“What do you mean?”
Her glance slid away. “Ah, nothing, it’s just – well, he’s very keen to help. And he says it’s not fair for me, us, to be stuck here in this ancient ruin with so little money, having to dance to the old man’s tune.”
“This ancient ruin, as you call it, is our home, Delma,” he said. The weariness was gone, he was angry now. “I thought you understood we’d be living here for the foreseeable future.”
“Yea, yea, but, with all this land, and the way the locals kowtow to your father and seem to bloody worship ‘the family’,” she wiggled her fingers to indicate inverted commas, “I thought there’d be more–”
“–in it for you?”
Before Delma had the chance to respond to this, Nonna came into the kitchen with a tray of dishes from the dining room. She gave them a sharp look but said nothing, just started to load the dishwasher. Delma gave her a glance of acute dislike, then stormed from the room.
“What’s up with her?” Nonna asked as she closed the dishwasher door.
“Nothing,” he looked down at the lurcher who’d stayed close, patiently waiting for the humans to stop arguing. “I’m going to take Mabel out for a walk, she needs the exercise.”
“Good idea. And when you get back you can tell me what that argument was about this morning, and why your father’s talking about grandchildren.”
He glanced at her but said nothing, just clipped on Mabel’s lead and left the room.
* * *
Caradoc was very angry indeed. Admittedly it wasn’t an unusual state of mind for the old man, he seemed to spend a large part of his time in a simmering rage, but this was different. For the second time in his eighty years, he felt as if he’d lost control.
The first time he’d felt as bad as this had been way back in Mauritius, in 1965, standing to attention in front of his CO, sweat pouring down his body; yet inside he’d felt cold to the bone.
“You’ll cut off all contact immediately, understand?”
“But, sir, she’s my–”
“I don’t think I gave you permission to speak, Captain. Good god, man, it’s not as if you were having a tumble in the hay with a village girl. Do you realise her father’s one of the most important politicians on the island? This could rock the colonial – Christ Almighty, man, what the hell did you think you were doing?” The man’s voice was full of anger and contempt. “No, don’t answer that. There’s a Dakota leaving at 18.00 hours, get your arse in gear, you’re going back on it, Nairobi first then London.”
“But what will I do? Sir, I have to tell you–”
He was cut off yet again. “You’ll be escorted back to your quarters to pack your kit and at no time will you be left alone until you leave, understand? I’m pushing my luck letting you go without a disciplinary, but you’ve been a good officer until now so I’m willing to be lenient.”
Caradoc had no choice. He’d gritted his teeth and remained silent.
Back in his rooms he was in the middle of throwing things into a holdall when his batman, Dewi Jenkyns, came quietly into the room.
“I just heard, sir.”
Caradoc didn’t respond, just asked, “Is he still out there?” referring to the military policeman he knew would be standing outside his door.
“Yes, sir. Here, let me do that.” Dewi took over while Caradoc fumbled for a cigarette and lit it, stood with his back to the room, gazing out of the window at the parched ground and the scarlet flame trees. After a few minutes of tense silence, with just the sound of Dewi pacing about the room as he packed, Caradoc turned.
“She doesn’t know, Dewi.”
“I realise that, sir.”
“Can you get a message to her?”
“That I can, sir.”
“You’re a good man, a good friend.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I must write to her,” Caradoc said. He sat down at a small table in the corner of the room and, for a while, the scratch of his pen and the rhythmic whoosh of the ceiling fan were the only sounds that punctuated the silence. He folded the letter and put it in an envelope, pulled his signet ring from his finger and put that in too, then he handed the envelope to Dewi.
“Tell her I’ll write again directly I get to the UK. I have to know when the baby arrives. Oh God, Dewi, what am I going to do?”
His batman had had no answer.
But all these years later, the situation was different because he knew, if he’d been younger, he could have dealt with Rodric’s plans and the other problems. Now age was against him, and Dewi was long gone, killed in a motor accident years ago. And it wasn’t just his age, it was this feeling that all those around him were against him – family, so called friends, neighbours. This was a war he couldn’t hope to win, the grim reaper would see to that, but he could certainly win a battle or two. Oh yes. Only once before had he gone down without a fight, and he wasn’t about to do it again. What was the family motto? Ymllad yn ôl! Fight back! The English translation didn’t roll round the tongue in that satisfying way the Welsh words did, but still, the meaning was clear, and it was exactly what he was going to do before it was too late.
Deep down he realised Rodi was right, they’d got to find money from somewhere, that’s why he’d given in about having those bloody film people invade the place. Getting that money, and the amount had staggered him, would mean they wouldn’t have to sell any land, or any of his precious possessions. He had much better plans for them.
He sat at the leather-topped desk in his shabby study, his arms spread as he leant forward. If only Bella hadn’t moved up north, they could have had a game of backgammon and talked it all through. But suddenly his heart lifted as he thought back to that meeting in London. No, not everyone was his enemy. He lifted his fists, thumped them down on the shabby leather surface and smiled grimly. Not everyone.
Chapter 2
“Is Father down yet?” Wrapped in a shabby old dressing gown, Megan wandered into the kitchen at half past nine. She stroked Mabel’s soft head and looked round at Nonna.
“He’s a bit late this morning,” Nonna said. “I’m just doing a tray to take up now.” She placed a mug of black coffee on the tray with a plate of toast, some butter and marmalade, and tucked a folded copy of the Western Mail on the side.
“Do you want me to take that up?” Megan asked.
“Don’t worry, cariad, I’ll do it. You get some breakfast. Rodi’s been and gone, up to the north field he said; Delma’s in the stables, and there’s no sign of her brother yet.”
“Okay.” Megan took two slices of bread, put them in the toaster, and stood daydreaming as she waited.
Nonna made her way to the hall and up the staircase, then turned to take the right-hand branch to the gallery. She glanced across to the left to check if there was any sign of Delma’s brother – there wasn’t. By the time she got to the end of the gallery, her arms were aching from the weight of the tray. She placed it on a small table by the door of Caradoc’s rooms and knocked. There was no answer; she knocked again. Still no reaction, she turned the handle and went in.
The curtains were open. Windows looked out on the grounds to her right and either side of the bed opposite the door. Caradoc was sprawled on the bed.
Nonna rushed forward and shook him by the shoulder, but he didn’t wake. She reached over to feel his heart, there was a slow, hesitant beat. She picked up his flaccid wrist and felt for a pulse, yes, it was there. She shook him again, but still he didn’t wake. She rushed to the gallery bannister and shouted down, “Megan! Megan, come quick!”
A moment later, she heard running footsteps and Megan was looking up at her from the hall, fear in her face. A second after that, Delma appeared behind her.
“What’s the row?” Delma asked irritably.
Nonna ignored her. “It’s your Da, Megan. He’s collapsed, I can’t wake him. Call an ambulance!”
Megan stood frozen, unable to take in what Nonna was saying.
�
�Megan, call an ambulance,” she repeated urgently.
Delma just stood there goggling and her brother appeared from his bedroom.
At last Megan reacted, plunged her hand into her dressing gown pocket for her mobile and punched in 999 while Nonna rushed back to Caradoc.
When the operator asked what service she needed, Megan found herself saying, “Police,” and couldn’t think how to change it to ambulance. Her voice shaking, she told them her father had collapsed and they couldn’t revive him. The operator asked her if they needed an ambulance and she said yes, they did, maybe that was better, but the voice on the other end of the line told her it was probably best to inform the police as well, just in case. In a panic she agreed and blurted out what had happened yet again. Finally, she ended the call and rushed up the stairs to help Nonna, who was bending over Caradoc, trying to lift him.
“Get me a glass of water,” she said to Megan, who rushed to the bathroom and filled her father’s tooth mug, brought it back to Nonna who tried to persuade Caradoc to drink, but he just groaned and slumped back.
Once again Megan rummaged in her pocket for her mobile and phoned her brother. “Thank God,” she said when he picked up. “Rodi, where are you?”
“Up at the north field. Why? What’s up?”
“It’s Father, he’s collapsed, I think it’s a stroke or something.”
“Christ! Have you called an ambulance?”
“Yes, and–”
But he cut her short. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
* * *
“I’ve actually been to this place once before, but that was in the summer, not in this lousy weather,” Sergeant Dilys Bevan said to her companion, PC Dave Parry, as they drove towards White Monk Abbey. “We were asked to investigate some missing silver, I think it was.” She frowned. “But they decided it hadn’t been stolen after all, it had been sent for restoration, seemed a bit odd to me.”
A moment later she said, “You know it’s rather strange.”
“What is?”
“It was only yesterday I was talking to Chief Inspector Lambert about the Mansells; well, one of their connections, at least.”
“Who was that?”
“This bloke who’s come down from London, Mike Cotter, his sister is married to the son.”
“And what’s he done, this Cotter bloke?”
She didn’t answer immediately as she negotiated the narrow road, frowning in concentration. Up ahead, just visible through the rain, was a battered wooden sign pointing to a lane to the left. She crawled forward – yes, it said Castellgwyn, two miles. Dilys gave a sigh of relief and made the turn. Almost immediately the road dipped steeply down between high banks. There was a threatening feel to it, particularly where the trees stretched long branches across to each other, twig fingers touching in the middle. It was only three in the afternoon, but in this dark green tunnel an early dusk had fallen.
“Bloody hell, this is like something out of Tolkien,” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
“You know, Lord of the Rings, haven’t you read it?”
“Seen the films, they were okay. But I leave the reading to the wife.”
“The wife? Hasn’t she got a name?”
He grinned.
“You’re such a throwback, Dave!” Dilys told him. “Men read too, you know?”
“Yea, but not me. Rather watch a good game of rugby with a pint in my hand.”
Dilys laughed, then she picked up on their conversation. “The counter-terrorist chaps in the Met are interested in Cotter, and so’s the border force. We’ve received some information about a company he’s involved in, so-called antique dealing, and he’s also been importing wine from Eastern Europe. Those businesses appear to be tidy, but they think he might be using them as a front to smuggle artefacts back and forth. He’s also wanted for his involvement in a fascist group they think is responsible for some pretty unpleasant activities, beatings and arson for a start, and Islamophobic attacks. They know he’s visiting his sister in Wales and we think he might be lying low as it’s also rumoured he’s fallen out with some of his London pals. Anyway, they’ve asked us to keep an eye on him, see if he contacts any fascist groups round here.”
“On our patch, Sarge?” Dave was scornful. “Can’t imagine anything that heavy’s going on round here. What do they expect, The Pontygwyn National Front? The Newport Nazi Party?”
“Come off it, Davey. You should know there are some nasty outfits in this area, quite apart from your old-fashioned ‘free Wales from the English yoke’ type stuff.” A moment later she said, “Ah, I think this is it.”
To their right was an entrance made imposing by two tall gate posts topped by fierce looking dragons carved in stone, their tails curling down round the pillars they crouched on, their wings half spread and menacing. A couple of claws were missing, and a wing tip or two, but this made them no less threatening.
There were no longer any gates to bar the way, so Dilys drove carefully through and up the long driveway, overgrown with grass sprouting down the middle and more trees looming either side. At the top was a wide courtyard bounded on three sides by buildings from various different eras. To the right was a tower next to a long ruin with tall empty windows, straight ahead was what looked like a long gallery from which a small amount of light shone through leaded panes, and at a right angle to this a three storey structure with steps up to an enormous oak door in the centre. Either side of the door were sash windows. Light streamed out onto the cobbles from one of these. White Monk Abbey seemed to be the most extraordinary building – untidy, gloomy, but impressive.
Parked in the courtyard were two cars: a turquoise Porsche, which looked completely out of place, and an ancient Volvo, which didn’t. Dilys parked to one side of them and, as they got out of the car, Dave looked up at the building and said, “Not my idea of a cosy home.”
“No,” said Dilys, “give me a two up, two down in Newport or Cardiff any day. Okay, so let’s see what’s been going on.”
They mounted the steps to the oak door and rang the bell.
* * *
Megan reacted to the bell first and rushed to the front door, hoping it was the ambulance. It wasn’t, although she was relieved to recognise one of the police officers.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Mansell, Sergeant Dilys Bevan.” She indicated her companion, “and this is Police Constable Dave Parry. We attended when you had… a theft. Now, can you tell me what the problem is?”
“Yes, oh yes, it’s my father, he’s collapsed, but I’m not sure I should have phoned you, it’s rather an ambulance we need, you see–”
At that moment, a battered old Land Rover lumbered into the courtyard and came to a juddering halt. A man jumped out and strode towards them.
“This is my brother, Rodric,” Megan said nervously.
He gave the police officers a curt nod. “I’ve no idea why you’re here. My sister should have called an ambulance, not the police.” He turned to Megan, “Where is he?”
“In his bedroom, Nonna’s with him, and I did call an ambulance,” she said in a protesting wail. “See, here it is now.”
“And have you phoned Doctor Nash? He saw Da a matter of days ago, said he was fit as a fiddle.”
“No, no I–”
“For Chrissake, Megan!” he snapped, hardly taking any notice of the vehicle that squeezed itself into the remaining space between his Land Rover and the police car. Turning his back, he strode across the hall and up the stairs.
Two paramedics jumped down from the ambulance and rushed forward. Megan said, “Up there, where my brother’s going,” and pointed towards the stairs. With a curious glance at Dilys and Dave Parry, they followed in Rodric’s footsteps and Megan turned to the sergeant.
“I’m sorry, it’s all so dreadful,” she said, and burst into tears.
Dilys Bevan took her arm and led her to an armchair which stood by the enormous stone fireplace
in the hall. “Come and sit down. Can you tell my constable where the kitchen is, he could get you a glass of water, make a cup of tea?”
* * *
The Mynach Arms in Castellgwyn was full that lunchtime and the news was spreading from person to person like an eager virus, as each new arrival was brought up to date by those already there. Little groups had formed to discuss the tragedy in hushed tones, as they felt was fitting in the circumstances.
“They do say he’s not got long.”
“I heard it was a stroke, probably in one of his rages.”
A woman joined in. “That’s not very kind, he’s had troubles of late, what with that daughter-in-law of his and her brother – nasty piece of work he is.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Says he’s interested in antiques,” said someone else. “Probably got his eye on all those treasures in the Abbey. But then, I don’t know why the family don’t sell a few and get the place fixed up.”
“It certainly needs it; falling apart, it is.”
“I heard there’s some TV company interested in using it for one of those dramas, you know, like a Welsh Downton!” a young woman said, eyes bright. “That’d bring in a few pounds, wouldn’t it?”
“I doubt the old man would want a pile of luvvies wandering about the place.”
“Maybe that’s what pushed him over the edge. The very thought. Disgraceful I’d call it,” one elderly man said.
“But still, they pay loads those companies.”
“And we could be extras, couldn’t we?” said a youngster with ambitions to be on television.
Garan Price, the publican, did not join in the speculation. Occasionally he’d pull a pint, mix a gin and tonic, or pour a glass of wine, but his mind wasn’t on the job. A worried frown on his face, he wiped down the bar and stacked glasses, his movements automatic as he went over and over the news. What if the old man died? Caradoc Mansell owned the pub and the land all round it, and he’d always been good to Garan, said he’d make sure he was okay. But who would inherit? It was well known Rodric didn’t get on with his father, partly because of that wife of his, partly because Rodric wanted to bring modern methods to the running of the estate. And what about Megan? She’d always been a bit fey, floating about in all those scarves and draperies and writing fairy stories. What sort of a job was that for a grown woman?
Murder at the Old Abbey Page 2