by Phil Rickman
And then Siân, who so far had been displaying a reasonable attitude to this insanity … Siân blew it.
‘You’d better tell me everything,’ she said.
33
Turn Over Stones
Over dinner — rain rolling down the dairy’s main window, silent as tears of old grief — Merrily asked the Murrays how much they knew about the Grays and the Gwilyms.
‘Our friends either side of the great divide,’ Teddy said.
Lifting his wineglass, as if in a toast, his silhouette a magic-lantern show on the white wall behind him in the lamplight.
‘Not that you’d know it,’ Beverley said. ‘They sound exactly the same. Not as if the Gwilyms have Welsh accents, let alone speak Welsh. Well, certainly not … Oh, I never know how to pronounce that man’s name.’
‘Sycharth, Bevvie. We’re inclined to say Sickarth, but it’s Suckarth. Yes, it’s an odd thing. If someone lives just a few yards over the border in what might seem to be a very English part of Wales they become determinedly Welsh Welsh. Perfectly affable chap, though.’
‘Not that we see much of him,’ Beverley said, ‘since his business has become more Hereford-based. Rich enough now to have a farm manager.’
‘And his family owned the Master House,’ Merrily said.
‘Since medieval times, I believe.’ Teddy nodding. ‘I can certainly tell you something about that.’
His version tied in with Mrs Morningwood’s. As a result of the sudden death of the head of the family, the house had been sold around the turn of last century. The wife, embittered at the way she’d been treated over the years, had got rid of it almost before anybody noticed.
‘Causing an awful fuss, but there was nothing the Gwilyms could do,’ Teddy said.
‘But the Master House is in England.’
‘Well, yes, Merrily, but a part of England that seems to have been more Welsh, in its time, than many parts of Wales. In religious terms, particularly. Both early Welsh Christianity and Welsh Nonconformism in the nineteenth century have their roots hereabouts. And, of course, if Owain Glyndwr’s rebellion had been successful in the fifteenth century, the border would have been redrawn, putting this whole area in Glyndwr’s new, independent Wales. You do know about Glyndwr’s connection with this area?’
‘He’s supposed to have retired here, after his campaign collapsed.’
It had always seemed odd to Merrily that Glyndwr should spend his last years in the border area where he’d caused maximum damage, burning down most of the major castles. You’d have thought he’d feel safer in some Welsh heartland.
‘Hidden away, more like, with a price on his head,’ Teddy said. ‘A celebrity outlaw. His daughter, Alice, had married a Scudamore from Kentchurch Court, and they might have helped to conceal him. He was never caught, he just disappeared. There is a legend that he once hid out at the Master House — but, then, lots of places claim that connection.’
Beverley said, ‘It’s the sort of legend I imagine some of the Gwilyms liked to pretend was actual history.’
‘And they’ve been trying to … reacquire it?’ Merrily said. ‘I mean, the Master House?’
‘Periodically, yes. I’m not sure how bothered Sycharth is now.’
‘I heard he was totally hell-bent on getting it back.’
‘Well, you could be right.’ Teddy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. How are your plans going, as regards, ah …?’
‘Still thinking it would be good to get the Gwilyms and the Grays under that roof. Especially as it no longer belongs to either of them. No better time to heal old wounds.’
‘Would you like me to have a word?’
‘With?’
‘The Grays, at least. They come to church — Paul in a wheelchair now, poor chap. My feeling is that they were more than glad to get rid of that house. Whether you believe in some sort of spiritual malaise or not, they haven’t had much luck. The question is, will they come if the Gwilyms are going to be there? I don’t know. I’ll talk to them. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thank you, Teddy.’
‘If I tell them someone from the Duchy of Cornwall will be there?’
‘I’ll try and talk to the land agent tomorrow.’
‘Not the, ah, Duke himself, presumably.’
‘At a rite of cleansing?’
‘Quite.’ Teddy smiled. ‘Although that would certainly bring both families out of their cupboards, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would also bring the Special Branch out of theirs,’ Merrily said. ‘And, on the whole, I don’t think my nerves would stand it.’
Earlier, sitting on a corner of the bed at The Ridge, with the bedside lamp on, she’d called Lol on spec, a bit surprised to catch him in.
‘I’ve been back all day,’ Lol had said patiently. ‘Last night’s gig was Brecon. Thirty miles?’
‘Of course … sorry.’
‘Old hippies and young soldiers, mainly.’
‘What?’
‘Brecon. It’s a garrison town. Plus a few girls who couldn’t have been born when Hazey Jane started.’
‘Groupies?’
‘In Brecon?’
The power of bad dreams. Merrily closed her eyes. Sometimes you could punch yourself in the mouth.
Lol said, ‘Been watching Canon Callaghan-Clarke familiarizing herself with the village landmarks: church, market hall, Black Swan, Gomer Parry …’
‘I’m sorry. Couldn’t even let you know we were getting her. Events … overtook.’
Lol had met Siân only once, last spring, during a tense and troubling evening in Ludlow Castle, when Siân had finally been exposed to the blurred reality of deliverance. Not a comfortable night, for any of them.
‘Not a problem,’ Lol said. ‘I kind of thought you’d wind up going. Under the circumstances.’
Not a problem? Why wasn’t it a problem?
‘Lol, I’m sorry, it’s … I’m still a bit tired. Got up feeling lousy and wound up having foot-reflexology. From this Mrs Morningwood. It was … strange.’
‘But it worked?’
‘Something worked. I think. It’s just knocked me out a bit. After some moments of rare clarity, I’m tired and confused again, but yeah, I feel better. Don’t knock it.’
‘Merrily—’
‘Never straightforward, this job. You turn over stones, things crawl out. You ever come across Lord Stourport?’
‘Lord …?’
‘Stourport.’
‘Well, we’ve obviously exchanged nods at various receptions,’ Lol said. ‘Buckingham Palace garden parties, that kind of …’
‘You’ve never heard of him, then.’
‘No.’
Merrily took a long breath and told him, in some detail, about Lord Stourport’s time at the Master House, his supposed connections with the music industry. About Mary Linden nearly thirty years go. It was good to talk about it, to bring it out of the dreamlike fug of the day.
‘We think she was abused.’
‘Abused how?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t know anything for certain. Or even if there was an element of fantasy. Drug-fuelled. I mean, it was a very long time ago but I really, really don’t like the feel of it.’
‘How about I ask Prof about this guy,’ Lol said.
‘Prof. Of course. That would be … What the hell is that?’
Her head wouldn’t process the clamour, but its vibration brought her to her feet.
‘You OK, Merrily?’
‘It’s …’ She started to laugh. ‘It’s a dinner gong.’
And no time to hang out of the window to smoke half a cigarette.
‘A period boarding house,’ Lol had said. ‘I so envy you.’
* * *
There was a strained kind of formality about the Murrays. As if she was a child they were in the process of adopting.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Merrily …’ Beverley was putting out nut roast; why did non-veggies always think it had to be nut roast? ‘…
You seem rather … sleepy. I was quite worried about you this morning. Now, you don’t look unwell, but you do look exhausted. And Teddy, please don’t say anything about the powerful air of God’s own country.’
‘Actually,’ Merrily said, anything to get this sensible woman off her back, ‘I had some treatment today.’
Telling them about Mrs Morningwood. No reason not to. Presumably it was a legitimate business, the reflexology.
Beverley frowned. Teddy looked intrigued.
‘It was effective? Because I’ve often thought of consulting her myself. A lot to be said for preventative therapy. Beverley’s not so sure, though, are you, Bevvie?’
Beverley didn’t reply until she’d finished serving the nut roast, the onion gravy and the veg.
‘It’s nothing to do with alternative therapy, which I’m sure has its place. I just never know quite what to think of Mrs Morningwood.’
‘In what context?’
Merrily realized how hungry she was, the body craving food, even nut roast. Beverley sat down, pushing a strand of blonde hair away from an eye.
‘Oh, you hear things. Put it this way, if Teddy was to go I’d certainly make sure I went too.’
Merrily’s fork froze just short of her lips.
‘Something of a man-eater,’ Beverley said. ‘That’s what they say, anyway.’
‘Mrs Morningwood?’
‘Always strikes me as a little … threadbare for that sort of thing. Eccentric, deranged. The way she drives around in that big Jeep, taking corners too fast. Sorry, I didn’t mean deranged, I think I meant disarranged.’
‘Can’t say anyone’s said anything to me,’ Teddy said. ‘Apart from you, of course, Bevvie.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t, now, would they?’
‘Blimey,’ Merrily said.
She ate slowly, aware, it seemed, of every spice in the roast. Aware of herself eating — that element of separation which sometimes came with extreme physical tiredness when the senses, for some reason, were still alert.
Gossip. There was, unfortunately, a place for it; it was often the most direct route to … if not the truth, then something in its vicinity. She looked at Beverley.
‘Who are we talking about, then? Mrs Morningwood and … who?’
‘Oh dear.’ Beverley pouring herself some water from a crystal jug. ‘I wish I’d never …’
‘Ah, now you’ve started …’ A slightly sinful sparkle in Teddy’s blue eyes. ‘Can’t not tell us now, Bevvie.’
He knew, of course. Merrily watched their eyes. They must surely have had this discussion before. Now they were having it again for her benefit, passing on something they thought she ought to be aware of. Especially if submitting to further reflexology.
‘Farmers. I was told,’ Beverley said.
‘Farmers plural?’ Merrily blinked. ‘I mean … how plural?’
‘Well … at least two, certainly. I suppose she has that sort of rough … edge that I imagine a certain kind of man would find attractive. Admittedly, always farmers living alone. And it never seems to lead to anything. No evidence that she’s after anyone’s money, if you see what I …’
‘An independent sort of woman,’ Teddy said. ‘Was she ever married? I’m never quite sure.’
‘In London,’ Beverley said. ‘She was in London for over twenty years. Long enough to lose her local accent, certainly. But she came back, unmarried, re-adopting her maiden name, and whatever she gets up to … is a question of roots, I suppose. They go back many generations in Garway, the Morningwoods. Whatever they do is accepted.’
‘Whatever they do?’
‘Well, her mother … oh, I hate this.’
Beverley drank some water. Teddy leaned back.
‘It’s all right, I know. The family has quite a history of what are now known as alternative remedies. Folk remedies. What were known as wise women. There’s an old tradition of nine witches of Garway, and her mother and grandmother were more in that mould. Allegedly.’
‘They were …’ Merrily looked up ‘… considered to be witches?’
‘They dispensed herbal remedies. They were also said to — no way to dress this up, I’m afraid, Merrily — assist girls who got themselves into trouble.’
‘Oh.’
‘Used to be a local social service, didn’t it? No great need for it now.’
Merrily remembered Gomer Parry’s uncharacteristic reticence on the subject of Mrs Morningwood.
Beverley looked down at her plate.
Lord Stourport — Lol was surprised to find out that he did know him. Well, knew of him, mainly — they’d met, briefly, maybe a couple of times.
‘I never realized,’ he said on the phone to Prof Levin. ‘Jimmy Hater.’
He’d called around nine p.m., when Prof habitually took a coffee break from whatever album he was mixing. Often, he would work through midnight, the cafetière at his elbow. An addictive personality, but caffeine was safer than the booze of old.
Lol said, ‘I remember he always sounded kind of upper-class, in comparison with most of the others.’
‘Real name James Hayter-Hames,’ Prof said. ‘If you were rock ’n’ roll management in the punk era, that was not a good time to let it get out that your family was even posher than Joe Strummer’s. Hayter on its own, however — that was a strong and impressive name to have. Especially if you left out the “y”.’
‘I didn’t even know about the “y” for a long time.’ Lol recalled a stocky, strutting guy, Napoleonic. ‘I used to think it was a completely made-up name, like Sid Vicious. You ever produce anything for any of Hayter’s bands?’
‘Produced, no.’
‘Engineered?’
‘For my sins. Post-punk death-metal. Not my favourite period, Laurence. Bearable at the time, with three or four bottles of red wine, God forbid, on the mixing desk. That era, I like to draw a curtain across it. Death metal — mostly foul. Jimmy Hayter — a twat.’
‘Still?’
Prof said, ‘Once a twat …’
‘Where does he live? I mean, is he accessible?’
‘Yes and no. He inherited the pile eventually, of course. It’s a responsibility. Nobody wants to besmirch the coat of arms. On the other hand, the family seat gobbles wealth. And farming, even big-time farming, doesn’t pay half the bills any more. So the earl, whatever he is now, he keeps his hand in, and when the roof falls in on the orangery or something he puts on a festival. On the very fringe of his estate, naturally. The house a mere dot on the horizon.’
‘Where is the house?’
‘I dunno, someplace south of Brum. Stratford way, possibly. I could find out.’
‘Death metal,’ Lol said. ‘A lot of occult there?’
‘Generally pseudo. Guys on Harleys, with skull rings and slash-here neck tattoos. So … occult … this would be a Merrily inquiry, would it?’
‘Would he talk to her, do you think? Say, on the phone?’
‘On the phone, Laurence, he won’t say anything worth the price of a cheap-rate call. And, frankly, the last thing you want is to expose a woman as appealing as little Merrily, with or without the dog collar, to Jimmy Hayter. Especially with his lovely wife, her ladyship, living a lavishly subsidized life in France, her physical role in his life complete … and, from what I hear, bloody grateful for that.’
‘Would he speak to me, do you think?’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘Maybe in the interests of … I don’t know … keeping the past where it belongs?’
Lol had the map book open on the desk in the window, marking out the route to a village he didn’t know, outside Gloucester. Tomorrow night’s concert: a big pub with a folk club, the kind of intimate gig which, on the whole, he preferred. He pushed the page under the lamp. How far from Stratford? Forty miles, fifty?
‘The situation is, Prof, that in his youth Jimmy Hayter seems to have been part of a commune. In a farmhouse down on the Welsh Border. Some of what they might have got up
to … it would help Merrily to know about that.’
‘Might have got up to?’ Prof said. ‘What’s that mean? Do I like the sound of that? I don’t. What does Merrily say?’
‘She says it gives her a bad feeling.’
‘Never dismiss a woman’s feelings, good or bad,’ Prof said, and Lol could hear the clink of the beloved and necessary cafetière, the slurping of the brown elixir. Then a silence, then, ‘Jesus, Lol, you need to understand, you must not threaten this man.’
‘Don’t take the glasses off, then?’
‘Laurence, listen to me. Jimmy Hayter … stately home, dinner parties with the gentry, but the guys with the skull rings and the slash-here tattoos, they still dig his garden, you know what I’m saying?’
34
Shaman
Teddy was right, it had once been an accepted rural service, like blacksmithing, and there had been an opportunity for Muriel Morningwood to talk about it and she hadn’t.
My mother would awake in the morning to hear her throwing up. Coming to the obvious conclusion. Which she put to Mary.
Merrily lay on the bed, gazing up at the wardrobe. Just a wardrobe, mesh over its ventilation slits, nothing like Garway Church.
There was a different light, now, on Mrs Morningwood Senior’s motherly concern for Mary Linden. Finding out about Mary’s pregnancy, would she have offered to terminate it, or what? What had actually passed between them to cause Mary to leave the Morningwood house before morning?
Need to know. Did she need to know? Was this important? You kept turning over stones and uncovering other stones. At which point did you back off?
There were times when deliverance could seem like the most rewarding role in a declining Church, but it was also the most ill-defined.
It was not yet nine p.m. Needing to think about all this, Merrily had accepted Beverley’s assessment of her level of fatigue, taken herself upstairs. Had a shower, put on a clean T-shirt, lay down, her body instantly falling into relaxation … but her damn head just filling up with questions, anomalies …
Tomorrow she’d need to talk to Sycharth Gwilym. Might find him at his farm, or it might mean driving into Hereford.