Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

team. The mother spoke gently to the little girl, pointing out something of interest in the room, while Sir John picked up the boy and hoisted him on to his shoulders. ‘Shall we go for a ride?’ I heard him say, and the two of them made for the door, while the woman and girl followed hand in hand.
    They passed near our table, and I got a good look at Sir John. He looked infinitely weary, though when he turned to answer a remark from his son, he made an effort to smile.
    Alan saw it, too. ‘Did rehearsals go any better this afternoon?’ he asked Nigel.
    â€˜Worse, if anything. All the soloists are demoralized. We missed our cues, forgot the words, and lost our tempers. Sir John was positively haggard by the time he finally turned us loose. We were an hour late, and that’s going to cost the festival quite a lot, even though the instrumentalists weren’t with us. Tomorrow we have dress rehearsals, with orchestra and chorus, and it’s going to be bloody. Sorry, Dorothy, but I meant that almost in the literal sense as well.’
    â€˜He certainly looked haggard just now, and it surprised me. He seemed so happy a moment before, with those delightful kids. And you didn’t tell me his wife was pregnant.’
    â€˜I didn’t know. That’s probably one reason why she’s with him on this jaunt. She’s fairly far along, isn’t she? He probably didn’t want to leave her. He’s besotted with his family, or so the gossip has it. But he’s definitely worried about the festival. If there isn’t some sort of blow-up before it’s all over, I’ll be very much surprised.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ said Alan thoughtfully. ‘Has any security been arranged?’
    Nigel looked startled. ‘I hardly think so. This isn’t a football match. One doesn’t expect a scrum at a performance of
The Creation
!’
    â€˜Perhaps not,’ said Alan, ‘but I think Dorothy and I will take in the final rehearsals. They should be interesting, at the very least. Are you still in the church tomorrow, while they get the castle ready for you?’
    â€˜No, we really have to do these last ones at the castle, to get comfortable in the space and work out technical problems.’
    â€˜Not to mention personnel problems,’ I muttered as our dinners arrived.
    The lovely weather broke next day. Alan and I looked out our window and could see nothing of the hills, only the pond, dimpled with raindrops, and the trees, blowing madly in the wind. Nigel was depressed and silent at breakfast, so we let him alone, but I couldn’t help wondering how much shelter tents and canopies would provide in a gale.
    The castle, when we got there, was the scene of barely controlled chaos. The wind had indeed torn ropes from their moorings, and canvas flapped wildly as shouting crews attempted to subdue it. Electrical cables snaked everywhere, posing hazards for unwary walkers, and musicians wandered about looking lost while stagehands set up chairs and risers and music stands that kept falling over in the wind. Shouting, a good deal of swearing, and the scrapes and tootles of instrumentalists trying to tune and warm up competed with the howl of the wind and the crash of flying objects in an almost solid wall of noise.
    â€˜Nigel, this is impossible!’ I shouted against the clamour. ‘Nobody can rehearse in this!’
    He simply nodded and went off in search of someone who might know what was happening.
    Alan pointed the way under the main gate, which still had a roof and provided some shelter from the stinging rain. Of course a lot of the others had the same idea, and the space was crowded with disgruntled musicians. Above the other voices rose a powerful, rich complaint. ‘I will not risk my voice in this weather. I will not rehearse here! It is r-r-ridiculous!’
    If I had needed any clue to make assurance doubly sure, that extravagantly trilled
r
would have