Read Online Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams - Free Book Online

decided that matter. I raised an eyebrow to Inga, who nodded. Indeed, it was Madame Graciosa de la Rosa, holding forth.
    â€˜She’s risking her voice all right, having a temper tantrum at that volume,’ I said close to Inga’s ear.
    â€˜One can only hope she’ll lose it altogether,’ was the reply.
    Gracie couldn’t possibly have heard the exchange. I had barely heard Inga myself. But the diva shot us a look so venomous that I clutched Alan’s arm. Could the woman read minds? Or lips?
    Alan covered my cold hand with his warm one and mouthed, ‘Careful, love.’ I noticed he turned his head away from la Graciosa when he did so.
    Nigel reappeared and formed his hands into a megaphone. ‘We’re to go back to St Elian’s,’ he roared. ‘BACK TO ST ELIAN’S. Half an hour. Pass it on!’
    Amid grumblings, the crowd began to disperse, pulling jackets over their heads, or over their instruments, and moving towards the car park. Soon only the diva was left, drumming her fingers impatiently on the ancient stone wall as our small party left. ‘Nigel!’ she called imperiously.
    â€˜Ignore her,’ said Inga, but Nigel turned, with reluctance.
    â€˜Find John and tell him I must ride with him to the church. My driver has left. Or I will go with you. Yes, that will be better.’
    â€˜Sorry, my car’s full. I’ll tell Sir John.’ And Nigel pushed us out the doorway at what was very nearly a run.
    Fortunately the conductor was approaching his car as we reached ours. Nigel hailed him. ‘Sir! Madame la Rosa is stranded without a driver. I’d give her a lift, but as you see . . .’ He gestured to our small car and largish party.
    â€˜Oh. Oh, of course.’ He managed a smile and waved us on.
    â€˜Nigel, what is wrong with that man?’ I demanded when we had achieved the safety of the car and Nigel had cranked the heater up to its highest notch. ‘It’s more than just the stresses of the weather and an uncooperative mezzo. He looks absolutely ill.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’ Nigel sounded miserable. ‘I’ve never seen him like this.’
    â€˜Darling, you’ve not seen him all that often in any condition, have you?’ Inga put on her most practical, matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s probably coming down with a cold, and some men are no good at being ill. You droop like a wounded heron whenever you have a sore little finger, you know.’
    â€˜I do not droop!’ said Nigel, enraged. ‘I am very careful to suffer in silence.’
    â€˜Loudly,’ said Inga.
    They bickered happily for the short drive to the church.
    It was, of course, a good deal longer than half an hour before the rehearsal got under way. No sound or lighting equipment was needed here, but chairs had to be brought back from the castle, dried off, and set up. Risers had to be assembled for the chorus. Instruments had to be retuned. Then everyone had to wait for Sir John, who was, inexplicably, late.
    And then the miracle happened. Maybe it was the critical nature of the situation. There was now less than one full day of rehearsal, in the wrong venue, before the festival opened. Crisis does sometimes draw people together, and does sometimes bring out the best in even the most difficult personalities. For whatever reason, even though Sir John still looked very ill indeed, the morning rehearsal went as smoothly as a bowl of cream. Voices blended. Violins soared, trumpets sounded clear and bright and joyous. The opera scenes brought tears to my eyes more than once.
    Most miraculously of all, Gracie, the erstwhile blight of the festival, was all sweetness and light. She sang gloriously, cooperated with the other singers, followed the conductor flawlessly and, as Carmen singing the ‘Habanera’, won the applause of the other musicians, a rare accolade which she acknowledged with becoming modesty.
    â€˜Thank