Mr Flynn placed their order then cracked each of his finger bones in turn. So he was preoccupied. Tough. He’d not been assaulted, lied to and insulted. He could damned well pay for her.
“Not only did Jason see a guy who might be Llyr Davies…” she began, but was cut short.
“There is no Llyr Davies. Understood? That’s the end of it.”
“He was hanging around Heron House yesterday before he picked me up,” Helen raised her voice. “And I swear this morning he was in a phone booth not far away from us in Thornhill Road.”
The Irishman cracked his left thumb joint, making her start. Reminding her of an abattoir she’d seen on TV when the poor beasts had fallen and not got up.
“Remember what I said about a doctor?” he said.
That’s nice.
Just then, their coffees and buttered toast arrived. He spooned extra sugar into his coffee cup, drained it and poured himself another. The thug off-limits for the moment.
Helen glanced at her toast without much appetite while a toddler, dressed against the chilly morning, looked in and waved at her. Normally, she’d have waved back, but when she didn’t, the child moved off, visibly disappointed. Mr Flynn took a big bite of his toast. Melted butter glossing his lips.
Her da was always more communicative when eating. She had nothing to lose.
“What was the name of Heron House’s owner?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
Don’t hold your breath.
“Edmund Pitt-Rose. A fine judge, so I’ve heard.”
She recalled that pristine plot in St. Barnabas’ Church graveyard. The name of his wife, Joy. The repainted gold leaf inlays. And Jason. How he’d eyed her over the tops of the memorials.
“A busy man, by all accounts. Worked away most of the time.”
“Is that why there was a governess?”
Another disconcerting look. A small shake of his uncombed head.
“First I’ve heard of one.”
She nibbled some more of her toast, her heart running too fast from being on constant alert. She wasn’t going to mention Nancy Powell. At least, not yet. But she could try another tack.
“Did Charles ever have a sister?”
He blinked, clearly caught on the hop.
“I may be many things, but I’m no genealogist.”
Leave it...
Her boss got to his feet, drained his cup and left a pound coin next to his saucer. “Time we said hello to Ms Salomon. And please, light of my life, no mention of my books or anything controversial. I need information, not approbation.”
He treated her like an idiot. He wasn’t going to get away with it that easily. “You’ve hardly mentioned anything about Charles to me. Why?”
“My dear Helen, you’ve quite enough on your plate already. But hopefully when we’ve seen the solicitor and then his flat, there might be more light than darkness.”
With that quasi-solicitous tone, he was holding something back. A duplicitous enemy. She was certain of that now. Just then, his black coat seemed too big in the café doorway. His voice, exhorting her to hurry, too loud.
***
She followed him out into the anaemic sunshine. A world away from the mists and shadows trapped by those haunted Welsh hills. But here, she was the one trapped. By his agenda. His crap. However, as they walked on towards Hurst Crescent and the solicitor’s house, she decided it was time for some sharing. Word for word she relayed the ghostly young woman’s message that Jason had heard on his phone – not once but twice. Her recent strange dream of that young woman’s face and how Gwenno Davies had, only last night, tried to kill her.
26.
Saturday 12th October 1946 – 10 a.m.
For three days and nights, Peris Morgan’s story clung to Lionel’s every waking thought and, with an inspection due on 3rd November, threatened to derail his important preparations. The advance letter notifying him had only arrived at the school yesterday but it lay secreted in his desk drawer like some bad omen.
Just eighteen months into the post, his future there would surely depend on a good outcome. A future spent struggling to show that beyond the farming seasons’ demands – lambing, shearing, tupping, mulching, sowing, harvesting – lay pools of knowledge waiting for his charges to drink. But supposing the ‘Welsh Not’ was abandoned? The curriculum he’d so carefully honed instead delivered in an ancient tongue he could never master?
As he slipped both arms into his coat sleeves, and wound a plaid scarf around his neck, Lionel sensed deep in his bones that wouldn’t be his problem. That another year would see him gone. His borrowed cottage’s iron door handle, fitting so solidly in his gloved hand, would be replaced by a more flimsy affair, attached to some ordinary door in some ordinary terraced house in some ordinary urban street. But not in Birmingham where too many memories lay. No, not there.
***
With its build date of 1872 set in a stone plaque above its porch, Troed y Rhiw was a modest, square-shaped villa adjoining another, rendered in the same dull grey pebble-dash, but enlivened by a cotoneaster bush, bright with berries that pressed against the side of the porch. The four dark windows reflected the even darker contours of Dinas Hill but what made Lionel pause by the bell, instead of pulling it, was the sound of piano music he recognised, tinkling osmotically through those sturdy walls.
Bach’s Goldberg Variations – stately and profound.
He knew the young organist lived alone. That his parents had both passed on – his father, from a seizure the day after his son refused the call-up. His mother, from a slow-growing tumour of the brain. So Beynon ‘The Shop’ had told him not long after his arrival.
“She’d bring food down to the miners here. In the smelt it was. No thought for herself, had Buddug. No thought at all,” he’d said. “A fine woman. Pity for her, mind.”
Lionel pulled on the bell cord and waited for the music to subside; to at least continue until the end of the phrase, but no. There came a sudden stop, and Robert Price’s bleached face appeared in the nearest window for a moment and was gone. That’s it, thought Lionel, preparing to walk away. But then the door opened an inch or two and he was beckoned into a gloomy hallway.
“I thought it was someone else,” explained the young man, leading the way into a back room, simply furnished but lined by bookshelves full of music books and sheet music, some new, some yellowed and worn. Photographs too, of various family members including one of young Gwilym smiling, astride a donkey. “I have to be careful about answering the door, especially after...” he took a poker to the small coal fire, jostled the more ashen lumps into the grate.
“After what?”
“The visitation last night.” The young man gestured towards a nearby chair; but best to stand, thought Lionel. At least until he’d finished his story. “Edmund Pitt-Rose it was. And another man I’d never seen before in my life. Dressed up like farmers, they were. Even down to their boots, and worse.”
“You mean weapons?”
Robert nodded. Fear still in those wide brown eyes, but Lionel’s mind was too much on fire with Peris Morgan’s extraordinary story to plunge straight in. This young man needed coaxing, not a stick.
“But why here? Why you? Because of your stance on the War?”
“Sit down, sir. Please. Let me take your coat, or can’t you stay?”
“I can for as long as you need me to. You offered to help me. Now it’s my turn.”
That seemed to relax him, but instead of sitting where Lionel could see him, chose to stand behind his chair. In the old-fashioned mirror over the fireplace, Lionel, having unbuttoned his coat, saw that tense face close to tears.
“My crime is to be in love,” the deserter began. “Yes, there have been other girls – while I was studying music in Cardiff – when I began giving recitals throughout Wales, but no-one like... like the one with dark eyes. The most beautiful, wonderful person on this earth. Margiad Joy.”
“Edmund P
itt-Rose’s daughter?”
Robert nodded.
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen. I met her by accident, back in April it was. She was in St. Barnabas’ graveyard putting daffodils on her mother’s grave. I’d just finished a rehearsal for Easter Sunday’s service, and there she was. Like a vision. But nervous, mind. Looking over her shoulder all the time as if she shouldn’t be there. And guess what? There was Gwenno Davies, all togged up in riding gear, on her pony, lurking by the lych gate. Spying on us.”
“Did you notice her carrying a gun?”
“What!” Those brown eyes doubled in size.
“She had one when she threatened me. Looked ready to use it, too.”
“How dare she, the minx. But this is what we’re up against.”
He went over to the nearest set of bookshelves and extracted a bound copy of William Williams’ hymns, opened it at the middle and removed a black and white photograph. “That’s Margiad. Up on Pen Cerrigmwyn last month. She’d managed to escape her guards...” He passed it to Lionel whose fingertips immediately felt numb. That description was indeed apt. The tilt of her lovely, oval face, her dark hair lifted by the breeze. However, her smile seemed forced. Those eyes troubled.
“Are these so-called ‘guards’ Idris and Gwenno Davies?”
“Yes. And a governess too, I believe.”
“Her name?”
“Margiad’s not said. But sir, I swear to God it’s not normal there. Do you understand what I’m saying? Every time her father’s name comes up, she just freezes.”
He moved closer. “She’s in danger, sir. I know it, here in my heart.”
“Does mention of The Order ring any bells?”
Robert frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”
“A small group of men at Heron House behaving like beasts yet who think they’re above the law they’re supposed to uphold. Your recent visitors no less.”
The young man paled. His fine hands trembling. “Her father?”
“So I’ve been told…”
“Stop, Mr Hargreaves! I can’t listen to any more. Are you implying Margiad’s involved in this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Lionel handed back the photograph and rubbed his fingertips together for warmth. He got up and, in the few steps he took to reach the young organist, his oath of secrecy to Peris Morgan dissolved like February’s snowfall under a surprise winter sun.
“What I’m about to tell you, must stay between these four walls. You mention danger – a word not to be used lightly – but I believe you’re right. And that danger is what young Walter Jones witnessed and died for. Margiad being taken back to Heron House by car as if she was a prisoner. Screaming, she was. Struggling to get out. Although I’ve kept that story hidden for too long,” Lionel laid a hand on Robert’s sunken shoulder. “We must trust each other. If we can’t, then I stop investigating now.”
The organist turned to face him. The full intensity of his anguish almost unbearable. “I trust you, sir. But before you say any more, there’s something else you should know. Margiad gave me some news the Thursday before Walter’s funeral.” He pressed the photograph to his chest, the weight of his hand creasing the back of it. “She’s six months pregnant. And it’s not mine. I swear on my dead parents’ souls, it’s not mine.”
***
Lionel left Troed y Rhiw burdened further by the harrowing exchange in that room full of creative works by those writers and composers driven to right the world’s wrongs through their craft. To show the oppressed and downhearted a higher meaning to this mortal coil.
Yet, as he crossed the strip of main road and headed up more directly this time, towards Cerrigmwyn Hill, he knew that if only he and Robert could find proof of Margiad Pitt-Rose’s secret Hell, they could, together, release her and bring real justice to bear.
And twelve-year-old Betsan Griffiths would be a start.
27.
Sunday 5th April 2009 – 1 p.m.
Llyr’s head was messed up, inside and out. Having to abandon his precious van was bad enough. He’d been turned away from that full-up Travel Lodge at Leigh Delamere too tired to think straight, never mind drive. No wonder he’d done a roll-over for all to see. But would The Order understand? He’d have to wait and find out. Whatever, it was too late to get replacement wheels organised. He still had another job to do.
After the roll-over, he’d kipped in some shitty barn till it had been safe to emerge, almost suffocated on the train from Reading, before the cattle-truck underground to Highbury & Islington and arriving here. A last look in the mirror over one of Camden tube station’s stained urinals was enough to make him slap more cold water on to his hot newly-shaved jaw. Pull his beanie down as far as it would go.
London didn’t agree with him. Never had. Not even when The Order had stumped up for the Euston studio flat two years ago. Nor when Charlie had treated him to a made-to-measure suit and striped tie from some posh Dorset school and whisked him off to the Pullman Club in his Bentley. Not even with dinner there costing two hundred quid a head.
Suddenly, he wasn’t alone. Some coon – the only word of his mam’s that he really liked – bulked out by a fluorescent safety jacket, was pressed up next to him. Too too big, like the cock he was holding as he pissed.
“Want some?” he said, shaking off the drops. “I’m clean. Got proof.”
“Fuck off.” And with that, Llyr elbowed him away and pulled open the door. Was that the click of a knife he heard behind him?
“No-one disses me, d’you hear?”
Too many steps up to Camden’s daylight. Too many bodies and the guy right behind him. Llyr could tell by snatches of yellow flashing in the corner of his right eye. He’d got enough on his plate, what with his van and The Ginger bint snooping around with that waste of Irish skin. He was glad he’d put the frighteners on her, not that it seemed to be making any difference. And as for the leprechaun chatting up the cleaner outside Charlie’s flat, he should have finished him off when he’d gone down that adit up Pen Cerrigmwyn last year. Come to think of it, his whole life had been one of botched jobs and missed chances. But perhaps at last, thanks to the chicken choker lying in the Royal Free Hospital’s morgue, things would take a turn for the better. Soon, he hoped. Like this afternoon. But there was still that Hounslow nerd with the ear stud, gelled hair and crap jeans poking his nose in. Asking too many questions. Now came shouting, yelling, swearing. He pushed through the human tide like the scrum-half he’d once been at the special school until a solid, deep sting in his left calf slowed him down. Then the right leg, through denim to bone.
Shit...
Someone pulled him to the top step and placed him in front as Mr Yellow ran off into the crowd. “You bleed,” observed a French-sounding voice. “You need attention.” This guy in a sheepskin coat, pulled out his phone. Just then, Llyr saw his future caged in. This time by bars.
“I’m OK. I’m OK,” he muttered.
Either the Frog was deaf or a serial do-gooder. Whatever, Llyr snatched that Samsung from his hand, squeezed out from behind him, and crept down the first alleyway he came to, aware of a deepening pain in both lower legs, and the soft, warm sensation of blood filling his boots.
***
He’d soon got shot of that mobile and his own giveaway beanie before finding an open doorway to what appeared to be a deserted pub. The Lamb & Whistle. Just the kind of quiet dark he needed. Christ, he was hurting, losing more blood. He must keep on his feet, get back to Wales to check out what he’d removed from Flynn’s study. But first things first. From his lookout in that phone booth in Thornhill Road, he’d seen the Volvo turn into Fylde Street leading to Euston Road. He’d known then that the traitor and The Ginger were heading for Charlie’s solicitor in Camden and wondered how he’d found out about the death. No matter he himself couldn’t be there in person. He’d soon find out the result.
And then like a black flash, he realised that if he did collect big
time, the pigs could be fingering him as a prime suspect if things looked suspicious. Had Michael Markham, and others in The Order, thought of that when they’d pushed him Charles’ way two years ago? Perhaps that’s why an urgent meeting had been arranged with him in Dulwich for tomorrow morning.
“I just cleaned up, ye sod!” A woman’s voice reached him from beyond the faintly lit bar as he made for the Gents. “Where d’ye think yer goin’?”
She appeared from the gloom. As fat as his mam was thin, with a skirt split halfway up to her bare thighs. “Get out!”
He turned to face her, knowing that would do the trick. His smooth, glistening head, those round blue eyes. They’d worked in his favour at the special school and with the stiff due to be cut up in three days’ time. The stiff he hoped would soon be helping him on his way.
Seconds later, in a back room with a brown linoleum floor and a plasma TV showing some old black and white flick, she cleaned him up, wrapped a makeshift bandage under each rolled-up denim hem and wiped out his boots.
“Fancy a beer?” she said, really meaning, ‘d’you fancy me?’
“No, ta.”
“Ye’ll need stitches,” she said, straightening up. Disappointment in her made-up eyes. “Got a phone?”
He nodded. His blood was too hot. He had to get out and back on the trail. The Order wanted nothing less. As for his van, although not taxed or insured, it could still lead to him. Attention neither he nor his paranoid bosses needed.
Two silhouettes were standing in the doorway. He could sniff pigs a mile off. Wondered what the dangerous Paddy had spilled about him in Tolpuddle Street.
Shoving past his Florence Nightingale into a cluttered kitchen area, he found an unlocked back door and, biting his lips to stop himself yelping in pain, limped out into a yard full of old beer barrels that led to another alleyway where at last he was on his own.
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