She returned the print to her wallet with a fresh determination that she mustn’t waver now.
On Monday morning she’d have fixed a bank loan to put down the ten per cent for Wern Goch after exchange of contracts, and by the same afternoon located a hopefully trustworthy solicitor. Meanwhile, in the intervening week until her father’s money came through she’d spend every waking moment working out an action plan for her project and finding the right local tradespeople to help her turn it all around.
‘No survey, then?’ quizzed Mrs Evans as she hovered with the mint sauce over Lucy’s table in the overdecorated dining room where an elderly couple sat pecking at their meal in the far corner. ‘Now I’d say that was taking a big risk. None of my business, mind.’
‘I’ve had a good look round.’ Lucy unravelled her intricately folded napkin and let the woman pour some of the green minty liquid over her chop. ‘I mean it’s been standing since the Rebecca Riots and at least the brickwork’s in good nick.’
Mrs Evans seemed impressed by this reference to Welsh history but nevertheless still lingered with as yet unspoken opinions.
‘Who’s to say what another bad winter will do?’ she said. ‘No harm in my Bryn taking a look for you, is there? Being my own flesh and blood he calls a spade a shovel.’
Flesh and blood . . .
Lucy stopped chewing. The pink meat in her mouth suddenly not very appetising. Neither was the sense that her business was quickly becoming everybody else’s. Besides, this Bryn Evans might be a rustic rip-off merchant. She’d not yet met him, or even glimpsed him.
‘It’s okay, really. Thanks.’
Mrs Evans’s moustachioed mouth drooped at each corner, like that one which Lucy had spotted earlier in the sky. Her small black eyes narrowed to pinpricks and Lucy remembered that same Hellebore author’s comments about the Welsh. Maybe she wasn’t reading the landlady’s script . . .
‘But he knows plumbers, decorators,’ insisted the woman. ‘Fair hand at building, himself, mind,’ she added. ‘Didn’t Mr Jones at the Hall tell you?’
‘No.’ She laid her knife and fork together, her meal barely touched. Her dream had to start somewhere, and at least this Bryn Evans probably knew the old house inside out. Refusing help at this stage wasn’t really an option. ‘Perhaps we can meet up tomorrow sometime?’ She said. ‘He could then give me a quote.’
Mrs Evans shook her head.
‘My Bryn’s chapel. Twice on Sundays without fail. He’s a Deacon, see.’ Then she brightened. ‘Shall I tell him Monday. Say eleven?’
‘Where? Wern Goch?’
‘Why not here?’ She smiled. ‘Then you both can have some of my Welsh cakes. As it’s quiet at the moment, I’ll do a special batch.’
‘Thanks.’ Yet there was something about the way she’d said ‘you both’ which set alarm bells ringing again, because her Bryn might well be a bachelor on the look-out. She looked at her meal, all hunger gone. She didn’t want to be on anyone’s agenda at the moment. There was enough to do, to think about and for some reason a ripple of panic passed through her because she was poised to involve someone else in her scheme, and the deeper she went, the harder it would be to climb out.
For some reason the vision of a freshly dug grave came to mind. Damp, lined with seeping red soil. The same as she’d seen on Mark Jones’s rough hands. Lucy shivered, pushing her plate away then reassured herself that an offer on a property for sale was verbal, nothing more. Not binding in any way. She therefore had thirty-six hours until Monday morning to weigh up all the pros and cons of her venture and finally decide whether to proceed or not. Meanwhile her priority was to find out as much as she could about the two men she’d just met. Never mind her mum, her dad would have expected nothing less.
‘You look tired, my girl,’ Mrs Evans interrupted her meditation. She removed her plate and presented her with a hand-written dessert menu. ‘Why not try a nice piece of my apple pie and cream? The way I see it, you’ll be needing your strength.’
‘What do you mean?’
The woman tapped her nose in a way she found strangely unnerving.
‘So, pie it is,’ she said.
‘Fine. But please tell me something.’
‘Depends what it is. I’ll try, of course.’
‘How well do you know the Joneses at Ravenstone Hall? I mean Hector and Mark.’
Mrs Evans checked the old pair in the corner weren’t within earshot and leant towards Lucy, her moustache now quite pronounced.
‘You’ll need to keep your wits about you. Get my meaning?’ She resumed her former position and picked up the cruet. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Please don’t talk in riddles, Mrs Evans. Imagine I was your daughter . . .’
That was all it took. The woman pulled out an adjoining chair and sat down.
‘That estate goes back a long way, as you probably know. Just as the drovers were beginning to take their stock by rail and a lot of labourers were made idle. The tolls had been torn down and there was a lot of grievance against the English government so when the Tory Lord Howells of New Radnor decided to build on it, you can imagine, no one wanted to give him their sweat. He had to get foreigners over to do his dirty work. Just think of that.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘I mean the English.’
Lucy blinked, but Mrs Evans was leaning closer, whispering in her ear. ‘It’s cursed, that place. I know I shouldn’t say, but it’s as if the Morrigan’s made it her home . . .’
‘The Morrigan? Who on earth is she?’
‘The Goddess of Death.’
A brief but potent silence hung between them in which Lucy felt the blood leave her face. Then Mrs Evans resumed her account.
‘My Bryn calls me a heathen for believing it,’ she said. ‘But what else is one supposed to think? I mean, first Lord Howells was murdered in his bed with his eyes taken out, and from then on there was always one in his family who met a bad end there.’
She remembered that terrible scream. How could she ever forget it?
‘And Frau Muller?’ she asked, then realised her mistake.
Mrs Evans looked shocked. ‘Who told you about that?’
‘Can’t remember now. Someone in the cafe here, I think.’
‘Well, whatever, it’s all lies. That woman dabbled in things she shouldn’t have, and that’s the end of it.’ Mrs Evans’s mouth had pursed into a tight line. Clearly that particular avenue was closed. At least for the time being.
‘And then?’ She encouraged her, seeing the old couple leave their table and struggle to the door. They exchanged farewells in Welsh with her companion then were gone. ‘What happened next?’
‘The Joneses took over. Mary and John they were. Funeral directors from Hereford. Did well there. I mean, it was quite a thing for folks round here to go to Ravenstone to sort out a death. Nice driveway then it was. Big chapel of rest too. Bit more special-like than Beynon’s in the High Street.’
‘I see.’ But with so many unquiet spirits lurking there, Lucy thought it the last place for any rest. ‘And how did they end their days?’ she asked.
‘They both went sudden, like. One after the other. Nothing suspicious – at least that was the talk. Then Hector who’d had enough of being a copper moved up from Cardiff with his wife and the boys.’
Lucy frowned. This wasn’t making sense.
‘Boys? Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘I should be. Used to mind them most Saturday nights. When Mr and Mrs were off round the clubs.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Just the two. Richard and Mark.’ She caught Lucy’s puzzled look and was just about to add more information when the telephone in the hall began to ring. While she was gone, Lucy mentally raked over everything that had happened so far since her arrival at the Hall. Not once had another son or brother to Mark been mentioned.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mrs Evans upon her return, setting herself once more next to her guest. �
��Another cancellation. Couple from Bristol have just had a burglary. Pity for them. Now then, where was I?’
‘Richard and Mark.’
‘Yes. Lovely kids they were. Like two peas in a pod. Mark used to say he always knew what Richard was thinking. Bit of a dreamer he was even then. Mind you, I think after what happened there, he should have left, joined the navy or something. Got himself well away. Just like Richard did.’
Lucy’s empty stomach felt leaden as if some of the stones from Wern Goch had settled there. Nevertheless, she had to find out more.
‘Why? What happened?’
But Mrs Evans seemed to have lost her nerve. Her flow came to a halt as she fidgeted with the plastic menu holder and got up from her chair.
‘It’s not my place to say. But you’ll be alright there, I’m sure. Hector Jones isn’t a bad man underneath, and Mark . . .’ Here she paused and Lucy held her breath. She had to trust this woman therefore what she was about to reveal would decide whether or not she would go to the bank tomorrow morning.
‘Go on, please.’ The wait was agonising.
‘He’s mending, if you get my meaning. But you won’t see any scars. Oh no. They’re all up here.’ She tapped her black permed curls, then added ‘tlawd cariad,’ with feeling.
‘Does that mean you think he’s mad?’
Mrs Evans looked affronted.
‘Du du, no. He’s got the brain of five people, despite what folk say. Sometimes though, I tell my Bryn it’s best to be a bit simple in this life and then you don’t take things so hard. But between you and me, that Mark needs someone like you to cheer him up. Make him laugh sometimes, and forget about his woes for a while, because as God’s my witness, I’ve not seen a proper smile on that face of his for fourteen years.’
Chapter Ten
Hi you,
Just to say I’m around and still on this planet. Only just, mind, the way things are going.
Got a new name would you believe? Cakes some getting used to. Are you seeing anyone else now?
Not that I can do much about it if you are. It’s like everything’s come to a stop. Even the poetry.
I’ll send you some when I get going again. Two one must know I’ve written, OK?
Our big secret.
Your Numero Uno fan. xx
The following evening while Lucy Mitchell lay in the small back bedroom in West Street, Rhayader, listening to fresh rain hit the window and wondering about the Joneses, James Montague Benn turned up the tension on his Pulsar X exercise bike to maximum and spent the last ten minutes before the TV news panting his way to fitness.
His red neck had thickened in the process, bringing oxygenated blood from his head to the already strong erection which strained the front of his nylon shorts. It was the same every time. The friction of his balls against the saddle; the sheer sense of power firming up his whole body. But what spoilt it was her, staring from her position in the archway to what used to be their shared bedroom. She’d bought the bike for him in the first place, what else did she expect? That he’d snatch her from her recliner and lie her on the bed just in time for his climax? Never in a million years. Those days had long melted into the mists of time, before the move to The Manor House in Burton Minster and her tumble into the ornamental pond after a well-lubricated dinner party. Before Manda Jeffery and the one-night stands had become an addiction.
He grimaced, trying to ignore his wife and those eyes still fixed on his groin. If she wasn’t careful, he thought to himself, another “accident” would soon be forthcoming. But not until Tribe was in the bag. Not until his literary future was secure . . .
Just as his mind briefly wandered to tomorrow, Monday, and the announcement of the Booker Prize longlist, his mobile suddenly rang from its perch on the nearby chest of drawers. He saw his wife push her frame towards it with little sign of her limp. My God, she could be quick when it suited her, but an even quicker exit from his bike soon put the phone out of reach.
‘Who is it this time?’ she demanded, looking pig sick.
‘Mind your own damned business.’
His cock was subsiding. Sweat smeared his vision, but not enough to see that the number on the mobile’s display was Hellebore’s. Someone working late, he thought, and on a Saturday too. He listened hard, striding all the while towards the landing and down the stairs to the privacy of his lockable study.
‘It’s me. Are you horny?’ The editor’s familiar drawl insinuated its way into his ear. Benn slid the bolt across his sanctuary door and slumped into his swivel chair.
‘I was. And you?’
‘Of course.’
But it was Monday, not Manda that mattered.
‘Look, are there any whispers I need to know about?’ He asked, aware of the zimmer frame on the move, the squeak of her shoes on the parquet floor. She’d be outside his door now, ears flapping. Suspicion cramping her features.
‘None, so when can we fuck? You coming up here tomorrow?’
‘Naturellement.’
‘Great. Everyone’s expecting a result. Champagne’s in the fridge already. Nothing but the best, according to Nick.’
He smiled to himself, slipping a hot hand down inside his shorts. However, it was Vikki Tate, design assistant, with the neat arse and a nice line in flattery who was firing more than his imagination. ‘By the way,’ he added, holding himself back, enjoying the moment. ‘Your assistant won’t be around, will she?’
‘I checked with her landlord on Friday evening. Apparently she’s gone.’
He stopped working himself. A spasm of unease had interrupted his pleasure.
‘Where?’
‘How do I know. Gone’s enough, surely?’
‘You’re right. See you soon. No panties, right?’
He pressed END and, having brought himself to a sudden and jerking climax then cleaned up with a wad of pastel-coloured tissues, sat staring at his blank PC screen. That Lucy Mitchell could be trouble. He knew it the moment she’d run from the bedroom at the Chandos Hotel over two months ago. He could see it in her eyes when he’d attracted her attention at Hellebore last Tuesday when he’d called in about his paperback cover. But at least she was a class act, unlike those other dogs, Sarah Dyson and the Filipinos from the Embassy, and once the editing of Kingdom Come was finished, he might be tempted to make contact again.
He smiled to himself because at the moment, everything he was touching was turning to gold and, barring an asteroid hitting the planet or Hellebore going bust, 2002 would see him evens favourite to lift the really big one. And his publisher hadn’t been the only member of the literati with that opinion.
He re-adjusted his shorts and, to catch his wife unawares, swiftly unbolted his study door. Predictably, there she was, up to her tricks again, blocking his way. It was time to chuck the walking frame, he thought. Time to clip her wings.
‘For God’s sake . . .’ he began, then gulped. For between her hands lay an item he’d not seen for years. His old army knife. Its blade glinting in the light from the chandelier above.
Chapter Eleven
I have been a blue salmon
I have been a wild hound
I have been a cautious stag,
And a stump of a tree on the shovel.
MJJ and Taliesin 1989
On Monday afternoon, with the sun beginning its downward journey behind the Cambrian Hills, yet still managing to shine obstinately in her face, Lucy drove back from the estate agency in Llandrindod Wells towards Rhayader.
Hector Jones had convinced Lloyd Griffiths that the sale was indeed still on. He’d accepted her offer, and withdrawn the property from the market. So far, then, everything had gone to plan. Her ten per cent deposit on Wern Goch had been transferred in readiness, from Barclays to a Martyn Harries, solicitor in Gamallt Street and her mid-morning meeting with Bryn Evans at the B&B had been equally productive. So much so, that he’d promised to be at the estate that afternoon at 4.30 p.m. to start his “survey” and give her a list of pos
sible trade contacts.
He’d seemed surprisingly positive and encouraging about her business project, even suggesting how she might best make a living in the wake of foot-and-mouth. She could either sell her organic produce direct from Wern Goch, join a co-operative or rent a regular market stall, because in his opinion, enough fussy Saesnegs were moving into Radnorshire from urban England to make her crops a profitable enterprise. Besides, there were European aid grants she could apply for, particularly to help with getting the ground ready for sowing.
The meeting in Enid Evans’s cluttered kitchen had also been revelatory in other ways, for although Bryn Evans was a grown man in his mid-forties, prematurely bald with a complexion as red as Wern Goch’s soil itself, his mother had treated him as if he was still a hungry schoolboy. Plied him with one Welsh cake after another before his last mouthful was finished. Completed his sentences for him, apparently even reading his thoughts . . .
Soon only the doily remained on the cake plate and the coffee jug emptied to a trickle, but when Lucy had asked again about Hector Jones’s other son, Richard, and then Frau Muller, both mother and son had stopped chewing and exchanged uneasy glances. Mrs Evans had then exited to the kitchen for more supplies and when she’d returned, the conversation had turned to the paltry compensation he’d received for the loss of his prize Beulahs and whether or not he’d have anything to exhibit at next year’s Royal Welsh Show.
Now she turned on to the A470 towards Ravenstone Hall, praying that the next hour would not only totally vindicate her having cajoled £3,200 pounds from the bank manager for her deposit until repayment next Monday, but also delete the few but persistent doubts which wouldn’t leave her alone.
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