The Wrong Rite (30 page)

“Splendid.” Dafydd never forgot anything; he’d certainly remembered how to apply an effective armlock. He had Tom helpless and screaming; Madoc dealt deftly with the plus fours.

“Shut your eyes, Mother.”

“Don’t be silly, Madoc. My brothers used to hide things in their knicker knees too. Ah, I see it. May I?”

“By all means. Handle it carefully—that’s the real one if I’m not mistaken. Mary must have made up an extra duplicate. Maybe her first try wasn’t quite up to standard, or else she’d planned to plant it on somebody, as Tom did.”

“And I was your obvious choice, wasn’t I?” Dafydd gave Tom’s arm a wrench that must have been excruciating. “You bloody son of a bitch, you’re the one who set the Sûreté on me, aren’t you? Admit it, you—”

“All right! All right! You’re killing me. Jesus, Dafydd, can’t you take a joke?”

“S
O THERE WAS THE
story, nicely packed up in Mary’s old black handbag: her bankbooks, her will, and even a pocket diary, each of them slathered with Tom’s fingerprints. Quite a happy hunting ground.”

Madoc had every right to be pleased. He was back in Betty’s kitchen addressing a tableful of Rhyses, all of them drinking tea and slaughtering a fresh batch of Betty’s Welsh cakes at record speed. Janet had managed to wrest Dorothy out of her grandparents’ clutches and settled down for a hugging session, but Dorothy had elected to get down under the table and hang out with Bartholomew instead. How soon the fledglings left the nest!

“But what took you so long, Madoc?” Lady Rhys wanted to know.

“Mother, it’s not that simple. Poor old Cyril had never taken in a murderer before, he wasn’t even sure of the drill. We had to haul Uncle Caradoc’s pal the chief constable off the fourteenth tee by brute force, and then there was the usual mess of paper work to get sorted through. At least, thank heaven, I don’t have to get involved in the scut work, and neither does Cyril.”

“What’s that?”

“Tracking down such oddments of proof as where Tom fenced the gemstones he’d stolen off Arthur Ellis that night in Marseilles and where he’d bought the gunpowder he used to blow up Mary Rhys.”

“I suppose it was understandable that he’d want to blow up Mary. But why Huw’s poor old ram?”

“That seems to have been part of Tom’s unnecessarily involved plot. The idea was to make us think some kind of witch cult was going on with Mary and Bob at the head of it, so that Mary’s getting blown up would be seen as just another rite that went wrong.”

“What trick?” asked Reuel Williams, who’d still been typing madly when Tom was carried off as a prisoner and Patricia Jones as a material witness.

“Patricia didn’t say. One gathers that she has minimal interest in anything that doesn’t involve an inordinate amount of physical energy and, preferably, an element of danger. Rustling and decapitating a pugnacious great animal she found rather a lark; but having to listen to Tom explain why they were doing it was not something that held her interest. So after they’d created that ghastly welter in the chapel, they bathed in the stream to wash off the gore and went for a spin in the Daimler. That’s how she burned out Tom’s brakes for him, demonstrating how a stunt driver goes over a precipice.”

“They must have had quite a lively evening, by and large,” said Janet. “Have you read Mary’s diary, Madoc?”

“Enough to get the gist. It’s written in Welsh, in the tiniest hand I’ve ever seen off the head of a pin. We had to leave it with the chief constable, he’s going to get somebody to make a transcription for the inquest. It’s not a day-to-day account—Mary simply recorded the high points, of which she didn’t appear to have had many until she became obsessed with the notion that Arthur Ellis was cheating on her. Eventually she nerved herself up for a bold stroke. She managed by devious methods to save up a little cash, lied to Bob about her travel arrangements, and followed Arthur to Marseilles.”

Madoc told the story as he’d heard it read out by Cyril Rhys, whose reputation as a poet eclipsed even his exemplary but hitherto unremarkable record as an officer of the law. Cyril’s elocution had been eloquent and Mary’s diary had afforded full swing for his talents. Madoc’s summing-up was probably pallid by comparison, but it was riveting enough for his listeners.

Mary had traveled on the same train as Arthur; she’d trailed him to a meeting with another gem dealer, from whom he had, as might have been expected, bought a number of stones. She’d lurked in the shadows while the transaction took place. Mary hadn’t been close enough to see what sorts of stones they were, but she’d surmised from the large wad of cash that changed hands—Arthur always dealt in cash—that their value must be considerable.

Arthur had then done nothing more sinister than to go into a restaurant and eat his dinner. Mary had lurked outside, wet, hungry, and frustrated; peeking in the window from time to time, watching him work his way methodically through soup, entree, and salad, with a half-bottle of wine. He’d eschewed dessert but taken coffee. Then he’d emerged, comfortably fed but not vulgarly sated, turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and braved the by now more than inclement weather. As Mary had essayed to follow him, she’d become aware that somebody else was following him too.

Here was a turn-up indeed. Quite sensibly, Mary had decided she didn’t want to be the ham in this sandwich and elected instead to follow the follower. Her danger had been great, but her reward for intrepidity (Mary’s own words) had been greater. She’d actually seen the follower slip up on Arthur, throttle him from behind, and shove him into the alley. She’d heard Arthur’s one brief, choking outcry, she’d seen the blow that stilled his voice forever. She’d watched with breathless absorption as the murderer ripped open Arthur’s clothing and possessed himself of the little chamois bag into which Arthur had poured his so recently purchased stones.

Now how was she going to get them away? Dared she tackle a murderer? She had no weapon save perhaps a loose cobblestone. Would a cobblestone be adequate for a stunning blow, or would the villain—for this was indubitably no villainess—snatch it away and use it on her?

While she stood there dithering (Mary had of course not used the term “dithering”), the successful mugger had solved her problem for her. After having robbed Arthur’s wallet of whatever money it still contained and spread the rest of its contents artistically around the now drenched and cooling body, he’d been unable to resist a glance at his booty. His cigarette lighter had flickered for one brief moment, but that was enough. Mary had seen the glint of the stones, and fine ones they were. Far more potentially valuable, however, was the glimpse she’d got of the killer’s face.

It was a face she knew well, and her fortune was made. Why should a clever lady like Mary Rhys risk her life on a desperate attempt at a coup when all she had to do was go home and write a letter? And another, and another. Arthur Ellis had just assured her of a comfortable competence for as long as Tom Feste’s funds held out. And everybody knew that film producers made pots and pots.

But the frosting was still to go on the cake. Mary had very sensibly hidden herself behind a wastebin, giving Tom plenty of time to leave the alley and be well on his way before she’d dare to emerge. She’d just about decided the coast was clear and that she’d go back to the train station, since her meager resources wouldn’t run to a room for the night, when who should come mincing along through the downpour but—”

Madoc suddenly realized he was talking not only to the person involved but also to a number of her most respectable relatives. Lady Rhys, ever reliable in time of crisis, came to his rescue.

“Let me, Madoc. I was there, after all. It was such a surprise. There we were, Emmy and I, stuck under an awning in the pelting rain praying for a taxi, and here came Iseult with a camera crew. One couldn’t even spot the photographers, they do it so simply these days. Just a couple of chaps carrying those video things perched on their shoulders, you know.” Lady Rhys favored her hearers with a bland and innocent smile and went on with her tale.

“Iseult was made up as a lady of the evening. She did look smashing, I have to say. No skirt to speak of, stilt heels, fishnet tights, black lipstick. And of course that marvelous hair, with a transparent umbrella to keep it dry. Naturally we didn’t speak. We knew we mustn’t interrupt the shooting, and anyway our cab came along right afterward. One assumes she must have gone past the alley where Arthur was assaulted. Mary, being Mary, poor thing, naturally would have taken fantasy for reality, as was her wont, and I certainly wouldn’t have put it past her to make of it what she could. Most unfortunate for Iseult, just when her career was taking such an upward turn. I’m sure we all feel for her. Go ahead, Madoc, what happened next?”

Madoc continued his excerpts from Mary’s diary. A puffing elderly man had appeared, pretending (his own words) to solicit Iseult’s favors; they’d gone arm-in-arm into the house that stood next to the alley. Mary had emphasized that she was not the silly innocent Bob liked to think she was; she’d been around enough foreign cities to realize what sort of house this one must be. She’d made careful note of the address and decided she’d best not hang around this wicked but potentially lucrative neighborhood any longer.

Thus it had begun and on it had gone. Ever more pleased with herself had been brilliant, gifted, increasingly wealthy Miss Mary Rhys. She’d been clever enough to realize that Bob must never be allowed to catch sight of her passport, with the French Customs stamp on it where the Belgian one should have been. Because of the uproar created by Arthur’s violent death, no word of her excursion to Marseilles must ever get around to anybody. She’d handled that small difficulty by burning her passport in a fine burst of dramatics and vowing never to travel abroad again.

Mary had been clever all along the line. She’d deemed it unwise to begin her fund-raising activities too soon after Arthur’s death. She’d waited to make sure Tom Feste had got back safely from Marseilles, that he was telling lies about having been in Morocco instead, and that he was still gainfully employed at the same studio. Of course he was; Tom would have been insane to quit his job now that he’d splurged on that new Daimler and moved to a more glamorous address. How then would he have been able to explain the sudden burst of affluence that must have been generated by the sale of the stolen gems?

Mary had taken Iseult’s well-publicized new contract with Curvaceous Cinema as a signal to annex a second client. Payment had come faster and more steadily than she’d dared to hope, she hadn’t even had to do much bullying. Her one big problem had been how to spend her money. Never having had any before, she’d been stumped about what to do with all this cash, other than to flaunt it at Bob.

His first reaction, as she’d expected, had been to demand the handling of his sister’s new income. Mary had laughed in his face and told him nothing doing. He’d then insisted that she contribute to the household expenses; she’d taken further pleasure in reminding him that she’d been the family breadwinner all along. Nevertheless she’d coughed up, because there was less money from the gem-cutting now that she was refusing to travel, and because it was so delightful to make Bob come groveling to her for money to cover the butcher’s bill.

Bob had had no idea how much Mary was accumulating. He’d have been absolutely beside himself if he did. He’d have had to know sometime; Mary had dwelt fondly and at length on whether her brother would literally burst with rage on that fateful day or settle for an apoplectic stroke. She’d prayed she’d be alive to see, but supposing she wasn’t? What should be her final taunt? The obvious answer had been to draw up a will leaving him precisely one shilling, and the rest to the person whom he’d most hate to see getting it. But who?

Not the Friends of the Lesser Demons, certainly. They all thought Bob Rhys was a magus, and would have taken it for granted that Mary’s big brother’s good offices, or else his necromantic art, had tipped the scales in their favor. He’d then at least have got the pleasure of basking in undeserved glory, and that would never have done.

Not Sir Caradoc, he was too old and much too deserving. Not Huw nor Owain nor Sir Emlyn, far less their wives and children; they were also numbered among the worthies. Not Lisa or Tib, they’d have thought Mary had remembered them out of respect for Arthur Ellis, of which she’d felt not a jot.

Not Dai Rhys. Mary had already bestowed on Dai the inestimable benefit of her skill and knowledge; he had so far shown himself less than overwhelmed by the honor. Anyway, Dai had a fairly respectable fortune of his own, should Bob ever be persuaded, or more likely forced, into letting him have it. Not Reuel Williams, he was a cad, a rotter, and a gay deceiver; he’d led her on and let her down. She hadn’t explained just how, perhaps because there hadn’t been much to explain.

At last Mary had hit upon, of all people, Iseult. Iseult was as unworthy as any recipient could be, at least anybody in Mary’s limited acquaintance. Mary had taken pleasure in stipulating that the money be used to buy real emeralds to replace the unconvincing imitations with which Iseult had been trying to bolster her image as a highly paid star instead of a second-rate actress in third-rate films. It would be an act of charity, Mary had written, to heap coals of fire upon that artificially enhanced head. What with her extravagant lifestyle and her contributions to Mary’s secret fund, Iseult would not have been able to set much aside against the time when her face, her figure, and her popularity rating would all come tumbling down.

It was all there in Mary’s will, Madoc said, duly witnessed and notarized. Which meant, Janet added privately, that Iseult was now heiress to her own money, not to mention Tom’s and quite likely a fair chunk of Lisa’s, considering how Tom had been sponging off his stepsister ever since he’d murdered her husband. The lawyers ought to have a lively time with this one.

Thus the tale was told. It was Lady Rhys who came up with the
mot juste.
“Bizarre! Iseult, my dear, I hope you don’t mind Mary’s rude remarks. I’m sure what she really meant was that her conscience was hurting her because of the cruel trick she’d played on you.”