MURDER AT THE OLD ABBEY
Murder, mystery and suspense in South Wales
PIPPA McCATHIE
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2019
© Pippa McCathie
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.
We hope you enjoy the book.
To Jeannie
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgements
Other titles of interest
FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX
Prologue
The old house was never totally silent, not even in the darkest hours of the night. Maybe the ghosts of the monks who’d inhabited the nearby ruins all those centuries ago walked the corridors. Maybe the ancestors of the present occupants roamed around, re-enacting old quarrels. Or perhaps it was just that the ancient walls and wooden floors contracted and settled as the cold crept in after the warmth of the day. On this dark November night, only one window in a downstairs corner room showed a glimmer of light, but there was no-one in the garden to notice it.
The kitchen clock ticked away. Ten to ten. His usual night time drink was ready; plenty of whisky, lemon juice and honey – good and hot. It must be right, particularly with the mood he was in. One last stir, best to be sure. This done, the tray was picked up and footsteps echoed down the corridor and across the cavernous hall to the study. The door was pushed open.
The old man glanced up from his desk and said, “Thank you. Put it down over there.”
A moment later the door was softly closed. He was alone again.
He picked up the mug, decided it was too hot and put it down, then went back to staring at his computer screen. After a few minutes he picked up the mug again and sipped at the drink, muttered occasionally between mouthfuls, swore once, and then saved what he’d been working on. The mug drained, he turned the computer off.
As he mounted the wide staircase, he stumbled a little, but the house was quiet, no-one noticed. When he got to his room, he stumbled again, grabbing at the back of a chair. There must have been more whisky in it than usual. He managed to get undressed and put on his pyjamas before he fell across the bed, out cold.
In the early hours of the morning, the door opened soundlessly. The curtains had not been drawn and the moon, half shrouded in cloud, lit the room. As the clouds drew back, the light of the three-quarter moon, just for a moment, shone straight on to the syringe held in a trembling hand.
Chapter 1
The atmosphere was not good. The high-ceilinged, shabby old dining room in White Monk Abbey, with its dark beams and threadbare tapestries, had seen many a family confrontation over the centuries, but this was building up to be one of the worst. As she ladled soup into bowls and handed them round, Rhiannon Giordano, known to the family as Nonna, watched the faces of those round the table. Caradoc Mansell sat in his carver chair at the head of the table, drumming his fingers on the ancient wood, his face thunderous. He’ll burst a blood vessel if he’s not careful, she thought. To his right, Megan, glancing nervously at her father, fiddled with the scarf around her neck and the bracelets on her arm.
“Stop your damn fidgeting, girl,” Caradoc snapped. Her hand froze, and she turned to gaze straight ahead.
On his other side sat his daughter-in-law, Delma, dressed in jodhpurs and riding jacket, her dark hair shining, her make-up immaculate. Something about her was a little too sleek, a little over-done for a family lunch. She gave the old man an occasional nervous glance but said nothing. Beside her was an empty chair; her husband, Rodric, Caradoc’s son, was late. He’d suffer for that, particularly after the dreadful row he’d had with his father earlier that day.
Next to Megan sat Delma’s brother, Mike Cotter, an unwanted visitor to the Abbey. His heavy features showed little awareness of the undercurrents, a sneer hovered round his mouth as he leant back, one hand resting on the table, the other draped over the back of his chair. Nonna noticed the dislike and contempt in Caradoc’s eyes whenever he looked at Mike. That was another source of conflict.
The door opened and Rodric rushed across the room, apologising as he did so. He was followed by David Harris, the estate manager, who seemed quite calm in the face of the atmosphere.
“Sorry, sorry,” Rodric said. “We got caught by Ted Marsden, he wanted to talk about the top fields again–”
“I’ll not have you consorting with the enemy, damn it,” Caradoc growled.
“We weren’t, Father.” Rodric’s response was stiff as he sat down. “He just wanted to know if you’d made a decision yet, perfectly reasonable.”
David sat down without speaking and gave Megan a quick reassuring glance as he did so.
“Reasonable!” the old man shouted. “I will not sell any of my land to that jumped up Englishman, do you understand? I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.”
“You did, and I understand how you feel about it, but the money would mean we could do so many repairs. For a start we could sort out the foundations. If we don’t do that soon, parts of the house are going to collapse. Added to the production company’s fees it would make all the difference.”
“What unmitigated nonsense. I won’t hear of it. I’ve given in over those dreadful filming people, but that’s final. The only other thing I’m willing to consider is selling the horses.”
Delma looked up, a sharp protest ready on her lips, but Nonna intervened, “Here’s your soup, Rodi. Now, how about we eat and stop quarrelling?”
She held Caradoc’s gaze for a second and he subsided. For a while, all that could be heard was the clink of spoons on bowls, and the sipping of soup.
Megan helped Nonna remove the bowls and bring in the roast lamb, roast potatoes and vegetables. Caradoc rose to carve the joint and Nonna noticed that the portions put on the plates were in strict relation to his feelings about those around the table, one slice each for Delma and Mike, two each for his children and David, three for Nonna and himself. She smiled grimly – he’s certainly in one of his worst moods today, but that’s hardly surprising. Vegetables, gravy and mint sauce were passed round, then the heavy silence continued as people began to eat.
Only halfway through the food on her plate, Megan laid her knife and fork down, shot her father a nervous look, and took a deep breath. “Da–” Maybe she thought to soften him by using the diminutive. “You know the new book I’m writing, the Welsh folk tales?”
He grunted but showed little interest.
“Well, I’ve found someone to illustrate it. I met up with her – in fact, she came to stay the weekend you were away in London.”
Caradoc still didn’t comment. He hardly seemed to be listening.
“I thought her an impressive woman,” Nonna said, “and we enjoyed looking at those sketches she brought with her. Did you see them, Rodi?”
“Yes, I thought they’d suit Megan’s book very well.”
“Seems a bit strange to me, going from the police force to being an artist,” Delma said. “Wasn’t there something iffy about her retirement? I thought she was involved in some corruption scandal.”
“Bent coppers, eh?” said Mike with a sneer. “I didn’t realise that was what she was.”
“She isn’t!” Megan exclaimed. “She was completely exonerated.”
Her raised voice seemed to break through her father’s preoccupation.
“So, you’re inviting visitors to my home behind my back now, are you?”
Nonna intervened. “Is there any reason why your family can’t invite their friends to visit, Caradoc?”
He glared at her under his brows, then shrugged and went back to his food.
Megan rushed on, “Her name’s Fabia Havard, she’s an artist who lives in Pontygwyn; she’s good, just the right style for what I want. I really need to go through it all with her in more detail. I was thinking I might invite her to visit again, maybe next weekend or the weekend after, so that we could discuss things in detail.” She gazed at him anxiously and Nonna could tell how tense she was. His response wasn’t long in coming.
“What? More bloody visitors invading our peace?” He shot a venomous look at Mike. “What do you think this is? A damned hotel?”
“Of course not, but it’s important that we work together. You’ve actually met her and I thought you might–”
“Did you say Havard?”
“Yes.”
His attitude had changed. “I used to know a Havard at Christ’s in Brecon, ended up as a professor of law at Swansea University, brilliant brain but totally impractical, good chap though. So, is this artist related to him?”
“She’s his daughter,” Megan said, palpable relief in her voice. “She used to be in the police, but she retired early and now she makes a living as an artist. She’s just your sort of person, Da.”
“And what does that mean?” Caradoc glared at her, but he no longer seemed to be angry.
“Well, she’s very attractive, lots of curly red hair, and a good figure, and she’s, well–”
“I’ve come across her in the past,” David said quietly, with a smile for Megan. “She was pretty high-powered when she was in the police, a superintendent, I think. An interesting woman.”
Caradoc glared at him and Nonna came to the rescue. “I think what Megan and David are trying to say is that she’s a good-looking woman with a brain. Like Megan said, your sort.”
He shot her a look that was hard to interpret.
There was a pause, then Delma intervened. “But wouldn’t that mean more work for Nonna, having weekend visitors?” She gave Megan a malicious glance. “You’re always saying how we should help her out more.”
“And so you should. Nonna isn’t a servant, she’s a member of the family,” Caradoc snapped, but her intervention had tipped the scales in Megan’s favour. “Go on, invite the woman if you must. If she’s Tudor Havard’s daughter I’d be interested to meet her.”
As Megan relaxed and began to eat the rest of the cooling food on her plate, Nonna almost felt grateful to Delma for unwittingly pushing the old man into agreeing. That’ll teach her to put her oar in, she thought. But the more relaxed atmosphere didn’t last long. Having eaten his way through his plateful and helped himself to more vegetables to compensate for his meagre meat ration, Mike took it into his head to stir things up.
“I’ve been looking round the Abbey,” he said, smiling as if he was convinced his opinion would be of value. “It’s a fantastic old house, lovely place but, like Rodi says, it’s in great need of some TLC. Had you thought of selling off some of the artwork and antiques? I know about these things, and I know of a great chap who could give you a fantastic deal, particularly on some of the paintings.”
What evil genius had persuaded him to propose such a thing, Nonna could not fathom. Had he learnt nothing in the time he’d been staying with them? She sat at the end of the table, fingering the crucifix that hung round her neck and waiting for the explosion, but Caradoc’s reaction was very quiet, and somehow that was worse.
“You do?” he asked, his tone icy. “And who is this great chap?”
“Friend of mine, he’s an auctioneer and he’s got a good business going in London. He’d be more than willing to come and have a look, give you some estimated prices.”
Delma tried to intervene, “Mike, I don’t think–” and Rodric, having shot an anxious look at his father, also opened his mouth to speak, but they were both ignored.
With great deliberation Caradoc put his knife and fork down on his plate, made sure they were exactly side by side, then, his head bent, he placed both hands on the edge of the table. The silence in the room was full of tension. It was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like longer to Nonna before Caradoc looked straight at Mike.
“You are a foreigner, and a visitor in my home. For that reason, I will attempt to forgive your extreme ignorance of the ways of our family.” Caradoc’s voice was low and trembled very slightly. “We do not sell our birthright for the sake of mere expediency, we do not allow any o’r tu allan to trample all over our family history.”
He pushed himself up from the chair and swept an arm around as his voice rose, his Welsh accent becoming more pronounced with the emotion of his words. “You will find out, all of you, that I’ll not be bullied. I’ll preserve this for my children,” he paused then said, with deliberation, “and my grandchildren, my granddaughter, in spite of you. Soon enough you’ll find out I’m still in charge, by God you will.”
Thrusting his chair back so hard that it rocked back and forth on its legs, he strode from the room and slammed the door behind him.
Silence reigned in the room. Delma glared at her brother but said nothing. Megan and David exchanged glances, anxious from her, reassuring from him. At last Mike gave a cocky grin and said, “Well, that’s me told. What does ‘or ti allen’ mean?”
Rodric gave his brother-in-law a contemptuous look. “It means outsider. For Christ’s sake, what possessed you? As if this morning wasn’t bad enough, you’ve really screwed things up now.” In a pale imitation of his father’s actions he pushed his chair back and stalked from the room. Delma followed in her husband’s wake, Mike shrugged and walked out, and Megan and David left the room together.
So, Nonna thought, not much point in bringing in the apple pie.
* * *
Rodric had intended to go to the estate office to go through some paperwork after the disastrous family lunch, but now he’d changed his mind – he needed to do something physical. He went through to the kitchen where he knew his old lurcher, Mabel, would be dozing in front of the Aga, shrugged on his battered wax jacket and took her lead from the hook by the door. Immediately her ears pricked up. She lumbered to her feet and trotted towards him, her long tail waving slowly back and forth.
“Come on girl, let’s go and check if the top stream needs clearing.”
But he wasn’t going to be able to escape quite that easily. His wife came in as he got to the back door.
“Rodi, where are you going?”
“Out,” he said curtly.
“I can see that, but I have to speak to you. What’s this about selling the horses?”
“Father says that would be better than an invasion from your film people. He’s never been that keen on that side of the business.”
“But he can’t!” It was a wail of protest. “I’ve put so much into those stables. If I didn’t have them to look after, what the hell would I do in this god-forsaken place?”
“Thanks, Delma.” He looked at her anguished face and relented a little. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Was that what the row with your father was about this morning?”
“Yea, and money generally.”
She grasped his wrist with hard fingers. “You have told him you’ve said they can use the Abbey, that you
’ve signed the contract?”
He looked at her wearily. “Yes, I have. And do you know what he said? That I’ve betrayed him, that I’m selling us down the river and he’s damned if he’ll co-operate in any way at all when they invade. His words.”
“But he has to. The amount of money they’re paying, they’ll expect to have proper access. And it’ll mean we don’t have to give up the stables. Rodi, I know them, that’s why I recommended them – he could ruin the whole thing if he starts being high handed.”
“Do you think I don’t realise that?” Rodric glared at her. “And he also told me I’ll regret this when I find out about the will. He’s been making these dark hints about changing his will for weeks, but I thought it was just his usual wind up, now I’m not so sure.”
“But the land is entailed. He can’t leave it to anyone else but you and Megan, can he?”
“That’s as may be, but he can leave the contents of the house to whomever he chooses. I wouldn’t put it past him to find some distant cousin or other and let them have all the valuables just to spite us.”
“What?” It was almost a screech. “The silver, the porcelain, the – the stamps and paintings, your mother’s jewellery?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh my God! You must speak to him, Rodi. He won’t sell anything and use it to repair this ruin of a house and he won’t let me wear any of the jewellery, which is ridiculous, that sort of stuff needs to be shown off, and then there are my horses – stupid old bastard.”
“No, he wouldn’t get rid of the jewellery, and don’t talk about him like that.”
“Can’t you persuade him to take up Mike’s offer?” she pleaded. “He’s not kidding, you know, he’s good on antiques and he’s got some really solid contacts. He asked me to try to persuade–”
“Delma, I think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of Father taking him up on his offer,” Rodric told her.
“But Rodi,” she sounded frightened now. “If he doesn’t, I don’t know what Mike will do.”
Murder at the Old Abbey Page 1