Free Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

in charge, while another, his second-in-command, presumably, attended to Sir John. Still others began to separate the musicians into manageable groups for interviews. Eventually one of the lesser lights, a beefy, rather sour-looking man of about fifty, approached me.
    â€˜And you’d be Mrs Nesbitt?’
    â€˜Mrs Martin. But yes, Mr Nesbitt’s wife.’
    His expression told me what he thought of women with names different from their husbands’. ‘Right,’ he continued, making a note. ‘And what can you tell me about all this?’
    He wasn’t Welsh, that was certain. There was none of that Welsh lilt, that softness of accent. Nor was there the courtesy of manner I had met with so far. What was he doing in the police on this side of the border, I wondered. Besides annoying the natives.
    Those thoughts took only a portion of my brain, while I framed an answer to his question. ‘I was in a good position to see her fall, better than most people here, because they were busy playing and singing, and I was merely observing. She was singing, and hit a high note, and then it went higher and higher and turned into a scream, and then she fell.’
    â€˜She screamed
before
she fell? Are you sure?’
    â€˜I can,’ I said, very much on my dignity, ‘tell the difference between singing and screaming. And yes, it was before she fell. And now I stop to think about it, she was also sort of flailing about, slapping at her hair and neck.’
    â€˜Hmm. A bee, maybe. And who was near her at the time?’
    â€˜The other three soloists.’
    â€˜Names?’
    â€˜I don’t know all their names. The tenor is Nigel Evans.’
    â€˜A Welshman, then?’
    â€˜His father was. Nigel has lived in England since he was very young.’
    â€˜And how do you know so much about him?’
    My irritation with this mannerless oaf was growing. ‘He has been a good friend for many years,’ I said frostily.
    â€˜I see.’ He made another note. ‘Know anything about the others?’
    â€˜Only that they sing like angels.’
    â€˜Yes, well, maybe one of them wasn’t so angelic.’ He slapped his notebook shut. ‘That’s all for now, Mrs Nesbitt.’
    â€˜One moment, young man.’ I let him see my anger. ‘For one thing, that is not my name. As you know perfectly well. For another, if you think that one of the other soloists pushed Madame de la Rosa to her death, you are quite mistaken. They were not near enough to her to trip her, their hands were occupied with their scores, and their minds and souls with the music.
Good
afternoon!’
    I stalked off, seething.
    â€˜Problems, love?’
    Alan had come up behind me. I turned to him. ‘Not really, I suppose, except that I just had a close encounter of the idiot kind.’
    â€˜Ah, that would be Sergeant Blimp, I expect. I saw him arrive and pegged him as one of those coppers who’s never done anything useful in his life, but has also never done anything quite stupid enough to get him sacked.’
    â€˜The name would be appropriate,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t know what his real name is, as he didn’t bother to introduce himself. He pretended not to know what my real name is, either. But the worst thing is that he didn’t listen to a thing I told him. He’s decided Nigel probably did it, because he has a Welsh name. He’s English – Sergeant Blimp, I mean.’
    Alan looked grave. ‘If he were under my supervision, that sort of attitude would be just cause for a dressing-down, if not worse disciplinary action.’
    â€˜He wasn’t overt about it, but his face, like mine, shows his thoughts only too clearly. But never mind him. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, because I finally remembered something important. You know I said I thought I recognized Graciosa?’
    â€˜You’ve remembered why?’
    â€˜Yes, and I think we