“Well, don't.”
“I think Griff Roberts was killed because he knew the murderer. He knew he was a fencer.”
“I've been thinking the same thing...err, not that you are in any way responsible for his death,” Tasha added hastily. “But that he may have been able to identify the killer.”
“I'll speak to the DCI, as I think we need to pay a little visit to Leighton Fencing Club, and he'll want to go with me. Meanwhile.” Yvonne cocked her head to one side, looking thoughtfully at Tasha. “I think you and I should visit the National Library. The Abbey murder may have been based on a historical event and I'm curious about aspects of the other murders, particularly the bizarre placing of pies, in George Jones' pockets.”
“My thoughts are with yours on that. The library is as good a place as any, to start with.”
“And Google...”
Tasha grinned. “Library and Google, here we come.”
Leighton Fencing Club was run in the village hall every Wednesday night. Yvonne and the DCI arrived at the club, looking for the organiser - an experienced fencer, Phil Hughes.
He was busy, giving instruction to newcomers, and didn't notice them at first. Yvonne took the chance to gaze around the hall, at the other fencers in the room. Some were clearly well trained and wearing full kit, others were in tracksuit bottoms. There seemed to be a fair range of ages, both male and female. To the left hand side of the hall, a small kitchen provided the chance for drinks and a chat, and a few of the youngsters were in there. Yvonne could see them through a serving hatch, running hands through their damp, flattened hair.
Phil finally caught sight of the officers, and came over, his face grave. He was out of breath. “You're the detectives?” He checked over Yvonne's ID, then continued, “We've had reporters in this evening. We almost cancelled this session. I'm Phil. I run the club, along with my wife.”
“You know why we're here...” Yvonne began.
“Yes. Of course.”
“How well did you know Griff?”
“Pretty well. He'd been coming to the club for three years, since he moved to the area.”
“How did he seem to you, over the last few weeks? Was he worried at all?”
“No. Not that I noticed. He is always...was always quite cheerful. Optimistic, I'd say.”
“Did he discuss any concerns regarding his business or homelife?”
“Not that I recall. I mean, he would occasionally talk about his business, you know, but nothing untoward that I remember. Not that we were that close. I mean, we didn't see him outside of the club...except at Christmas, for our club meal.”
“Did he have regular fencing partners?”
“Everyone here would have fenced with him on a reasonably regular basis.”
“Any fencers here business associates of his?”
“Not that I'm aware of, no.”
“Did he fence with anyone outside of the club?”
“A month or two ago, he requested permission to use the hall for what he called a 'personal match'. Someone out of area. If that's relevant.”
“Did he name his opponent?”
“No. I'm afraid he didn't.”
“Had he ever had a personal match before?”
“A couple of times. He was a good fencer, and we trusted him to clean and lock up after.”
“Do you have a list of members, Phil?” the DCI chimed in. “If you have, I'd like to see it. Also, names of members who've left, especially over the last five years, if that's possible.”
“We have the current membership in our ledger, it's over there, on the table in the corner. My wife is there, she'll show you. The ledger goes back a couple of years. My wife will know if we've kept previous ledgers.”
Yvonne took a swift step back, as a couple of fencers, completely focused on each other, battled a little too close for comfort. She headed towards Phil's wife.
“Hi.” Mrs. Hughes looked tired. “I'm Anne.”
Yvonne explained why they were there and Anne readily obliged, showing them the membership ledger.
“Can we borrow this?”
“I'm not sure... we need to have it for insurance purposes,” Anne hesitated.
“We'll get it back to you as soon as we can, I promise.”
“Before the next session?”
“Before the next session.” Yvonne looked directly into Anne's eyes. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
Anne nodded appreciation.
“Did you notice anything unusual about Griff, over the last few weeks?”
“No, nothing.”
A teenager approached Anne, requiring help with the connectors on his jacket.
Yvonne turned her gaze to the rest of the fencers, paying particular attention to any who took their masks off. Perhaps their killer was among them.
Ledger in hand, she thanked Phil and Anne. The DCI accompanied her out of the hall. A rogue photographer snapped them walking out into the car park. DCI Llewelyn scowled as he pushed the DI swiftly, and unceremoniously, into the passenger side of the car. He fired up the engine and swiftly drove through the gates, out onto the main road, the photographer still snapping behind them.
“Sorry if I was a little rough back there, Yvonne.” He looked across at her, as she straightened herself out, before returning his eyes to the road ahead. “I was only thinking of your protection.”
“Well, remind me not to get in your way if you ever want to hurt me.” Yvonne was only half joking.
28
Yvonne could probably have circumvented the process of becoming a 'reader of the National Library of Wales', as would usually be expected, to access its material. She was, after all, a police detective on a mission, and that probably had its advantages. However, she decided to keep her status quiet and put in a formal application.
She accompanied Tasha up the steps, in front of the giant-pillared facade, taking in the majesty of the building and its Art Deco and Greek Classical style. Elevated above the coastal, university town of Aberystwyth, it boasted sweeping views over the town, sea and countryside.
They spent hours putting in search terms, reading through summaries and narrowing lists. They hoped what they had left would be a list of the most useful books and documents.
They were told, by the helpful lady in reception, that the documents required could not be borrowed from the library but could be read in the South Reading Room. They would generally have to pre-order what they wanted.
The South Reading Room had a light, modern, spacious feel. This contrasted with the earlier 20th Century outer shell, but still felt appropriate. This was where archives, maps, photographs, microfiche and microfilm could be accessed. There were around thirty PC terminals for browsing the on-line catalogue.
Yvonne ordered historical documents for Llwyngwril, especially concerning the old church of Llangelynnin, and documents concerning St. David's church in Newtown. She and Tasha worked separately, accessing microfiche news articles. It wasn't proving as easy as they'd thought. Two hours later, they were beginning to wonder if they'd had a wasted trip.
About to get a coffee from the library cafe, they were approached by a lean figure in tweed, his dark hair had an over-comb which barely disguised his thinning hair. He gazed with interest at the books they were holding.
“Can I help you?” Yvonne pulled the books to her chest.
“No, I don't think so.” His voice was thin, with a higher pitch than they might have expected. “Thank you.”
Curious, she continued. “We're doing some research...Welsh history.”
He hesitated, as though cautious about conversing. Two expectant faces were on him though. He gave weak smile, “I'm researching local Welsh legends and stories, for a book I'm writing.”
“How interesting. Are you an author? How long have you been doing that? What's your name?”
He wasn't smiling and his eyelids were half-closed. “Yes. About a year and Arfon Matthews.”
“Hmmmmm. Doesn't ring a bell.
Which stories are you interested in? We're also researching local legend, of a sort.”
“Actually, you might be able to help us,” Tasha joined in, and she and the DI exchanged a knowing glance - this could save them some time.
Arfon's shoulders broadened and his eyes opened fully. “Well, I could try. What are you researching?”
“We're looking into local churches. There are some fascinating histories to them.”
“I see.” He eyed them thoughtfully. “Any churches, in particular?”
“I love the old church at Llangelynnin.” Yvonne smiled. “Do you know anything about it? Or Llwyngwril village?”
“You're reporters, aren't you?” He pursed his lips “Looking for a back-story for the place of the murder, eh?”
Tasha and the DI exchanged glances again. Yvonne sighed. “You've rumbled us. Were we that obvious?”
“Yes.”
Yvonne turned, as though to leave.
“There's a lot of rich history there,” he said quickly. “The whole coastline was used by wreckers. Many a ship perished on the rocks because of what they did. Those sailors who were not bashed on the rocks had their heads caved in by the wreckers with mattocks and stones. Many families lost sons and fathers as a result. They say that Cornish cutters were often the target. There's a place called smugglers cove just down from Aberdovey.”
Yvonne was struck by the emotion in his voice. She wondered if any of his ancestors had been affected.
“God, that's awful,” she said, feeling her way. “Were any of the sailors found with pies in their pockets?” She flicked her eyes towards Tasha, who was quiet beside her.
He looked taken aback. “No, but I believe many of the Cornish cutters had pasties as part of their cargo. It was said by the locals that a sentinel now guards the area, he lies beneath an engraved stone - 'Er cof, am ogof, A dial dof' – In memory of a cave, I shall wreak revenge.'”
His audience wide-eyed, he continued, “It is said that if the wreckers return, the guardian will rise 'O'r hallt a'r helli' – from salt and brine. Look up the 'Dydd' newspaper of Dolgellau and 'The West Briton' paper of Truro, on the microfiche here at the library. Look up the death of a Mr Trelawney. I think you will find it interesting. It was said he was found with his mouth stuffed with sea weed and his pockets full of pies.”
With that he was gone, leaving Yvonne and Tasha staring at each other in astonishment.
Two hot mochas later, they were hard at work looking up the death of Mr Trelawney. After some digging, they found the references.
Tasha summarised aloud for Yvonne. “Trelawney had been staying at Garthangharad Inn, where the landlord had reported him missing three days before his body was found in a cave below the cliff. The doctor and magistrate ruled that Mr Trelawney had lost his footing, falling to his death.
“The body showed no signs of water immersion. It was found in the cave, on a cairn of old bones, in a manner suggestive of some sort of ritual. Even in death, he looked terrified.”
Yvonne's eyes shone with excitement. “Bingo! Tasha, our killer is aware of this story. Somehow, this is linked to our killer's motivation. Question is, how and why?”
“The microfiche articles are from periodicals here in the library.” Tasha frowned “I know they have a non-lending policy, but it would be great to have more time to read these documents.”
Yvonne nodded. “Come on, we can inquire.”
At reception, Yvonne decided to pull rank.
“I'm Detective Inspector Yvonne Giles, and this is Dr. Natasha Phillips,” she said, brandishing her ID. “We're investigating the murder of George Jones at Llangelynnin. We've found documents that may be of significance, and we're wondering if we might borrow these periodicals.” Yvonne placed her note paper in front of the receptionist, who peered at them over her glasses, before calling over the librarian, who also checked Yvonne's ID.
“I'm sorry,” the librarian said slowly. “We have a policy of not lending from this department.”
“I know that, but...”
“And in any event,” he continued, “the pages you refer to...in those periodicals, are missing.”
“Missing?” The word was thick with disappointment
“They were stolen around six months ago. Unfortunately, thefts of old documents are not that uncommon – hence, the no lending policy.”
“Who had access to them at the time they were stolen?”
“A 'Dr. Fish', who had set up his online account two days before. Local police checked the address he gave and found it to be false. The address existed, but Dr. Fish, not surprisingly, did not.”
“Did you lend the books to him?”
“No. He requested them from archives and read them in the reading room.”
“Did you have CCTV running?”
“We did, and Dyfed-Powys police had the tape. Dr. Fish was wearing a beany hat, large-rimmed glasses, and a long coat. The stills were grainy, and a positive identification pretty much impossible.”
Yvonne raised her eyebrows. “That's eccentric clothing, did that not raise suspicions? Ring alarm bells?”
“My dear, this is a university town. This place is visited constantly by students and academics from all over. We are used to eccentric.”
Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't stolen documents. Yvonne had gone from excited to deflated and, from the look on her face, Tasha was feeling no better.
“Back to the drawing board, then.” Tasha sighed, as they left the building.
“Yes, unfortunately, but we've learned quite a bit, and we can get our team onto the CCTV footage from the library. What if the thief were our killer? If they can find out who accessed that reading room around the dates of the theft, we could put that together with the profile and the other information we've gathered. Just maybe we can crack this case.” Yvonne flipped up the collar of her coat. It had begun to rain.
29
Yvonne.” DCI Llewelyn was waiting for her. “We're going to a fund-raising event. The bishop of St. Asaph, Dafydd Lewis, is expecting us at All Saint's church. I thought we could catch him whilst he's in the area. How you fixed?”
She was tired, and could do without going to a fund-raiser, but she fully appreciated the chance to talk to the bishop about the murders in his diocese. “Give me five minutes, and I'll be with you.”
Roughly twenty people were milling around the church when they arrived. Lots of tea-drinking, biscuit munching, people examining the stalls for bargains.
The greying bishop stood near the door, talking to a town councillor about his future retirement plans. Chris Llewelyn strode over to them, Yvonne close on his heels.
“DCI Llewelyn,” he announced, his voice raised in order to be heard above the general chatter. “And this is DI Giles.”
“How do you do?” Yvonne shook his hand.
The councillor made his excuses and ducked away, leaving them alone with the bishop.
“Someone is killing Welsh clergy and the killer is still out there.” The words were propelled at the detectives like bullets.
“I'm sorry for your losses, bishop, but he's not only killing your clergy. Two nights ago, he killed a local businessman. Do you have any idea who might be doing this?”
“You think it's an inside job? Do you suspect a man of the cloth?” The bishop ran a hand through his hair.
“Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against David Evans?” Yvonne kept her tone calm and even. “I understand he was retired.”
“I hadn't seen David since the Christmas before last. I thought him a very pleasant fellow, and I don't know of anyone bearing him a grudge. I don't think he'd ever really recovered from the loss of his wife. He was diagnosed last year with the early onset of Alzheimer's. I know of no-one who didn't like him. He was kind and gracious to all around.”
“Bishop,” DCI Llewelyn intervened. “When we found him, we discovered a piece of paper containing words we think would have been read at a consecration or dedica
tion of a church. Is there a reason that the reverend would have been using it at the church, on that particular evening? The words included the name of St. David's, particularly.”
Yvonne shot the DCI a questioning look. Hadn't they agreed to keep that fact quiet?
“I think it unlikely, officer. That once proud parish church has not been in use since 2006, when it was discovered that it was structurally unsafe. There was no money to fix the issues and it was sold off, around a year ago, to a private leisure company. There would have been absolutely no reason for David to be carrying out a consecration. Although, as I said, he was diagnosed last year with the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease. Maybe he thought he really was carrying out a consecration.”
“Please don't talk to anyone about what we've just told you, Bishop.” Yvonne stated.
“You know, I don't know if this may be relevant, but...”
“Yes?”
“Not long after St. David's was built in 1847, the church was consecrated by the person who was the bishop at the time, but up until around the 1940's, there was much confusion and debate about whether the church had been properly dedicated to the saint. The church was built after the original parish church, of St. Mary's, had been subject to vicious flooding, and was no longer considered fit for purpose. St. David's was the replacement.
“The first parishioners of St. David's regularly referred to it as St. Mary's.” The bishop paused, as though to recollect some more. “I believe a vicar, even as late as the 1920's, was inducted into it as the church of St. Mary instead of St. David.
“It wasn't until 1943 that the original dedication was confirmed as having happened during the laying of the foundation stone. The bishop, of that time, then declared that it would, from then, always be known as St. David's.”
“Could David Evans have been re-enacting this dedication when he was killed?”
“I don't see why he would have been doing that, Inspector.”
“What if the killer were making him do it?”
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