A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Darwin. Australia.’

  That couldn’t be further away, she thought before asking, ‘did he know about this change of Will?’

  ‘He was told, apparently.’

  ‘My God.’ She tried to collect her thoughts. That must have been a double shot across the bows for him. ‘So who’s the main beneficiary now?’

  ‘Mark.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Do either of them know that?’

  ‘I can’t say. Mind you, I have advised Mr Jones that this isn’t a very satisfactory situation if anything were to happen to him. That he should play fair either way and treat both sons the same.’

  ‘Exactly. And what’s his response?’

  ‘He’s waiting.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  A brief silence fell between them in which she suddenly wanted to be outside, even though the weather seemed to be changing for the worst.

  ‘What kind of things had Richard said? Can you tell me?’

  ‘That his mother was . . .’ The lawyer stalled and shifted his gaze from her. ‘A whore.’

  She felt her empty stomach go into freefall as the room grew darker, affected by the blue-black sky beyond the blinds.

  ‘Look, I have to tell you something,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘Yesterday morning, Mark and I discovered that someone had dug a little hole in a significant place on her grave, and left a note in it.’

  ‘What do you mean by significant?’

  ‘Below her stomach. Where her sex would be.’

  If the lawyer was shocked, he didn’t show it.

  ‘I see. And?’

  ‘This note said whore as well.’

  Another potent silence, broken by a discreet knock on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Harries snapped.

  ‘Would you be wanting coffee?’ asked a pale drawn woman who might have been his wife.

  ‘No thank you Marion. Not just yet.’

  ‘By the way, there’s just Mr Powell waiting.’

  ‘Fine. Tell him ten minutes.’

  ‘So, it looks like Richard’s back?’ Lucy asked once the door was closed again.

  ‘I wouldn’t necessarily jump to that conclusion,’ Harries replied. ‘That sort of prank is easy for anyone to do.’

  Anyone?

  She puzzled over this for a moment then asked, ‘but why would Richard say that about his mother? It’s a terrible accusation to make.’

  ‘It was. But to a fifteen-year-old it must have seemed that way. You see, Sonia Jones led quite a life. Dressing up to the nines, out till all hours. At first, Mr Jones would accompany her wherever she was singing . . .’

  ‘Singing?’

  No wonder there was none of that any more at the Hall, she mused to herself. Only grief’s silence.

  ‘Yes. She had a wonderful voice. Could really have done something with it, in my opinion.’

  But she did, thought Lucy. She screamed for her life . . .

  ‘Such a dreadful waste. Even now, whenever we go to Cardiff or London to see some show or other, I can’t help thinking that’s what she should have aimed for. Instead of just pubs and clubs . . .’

  ‘You seem to have liked her?’ she ventured.

  Martyn Harries glanced round at the door as if he might be interrupted again.

  ‘Oh yes. She was stunning. And how many women can you say that about round here, eh?’ A full smile now changed his whole face.

  ‘Someone I met the other day compared her to Marilyn Monroe.’

  ‘Oh, she was more interesting than that, I’d say. Her colouring for a start. Lovely grey eyes as I recall, and always that haunting scent . . . Which makes what happened all the more diabolical. I do mean it was the work of the Devil.’

  His sudden vehemence took her by surprise and she wondered if this solicitor had once had a thing for her.

  ‘I often suggested to Hector Jones that he erect a gate at the end of their track,’ he went on. ‘But no. He never did. That must still be on his conscience, poor man.’

  She thought of that other hidden entrance from the lane. How the whole estate was vulnerable.

  ‘So, do you believe some kind of Druid did it?’

  ‘Who else? Unless there was a jealous lover somewhere who’s never been traced . . .’

  ‘Not impossible, given her lifestyle.’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘But surely these Druids or Dagdas whatever, left the area in the mid-seventies?’

  ‘I see you’ve done your homework, but it was never that simple. Like any organisation, you get offshoots, loners with their own agendas. Certainly Detective Superintendent Davies and his team at the time, attached great significance to the fact that the murder had taken place at Beltane. The first of May and when they found the remains of a fire in the range they knew this had all the hallmarks of a Druidic sacrifice.’

  ‘A fire? Why?’ Thinking again of those fragments and wondering about the possible blue shirt.

  ‘To mark the return of the sun and the rising of the Pleiades. All very symbolic in Celtic terms.’

  ‘I realise you’ve another client waiting,’ Lucy began, ‘but what would this or these Druids have worn?’

  ‘Now you’ve got me. I’m really no expert on this kind of thing.’

  ‘But hardly shirt and trousers?’

  ‘Goodness no,’ he shot her a look of surprise. ‘They love their paraphernalia. The dressing up bit, just like Mrs Jones did, I suppose. Feathers, fleeces, leather . . . I’d say a tunic and belt, definitely a cloak of some sort and their hair like a monk’s tonsure. Mind you, the god Dagda himself was supposed to have worn something so short that it showed his buttocks.’

  Neither smiled.

  She thanked him for that information, but suddenly felt cold. It was simply stretching things too far to imagine mother’s boy Bryn Evans and Sion Hughes got up like that. ‘You’ll think I’ve cracked up too, asking this,’ she said, ‘but is Bryn Evans the preacher or Hughes, that young farmer friend of his connected to this cult? You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘Whose been telling you that, then? The Joneses?’

  She hung her head.

  ‘Well, they ought to be careful. There is such a thing as slander.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know neither character is the sort I’d invite over to share our table with, but both are serious farmers. Not only has foot-and-mouth dealt them a bad blow, but some years back, on October 31st, which is Samhain of course in the Celtic year, a huge Wicker Man was built in secret up by Abbey Cwm Hir.’

  ‘A Wicker Man?’ Lucy had heard of the film, but nothing more.

  ‘Yes. Apparently, stock was rustled from both their farms and sacrificed to the flames in it while still alive . . .’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘So you see, they hate them. And with good reason.’

  ‘And what about ‘Simnai’ Williams, the sweep? Is he to be trusted?’

  Martyn Harries gave her a wry little smile.

  ‘Used to be fly-half for Wales in the good old days. Salt of the earth, that one. Speaks his mind too, which some folks don’t always appreciate.’

  He moved over to switch on his desk light and then to a tightly packed bookcase which took up the wall behind his chair. ‘Remember what you’ve come into here, Lucy. It’s different for me. I was born in mid-Wales. My family are all local . . .’ Here he broke off as if the rest might be too painful for him to mention, and moved the wedding photograph to his desk.

  She waited, still reeling inside, as he pulled out a small brown book from between its crowded neighbours. Even from where she was sitting she could tell it was old. ‘I’d like you to have this. Waldo Humphreys’ Celtic Deities,’ he continued, giving her no chance to protest. She turned to the frontispiece and noticed that the Garn Press had published it in 1887. Exactly a hundred years before the events at Ravenstone.

 
; ‘Please read it as soon as you can and remember that to the Celts, time is measured by nights, not days. Not by the sun, but the moon. Now that,’ he added, handing the little volume over to her, ‘should explain everything.’

  Chapter Thirty

  I am Fear which blinks a doe’s eye.

  I am Storm which blackens the hill.

  I am Hatred which kills.

  I am Fire which devours all Love.

  MJJ 26/8/01

  Martyn Harries’s last words hammered in Lucy’s head as she consulted her crumpled OS map in the car outside his office. It was night now, never mind midday, with storm water lashing her windscreen, filling the nearby gutter to overflowing and bearing a motley collection of litter along on its tide.

  But this turmoil outside was nothing compared to what the man had revealed about Hector Jones and his two sons. How Richard had not only been banished to the other side of the world but also disinherited. How it now seemed quite possible that in a moment of insanity he’d killed his own mother and subjected her body to a terrible post-mortem violation. And yet, if Mark knew he was the sole inheritor of Ravenstone Hall why was he so judgemental, no, rude was a better word, towards his father? In fact, she’d seen very little gratitude on his part so far.

  Perhaps he knew nothing about it, she decided as she started the engine. After all, hadn’t the lawyer just said that for whatever reason, Hector Jones was waiting?

  Well, she damned well wasn’t. Friday’s exchange of contracts was looming and despite the atrocious weather conditions, Bwlch Ddu farm would have to be her next port of call.

  The B road towards Pantgwyn and the source of the Mellte made a welcome change from that to Ravenstone, even though it was five extra miles. Here the smooth shining tarmac was edged by trimmed hedges giving good visibility around the many circuitous bends. Trees had been lopped to avoid the problem of falling branches, gates newly painted and the few dwellings set back in their own land seemed proudly cared for. Loved even, instead of what lay less than half a mile away.

  This impression lasted as she followed the first farm sign which led upwards to higher ground bearing north into the hide-coloured hills whose craggy profiles melded against the gunmetal sky. There wasn’t one rainy picture in Magical Tales, she thought, glancing at the glove box where it still lay in safety. How easy it is to lie . . .

  Smart post-and-rail fencing now led to an already open five-barred gate at the side of which stood a large professional-looking placard announcing:

  S. T. HUGHES

  BWLCH DDU SUFFOLKS

  As far as she could tell, no one had been tailing her. She was totally alone and here she stalled, expecting dogs or worse, but it was as if the weather had driven everything indoors. Even that dreaded yellow harvester had been secreted away.

  She drove on to the most immaculate empty yard she’d ever seen, which was enclosed on three sides by various low whitewashed buildings of which any one could have been the actual dwelling house, and despite there being no car or other means of transport visible, she felt nevertheless that someone was around.

  Having locked the Rav, she lifted her fleece hood over her already damp hair then stopped to sniff the wet air. No amount of rain could disguise the odd smell which seemed to be coming from the end building on the right. She racked her brains to think where she’d smelt that before and then remembered a holiday visit to a blacksmith near Caernarfon where a huge Welsh cob was being shod. The sizzle of red-hot iron on its hooves had left a strange lingering taste in her mouth. This was similar, except that this time she was sure it wasn’t bone being heated, but flesh.

  As she walked towards it she was aware of a front window curtain moving in the adjoining block. Ignoring this she made for a big black door. There was no handle so she shoved it with her shoulder. No joy.

  ‘Mr Hughes?’ she shouted, for some reason feeling far less frightened here than at Gellionnen. It was determination, she told herself as she waited for a reply. Because, as she’d soon learnt at Hellebore, there was nothing like a deadline.’ Are you there?’

  She pressed her ear to the wet door and winced as successive blasts of fiery noise reached her ears. Was this some blowtorch being used? If so, for what? And then the smell intensified. Sheep wool and burning meat.

  A moment’s hesitation, but too late. The noise had stopped and in the silence she heard a key grinding in the door’s lock on the other side. It opened enough to let a rancid stench hit her nose and at the same time reveal a young man’s face, red and perspiring. His rodent-like eyes seemed not to recognise her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lucy Mitchell. I’m buying Wern Goch.’

  ‘Shit.’

  That was enough. The door began to close against her, but she’d not come all this way to give up without a fight. Her fleece hood felt sodden, her whole body saturated, but she stood her ground.

  ‘I need your help,’ she began. ‘I couldn’t think who else to turn to. It’s urgent, believe me . . .’

  He was only nineteen, she knew that. Clearly a hot-head, but surely raising and caring for animals must have endowed him with some heart? She certainly wanted to think so, and waited in the minimal shelter of her car. To her relief the barn door reopened and Sion Hughes slipped outside then relocked it. He pointed towards the adjoining building leaving her to follow in his scented wake, giving her the chance to see bloodstains on the back of his shirt and the heels of his boots buried in dark green faeces.

  ‘In here,’ as he pushed open the front door on to a dark narrow hallway past a front parlour studded with rosettes where a middle-aged woman who seemed completely unaware of either her or her companion, sat near the window staring out through the net curtain. ‘Me mam,’ he explained. ‘She’s not been right since the foot-and-mouth, since we buried my da, but I try and keep her spirits up. Got some good new stock now, see. Suffolks is the best. Plenty of meat. Quick and easy it comes too.’

  ‘Are they inside somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, they’re inside, alright.’ He threw a glance back the way they’d come. ‘In the barn. Smokies now, mind.’

  ‘Smokies?’

  ‘Special treat for the London wogs. I torch the lot to a nice golden brown, just how they like ’em. All the bits an’ bobs as well, mind. They’re not fussy.’ He then shot her a warning glance from his small sharp eye before she could react, and it was then she realised he had false teeth. Bright acrylic ones, upper and lower, almost too big for his mouth. As if he’d been fitted with the wrong set. She watched his every move. ‘You tell anyone and you’re a gonner too. OK?’ He ran a grimy finger across his throat, which made her still delicate stomach freeze up as she nodded. ‘Not even the preacher. He’s getting on my tits at the moment, if you must know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Although no apology seemed forthcoming for hounding her on the road to Ravenstone or knocking Mark to the ground last Thursday, any friction between the two men might well be useful to her cause.

  ‘I think he’s jealous of my buying Wern Goch,’ she said, shamelessly lighting the blue touch paper, watching for the slightest reaction and seeing those eyes narrow even further. ‘I’ve heard he’s trying to acquire more land.’

  ‘He is that. Been leaning on me for some acres for a while now. But there’s more to it than what you think.’ He moved from the end of the hallway into a back room where an old-fashioned tiled fireplace and two worn armchairs in front of it were almost lost in other junk. Bulging suitcases, stacks of books, farming magazines and weathered old clothes as if someone had thought about selling up then changed their mind. Nothing to suggest that Sion Hughes belonged to any cult. Nothing at all. Even the two framed watercolours hanging lop-sided along one wall, showed innocuous enough views of Cader Idris, not some oak grove or men in feathers. ‘It was when the rumours started.’

  ‘What rumours?’ She’d have liked to sit down somewhere, even slip her sogging fleece off her back, but Sion Hughes wasn’t into courtesies. Besides, he clearly had thi
ngs on his mind.

  ‘That we were some kind of Druids,’ he went on and a sour laugh followed, in which his prominent Adam’s apple jerked around in his throat. ‘Even after what happened up by Abbey Cwm Hir. Oh, and guess what? That we were fucking gay. As if . . .’

  ‘Who started all this?’

  ‘That Mark Jones twat. And his father.’

  So contemptuous was his tone that she flinched. He was genuine alright and she felt more than just damp and miserable. She felt defeated as Hughes gave her another mini death stare.

  ‘Then getting Bryn to shift his stock was the last sodding straw.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘You could have stopped it happening. Anyway, he was so boiled up about you having the place he paid me to give you a fright. Make you leave. End of story.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny. I could have been killed.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’ For a second, he hung his wet blonde head. Drips from his jeans lay in a pool around his feet, darkening the floor tiles. ‘Since me da topped himself it’s been hard to keep going, what with me mam the way she is. The dough was useful, see.’

  ‘I do, and I’m sorry about your dad and everything, but for God’s sake, I’ve only been here just over a week and I could fill a book with what’s happened already.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He was curious. The Welsh have always loved stories she thought, but right now it was answers she wanted.

  ‘Were you tailing me near Ravenstone Hall on Sat around 4 p.m., having dumped sheep hurdles in the Hall’s driveway to block me in?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Me and Bryn were out at the Show. Stayed on for the terrier racing till gone seven. Then we hit the beer tent. Ask anyone.’

  ‘Okay, and what about my nice little note and the one on Mrs Jones’s grave? Mine says, you’re next, and hers had whore on it.’

  He paled. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m not, I assure you. Mr Jones is supposed to be looking into it.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘I know what you think of the man. But I’m just trying to find things out.’

  ‘About them notes. I don’t do stuff like that.’