“I’m sure, and now you’ve come to promote your work in Wales?”
“Well, not exactly.” She glanced away, biting her lip, and Fabia’s curiosity increased. “I’ve got a meeting in Newport, and I must find a hotel to stay tonight. Can either of you recommend one?”
“I’m sure we can,” Cath said. “But I suppose it depends what you have in mind. There’s a Holiday Inn.”
“And a couple of decent pubs that have rooms,” Fabia added.
“That sounds more my style, I’m not dreadfully keen on hotels.”
Finally, Fabia’s curiosity got the better of her. “Tell me, how do you know Caradoc Mansell?”
Immediately she’d asked the question, she regretted it. The shutters came down and the smile vanished.
“It’s a long story.” Anjali glanced at her watch. “Oh dear, I must rush. I’ve enjoyed looking at your paintings, thank you.” And with that, she turned and hurried out of the gallery.
Fabia and Cath gazed after her.
“Well, well, how interesting,” Cath said. “I wonder what all that was about?”
“So do I,” replied Fabia. “I must search out that Observer article and have another look at it. I wonder who her meeting is with, in Newport of all places. She’s a tad exotic for this neck of the woods, wouldn’t you say?”
“I certainly would,” Cath said.
* * *
Half an hour later Anjali sat opposite John Meredith in his neat office, her eyes full of tears and a hand to her mouth.
“But how could that have happened? When I saw him in London, he was fine. A bit shocked by my news, but fine. No, no, I can’t believe it.”
“It only happened yesterday. I phoned to speak to him this morning and Rodric told me. I tried to get hold of you, but I got no response on your mobile.”
“My fault, I forgot to charge it. I was going to do it when I’d found a hotel.”
“You weren’t to know. It was very sudden, they’re not sure what’s wrong, possibly a stroke. He’s in hospital, but I’m sorry to say they didn’t sound very hopeful. Rodric told me the police are involved, I’ve no idea why. Of course, this makes the situation very difficult for you, particularly as I don’t believe he’s told the family anything about you.”
She was hardly listening. “I just saw a painting of the Abbey in the exhibition across the road. I went in because I was a bit early for our meeting and I met the artist. She knows the family.”
“Fabia Havard?”
“Yes, she seemed rather nice.”
“She is. She’s an old friend of mine, used to be a police officer.” For a moment there was silence as he waited for her to collect her thoughts. “Look, let me go and get us some coffee and then we can talk about what you should do. Caradoc made his wishes very clear to me, and the will is clear as daylight, but I think we’re going to have to approach this carefully, in relation to the family, that is. I won’t be long.”
He got up and left the room and Anjali sat there, her mind in turmoil. What on earth should she do? Just go back to London? No, she couldn’t, this had to be faced. She’d have to find somewhere to stay, but the thought of being on her own in some impersonal room with only a television for company made her feel sick. She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes, then opened them again quickly as John came back into the room, a tray in his hands.
“I’d like to visit him,” she said. “Is he in hospital here in Newport?”
“Yes, but he’s in intensive care so I’m not sure he’s allowed visitors at the moment.”
“Can you find out?”
“Of course.”
“And I must find a hotel. I did ask – Fabia is it? Across the road in the art gallery? I asked her about hotels. She and her friend mentioned one or two.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “But I do so hate hotels. Oh dear.” She covered her face with her hands and muttered from behind them, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, then leant forward in his chair. “Look, I know Fabia very well, she’s an absolute gem. Why don’t I go across the road and ask her if she can put you up for a couple of days? She lives just a few miles away in a market town called Pontygwyn. I’ve no doubt she’d be happy to have you. She knows the Mansells and, with your permission, I could tell her about your connection with them. I’m sure she’ll keep it to herself if I explain that it’s not public knowledge yet. And while you’re with her I can contact the family, have a quiet word, and we can go from there.”
“Do you really think she’d let me stay?”
“I’m sure she would. You stay here, I’ll go across and speak to her. Make yourself comfortable.” He indicated a soft leather settee below the window. “I’ll get Stephen, he’s my PA, to bring some more coffee and I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Anjali sank down into the cushions of the settee, leant back and closed her eyes.
* * *
Cath had gone off to do some shopping when John came into the gallery. He gave Fabia a brief explanation of Caradoc and Anjali’s relationship. “It’s one hell of a mess,” he went on, “what with his will and everything. I’d give you all the details but, Rodric and Megan have no idea she exists yet. I’d best tell them about her first. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Fabia said, but had to admit to herself that she was going to find it hard to keep her curiosity under control.
“The poor girl’s pretty shaken up,” John went on. “I really don’t want to leave her on her own and, much as I’d like it if she did, I don’t think it’d be appropriate for her to come and stay with me.”
Fabia supressed a smile. This was a side of John she’d not come across before.
“So, can you take her in?” John asked. “It won’t be for long.”
Fabia looked at his anxious face and wondered why he was so keen to help this unknown woman. And, she thought, having people to stay was all very well if they are friends, but a complete stranger? That’s different. She valued her privacy and independence. On the other hand, she wanted to find out what exactly was going on.
“Well, if it’s just for a couple of days…” She gave him a teasing smile. “And maybe she’ll confide in me.”
He grinned. “That’s what you’re hoping, isn’t it?”
“You know me too well,” Fabia said, the smile widening to a grin.
At that moment Paul Hewitt, the owner of the gallery, came into the room so quietly neither of them noticed until he was a few feet away. Fabia did her best to give him a welcoming smile. “Ah,” she said, “just the person I need. I’ve got to rush off, Paul, could you look after things for the last hour?”
“I’m sure I can do that for you, Fabia,” he said, making it sound as if he was doing her an enormous favour. “I’ve got some work to do on my laptop. I suppose I can sit out here just as easily as in my office. Is there a problem?” His eyes darted from John to Fabia, eager for confidences.
“Nothing I can’t sort out. I’ll see you tomorrow.” At the door she turned back and said, “Oh, Paul, if Matt Lambert comes in, could you let me know? I need to speak to him.”
“The gorgeous chief inspector,” Paul said with a smirk, “will do.”
As they crossed the road she muttered to John, “I wish I could like him, but he’s so– so–”
“Smarmy?”
“Um, that’s it. Never mind, it’s probably just me.”
“Lucky to have you, I’d say,” John said.
Chapter 5
Soon after, Fabia set off with Anjali. For the last few minutes there’d been silence in the car. They’d talked a little as they drove through Newport and out onto the motorway. Fabia had told Anjali a little of the history of the area, Anjali had talked a bit about her work. Now they were on the short section of motorway that would take them to Pontygwyn, the market town that had been Fabia’s home since she’d left the police force.
As often happened when she got to the outskirts of the town, she
began to relax. It didn’t matter how many times she drove along this road, in sun, rain or snow, she loved what she saw, although it had recently been a little overshadowed by events. As she slowed to a crawl in order to cross the ancient bridge over the river Gwyn, she looked to her left at the patchwork of fields, dotted with cream and, occasionally, black sheep. The grey and mauve hills of the Brecon Beacons rose up in the distance. To the right, the river meandered down across Gwiddon Park and widened into the pond where, hundreds of years ago, witches had been ducked – innocent if they drowned, condemned if they didn’t. And yet those same poor women had given a name to park and pond – Gwiddon, Welsh for witch.
With a twisted smile Fabia wondered if she’d have fallen victim to that primitive misogyny. Probably, particularly if she’d been Superintendent Fabia Havard of the Gwent Force. She could think of quite a few of her male colleagues who would happily have watched her ducked in the murky depths, quite apart from the criminals she went after.
She told Anjali about the history of the park, explained the Welsh names, but she got the impression her companion wasn’t really taking any of it in. She smiled occasionally but made no comment.
A moment later, they turned right into Parc Road, past the playing field where two schoolboy rugby teams, mud spattered and probably very cold, were traipsing off to the sports pavilion. Fifty yards on she turned into Morwydden Lane and, almost immediately, stopped outside her neat, double-fronted house.
“Here we are,” she said as she switched off the engine.
“This is lovely,” Anjali said, “you’re lucky to live in such a beautiful place.”
“I certainly enjoy it. A big enough town to have most of what I need, but not so big that you have the problems of city life.”
As they got out of the car, Fabia noticed there was a large van outside the house next door. She looked at it with interest, and read the name on the side: Watkin’s Removals, Bristol, Cardiff & Newport. Maybe, at long last, she would find out who her new neighbours were to be. It was about time. The house had been empty for months. It would be good to have neighbours again.
They walked up the short path to the front door. Fabia unlocked it and swung it wide, “Come on in, I’m sure you could do with a glass of wine.”
“Oh yes,” Anjali said. “That would be lovely. And Fabia, this is so kind of you, rescuing me.”
“No problem at all. We’re fellow artists, and I enjoy making new friends. Put your bag down there, we can take it up in a minute, I keep the spare room ready for visitors.”
She didn’t tell her she did so just in case Matt ever wanted to stay over, which occasionally he did. Maybe that would change one day and the spare room would no longer be needed. Fabia pushed the thought firmly from her mind.
She led Anjali through to the kitchen. “Red or white?” she asked.
“Red, please.”
Fabia reached up and got some glasses from the cupboard, took a bottle of New Zealand Shiraz from the wine rack and twisted the top open. As she did so, the phone rang.
“Sorry,” she said, “do you mind if I get this? Help yourself.”
She grabbed the phone, “Hallo?”
“Fabia, it’s me.”
“Hi, Matt, I was just thinking about you. How’s things?”
“Okay,” he replied, but he didn’t sound it – probably too much work as usual.
“Have you managed to pop into the exhibition yet?” she asked him, slightly nervous but desperate to hear his reaction.
“I have.” His voice was cool. Her heart sank. What was the matter with him?
“When was that? I’m sorry I missed you.” She smiled at Anjali who was now standing by the window looking out at the view, glass in hand. Fabia mouthed, “Be back in a minute,” and wandered slowly down the corridor towards her dining room-cum-study.
“I went in this afternoon, the bloke there told me you’d just left with John Meredith.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you about that in a minute. So, what did you think? You did have a good look round, didn’t you?”
“A quick look.”
“And what did you think?” Fabia asked.
“It’s good.” His tone didn’t match his words. She was beginning to be annoyed.
“You’ve obviously been busy,” he said.
“Well, it is what I do now.”
There was a tight little silence, each of them waiting for the other to go on. Fabia felt resentment mounting inside her and began to pace up and down. Why didn’t he say something about the drawing? Maybe he’d missed it, or perhaps he hadn’t recognised it as himself. Surely not. She’d thought it one of her best. It’d captured the angular body, the gloss of his dark hair, now showing flecks of grey, and the beauty of his long fingers. Come on, Matt, Fabia begged silently as she continued her pacing, tell me what you thought of it.
But he didn’t, not directly, just asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you’d done that one of me?” and he didn’t sound very pleased about it either.
“The sketch?” Fabia hedged.
“Well, there was only the one, wasn’t there? Or have you done a whole series without letting on?” he said.
“No, of course not, don’t be silly.” This conversation was not going well. “I just did the one. It was when you came around after the end of that rape case and you were completely knackered. You don’t mind, do you?” Stupid question, because it was obvious that he did. “What did you think of it?”
“Well, it was a bit of a surprise, just coming across it like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” she said, knowing it was an inadequate response, “I just didn’t think to.”
“Come on, Fabia!” He sounded really exasperated now. “You do a – well – a pretty intimate drawing of me, asleep in your sitting room, get it framed, hang it in a public gallery for all to see, and you don’t even bother to tell me? How do you think that makes me feel?”
Fabia could feel her heart beating faster. This was awful, not at all what she’d anticipated. But then, had she thought about how he’d feel? If the truth were known, she hadn’t really allowed herself to speculate, just pushed it all to the back of her mind in the rush of preparations for the exhibition. Now she had to admit it had been niggling away just below the surface. She should have told him. He was such a private person. She should have asked his permission to hang the picture. That was obvious, but too late now, and here he was, fuming on the other end of the phone and she felt completely wrong footed.
“I’m sorry. I suppose I thought you’d be pleased, maybe flattered.”
“How do you work that out?”
“Thanks, Matt!”
“No, what I mean is, well–” his exasperation was clear and stinging. “It took me completely by surprise. And that grinning idiot who owns the gallery, Paul whatever his name is, standing there looking coy and asking me if I’d found the damn thing. For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Maybe because this was the kind of reaction I thought I’d get,” Fabia snapped, unwilling to back down. “Anyway, I’ve got a visitor, I’ll have to go.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, just cut off the call.
* * *
Curled up on the sofa in Fabia’s comfortable sitting room, Anjali had gradually relaxed and opened up, probably helped by the red wine they had with their meal of omelettes and salad, and then the whisky afterwards.
“Whisky and soda is almost the national drink in Mauritius,” she told Fabia, “after the local rum of course.”
“That sounds like a place I’d like.”
Anjali smiled. “You should visit. The taxi driver who drove me from the station told me he’d been on holiday to Mauritius.”
“Lucky man.”
There was silence for a moment, a companionable silence, then out of the blue Anjali asked, “How long have you known John Meredith?”
Fabia glanced at her, slightly taken aback. “Oh, for a while. I u
sed to come into contact with him when I was in the police force, and I knew his wife as well, she died of cancer a few years ago.”
“Poor man.”
“Yes, a bad time for him. He’s a good chap.”
Anjali didn’t ask any more and, in the end, Fabia decided to give in to her curiosity and ask the question that had been niggling away at the back of her mind. “How did your grandmother meet Caradoc?”
Anjali didn’t seem to mind the direct approach. “My mother told me my great uncle was in the Mauritian police force and he met Caradoc when British soldiers arrived in 1965 – they were called in by the colonial government when a state of emergency was declared over some strikes or something. We learnt about it at school, but history wasn’t my favourite subject and I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention. Anyway, my Uncle Nalen invited Caradoc to come to my grandmother’s home, and he and Gran-mère fell for each other. The trouble was my grandmother’s parents were in the middle of arranging a marriage for her, the man was a member of an important family and his father was a minister in the legislative council. Quite apart from that, I don’t think there would have been any chance of them agreeing to a marriage outside their community, whoever she’d met.”
“That must have been very difficult for her.”
“You could say so,” Anjali smiled, “but she must have been a feisty one, my grandmother. “Caradoc told me they made their own vows to each other and they thought of themselves as married.”
“Good lord,” Fabia exclaimed, “that was pretty brave for those days. It must have caused quite a stir.”
“At first they managed to keep their relationship a secret, but then she got pregnant with my mum so, of course, it all came out. That was when he was sent home by the army, just marched off without any right to protest apparently, and they never saw each other again. Of course, Uncle Nalen was in disgrace as well, because he’d helped them. He was packed off to Canada by their parents. He joined the Mounties and married a Canadian woman, he and his family still live there. When my mum was born, they relented a little, let them live in the family home, but she says she doesn’t think her mum ever got over it. She died when I was about nine. I remember her as a small, quiet woman who always seemed rather sad. Now I know why.”
Murder at the Old Abbey Page 5