“Trying to get a line on what really happened last night before the chief constable starts poking his nose in and upsetting Uncle Caradoc. Bob’s in a swivet because he’s been told he must stick around for the inquest, which means he won’t get to speechify for the Friends of the Lesser Demons and will lose the advantage of his cheap-rate ticket. Not to be running down my husband’s relatives, but I do think that man’s the absolute outside limit.”
“As do we all, my dear,” Lady Rhys assured her. “If only Bob couldn’t sing! One can’t thoroughly despise even an adequate basso, can one?”
“I’d be willing to give it a try if I had to be around that tub of lard for long,” said Mavis. “He and that sister of his did a right job on young Dai, didn’t they? What are they saying down at the manor, Jenny?”
“Not a great deal at the moment,” Janet evaded. “Madoc and Uncle Caradoc are with Uncle Huw, wherever that may be. The constable and Dai are organizing a posse to hunt for Mary’s handbag. I expect they’ve roped in your lot by now. Iseult came down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, then went back up to put on her face in case Tom and Dafydd want to take her someplace.”
“Where, for instance?” Mavis seemed to welcome a change of subject, as who could blame her?
“I don’t think she cares. We did talk a bit, mostly about ourselves. Iseult was curious as to why I haven’t died of boredom over in the colonies, and naturally I wanted to hear about her life as a movie actress. She told me she’d been in films all over Europe and northern Africa. I asked whether she’d ever been to Marseilles because I’ve been hearing oddments about Lisa’s husband that nobody seems to know the whole story of; but she said no, she hadn’t.”
“But she has,” said Lady Rhys. “Don’t you remember, Emmy? We were headed for Monaco and Dafydd was on his way from Melbourne to Munich, I think it was. We’d agreed to meet in Marseilles for dinner and a quick visit. It was a wretched night, absolutely teeming. Dafydd had a flight out at some ridiculous hour and we were concerned about the weather, so after dinner we’d stuffed him into what must have been the only available taxi in Marseilles and sent him along to the airport. Then we’d gone back into the restaurant and dawdled over our coffee, hoping the storm would let up.”
“Not that it much mattered,” Sir Emlyn replied. “We’d nothing else to do and were feeling a trifle bereft. At least I was.”
“Yes, darling, so was I. Anyway, it kept on raining. Finally we decided we might as well go on outside and try our luck. We were queued up under the awning with a few other hopefuls when this ravishing redhead came tripping along in the highest of heels and the shortest of skirts, with her head up inside one of those transparent plastic bubble umbrellas. It had a green band around it, naturally, Iseult always wears green. She was so heavily made up that the man behind us made a disgusting remark. That was when I realized the woman was Iseult.”
“One realized, of course, that she’d just come from a performance and hadn’t taken time to scrape off the greasepaint,” Sir Emlyn put in gently.
“Of course, dear, though one also realized it wasn’t the most professional thing for an actress to have done. Anyway, one didn’t quite like to rush screaming after her in the rain; and just then a couple of taxis came along, so that was the end of it. But I’ve always remembered the incident because it was that same night Arthur Ellis got murdered, right there in Marseilles, not far from where we’d dined. Actually we didn’t find out about Arthur till we got back to Wales, but wasn’t that a weird coincidence, Jenny? No wonder Iseult prefers not to remember Marseilles. She’d rather had her eye on Arthur at one time, I believe; she was quite put out when he married Lisa. Well, Emmy, shall we walk Jenny back as far as the manor?”
Chapter 18
THE CONFERENCE WITH HUW Rhys couldn’t have taken long. Madoc and Sir Caradoc were coming down the hill, very slowly. The old man was leaning heavily on the cane he often carried but seldom made much use of. Sir Emlyn and Lady Rhys fell back to walk with him, keeping the baby with them, Madoc came on ahead to meet Janet.
“Anything happening, love?”
“Lisa’s invited us to lunch, but I said you were probably going to be busy. Is that right?”
“Yes, you go along without me.” He’d save the story of the ram for when they had time to talk, if ever. “I need to search the house, and I’d like to dust that green box you found in Mary’s fireplace for fingerprints. I’m guessing it will be bare as a baby’s bum and turn out never to have held more than that one pinch of gunpowder.”
“Then what was the point of putting it there?”
“Good question. The house was wide open all day yesterday, there were scads of people around, and you say Mary never went back to her room. Anybody or his uncle could have planted the box.”
“Anybody who knew which room was Mary’s, and knew she was going to get blown up,” Janet qualified. “You don’t think she’d have been subtle enough to rig up a fairly obvious fake and put it there herself, just to cause trouble?”
“Don’t ask me, love. With Mary’s penchant for insulting people to their faces, I should think she’d have been more apt to plant the box on whomever she wanted most to spite.”
“Namely her brother, I should think. Maybe she did, and he found it and put back in her room. More likely that box was Bob’s idea of insuring the right verdict. He’s the one who has most reason to want her death declared misadventure due to excess goofiness. Madoc, I can’t swallow that argument of his about wanting to keep her alive on account of the annuity. According to Dai, Mary had a pretty hefty chunk in her savings account already, and you can darned well believe that if Dai managed to snoop into her handbag, so did Bob. He had nothing but Mary’s word to go on that she’d be getting any more money from her mysterious benefactor, if there was one. In the meantime, she was acting more and more independent; she’d given him good reason to be afraid she might take off with her nice big nest egg and leave him to pay his own way for a change. As it stands now, he’ll inherit as next of kin, won’t he?”
“Assuming we don’t get him for doing her. A murderer can’t profit from his crime, of course. Or unless Mary made a will leaving her money to somebody else. I must say, I find hard to imagine Bob would let her though, after the way he handled her life insurance. What he did was common practice as far as it went; though of course he should have insured himself too. It would also have been customary for Bob and Mary, as partners, to have made wills leaving their shares of the business to each other.”
“And it would have been Bob’s practice to make sure Mary left him not only her share of the business but also everything else she owned,” Janet agreed. “Gosh, I hope there’s something in that handbag besides the emerald and the bankbooks; something you can pin him with.”
“So do I, love, but it may not be that easy. There’s still Dai’s story about Mary’s blackmailing somebody in connection with the alleged mugging murder of Arthur Ellis. That could explain where her money came from, but I can’t see her working such a scam on her own brother. Can you?”
“No, but I can confuse the issue a little more. Did you know Iseult was in Marseilles the night Arthur Ellis was killed?”
“Good Lord, Jenny! How did you find out?”
“Your parents saw her. They’d made an overnight stop so they could meet Dafydd for dinner.”
This was nothing remarkable; Dafydd, Gwen, and their parents were always snatching quick family visits in odd places. Nevertheless, Madoc was jarred. “Was Dafydd with them when they met her?”
“No, he’d gone off to the airport, he had a late flight to catch. It was raining buckets and they’d nothing else to do, so they’d dawdled on at the restaurant. They’d finally gone out looking for a cab when Iseult walked by. She was got up like a streetwalker and somebody near them made a rude remark, so they didn’t go after her. You know your mother. They assumed she must have been performing somewhere and hadn’t bothered to take off her makeup, which of course ma
y have been true; but still—Madoc, you’re not worried about Dafydd? You don’t honestly think he’d—”
“How do I know what to think? Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Is that all?”
“No. Iseult told me this morning that she’d never been to Marseilles in her life. I mentioned it just now at Aunt Elen’s, that’s how the story came out. On top of that, your mother claims Iseult had had her eye on Arthur Ellis and was ticked-off when he married Lisa.”
“Well, well. Thanks, Jenny.”
“Don’t mention it. If Dafydd’s still at Lisa’s, shall I chase him over here to lure Iseult off so that you can search her room? I expect she’s still up there putting on her eyelashes, she’s hoping Tom and Dafydd will take her someplace.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t specify. She may just be having the creeps about Mary, as who isn’t.”
“Why can’t the boyfriend take her?”
“She claims he isn’t.”
“A likely story. All right, love, you nip along and enjoy your luncheon. I gather Dorothy’s not invited?”
“Tib asked me specifically to bring her, but your father wouldn’t let me. We’ll be lucky if we get to take her home.”
“Maybe we’d better have a few more, so Dorothy won’t get worn out from a surfeit of relatives. Give Lisa my apologies and don’t trip over a sheep on the way.”
Madoc went into the house. Janet didn’t feel guilty about not staying to help with the search; he’d have Alice and Danny the Boots and his mother, like as not, once she’d got Dorothy and Sir Emlyn settled. They all knew the manor far better than Janet did. She kept on through the gate and down the narrow road. She did meet several sheep, but they were amiably disposed, merely glancing up at her as she skirted around them, then getting back down to their grass-cropping.
Today’s weather wasn’t quite so perfect as yesterday’s, but it was near enough as made no matter. She enjoyed her walk and was as charmed by the inside of Lisa’s house as she’d been two days ago by the outside. It was, as she’d rather thought it might be, about halfway between Anne Hathaway’s cottage and Toad Hall: a fascinating jumble of family heirlooms, faded chintzes, Persian carpets, Oriental porcelains, oddments and whatnots from all over the globe, not to mention an extensive collection of tortoises in wood, clay, painted tin, brass, pottery, bone china, painted rocks, stuck-together shells, stuffed patchwork, and just about anything else except boiled macaroni.
“People keep sending them to me,” Lisa half apologized, “and Arthur was always fetching home souvenirs from places he went. One doesn’t like just to stuff them away.”
“Of course not,” said Janet. “Why should you? They’re wonderful.”
This could be the opening she’d hoped for. A cabinet-size photograph in a silver frame was sitting on top of a gilded grand piano with Watteauesque scenes painted around the sides that took up half the back parlor, if that was what they called it in Wales. Janet went over for a closer look, the photo showed a rather distinguished-appearing man between forty and fifty, she judged, beginning to gray at the temples. “Is this Arthur?”
“Yes,” Lisa replied. “One doesn’t want to stuff him away, either.”
“I should hope not. Do you miss him terribly?”
“Not terribly, no. It’s been eight years now, and Arthur was always away so much. But then he’d come back, you know; one does miss the coming back. We’d meet him at the station with the pony cart, Tib and I. We’d have brought hot tea or cold lemonade, depending on the weather, for him to drink on the way home. And cakes, of course. And we’d have a special meal waiting, and he’d have silly presents for Tib and nice ones for me. It was always Christmas when Arthur came home.”
Lisa shrugged, a resigned little twitch of her shoulders. “Now it’s just Tib and me and the tortoises.”
“But your brother comes quite often, doesn’t he?” Janet herself wouldn’t have found Tom Feste any great consolation.
Apparently Lisa didn’t, either. She answered rather sharply. “Tom’s only my stepbrother. It was a second marriage for both Mother and his father, and we two came with the package. We got on well enough, mainly because Tom was usually away at school and I spent so much time here with my grandparents. I’ve always thought of this as my real home, I never wanted to be anywhere else. Anyway, yes, Tom does come fairly often; but one never knows when or if until the last minute. Dafydd at least phones in advance. Not that Dafydd stays here except when there’s an overflow at Uncle Caradoc’s, like now; but he’s always sweet about taking Tib and me out for meals and things. Furthermore, he pays. You don’t want to hear all this.”
“Yes I do. Where are Tom and Dafydd now?”
“Tom’s gone off to Billy the Grease. That ridiculous car of his is always needing something done to it, mainly because he’s such a terrible driver. And it gulps up petrol faster than he gobbles money. Which reminds me, I must call Billy. Excuse me one second.”
A fancy French telephone, all polished brass and mother-of-pearl, was standing among a group of tortoises, Lisa picked up the handset. Janet politely went over to look at a different group of tortoises, but she needn’t have bothered. Lisa’s call did in fact only take a second.
“Billy, when Tom asks for the usual, tell him no. That’s right, no. Thanks, Billy. Never mind. Let him walk.” She replaced the handset gently but firmly and returned to her guest.
“Sorry, Jenny. Dafydd’s out singing to the tortoises.”
“Singing to the tortoises?”
“Vocalizing. Doing his exercises. He has to, or his tonsils grow purple fuzz on them. You know, scales and trills and shrieks and whoofles. One can get rather tired of listening after a while, but the tortoises don’t seem to mind. Dafydd says they’re the perfect audience; they don’t fidget, whisper, cough, or rattle their programs. He’ll be in soon, leek pie’s his favorite.”
Janet was surprised. “Is it really? I’d have expected something more exotic. Beef Wellington at the very least.”
“Heavens, no, Dafydd’s as simple as they come. It’s just that he keeps thinking he has to live up to his reputation. Come out to the kitchen, it’s much nicer than the dining room on a day like this. You don’t mind kitchens, do you?”
“Not a bit. My family’s old farmhouse back in Pitcherville doesn’t even have a dining room, and I can’t say anybody’s ever felt the lack of one. The only reason Madoc and I use ours in Fredericton is that our kitchen’s rather poky. We’re planning to remodel it if we can ever make up our minds what we want. Oh, Lisa, this is perfect.”
It was. The low-ceilinged room with its dark slate floor could have been gloomy, but Lisa had distempered the walls in yellow and hung a Wordsworthian crowd of daffodil-patterned curtains at the many-paned bow window that looked out over the garden. Within the bow sat an oval table so right for the spot that it could have grown there. To have covered its lovingly polished top would have been a sin that Lisa had known better than to commit; marvelous old white-and-green Chelseaware dishes were set on mats just big enough to keep them from marring the wood.
Five place settings, Janet noticed; Lisa must be expecting Tom as well as Tib and Dafydd back to eat with them. Too bad, she’d hoped for something closer to a tête-à-tête. Sternly reminding herself that she hadn’t been invited here to snoop, she sat down on one of the curve-backed wooden chairs that hadn’t been made to go with the table but naturally did, and accepted a minuscule glass of sherry with a slight qualm.
“Thank you, Lisa, though I’m not sure I ought to have any. I’m still nursing Dorothy, when my in-laws give me the chance.”
“That’s barely a smidgen, it can’t hurt. Arthur bought me these absurd midgets when I was carrying Tib, so that I could make believe drink with the rest and not feel conspicuous. But you may have something else if you’d rather. I can’t think what, offhand. I’ve got to gather my wits about me and go shopping this afternoon—we’re down to the nubbins.”
“This will do fine. These really are doll-size, aren’t they? Pretty, though. If they weren’t such good quality, you might use them for hummingbird feeders.”
The lead-crystal goblet, shaped like a miniature lily, was astonishingly thick for its size. Lisa was right, it couldn’t hold more than a teaspoonful or so. Janet sipped a drop at a time, thinking what a considerate husband Arthur must have been. She was about to say so when Dafydd came in from the garden.
Dafydd had his charm turned off. His hair was mussed, there were lines in his face Janet couldn’t recall having noticed before. A middle-aged man and a tired one, wearing the same sort of baggy slacks and pullover that Madoc might put on to slouch around the farm with Bert and Sam Neddick. She said “Hello, Dafydd.” He said “Hi, Jenny,” and turned to Lisa.
“Did you speak to Billy?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Good. Shall I do the salad?”
“It’s done. Mix the dressing if you like. Have you seen Tib?”
“She’ll be in. She was just getting Mollie unsaddled.”
“We’ll give her a few minutes, then. Sherry?”
“Sit still, I’ll get it.”
It was all so commonplace, so like the trivia Janet would exchange with Madoc, or Bert with Annabelle. Dafydd was puttering with oil and vinegar, knowing where the spoons were kept, dabbing a bit of his mixture on a leaf of lettuce for Lisa to taste, watching her nibble and nod with the sort of expression on his face that outsiders should never be allowed to see. Janet felt a stab of acute embarrassment. Good Lord, she thought, so this is what’s ailing him. He’s in love with her.
Chapter 19
WELL, HERE WAS A pretty mess. How the heck was the hare supposed to live happily ever after with the tortoise? Dafydd would keep on rocketing around from hither to yon and back again, with Lisa wanting only to dig in her heels here and stay put. Did Arthur Ellis’s widow even know what was happening? More to the point, did she want to know?
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