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“I knew it! I knew it! It’s the sickle. He’s come to take back his golden sickle!”
    At last she’d caught Dafydd’s attention. He turned in his chair and looked down upon her with about the same kind of interest he’d have shown a worm in his salad. “Then what was he haunting the west wing for? The sickles are all down here.”
    “Not the newest one. Sir Caradoc’s been carrying it around. The Druid must have followed him up to his room.”
    “Then why didn’t it have sense enough to follow him back?” Janet argued. “Uncle Caradoc was in the drawing room when I saw the ghost.”
    And so, come to think of it, was everybody else in the party. She’d been the last one down, they’d been lined up ready to come to the table. So if there had by any chance been a human agent behind that eerie manifestation, he or she couldn’t be anybody here.
    Mary wasn’t ready to yield the floor. “Maybe it thought Sir Caradoc had left the sickle in his bedroom when he changed for dinner.”
    “I did not,” Sir Caradoc assured her. “The sickle is in a safe place. You need not worry, we have a policeman in the house. Tomorrow Madoc will perhaps be kind enough to help me put it up there with the others.”
    “Of course,” said Madoc. “Whenever you say. Ah, I see Betty’s done us proud.”
    Nobody would expect to get out of Wales without having at least once eaten trifle. There are trifles and trifles: some of them are excellent, some of them are so-so, some of them are downright awful. Betty’s was no trifling matter. Its base was not the usual sponge cake but a delectable gateau soaked in Sir Caradoc’s best sherry. Its jelly was homemade currant, tart and firm and glowing like rubies. Its fruits were fresh and ripe, jazzed up with a drop of rum. Its custard was smooth and thick and just a touch nutmeggy. Its whipped cream was subtly flavored with Grand Marnier and piled up like summer clouds over Snowdon. Iowerth had an extra jug of heavy cream ready to pour on lest anybody find the trifle not quite rich enough already.
    For Janet there was a special portion in a small glass bowl. “There is no spirits in this, ma’am,” the footman murmured as he set it before her. Clever Betty, she didn’t want Dorothy getting drunk any more than Janet did.
    Suspecting that something like this might happen, Janet had gone easy on the lamb. She mustn’t hurt Betty’s feelings by not eating it all, God help her.
    Orange juice on the gateau, a hint of lemon with the fruit. Lovely. Now if only Dai would quit staring across the table at her through those owl-eye glasses and Bob glancing up to make sure that she hadn’t got more trifle than he, and if Mary would ever quit harping on the Druid’s sickle! Driven to desperation, Janet gave each pesty mouse one of her looks and asked Sir Emlyn in a good, clear voice why Handel’s oratorios had continued to be performed so much oftener than his operas.
    That perked even Dafydd up. The conversation became general and often heated. They gravitated in a bunch to the grand piano in the drawing room and wound up with everybody singing excerpts from the Messiah, The Creation, and a number of lesser-known works which of course everybody but Janet and Madoc had down cold. Dafydd was in wonderful voice, as was only expected. Surprisingly, so was Bob the Blob. Even when she could no longer stop her yawns, Janet hated to leave the party.

Chapter 4
    M ADOC WOKE EARLY. REALLY early, early enough to have beaten the sun by a good way. But not before the birds. They were having a high old time out there. Some of them, anyway. Tone-deaf as he was, he couldn’t make out their calls very well, but this racket could hardly be an exaltation of larks, much less a deception of lapwings. Uncle Caradoc had taught him the ancient terms ages ago; being Madoc, he’d remembered.
    A bevy of peacocks? No, Uncle Caradoc refused to keep peacocks because they sang too raucously off-key. A building of rooks?