The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (2 page)

“What, oh my dearest fiancé?” I quipped feebly.

“If, for some reason, it looks like all this is going to get in the way of us having our ceremony here on Monday, the way we want, then we three will just find ourselves some hotel rooms in Swansea, and we'll do it there. At the register office itself, if necessary. It might not be your dream wedding, but we will, at least, be married on time.”

My practical nature kicked in. “Look, Bud, the location of the marriage is specific to the license. They are very particular about that sort of thing. The rules say we must each have been resident in Swansea for seven consecutive days to be able to apply for the license in the first place. That's why I had to negotiate cover for my lectures so we could come here to visit for a week back in October. The rules also say that we have to be married at the location listed, so in other words here, at Castell Llwyd, within one year of that week of residency, or else get another license.”

Bud looked grim for a moment, then brightened. “That's that then. It has to be here, and while we've technically got until next October to be married, Monday is the last day of the year, and I
will
marry you this year, Cait Morgan. We will begin the New Year as a married couple. Got it?”

We each left our respective seats and met in the middle of the room. As we hugged, I heard a melodramatic sigh from Siân, then she added, “If we weren't all in your bridal boudoir, Cait, I'd say ‘get a room,' but that's enough of the mush for now, okay?”

I gave her a sisterly pout. “Hey, there's no such thing as too much mush when a girl is getting married,” I said. “And I do know that, at forty-eight, I am stretching the meaning of the word ‘girl' to its limit—” Siân nodded vigorously, “but I suppose we can restrain ourselves, if we must.”

We perched on the edge of the bed beside each other. “So, Bud, tell us how you happened to find out about the accident.”

“Well, after we'd all met up and chatted over coffee, I went back to my groom's room knowing I could manage with just a quick shower and a shave, so I'd look my best for my bride.” Bud's eyes twinkled wickedly. “Then I rushed downstairs for a secret meeting I was due to have with the choirmaster, whose name was David Davies by the way—”

I interrupted. “It's pronounced Day-
vis
, not Day-
vees
as you said it. The name ‘Davies' is pronounced Day-
vis
here in Wales.”

Bud rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Okay, David
Day-vis
didn't show for our meeting, so I went to look for him. This place is vast, and parts of it are like a rabbit warren. I don't think they planned how to join the wings to the main body very carefully. So I got a bit lost. It's weird, my sense of direction is usually excellent, but I got completely turned around.”

I nodded. “You're not wrong about the construction. I read up on the history of the place before we got here. Castell Llwyd was built by two generations of the Cadwallader family, in three different architectural styles, between 1845 and 1900. It's why it looks like three entirely different places from both outside and inside.”

“You can give us our lesson on architecture, history, and culture later—
much
later—” piped up Siân, her now-Australian twang very pronounced, “because I know you well enough to know there'll be one. But, for now, I want to hear what happened next.”

Bud nodded. “When he didn't show, I wandered about a bit and I ended up pushing open a swinging door tucked underneath the main staircase, where I quite literally bumped into Mrs. Jones, who was just about to come out through the same door. I told her I was trying to find David Davies, and she told me I wouldn't find him because he'd just fallen down the kitchen stairs and broken his neck.”

“Did she seem upset by his death?” I asked.
Sometimes
I can't help myself.

To be fair to him, Bud gave my question a moment's thought before he replied, “Cait Morgan, do
not
go there. Her demeanor is irrelevant. In any case, people react to a sudden death in many different ways. But that's not the point—this is not our problem. Got it?”

Bud gave me a warning glance as he continued. “Of course I asked if there was anything I could do, but Mrs. Jones said no, she was quite sure he was dead. Then she shooed me away and said she was off to let the Cadwalladers know, and they'd call the doctor. I suggested she call the ambulance and the cops, saying I really didn't think that a family doctor would be the right person to contact in the case of an accidental death, but she implied that, as a foreigner, I wouldn't know the right thing to do. Well, okay, she didn't imply it, she just straight out said it. And she made it clear that it was a family matter, so I left it at that.”

“Not possessed of the most winning manner, is she?” I observed wryly.

Bud sighed. “You're right. Acerbic, to say the least. But that's that, Cait. It's a blow, my darling, but, like I said, it's over to the family and the authorities to sort it all out.”

Siân's tone was sympathetic. “I'm so sorry, you two. It's a great shame. Who's Mrs. Jones, by the way?”

I turned my attention to her. “Of course, you only met Idris Cadwallader, when he greeted you. You don't know anyone else who lives here. Bud and I met Mrs. Jones when we visited in October. She's the cook. A face like a hatchet and a tongue just as sharp. Wears one of those old-fashioned crossover pinafores. Hair in a net. Like Gramma Morgan used to wear. In fact—you'll get this, though Bud won't—she looks just like Ryan Davies, from
Ryan and Ronnie
, you know, when he used to dress up as that ‘Mam' character?”

Siân's mouth made a big O. “You're kidding?”

I shook my head, and we shared a chuckle.

“I'm guessing this is a Welsh thing?” asked Bud.

Still grinning, I replied, “A
TV
show we used to watch back in the 1970s. Very funny.”

Bud shook his head. “I knew I was going to feel like an outsider on this trip, where you know the culture, and all that, but I guess I'll get used to it.” He sounded resigned.

“So,” said Siân, “other than this Mrs. Jones, who'll probably now make me want to laugh out loud when I meet her, who else is there here? I promise to listen carefully and try to keep up, but I haven't got a photographic memory like yours, Cait, so I might forget one or two details.”

“Then I'll keep them to a minimum,” I replied, arching my right eyebrow in its most disdainful manner.

“Does that eyebrow thing of hers work on you, Bud?” asked Siân.

Bud shook his head, smiling. “Not anymore.”

“Me neither, sis, so you can cut it out,” said Siân with a grin.

I conceded defeat. “There's the family, then there are those who live and work here. First, the family. Alice Cadwallader is the matriarch. She's very old now, in her nineties, I believe, but I gather she was a real beauty in her day. The parties she and her husband, Gryffudd Cadwallader, hosted here were legendary. Alice's son, Owain, and daughter, Mair, live here as well. He's got a reputation as a historian and a scholar; I know nothing about the daughter. Neither are married, and no children. Also living here are Alice's grandson, Idris, and his wife, Eirwen. Bud and I have met both of them, but not the rest of the family. We were all supposed to get together at dinner tonight. Idris is Alice Cadwallader's grandson by her late son, Teilo. Idris and Eirwen have two children, though I was told by Idris when we arrived today that they have gone to stay with his wife's family for the New Year, having just enjoyed Christmas here at Castell Llwyd. So there won't be any children running around the place, which is just fine by me.”

“This must be a great place for kids to spend Christmas,” Siân said, quite wistfully. She had traveled alone, leaving her husband in charge of their two offspring. “I know it's gloomy and brooding, but they'd love its quirkiness, and that massive tree in the main hallway is quite something. I took a look at the decorations earlier on—they must go back some years. Very intricate, some of them.” Siân smiled a little as she added, “We have a little Christmas tree made of silver foil, back home in Perth. But, of course, it's all a bit different there. Christmas Day this year it was over thirty degrees in the morning—we couldn't wait for the Fremantle Doctor to blow in. Too hot to roast a bird, so we had fish on the barbecue.”

“Not shrimp?” I grinned.

“Ha ha, sis, very funny,” replied Siân. “No, there wasn't any room next to the kangaroo steaks,” she quipped.

“The doctor? Was someone sick?” asked Bud, sounding concerned.

“You're sweet, Bud,” replied Siân, “but no, no one was sick. The Doctor is a wind that blows into Perth every afternoon; it makes us all feel better when it's hot. It's very special. You two should come and feel it one day, and meet the children. They'll be off to university before you've so much as met them face to face, Auntie Cait,” she chided lovingly.

“I'd like that,” replied Bud seriously, “and I'm sure Cait would too. I bet she could arrange a good, long break from her teaching, or maybe a couple of semesters of sabbatical?” He was slyly tackling a topic we'd touched upon several times before—and it never ended well. For him.

“Not now, Bud. Let's get this trip over with first, eh? I mean, let's enjoy our wedding as best we can, right?”

I returned my attention to Siân. “So, to continue—that's the Cadwallader family. Then there's Rhian Davies, the woman who's the event planner here—she's the one I've been emailing about all the arrangements. And, of course, Mrs. Jones, who'll be preparing our wedding luncheon. Other than that, I have no idea who else lives in, or helps out. Though I dare say we'll find out over time. Or maybe at dinner, if we dine. But that's enough about them and my ever-sharpening appetite. Bud, how did you get hold of the late David Davies in the first place?”

“Remember you went to the washroom in the interval of that concert in the Brangwyn Hall?” I nodded. “Well, he came and had a pint of beer in the bar where I was getting you a drink. I'd seen your face as you listened to the men singing on the stage and you looked transported—when you weren't admiring the art on the walls, of course. I got the idea right away, so I approached him and got his card. We later exchanged a few emails, and he told me he had a pared-down chorale that often performs at weddings here, so it was an easy thing for me to organize. He mentioned that he lived here, though he never told me why, and I guess I just didn't think to ask. There's been so much going on back home I was just glad it seemed such a simple thing to arrange.”

Every time I looked at Bud, I knew how lucky I was to be marrying him. “You're a thoughtful, loving man, Bud Anderson, and it was, indeed, a delightful idea. I adore the sound of male voice choirs, and that night was as wonderful as I had imagined it would be. I know that my eidetic memory allows me to recall things at will, but it's always a joy to be able to experience them again. I often sang in that very hall when I was in the West Glamorgan Youth Choir, back when I lived in Swansea, as did Siân, years later. I attended a good number of other concerts there over the years, too. As for admiring the paintings, I have never, ever taken Frank Brangwyn's incredible work for granted, whether the performance was André Previn conducting Vladimir Ashkenazy, David Essex, or even Queen.” I reached over and took Bud's hand. “But it's not the end of the world, my darling. And thank you for trying.”

“I tell you what,” said Bud, leaping up from the bed. “I'm going to go hang about downstairs so I can see whoever needs to take my statement as soon as possible, and I'll check with them whether they even need to talk to you two at all. You can get yourselves all gussied up for dinner and ready to join me downstairs. By the way, are you going to be okay in this room, Cait? It's not as warm as mine. Of course, it's three times the size. Mine seems a good deal cozier—wood paneling is more welcoming than the painted plaster you have in here. Though those scenes on the walls are quite something. Amazing. I expect you're enjoying them.”

“You're right,” I replied, looking up at the scenes from Welsh mythology that had been painstakingly composed and expertly painted onto the walls above the chair rail, and across the ceiling of my circular bedroom. “I'll be fine, thanks. I've never spent a night in my very own turret before, so this is an opportunity not to be missed. I could do without the windows rattling behind the shutters; however, so long as none of the figures from the Mabinogion step down from their painted scenes, I'll probably survive.”

“I don't know how you could bear to sleep in here,” Siân said as she looked around the room. “All those eyes staring down at me would freak me out. Weird characters to have painted in here in any case. Ancient stories full of death, retribution, and lots and lots of begetting.”

“The Mabinogion?” Bud mangled the pronunciation a little. “I guess that's something I'll get the chance to learn about when you school me later?” he asked, looking wary.

I could feel the corners of my eyes crinkle as I replied, “I'll catch you up on millennia of Welsh history, including medieval mythologies, before you know it. Then you can do the same for me one day about Swedish culture—how about that?”

Bud shook his head vigorously. “I'd have to learn about Swedish stuff first, Cait. I might have been born there, but my parents never saw fit to immerse me in my birth culture, just my adopted one of Canada. Now, Canadian history? Well, there I
am
pretty good. You get a real sense of place and history being in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—you have to, or you won't understand all the communities you're dealing with, all the cultural variations, you know? I could tell you tales from ancient, and more modern, Canadian history that would make your hair curl. You could test me if you like.”