The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (15 page)

Alice Cadwallader was in the center of the room in her wheelchair, much as she had been the night before, but now the portrait of her that had hung above the fireplace was propped up against two occasional chairs. It had been slashed to shreds. It was clear that the damage wasn't the result of an accident—unless it's possible to “accidentally” cut into an object about twenty times, in different directions, and over the whole piece. The canvas clung to the frame in tatters. Although she'd stopped wailing, Alice was still visibly distraught, and the people crowding around her were all shocked, but trying to pacify the old woman. The whole scene was chaotic.

Bud and I stood just inside the room, dripping. I quickly realized we couldn't do anything practical to help, so I suggested we at least dump our outer clothes in the entryway, thereby saving the wooden floorboards and rugs from a further soaking. It looked as though Idris and Rhian had already caused quite a few stains, though Dilys was ignoring them for the moment, fussing over her employer as though she were the only person in the world.

As Bud and I pulled off our borrowed wellington boots and rain slickers in the hall, Rhian appeared with a few towels. As we mopped at ourselves, she said, “Alice is in a right state. I'm sorry if Idris and I alarmed you when we called you in, but we had no idea what was going on—all we could hear was that ungodly screaming. Then we came in and found her moaning at her lost portrait. I'm just glad there isn't an actual person hurt. There'll be hell to pay over this. What do you two make of it?”

Bud was finished with his hair before I was with mine—he has a bit less than I do—and he replied, “There's no question it was deliberate. And it looks like the work of a very angry, spiteful person. Any candidates?”

With the ball firmly back in her court Rhian shook her head. “We might seem like a strange group to outsiders, but we all rub along quite well, usually. But with this coming on top of David's death, I'm not feeling as comfortable as I usually do here. It's such a big place. Someone could be hiding out here, or even living here I suppose, and we wouldn't necessarily know. There are parts of the castle no one ever goes to. It's
got
to be an outsider. It
can't
be one of us.”

I wondered whether Rhian was trying to convince us, or herself. Either way, I wasn't going to be persuaded by a “passing tramp” theory.

She looked worried as she added, “I don't think either Owain or Mair would ever do that to their mother, nor would Idris or Eirwen. Gwen's a bit clingy, and she can be a bit, you know, over the top, but that's just her way. She means well. Always doing little things for me and David. Nurse Janet? I don't know her that well, though she seems to cope with Alice pretty adequately. She and I don't really see a lot of each other, because of our different duties. Got the patience of a saint, Mam says, and I can't argue with her on that one. So that only leaves Mam, who, as I said, has a bark that promises much, but she hasn't got the real anger it would take to do that.”

Rhian paused and a strange look of doubt crossed her face. “I know I've asked you to look into David's death, and I suppose you'll have to consider whether this incident is somehow linked to it too. Nothing like this has ever happened before. You know, not before you three arrived. But none of you three even knew David before this weekend, so I don't see how there'd be any reason for you to hurt him. It's why I felt confident about asking you, in fact.”

I cleared my throat as I said, rather sheepishly, “By way of full disclosure, Rhian, my sister, Siân, did know David before this weekend. In fact they were boyfriend and girlfriend when she was a teenager. I'm telling you this because the topic came up in front of your mother, in the early hours of this morning, when we examined David's body. Maybe she's told you already, but I thought I'd better mention it.”

Rhian sat down, hard, on a carved oak settle that stood just inside the doorway, beneath the head of a stuffed ibex. She looked as though all the wind had been knocked out of her. She dropped her head. “Mam never said. I had no idea,” she said.

The silence that followed lasted for a few moments.

The next time she looked at me, Rhian's eyes were ablaze. “So let me get this straight. I've just asked a woman who was once arrested for killing her ex-boyfriend to investigate the possible murder of my husband, who, it turns out, is her sister's ex-boyfriend. Lovely!”

I was at a bit of a loss for words because she was right. It didn't sound good.

“Rhian, listen to me for a minute, eh?” Bud was using his calming, professional voice. I hoped it worked. “This is a very difficult time for you, Rhian, I know that. Cait knows it too. And that's why she's been very open with you about her sister's connection to David. But you need to understand that it was a very old, long-dead connection. It was a teenaged fling. Siân's married with children, and happily living the perfect life in Australia nowadays. She had no idea that David was even here, until she found out about his passing. But even if she had known, she wouldn't have had a reason to do him harm. Besides, I don't believe she's the type to kill a person, whatever the circumstances. And Cait? You told her you'd looked her up online, and that Gwen told you all about what she went through at the time, so you know she was exonerated of any blame whatsoever in the death of Angus, her ex-boyfriend. It's just . . . a coincidence, that's all.”

As Bud used his least favorite word I knew how much it must have cost him to do so. Even as he said it I could hear his mantra about connections not being coincidental, but, on this occasion, I chose to back him up.

“Bud's right,” I said. “And you've done a very sensible thing, asking us to look into David's death, because, between us, we have a range of skills and abilities that we can put to good use on your behalf.”

Rhian was crying, wiping away her tears with a towel. Eventually she nodded. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that your family had anything to do with David's death. I don't know what came over me.”

“Stress and grief,” I said. “It's perfectly understandable. And this business with the portrait must be adding to your concerns, worry, and maybe even anger.”

“Whoever's doing this, I don't like it,” said Rhian, sounding worried again. “It's unsettling, and sad, and a bit creepy. Alice loved that painting of herself. The way she went on and on about it was a bit strange. She was very
connected
to it. I only have vague memories of the other one. She took it down when I was little. But this one? Mad for it, she was.”

I'd felt it appropriate to give my hair a final rub, and wondered if I'd missed something. “Are you saying there were two portraits of Alice?”

Rhian looked tired. “No, no, that's not what I meant, though it might well have been what I said. What I meant was that, originally, there was the portrait you saw last night, and that was on the wall in the alcove to the right of the fireplace, then there was one of Alice's husband, Gryffudd Cadwallader, done by the same artist at the same time, hung on the wall in the alcove to the left of the fireplace. A sort of matching pair.”

“So what happened to the painting of Alice's late husband? Did she remove it?” I asked. It seemed an obvious question, but it drew a less than expected response from Rhian.

She drew close to Bud and me and whispered, “She had it taken down a couple of days after he died, and hid it goodness knows where, Mam said.” Rhian looked over her shoulder toward the drawing room, but it was clear from the hubbub that we were the last people anyone was thinking about.

“
Why
did she do that?” asked Bud.

Rhian shrugged. “Mam said that Alice never liked it. She also said that Mr. Gryffudd was a bit weird about the painting of Alice. She said he used to sit in the drawing room talking to it, but he'd completely ignore Alice herself. He'd sit, drink, smoke, and talk—then Alice would come into the room and chase him out. See? Weird.”

Bud and I agreed with her, and it gave me pause for thought, though Alice's husband having a strange relationship with a painting of his wife hardly explained why it was now cut to ribbons.

“And when was that—that he died, and she moved the portrait?” I asked.

“Well, I was very little. Maybe four or five, so mid to late 1970s, I'd say. Mam would know.”

“And Alice's portrait has hung in its central position, over the fireplace, ever since?” I pushed.

Rhian looked thoughtful. “As far as I know, though, again, Mam would be the better person to ask. All I can tell you is that I only have a very vague memory of there being a man on one side of the fire and a lady on the other. For as long as I can properly remember, there's just been Alice, above the fire. Why?”

Rhian seemed suddenly curious about why I was asking so many questions about the portrait, and I could tell by his expression that Bud was equally puzzled.

“No particular reason,” I lied.

THAT SOME SORT OF NORMALITY
was returning to the castle was signaled by Dilys Jones rushing from the drawing room in search of mops to clear up the pooling water that had dripped all over the floor. She shooed Idris into the hall ahead of her, where he almost skidded in the same way I had.

Alice, who shot out of the drawing room in her wheelchair at a dangerously high speed, was followed by Janet. I was seeing her in her uniform for the first time. Alice completely ignored our little group at the door and went screeching across the wet hallway toward a door in the wall beyond the drawing room.

As she flew by she called to Janet, “Keep up, girl. Come and open the door to the lift for me and help me turn.”

The chances of anyone being as fast on their feet as Alice was on her wheels were very slim, unless they were an Olympic sprinter. So Alice had to wait for Janet to catch up.

In her haste, Janet dropped something from her pocket as she rushed past me, so I bent, picked it up, and followed. At the door of the lift, Janet dutifully helped Alice reverse into a little booth, which was only slightly larger than the dimensions of her chair. Janet tried to close the door gently, but it seemed that Alice hadn't reversed quite enough, so she pulled at her little control stick, hit the back of the lift, and Janet allowed the door to shut. It still banged on the footrests at the front of the wheelchair, and I noticed the transfer of paint from the interior of the door to the little footrests. I suspected that the device hadn't been built to cope with the new machine that Alice was driving around the castle as though it were a race track.

“I'll see you up there,” called Alice as she pushed a button beside her and the miniscule lift jerked into silent motion. It moved very slowly, but the action seemed smooth.

“You dropped this as you passed me,” I said, holding out the crumpled piece of paper that I'd picked up.

Janet took it from me without looking at it, and said, “Thanks, but I can't stop, I have to race her up. It's a game we play.” She grinned and took off up the stairs.

“Ah, the litheness of youth,” said Siân close to my ear.

“What?” I spluttered, startled. For no apparent reason I'd started to cough.

Siân sighed. “Sorry, forgot I was talking to you, sis. Litheness is not something you were ever overly familiar with, is it?” She spoke as though she weren't insulting me. “So, what do you think about that picture being slashed? Pretty spiteful. Nasty thing for someone to do. Seems as though someone's got it in for the arts. I'd better guard my knitting.” She grinned.

“What
are
you talking about?” I hadn't meant to sound irritated, it just came out that way. I wasn't feeling my best. I even thought I might be coming down with something because my throat felt a bit scratchy and sore. Getting soaked to the skin hadn't helped on that score, I suspected.

“First a choirmaster, now a painting? There's someone here who doesn't appreciate art,” said Siân sulkily. “Mair's been filling me in on what David had been doing with his life. Seems he was quite famous hereabouts for his skill as a teacher and conductor. So that's what he was now, an artist. And now there's the damaged painting. You do think the two things are connected, right? I mean, they must be.”

Bud arrived, breathing heavily. “Don't do that, Cait. You just went dashing off and then you completely disappeared. I had no idea where you were. I don't like it when I lose sight of you.”

I decided to answer Bud, not Siân, so I said, “I picked up something that Janet dropped and came over here to give it back to her.”

“What was it?” asked Bud.

“Just a piece of paper,” I replied.

“You sound distracted,” observed Bud.

“Hmmm?”

Siân butted in. “She's not listening, Bud. She's thinking. Strewth, she's always been the same. Just tunes people out. What is it, Cait? Cat got your tongue?”

By way of a response I held my palm toward Bud. “Coal dust,” I said.

Siân laughed. “Oh, and that's typical too. Silence, then some stupid cryptic remark. You're priceless, Cait. I'd forgotten how annoying you can be. Right, I'm off to find out what Mair thinks about all this. Her mum's pretty upset about that portrait.”

I snapped out of my thoughts. “Yes, I wouldn't mind a word with Mair too, if that's alright, Siân? I wanted to talk to her about the puzzle plate and the hidden treasure. Could we do that, do you think?”

Siân snapped, “I don't know why you're asking me if it's alright to talk to Mair, but yes, why don't we do that? You coming, Bud?” Siân looked at her watch. “We've still got an hour before lunch, so there's lots of time. And as we hunt down Mair, you two can tell me all about the bridge. It's out, right? Like I said?”