Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  There was clearly more to Helen Jenkins than met the eye.

  “You didn’t leave any prints?”

  “No. I pulled my jumper’s sleeves down over my hands.”

  “Wool can leave fibres,” he warned.

  “For God’s sake...”

  “Go on. Did you get a result?” The dampness from their own and those long-abandoned outdoor clothes brought that same sense of claustrophobia he’d felt at Betsan Griffiths’ place. He could still be back in London before the pubs got dodgy. Find a bed somewhere to tide him over.

  “You’d never guess. For a start, Mr Flynn doesn’t own Heron House. Only rents it.” She stood up. Put her mouth to his ear at which his pulse immediately speeded up. “Charles Pitt-Rose is the landlord. He also lived in Islington. I’ve seen letters. Receipts, proof.”

  “Jesus. For how much rent?”

  Cracks in the Irishman’s edifice widening by the hour.

  “Wait. There’s more. Apparently, he’s also been bribing Mr Flynn to keep the Davieses on here. Those two creatures come with the territory. Non-negotiable. Can you credit it?”

  “With difficulty. Were they referred to as being married?”

  “No. I only saw their names.” Helen had spotted herself in the plain mirror behind him, and grimaced. “I warned you they were bonkers. And something else. It was Gwilym Price who told Judy Withers that Charles once lived here.”

  Another reason to meet up with the old farmer again, thought Jason, realising just how secretive the Irishman had been.

  “So what’ll happen now this Charles Pitt-Rose is dead?” He was aware of a tightening in his chest. The Armitage Shanks’ cold porcelain in the small of his back growing colder.

  “God knows. But I was just hunting for any sign of a will, things like that, when this creep appeared telling me to mind my own effing business or else.”

  “Had you seen him before? Think.”

  “No.”

  “Must have known his way round, though.”

  “That’s what I thought. And I wonder who else has access to this place?”

  Jason was trying to shove black thoughts to the limbo area of his brain. “Did this Judy person mention any Margiad?”

  She shook her head. Her wet hair at the front, had begun to curl.

  “The silence here couldn’t have been any more deafening when I did.”

  “At least you tried.”

  “Either she’s off-limits for some reason, or no-one has the faintest idea.”

  Just then came a rubbing sound followed by a sharp thud against the bottom of the door.

  “Ssshh. Listen!” he hissed.

  Somebody was repeatedly pushing against the wood.

  “Who’s in there?” came Gwenno Davies’ nasty little voice.

  “Only us,” Jason turned the key and stepped back for her to survey the scene. “Helen’s feeling sick.”

  But instead of sympathy, anger curdled the whites of her hard, little eyes. “She’ll be more than sick if she keeps on the way she is. Keeps upsetting things. Mark my words.”

  15.

  Wednesday 9th October 1946 – 12.45 p.m.

  Lionel Hargreaves should have changed into his walking boots. Mistake number one. The second was taking what he assumed to be a short cut up by the Post Office where lunchtime meant no-one was there to answer his pressing questions. Here, the stubborn mist drew him into its cold, dense embrace, and he soon found himself sliding down into a waterlogged gulley, suddenly meeting a roughly-trimmed hawthorn hedge on the other side.

  “Ouch!” A trickle of blood reached the corner of his mouth, and another his chin. He managed to pull himself clear, but almost slipped again.

  “Hello, sir,” came a young lad’s voice from behind him while a hand pulled at his coat. “I got you safe. This way. Steady, sir...”

  Once Lionel had reached terra firma, he wiped his wounds with a handkerchief, immediately spoiling it. He looked with puzzlement at his young helper. “That was most kind of you. It’s Gwilym, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Gwilym Price, sir. Cysgod y Deri it is. Too busy seeing to me mam to get to school, in case you’ve been wondering.”

  He had, and now recalled the string of noughts by the boy’s name in the class register. How promising this curly-haired lad had once seemed at the start of last year’s autumn term. How Bryn George the Truant Officer, or ’Whipper-in’ as he was known, had been turned away whenever he’d called at his home. At least Gwilym had a good heart, thought Lionel. Something no conventional education could guarantee.

  “Well, I hope we see something of you soon. You’ve a good brain, lad. A pity to waste it.”

  “Where ye goin,’ sir?” asked the boy as if he’d not heard a word.

  “Just a walk, to think about things before lessons start again.”

  “What things, sir? You don’t need to be out in this weather to think. Besides, Old Peris Morgan’s on guard duty up by the forest. And we all know he’s got a screw loose.”

  Lionel remembered Morgan’s grandson’s remarks about him in class. How proud he’d seemed.

  “Got a gun and a rifle, he has,” volunteered his helpmate. “To keep out the Boche.”

  Lionel hesitated. He’d wasted too much time already. But dead Walter’s tearful face came once more to mind. “I’d heard about the heronries up at Heron House,” he said. “Thought I’d take a look. I’ve been a bird lover since I was a child.”

  “Not this way, sir. You’ll most likely get shot. Follow me.”

  ***

  The fog had folded itself away, leaving a windless afternoon with a sky as flat and grey as his cottage walls. Lionel let the truant find a track he never knew existed, past a redundant concrete tower he assumed had been used for storing lime, then uphill, at least on stones rather than churned-up dirt.

  “Not far, sir,” panted his young companion, before pointing to a white single-story bothy, whose tin roof was home to a row of fat, black rooks. “That’s Golwg y Mwyn. Betsan Griffiths lives there. Tidy she is. You must teach her. Should’ve brought my rifle. Mam likes rook pie.”

  Lionel could think of nothing worse, and wondered if his helpful quiz winner was inside having lunch, perhaps wishing like him that the dreary afternoon was over. His thoughts drifted to relighting his sitting-room fire and placing Mahler’s 9th symphony on the new gramophone’s turntable. To him, this work played by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra summed up Europe after war, and never left him dry-eyed. Not only for the fallen, but the young growing up in its shadow.

  Just as his leg muscles began to complain, Gwilym plucked at his coat sleeve. “It’s here, sir. Heron House. See how huge it is.”

  Indeed it was. But not only that, observed Lionel, shivering despite his thick, winter coat. The word ‘disturbing’ came to mind. Each window seemed too mean for its ivy-clad walls and both chimneys too tall. Then, all at once, the curtains in the top right-hand gabled window were suddenly pulled together by unseen hands. Why now? And why in such a panic?

  “See them posh cars, sir?” Gwilym interrupted his thoughts, pointing to the right-hand side of the house. “They must have cost a few bob.”

  So, Betsan had been right.

  But to Lionel, those three, sleek, black saloons parked almost out of sight, reminded him more of hearses rather than conveyances for the living. And could one of these be the same that Walter Jones had seen near the forestry that day? If so, where was the mud from such a trip? All sets of tyres seemed immaculate. As did the shining bodywork. “Listen!” he said suddenly. “Can you hear that strange noise?”

  The lad cocked his damp, unruly head. “Them’s rooks, sir. That’s their call. Godless, my da used to say.”

  “I’d like to believe you, Gwilym. But please, listen again.”

  “Can’t, sir. Mam’s waiting. Needs her food, see. But if you want them heronries, they’re round the back. By there...” He pointed left towards a plantation of mainly deciduous trees, most alr
eady bare of leaves but not birds. “Don’t go near The Drop, mind. It’s bad.” Then, before the boy could be stopped, he’d turned on his heels and run off.

  Lionel shivered again as he continued to focus on that intriguing curtained window, tempted to advance further up what was obviously a newly-gravelled drive, and explore what Betsan had described in her test.

  All at once, from behind, a hand fell on his shoulder. Its weight made turning round impossible. His pulse took on a different beat.

  “Your name, squire?” The unseen man’s accent was unusual for a native of this strongly Welsh area. English public school and Oxbridge seemed more likely. Cultured, yet menacing. Could this be the judge that both Carol and Betsan had mentioned? Could this be Edmund Pitt-Rose?

  “Be so good as to remove your hand,” said Lionel. “I’m no criminal. I’m merely out for a walk.”

  “Then have the courtesy to remove your shoes from my drive.”

  Lionel backed away, and in doing so, turned to see up close, his adversary’s prematurely jowled cheeks, the veined, pale brown eyes; the formal suit and a tie bearing a heron-shaped gold pin. A once handsome man, he thought. Also, judging by his bulky midriff in an age of austerity, one who enjoyed the pleasures of life.

  “Your name, squire?” the man repeated the question in an even more imperious manner. “I’m waiting.”

  “Who I am, is none of your business and if you persist in intimidating me, I’ll report you to the police.”

  A short, sour laugh followed. “You won’t get very far with that, so let me save you the trouble. Most of them are in my pockets, with no desire to climb out.”

  Then came that same haunting sound again, creeping from that house through the chilly, damp air. Louder now. Definitely female, Lionel thought. And not just crying, more a prolonged wail that made the rooks spread their wings and heave themselves from their chimney perches into the dull sky as the front door opened. A short, thin creature, no more than fourteen or fifteen, dressed in black save for a white apron, gestured for the man to come in. Could this be that same young woman who’d appeared in riding clothes threatening him after Walter’s funeral? Her features were certainly sharp enough. Her eyes possessed that same hard brightness. If she recognised him, she didn’t show it.

  “You trespass round here again, squire,” the suited man prodded his shoulder, “I’ll get my lad to give you the kind of send off you’re unlikely to forget.” He almost swaggered off towards the house without glancing back.

  Most of them are in my pockets, and have no desire to climb out.”

  What an odd thing to say, if he really was a judge. Odder still, his lack of response to what had clearly been human shrieks. Lionel turned away from the curtained window, the air of secrecy and gloom that he felt from just being there, and realised he’d forgotten to ask the bully to confirm his name.

  With a less than steady tread, and the added burden of guilt that he’d not had time to investigate those baleful cries, he took the downwards track back towards Nantybai, all the while listening out for the sound of a car engine. A big car engine, eager to mow him down.

  ***

  1.30 p.m.

  Lionel was late. More than late. By fifteen minutes in fact and, hearing the din coming from the playground, ran back to school to find a fight in full swing. Girls against boys – a feature of most play times and hard to eradicate. This time, because his quiz winner wasn’t there, they were one less.

  “What’s wrong with your face, sir?” asked Aled. “You been in a fight, too?”

  To reply that he’d stumbled into a hedge would have cost his credibility dear, yet invention wasn’t his forte. “Of course not,” he panted. “Some dog jumped up at me out of the blue.”

  The children dropped their fists to listen. “Must have been a stray, judging by its condition.” Lionel drew his whistle out of his coat pocket. A whistle that had seen action at Ypres. His short, shrill blast always did the trick. “Five seconds to get to your desks,” he said. “One… two...”

  “You were late, sir,” Kyffin Morgan reminded him on his way in. “I’m telling my da.”

  Without replying or removing his coat, Lionel ushered the unruly little mob into the schoolroom where that ailing fire was now completely spent.

  “Where’s Betsan?” he asked, arriving at her name in the register. “Was she unwell?”

  “No sir,” piped up Aled. “It bothered her to win.”

  ***

  With conflicting images and emotions crowding his brain, Lionel trudged home after school, still wearing wet shoes and hiding a heavy heart. Tonight, instead of Mahler, he’d play something light on the gramophone to block out the echo of what he’d heard at Heron House, and the weight of that hostile hand on his shoulder. So, the witty Franz Léhar it would be.

  By six o’clock, with the Land of Smiles finished, and a piece of ham plus half a small swede boiling on top of the stove, he drew the curtains across and poured himself a glass of sherry. Despite the welcome sweetness on his tongue, he knew he’d have to see his apparently unhappy pupil before tomorrow. Her home wasn’t so far from Heron House. Kill two birds with one stone, he told himself, settling back into what had once been his father’s favourite chair and waiting for dinner to cook. Just then came a tapping on his front window, followed by a deep Welsh voice.

  “Mr Hargreaves? You there?”

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Didn’t wish to move, until the tapping became knuckle on glass to match the shouting. “Peris Morgan, it is. Heard you went up to Heron House today. Well, sir, I got things to tell you, if you value your life.”

  Ignore him. Remember Gwilym’s description?

  “And by the way, sir,” the stranger persisted, “our Kyffin thinks you’re a right good teacher. Too good to lose, say I.”

  At that last, unsettling compliment, Lionel set down his glass, turned the stove to low before parting the curtains inch by inch. Dusk wasn’t too far advanced for him to see a man at least in his seventies, so protected against the cold by a greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, he could barely make out his face. “I have to warn you before it’s too late. Part of my job, Homeland Security it is, and I take it very seriously.”

  “I can see that,” Lionel muttered crossly to himself. However, it wasn’t the promise of more news, but the look of real fear on the old warrior’s face, that made him unbolt the door and invite the man in.

  16.

  Saturday 4th April 2009 – 8 p.m.

  “She’ll be more than sick if she keeps on the way she is. Keeps upsetting things…” Helen imitated that friendly forecast as she and Jason sneaked past the dining room where The Rat was angrily polishing the best cutlery. “Charming.”

  “Don’t keep torturing yourself. She’s not worth it,” Jason said.

  He was following her upstairs to the first floor only to discover that someone had locked Mr Flynn’s room and scrubbed the corridor carpet outside it. The bleached patch on its floral pattern, the nostril-fluttering scent, were surely proof the old cleaner was responsible. Had she also a full set of keys after all? If so, who else but she had tried to cover up the stranger’s intrusion?

  “You were right about those Davieses after all,” Helen said, keeping a lookout while Jason explored the worn woollen pile on his hands and knees. She tried not to focus on the way his taut thigh muscles pushed against the backs of his jeans as he moved from spot to spot. “The brother and sister bit may just be the start. God, I wish I’d been able to spend longer in that study, but there was something I’ve not told anybody.”

  “What?” Jason looked up at Helen.

  “That bald guy didn’t just try to stop me looking around, he was… you know…”

  Heffy would have had no problem describing his arousal. The pumping motion of his hips against hers, the heavy breathing… Just thinking of it, made Helen’s period pain re-announce itself. It was getting worse.

  “All the more reason to find the bastard.”

/>   He finally stood up, brushing carpet fibres off his knees. “We can try this study again via the window.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Not half. A broken sash is very handy.”

  She then shook her head. “I ought to be rustling something decent up for supper, or The Rat will snitch that I’ve not earned my pittance.”

  To reassure her, he patted her shoulder. “Bacon and egg would be great, if you’ve got them. But I’m well used to seeing to myself. Had to, or else I’d have faded away.”

  “Like that strange man in black up the hill?” She looked him up and down. “I don’t think so.”

  ***

  Just to see those fried eggs’ phlegm-like whites in the frying pan, turned her grumbling yet aching stomach. However, Helen persevered with their cooking until Jason’s plate was full. She then tackled the washing up while he finished his meal overseen by a creepily solicitous Gwenno Davies so obviously trying to win him over after the earlier surprises. But how that smiling mask changed when Helen brought him over a mug of coffee. Not that he noticed, being too absorbed in his library book.

  “Don’t rush him,” The Rat snapped at her. “Can’t you see he’s busy reading?”

  At that, Helen cast aside her apron and went upstairs to her own room where the first thing she did once inside was turn the key in the lock behind her.

  And soon here he was, wanting to come in. She hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons of him invading her space. He’d not exactly told The Rat to bog off, besides, his stunts in the pub still rankled. But with Mr Flynn away, he was all she’d got. And who was to say that pervert who’d already manhandled her wouldn’t re-appear?

  “Helen?” he said again. “Please...”

  She unlocked the door. Jason stood with a sheepish look on his face, holding two wine glasses in one hand and half a full bottle of Sicilian red in the other, left over from yesterday’s spag bol. The omens weren’t good. Nevertheless, she could do with a drink.

  “Nice pad, except for the view,” he observed, scanning the dark, swaying trees beyond the window then the room’s pale pink walls, a 1970s’ paper lampshade too big for the room and the newish but useless TV with its digi-box. “Can we swop?” He looked as though he meant it.