by Phil Rickman
‘Where did you find all this out?’
‘General knowledge, lass.’
‘I mean about Mervyn Neale.’
Huw said that was fairly widely known, too. Not as secretive as they used to be, the Masons. Not in much of a position to be, now they’d been outed in popular books and most of the rituals were online. Taken Huw all of twenty minutes to find and download the Templar initiation ritual, with the sword and the skull and the threat of sunburned brains.
‘The Archdeacon,’ Merrily recalled, ‘was with the Bishop at the Duchy reception in Hereford, where Adam Eastgate first mentioned the problem with the Master House.’
‘Merv’s ears pricking up. Always been fascinated by Garway, the Masons. Funny you’ve not run into the bugger up there.’ Huw looked at Mrs Morningwood. ‘Where do you come into this, lass?’
‘Lass.’ Mrs Morningwood smiled wistfully. ‘How kind.’
‘This Sycharth Gwilym on the square, you reckon?’
‘Ticks all the right boxes, I should’ve thought, Mr Owen. His particular business, in a city like Hereford …’
‘Still a lout of clout in Hereford, the Masons,’ Huw said. ‘So I’m told. Cathedral. Tory council. You going to see Gwilym today, Merrily?’
‘I’ll call The Centurion again. Go this afternoon, if he’s free.’
‘We’ll have a quick chat before you go. Just go over them family names again — Sycharth … Gruffydd … Fychan …?’
‘Madog.’
‘Aye, that’s a good one.’
‘And …’ Merrily glanced at Mrs Morningwood. ‘Cynllaith?’
‘Cynllaith,’ Huw said. ‘Lovely. People round there really don’t know where all these names come from, Mrs M?’
‘We’re inclined to suspect Wales,’ Mrs Morningwood said, and Huw smiled.
‘I’ll do a last check. Use your computer, lass?’
He stumped off into the scullery, shutting the door, and Merrily turned to Mrs Morningwood.
‘People certainly seem to know about Jacques de Molay. Or they did.’
‘Naomi Newton.’ Mrs Morningwood took off her sunglasses and applied a tissue to an eye. ‘I suppose Roxanne related that episode in all its gory detail.’
‘Well, you certainly didn’t.’
‘Better you heard it from them. Not my family’s finest hour. Haunted my poor grandmother to her own dying day.’
‘Anything else you’re keeping to yourself that might be relevant?’
‘Darling, I have over half a century’s worth of knowledge. Who knows what’s relevant?’
Huw was back within a few minutes, nodding, satisfied.
‘If you were worrying about the Duchy of Cornwall, no need. You’re looking at the first generation of male Royals not tied up with Masonry. Duke of Edinburgh, he were one — lasped now, mind. Queen’s not eligible, of course, but her old man, George VI, he was well in. And so it goes.’
‘If Charles broke the chain,’ Merrily said, ‘how does the Masonic hierarchy feel about that?’
‘Aye, well, you might’ve put your finger on summat there, lass.’
‘Erm …’ Merrily shook out a Silk Cut. ‘In your message on the machine last night, you talked about …’
‘The feller who advised the Duchy of Cornwall that you wouldn’t blab.’
‘I think I’ve managed to contain my curiosity quite well.’
Huw looked at Mrs Morningwood, who gathered up her cigarettes and matches.
‘I need to go and bathe my eyes.’ She stood up, Roscoe stretching at her feet. ‘Perhaps apply something foul-smelling to other abused areas.’
‘Nice dog,’ Huw said.
‘Interesting woman,’ he said when she’d gone. ‘Always been attracted to strong ladies. When you get past a certain age, mind, almost all womankind develops a strange and sorrowful allure.’
Merrily sat back, arms folded, gazing at the ceiling.
‘All right,’ Huw said. ‘Sorry for the anticlimax. You were right first time. Well, I couldn’t say owt on the phone, could I?’
‘You bloody denied it!’
‘No big deal, anyroad. I’m not an official consultant or owt like that, just acknowledged as not linked to any of the factions in the Church. Safe pair of ears, in other words.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘No. Never. No need. Best not to, really. Basically, this is summat I inherited from Dobbs. No offence to you, but he could never trust a woman. And you weren’t around then, anyroad. Essentially, there’s a handful of us — Jeavons is another.’
‘Ah.’
Canon Llewellyn Jeavons, once tipped as the first black Archbishop of Canterbury — until his wife died and he went strange, becoming an expert on healing and deliverance with an email address book containing Somali witch doctors and Aboriginal songline-hoppers. It figured.
‘It was decided that certain people close to the throne needed a bit of looking out for. With regard to spiritual aspects of their lives and work. This lad, his heart’s in the right place, but he will keep putting his foot in it.’
‘BMA chauvinism and architectural carbuncles?’
‘Tip of the iceberg, lass. He gets frustrated and fires off letters to Government ministers. Well, fair enough, I say. An independent mind. If a man thinks he can see the civilized world going down the pan and he wants to use whatever influence he’s got to try and stop it, I’m all for it. But they don’t like it. Far as the Government’s concerned, the Family ought to know its place. Which is on the sideboard.’
‘Strictly ornamental.’
‘Exactly. You heard from that chippy little copper?’
‘Bliss? Yesterday.’
‘Got a feller on his back, you said.’
‘Jonathan Long.’
‘Aye. Slime like him, see, times’ve changed. Used to be the spooks automatically supported royalty as an institution. Now they’re Government animals. Servants of spin. And if the Government of the day should contain a number of people of, shall we say, republican instincts, in key positions … You know what I’m getting at?’
‘Go on.’
‘For instance, Governments, national and European, don’t like alternative medicine, they like straight doctors, drugs and drug companies. They like GM foods and meat imports and they don’t really give a shit for animal welfare. Or farmers, for that matter.’
Huw stopped and looked at Merrily. Merrily shrugged.
‘Plus, unless you’re Islamic and they can’t decide whether to bang you up or kiss your arse, this is now a secular country. Merlin the Wizard, he could be heading for the sideboard, too, and he knows it. And yet, despite what anybody says, there’s a great spiritual yearning out there.’
‘Just that the way some of it’s expressed doesn’t please some of our more traditional colleagues,’ Merrily said.
‘And if some of these oddball spiritual pathways appear to have been trodden by the heir to the throne — well, not good news for the Church, but not necessarily bad news for the republicans. Use it to shaft him again — eccentric’s one thing, bonkers summat else. There’s quite a body of opinion thinks this could turn out to be a good time to lose ’em.’
‘Dump the monarchy?’
‘Or stand well back and allow it to dump itself. A lot of cynicism about the Family right now. What’s your view?’
‘Expensive, undemocratic. And some, on the fringes, have been free-loading airheads. But, at the end of the day, I suppose I feel happier that they’re there. They represent something I feel kind of reassured to have around. Plus, can you think of a contemporary politician you could stand to see as President?’
‘Happen you’d’ve got on with Dobbs better than either of you thought possible.’
‘I’m guessing Dobbs was closer to all this than you. He knew Laurens van der Post, for a start.’
‘Aye, he did. Knew him way back, and renewed the contact not long before his death. See, there’s a lot of superstition around the monarchy, and Char
leses haven’t been too lucky. Charles I, executed — very public human sacrifice. Charles II had to hide in an oak tree, thus becoming the Green Man. You heard that one?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘The head of Charles II peering through the foliage … the green man to the life.’
‘I suppose it is. What’s the significance?’
‘A title which, for different reasons of his own choosing, could easily be applied to the future King Charles III. But because Charles is seen as an unhappy name for a king, the word is he’ll adopt one of his other names and become King George VII. Which doesn’t change things much, as your green man in churches has also been associated with Saint George. But that’s by the by.’
‘Huw, aren’t we getting just a bit …’
‘I’m giving you the folklore. The mythology. The superstition. Dobbs was a mystic. He believed the monarchy — good or bad, strong or weak — was preserving something fundamentally essential to the spiritual welfare of Britain … part of the soul of the nation, if you like. That if Church and State were still in bed together, nowt much would go wrong in the great scheme of things.’
‘So Charles suddenly announcing he wants to be defender of faiths plural …?’
‘Weakens it. At the wrong time, Dobbs thought. That’s where he and van der Post fell out. All that about all religions being the same dog washed, that came from van der Post.’
‘I don’t knock it,’ Merrily said. ‘If we can coexist …’
‘Aye, in theory. In practice, it gets politicized, and Islam wants to run the show. And that’s where the Templars came in — the first fusion. Picking up Islam from the Saracens, Jewish mysticism, Egyptian mysteries, happen some Celtic paganism and goddess-worship via the Cistercians. They were accused of undermining Christianity from within and happen there’s some truth in it. A multifaith multinational, building up massive wealth, very, very quickly. Undermining kings and popes.’
‘And did they practise some kind of ritual magic?’
‘It were said they used their knowledge of the so-called dark arts in warfare. Change the weather? Bring down mist, create storms? We’re never really going to know what they were about.’
‘And you see van der Post in the Templar tradition?’
‘In some ways. Mate of Carl Jung, who was an admirer of the Gnostics … and can you find a better Jungian archetype than the green man or the Baphomet? Ah, you can go on like this for ever.’ Huw started gathering up papers. ‘Folk might well be asking why the Duchy’s suddenly buying Templar properties in Herefordshire.’
‘Just the one, surely?’
‘No. Let’s not forget the big project — Harewood Park. Large estate, with an old chapel in the middle, granted to the Knights Templar in 1215 by King John.’
Upstairs, Roscoe started barking.
‘Why don’t I know these things?’ Merrily said.
‘And a satellite of Garway, as it happens. Could be pure coincidence, but some folks might see a significance. The Masons, for instance. They don’t like no longer having a foot under the throne. If he appears to be into Templarism, they’re happen wondering if he might not be ripe for a new approach.’ Huw looked up. ‘How do, lad.’
Lol had let himself in, having slipped off home in the early hours.
Merrily thought he still didn’t look too happy.
For some reason, he was insisting that when she went to see Sycharth Gwilym, she shouldn’t go alone.
49
Let Her Squirm
The word across Hereford was that The Centurion was already a gold mine. Converted out of a single-storey derelict factory off Roman Road, to the north of the city. Good access, sweeping views, plenty of parking.
And now that Roman Road had become the outlet for the network of new roads serving Hereford’s secret bypass … why, you’d almost think Sycharth Gwilym had learned something in advance.
Merrily had been thinking about this and what it might imply but now, suddenly, she wasn’t.
‘He did what?’
Sitting up hard, the seat belt straining.
‘Didn’t seem a good time to tell you last night,’ Lol said.
‘For God’s sake!’
‘I’m not saying Gwilym operates on the same level, but maybe it’s as well to know the kind of people you just might be dealing with.’
‘This …’ Merrily shutting her eyes ‘… is all my fault.’
Broken into the truck, hot-wired it, driven it away and forced the box. Then used another kind of hot wire on the Boswell. She stared at Lol, an acid sensation in her chest. Knowing he hadn’t gone to the police because that would have meant explanations. Same with the insurance.
‘It’s not … your fault. Can’t say Prof didn’t warn me about the kind of people he employed.’
‘It was your most precious …’
‘It was just a guitar.’
‘Four grand’s worth. More than that, a huge sentimental …’
‘Maybe,’ Lol admitted.
‘I’m going to call Al Boswell, see how much it would cost for him to replace it.’
‘Merrily, we don’t even tell Al Boswell. He’d take it very personally, and he isn’t getting any younger and all his guitars are like children. And neither of us has four grand to spare, and even if we did …’
‘Bastard.’ Tears stinging her eyes. ‘Plus, he’s giving you a clear warning that he’s going to try and destroy your career.’
‘What could he do? Independent producer, independent label …’
‘… Reliant on major distribution networks and chain stores. Sorry if this sounds like I’m getting drunk on conspiracy theory.’
‘But you …’ Lol glanced sideways. ‘You’re OK, though?’
‘Mrs Morningwood’s offered to give me more reflexology tonight.’ Merrily leaned back, trying to kill the tightness. ‘I’m fine. Much better. So this is why you were insisting on coming with me.’
‘I’ll stay in the truck when you go in, but I’ll be just outside. Call you on the mobile after an hour?’
‘How could they know the importance of the Boswell?’
‘Look …’ He sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’
‘But how?’
‘It was in Mojo. Someone showed me a copy at the gig. Concert review, picture of me and what — unmistakably to any musician — is a Boswell.’
‘How did you manage at the gig?’
‘Still had the Takamine, which they hadn’t damaged. You said do it for Nick, so I did. He was sitting at the back. He didn’t walk out.’
‘Lol?’
‘Kidding. I think.’
‘But it went well?’
‘Strangely, it did. I felt very tired afterwards. Slept for half an hour in the car park with the top of the box held down with bailer twine. Look, be careful in there. None of this smells good. Stourport, Gwilym, Mat Phobe.’
She’d told him about the anagram.
‘Of course, we only have Hayter’s word that Mat’s actually dead,’ Lol said. ‘This the entrance?’
Merrily looked up at an archway of sandstone.
‘Think it’s supposed to look like a Roman villa?’
‘Chapel of Rest, circa 1963.’
‘Maybe ’65,’ Merrily said.
This time, when she’d called, the receptionist had said that Mr Gwilym would be happy to talk to her at two-thirty. When she walked in five minutes early — best black woollen coat — he was already waiting, on the edge of a mosaic tile circle, standing between two small fountains burbling into bidet-type projections. Bending to her, handshake smooth and soft, like suede.
‘Mrs Watkins.’
‘Good of you to spare the time.’
‘How could I not? All so intriguing. My office is just here. Can I order you a drink? Coffee … wine?’
‘Just had lunch, thank you, Mr Gwilym.’
‘Here?’
‘A sandwich. At home.’
‘Most remiss of me not to h
ave offered you a proper lunch. My apologies.’ He shouldered open a matt-white door in a recess. ‘Business, of late, has been utterly frenet ic.’
His voice was public-school English but — whatever anybody said — there was posh South Wales down there, something slow and rhythmic like an evening tide washing against a jetty.
‘I wouldn’t have had time,’ Merrily said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’
For some reason, she’d been expecting barrel chest, spider veins, flashing eyes, belligerent — someone it would be easy to goad into saying too much. But Sycharth Gwilym was a loose, big-boned man with a jutting chin and grey-brown hair which rose and fell, like the plume on a knight’s helmet, and his manner was relaxed, his eyes pale and tranquil. And when you looked into them you didn’t see anything of Fuchsia Mary Linden.
Merrily’s confidence waned. This was going to take time and maybe skills that she didn’t have.
Mr Gwilym waited for Merrily to sit before moving behind his desk. The office had a picture window with a view over the car park, over the city, towards the cathedral and the river. White walls and a glass-topped, white-painted desk with the wood grain showing through. Twin swivel chairs in grey leather. A small conference table.
‘So …’ He sat down, leaning back, composed. ‘You wanted to ask me about the Master House.’
Behind his head was a large framed print: an engraving of a robed man with a forked beard, sitting in a Gothic canopied throne, holding a sceptre.
No prizes.
‘You do realize,’ Sycharth Gwilym said, ‘that the house hasn’t been in my family for over a century?’
‘I do know that. But it does seem to have been occupied by Gwilyms for several centuries before that.’
‘I’m not entirely sure about Gwilyms, as such, but various of my ancestors, yes.’
Start off with the routine stuff. Merrily brought out a pad and a pencil.
‘Do you know exactly how long the family was there?’
‘I do not know when the family was not there. Although records — such as they are — go back no further than the fifteenth century.’
‘That would be the time of the Owain Glyndwr rebellion.’
‘Indeed. Mrs Watkins, may I … inquire the purpose of this? The stories I hear about the nature of your mission to Garway are probably far more lurid than the truth.’