Murder at the Castle (24 page)

‘Computers have made this sort of thing much more difficult, haven't they?'

‘You're telling me! I positively long for the good old days of words cut from newspapers. The experts can tell what kind of printer was used for this, but as there will be twenty thousand of them within a fifty-mile radius of wherever this was sent from, it's precisely no help at all.'

‘The paper?'

‘That's rather more helpful. Good quality bond, not your standard computer paper.' Holding it with the tissue, he lifted it up to the light. ‘Watermarked, too. That'll gladden the Inspector's heart somewhat.'

He put the letter back on the table and we studied it. I was glad I'd had nothing to eat.

‘You've destroyed your slut of a wife and wrecked your family,' it read in its nice, neat, bold print. ‘You're a fucking bigamist and your brats are bastards. You'll get what's bloody coming to you.'

I swallowed. ‘This is vile,' I whispered.

‘It's all of that,' said Alan soberly. ‘It's also very interesting, for several reasons.'

I nodded. ‘Not one mistake of spelling, grammar, or punctuation. Someone slipped up there.'

‘Perhaps, though it's hard to fake illiteracy convincingly. But this tells us that it was written by a person who is either educated, or knows how to use the spelling and grammar tools on a computer. Either way, not someone stupid.'

‘Not much help,' I said. ‘Presumably this was sent by someone connected with the festival, and most musicians are reasonably bright.'

‘I'm not sure your assumption holds water, Dorothy. Very few people connected with the festival knew about Delia's connection with John. Yesterday I would have said no one, except for Delia herself.'

‘But we thought probably her lover knew. The violinist. And probably Dan Green.'

‘Perhaps. But this letter . . . frankly, though ugly and distressing, it may well be largely irrelevant to the larger issues at hand. But nasty as it is, it has one great virtue, and that is that the implied threat is enough to bring the police into the matter.'

‘But too late, too late! In less than eight hours, everyone will be gone.'

‘Gone, yes, but not out of reach of authority. We were worried because we had no right to detain or pursue anyone once they have left the festival, but now . . . Ah, John.'

‘Mrs Stokes says that Frieda has not yet arrived. She worked out the rail connections on her computer, and reckons she can't get there before noon, at best.'

‘Her computer?' I queried.

Sir John was mildly amused. ‘She's a very modern char, you know. She runs a cleaning service, and keeps her schedule on her computer. She fits the old model in some ways, though. She doesn't care much for foreigners, especially Germans. I believe one of her grandparents, at least, was killed in the Blitz. At any rate, she's never got on well with Frieda. She says she'll make sure “that girl” stays at the house until the police can come to take her fingerprints. I suspect she'll lock her in, if it takes that.'

‘And did you ask her about the letter?'

‘Yes. I told her nothing about what was in it. It would upset her greatly. She was a bit exercised about it in any case.'

‘And what did she tell you?' Alan asked patiently.

‘She blamed the gardener, you see. They're old enemies. He never comes on the same day she does, so they won't encounter each other. It's an old feud, over I don't know what, from years ago. Anyway, apparently he came to work on the garden a day or two after we'd left to come here. He went to the front hall for reasons Mrs Stokes does not excuse. Sheer curiosity, I'd say. He snoops a bit. At any rate, he picked the mail up off the mat and put it on the side table, and for some reason covered it with a road atlas we keep there. By the time Mrs Stokes noticed the pile of mail, he'd done this several times. The pile had grown high and unstable, and cascaded to the floor, where Mrs Stokes found it. I had asked her to glance through the mail and forward anything that looked important on to me here, and so, this morning . . .'

‘You didn't have the post office forward everything?'

‘No. I didn't want to have to deal with masses of junk mail, which is most of it these days. And I trust Mrs Stokes' judgement. She was, as I said, most upset. She hoped there wasn't anything terribly important in what she sent, because she knew some of it might be weeks old by now.'

‘I don't suppose she had an idea where in the pile this particular letter was.'

‘I didn't ask. She said it was all in a muddle on the floor when she found it. And of course by the time she'd sorted through it, it wouldn't be in any real order in any case.'

‘No. It's a pity the postmark can't be read, but the police might be able to decipher it. They have some pretty sophisticated equipment these days.' Alan stood up. ‘Unless there's something else we can do for you here, I think the sooner this gets into the hands of the police, the better. And you're not to worry about any of this. I do think we're very near a solution.'

‘You've done a great deal, both of you, and I appreciate it more than I can say. Mrs Martin, Cynthia is feeling much more like herself, thanks to you.'

‘It's Dorothy, and I didn't do a thing. She's a very resilient lady, your wife, as well as being beautiful. And your children are darlings.'

We shook hands, Alan tucked the letter safely into his breast pocket, and we hurried down to the car.

‘Whew!' I said when we were out of earshot. ‘I feel as if I've lived several lifetimes since we got up. And I'm starved. I was too busy worrying to eat breakfast. Those poor people. Um . . . are you sure we're on the right road? I thought we turned back there for Tower.'

Alan grinned. ‘For once, dear heart, your sense of direction is accurate. We're going to the police station in Wrexham, to give the Inspector this letter.'

‘But isn't Pat due at Tower any time?'

‘She is. I phoned Nigel earlier to expect her. He'll cope.'

We were longer at Wrexham than I had anticipated, since everything had to be explained, and the Inspector was a painstaking man. I was on tenterhooks the whole time. What if Pat felt threatened somehow, and fled again? What if Nigel asked her too many questions? What if she'd changed her mind and never came at all?

When we finally, finally, got back to Tower, however, we found Nigel, Inga and a girl I assumed to be Pat sitting at the breakfast table drinking coffee.

Pat would have been a pretty girl if she hadn't looked so miserable. Her dark, curly hair framed a face that was meant to be round and cheerful. Instead, she looked gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes. Her clothes gave the same impression. They were attractive and unusual, a blue T-shirt and jeans, both trimmed with elaborate and unusual black crocheted lace, but they had the air of being thrown on without thought.

‘You'll be Pat Stevens,' I said, holding out a hand. ‘Dorothy Martin. And I have to say, my dear, that I've never seen such an interesting outfit. Casual and dressy at the same time. Wherever did you find it?'

‘Oh.' She looked down at her clothes as if she'd never seen them before. ‘I made them. Made the lace, I mean.'

‘I'm impressed,' I said truthfully. ‘I'm no good at that sort of thing.'

I plumped down at the table, gazing with longing at the one remaining piece of toast, and Mairi poked her head in as if reading my mind.

‘All right?' she asked.

‘Mairi, we're being perfect nuisances, and I'm so sorry.'

‘No, no. What can I get you for breakfast?'

‘Just coffee for me, thanks,' said Alan, ‘but I think Dorothy would like the lot. It's been a rather . . . interesting morning.'

‘Right,' said Mairi. ‘I'll just be a moment.'

‘It's nearly ten,' I said, ‘and that poor woman undoubtedly has other things to do besides cook me breakfast. But thank you. I wouldn't have had the nerve to ask. It's a pity one doesn't tip at a B & B.'

‘When this is all over, we'll take the two of them out to the finest dinner we can find, and tell them the whole story,' said Alan. ‘Meanwhile, Pat, we're eager to hear what you have to tell us.'

She shrugged, a little helplessly. ‘I don't know what you want from me. Nigel's told me I might know something about what's been happening, that woman's death and all, but I can't imagine what. I never even met her.'

‘We'd like to know what Daniel told you about her,' said Alan. ‘I do realize this may be painful for you, and I wouldn't ask if it weren't terribly, terribly important.'

She swallowed. Alan poured her a glass of water and waited.

‘He told me a lot of stuff, most of it months ago. Do you want all that?'

‘Please. Everything you can remember.'

‘Well, when we both auditioned and were accepted for the choir, Dan was really excited. He sings – sang – in the cathedral choir in Manchester. It has a really good choir, did you know?'

‘An excellent choir,' said Nigel, nodding.

‘And Dan thinks – thought – Sir John's the next thing to God. He just couldn't get over how wonderful it was to be singing for him. We were both over the moon, actually. So we went out to dinner to celebrate. We didn't do that a lot, because neither of us had much money, you know? But we were both so . . .' Tears welled up, but she brushed them away impatiently. ‘Anyway, Dan took me to this really expensive place, and there was this other couple there, and we could hear them talking, and Dan got really upset, because they were talking about Sir John.'

Mairi slipped into the room with my breakfast, and I tried to eat noiselessly while Pat went on with her story.

‘The woman was being really cruel, talking about how she was going to make him pay, make him sorry he'd ever left her, and so on. So I asked Dan who she was, and he said her name was Delia something or other, and she was Sir John's first wife.'

‘How did he know that, Pat?' asked Alan.

‘I'm not sure. He was rather jibbering, because he was nearly beside himself with anger. I think he'd seen her before at some concert he sang in way back when he was a treble, just a kid. It must have been before that shipwreck, because he kept saying that she was supposed to be dead, and what a . . . witch she was, and what this would do to Sir John and his family, and . . . well, it spoiled the evening for us.'

‘I'm sure it must have done. When was this, by the way?'

‘The middle of February, because that's when the audition results were announced.' Another tear escaped.

‘You're being very brave about this, Pat, and we appreciate it. I have only a few more questions. Did Dan talk to you any more about this incident?'

She sighed. ‘He talked of nothing else! At first he wanted to find this woman and try to talk her out of what she was planning, though he didn't have any clear idea of what that was. He'd wanted to do that even that night, just walk over to their table and . . . I don't know, scream at her, I suppose. I'd managed to drag him away before he could do that, but he wouldn't stop talking about it. Then he wanted to go to Sir John and tell him his wife was still alive and planning mischief, but I persuaded him to wait until after the festival. He finally agreed to that, because I kept telling him how it would upset the man, and ruin the festival he'd worked so hard for. Sir John, I mean, but of course Dan too, and me, for that matter, and all the musicians. It was in aid of such a good cause, and it meant so much to everyone involved. So he let the subject drop, most of the time, but I knew it was still weighing on his mind.'

‘I have a question, if you don't mind, Pat, about that first evening, when Dan recognized the woman. Did either of you know who the man was, her dinner partner?'

‘Not then, but we both thought we recognized him later, when rehearsals began. He looked a lot like the concertmaster, Ben Peterson.'

‘R
ight,' said Alan, after we all exchanged glances. ‘Now I know you've had enough, Pat, but there's one more question I'd like to ask. Before I do, though, I should tell you that we know that the woman you and Dan saw in the restaurant that night was indeed Sir John's first wife, but the marriage had long been legally dissolved. Her real name was Delia Warner, but she had adopted the stage name of Madame de la Rosa.'

Pat gasped.

‘Yes. The mezzo soloist for the festival, the one who died. Further, we do not know, but we believe, that she was responsible for Dan's death.'

‘So that's . . . James kept talking about Madame . . . but I didn't know . . .'

‘No one knew the two were one and the same, except of course Sir John, perhaps Dan, and presumably Mr Peterson, if he was the man you saw with her in April.'

‘But if James thought she killed Dan,' I said gently, ‘it wouldn't have mattered to him what her name was. He would have hated her for killing his friend.'

Pat sat up straight. ‘Are you saying that James killed this woman? Madame de la Rosa, or Delia, or whoever she was?'

‘We have no evidence whatsoever,' said Alan, with a warning look at me, ‘that Delia's death was anything but accidental. We do believe that she was responsible for Dan's fall from the canal boat, either by accident or by design. We think James must have seen her push him, and we'd very much like to talk to him about that in order to put the matter to rest. Can you tell us where he is?'

‘We quarrelled. He . . . I . . .' She made a little face and clasped her arms around her chest in a classic defensive pose.

‘He became possessive?' I suggested gently.

‘He seemed to think because he was Dan's friend, and Dan was gone, that he owned me now! And I don't even like him! He was bloody awful to me before Dan died, but then he turned to me afterwards, I suppose because we were both grieving. I went with him because I felt sorry for him, but when he started . . . well, I told him to bugger off!'