Without giving him a chance to thank her, and having stuffed her curly brown hair back under her cap, she gathered up her reins and began to move off.
“By the way,” he called after her, “you haven’t by any chance noticed a large black car around here?”
“Why?”
He hesitated. Carol visited every door in the neighbourhood, often stopping to chat to those who’d not seen another living soul all week. But behind those doors lurked a multitude of mischievous tongues. Best to tell a lie.
“Last week during lunchtime, I took a walk up Pencarrig Hill and saw one travelling up the forestry road like a bat out of Hell. Nearly ran me over.”
She thought for a moment while Lucky’s front hoof struck the ground with impatience. “The only one I can think of belongs to Heron House. What make was it?”
Walter hadn’t said…
“Not sure, but thank you anyway. I’m sorry to have kept you.”
“No trouble.” She raised a hand in farewell, kicked her mount on.
Heron House?
He’d never heard of it, neither had there ever been any children from there at school. He knew the class registers better than his own heart from as far back as before the Great War, when its doors had first opened. His curiosity about the demographics of this, a typical rural Welsh community through two major upheavals and the loss of coal and lead mining, had turned to astonishment upon discovering how many inhabitants had left for the New World and Patagonia. Most, evolved from the ancient Brythionic tribes, had chosen to leave their homeland that sustained only forestry, livestock farming and seasonal fishing. He’d also wondered how many had regretted their decision.
Now, he found himself following the cob’s doleful hoof beats, even though the track became muddier and more slippery. “Who lives up there?” he called out after Carol. His voice thin in the choking mist. “I mean, at Heron House.”
“Some big-wig judge, I think. Never met him though. Just the girl and boy who help out. Most of his mail’s from Cardiff, mind; but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Double-barrelled, that’s for sure.”
“And the younger generation?”
“Too old for your school, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She drove the cob forwards. “Got to move, Mr Hargreaves, or I’ll never get round.”
And so all trace of her faded, leaving him to imagine her sturdy figure rising and falling to the trot’s regular beat.
***
As if arriving at Nantybai School without his carefully filled briefcase wasn’t bad enough, half of Lionel’s class of twenty were absent, with no explanation given. While he donned his Birmingham University gown before pinning up four posters showing the pyramids of the Nile and Tutankhamun’s tomb on the wall next to the blackboard, those pupils who’d elected to attend, stared at him in a way he’d not experienced before. Ten pairs of accusing eyes kept up the punishment while he called the register. They’d brought the fog in with them. It clung to their damp clothes, their flattened hair.
Three boys, seven girls, most of whom had been at Walter’s funeral and, when the last name had been called, Lionel Hargreaves made a decision. He was about to rely on a hunch as slender as the vaporous air now dispersing over the desks.
“Instead of learning about Hiroshima or the massacre at Oradour sur Glâne, which took place in France just four days after the Allied landings, we’re staying much closer to home. In fact,” he replaced the tin of drawing pins in his desk drawer, “I want to find out just how clever and observant you all are.”
The surly stares vanished just like that cold, white cloak that had descended on the whole area overnight.
“How’ll ye do that?” asked Dai Meat’s son, Aled; deliberately omitting the word ’sir.’
“By a little general knowledge.” He glanced from one child to another. Most were, like Walter, small for their age. All except Aled who had access to plenty of protein without a ration book’s permission. “Now then, have you each a piece of paper and a pen? The answer should be yes. If not, come up to my desk. Oh, and at the end, there’ll be a prize,” he added, without thinking what or how... A paper kite perhaps? Or a set of coloured pencils conjured from nowhere?
The scramble that followed took him by surprise, and not for the first time, he remarked to himself how easily people are bribed. Even the young. Especially it seemed, the young. When all were ready, keenly watching his lips, he withdrew his watch and, for maximum visibility, laid it on his blotter. He mustn’t jump straight in. Rather, try a more circuitous route to the answers he wanted. “You have four minutes per question. Number one,” he began. “How many working farms are there within a ten-mile radius of The Fox and Feathers?”
“Why?” Aled again withholding the word ‘sir.’
Lionel didn’t reply. The other nine pupils were thinking hard. Thanks to his efforts, all could at least write legibly. Better in English than Welsh which was more the language of the hearth and, if the current ‘Welsh Not’ continued, doomed to stay there. Also, all, unlike some of their older relations poisoned by the lead fumes, were thankfully compos mentis.
While they wrote, he stared at Walter Jones’ empty desk and then at the floor where he’d fallen. All trace of his blood had been cleaned away, making the next question more necessary. “Now then, name all the big houses within that same ten-mile radius.”
“Poshies and Saesnegs,” piped up Alys Humphreys whom he knew had been abandoned as an infant and taken in by the smith and his wife just two doors away.
Her neighbour, Betsan Griffiths, an unusually fair-haired twelve-year-old, glanced up at Lionel as if expecting a reprimand for even breathing the same air as Alys. But a reprimand could wait. Too many words were already flowing on to paper, especially from this same blonde pupil whose father had perished on Normandy’s Juno Beach. Whose final letter home sent in May 1944, hadn’t arrived until last Monday. “Time’s up. Question three is transport. How many different pony and traps have you seen since summer ended?”
“This is stupid,” hissed the orphan. “What do we need to know that for?”
“A prize.” Aled now busier than the rest.
“Question four,” Lionel continued. “How many camouflaged trucks are still being used by the Home Guard?”
“My tadci’s one of them, sir,” boasted Kyffin Morgan, the lad nearest to Walter’s desk, and his best friend. “Did you know he’s being kept on till Christmas, just in case? You seen his pillbox down by the Towy?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Or the barbed wire he won’t let anyone touch?”
Lionel shook his head. To him, all this smacked of paranoia. Not the only dark side to this otherwise lovely part of the world. “And finally,” he returned to the job in hand, and the most important question of all. “Number five, everyone. Wait for it. How many big black cars?”
***
Once the small class had trooped off home to lunch, he scoured their answers, aware of his late father’s less than positive opinion of him peck-pecking at his mind. Supposing there was chatter in their homes about big houses and luxury cars? Supposing someone other than friendly Carol Carr would soon be knocking on his door? The girl with the gun came to mind.
Before also leaving the schoolhouse, Lionel placed all but one of the answers into the smouldering fire, where the addition of paper made the flames turn blue and reach up the chimney. With not a moment to lose and the fireguard securely in place, he locked the door behind him. Freed from his gown and, with gloves on and coat collar pulled up over his ears, he followed the track away from his cottage, up towards Cerrigmwyn Hill. Each step bringing a tangible sense of foreboding.
13.
Saturday 4th April 2009 – 1.30 p.m.
Helen had never seen anyone eat so fast, not even Mr Flynn after most of a morning spent in this very place. Jason had used fingers too, when a knife and fork would not only have been more civilised, but might also have demonstrated that after all the
touching and hand-holding up on the hill, she wasn’t invisible.
He gobbled up the last of his chips and washed them down with a half pint of real ale that Judy Withers, the publican’s dolled-up partner, had suggested he try.
“I thought you were feeling queasy,” Helen said ungenerously. She’d barely touched her scampi. When she’d broken the first bread-crumbed shell, the colour and smoothness of what lay inside, had so reminded her of Aunty Betsan’s dead flesh, that she preferred to pick at her lettuce leaf instead.
“I was.” He wiped his mouth with the edge of his sweatshirt sleeve and, with the first unwelcome pangs of a period pain, she realised how different from women men really were. Less guilt for a start.
“What did you make of that Gwilym Price referring to Heron House as an asylum?” she began, as a couple wearing damp Barbours entered the room, with a brown Labrador in tow.
“We’ve been through all that. Probably jealous. I mean, if he has to resort to killing poor rooks for a living.”
Indeed, they had been through all that, while struggling down through the torrent from Golwg y Mwyn – now a crime scene – to this warm haven. But Helen wasn’t so sure about Jason’s too-slick answer, and resolved to speak some more to the farmer. Sooner rather than later. “I wonder if he didn’t have a thing for Betsan, though,” she ventured. “And not just for her cawl. Even though she was quite a bit older. Just the way he touched her. Did you notice? He didn’t hang about getting the cops and the ambulance either.”
“But did you see his face when the Fuzz did show up? If looks could kill.”
Obviously still hungry, Jason was studying the laminated menu’s dessert section. “He wouldn’t be top of my list for a party.”
He gestured to the blonde at the bar and, having checked that Helen didn’t want anything else to eat, ordered himself profiteroles. “Mind you, his suffocation theory was interesting. Might nick that idea for my thriller.”
“At least the fat cop didn’t dismiss it.”
“Mr Halitosis?”
She nodded. Being grilled at the bungalow by DC Rhydian Prydderch plus his equally large sidekick Sergeant Rees for half an hour had been no joke, and she’d been almost glad to get back to Heron House to check if her boss had perhaps made contact. If the roof was still in one piece. Only when The Rat had waylaid them both with a barrage of questions, did Helen suspect the woman knew nothing of Mr Flynn’s last-minute plans or of Betsan Griffiths’ death. OK, she’d told herself. The nutter could catch up at three o’clock. Officially.
“You two feeling a bit better now after your ordeal?” Judy Withers enquired over the heads of her latest customers both knocking back a double G&T apiece.
“Yep, thanks,” smiled Jason, while Helen tried to stem the small surge of jealousy that made her wish the bubbly blonde with the glossy lip plumper had work to do in the kitchen.
No such luck. She was bringing over his profiteroles. A lumpy mountain of chocolate and cream. Her perfume in close-up was way too strong. Poison. Heffy’s favourite, and, a fleeting memory of the two of them running along Aberystwyth’s promenade in the blustery west wind, made Helen’s eyes sting all over again.
“She were a real pet, were Miss Griffiths,” the woman said. “Let’s just hope it were natural, if you get my meaning.”
“So do we.” Jason’s annoying smile still lurked at the corners of his mouth as he attacked the mounds of choux pastry. “There are several possibilities as to what happened.”
“Can’t think who’d want to do her in. No-one from Rhandirmwyn, that’s for sure. I expect the police will soon be here picking our brains. Let’s hope we can help get a result.” She walked away on her strappy, heeled sandals. Panty line visible beneath her tight skirt.
“You mean, get yourself in the papers,” muttered Helen under her breath, signalling to Jason she wanted to leave. He however, seemed rooted to his seat, staring after her. “How long have you both been running this place?” he asked before draining the last drop of his beer.
“Almost two years now.” The blonde began wiping over the bar and polishing the mirror behind it. Her reflected mouth doing the talking. Her kohl-rimmed eyes on his. “So any folks we’ve not yet met, we’ve certainly heard of them.”
Helen felt her hackles rise. How could these people possibly know what lay hidden in Heron House’s shadows? She pushed her loaded plate to the middle of the table as Jason began speaking again. “So have you heard of anyone called Margiad? Possibly connected to Heron House.”
“Not me. But my Doug might know. Sounds an old-fashioned name to me.”
Jason looked disappointed.
“And speaking of Heron House,” the woman now caught Helen’s eye and turned to face her. “Where’s that gorgeous Mr Flynn of yours? Never usually gives us a miss.”
A second shot of jealousy hit Helen’s heart. Her interrogator must have remembered their one visit here together. May have fancied him.
“London,” said Jason before Helen could fob her off. “Maybe to do with some businessman there who’s just been found hanged. A Charles Pitt-Rose.”
“Thanks, you.” Helen landed a kick to his left shin. He let out a yelp and stood up. His already rosy cheeks burning bright. A small blob of cream on his chin. “We agreed not to spread this around.”
“You OK?” Judy Withers looked concerned.
“I’ll have to be,” he replied, making for the door, while Helen pulled her waxed coat off the back of her chair. Unrepentant, she too needed space to think. To rebuild the wall she kept around herself. To guard what little remained for her paintings yet to be born.
“Now then, that name rings a bell.” The blonde announced all of a sudden.
Helen started. Saw her lift up the bar flap and come over again. “The moment your boyfriend said it, I knew.”
Meanwhile the ‘boyfriend’ had placed himself outside the window, staring in, while Helen’s pulse rate quickened.
“Used to live where you are. So Mr Price said.”
“At Heron House?” Helen asked.
“That’s the one. With two of those special places where herons breed.”
“Heronries?”
A nod. “All killed, they were. Pulled to pieces, so he said.”
Asylum...
Helen watched Jason disappear from view up the road. “That’s terrible. Who did it?”
“No-one seems to know. I think at one point, Mr Flynn planned to restock till he began exploring other ideas that could make him some dough.”
“You mean writers’ courses?”
The other woman seemed surprised. “He’s not mentioned them. Mind you, a nice little earner for us if that did happen. Our new menu’s really taken off.”
Helen was tempted to sit down again. That dull, monthly ache had intensified. She needed a paracetamol and a hot water bottle, but DC Prydderch was coming to the house at three o’clock, and she had to be there before The Rat nibbled at him first. “There are some Pitt-Roses buried in the churchyard,” Helen said.”Edmund and his wife Joy.” She then added their death dates. “Were they from Heron House as well, I wonder?”
“Not sure. But we heard it were empty a good while before Mr Flynn came along. At least, sort of empty.”
“What do you mean?”
Just then however, a troupe of hungry campers, Helen assumed were from the Towy’s riverside site, converged on the bar, bringing the wet afternoon in with them. Helen managed to pay, pocket her change then slip out behind them, too deep in thought to notice she was being watched. In fact, more than watched. Followed.
***
Helen caught up with Jason at the top of the track that led to Heron House. “How’s your leg? I didn‘t mean to kick it, you know. It’s girl stuff, OK? Otherwise known as The Curse…”
Suddenly he stopped. Faced her with beer still on his breath. He placed both hands on her shoulders with such a weight, she tried to free herself.
“Look, I’ve gone through quite a
bit recently. Do you understand? Do you?” His voice sounded different in ways she couldn’t explain. “And now I’ve a book to write. Why I’ve come back here. Or have you forgotten?”
“Come back here?” she repeated. “I don’t get it.”
He let go to produce his wallet and extract two twenty-pound notes which he stuffed into her coat pocket. “Petrol and pub grub, so I don’t owe you anything. And by the way, I got through to Orange. They’ve no record of either of those calls I had. Not a sausage.”
She handed him back his money.
“You had more than one call?”
“Yep. Two. The second was an hour ago up at Betsan’s place. I didn‘t want to freak you out.” He moved on, lengthening his stride, and that same sense of loss she’d felt, when following Rhys Maddox’s coffin at his funeral, enveloped her.
“According to that blonde bombshell in the pub, a Charles Pitt-Rose did live here,” she called after him. “What d’you make of that?” But he was too far away; his black-jacketed figure soon lost amongst the wall of still-bare trees that seemed to guard the old, neglected swimming pool.
She then heard him and another man speaking, but couldn’t make out who. Time to return indoors. Period pain or no period pain, there was important work to do.
***
With the cop’s visit only fifteen minutes away, Helen wasted no time and, having checked as best she could that no-one had tailed her indoors, ran up to the first floor with the weight of her wet coat slowing her down. She continued to run along the narrow, unlit corridor until she turned the nasty little corner where Mr Flynn’s office-cum-bedroom was situated over the lock-ups.
Her head throbbed like a beating drum. Her mouth dry as dust while she tried to compose herself, listening harder than ever for the slightest sound of her adversary, The Rat; mentally preparing herself for lock-picking. Last autumn, there’d been a cop drama on her mam’s TV, where a banished husband returning to the family home, used his Visa card and a ballpoint spring on the property’s more vulnerable side door. She’d watched closely, little realising how soon she’d be aping this actor’s every move.
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