Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

attendance, you will be generous with your donations to the collection jars set about the castle. Thank you. And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome our soloists.’
    The soloists filed on, to more applause, and the magic began.
    They started off with several scenes from
Barber of Seville
, that perennial comic favourite, and went on from there to
Madama Butterfly
, for me the best of them all. Puccini just wrote one matchless tune after another. Sir John had chosen the gorgeous love duet between Butterfly and Pinkerton, the famous ‘Un bel dì’
,
and the hauntingly lovely, infinitely sad Humming Chorus. I got tears in my eyes, and even Alan found he had to blow his nose.
    â€˜Pinkerton is such a rat!’ said Inga, when they had finished the set. ‘I wanted to slap him silly, and then I remembered that’s Nigel up there.’
    â€˜He’s a different person when he’s singing, isn’t he? He’s really, really good, Inga.’
    I would have said more, but Sir John gave the downbeat, and the orchestra struck up the aptly named Grand March from
Aïda
to give the first half of the concert a rousing finish.
    The audience was appreciative in that restrained, well-mannered way I have come to learn is typical of Britain. No roars of ‘bravo’, no standing ovation such as one might have expected in Milan – or, for that matter, New York.
    â€˜They’re really enjoying themselves, aren’t they?’ said Inga, a sparkle in her eyes as she looked around at the concert-goers standing, stretching, chatting. ‘It’s going frightfully well.’
    Ah, well, if I found the audience response a bit tepid, obviously that was my faulty perception. ‘I, personally, thought it was glorious. But I do need to find something in the way of a loo. I hope they’ve laid on extra ones.’
    They had. I’m not fond of portaloos, but I’ll use them in case of dire necessity. These weren’t too bad, as such things go, and I emerged feeling much better. Inga found me. ‘Do you want to go back and talk to Nigel?’
    â€˜No, I don’t want to break the spell. Anyway, that isn’t Nigel just now. It’s Count Almaviva, and Pinkerton, and next Alfredo and Edgar. I don’t want to distract any of them!’
    So we took our seats and chatted until Sir John re-entered and began with the overture to
The Marriage of Figaro
, which he had substituted for the
Carmen
scenes. It was a brilliant piece of programming. Lively, a tie-in to
Barber
in the first half, and something most of the orchestra could probably play in their sleep, with no rehearsal. The audience loved it. Then the chorus sang the ‘Va pensiero’, the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, and sang it so beautifully that the audience, now getting into the spirit of the thing, insisted it be repeated.
    Then on to
Traviata
and more tears, and finally
Lucia,
culminating in the renowned Sextet, with two of the singers from the chorus taking the other two parts. The audience demanded an encore of that, too, and applauded for more. Sir John finally had to go to a microphone.
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen, we are gratified that you enjoyed this performance so much. Forgive us for ending such a pleasant afternoon, but remember that we have a great deal more music to perform this week. We hope to see you back here tomorrow afternoon. Thank you!’ And he dismissed the orchestra and singers with a nod, and the audience began to come down from their euphoria and drag themselves back to everyday life.
    I didn’t want to do that. I’d been quite literally ‘carried away’ by the music. Not physically, of course, but my mind and soul had been, not in a castle where I had watched a young woman die, but in another world, a world where tragedy was cloaked in melody and where, in any case, everyone would be alive again once the curtain came down.
    I became aware that Alan was watching