The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (17 page)

“Did they know each other?” I asked.

Mair nodded. “Huge rivals. John Bute was the man who enlarged the docks in Cardiff, making that city a much bigger port than Swansea. Powell Cadwallader was a Swansea champion, and he'd managed to ensure that its place at the center of the world of copper would go down in history. The two men were fierce competitors in terms of commerce, civic pride, and, of course, castle building.”

All three of us nodded. “Cait made sure we went to Cardiff Castle during our October visit,” replied Bud. “It's quite something. The Norman Keep on the hill is a wonderful thing, so very old, and the Victorian castle is like something out of a movie.”

“Well that's it, you see,” said Mair. “There wasn't any Norman building here, only the medieval ruins. So Great-grandfather, Hywel, built it himself. Then Grandfather saw what was happening at Castell Coch, which Bute was building outside Cardiff, and decided he could do it better, and faster. They finished building the Gothic wing you're in, in record time. Then he met my grandmother, Iris, and she was just nuts about Hatfield House, so he added this wing, in a similar style to her object of desire, just for her. Even so the construction here was finished around the same time as construction at Castell Coch, in 1899. It's said they had an amazing party here to welcome in the twentieth century, but I imagine it was still a bit of a mess really, because a lot of the tile work, and many of the murals and so forth, weren't finished properly until just before the First World War.”

“Is there much of the original medieval castle left?” I pressed, keen to hear about the coal cellar.

“Now that's where Owain would be your man,” admitted Mair. “I like the new parts, the Victorian parts, but as for the stone circle, the Roman temple, and the medieval castle parts, he'd know a lot more than me. That's his passion—the old bits, and, of course, the lay lines. Get him going on those and—well, let's just say you've been warned. He's obsessed with a line that runs through our stone circle and the Neolithic burial chamber over at Parc le Breos, in Parkmill. Do you know it?” Siân and I nodded. Bud looked puzzled.

“I'm not very interested in rocks,” continued Mair, “and that's all those parts are, to me. Old, I'll grant you, and wonderful because of that, but I find it difficult to get excited about what happened here two, three, or four thousand years ago, despite the fact that I'm surrounded by the leftovers from those times. I love the décor, the design, the mood of the new parts, you see. I think it's thrilling that almost everything in this castle is handmade, in some way, shape, or form. It's not mass-produced stuff. The china we eat off every day, the silverware, that piano, these rugs, the enameled gold tiles inside the fireplaces—everything was made by an artisan or an artist. But people don't seem to see the value in that. You must find that with your knitting, Siân. Not a lot of people understand that handmade is good.”

I asked, “Would it be possible to see the library, Mair?”

Mair consulted her wristwatch. “Owain will be in there, and he's very protective of his privacy. But it's been a disturbed enough day that I'm sure he'll put up with a few visitors. Let's go now; soon it'll be time for lunch.”

We all stood, and Mair led the way through the little door. I wondered why it was so small, but then saw there'd have been no point in making it any wider. The few steps to which it led were just as narrow.

Mair called out to her brother as we followed her down the three steps. She turned left into the vast expanse of the shelf-lined library, which had very small windows overlooking the sea—not that you could see the sea through the rain—and a good number of iron chandeliers running the length of the chevron-shaped room. The angle at the center of the room wasn't acute, but we couldn't see around it from where we all stood.

I heard it before I saw anything. Sobbing. Quiet and miserable, it sounded like the unhappy sobs of a child.

“Owain? Is that you?” Mair rushed forward, and we all followed. As we rounded the slight bend we were met by a strange sight. Owain Cadwallader was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his whole body shaking, head down. He was distraught.

Hearing his sister's voice he lifted his head. His red eyes blinked through his thick spectacles.

“Look,” he said, pathetically. He held up his hands, which were filled with shards of pottery. “It's broken. Shattered. Someone's been in here and broken the puzzle plate. Why would anyone do that, Mair? It's a family treasure, and now it's gone. We've been robbed of another piece of our history, and this one's much more important than that disgusting painting of Mother.”

“When did this happen?” asked Mair.

“It must have been this morning. Just within the last couple of hours, because I brought it in here after breakfast. I . . .” he looked at me and blushed as he hesitated, “I didn't want it to be talked about by everyone any more. I wanted it to be private again. I put it there, on that stand. When I came in here after all that business with Mother, it was on the floor, broken.”

“Could a window have blown open this morning and disturbed it?” I thought I should be the voice of reason, for once.

Owain shook his head. “None of these windows open. Never designed too. So it can't have been the wind. It must have been a person.” He sounded shocked as he said the words aloud.

“Or maybe there really is a
bwca
in the castle,” said Mair, smiling as brightly as she could at her brother.

“A
bwca
that shreds paintings and breaks plates?” asked Bud, sounding proud that he knew what was being referred to.

“And knocks,” added Mair. “Knocking though the night, keeping people awake,” she said blackly. “Though I didn't hear it over the storm last night, at least.”

“A
bwca
knocking?” Owain looked terrified.

Mair nodded. “Mother's heard it too.”

MAIR REACHED DOWN TO HER
brother and took the shards from his hands. “Here, give me those. You get up and sort yourself out, Owain. Let's all look around for all the pieces we can find and put them here on the table, then we can see what's what.”

We ended up with a pile of crockery that looked less than promising.

“Smashed to smithereens, it is,” said Mair sadly. She patted her brother on the back. “I tell you what, Owain, you know I was always good with jigsaws, and I also happen to know that Siân's pretty good at spotting a pattern too—so why don't you let us two do the best we can to get it back into some sort of shape, then you can see if anything's missing. There's no way we can tell from this mound if it's all here or not. How about that? To make up for me being nasty to you, eh?”

Owain mumbled his acceptance, though I didn't note any words of thanks.

Siân spoke brightly when she said, “Yes, Owain, it'll be fun for me, and I'll feel as though I'm doing something useful. Thanks for letting me help.”
She's up again.

Owain wiped his wet spectacles on a bit of his sweater as he replied, blinking. “You're welcome. I mean, thank you. You're very kind. I know it's very silly of me, but that plate and I have spent many years together. It's like an old friend. Whatever you might have said about it, Cait.”

I tried to stifle a deep sigh.

“You felt the same way about that plate as Mother felt about her portrait,” said Mair as she started to pick out the larger pieces of the plate and work out where they might go.

“They are very different,” replied Owain, sniffing.

“They might be very different,” I said, “but Mair makes a good point, because the way they made two people feel was very much the same. Each of you has lost something that meant a great deal to you. Something with which you had a strong emotional bond.” A thought occurred to me. “Mair, has anything like this happened to you recently? Has something that meant a great deal to you been damaged, broken, or lost?”

“You told me your Ravelry account was hacked, and that lots of nasty messages were posted in your name a couple of weeks back,” said Siân.

Mair nodded uncertainly. “True, but that's hardly the same as this, is it?”

“Does your reputation on Ravelry matter to you a great deal?” I asked. “Did you have to work hard to repair bonds with people who matter to you in your virtual world?”

Mair nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, it took forever, and it was very upsetting for some people. They thought I'd really said those things, you see. But I hadn't. So it took a lot more than just changing my passwords and so on. I know there are a few people on the Archers' forum who'll never acknowledge my existence again; in fact, I suspect they are still trying to get me booted off the site. Something I hope won't happen, because then I'd lose something very precious to me—” She paused, and a look of great concern made her eyes grow round.

“Someone's got it in for you lot,” said Siân simply. “And they're not being very subtle about it. If hacking Mair's Ravelry account was the first act of vandalism, a couple of weeks ago, why did they wait until now to do what they've done to these objects, here at the castle?”

Bud was raking his hand though his hair as he said, “It's a significant change in modus operandi—a completely different type of crime. Hacking an internet life is a crime that's impersonal, it takes place at a safe distance, and allows for total anonymity. I'm sure it didn't cross your mind to hire anyone to trace who did the hacking, did it, Mair?”

Mair shook her head. “No, it didn't occur to me to do that. Besides, I wouldn't know who to ask.”

I watched Bud as his thought processes developed, and decided to let him run with it. He did. “You see, that's the difference. With a slashed painting and a smashed plate, we're seeing two very destructive acts—anger-fueled, I'd say, with a high risk of discovery. It's almost reckless. So we have a carefully planned, virtual attack on the one hand, and two aggressive, and possibly opportunistic, acts on the other. It's odd. It almost sounds like two different people.”

Owain was now on his feet and almost back to his normal self. “I say, Bud, I think that's highly unlikely. I mean, it's one thing to believe there's a lunatic running around smashing things up, because I'm sure that's what's happened—someone has gained entry to our home and is hiding out here, bent on destroying our family's precious possessions. It's quite another to suggest that there's more than one person planning to do harm to the Cadwalladers. A conspiracy, in other words. It
cannot
be.”

Bud still looked concerned. “If you all don't mind, I'd like to track down Idris and Eirwen. Anyone know where I might find them?” He looked at his watch. “It's almost noon, where might they be?”

“Dining room,” replied Mair and Owain in chorus. They shared a smile.

“Lunch is at noon,” said Mair, “so they'll either be there, or heading there. We should join them. Mother lunches in her apartment, but Dilys likes us to be prompt. Right, Owain? If you miss it, it's gone?”

Owain's beard smiled. “That's what Dilys always says about food here—‘If you miss it, it's gone'—though she never tells us where it's gone to. I suspect it all gets recycled into a future meal,” he mused.

Mair replied, “Maybe, but it all always tastes good, and none of us look like we're suffering from malnutrition, so I dare say she's doing a good job on a pretty tight budget. But, look, let's not hang about here. Siân—let's come back and work on this plate after lunch?”

Siân nodded, and we all took one last look at the broken pottery.

“Let's go round this way.” Mair led the way toward the end of the library farthest from the door through which we'd entered. “Going this way we can cut through the morning room, then right into the dining room, okay? Follow me,” and she was off.

Bud grabbed my arm as we walked. “We need to talk to Idris and Eirwen. I need,
we
need, to find out if anything bad has happened to them recently—because, if it hasn't, it might soon. And, I hate to say it, but we should also check about their children. If someone is undertaking a campaign of spite against the Cadwalladers, then we need to know what's what.”

“Do you think that David Davies's death might be connected in some way?” I asked, knowing the answer I'd give myself.

Bud nodded. “He might have seen something he shouldn't have, or just got in the way. And if we're dealing with someone who has already killed once, who knows how much more damaging and dangerous their actions might become.”

I squeezed Bud's hand as we passed through the vividly decorated morning room. I hadn't expected carved wooden ceiling panels and leaf green walls to be so uplifting, but they were. I hardly had time to admire yet another golden tiled fireplace before Bud dragged me into the dining room.

“MOTHER, WHAT ARE YOU DOING
here?” Owain sounded surprised to see Alice Cadwallader seated at the head of the dining table. Idris and Eirwen had also taken their places, and it was clear that Gwen was now being treated as a “proper” guest, because she, too, was seated at the luncheon table. “You don't usually join us for lunch. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Don't patronize me, Owain, just sit down and let Dilys serve you. She's been hovering for at least three minutes, poor woman. You're late. You're all late.”

“We're sorry, Mother,” said Mair, who entered the dining room just ahead of Bud and me. “We got a bit caught up with Owain. His puzzle plate has been smashed to bits.”

“
My
puzzle plate,” said Alice imperiously. No one responded. “My portrait destroyed, and now my puzzle plate smashed. I am very concerned that someone in my home means me ill will.”