by Rachel Green
“I did. I also remembered your wife wanted you to cut down.”
“She just worries about me.”
“Quite rightly too. You’re not getting any younger, Inspector, and diabetes is a real threat these days.”
“No one used to get diabetes in the old days.”
“That’s because they didn’t eat as much convenience food, fast food and snack food as people do now. Did you know there’s as much sugar in a fast-food bowl of porridge as there is in a whole caramel bar? And almost as many calories as there are in a burger?” She shook her head. “I was shocked to hear that.”
“I’m sure.” White took another sip. “If it’s not diabetes it’s cholesterol. If it’s not cholesterol it’s fat and if it’s not fat it’s high blood pressure.”
“Unless you’re like that unfortunate chap in there.” Meinwen motioned at the cemetery with an upward nod.
“No. Poor bugger.”
“What happened?” She pointed back along the road. “I’ve been watching from my bedroom window. I couldn’t see any actual details, of course.”
“Ah.” White looked down at the cup, his mouth a taut line. He seemed to come to a decision and lowered his voice. “I suppose a kindness deserves a trade. This is strictly confidential, mind.”
“Of course, Inspector. You know you can trust me.”
“Right, yes. It looks like a brief struggle followed by a murder. I say looks but we haven’t ruled anything else out yet.”
“Anything else?” Meinwen shook her head, puzzled by the phrase. “What was the cause of death then?”
“Officially, he bled out.” White took another sip of the tea, tilting the mug close to horizontal this time. Meinwen struggled to press him further before he finished the mug.
“And unofficially? What weapon was used?”
“Unofficially he was knifed to death. Two wounds, one in the stomach, one in the chest. It was the stomach wound which killed him.”
“How long ago?”
“A couple of hours. Maybe three. Time of death is notoriously difficult to pin down. Where were you between the hours of seven and ten?”
“Why? Am I a suspect?”
“Of course not. I wondered if you’d seen anything unusual, that’s all. You’re notorious for...” He waved a hand, leaving the sentence desperate for a conclusion.
“Being nosy?”
“Your observational skills, I was going to say.” White drained the mug and handed it back to her.
“I was at the shop until a little after six, then at Phillie’s until seven, then the solicitor’s on Dark Street and then home. I didn’t see anything, though, the house is too far back.”
White let out a sigh. “Of course it is. You led me on with your claim to have been watching from your bedroom.”
“It wasn’t a lie, Inspector. I could see the flashing lights.” She dropped the mug back into her pocket. “I just couldn’t see any detail.”
“Of course. Well played, as my constable would say.”
“Thank you.” She touched his arm. “Did you find the weapon?”
“Yes. Not far away, as it happens. Dropped or thrown. It’s gone down to the station to be dusted for prints.”
“I thought you had a glass plate machine for those?”
“That only works for people’s hands. We still have to dust objects the old fashioned way.”
“Oh. Of course. I should have realized that.”
“Right.” He gazed through the railings where a canvas screen had been set up. Shadows flashed across the surface from the officers passing between it and the arc lights. “Must get back. They’ll be wanting to move the body, poor sod.”
“Right you are, Inspector. The poor man with be in my thoughts.”
“I’m sure he will. Like father like son, eh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The victim was Richard Godwin. Stabbed to death, just like his father four years ago.”
Chapter 14
Meinwen pushed open the front door of The Herbage and sank into a chair. Richard was dead? She could picture the young man so clearly. Laughing, good-humored jokes, his love for his new bride so evident it had reduced many of the wedding congregation to tears before they even got as far as the vows. How could a man with such a lot to live for be cut so suddenly from the mortal coil? She barely heard Dafydd speaking, let alone what he was actually saying. It wasn’t until he pressed the handle of a steaming mug into her hands that she looked away from the spot on the carpet where she’d spilled a glass of wine the year before last. “What?”
“I asked what had happened. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Dafydd squatted by the side of the chair and took her free hand. “You didn’t, did you?”
Meinwen shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. Quite the opposite, really. There’s a man been murdered in the cemetery.”
“Oh!” Dafydd looked at the window as if he had sight that penetrated curtains. “Oh dear. That’s not good, is it? You don’t expect to find a body in a cemetery.” He frowned. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“No.” She took a sip of the tea. It was one of the lighter white teas from her specialty cupboard, meant to be taken in a bowl. This tasted like Dafydd had put three heaped teaspoons in a pot and served it in a mug with milk and sugar. He meant well. “Not this man, anyway.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes, rather well, actually. He’s the son of the man I came to Laverstone for. Richard Godwin. I went to his wedding a couple of years ago. He couldn’t have been more than...what? Twenty-five?”
“Oh.” He patted her free hand. “I’m sorry. No wonder you were white as a sheet when you came in. Poor bugger, eh? How did he die?”
“He was stabbed. Stomach and chest. He must have died in agony.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“Yes.” Meinwen sniffed, casting about for somewhere to put the tea down. “Especially for him.”
Dafydd pulled the coffee table closer and guided her hand to it. “Yes. Sorry.” He stared at her until she thought she must be an exhibit in a live freak show. “How about some whiskey?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have any. I don’t have any alcohol at all, bar the elderflower. I should, though, for times like this.”
“I’ve got some in my bag. Would you like a drop? It’s Penderyn.”
Meinwen smiled slightly at the familiar name. The Welsh distillery nestled in the Brecon Beacons was as familiar to her as bara brith and male voice choirs. “Go on then. Seeing as it’s from home.”
Dafydd grinned and went upstairs, returning moments later with a bottle of peated single malt. He put it on the table and fetched two glasses from the kitchen, pouring them each a generous measure.
“Dioch.” Meinwen raised her glass to the air. “At Rhisiart. Fynnoch at Ceki anad ’r andras chnotiau ’ch re farw.”
Then she slammed the alcohol down her throat before the tears began to fall.
Chapter 15
Meinwen opened her eyes to the sound of the rain spattering against the bedroom window. It was already past dawn but the birds were silent. It felt like a sad sort of day but Meinwen wasn’t one to be dismayed by rain. She rather liked the drumming of it. Soothing.
She yawned and closed her eyes. Was it really so urgent to get up? There were things at the shop that needed doing but no rituals were scheduled for today. The paperwork was up to date and the bills paid–just. She was lucky she had free rent on the cottage or she’d have gone under by now, signing on as unemployed or working as a shelf stacker for minimum wage. The only thing she had to get up for was the appointment at the Larches at eleven.
She sat bolt upright. Richard. There’d be no appointment with Richard ever again. He’d be lying on a steel table at the morgue, waiting to be cut open for an autopsy.
So who killed Richard Godwin? There had to be a connection between Richard and John Fenstone, surely? John had the ring with Richard’s mark.
/> A long snore interrupted her thoughts and she glanced across at Dafydd lying on his back with his mouth open. She’d forgotten that aspect of him. A quick dig in his ribs with her knuckles encouraged him to turn onto his side, whereupon he broke wind.
Meinwen scrambled out of bed for the relative safety of the bathroom. She switched on the ancient shower to heat up while she brushed her teeth, then luxuriated in the cascading heat for three and a half glorious minutes until the header tank in the loft ran out and the water turned as cold as the river Laver. Well practiced, Meinwen was already switching it off at that point, pulling a second towel to rub-dry her hair.
She sneaked back into the bedroom to drag clothes out of the drawers since her wardrobe was strictly for dresses and the rain made it a slacks-and-sweater kind of day. She’d been caught out yesterday and had no intention of repeating her mistake. By the time she got downstairs it was already after six. A cup of raspberry and ginseng tea, a bowl of wholegrain muesli and the morning headlines browsed on her laptop ate up another forty minutes. She debated waking Dafydd but the sound of his snores persuaded her not to. He had driven down from ’Dovey yesterday, after all. She took his clothes out of the dryer, folded then and put them on the stairs.
Instead she brewed another mug of tea and did a web search for Mill Street, not expecting to find much and surprised when it had its own website.
The Hotel Luminaria welcomes guests to its luxury-appointed rooms and attentive staff. We pride ourselves on looking after your every need from out well-appointed gymnasiums to our personal masseurs. We are certain you’ll come again and again.
Meinwen frowned. A hotel? She’d thought it an industrial unit in what was certainly the manufacturing zone of the town. What had John Fenstone been doing in a hotel to garner the sums of money he’d written in his pocketbook? Was he a male prostitute? It would certainly explain the luxury apartment in Chervil Court on the salary of an estate agent.
It was a hour later when she leaned back in her chair to yawn, her joints popping like fireworks on first of November, the point at which Halloween was over and the older kids started tossing bangers in the streets. Her tea was long cold and the clattering pipes indicated Dafydd had risen at last and was taking a shower. The yell suggested it had turned cold rather sooner than it should.
She glanced at the wall clock. Seven fifteen! The day was half over and he hadn’t even risen yet. She made another cup of tea and put some ethical trade coffee on for Dafydd.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” She kicked his shoes over to him. “The coffee’s about ready. Help yourself to cereal.”
“Cereal? That’s not a proper breakfast.” He leaned toward her but she dodged the kiss. “Haven’t you any bacon? Eggs? Black pudding and fried door stops?”
“How long have you known me?”
“Since school. Twelve years?”
“Seventeen. And how long have I been a vegetarian?”
“How should I know? Is it something new?”
“Seventeen years? Dogs, Dafydd. We shared a house together all through Uni. Are you honestly saying you don’t remember me being vegetarian? I even used to bake my own bread in those days.”
“I remember that.” Dafydd laughed. “You used to make those little scone things. We used to sell them to the cricket team for their indoor practice.”
“You always said you liked those. Couldn’t get enough of them, you said.”
“Yeah. They used to give us fifty pence each for them. That was almost a pint at the union.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Dafydd William Thomas. I always thought we were close but it was obviously just my body you were after.”
“Oh, that’s not true at all, cariad. In those days I was after your notes for the politics class as well. You were always better at politics than I was. I could never see the point.”
“Oh! You!” Meinwen thumped him on the arm, picked up her tea and went into the conservatory.
It wasn’t a proper conservatory. Certainly not the sort Lady Peacock would be seen frequenting, with or without a lead pipe or candlestick. It was stuck on the back of the house like an afterthought, and probably was. The ironwork was Victorian and the house eighteenth century. She regretted her decision the moment she entered. The rain drumming off the single-paned roof made a thunderous noise–so much she could hardly think.
“Sorry!” Dafydd followed her in. “I was only joking. You know I liked you. I did then and I still do.”
“I know.” Meinwen put her arms around his neck. How could a man who’d just had a shower smell like marijuana and cheese ten minutes later? She traced the line of his jaw with her finger. He and Jimmy were like yin and yang, both unlocking different sides of her sexuality. Jimmy was the wild, tempestuous side, and Dafydd was the safe, armchair-by-the-fire aspect. She huffed into his suprasternal notch. “I’m a bit tetchy, I suppose.”
“Are you? I hadn’t noticed.” He grinned, lacing his fingers in the small of her back. “You’re allowed to be grumpy. Your friend’s died.”
Her spirits fell again. “Yes. Murdered. Who would have wanted to murder Richard Godwin? He was kind and gentle. So young, too. Hardly more than a boy when I first met him. He was wanted on suspicion of murdering his own father. Can you imagine living through that? Knowing that your father’s been murdered must be bad enough but being accused of it yourself...”
“I take it he didn’t do it?”
“No, no. Of course not. He was framed. By the parish priest, no less.”
“Could it be him, come back to finish the job?”
“No. He jumped in the river.” Meinwen pulled away and picked up her tea, taking several sips while musing on who might want to kill her friend.
“Did he have any family? Richard, I mean.”
“A wife. I don’t think he had any kids. I’d have heard.” She looked up over the rim of the mug. “By all the love of the gods! I hadn’t given a thought to his poor wife. Catherine. She was a lovely young thing. Very taken with Celtic jewelry. I kept a good stock of it in the shop for a while because of her. She must be beside herself. What time is it?”
Dafydd looked at his watch. “A little after eight. You’re not going to go over there, are you? That’s a bit ghoulish.”
“Why? I’ve got an appointment. The inspector won’t tell them I was at the cemetery last night so for all they know I’d be arriving for my appointment with Richard, as arranged. I can act suitably shocked once I’m there.”
“And then what? You’re not going to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong, are you?”
“Of course not.” Meinwen put her tea down. “Unless I’m asked to, of course. I was instrumental in catching his father’s killer, after all. Why shouldn’t I be included in this investigation? And if the family asks me to investigate then the inspector can’t freeze me out of the case.”
“I thought you already had a case to fiddle about with?”
“John Fenstone’s death, yes. But they’re connected, aren’t they? That was why I was going to see Richard today. John had a ring with Richard’s sigil embossed on it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I already know John was as kinky as a bucket of frogs so it wasn’t a surprise.”
“But the death of this other chap has changed your mind?”
“It has, rather. What are the odds of two people from the same house dying a fortnight apart from each other if they’re not connected?”
“Pretty small, I should think. Was the first death a stabbing as well?”
“No. Hanging. The police ruled it as a suicide but I think it was staged. Why would you hang yourself through the trapdoor of a dingy two-up two-down when you had a penthouse apartment with a mezzanine floor? It makes no sense to me at all.”
Dafydd sat on one of the wicker chairs, tentatively at first in case it didn’t hold his weight. “What if the one last night–Richard?–killed the one last week and then killed himself in a fit of remorse?”
“By stabbing?” Me
inwen made a face. “I don’t think so. Nobody kills themselves by stabbing themselves in the stomach.”
“The Japanese do. Hara-kiri, is it?”
“But that’s a ritual disembowelment to preserve honor, usually swiftly followed by beheading. Not stabbing yourself twice and then waiting in excruciating agony to bleed out. No. This was a murder, sure as eggs is eggs.”
“What about the bloke who was hung? Did he have anyone that might have wanted to get even. You said the last killer you caught was a priest. What if this killer is a rabbi and goes for the life-for-a-life approach?”
“It would have to be someone who cared for John Fenstone and was willing to risk going to prison to get vengeance.”
“Stabbings are usually crimes of passion. Heat of the moment stuff. Usually a wife or a girlfriend. “ Dafydd grinned and leaned back in the chair. “I learned that watching CSI.”
“We don’t have their fancy computers over here in the real world.” Meinwen gave a deep sigh and sank into the other chair. “And John Fenstone was gay. It does highlight a suspect, though.”
“Oh?”
“John Fenstone had a brother, Jimmy. He’s the one that came to me to ask if I’d investigate John’s death. The police had sent him off with a flea in his ear, saying it was a suicide when Jimmy was convinced it wasn’t. I believe him, too. John Fenstone was too successful to be a suicide. Everyone who knew him said he was a cheerful man, fond of flirting with both sexes. He had a house to die for as well.”
Dafydd winced. “A house to die for? Would that be the motive?”
“No. Jimmy inherits the lot and he was in prison at the time of his brother’s death.”
“Did he know about John’s involvement with Richard?”
Meinwen looked up. “That’s the problem. We were together when we found the ring yesterday. I told him it was Richard Godwin’s sigil.”
“Rather coincidental timing, if this friend of yours isn’t the killer, “Does he have an alibi?”
“Not from me, he doesn’t. I left him at six and Richard was killed at what? Midnight?”