The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (6 page)

Bud was smiling at Eirwen just a little too brightly as he said, “Let me see if I've got this right. You call the entry level the ‘ground floor,' then the first upstairs floor is the ‘first floor'? Right?”

Eirwen nodded eagerly.

Bud blustered on, “It sounds as though you have a different number of floors in each wing.”

Eirwen smiled, pleased to have a change in topic. “Yes, we have a very unusual layout here. It's all a bit confusing because each part of the castle has a different number of floors. This wing has three floors, our wing has five, and the middle of the castle, the oldest part, only has two floors, properly speaking, plus the basement, which houses the kitchens. So, in this wing is this floor, which houses the morning room, this dining room, and the library, through there”—she waved an arm in the direction of the “mystery” door—“then there are the four guest rooms on the floor you're using: the bridal boudoir above our heads, the groom's room, and two more guest rooms. But there is another floor above that, where we could open up more guest rooms. To do that we'd need to remodel to allow for ensuite facilities, and all the new health and safety regulations. That would take a lot of money, so the floor is shut up for now. But—” She stopped speaking and literally bit her lip. I felt sorry for her. I suspected that the income from a possible contract with a television company would provide the cash necessary for the updating of the potential additional guest facilities.

“You mentioned my private library, Eirwen,” said Owain. “Please don't give the impression that the room is open to the public.” He nodded in our general direction. “I'm sure you appreciate that a man's library is his own domain.”

“It's
my
library, Owain,” said Alice Cadwallader, wiping the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin. She picked up her glass of sherry and drained the last few drops. “I'll take some wine now, Mair,” she called.

“Yes, Mother,” replied her daughter patiently, pushing aside her plate and rising from her seat. Mair moved to a second sideboard set so perfectly against the rounded wall that it must have been made for the room, just like the one upon which Dilys had carefully placed her serving tray. I thought it odd that Mair didn't serve her mother from the bottles of wine that sat upon the table, and from which we'd been invited to pour for ourselves. I began to wonder why she would do that, when my attention was taken by a sudden gust of wind that blew open the shutters on the window next to the sideboard, sending the curtain billowing into Mair. The bottle fell from her hand and shattered on the worn rug covering the flagstones.

A general hubbub ensued, which only ended when Dilys Jones, initially summoned by means of a bell-rope beside the fireplace, came rushing back in again with a dustpan and brush, and a copious amount of salt. “That's all I can do for the stain right now,” she announced glumly, shooting an accusing glance toward Mair, who was ensuring that the window was closed. Mair took her seat when she was finished.

Alice, whose wheelchair had remained in place at the head of the table, called to her grandson, “Check she's done that right, Idris. You know what she's like.”

“It's shut, Mother,” said Mair.

“I'm sure it's just fine, Alice,” added Idris, obviously not wanting to be used to belittle his aunt.

“Check it, Idris, we don't want another mess. Look at all that over there,” snapped Alice imperiously.

Idris succumbed.

“It wasn't my fault, Mother,” bleated Mair. “The wind blew it open. It is a terrible night out there, or haven't you noticed?”

“You are the housekeeper, Mair, and, as such, you were responsible for preparing this room for dinner. The fire is hardly alight; the shutters are blowing open every two minutes. Are you trying to make me catch my death of cold? Trying to kill me off? Is that it? Are you trying to get your hands on your inheritance that way?”

Just as Dilys Jones re-entered the dining room carrying another wide tray bearing an impressive tureen, Mair Cadwallader leapt from her seat, and completely lost it.

“MOTHER—I AM NOTHING MORE, NOTHING
less, than your unpaid skivvy. I am living the nineteenth-century life of a slave-daughter in the twenty-first century. It's ridiculous. A man is dead.
David
is dead. It's a terrible loss. And all you can worry about is yourself.”

Mair clenched her fists as she spoke, her chest heaving with emotion. “Doesn't it occur to you that he will be missed? We're all grieving him in our own way. Rhian is so upset she can't even leave her room. Poor Rhian. Yes, Mother, poor
Rhian
, not poor
you
. You insisted that dinner go ahead when I'm sure that Dilys would rather be comforting her daughter. I know that Gwen's stayed on to be with her, but it's not the same as having your mother with you at a time like this. But that wouldn't occur to you, would it? Because you have no idea how that feels—to want to comfort someone. God forbid you'd think of your daughter that way, as someone who needs something from her mother, rather than as a thing, a servant, who can tend to her mother's every whim.”

I wondered who “Gwen” might be, but it didn't seem to be the right time to ask.

Mair's anger seemed to subside into regret as she continued, “You never, ever showed me any affection, Mother. You didn't
need
me with you all these years, you just wanted a lapdog you didn't have to pet. Someone you could order around who couldn't resign. That's why all the nurses leave, Mother. They cannot put up with you.
You.
You're a pain in the . . . everything. But most of all you're a pain in the heart.
My
heart. I've only ever wanted you to love me. But I don't think you know the meaning of the word.” Mair wiped away what I judged to be tears of anger and sadness, in equal measure, with her napkin.

“And you do, do you?” Alice's voice had a cruel edge.

“What?” Mair sounded impatient, to say the least.

“You think you know what love is, do you, girl? And how would that be, then? What secret life have you been living that would allow you to know that?” Alice managed to throw this barb in her daughter's direction while moving to one side so that Dilys could reach to place a bowl in front of her.

Mair plopped down into her seat, seemingly defeated. “Oh, Mother, not that again. Please?”

We'd all been embarrassed spectators, and it took Dilys's serving of the cawl to break the tension. For once the cook seemed quite jolly, at least proud of her offering.

As we all ate, with maybe a little too much gusto, there were lots of compliments about the hearty soup.

“This is delicious,” said Bud with great enthusiasm. “What's in it?” I allowed my surprise to show. Bud never knows, or cares, what's in his food.

“It's cawl,” replied Siân. “It could be anything.” I could tell by her tone of voice that she was very tired. I suspected that her jetlag was kicking in.

“Dilys makes beef cawl,” added Eirwen. “She's very good at it. Hearty, but not heavy.”

“What's the green?” asked Bud.

“Leek tops,” I replied. “And the yellow is swede.”

“Swede?” asked Bud.

“We call it rutabaga in Canada; it's Swedish turnip—which is quite appropriate for a Swedish cop.” I flashed a smile as wide as I could, and Bud reciprocated.

“You're a policeman?” asked Alice, sounding surprised.

“Used to be,” replied Bud, “but I retired. It was time.”

“Lost your nerve?” asked Alice dismissively.

Bud didn't miss a beat. “No, I lost my wife, then I decided it was time to quit.” My heart went out to him.

“By ‘lost,' I assume you mean she died?” asked Alice. I wanted to hit the woman, no matter her age.

“Sadly, yes,” replied Bud. Realizing it was best to be direct, he added, “Cait and I were colleagues when my wife was alive. In case anyone gets the wrong idea, Cait and I were never anything more than respectful, friendly workmates during my wife's lifetime. It wasn't until Jan, my wife, was gone that Cait and I began to get to know each other as more than friends. We've been together as a couple for over a year now, and we are very much looking forward to our wedding here on Monday. Does that answer all your questions?”

Bud's good at being quiet when it's the right thing to do, but he's just as good at taking the bull by the horns when that's appropriate.

“Good for you,” said Alice. “People don't often get a second chance. You should take them when they come along. I never had one. I was too old and ugly when Gryffudd died to turn any heads.”

No one dared say anything, except Janet, who seemed to have been grinning for the whole evening. “Oh come on with you, Alice, you'd have any man you wanted wrapped around your little finger in an instant, I bet.”

It was exactly what Alice had been fishing for, and she smiled at her nurse like a naughty child. “Oh, I don't know about that.”

“Oh, yes you do.” Janet's grin grew. She seemed to be the only person in the room with the energy and will to buoy up Alice. I suspected that the Cadwallader family was completely worn out by fulfilling the matriarch's desperate need for attention, and that maybe each nurse she hired gradually reached the same conclusion and left, the aged woman having fed upon their energy like a vampire, finally sucking them dry. I wondered how long the nurses lasted before they reached the “husk” stage and resigned.

As I sipped my tasty broth and nibbled on the delicious meat and vegetables it held, I contemplated the dysfunction of the Cadwallader clan.

Breaking the no-longer-heavy silence, Siân piped up with, “Do you have a very Swedish name, Bud? I've just realized that Cait's never told me your surname. Will I be able to pronounce it? Or will I need lessons?”

“Oh, I should think so,” replied Bud smiling. “It's Anderson. Not so very exotic.”

“You're kidding,” exclaimed Siân. “An-der-son?”

Bud nodded. “Yes. Why? Is that an unusual name in Australia?”

“Not very,” replied Siân. “In the town and shire of Dowerin, where my husband is from, there are a lot of Andersons. And it's especially popular at our house. It's my husband's name. It's my name, and my children's name. We're ‘Anderson' too. I'm Siân Anderson. And my big sister will become Cait Anderson. Strewth. We'll have the same name again.”

“No, we won't,” I replied. “I'm keeping ‘Morgan.'”

“You didn't tell me Siân's married name was ‘Anderson,'” said Bud, at roughly the same time that Siân said, “You didn't tell me Bud's name was ‘Anderson.'”

It hadn't occurred to me to tell either of them about the other's name. To be honest, I've never thought of Siân as an “Anderson” at all. She's always just been Siân to me.

“I'm glad we're not the only family that keeps secrets,” said Mair.

I must have been feeling defensive, because I snapped, “A name's just a name, it's no big deal.”
Stupid of me.

“I have to disagree with that,” replied Owain, who'd been largely silent since we'd entered the dining room. “A name is a signifier of belonging, of rights, of ownership, and of heritage. It can mark your place in society, in geography, and in history. It is a part of you. It's a vital part of everyone. You shouldn't belittle the importance of a name. Just look at us, the Cadwalladers. My grandfather changed his name from Ieuan ap Hywel Cadwaladr to Powell Cadwallader just so he'd be better accepted in the world of business, especially by the English. Even mother here changed her name from Alicia, her given name, to Alice, in order to be better accepted. Less Roman Catholic, I believe, isn't that right, Mother?”

Alice stared at her son. It was difficult to read the emotion in her glittering eyes, but I settled upon interpreting it as contempt.

“None of your cheek, Owain. Your father preferred Alice. That was that.”

Her response made me wonder if her dismissiveness was directed toward her son or her late husband.

“Why will you be keeping ‘Morgan,' Cait?” asked Siân.

Bud and I had covered this ground pretty comprehensively, so I smiled warmly at him and felt able to say, quite lightly, “It's the name I'm known by in my professional life, and it would be confusing to change it, given that it's the name that appears on all the research I've done to date. Cait Anderson didn't get a PhD, or put forward theories that challenged the criminology community, so she doesn't exist in my working world. Cait Morgan does. I'll be better off sticking with the name that's known.”

“But you could be Mrs. Anderson too, like me,” said Siân. As she spoke she allowed her spoon to plop into her still half-full soup bowl. It seemed she wasn't going to make the most of her main course, either.

“Jan was Mrs. Anderson,” I snapped, immediately wishing I could recall the anger with which I'd spoken Jan's name. I made sure my tone was gentler as I said, “And Bud's mother is Mrs. Anderson. I'll be Cait Morgan. It's who I know how to be.”

“Ah-ha! You prove my point for me. Exactly,” said Owain triumphantly, “names define us.”

“Like ‘Davies the Eyes' defined poor David Davies?” asked Eirwen.

And we were back to the topic of the dead man.
Inevitable, I suppose.

“Only in that he used those eyes to get whatever he wanted, from everybody,” said Dilys Jones as she re-entered the dining room to gather our used dishes.

“What do you mean?” asked Eirwen and Mair in chorus.

“You know very well what I mean,” said Dilys spitefully. “After that treasure he was, and made no bones about it.”

“Our treasure?” exploded Owain. “He's been hunting for our treasure?”