Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“No, nor Reuel either.” It occurred to Janet that she hadn’t reminded Madoc of that remark Mary had made about the scriptwriter’s having profited from her program on gem-cutting. Had Mary simply been angling for more attention, or had the remark carried a double meaning? No matter. Madoc would have remembered; he always did. “Is he still asleep?” she added in all innocence.
Iseult took umbrage. “I wouldn’t know, contrary to what everybody’s no doubt been assuming. Reuel came with me for two reasons: one, that I needed a lift and he has a car; two, that he’s supposed to be gathering local color with which to write me a script, and it had jolly well be a better one than last time, or I shall be in the market for a new writer. I’ll have a slice of that bread if I may, since you seem to know how to cut it and I don’t. What do you do besides mothering, Jenny?”
Janet didn’t suppose Iseult actually gave a hoot, but a civil question deserved a civil answer. “I housewife. Shop, cook, bake, sew, paint furniture, hang wallpaper, chase down the odd antique. You know.”
“No, I don’t, thank God. Is that all?”
“Oh no, we do a lot of entertaining, what with family and neighbors and unexpected company Madoc’s always dragging home at odd hours. Fredericton’s a university city as well as our provincial capitol, so there’s always something to go to: concerts, art shows, plays, and whatnot. On weekends we often drive over to my brother’s farm, sometimes we fly to Toronto or wherever one of Madoc’s family happens to be performing. This is our second trip to Wales since we’ve been married, I expect we’ll come again before too long. This must sound awfully dull to a famous film star.”
“Huh.” Iseult slapped butter on her bread with a to-hell-with-the-calories air. “Do you know what film stars spend most of our time doing? We sit. That’s how glamorous filmmaking is, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. One sits until one’s bloody ass of a director makes up his mind what he wants one to do next, which may take days. Then one sits some more while the camera crew try to get the right angle and the electricians fiddle around with the lights. Then one gets up and goes through some stupid piece of business and speaks one’s silly lines. Then one does the same thing over again, and again, and again till one’s ready to scream; all because some idiotic bit player doesn’t know how to get through a door without falling over his feet. At last everything goes like a bomb, and that’s when the props girl happens to notice that somebody’s pushed a flowerpot two inches out of line, so it’s all to be gone through yet again. And there’s dull little housewife you, giving parties and buying antiques and flying around to concerts. Do you have servants?”
“Not to say servants. We have a woman who comes in to clean two or three times a week and helps out if we’re having a formal dinner or something, which we don’t very often. And a man who cuts the grass in the summer and shovels us out in the winter, and a neighbor who waters the plants and feeds the cat and takes in the mail while we’re away. We haven’t found a baby-sitter yet because we’ve either stayed home ourselves or taken Dorothy with us; but I expect we’ll be coming to that sooner or later. What about you, Iseult? Where do you live?”
“In London, like everyone else. In a rather pleasant flat, with a daily to clean and plenty of restaurants nearby. One doesn’t go in for cozy home cooking, I’m afraid.”
One might look a few shades less godawful without one’s makeup if one did try to get some honest plain grub under one’s belt now and then. Janet didn’t suppose Iseult wanted to be told so, nor did she want to break up this tête-à-tête just yet. She wasn’t a gushy person, but this was a case where a spot of gush might be in order.
“Eating out all the time, I suppose you always have people rushing up to your table begging for autographs. That must be a thrill.”
Iseult shrugged. “It’s a nuisance, actually. They want to stand and chat, and one’s food gets cold. Fortunately the celebrity game is played much less seriously over here than in America. One doesn’t think of oneself as a star, you know; one’s simply an actress. One wouldn’t turn down a good supporting role merely because one’s accustomed to playing leads. That’s why one’s always in work, both here and abroad.”
“Do you mean in other European countries, like France and Italy?”
“Oh yes. And Spain, Morocco—one manages to get around a fair amount. One even squeezes in a bit of fun here and there.”
“I should hope so. What’s your favorite city?”
“Rome, I suppose. The Italians are always so appreciative. Paris can be amusing, and Cannes. I do like Cannes.”
“That’s down near Marseilles, isn’t it? I read somewhere that if you were to sit at an outdoor café on the Cannebière long enough, you’d see everybody you’ve ever known walk by. Have you ever tried?”
Iseult lifted one finger, signaling for Janet to hold on till she’d taken a sip of her tea; it must be stone-cold by now.
“Oddly enough, Marseilles is one place I’ve never been. Now I must dash upstairs and pull myself together. You’ll be around, I suppose?”
“As far as I know. What I’m planning to do right now is track down my child. If I see Dafydd or Tom, I’ll tell them you’ll be down and not to go off without you.”
“Lovely. Pip-pip.”
So they really did say “Pip-pip.” Or was that just a line from one of Reuel’s scripts? Janet carried the empty cups over to the sink and left them for someone else to wash. It went against the grain, but she knew Betty’d have a conniption if Mrs. Madoc were caught rinsing them out herself. She was halfway to the farmhouse when she heard hooves clattering on the path behind her. She moved out of the way, but the rider pulled up beside her.
“Aunt Jenny?”
Janet wasn’t anybody’s aunt over here that she knew of, but it was polite of Lisa’s daughter to grant her the title. “Hello, Tib. What’s doing?”
“Mother sent me to tell you she’s found a leek pie that didn’t get cut, and would you and Uncle Madoc come to luncheon? Please say yes, I’m afraid Mother’s about to pull in her neck. She’s dreadfully shaken up about Miss Mary. Not that she liked her much because how could one? But it was a shock, you know, and Mother doesn’t handle shocks very well. On account of Daddy, I expect. It’s not something we talk about, you understand, but there it is. Anyway, do please say you will. And may I get to hold Dorothy?”
“Thank you, Tib, I’d love to come.” Here at least was a way she might be helpful. “I can’t answer for Madoc; he’s busy with Uncle Caradoc. As for Dorothy, it’s a question of whether I can pry her away from her grandparents. What time would your mother want us?”
“Whenever you’d like to come. One thing about Mother, she’s flexible.”
“Then would you tell her please that I’ll be along in a little while, with or without Madoc and Dorothy, as the case may be? I’m afraid that’s the best I can do right now.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Mother won’t care so much about Uncle Madoc, she gets a bit sick of men when Uncle Tom’s around. But she thinks you’re lovely.”
Tib wheeled her pretty mare and trotted off. Janet stood looking after her for a few seconds, then went on up to the farm. Her parents-in-law were exactly where she’d expected they’d be; sitting at the kitchen table with Elen and Mavis, drinking tea and hashing over the party, trying to avoid mentioning what had happened at the end. Dorothy was on the floor, having a serious conversation with a handsome ginger cat. Fortunately she was encountering no dearth of feline companionship in Wales so far.
Elen’s hand automatically went out to the teapot. “There you are, Jenny. We were just talking about you. Sit down, I’ll pour you a cup.”
“No, really, Aunt Elen. I’ve just had a second breakfast with Iseult and Lisa wants me over there for luncheon. She’s found a stray leek pie that needs to be eaten up and Tib wants a turn at holding Dorothy.”
“Well, she can’t have her.” Sir Emlyn was growing positively belligerent over his grandchild. “Dorothy’s planning to take a nap with her grandmother and me, if this Mad Hatter’s tea party ever finishes. What’s Madoc up to?”
“Trying to get a line on what really happened last night before the chief constable starts poking his nose in and upsetting Uncle Caradoc. Bob’s in a swivet because he’s been told he must stick around for the inquest, which means he won’t get to speechify for the Friends of the Lesser Demons and will lose the advantage of his cheap-rate ticket. Not to be running down my husband’s relatives, but I do think that man’s the absolute outside limit.”
“As do we all, my dear,” Lady Rhys assured her. “If only Bob couldn’t sing! One can’t thoroughly despise even an adequate basso, can one?”
“I’d be willing to give it a try if I had to be around that tub of lard for long,” said Mavis. “He and that sister of his did a right job on young Dai, didn’t they? What are they saying down at the manor, Jenny?”
“Not a great deal at the moment,” Janet evaded. “Madoc and Uncle Caradoc are with Uncle Huw, wherever that may be. The constable and Dai are organizing a posse to hunt for Mary’s handbag. I expect they’ve roped in your lot by now. Iseult came down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, then went back up to put on her face in case Tom and Dafydd want to take her someplace.”
“Where, for instance?” Mavis seemed to welcome a change of subject, as who could blame her?
“I don’t think she cares. We did talk a bit, mostly about ourselves. Iseult was curious as to why I haven’t died of boredom over in the colonies, and naturally I wanted to hear about her life as a movie actress. She told me she’d been in films all over Europe and northern Africa. I asked whether she’d ever been to Marseilles because I’ve been hearing oddments about Lisa’s husband that nobody seems to know the whole story of; but she said no, she hadn’t.”
“But she has,” said Lady Rhys. “Don’t you remember, Emmy? We were headed for Monaco and Dafydd was on his way from Melbourne to Munich, I think it was. We’d agreed to meet in Marseilles for dinner and a quick visit. It was a wretched night, absolutely teeming. Dafydd had a flight out at some ridiculous hour and we were concerned about the weather, so after dinner we’d stuffed him into what must have been the only available taxi in Marseilles and sent him along to the airport. Then we’d gone back into the restaurant and dawdled over our coffee, hoping the storm would let up.”
“Not that it much mattered,” Sir Emlyn replied. “We’d nothing else to do and were feeling a trifle bereft. At least I was.”
“Yes, darling, so was I. Anyway, it kept on raining. Finally we decided we might as well go on outside and try our luck. We were queued up under the awning with a few other hopefuls when this ravishing redhead came tripping along in the highest of heels and the shortest of skirts, with her head up inside one of those transparent plastic bubble umbrellas. It had a green band around it, naturally, Iseult always wears green. She was so heavily made up that the man behind us made a disgusting remark. That was when I realized the woman was Iseult.”
“One realized, of course, that she’d just come from a performance and hadn’t taken time to scrape off the greasepaint,” Sir Emlyn put in gently.
“Of course, dear, though one also realized it wasn’t the most professional thing for an actress to have done. Anyway, one didn’t quite like to rush screaming after her in the rain; and just then a couple of taxis came along, so that was the end of it. But I’ve always remembered the incident because it was that same night Arthur Ellis got murdered, right there in Marseilles, not far from where we’d dined. Actually we didn’t find out about Arthur till we got back to Wales, but wasn’t that a weird coincidence, Jenny? No wonder Iseult prefers not to remember Marseilles. She’d rather had her eye on Arthur at one time, I believe; she was quite put out when he married Lisa. Well, Emmy, shall we walk Jenny back as far as the manor?”
T
HE CONFERENCE WITH HUW
Rhys couldn’t have taken long. Madoc and Sir Caradoc were coming down the hill, very slowly. The old man was leaning heavily on the cane he often carried but seldom made much use of. Sir Emlyn and Lady Rhys fell back to walk with him, keeping the baby with them, Madoc came on ahead to meet Janet.
“Anything happening, love?”
“Lisa’s invited us to lunch, but I said you were probably going to be busy. Is that right?”
“Yes, you go along without me.” He’d save the story of the ram for when they had time to talk, if ever. “I need to search the house, and I’d like to dust that green box you found in Mary’s fireplace for fingerprints. I’m guessing it will be bare as a baby’s bum and turn out never to have held more than that one pinch of gunpowder.”
“Then what was the point of putting it there?”
“Good question. The house was wide open all day yesterday, there were scads of people around, and you say Mary never went back to her room. Anybody or his uncle could have planted the box.”
“Anybody who knew which room was Mary’s, and knew she was going to get blown up,” Janet qualified. “You don’t think she’d have been subtle enough to rig up a fairly obvious fake and put it there herself, just to cause trouble?”
“Don’t ask me, love. With Mary’s penchant for insulting people to their faces, I should think she’d have been more apt to plant the box on whomever she wanted most to spite.”
“Namely her brother, I should think. Maybe she did, and he found it and put back in her room. More likely that box was Bob’s idea of insuring the right verdict. He’s the one who has most reason to want her death declared misadventure due to excess goofiness. Madoc, I can’t swallow that argument of his about wanting to keep her alive on account of the annuity. According to Dai, Mary had a pretty hefty chunk in her savings account already, and you can darned well believe that if Dai managed to snoop into her handbag, so did Bob. He had nothing but Mary’s word to go on that she’d be getting any more money from her mysterious benefactor, if there was one. In the meantime, she was acting more and more independent; she’d given him good reason to be afraid she might take off with her nice big nest egg and leave him to pay his own way for a change. As it stands now, he’ll inherit as next of kin, won’t he?”