along for a treat. He won’t be happy about us leaving him again, but I suppose . . .’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘Stay with him. Send Nigel to the Warners’ in that hired car, to keep an eye on things. We’ll join him as soon as we can get away from here. You’ll just have to pick up your car later. We’ll work that out.’

  ‘Right. And Dorothy . . . be careful. Pat was acting a little odd last night, I thought. Maybe she was just tired, but . . .’

  It only needed that, I thought as I rang off.

  ‘John’s frantic,’ Alan reported. ‘He can’t leave Cynthia and the new baby, but he’s worried sick about the twins. I tried to play down the danger, but it was only right he should know.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s go.’

  It’s a long drive from Mold, North Wales, to Appledore, Kent. Alan borrowed Mairi’s computer and took five minutes to look it up online, then handed me a sheaf of bewildering directions, and we set out.

  The first few miles, on local roads and through villages, were maddening. I sat tense, directions in hand, pushing the car every foot of the way. ‘You know,’ said Alan, ‘we won’t get there any faster if you give yourself a headache.’

  ‘I know, but . . . I’m going to phone Nigel.’

  ‘Not until we reach the motorway, if you please, my dear. I don’t know these roads, and I don’t want to get lost.’

  I tried to relax my shoulders, but it wasn’t easy. It seemed hours before we found ourselves on the M6 bound for Birmingham, and I could finally call Nigel. I was, as Alan had predicted, getting a headache.

  The connection wasn’t good. We must have been passing through an area ill-served by transmission towers. Nigel didn’t answer for several rings, and when he did, his voice didn’t sound at all like himself.

  ‘Nigel? Is that you? It’s Dorothy.’ I paused. ‘Speak up, dear. I can’t hear you.’

  ‘. . . not easy . . . bad . . . hurry . . . hostage . . .’

  The last word came through quite clearly, even though Nigel was apparently whispering.

  ‘Nigel! Are you telling me you’re involved in a hostage situation?’

  Alan swerved, narrowly missing a huge lorry that was roaring past. And I lost the signal.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Nigel! Nigel?’ I frantically pressed redial, but there was no response.

  Alan meanwhile had pulled into a lay-by. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Almost nothing I could make out, except a few words. “Hurry”, he said, and “bad”, and “hostage”.’

  ‘You’re sure about that last?’

  ‘It was very clear, the clearest of anything. Alan, the signal was terrible, but I think he was whispering!’

  ‘Right.’ Alan had pulled out his own phone and was punching in a well-remembered number.

  ‘Inspector Morrison, please. It’s very urgent. This is . . . Oh, yes, Sergeant. Thank you.’ There was a very brief pause. ‘Derek? Alan here. I have a favour to ask. We have word of a potentially dangerous situation in Appledore, down in Kent. It may involve two very young children as hostages, and we have reason to believe a young woman of unstable mentality might also be involved. No details as yet, and we’re hurrying to get there as fast as we can, but we’re hours away on the M6. I don’t know who’s in charge down there any more.’ Pause. ‘Ah. Well, will you ring him and tell him the children of Sir John Warner may be at grave risk. Yes, the conductor. Keep me posted. Oh, and Derek, see if you can pass the word to the motorway authorities to keep an eye out for my car, and let me maintain
some speed.’

  He put the phone back in his pocket and eased back into traffic.

  We were lucky in a way, I suppose. There were no major traffic jams on the motorways, even around Birmingham and London, and nobody stopped us, though Alan was certainly going far faster than the speed limit. He’s an excellent driver, but he is seventy, after all, and his reflexes can’t be what they were. My knuckles were white for a good part of the way, but I wasn’t sure whether it was the speed or fear of what might meet us at our destination.

  The Kent countryside, when we finally reached it, basked in the sunny June afternoon. Appledore was a pretty little village in a county full of pretty little villages. I scarcely noticed it. ‘Which house?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He pulled to a stop outside the village shop, which a small sign identified as also the post office, got out of the car (with some difficulty) and went inside.

  I was suddenly aware of my urgent need for a loo. I looked down the street and found the expected pub. Alan would understand. I got out of the car even more slowly than he had, stiff and sore after five hours of tense sitting, and toddled to the pub.

  I met him, bound on the same errand, on my way back to the car.

  ‘The big house at the end of the street,’ he said, pointing. ‘We’ll walk, I think. Less conspicuous, in case . . .’

  He didn’t say in case of what. He didn’t have to. I waited for him, suddenly wishing myself far away.

  There was no obvious activity around the big house, but as we approached the drive, a man materialized from behind a bush. ‘I’ll ask you to move on, sir,’ he said, very quietly.

  ‘I am Alan Nesbitt, retired chief constable of Belleshire. I asked Inspector Morrison, Sherebury Constabulary, to notify your chief of this perhaps dangerous situation.’

  ‘Ah. That would be me. Superintendent Curtis of the Kent Constabulary, sir.’ They shook hands. ‘Can you tell me what you know of the matter, sir?’

  ‘Not a lot, to be perfectly honest. We believe the Warner children, three-year-old twins, to be inside with their nanny and another woman. It’s the other woman who might be the problem. We believe her to be guilty of a rather ingenious murder in Wales a few days ago, and to be emotionally unstable. I hasten to add that nearly all of this is supposition, except that we spoke, some hours ago, with the third adult in the house, a friend from Sherebury.’ Alan nodded at me and I took up the tale.