The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (19 page)

Bud and I headed up the staircase toward the Davies and Jones apartments. I wondered what we'd find there—if anything.

ONCE WE'D REACHED THE FIRST
landing, where the grand staircase ceased to exist, Bud and I followed our instructions and walked toward where the private wing was joined to the original castle. There we found another set of wooden, carpeted stairs, this time much less grand, which led to the next floor. Having heaved my way up those, we then had to walk through a door beside the stairs to get to the smallest staircase, which led up to the top floor, as well as going all the way back down to the basement.

“It hadn't occurred to me that there'd be an alternative route from the kitchen level to the other floors,” noted Bud as I clambered up the stairs behind him, panting.

“It's not direct, because you can only get to it on the second floor, but you're right. I suppose it makes sense.” I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, and noted that this final set of steps was as steep as the one that led down to the kitchen. “It looks like the expectation was that all servants had the constitution of an ox and the climbing ability of a mountain sheep,” I puffed.

Bud grinned down at me. “Think how much worse it would be if you hadn't quit smoking a couple of months ago, right?”

“Let it go, Bud. I think the piece of gum I'm chewing right now didn't get its shot of nicotine, so just be careful, or the dam might break and the torrent that is my foul temper might wash you away.”

Bud puffed out his cheeks in mock terror, then continued up the stairs.

I gathered my strength and continued my climb. By the time I reached the top I was red in the face and lathered with sweat. “Maybe it's just as well I didn't bother to change my clothes before lunch. As soon as we've finished grubbing about the place I want to wash my hair, have a hot bath, and get into some clean, dry, un-stinky clothes.”

“I agree that is exactly what you need to do,” said Bud, opening a door and peering in.

I didn't respond to his observation, but I too opened a door.

“I think this must be Dilys's,” I said, looking at the old-fashioned furnishings and the trappings of an older person.

Bud joined me and peered in. “I agree. So I'll take this one, you take the other?”

I nodded. “I want a good hunt about in David's place, to get a sense of the man, but I really want to get down to those cellars. Let's be as quick as we can, but take as long as we need—agreed?”

“Wish me luck,” said Bud staring into what appeared to be a very orderly apartment.

“Me too,” I replied, panicking a little as the total disarray in the Davieses' rooms greeted me.

I plunged in and got to work. I quickly realized that my first impression—that the apartment was in a state of utter chaos—was not a fair one. It was just very full of furniture. First of all I got the lie of the land. A total of three rooms had been given over to living quarters for Rhian and David, with an archway connecting two separate rooms. The archway was narrow and covered with a heavy brown velvet curtain, but did the job of allowing access, while maintaining a division of space.

The door I'd entered by delivered me into what was obviously the sitting room: it contained a television, overstuffed armchairs, and a sofa, plus a sideboard. Bedding was neatly folded on the sofa, and a large bag sat on the floor beside it, the type people carry on to aircraft. I reasoned that this was where Gwen had spent the night. The room held nothing remarkable; the furnishings looked as though they had all come from a store where flat-packs were sold, and they were all well used. Where it existed, the upholstery was dark brown.

I moved into the next room, where a double bed was positioned beneath the window. I noticed that the rain had eased a little, though the storm clouds were still sufficiently pendulous to promise more before they were done with us.

The bed itself was in disarray, with pillows bearing the marks of tears and a frustrating night lying stained and dimpled on top of the bedclothes. There were two old-fashioned dark brown, flame-veneered wardrobes set against the wall at the foot of the bed. I opened the one on the right. Neatly hung shirts, pants, and jackets told me it was David's. Although the wood of the wardrobe smelled old, the clothes smelled like fabric softener and a man's cologne or aftershave. I sniffed, trying to differentiate between the two. It wasn't difficult, as David's choice of aftershave was well known to me—Old Spice, the original fragrance. It took me back to my childhood—our family doctor, Doctor Jenkins, used to wear it, and quite a lot of it at that. For me it would always be the fragrance I associated with the pain of tonsillitis, from which I suffered frequently as a child.

Rubbing my immediately sore throat, I took time to examine David Davies's clothing and accessories. His choices were relatively conservative—dark pants, an array of blue shirts, white shirts, and a couple of lilac ones. Work-wear clothing hung at one side, but only the sort of thing a man might wear to perform light duties, rather than heavy work. Beside them at the other end hung two evening suits covered by protective clothes bags. I unzipped the bags to find that one suit was much newer than the other, and each was accompanied by three sets of bow ties, cummerbunds, and wing-collared evening shirts. The conductor obviously took his concert-wear very seriously. There was also a highly polished pair of evening shoes in a cloth bag hanging with the newer of the two suits. I wondered if they were the ones he'd been wearing when I'd watched him conducting the choir in October. There didn't seem to be another pair, and, pulling them out, I could see that these were not new, but certainly not old. He also had two brown pairs—one dress, one casual—and three black. There were no work-shoes or boots to be seen. A drawer at the base of the wardrobe, which was awkward to open, contained underwear, socks, belts, and a few tees, all of which were neatly rolled.

I wondered if the neatness was one of David's attributes, or whether his wife was responsible. Opening the second wardrobe told me it wasn't Rhian who was careful with their clothes. Rhian's clothes were hung higgledy-piggledy, barely clinging to cheap wire hangers. Shoes lay jumbled in the bottom of the wardrobe—dozens of pairs of cheap navy, black, and brown shoes in a heap. All showed considerable signs of wear; some were even losing their soles or had stitching breaking apart. It made me wonder how poorly matched the couple's other habits might have been. The drawer at the base of Rhian's wardrobe contained a nest of underwear, tights, socks, gloves, and mittens.

Next, I ventured into the bathroom, which felt claustrophobic, but was sparklingly clean and smelled of bleach. I pulled open the mirrored door of a medicine cabinet that hung above the washbasin. There being no real surfaces in the bathroom, this was where I found shampoo and conditioner, a couple of bottles of painkillers, a bottle of eye drops, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and face-cleansing wipes. I wondered where these people kept all the “stuff” with which my own bathroom always seems to be cluttered, and reasoned they must just be better at editing their needs.

Re-entering the bedroom I investigated the contents of the two bedside cabinets. Bearing in mind the different levels of neatness displayed in the closets, it wasn't difficult for me to work out which side of the bed “belonged” to David, and which to Rhian. Rhian's little cupboard contained a couple of romance novels, a pair of reading glasses, some hand cream, and a pair of socks. David's contained two flashlights, neither of which worked, and a pamphlet about Roman mythology.

Finally back in the living room I noted the lack of any personal items to speak of, save one wedding photograph of the Happy Couple on their Big Day.

My overall impression of the apartment was that it didn't have a true “lived in” feel to it. It looked and felt as though two very different people were roommates, and that was it. There was no sense of a shared life there. Before I moved on to my next area of inquiry I allowed myself a final scan. Having just pared down my own belongings and moved my stuff into our new home, I understood how the belongings of two separate people who had just decided to share a space would highlight two different personalities. But I also knew, from my profiling experience, that these distinguishing features are gradually tempered over time, with possessions, taste, and space gradually taking on the personality of the pair, the new unit. That didn't seem to have happened in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Davies—not even after six years of co-habitation. It was certainly food for thought.

Just before I closed the door, a thought occurred to me—Gwen's large overnight bag had been sitting next to the sofa, and I hadn't looked in it. I retraced my steps, bent down, and flipped open the unzipped cover of the bag. I poked around a bit. There wasn't anything surprising to be found, just the standard overnight stuff: a toiletry bag, a change of clothes, a giant sweatshirt—which I assumed was what she'd worn to sleep in. Everything was folded neatly and placed in the bag just so, with a pair of slippers on the top.

It was only as I joined Bud, who was already back in the hallway outside the apartment, that a little niggle crept into the back of my mind. Why did Gwen arrive the previous day to tune the piano
with
an overnight bag? I'd have to find a chance to ask her.

“CAN WE EXCHANGE NOTES AS
we go?” I asked Bud, eager to get to the basement.

Bud nodded and we set off down the narrow staircase that had obviously been designed to give servants living on the top floor of the castle direct access to the kitchen and basement areas. I walked carefully, because the stairs were steep.

“Let me go first,” said Bud, “then at least if you fall you'll have a soft landing.”

I followed Bud and said, “You tell me your news first,” as I came to terms with the rake of the stairs.

“Okay—here goes. Mrs. Dilys Jones likes photographs, that's point number one. Every surface is covered with them. Mostly of Rhian, but some of her with, I am assuming, the late Mr. Jones—who was as round as she is slim—and just one wedding photo of Rhian and our victim. Her choice of artwork other than that is minimal and runs to children with large eyes, cats, and a few prints of Welsh castles, which I found bizarre, given that she lives in one. She has three rooms: a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom.”

“Same as Rhian and David,” I said.

“Good. So you have the layout. The sitting room isn't anything out of the ordinary, except for all the photographs. A
TV
, a sofa, a couple of chairs, a small table, a few magazines, and a lot of cookbooks piled on a bookshelf. It looks like she reads romance novels and paperbacks. They're all in poor shape, so either she buys them used or she wears them out by reading them over and over.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“I thought you'd like that,” replied Bud. “What does it tell you?”

“The first thing that comes to mind is that the stall in Swansea Market where my grandmother used to swap used romance novels seems to still be in business.”

Bud sounded disappointed as he continued. “Her bedroom was neat and tidy, in fact the whole place was. She doesn't seem to have a lot of stuff—though I did find a collection of those pinafore things she wears hanging in her closet. Looks like she's got about twenty of them, all very well worn, but neatly hung. She's also got a few more of those uniform type dresses, like the one she wore when she was serving in the dining room. The bathroom? Small—compact, as those realtors we've seen too much of over the past few months might call it—and very, very clean. The place smelled of bleach.”

“Rhian's bathroom was the same,” I said.

“Clean freaks, or hiding something?”

“I suspect just being clean, Bud. So nothing of any note is what you're saying.”

“Other than the photos, not a thing. It's clear that there wouldn't be anywhere for someone to hide out there, and no easy access from outside—too high, and the windows are very small. She looks out over the sea, which wouldn't be a bad view, if the windows weren't so high up. Come on, we're there.” Bud brightened.

I took the last few steps slowly, then paused to allow my head to stop spinning. I took in our surroundings. “We're in the basement again, but we're at the back of it this time, near the back kitchen where they stored the body, rather than at the front of the castle, where the stairs come down from the main hall. A very
Upstairs, Downstairs
layout, don't you think?”

Bud nodded. “Where next? Try to find the coal cellar?” he suggested.

I strained my ears for sounds of anyone close by, but could hear nothing. “I wouldn't mind taking another quick look at the body, since we're so close to it,” I whispered. I darted off before Bud could stop me.

The day outside the castle had never been bright, and the windowless back kitchen needed the lights turned on. Even then, the stone walls were as forbidding as they had been the night before, and seeing David Davies's body lying on the table was, once again, a sobering sight. However, I knew that I needed to examine him one more time, so I pulled back the cloth. I got close—I wanted to be close enough that I could see the pores on his skin, so I could examine the way that the stone of the steps had deeply grazed his chin, though I didn't plan on touching the body, now that Bud and I were pretty certain that foul play was to blame for his demise. Even though the poor dead man had been hauled about the place, I was well aware that there might still be trace evidence on the body that could prove useful once the police arrived. And not just the obvious smudges of coal dust. I wanted to re-examine the marks on his pants. But they were gone.

“He's changed his clothes,” I said, quite loudly as it turned out. “These aren't the pants he was wearing when we saw him last night. Then he was wearing jeans. Now he's wearing brown dress pants. And he's wearing different shoes. These are brown; the others were black. But these are the same socks.”