“I don’t see how she could have,” Janet reassured her father-in-law. “Mary was certainly dead by the time Madoc got to her, and that was in virtually no time at all. The shock alone would have killed her, I should think. It was quite something when that powder went off. I hope we get to see the lab report.”
Lady Rhys raised her eyebrows. “I suppose, being married to a policeman, these things rub off. It’s so good of you to take an interest in Madoc’s work, Jenny,” she added out of politeness.
“Jenny’s a natural-born detective,” Madoc protested. “She was chasing down a murder before I ever met her. Remember that jar of string beans, love?”
“How could I forget? Those beans got me a husband, didn’t they? Have you had any company this evening, Mother?”
“Just Uncle Caradoc.”
“How was he feeling?”
“Weary but happy. He said Dafydd had walked him back to the door, but was going on to Lisa’s. They neither of them had any desire to stay for the bonfire, which was a great blessing. Of course Dafydd’s never cared for bonfires, not since that time in Winnipeg when he was a little boy and that awful child who lived next door—what was their name, Emmy? The ones who kept the pack of bloodhounds that used to bay at the moon.”
“I can’t remember. They didn’t stay long, thank goodness.”
“Anyway, they were burning rubbish or something and that ghastly boy got hold of some shotgun shells the father had left lying around, which just shows you the sort of people they were. You surely remember that much, Emmy? Dafydd just missed being killed. He had buckshot in his leg, his hair was all singed in front, and his left eyebrow was burned right off. We were afraid he’d be scarred for life, but mercifully he healed without a trace. Outwardly, at any rate. Well, darlings, I expect you want to get to bed. We’ll see you at breakfast. Night-night.”
Madoc had his shirt unbuttoned before his parents were fairly out the door. Janet couldn’t settle. She fiddled with her earrings, brushed her hair for no good reason, wandered around picking things up and putting them down. Madoc, sitting on the edge of the bed taking off his shoes and socks, watched her till he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“All right, love, what’s eating you?”
She put down the nightgown she’d been turning inside out, though she had no idea why, and came to sit beside him. “For one thing, I can’t help thinking what a cinch it would have been for anybody at all to sneak upstairs and toss that box into Mary’s fireplace. The help were out at the party along with the rest of us, the house was wide open, and had been all day long. Mary herself never changed out of that rig she came down to breakfast in, I doubt whether she ever went back to her room. She must have stayed right on the job the whole time, judging from the show she put on and the number of backs she managed to put up. So that means she’d been carrying that gunpowder around all day long, or else—”
“I know, Jenny. I’ve been thinking about it too. Anything else?”
“Madoc, Dafydd did go back to the bonfire. I saw him out there, right after the explosion.”
“And so?”
“And so nothing, I don’t suppose. He probably just didn’t care for sitting over there at Lisa’s by himself after all, and decided he might as well come back to the party. Only he didn’t stay. I noticed he wasn’t around when Constable Rhys called us into the barn. Not that that means anything either. Maybe seeing Mary get blown up gave him an attack of the old horrors, and he was afraid of disgracing himself in front of the company. You certainly couldn’t blame him for that, could you?”
“No, Jenny. Whom was Dafydd with when you saw him?”
“Nobody, he was off by himself. You know how people were bunched up on one side or the other of the fire. Dafydd was about halfway between. I only happened to notice him because the fire flared up when Uncle Huw put more wood on. I was more or less opposite him, on the side where you were. I was trying to sidle up and catch your eye.”
“Why, love?”
“Because. Oh, you know why. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m being stupid.”
“Since you insist. I don’t know what more we can do tonight, we’ll just have to wait and see whether Bob makes any sense in the morning. Who gets to change Dorothy this time?”
“She’s not wet. She’ll wait till we’re nicely asleep, I expect.”
“Rotten kid. Come on, love, I could use a spot of wifely consolation. Assuming you’re in the mood.”
“Coax me.”
So the long birthday ended pleasantly after all. Morning was harder, somebody had to tell Uncle Caradoc. Huw would have been the obvious person. However, he’d made no objection when Sir Emlyn offered to do it, since he and Elen were already stuck with Bob, not to mention the tidying up.
A person could not have lived as long as Sir Caradoc Rhys without having become fairly well inured to tragedy along the way. He was distressed, of course, but not enough to be put off his bacon and eggs and sausage. His main concern was for Dai, because the young took things so much harder. When Danny the Boots came in with a scuttleful of coal for Betty’s stove, the old master sent him upstairs to see how the nephew was doing.
“He is curled up like a dormouse,” was Danny’s report. “Dai Rhys will be sleeping the day away, I am thinking.”
“That is a good thing. Let him sleep until we need him. Do you go now and tell my son Huw that I wish Bob Rhys to be sent here as soon as he is awake. They have enough to do up at the farm, and it will be better that any questions to Bob come from me. Madoc, you will perhaps wish to be present when I talk to him.”
“Certainly, Uncle Caradoc. You’ll want Constable Rhys too, I expect. Cyril’s an able chap, he was at the barn last night taking statements. I don’t know whether Tad mentioned that. The chief constable also came by.”
“Cyril read well yesterday. His poem was one of the worthier efforts, did you not think? We will indeed have Cyril Rhys, I would not wish to slight a kinsman. There is no reason to trouble Mr. Davies again.”
Madoc should have known. Some years back, hot words had been exchanged between Sir Caradoc and the chief constable in a matter of sheep. Sir Caradoc was not a vengeful man, but neither was he a forgetful one. That Davies had invaded his premises without his leave was an affront; whoever had let the man come should have known better. He went on eating his eggs and sausages in awful silence until Dorothy, who had inherited her grandmother’s gift for smoothing over awkward moments, offered him a bit of her toast. Things went merrily enough after that, until Owain delivered Bob.
It was as well they’d pretty much finished breakfast; the bereft brother was a sight to kill anybody’s appetite. Nobody had thought to take Bob a change of clothes, perhaps he hadn’t even been undressed last night. He was still wearing his John Dee getup, and a fine mess it was. His beard was every which way, his gray hair lay in greasy strings across his scalp, his features seemed to have melted and run together.
This was the way a witch’s waxen malkin would look after it had been set by the fire to toast, Janet thought. She’d seen Bob coming by the window, a shapeless mass of black bundled into a wheelbarrow that Owain was trundling, with Huw walking beside. The father and son between them had got him into the kitchen, dumped him into a chair, and been out the door even before Betty could offer them a cup of tea. They must be thoroughly fed up, and no wonder.
Anyway, Betty was quite ready to take over. “It is plenty of sugar you will be wanting this morning, Mr. Bob. Is it myself who will be putting it into the cup for you?”
Bob must be in even worse shape than Janet had thought, he wasn’t even talking. He did finally manage about half a nod, but by then Betty had the sugar all scooped and stirred.
“There you are, then. Do you be drinking while it is still hot, it will be putting heart into you.”
It was going to take more than oversweetened tea to stiffen this one’s backbone. Either Bob was still dopey from the doctor’s knockout drops, or else he was working up to a
full-scale depression. Having a fit of the guilties, perhaps, over the hocus-pocus in the chapel. Maybe the gunpowder had even been Bob’s own idea—not that he’d have wanted to murder Mary if she was the family breadwinner, but because he’d been too cocksure of his own omniscience to realize how dangerous it was.
Well, no point in speculating now, Janet decided, Dorothy was getting reckless with her porridge. “Come on, baby,” she coaxed. “Into the mouth, not on the floor.”
Betty put a plate of assorted comestibles in front of Bob; he stared at it blankly, then turned his head away like a sick animal. Lady Rhys had appeared by now, she picked up the teacup and held it to Bob’s flaccid lips. He managed a swallow or two, then shook his head. It was a painful thing to watch. Lady Rhys set the cup down.
“All right then, if you won’t, you won’t. Would you like to go up to your room?”
He didn’t respond.
“Perhaps we’d better get the doctor back here,” said Janet. “Try a spot of brandy,” Madoc suggested.
The brandy worked, but not the way they’d hoped. Once he’d gulped it down, Bob laid his head on the table and bawled. Dorothy, either frightened or sympathetic, started crying too.
“I’d better take her outside,” said Janet. “She doesn’t usually do this.”
“Neither does he, I don’t suppose,” said Lady Rhys. “Let me take her, Jenny, you haven’t finished your tea. Bob, do you want to go outside with me and the baby?”
“Wha—ah, tea. I will drink my tea.”
He was dabbing at his wet, blubbered face with his napkin, making a pitiful attempt at pretending to be back in control of himself. The tea Betty had poured for him earlier was still standing there beside the untouched plateful, stone-cold by now. She sloshed it into the sink and poured him a fresh cup, hot from the pot she’d kept sitting on the back of the stove. This time Bob drank avidly, but he still had no stomach for food.
That was all right, at least he was back among the living, more or less. The rest of them went on with their breakfasts, making careful chat about nothing in particular, skirting any allusion to the events of the previous day. It was a relief to them all when Sir Caradoc pushed back his chair.
“I am going to work on my accounts. Madoc, when Cyril comes, will you bring him into the office? Bob, would you like to come with me?”
It wasn’t really a question, Bob was rational enough to sense that. He heaved himself away from the table and shuffled after Sir Caradoc into the small room where the old man did most of his paper work and much of his napping.
Bob’s lack of appetite had put Janet off hers. She finished her tea and refused more toast. “Now what, Madoc? Do I make myself scarce or hover in the background?”
“Hover, I think, if you can bear it. What are you and Mother doing this morning, Tad?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Emlyn replied. “Sillie hasn’t made up my mind yet. That was a nasty piece of business just now. I wonder if Bob is going a little daffy like his sister. Actually what I would like is to spend some time with Owain. We haven’t had much chance to chat since he and Mavis got back. You don’t need me here, do you?”
“No, go ahead. Jenny and I will probably straggle along in a while. I’d better go bring in the kid so you and Mother can get along.”
“Not on your life, my boy. We’ll take Dorothy with us in the pram.”
“Not with porridge all over her face,” Janet objected.
“Oh, Sillie can sponge her off. Anyway, what’s a little porridge? Ah, I see that the strong arm of the law is about to be amongst us.”
Rhys the Police was indeed heaving into view, the badge on his bicycle agleam in the morning sun and all his buttons atwinkle. Today was going to be hot and fine like yesterday, Janet thought. Too nice to be shut inside, poking questions at a slobbering bowl of jelly who might at any moment slip round the bend.
No, nothing that dire was going to happen today, not with Uncle Caradoc running the show. They might as well go ahead and get it over with.
Chapter 15
“ACCORDING TO INFORMATION RECEIVED by Chief Constable Davies and conveyed to me this morning via the telephone, he being engaged for a game of golf with three other gentlemen whose names he did not tell me, the sad demise of Miss Mary Rhys was occasioned by her having had gunpowder of the most volatile kind in the pockets of her skirt and sprinkled here and there about her person, as has been determined by a laboratory analysis of the clothing Miss Mary Rhys was wearing. Said gunpowder became ignited upon contact with the bonfire whilst Miss Mary Rhys was in the act of leaping, and burned so fiercely that severance of the mortal coil was instantly effected.”
Before Constable Rhys had got down to business, the usual courtesies had been exchanged. Bob had got through his part listlessly, now he was bold upright, quivering with outrage.
“Gunpowder? That is ridiculous! That is impossible!”
“With all respect, Mr. Robert Rhys, I must tell you that, in the fireplace of the very bedroom which Miss Mary Rhys had been occupying here in the house of Sir Caradoc, was found discarded a green cardboard box containing approximately one half-teaspoon of finegrained gunpowder.”
“You are prevaricating to me! Mary could not have had gunpowder. She told me nothing about gunpowder.”
“It was then Miss Mary Rhys who was always telling you everything, is it?”
Bob hesitated. “Perhaps not everything. No, not always everything. It is not everything I should have wanted to hear.”
“Then the circumstance of Miss Mary Rhys’s not having told you anything about gunpowder, look you, is in truth no guarantee that she was not in fact having gunpowder in her possession, Mr. Bob Rhys?”
“I cannot gainsay you. Nonetheless, I maintain that gunpowder is not a thing Mary would have had. Unless,” Bob appended with a glint of craftiness in his small black eyes, “she would have had it without telling me. Mary has become subtle of late.”
“Subtle, you say? Can you explain in what way Miss Mary Rhys was having become subtle?”
“She has teased me with inscrutabilities. She has hinted.”
“Of what manner of thing was Miss Mary Rhys having been hinting?”
“That I cannot tell you. There were knowing looks and enigmatic nods. It was an atmosphere of ‘I could an if I would.’ As though, in short, she had a tale she could unfold, but she was not unfolding it. This is a game Mary has played before, to get my attention fixed upon herself when my thoughts would fain have rested upon higher matters. Often have I found it necessary to direct my sister’s wayward mind into more uplifting channels.”
“Was that what you were doing with Mary in the chapel before you went to light the fire?” Madoc interjected gently.
Bob was rather pleased than offended. “You saw us then?”
“My wife and I. We’d noticed the candlelight shining out through the windows.”
“Yes, the candles were necessary. Why did you not come and join with us?”
“We wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“I would have instructed you what to do.”
“But we might not have followed your instructions. What if the ceremony was not done properly?”
“It was done properly.”
“Then why were you screaming about sorcery after Mary was killed in the fire?”
“I was not screaming about sorcery. This is police-brutality tactics. You are trying to intimidate me.”
Madoc did not press the issue. It was quite likely that Bob had no recollection of the way he’d carried on last night. If he did remember, one could hardly blame him for pretending he didn’t.
Sir Caradoc had been listening quietly; now he decided it was time for him to speak. “Bob, would it not have been courteous of you to ask my permission, or at least to inform me of your intention, to conduct a ceremony in the chapel?”
“But it was for your protection, Sir Caradoc.”
“And what made you think I needed protection?”
<
br /> The butchered ram, perhaps? The one thing Sir Caradoc wasn’t supposed to know about? Madoc felt a stab of apprehension, but Bob came up with a more esoteric reason.
“The golden sickle, surely. Had you been aware of what dark forces you were stirring up, Sir Caradoc, you would not have dared to touch that sickle without having first performed the proper rites. Look you what has happened to the monks who wrested from the Druids their magical tools. Gone, all gone, and the bats nesting in their once-proud chapel.”
“We do not know for how many centuries the sickle may have lain hidden inside the monastery walls before the monks were driven out, Bob. Nor do I think I can fairly claim responsibility for the bats in the chapel. However, I thank you for your kind intention. I can only hope that Mary did not become sufficiently carried away as to convince herself that self-immolation would be a useful adjunct to your rite. You must understand, Bob, how essential it is that we find out why Mary had gunpowder on her person when she performed her leap.”
“Yes, yes! If her death should be proved to have been caused by suicidal impulses, then it will be resulting that those rapacious fiends at the insurance company will not pay what is owed to me. Mary would not have spited me this way, she knew too well what I would—” He stopped short.
Janet hoped she wasn’t going to vomit. Even gentle Sir Caradoc was having a struggle not to show the disgust he must be feeling. Madoc, on the other hand, appeared merely interested.
“But you’re not going to starve to death in any case, are you, Bob? Surely a provident fellow like you will have something put by. My mother says you had an income from your parents’ legacy, but lived mostly on Mary’s earnings. That was from gem-cutting, right?”
“From the gem-cutting and from the annuity. And that is another tragedy!” Bob’s voice rose again. “The annuity will stop now, just when it was about to get bigger!”
“What annuity was this, Mr. Bob Rhys?” demanded the constable. “Why was it going to be getting bigger, and why will it now be stopping?”
The Wrong Rite Page 14
