Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams

should have eaten a better lunch,’ said Alan, with his usual infuriating assumption that my spirits are dependent upon my stomach. Infuriating, because he’s so often right.
    â€˜Alan Nesbitt, if you offer me a chocolate bar, I swear I’ll . . .’
    â€˜Eat it?’ he suggested while I struggled for the right word.
    My only reply was a dignified silence. I thought I heard Inga giggle, but when I looked at her, her face was completely sober.
    Well, I thought with an inner sigh, if I’d relieved her nerves a bit, my little snit had done some good.
    The gates were opened at last, and the queue began to move. Our comp tickets allowed us admission to the choice seating, not in the front rows, where the sun was slanting in under the tent, but a few rows back, in the shade and, Inga explained, in the area where the acoustics worked best.
    Whatever the other omens for the day, the weather was at least cooperating magnificently. The sky held those little puffy white clouds that make the blue even bluer by contrast – what my father used to call ‘fair weather clouds’. The air was balmy, with just enough breeze to make sitting in the shade perfectly comfortable. We found our seats, and I began to relax, though I kept my eyes firmly away from the balcony.
    Nigel had told us that for this concert, since the soloists were the focus of almost every piece, the balcony wouldn’t be used. A stage had been erected, a couple of feet above ground level, with a podium at the front for Sir John, mikes for the soloists, and risers at the back for the chorus. The orchestra’s chairs ranged around the stage on a tarp that had been laid on the stones of the courtyard. The audience, besides those under the tent, were seated wherever there was room – in the anterooms off the forecourt, in any room that had a window giving on the action, and even on the walkway atop the walls. I shuddered at the sight of those fearless souls and hoped, first, that they had a good sense of balance and no acrophobia, and second, that they’d brought lots of sunscreen. My American friends laugh at the idea of getting a sunburn on this island of mists and rain, but it’s just as possible here as in, say, southern California. It simply takes a little longer.
    Glancing down at the programme, I found that the
Carmen
scenes had been omitted. Poor Delia. The ‘Habanera’ had been her showpiece, her great triumph at the rehearsal. Or at least Graciosa’s triumph. I had, I realized, no idea whether young Delia had been a singer, back before she was lost at sea and became Graciosa and . . . and what? Where had she been all those years? What had she been doing? Studying music somewhere, one assumed. A voice like hers didn’t develop all by itself. She’d had training, had acquired experience, had learned roles. Where? In America, where she’d apparently acquired citizenship? But how on earth had she ended up there? Why had she made no attempt to be reunited with her husband?
    I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Sir John’s entrance until Alan nudged me to applaud. Sir John bowed, and then turned to the microphone.
    â€˜Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m delighted to welcome you to the first concert of what we hope will be the first annual Music Festival in Wales. I am aware that bringing choral and vocal music to Wales is in the nature of bringing coals to Newcastle.’ Laughter from both audience and musicians. ‘I’m therefore especially gratified by your large attendance this afternoon.
    â€˜As you know, the proceeds of this festival will go to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, a cause that you may know is dear to my heart, as I nearly lost my life in a shipwreck some years ago.’
    I held my breath, but, apart from a pause to clear his throat, he went ahead smoothly.
    â€˜I hope that, in addition to your contribution in the form of your