Murder at the Old Abbey

by Pippa McCathie

  “To Mauritius?”

  “Yes.”

  There was an awkward little silence, then they both spoke at once.

  “You have a look of–”

  “I’ve brought the–”

  Both smiled awkwardly, then Anjali took a small velvet pouch from her pocket and held it out to him. “Maman asked me to bring this with me, to show you; as some sort of proof.”

  He frowned and took the pouch from her, released the ties at the top and shook out a heavy gold ring embossed with a Welsh dragon and a motto. Eyes widening, he glanced up at her and then down at his hand. “My signet ring,” his voice shook a little as he said it. “I– I remember giving it to Dewi that last day, made him promise to take it to Prabha.”

  “Which he did, and Gran-mère Prabha left it to my mother.”

  “Lord, lord,” he said softly, then handed the ring back to her. “You must keep it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” There was a pause, then Caradoc leant forward in his chair. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine any of us is. It’s the sort of situation you see on those reality programmes on television, but you never expect it to happen to you.” She doubted that he ever watched that kind of programme and rushed on. “I have to say, I’m very glad to meet you.”

  He looked as if he’d clenched his teeth. “It’s– er– kind of you to say so.”

  She waited for him to go on.

  “Well.” He sat forward in his chair. “You told me in your letter that you have photos of your grandmother and your mother. Have you got them with you?” There was eagerness in his voice.

  “Yes.” She lifted the briefcase onto her lap, opened it and brought out two photographs. She glanced at him as she placed them on the table. His face gave nothing away as he stretched out and picked up the first, but she noticed his hand was trembling.

  He picked up the first one. “This is your mother?”

  She nodded. “When she was about twenty-three.”

  “She’s very like her mother when I knew her.” He put it down on the table, slipped his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a small envelope. “I’d like to show you this. I’ve never shown it to anyone, but, well, here it is.” He took out a small black and white photograph and handed it to her.

  Anjali glanced up at him then down at the photo. She took it from him. “Oh,” she said, and swallowed as if there was a lump in her throat. “The two of you look so happy. Where was it taken?”

  “At a beach called Flic-en-Flac, do you know it?”

  She smiled. “Of course, it was my gran-mère’s favourite beach.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “And this,” she said, indicating the other photo she’d taken from the briefcase, “was taken of my grandmother last year.” The elderly, white haired woman dressed in a gold trimmed sari, smiled into the camera. “It was taken a few months before she died.”

  It was when she said this that a look of deep pain crossed his face, as if he’d finally opened a door on something he was dreading to see. His head bent a moment and he put up a hand, rubbed his spatulate fingers across his eyelids. Again, she waited, said nothing. What could she say in the face of such obvious grief?

  After a moment of gazing silently at the photo he said, “She was so beautiful, always beautiful.”

  “Yes,” said Anjali, feeling tears threatening, “in looks and in character, one of the best. So is my Maman.”

  He picked up the other photo, glanced up at Anjali. “Do you think your mother looks at all like me?”

  Gravely she studied his face. “I suppose there is a slight resemblance, she’s tall like you. Gran-mère, my grandmother, was quite small.”

  “I remember.”

  “And that thing you just did, with your hands under your chin, she often does that when she’s thinking hard, considering what she’s going to say, and she looks at you over the top of her glasses, like you did just then. But I don’t really know you, do I? I’d have to be with you for longer to decide whether there are any other similarities.”

  Caradoc sat watching her, and she found it hard to interpret his expression. He was bound to want to ask lots of questions, just as she did, but she’d made an effort to tread carefully. Like her, he was probably determined not to mess things up.

  But then he began to speak and there was no longer any holding back. “You have such an air of your grandmother, that open, frank gaze, the wide mouth, the long neck. And your accent, yours isn’t as strong as hers was, but it’s similar. Inevitably your colouring is paler, you haven’t the glowing caramel of Prabha’s skin, and you’re a good deal taller as you say. I remember your grandmother was just five foot, I used to call her my pint-sized jewel.”

  For Anjali the tears were very close to the surface. She put up a hand to press them back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve upset you.” He gave her that twisted smile again and, in an awkward gesture, patted her hand.

  She took a deep breath and smiled. “Tell me about your family.”

  “I have photos of my home, White Monk Abbey, and of Rodric and Megan – I suppose they’d be your aunt and uncle. Would you like to see them?”

  It was Anjali’s turn to sit forward in her chair. “Please.”

  He took an envelope from his canvas bag and laid some photos on the table before them. “Now these are of the house,” he said.

  She studied them in silence, then said, “It’s very old, but impressive.”

  “The oldest part, here, goes back 800 years.” Caradoc pointed to a photo of what looked like a church tower with narrow windows. “This” – he ran his finger along it – “was the abbey itself. Then, to the left, you have the more recent buildings where we still live.” He chose another photo.

  “This three-storey building was constructed in the 1700s by my ancestor, Daffyd Mansell, after he married – above himself as they say – a Lady Cornelia Morton. She was from Carmarthen and she brought with her a great deal of money, something that Daffyd sorely needed. It was her money that enabled him to pull down most of the old abbey buildings, which had been partially destroyed in Henry VIII’s time, and build the present house. Then further additions, this portico here for instance, were made in early Victorian times by my great grandfather. A shrewd businessman, he bought up surrounding land as well as extending the house. He wanted to make an impression, but I’m afraid death duties rather crushed the family finances at the beginning of the last century, and, well, my son tells me my desire to hang on to the old ways and the history of the place hasn’t helped, but what else do you have if not your ancestry?”

  “Your family?”

  Caradoc glanced at her and cleared his throat. The pain was there in his eyes again. Idiot! She shouldn’t have said that.

  He reached for the other two photographs. “So,” he said decisively, as if to put an end to that part of the conversation, “this is my son, Rodric, and this is my daughter, Megan. I haven’t told them about you yet. I shall do so when I get home. I would very much like you to meet them.”

  “Thank you,” she said, touched.

  He went on without comment. “Their mother, Elizabeth, died when they were quite young.”

  “When did you marry her?”

  “In 1970, five years after I came back from Mauritius.”

  “I don’t understand. How could you have done so when you were still married to Gran-mère?”

  “But we weren’t actually married,” he said, his voice low and filled with regret.

  “Oh. I thought you were.”

  “No, but as far as we were concerned it made no difference, we made our own private vows.” His face softened, and a slight smile appeared. For a moment he said nothing, and Anjali waited. “We went to that beach, Flicq en Flacq. Your Uncle Nalen was there, and a close friend of your grandmother. What was her name?” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Ah yes, that was it, Madhu.”

>   “Tante Madi? Oh wow, I never knew!”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes,” Anjali said, smiling broadly. “She was my gran-mère’s closest friend. She’s still around. She lives near my parents.”

  Caradoc returned her smile. “I would love to meet her again. We owed her a great deal.”

  “I’ll talk to my mother.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said, and she noticed, for the first time, there were tears in his eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Anjali stepped down from the train in Newport and pulled her coat more closely round her slim body against a nasty sharp wind. She hitched her handbag more safely onto her shoulder and, pulling her small case behind her, made her way towards the exit. The journey from London hadn’t taken as long as she’d expected and her appointment to meet Caradoc at the solicitor’s office wasn’t for an hour yet, but she decided to take the taxi there now just so that she knew where it was. She could always find a café or somewhere to while away the time.

  She made her way to the taxi rank and bent to the window of the first cab. “Do you know the office of Granger, Meredith & Llewellyn?” she asked. “They’re solicitors, their address is 26 Hendre Avenue.”

  “I know where that’s to, love, hop in.”

  “Thank you.” She put her bag on the seat beside her and buckled up.

  The taxi driver was chatty. “Your first visit to these parts?”

  “Yes, I’ve come down from London.”

  “You from there then?”

  “I’m just visiting, my home is in Mauritius.”

  “Aah, lovely place that. Been on holiday there a few years back, very hot it is.”

  She smiled. “Where did you stay?” she asked.

  “Now where was it? A hotel on the east coast, near a town called Mahe something.”

  “Mahebourg?”

  “That’s it.”

  “There are lots of hotels in that area”

  “You got family or friends round here then?”

  “No, well, not exactly.” She looked out the window, not wanting to say any more. Luckily the driver didn’t ask any further questions but continued to reminisce about his Mauritian holiday and how much he’d enjoyed it. She let her mind drift as they passed a pedestrian area then turned into a roundabout and Anjali noticed an impressive modern sculpture, an enormous red circle towering up beside a river.

  “What river is that?” she asked the driver.

  “The Usk – comes all the way down from the Brecon Beacons.”

  “And the sculpture?”

  “That’s the Steel Wave, it commemorates the importance of the steel industry in Newport. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s rather magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Been there since the nineties. But the steel industry’s been trashed in the last few years, it has. What’s the main industry where you come from?”

  “Oh, sugar, tourism, and textiles I suppose.”

  “I remember driving past the sugar cane fields, and my wife visited a factory that made women’s clothes, it had a shop. Oh boy, she nearly bankrupted me.”

  Anjali smiled. If this man was typical of the locals, she thought she’d rather like it in Wales.

  A few minutes later they drew up in front of a row of tall town houses, several with brass plaques by the door or lettering on windows indicating the nature of the business inside.

  “There we are then, miss,” the driver said as he drew to a halt. “This is the one.” He leant over the back of his seat, his eyes bright with curiosity. “I do hope they’ll have some good news for you, something to your advantage, as they say.”

  She smiled but just said, “How much do I owe you?”

  “That’ll be six pound.”

  She handed over the money with a generous tip and got out of the car. It had begun to rain so she pulled up the hood of her jacket. What to do? Although they’d passed a café a few yards back, she didn’t really want a coffee.

  Across the road she noticed an old chapel, but above the door was a board that said Chapel Art Gallery. She crossed over, curious, and mounted the steps. In a glass-fronted container, by the entrance, was a poster announcing an exhibition by local artist and illustrator, Fabia Havard. This could be interesting, and a wander round would eat up the time before her appointment. Anjali pushed open the door and went in.

  * * *

  Fabia looked round as the door of the gallery was pushed open. It had been very slow for the last hour. She’d got tired of sitting at the table by the entrance and had been wandering around the room. Now she was relieved to see someone come in at last. She studied the stranger with an artist’s eye, looking at her as a thing of shape and shadow, form and colour rather than as a person. She watched as the woman walked slowly around, from painting to painting, studying each one carefully.

  She was tall and slim, but not too much so, with high cheek bones and large dark eyes. Her coffee-coloured skin was clear of any blemish and her dark hair was cut short and close to her head. She could have passed for a top model straight from the pages of Vogue or a member of some aristocratic Indian family. The richly embroidered hooded coat she wore, in striking peacock shades, somehow seemed to fit just right with her jeans and brown leather boots. Fabia returned to her seat by the table and asked her companion, “Cath, do you know who that is?”

  Cath, who’d returned to keep her company after making a few calls, followed her gaze and frowned. “Striking isn’t she, but no, she’s not familiar. Fabulous figure.”

  “And an incredible face. I’d love to paint her. And she is vaguely familiar. Did she sign the visitor’s book on her way in?”

  “I think so.”

  Fabia reached out to the table beside them, turned the open book round, and looked at the last entry.

  “Anjali Kishtoo, London and Mauritius. Interesting, and why does it ring a bell?” Fabia frowned in an effort to remember, then grinned. “I know, it was an article in the Observer magazine; a new designer from Mauritius, really original clothes and accessories – they were gorgeous. I’m sure that’s the name. I wonder what on earth has brought her to Newport?”

  Fabia continued to watch as the woman worked her way around the large room, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished wood floor. Sunlight from the tall windows shining down made her skin glow, and the colours of her jacket look even more vibrant.

  “Do you think she’ll buy?”

  “No idea,” said Cath. “I think she might just be browsing. It’s raining, she’s probably sheltering.”

  “Thanks a bunch!”

  “Well, you did ask.”

  “Pity,” said Fabia, who’d been a little disappointed at how few of her paintings had little red ‘sold’ stickers on them. Had it been a bad idea to set the exhibition up here? It was tucked away down a side street off the main shopping area and most of the other buildings were offices of one kind or another. But the gallery owner, Paul Hewitt, had been enthusiastic and wasn’t taking an enormous commission.

  “He fancies you, that’s why,” Cath had said to Fabia a couple of days ago when told of the easy terms he’d set.

  “The feeling definitely isn’t mutual. He stands too close, invades your personal space,” Fabia had said.

  “Who else has been in?” she asked now. She pulled the visitors’ book towards her and ran a finger down the column. “There’s still no sign of Matt.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  Cath gave her a sympathetic glance but didn’t comment.

  “Ah,” said Fabia, “John Meredith, he actually bought one of my watercolours, says he’s going to put it in the reception area at his office across the road, bless him. He’s a good friend.”

  Neither of them had noticed the tall, dark woman approach the table.

  “Excuse me.” The voice was soft, the accent half French, half something else.

  Fabia looked up. “Sorry. Yes, can I help you?”

  She so
unded hesitant. “You are the artist?”

  “I am,” Fabia said.

  “It’s that painting over there,” she pointed across the room, “Where – what is that house?”

  Fabia glanced across at the watercolour. It was a small, atmospheric study of an old house, in greys and greens – half ruin, half three-storey building.

  “That’s White Monk Abbey,” she told the woman, “at Castellgwyn, up the valley. A beautiful old place, there’s a lot of history attached to it.”

  “Do you know the family?”

  “Yes, I do, as it happens. I’m going to be doing some work for one of them, the daughter. I’m illustrating a book she’s written. Do you know them?”

  “I suppose. The father, Caradoc Mansell, I know him.”

  Fabia was curious. The hesitant tone of voice gave her the feeling she was only being told the bare bones of a bigger story. How on earth could this woman know someone as conservative and hidebound as Caradoc? But the woman didn’t elaborate.

  Fabia, never one to hold back when she wanted information, tried to probe. “Am I right in thinking you’re a designer? I saw your name in the visitors’ book and I remember seeing something about you in one of the Sunday supplements a week back. Some of the clothes they’d photographed were very much like that lovely coat you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, did you read it?” Her eyes lit up in a proud smile. “Yes, my name’s Anjali Kishtoo. And you are?”

  Fabia held her hand out. “Fabia Havard.” They shook hands. “And this is my friend Cath Temple. She’s helping me keep an eye on the exhibition.”

  Cath gave her a kind smile. “I have to agree with Fabia, that coat is stunning.”

  “Thank you. So, all this work is yours?” Anjali asked Fabia.

  “It is.” Fabia grinned. “My first official exhibition.”

  “You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you, and so are you, from what I remember of that article. You come from Mauritius, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m in the UK promoting my designs. I was lucky enough to have a friend who works for the Observer, hence the article. It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind, very exciting, but quite scary as well.”