Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  “Does Llyr Davies know he’s Edmund Pitt-Rose’s son?” Mr Flynn demanded. “If not, why not keep it that way?”

  “It’s my duty to inform him,” she replied sternly. “I also need to find out who’s Miss Griffiths’ solicitor, and if DNA tests do prove he’s a Pitt-Rose. I’d be legally bound, whatever his situation, to advise him of his rights. However, should he end up in prison, any assets could well be frozen.”

  “Could be?” Mr Flynn said.

  “A legal black hole, I’m afraid. You being Irish, Mr Flynn, are probably aware of the situation regarding convicted terrorists.”

  He nodded, while Helen’s low-down ache carried on biting with a vengeance. She visualised her old bedroom in Borth. Would this really be her next stop? The possibility of such a sad sign of defeat was looming large.

  Dee Salomon was checking her watch again. Mr Flynn got up, gesturing for Helen to do the same. His greasy, tousled head even more out of order. “What about the money I get for keeping the Davieses until they go?”

  “That agreement ended on March 31st last. Any provision of a roof for them will, from now on, be in conflict with the deceased’s wishes. Mr Pitt-Rose is clear on that.”

  Yet Helen knew The Rat and her brother would, when Llyr Pitt-Rose became aware of his new status, surely be staying put.

  Just then, without warning, another’s voice pushed its way through her rising fear. That of a man. Welsh. Urgent, breathless, like the young woman she’d heard earlier:

  “Again. Do it again for St. Peter‘s sake! Faster, faster. I’m nearly there...”

  “I can’t.”

  “You damned well will. Marky’s next. Been waiting long enough.”

  “Judge Markham‘s too big, daddy. He tears me. Makes me bleed…”

  “He’s used to that. Just pretend it’s…”

  “What’s wrong?” Mr Flynn was staring at her.

  Jason, that’s what.

  “Nothing.” She then faced the solicitor. “But did Charles Pitt-Rose ever refer to a Judge Markham at all?”

  She suddenly noticed a blue vein pulsing in her boss’ neck.

  “Why?”

  “Or Marky?”

  The Irishman, having produced his chequebook, was suddenly very busy digging around for a pen while Dee Salomon flicked through the rest of the document and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “Miss…?” she faced her expectantly.

  “Jenkins. Helen Myfanwy.”

  “Miss Jenkins, as this news is now in the public domain, I can say that Judge Philip Markham passed away yesterday morning. His cancer finally defeated him. Not only was he a credit to his profession, but his son’s also very well thought of. Now then,” she eyed Mr Flynn busy topping and tailing his cheque with a less than steady hand. “I really do need to be leaving here in five minutes.”

  “Did Charles ever indicate that Betsan might have had living relatives?” he asked, rather too quickly.

  “No, and no-one so far has come forward. However, they’d need to be traced sooner rather than later.” She placed the completed cheque in her neat pink handbag. “I’d also be interested to learn what happened to this older sister, Margiad. There’s no sign of any Death Certificate and in the case of Betsan being the sole survivor, Margiad may herself be alive or have living issue. Now that would cause an interesting scenario.”

  30.

  Saturday 12th October 1946 – 10.30 a.m.

  Golwg y Mwyn, unlike Troed y Rhiw, faced the mid-morning sun. It comprised three modest rooms and a privy abutting into a once well-tended but now dying vegetable garden set against part of the hillside. Lionel closed the wooden back gate behind him, marvelling at the triumph of human toil over the slide and settlement of Ordovician rock that had shaped Cerrigmwyn Hill.

  Nevertheless, these withered remains of potatoes, carrots, onions and swede still lay in shadow, seemed to echo the general air of sadness surrounding this humble cottage. Digging for Victory had clearly served mother and daughter well, but now within these weather-beaten walls the quietest but keenest girl in his class was hiding. He knocked on the back door with his fist, primed for disappointment. But, no. Mrs Griffiths, the large, once handsome woman appeared as if she’d been waiting for him. He’d only met her once before at the school’s Summer Fayre, where her table full of home-made cakes had emptied in ten minutes.

  “Betsan’s not set foot outside since she came home for lunch after that quiz of yours,” she confirmed his suspicions, eyeing him from her vantage point on the back door step with the look he’d seen so many times in this part of the world. Sharp, knowing. Her hands whitened by flour. “Never said why mind. Missed choir practice too, even though that Mr Price shouldn’t be in Rhandirmwyn at all. Off her food, too.” She stepped down, moved closer. “Did something happen at school? That why you’re here?”

  He stared past her into the kitchen where she’d clearly been busy baking bread. With a loaf now costing 4d, this made sense, and the smell of it brought a sudden hunger. “Mrs Griffiths, I do really need to speak to Betsan, for several reasons.”

  The bread maker’s eyes narrowed.

  “Those two Liverpool lads, is it? Dim they are, and nothing but trouble.”

  “No. Not them.”

  “Best come in. But she’s barely said anything since this morning. And when Betsan goes quiet, that’s it. Shall I take your coat?”

  “I won’t be stopping long, thank you.”

  ***

  The sun, pulled clear of its cloudy veil, filled the back parlour with an almost holy light, turning the twelve-year-old’s hair the colour of his late mother’s wedding ring. It also caught the many pretty porcelain pieces displayed along the mantelpiece and in matching alcoves either side of the fire. Perhaps they were heirlooms, thought Lionel. Carefully added to over the years. A possible source of cash too, should the widow and her only child ever need it.

  As for Betsan, wearing a brown hand-knitted cardigan and a skirt, obviously cut down from one of a larger size, she sat cross-legged on a multi-coloured rag rug with a book of biblical stories on her lap, facing a freshly-lit coal fire. She didn’t look up when her mother introduced him, instead stared fixedly at one particular page. Lionel inched closer to see it bore a dramatic image of St. Peter’s unusual crucifixion – all pain and grief.

  Her index finger continued circling the disciple’s open mouth.

  “Does that upset you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Sometimes it’s all I think about. That and...” She clamped a hand over her mouth as if she’d said too much, but Lionel knew that with the right tone of voice and gentle persuasion, she might help him solve what had driven Walter Jones’ young heart to stop beating. “You shouldn’t have asked about things at Heron House in your quiz, sir.” She glanced up at the door to the kitchen, now closed. Lowered her voice. “They’re punishing me already.”

  He’d taken care not to mention that place by name. It was she who’d turned a general query into the very particular.

  “They? What do you mean?”

  The girl set her book aside, got to her feet and reached up to whisper in his ear.

  When she’d finished, Lionel stepped back. If his most conscientious pupil was to be believed, then she, too, was in a very vulnerable situation. His cheeks began to redden, not from the modest fire, but the realisation that Walter Jones had inadvertently witnessed Margiad Pitt-Rose torn from her meeting with Robert Price and driven back to Hell. To The Order, as her father and his ‘guests’ called themselves.

  “Her baby’s due in the New Year,” Betsan added. “But it’s not Robert’s. Oh, no. They’ve only done kissing. She’s told me everything, see. Before that, she’d been losing blood. Too much blood. So a blessing and a curse, I suppose.”

  Lionel was no doctor, but he remembered his own mother’s monthly problems. How in the end, she’d had her womb removed. “Every month?”

  Betsan blushed. Glanced at the door, still whispering. “No, sir. Every time s
he did it.”

  She snatched at his coat sleeve. Her round, open face tense with fear. “Please help her, sir. Please help to hide her somewhere away from her father and those other men. That’s what she wants. She told me last week. Please sir...”

  Those wide blue eyes had begun to cry. Her mouth to tremble. He mustn’t risk Mrs Griffiths hearing anything or bursting in without warning.

  “I promise I’ll do what I can. Tell her that, won’t you?”

  “Yes. And thank you, sir. But watch out for Idris and Gwenno. They’re…” she hesitated, glancing around the room as if there was a chance of being overheard, “evil.”

  That last word stung him like a needle, coming as it did from such a normally mild-mannered girl.

  “So why did you ever go there?”

  “For company, sir. I’d no friends at school or in the village.”

  “Any sign of a young brother Charles?”

  She then must have heard her mother hovering behind the door because she quickly picked up a porcelain figurine of a child holding a spaniel puppy and placed it in his open palm. “For you, sir. It’ll bring you luck.”

  “No, you don’t,” came her mother’s voice from behind him. “It’s not hers to give. Besides, and the Lord knows I’ve tried to be civil, Mr Hargreaves; but you’ve caused enough trouble here, what with Walter going the way he did, and now my Betsan a changed girl.”

  Lionel returned the ornament and, having given her daughter a reassuring smile, squeezed past the broad-hipped Welsh woman, into the kitchen and outside.

  ***

  No sooner had Lionel closed the back gate behind him, than he was aware of being followed. Of heavy breathing and the rub of boots against the stony ground. Without turning round, he quickened his pace. Memories of his impromptu visit to Heron House and that sharp-faced girl in riding clothes with a lethal-looking crop and gun, kept him moving, twisting off balance on loose stones, occasionally grabbing the nearest piece of fencing to steady himself.

  “Stop, please, sir!” came the unfamiliar voice of a young woman, and Lionel half-turned to see the organist’s photograph come to life. An awful, frightened life.

  “I’m Margiad Pitt-Rose. From the prison up there. Take me with you. I’ve heard you’re a good man. Carol and Betsan both said I could trust you.”

  Carol?

  He stared at that stricken face dominated by a fresh bruise around her left eye, then at the pronounced swelling of her stomach under her coat. His shy pupil had been right. Margiad Pitt-Rose was unmistakably pregnant.

  “Who’s been hurting you?” he asked.

  “All of them.”

  “The Order?”

  She turned away. “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind. Just give me names.”

  “I can’t. Not ever. You’ve no idea what they could do to you.”

  A pause, filled by the sudden rush of rooks overhead flying towards the forestry.

  “Walk in front,” he suggested recklessly. “I’ll shield you. But please, even fields have ears.”

  What on earth was he doing? He asked himself repeatedly as the track widened and the short cut down to the road appeared. He’d only the one bed; one of everything. And what if the baby arrived prematurely, like he himself had done?

  ‘It’s not too late to say ‘no,’ urged his censorious inner voice. ‘This is madness.’ And yet, Betsan’s concern had been genuine. This young woman whose black, wavy hair was lifted from her shoulders by the rising breeze, whose moving shadow connected with his, had nowhere else to go.

  ***

  “There’s a back way into my cottage,” he said, once they’d reached the road with thankfully no-one else in sight. “I’ll show you.” And within the minute, she was indoors, removing her coat and gloves and warming her blue-tipped fingers by his still-guarded fire. Lionel drew up the same chair that Peris Morgan had sat in and asked if she’d like a cup of tea. If she was hungry.

  “You’re very kind, Mr Hargreaves,” she said, “but I’d rather you draw your curtains and make sure both your doors are bolted. Does that sound mad?”

  “Of course not,” and while he busied himself, realised with a rising sense of danger, that from now on, his previously ordered life wouldn’t be the same. “You need to be safe. That’s what Betsan said.”

  He detected an almost eager flicker in her lovely eyes.

  “Did she say why?” She leant towards the fire’s warmth, still spreading out her cold fingers. “Did she explain what I’ve had to bear since I became a woman?”

  “Without too much detail, yes. But...”

  “I’ve money,” she interrupted, without turning round. “Been well paid for what I do. But it’s dirty money, and Robert Price must never learn how I’ve earned it.” She fixed those large dark eyes on his. “You didn’t seem at all surprised when I said his name. Have you been speaking with him? Have you?”

  Lionel paused. He imagined being a trapper faced with an angry, frightened bear. “I had to borrow some sheet music for school,” he lied too easily. “But he did seem tense. Apparently, your father and another man he’d never seen before had warned him off.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “May they burn in Hell,” she whispered, then crossed herself. “And where’s Charles when it matters? Precious, selfish Charles. My young, carefree brother.” She transferred her gaze to the fire. Lionel noticed the heave of her thin shoulders, a tear drifting down her cheek.

  Just then, came the click of his cottage’s front gate latch and an urgent knock on the door. Margiad sprang to her feet and, with some difficulty, crouched down behind the armchair she’d been occupying. Lionel peered through a tiny gap in the closed curtains, his carotid artery banging in his neck. Curtains drawn like this halfway through the morning could only arouse more suspicion.

  Carol was standing with her cob by the gate. But not the Carol he knew. His sigh of relief short-lived. She gestured him to join her. Her face tense. Her grip on Lucky’s reins tight enough for him to toss his head up and down in protest. She handed over an envelope postmarked Carmarthen. Probably to do with his ever-encroaching inspection.

  “Sorry I can’t ask you in,” he said to her, and meant it. “I’m afraid. I’ve got company.”

  “Oh?”

  “They won’t be long,” he dissembled, aware of his sudden blush.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she lowered her voice. “Listen, I had to tell you about yesterday. I’d just been delivering the mail up at Heron House. You won’t believe it. No-one would.”

  “Believe what? That everything there’s all sweetness and light?”

  Carol frowned. “This is serious. For a start, I’ve proof that Glyn Prydderch our local constable is in cahoots with them up there. Standing next to that Pitt-Rose brute, he was bragging about his sexual prowess. How some time it would be fun to try a…” she hesitated. “A really young one… a virgin. Even another boy. It’s disgusting. I wanted to wash my eyes and ears out after hearing it.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  Lionel’s precious class reappeared in his mind. Innocents, born at the wrong time, with fathers, uncles, even grandfathers ruined by war. And what about those like himself, in positions of trust? It was beyond horrible to believe her.

  “Another boy? Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  That clear, fragile sky seemed to darken as if a cold dusk had descended. Like a rock meeting river water, he stepped forwards then back. It was too soon to hold her close. To feel her rapid heartbeat connecting through his pullover, shirt and vest to his own. That would have to wait.

  “Where was this?” he asked instead, as Lucky whinnied in impatience.

  “By the pool. Having heard voices, I sneaked over there, wondering what was going on. And that’s not all. There she was as well. Bold as brass, I’m telling you.”

  “Who d’you mean?”

  Now it was her turn to blush. “Margiad,
you know, pleasuring one of the other men. I could tell that’s what she was doing by…” She stopped to compose herself. “Early thirties he was, like her father. Him and the constable were watching and enjoying it. Egging her on. Edmund Pitt-Rose’s own daughter. Can you believe it? And she’s pregnant. I wish I’d had my old camera. The prints would have been real proof.”

  Lionel didn’t need her to spell it out. That noose he’d already felt round his throat was tightening with every second.

  Carol looked up at him with pink, swollen eyes. “Never forget what old Peris Morgan said.”

  “How can I?”

  Although he could have held her close all day and night, Lionel guided her out into the road. “And what you’ve just witnessed, well, it shows the old soldier wasn’t making things up.”

  She faced him again. Her tone suddenly changed. “So why, if he’d warned you, is that trollop inside your cottage? Look at her, staring out at me. Bold as brass.”

  Trollop?

  Lionel whipped round to see Margiad’s face framed by each curtain. Her bruise now more black than blue.

  “So, she’s your company. The reason I wasn’t invited in. You must be seeing her, too.”

  Lionel’s neck began to burn.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Carol. She’s desperate. And I mean desperate.”

  “If you believe that, forgive me, you’re a fool. She loves what she does up there. Everything. Even screaming when poor little Walter saw her. All put on for effect.” Carol brushed the worst of the dirt from her knees then began to walk away. “Just don’t come to me when the kitchen gets too hot. She’ll bring you down, Lionel. She’s bad luck.”

  Carol half turned his way and, although she’d stopped speaking, her lips still quivered. “Just when I thought you and I might become more than friends.”

  31.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 4 p.m.

  Jason jumped down from the Nissan, still dwelling on Helen’s shock at his stop-start account of Gwenno Davies and the equally expert Margiad. He had to grab the nearest fence post for support as yet another bout of dizziness cocooned him. He wished to God he’d kept quiet about the whole sordid episode, but the cleaner was a loose cannon. Better his version of events reached Helen’s ears first. But would she ever trust him again?