Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

me. ‘Earth to Dorothy,’ he said with a grin. ‘Ready for your tea, love, or are you still “out there” somewhere?’
    I gave a deep sigh. ‘Returning, I guess, but oh so slowly and reluctantly. As for tea, what I actually want is nectar. Ambrosia. Whatever one drinks in the Elysian Fields. But I suppose tea will do.’
    I found my handbag and got myself organized, and Nigel strolled over to meet us.
    â€˜Well?’ he said. He stood in the standard opera ‘heroic’ pose, shoulders back, head erect, and the cocky Welshman was all on top.
    â€˜Very nice, Nigel,’ I said in a saccharine nanny voice. ‘You all really did quite well, and I’m sure it’ll go better tomorrow.’ And then at the expression on his face, ‘Gotcha! You were looking so smug, I couldn’t resist. You know perfectly well it was splendid. Alan, shall we . . . Alan?’
    My husband, at my side only moments before, had vanished.
    â€˜I think,’ said Inga quietly, ‘he’s gone to talk to Sir John.’
    Well, that, as the English used to say a couple of generations ago, rather took the gilt off the gingerbread.
    â€˜I’d forgotten, for a while,’ I admitted. ‘I suppose it’s terrible. A woman died, only a few days ago and a few feet away, and for a time I forgot all about her. The music . . .’
    â€˜It isn’t terrible,’ said Inga firmly. ‘None of us really knew the woman, and from all accounts, she wasn’t very nice to know anyway. It’s silly to think you should grieve for her just because you witnessed her death.’
    Any man’s death diminishes me
, I thought, but Inga was right. I couldn’t drum up any real grief for Delia, only a kind of pity, sorrow for the waste of a life that could have been so rich. ‘Are they going to give her any sort of tribute during the festival?’
    â€˜That’s still under discussion. I think Sir John is of two minds about it, and a few of the musicians are dead set against it.’
    â€˜But why? It would seem to be the decent thing to do.’
    Nigel squirmed a bit. ‘A few guys in the orchestra used to know her, and I think maybe one or two in the chorus. The world of really excellent musicians is a small one, you know, and she’s . . . she wasn’t exactly popular. One gathers she didn’t mind who she trampled on, if they got in the way of her career. And you have to remember . . .’ Nigel looked around and lowered his voice. ‘Nobody else knows who she was. That she was married to Sir John back when, I mean.’
    â€˜Well, I still think . . . Oh, Alan. All right?’
    â€˜Sir John is feeling a good deal better about it today,’ said Alan as we made our way with the crowd out of the castle precinct. ‘A wildly successful concert has something to do with it, I suspect. He’s also talked to his solicitor, who thinks, I gather, that the whole thing is a tempest in a teapot. He’s going to speak to the police, but I doubt they’ll take it any further. Now, where shall we have tea?’

TEN
    W e ended up opting for beer instead. The afternoon was hot, and the selection of pubs nearby seemed better than the selection of cafés. Nigel was in tearing high spirits. The music, which had lulled me into almost a dream state, had energized him like a drug. He was full of stories. The baritone had suffered a bad attack of hiccups just before going on, and Nigel was hilarious about the various remedies that had been pressed on the poor man. ‘Somebody tried scaring him with a grass snake they found somewhere, but it only succeeded in causing hysterics among some of the women in the chorus. Then they wanted to make him breathe into a paper bag, but they could only find a plastic carrier bag . . .’
    â€˜But that’s dangerous!’ I said, eyes wide. ‘They could have . . .’
    â€˜And very nearly