The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes (25 page)

Bud smiled and winked. “Yes, I know why you're doing it, and I wouldn't expect any less of you. I'm giving it my own brand of thought too. And we will be married tomorrow—rest assured I've reserved the most active part of my brain for that little problem. Now go and get yourself sorted. I won't be far behind you. See you back here at 5:15
PM
for a drink before a delayed dinner?”

I gave him the thumbs up and dragged my tired body up the stairs.

AS I LAY WEDGED IN
my bath, I knew where I wanted to start—with the map that was a part of the collection of items that David Davies had secreted away in a locked drawer in the stable block. I began to visualize it.

The wonderful thing about an eidetic memory, if you admit that such a thing exists, is that you can re-examine moments or things at your leisure. I think a lot of the work taking place in neuroscience might, one day, prove that most people possess the potential to do what I have always been able to do naturally. But it's early days yet, and the majority of the world would either dismiss my skill set or else want to put me in a laboratory and study me, which is why I keep quiet about it.

With my eyes screwed up to the point where everything goes fuzzy, and with a bit of humming—I have no idea why it helps, but it does—I am able to see things that are not physically in front of me anymore. I prepared myself and called to mind David's collection. I'd already worked out what everything had meant to David, but I wanted to analyze the map one more time.

I consider the feel of the map first. It's old. I can tell that from the feel of the paper in my hand and the numerous refoldings it has undergone. It's soft to the touch, almost like aged skin. I concentrate on where the red lines drawn on it begin, end, and intersect. They've been drawn with a straight edge. I notice calculations in pencil. They are very faint. Can I make them out? No, I cannot. The pencil has been rubbed off by the passing of fingers, rather than erased on purpose.

I can see the red lines clearly and, because it is a topological map, I can tell that one line begins at the highest point of the land on the Cadwallader Estate, and runs through the stable block and the center of the stone circle, past the end of the land into the sea. Another begins at the central point of the original Norman-style castle building and runs directly through the center of the stone circle, crossing the marked course of the river. The third runs from the point where the new Jacobethan wing joins the older block and runs through the center of the stone circle until it too runs off the end of the land, and the fourth and final line begins at the point where the Gothic-style wing joins the older building and runs to the Roman bridge. It's geometrically pleasing.

I notice one more line, a remnant of a pencil line. It is a continuation of the first line I'd noted, running from the high point of the estate through the stable block and the center of the stone circle. It continues over a fold in the map. I am cross with myself. Why didn't I notice that before, and why didn't I unfold the map? I take a deep, calming breath, and remind myself that the map is in my bedroom, and I can check where the line leads to when I get out of the bath. Considering the rest of the items David had hidden, I believe I know where it finishes, though I tell myself I must double-check.

Next I turn my mind to the portrait of Alice Cadwallader as it had been before it was slashed. I can see the light in the woman's eyes, and I can almost feel the firmness of her flesh. I marvel again at the skill with which the artist created a feeling of movement in her tumbling locks, and I examine, for the first time in fact, the scene around the woman. Having realized how critical the setting for Gryffudd had been in his portrait, I know I must understand the picture of Alice in the same way.

I recall the creatures depicted on the screen in her room. They are strange ones to see in a woman's bedroom. I see flamingoes, sloths, armadillos, anteaters, cougars, spectacled bears, condors, some sort of alpaca or llama, capybara, tapirs, and a maned wolf. The surreal landscape through the window is next for examination. Why does it look as though Dali has painted it? I see—it is white, flat, desolate, almost plastic looking, with those little islands. I know where I have seen this before, and I tie that in with what Owain had told me about her family background. Of course—South America. It makes sense.

I notice one more thing that I believe is important. The screen, dressing table, and window are on the right-hand side of the background. Alice herself, and the skirts of her flowing gown, fill the entire foreground. Almost hidden, on the left of the background, is a fireplace, crackling with a coal fire and glowing within its glass-on-gold tile surround. The mantle seems to be of carved white marble—
it's not a fireplace I've seen in the castle
.

I relaxed and squeezed warm water from a sponge down the back of my neck. “Wakeful dreaming” is a technique I've used with subjects, where I allow them to reach a state of physical relaxation, and encourage their mind to become active. I've utilized it myself on many occasions, and I knew it was just what I needed to do. I needed to allow my brain to gather together the facts, my own knowledge, everything I had learned about the people and the place involved, and see what linkages I might discover. For this process no humming was required, nor any fuzziness of vision, so I closed my eyes and let it all begin.

Alarmingly, the first thing I see is Angus's angry face screaming at me that no way am I going to leave him to marry a pig. He pulls on a British policeman's helmet, which keeps growing until it swallows his head. I can hear him screaming inside the helmet, then he disappears and explodes into a bunch of fat, pink peonies. Next I see Siân. She is, unsurprisingly, bouncing like a kangaroo across an Australian-rules football oval. Behind her she is dragging dozens of little wallabies, all screaming at her for more attention. She is crying and singing, simultaneously, and seems to be shrinking as she runs. Bud runs after her, shouting that she shouldn't despair, that he has a whole troop of topless dancers just waiting to take the wallabies off her hands for the right price. Bud stops chasing Siân and turns his attention to the wobbling mass that I know is Angus, and he stomps all over it, flattening it into the ground. I look around and see Castell Llwyd in the distance, sitting on top of a glittering temple, with a halo of lightning surrounding it. I try to move toward it, but I am rooted in the ground, with only my top half able to move. I try to wriggle, but I cannot move. A group of children wielding golf clubs surround me, and then cover me with a massive Welsh flag. I cannot breathe, I flail my arms, and try harder to release myself, but to no avail.

“Cait! Cait? Are you alright in there?”

I pulled myself back to reality at the sound of Bud's voice at my bathroom door.

“What's going on in there? I could hear you from my room. Are you alright? Why did you lock this door? Let me in! Answer me, Cait!”

“I'm fine, don't panic,” I replied. “Just give me a minute.” I hauled myself out of the bath, which took more effort than I would have imagined, and sloshed through the mess on the bathroom floor. I'd apparently been doing a lot of splashing. Gathering a large towel about myself I unlocked the door—which I didn't recall locking in the first place—and poked out my head.

Bud's relieved expression was almost immediately replaced by one of impatience laced with anger. “What on earth were you doing in there? It sounded as though you were being attacked by a gang of washerwomen.”

I smiled. “I was doing my wakeful dreaming thing, and it seems I got a bit carried away. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.”

Bud's shoulders relaxed and he looked relieved again. “You're sure you're okay?”

I nodded and tried to look as appealing as I could under the circumstances. “I was trying to focus on everything that's going on here—but it seems that my mind decided I had a few other issues to deal with first. I didn't end up achieving what I'd hoped for. I'm cross with myself. I can usually manage to do it when I need to, the way I want. But this time? I seem to be grappling with a lot more personal stuff than I usually have to.”

“It'll come to you—you'll get there. You always do. Maybe this time you have to tackle things a different way, you know? As in life, maybe you need to take a new path? Like we're about to do.”

He hugged me, sopping wet towel and all. I gave in and allowed myself to enjoy the moment.
I don't often do that, usually my brain's a whirl.

I pulled back. “A new path! Of course. That's what they did. When they used the steamrollers for the tarmacadam, they must have created an entirely new path.”

Bud shook his head. “I have no idea what you're talking about, but I guess you do.”

I nodded. The failing river bank, the talk of Neptune on the Cadwallader Puzzle Plate, the new chute to the coal cellar, the lines drawn on David's map, they all made sense. That breakthrough, plus the portraits of Alice and Gryffudd Cadwallader, meant I'd solved the riddle at last. I was pretty sure it would allow Idris and Eirwen's children to have a bright future and the current Cadwallader clan to live a life of indulgence.

“I've got it, I've solved the puzzle,” I said aloud. “If my assumption about the roadway is correct. But I still cannot fathom the link to David's death, or the destructive acts that have been taking place here. That part needs more thought.”

Bud walked across my room to leave. “Right—well, now that I know you're safe, and you know your brain is back to normal, I'm going to get ready for dinner. You'd better get a move on, Cait, there'll be a
G&T
with your name on it in the drawing room in fifteen minutes.” And he was gone.

I BOUNCED DOWN THE GRAND
staircase as quickly and as lightly as I could, knowing I was late for drinks. When I dashed into the drawing room the scene before me was eerily similar to the previous night, except there was no portrait of Alice above the hearth and, this time, my entrance drew stares from the assembled group. I was last to arrive, and everyone was already enjoying a pre-dinner drink. I took a moment to observe the reactions to my arrival. I noted that neither Rhian nor Dilys were present, which didn't surprise me.

Handing me a glass that promised the refreshment of a Bombay and tonic, Bud whispered, “You look great. You feeling okay?”

I nodded, took my drink, and sipped.
Tonic water and toothpaste do not mix well.

Gwen approached me and complimented me on my outfit. I thought it a little odd that she would do so, but I reasoned that the seasonally appropriate red jacket that I'd teamed with my trusty black bouncy two-piece was a cheery addition to the sea of dark colors that everyone else seemed to be favoring. Gwen looked as though she was ready to accompany the male voice choir right there and then, as she was wearing a long black skirt and a white blouse.

Following her comments, I felt I had to indulge in small talk with the mousey little woman, so I began to wrack my brain for tidbits from our school days.

“Do you know what happened to the girl who sang the soprano solos the year you played the piano for the choir?” I asked. “I recall she had a beautiful voice, and I thought she might make something of it. Claire Williams, wasn't it?” I knew very well that was her name, but it helps if I sound vague about things sometimes.

Gwen beamed. “She was at the Welsh College of Music and Drama at the same time as me. She couldn't get into Cardiff Uni to study music, because she didn't get the grades she needed in her A levels. A shame I suppose. I think she's teaching somewhere now.”

I was surprised. “Claire Williams was a very bright girl, and I know she was a good student. How did she manage that?”

Gwen looked as though she was trying to remember. “She ran out of her A levels with stomach cramps, so she only just passed them. She needed three A grades for uni—but they took her with three C grades at the college. I was glad, in a way, because we were great friends, so we got to be together for three more years after school.”

“Sad for her that she missed her chance to study music, though,” I replied. “I remember she had her heart set on a career in opera. Cardiff Uni had a great reputation for voice training in those days.”

“I'm sure she was very happy being at college with me as a friend instead,” replied Gwen a bit snippily.

I decided to not pursue what seemed to be a sensitive topic, and tried to think of another one. “Rhian mentioned that you used to visit Cambridge for music courses, or that you did at least once. Did you like the place?”

Gwen's sour countenance cleared. “Oh it's beautiful. I was only there once, for a summer school focusing on the music of Henry Purcell, at Queens' College. You were very lucky to live there for so long. You must have liked The Anchor Pub.”

I sighed. “Yes, it was a nice pub.” I'd spent many hours of my life there, not all of them happy.

“Did you prefer it to The Mill, and The Eagle?” she asked.

I nodded absently. I was grappling with ghosts from my past.

“I saw you there, you know,” added Gwen quietly.

I snapped back to reality and forced a smile. “Really? Why didn't you say hello? It would have been nice to see you.”

Gwen blushed. “You were sort of busy. You were having a bit of a row. On the street. You stormed off after shouting at a man.”

I swallowed hard. “Really?” I tried to sound natural.

“You shouted after him, ‘If I had a drink in my hand right now I'd throw it over you.' You were crying. I didn't think it was . . . appropriate to say anything to you. You walked right past me, but I didn't stop you. I don't think you saw me at all. But there, that's not so unusual. Most people don't.” Her voice had trailed off, and I suspected self-pity was setting in.