Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  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, s
ort 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.

  However, none of this trick was necessary, for the door handle was already turning sweetly in her hand; the widening gap revealing her boss’ sanctuary inch by alarming inch. She could only think that his being in such a rush that morning could explain this carelessness.

  She closed his door behind her and tiptoed towards a substantial oak desk – the battered variety that’s often left for firewood at the end of a country auction. On it, in surprising orderliness, stood a computer showing a Mountains-of-Mourne screensaver; a collection of pens and felt tips, plus a framed black and white photo of some leggy boy fishing from a boat. She guessed it was him by his gap-toothed smile, but not his hair, thick, wavy, almost white, blowing in the wind.

  But where was his supposed library? His own published books? Unless hidden behind a false wall, there wasn’t one hardback or paperback to be seen. And what about a possible internet connection? No time to check. She had to focus on the desk’s six drawers, each bearing an empty keyhole and unidentifiable smells. It did cross her mind that perhaps The Rat had got here first and helped herself, but no. She soon found quantities of clear plastic wallets that slithered around in her hot hands. A quick perusal showed they contained a copy of her own contract and other stuff including handwritten notes on property law, particularly landlords’ and lessees’ rights. Because of the murky light, she had to carry these over to the small sash window at the front. Unlike Jason’s identical window, its frayed cords had broken, but there was no time to speculate why Mr Flynn hadn’t done a repair. Her own rapid breathing filled her ears as she passed his unmade bed whose mattress showed not the usual imprint of a sleeping body, but of turbulence.

  At last.

  The marginally better light revealed a stapled collection of papers headed HERON HOUSE. At the same time, her dull groin ache began to bite. Her throbbing head to return with a vengeance.

  And what was this leaping at her from the page?

  RENTAL AGREEMENT FOR HERON HOUSE.

  Date: 12/2/07

  BETWEEN MR. CHARLES PITT-ROSE,

  owner, of 3, Sandhurst Mansion, Thornhill Avenue, Islington.

  London N4 8TJ

  AND MR. MONTGOMERY FLYNN

  formerly of 10, Burnside Villas, Crosskelly. N.Ireland.

  There were other shocks too, not least that someone much stronger was suddenly behind her, pinning her sore stomach against the window sill. One hand over her mouth, the other, pulling the pages from her hand. A man whose reek of sweat and cheap aftershave made her gag.

  Only when the blue and yellow chequered police Range Rover swerved into the drive, did her assailant draw back and run from the room, but not before she’d registered his approximate age, the bald head, scruffy clothes and huge, muddy trainers. A complete stranger, who could, without this timely interruption, have probably killed her.

  14.

  Saturday 4th April 2009 – 2.50 p.m.

  When Jason had left Hounslow, the municipal plane trees had been bursting into leaf, while the line of cherry blossom along Pinetree Road created a pale pink haze that went some way to soften the façades of its shops and offices. Here, however, at Heron House, it seemed the chestnut trees’ twisted old branches would never bud. Instead, they hung dripping over, what must have once been a handsome swimming pool, like so many malevolent, grasping arms, host to a colony of rooks whom he felt were keeping him under observation. He tried to identify the one who’d so brazenly commandeered his room last night, but none – as far as he could tell – had quite the same vivid white patch beneath the beak.

  From his vantage point at the top of the overgrown bank, he then watched Idris Davies in his baggy boiler suit, wield a huge besom – bigger than anything Woolies had stocked – sweep every single dead leaf into that rectangle of black slime. With every small disturbance, it gave off an equally pungent whiff of organic decay as the nearby septic tank. The man must have lost all his sense of smell.

  Whether or not the real ale was making him set caution aside, Jason called out to him. “Why are you doing that? It needs emptying, not filling in any more.”

  But the gardener was either stone deaf or ignoring him deliberately, and Jason who’d endured enough of that kind of rudeness from his ex-manager, felt his blood heat up. He also noticed the guy’s unshaven neck. The way his lips moved as he brushed, allowing a wet, pink tongue to pop in and out.

  “Hi? Mr Davies?” he tried again. Louder this time, but in a more reasonable tone. “I’m Jason Robbins.”

  The guy angled his head towards him like some old turtle eyeing him up and down. “Who?”

  Jason repeated his name, adding, “I’m a writer.”

  “Writer? What you doin’ here, then?”

  “There’ll be more of us come Friday. Why I’m concerned about the state of this pool, and the septic tank. That it over there?” He pointed to the rusted, raised lid set in a hollow below the overgrown bank.

  “What’s them to you?”

  “To be honest, they stink.”

  A pause, during which the guy’s body language took a turn for the worse. But Archie Tait wouldn’t
have run. Nor the private investigator hero in his thriller, whom he’d now named Dan Carver.

  “That’s your opinion,” snarled the gardener. “Mine is that wino’s got no business letting strangers in. Bad enough he hired that tart in the kitchen when my Gwenno could have made food much better.”

  That tart?

  Jason felt his cheeks seriously burn. This was well out of order, but the guy had started sweeping again, deliberately directing wet debris up on to Jason’s boots.

  He’d paid a deposit for the course and good money for the time being. He wasn’t up for being humiliated. “I’ll pass your slander on to Miss Jenkins. See what she thinks.”

  The obsessive sweeper turned his back, and Jason felt his warmed-up blood was now a cold snake uncoiling itself around his internal organs.

  “Where’s the witness?” His adversary gestured towards the dead trees. “Them rooks there? I don’t think so.” He moved away, swinging his broom defiantly from side to side, muttering stuff Jason couldn’t quite hear. He noticed how the birds left their branches and, like some huge black flower, cast a mysterious, moving shadow over the whole scene.

  “The Fuzz is coming at three o’clock,” Jason shouted after the man, his cheeks now red hot. “Wanting to know who topped Betsan Griffiths. Might be best to show your face.” He’d almost said ‘ugly mug’ instead,’ but restrained himself.

  Idris Davies turned again to face him, jabbing two angry fingers in the air.

  ***

  Naff off yourself.

  Still angry and half-tempted to run after the prick, Jason slithered down the rest of the bank towards what had once been an expensively tiled poolside terrace, wide enough for any number of tables and chairs. And the more his eyes roamed from its moss-encrusted pattern to the rusted sidebars of invisible steps into what had once been water, other, more shadowy shapes began to materialise. He blinked twice to clear his vision, aware of a cold, rogue breeze stroking his skin as these shadows became solid, moving. However, unlike those three mysterious figures he’d seen on his arrival at Heron House, this quartet were all men of Colin’s age or thereabouts, kitted out in morning suits and cummerbunds that strained over their well-fed stomachs.