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.
âAnd youâd be Mrs Nesbitt?â
âMrs Martin. But yes, Mr Nesbittâs wife.â
His expression told me what he thought of women with names different from their husbandsâ. âRight,â he continued, making a note. âAnd what can you tell me about all this?â
He wasnât 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. âI 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
âShe screamed
before
she fell? Are you sure?â
âI can,â I said, very much on my dignity, âtell 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
âHmm. A bee, maybe. And who was near her at the time?â
âThe other three soloists.â
âNames?â
âI donât know all their names. The tenor is Nigel Evans.â
âA Welshman, then?â
âHis father was. Nigel has lived in England since he was very young.â
âAnd how do you know so much about him?â
My irritation with this mannerless oaf was growing. âHe has been a good friend for many years,â I said frostily.
âI see.â He made another note. âKnow anything about the others?â
âOnly that they sing like angels.â
âYes, well, maybe one of them wasnât so angelic.â He slapped his notebook shut. âThatâs all for now, Mrs Nesbitt.â
âOne moment, young man.â I let him see my anger. âFor 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!â
I stalked off, seething.
âProblems, love?â
Alan had come up behind me. I turned to him. âNot really, I suppose, except that I just had a close encounter of the idiot kind.â
âAh, that would be Sergeant Blimp, I expect. I saw him arrive and pegged him as one of those coppers whoâs never done anything useful in his life, but has also never done anything quite stupid enough to get him sacked.â
âThe name would be appropriate,â I agreed. âI donât know what his real name is, as he didnât bother to introduce himself. He pretended not to know what my real name is, either. But the worst thing is that he didnât listen to a thing I told him. Heâs decided Nigel probably did it, because he has a Welsh name. Heâs English â Sergeant Blimp, I mean.â
Alan looked grave. âIf he were under my supervision, that sort of attitude would be just cause for a dressing-down, if not worse disciplinary action.â
âHe wasnât overt about it, but his face, like mine, shows his thoughts only too clearly. But never mind him. Iâve been wanting to talk to you, because I finally remembered something important. You know I said I thought I recognized Graciosa?â
âYouâve remembered why?â
âYes, and I think we