Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘He wanted witnesses, and me and you seemed the best of the bunch.’

  He pushed his way out of the cloakroom only to find Gwenno Davies sitting on his suitcase, smiling in triumph, while both hands and their painted nails rhythmically stroked the length of the riding crop lying across her lap “And where do you think you’re going, Mr Robbins?” she challenged him “Not leaving us, are you? Not now.”

  “Get off my property, and let me out of here. Or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “I’ll phone the police.” It sounded pathetic, like he was a kid all over again in the school playground, up against someone more cunning. More determined. He knew what might shift her, though. Not for nothing had he learnt poker during tea breaks at Woolies.

  Don’t show your hand.

  Hadn’t Betsan Griffiths complained about her harmful mouth? And this woman she’d clearly feared, had almost pushed Helen into The Drop?

  Ammo for later, he told himself.

  “I can actually save you the bother,” she said, getting up with surprising agility and depositing her toy on his suitcase. “There’s one of them here already. Why, I’m about to welcome him in.”

  ***

  Sergeant Edward Rees had indeed arrived, complete with the same muddy, Range Rover parked just beyond the one window.

  The old woman primped her hair and from her apron pocket produced her bunch of keys. All types, all sizes. She dangled them provocatively under Jason’s nose.

  Don’t lose it.

  One false move and he’d land up in the same boat as her elusive son. Being fingered. That thought led to another as the front door bell’s melancholy chime kicked in. She could claim Jason had made her commit an indecent act and, with several recent stories of elderly women raped in care homes lurking in the media, she’d have the upper hand. No, rephrase that, he told himself, feeling sick. But then, what was worse? That, or revealing how a septuagenarian and a ghost had brought him off?

  ***

  “We’re a bit slow off the mark this morning, Sergeant.” The cleaner put on the same sickly-sweet voice she’d used while busy with Jason’s fly. “All this drizzle it is, see. If we’d had some nice sunshine to wake us up, you’d be seeing quite a different situation.”

  “What’s sunshine when it’s at home?” Sergeant Rees, complete with hair hosting droplets of rain, chose to stand next to her. But none of this mattered. What did, was Helen.

  “Can I fetch you a tea, coffee?” Gwenno wheedled. “Or whatever else you fancy?”

  “Great. Tea, ta.” His gaze flicked from her disappearing form to the suitcase and the crop. But Jason got in first.

  “Any news of her son?” he asked. “Been picked up yet?”

  “Nothing so far.” The cop eyed the suitcase again. “Those yours?”

  “Only the case. I’m off back to London. Things aren’t working out here, that’s all. No-one’s fault. I need to see for myself that Miss Jenkins is OK.” Helen would have kicked him again for that lie, and rightly so.

  “Playing hard to get, is she?” The Sergeant’s man-to-man wink didn’t work. He’d already witnessed Jason’s anxiety about her and her unlocked car. It wasn’t worth an answer.

  “You wanted to see both Mr and Miss Davies about their son,” Jason reminded him.

  “So I did.”

  “Mrs Davies to you,” shouted Gwenno, but Jason hadn’t finished.

  “And perhaps to ask how come his van’s tyres match those prints up by the stile, not far from Miss Griffith’s bungalow, and why he’s been making his presence felt, like some long-lost termite.”

  “Shut that filthy mouth of yours before I... I...”

  “Just one more,” Jason persevered. “Won’t take long. Why would Idris Davies lie about seeing Gwilym Price passing by with his rooks, and getting news of Betsan’s death from him, if it wasn’t for protection?”

  At this, the old girl slammed down the tray she’d been carrying from the kitchen, picked up the heavy teapot and advanced towards him. With each enraged step, Jason saw his future at risk of slipping away. But just then, he didn’t care. “And what did you mean by threatening me with friends who could get me into trouble?”

  “That’s enough, Mr Robbins.” The Sergeant, unexpectedly quick, placed himself between the two of them, cupping the teapot in his soft hands. Took the heat. Positioned it out of play in the cold grate and escorted her to the nearest chair. “Calm yourself down, Gwenno. We don’t want to be calling the Cottage Hospital, do we now?”

  “Who does this Saes think he is? I want to hear him say sorry.”

  “No.” Jason was on a reckless roll, forgetting how much he had to lose. “Isn’t it odd too, that your Llyr’s started putting in an appearance now that Charles Pitt-Rose is dead?”

  “What?”

  In slow motion, she slumped from her seat to the floor, her legs and arms sticking out in four directions. What little light there was, seemed to suddenly fade as if that black, gaping cave of a fireplace had begun to spread beyond its old-fashioned tiled surround, and turn the already gloomy hall into the inside of a tomb. And inside that tomb lay a stricken figure whose black suspenders pulled at her stocking tops, puckering the bands of pale, dry flesh beyond.

  ***

  “Up you get.” The cop knelt beside Gwenno Davies, trying to move her to a more decorous sitting position. “Gently does it.” But she resisted, keeping her eyes tight shut.

  “Shall I call an ambulance?” Jason felt his stomach on the move. This was more than he’d planned for. Her condition looked serious, but why such a drastic reaction to his news? OK, Monty Flynn had been paid to keep her and her brother on. Helen had learnt that much. Was it fear of possibly being turfed out into a whole new world, or something else altogether? Not for the first time did he wonder who now inherited this miserable pile. Perhaps Helen and the Irishman would let him know before they got back.

  But hey, there was his dad’s ancient suitcase, packed and ready to go. What was he waiting for? The longer he stayed, the bigger the risk of Llyr Davies spilling to the cops that Helen had been in Monty Flynn’s study. Next step, she’d be suspected of clearing it out. There was also the risk of him being done for indecent exposure.

  He shivered as small noises erupted from Gwenno Davies’ throat. Small, scared noises. The cop glanced up at him. “Best you’d not mentioned the death, son,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Jason lied, objecting to such familiarity. “I assumed she already knew about Mr Pitt-Rose. I wonder if Idris does.”

  “You leave him alone,” she mumbled, raising herself on to both elbows with the help of the cop. His muscled buttocks below the edge of his jacket presented a terrifying sight.

  “Could you pour her a cup of tea?” he suggested. “Plenty of sugar.”

  While Jason fiddled with the dainty cup and saucer and a pair of stiff sugar tongs, Sergeant Rees managed to lift Gwenno Davies back into her chair. “Does Mr Davies carry a mobile phone or some way I could contact him?”

  “No. And there’s no signal round here neither.” Came rather too quickly. “Says they rot the brain, he does. Anyway, why all these questions? I thought you’d come about Miss Griffiths. Like your friend DC Prydderch.”

  She waved the tea away, but not before Jason noticed her hand shaking. Her bottom lip, too.

  “It’s about your son, Llyr,” said the Fuzz, shooting Jason a glance. “We’re wondering if you knew his whereabouts last night?”

  Her fingers gripped the arms of her chair. “What about him? He’s dead too? That it?”

  “No, and not in any serious trouble either, but it would help if...”

  “Not in any serious trouble?” Her voice grew shrill as a gull’s. Eyes sharper, harder. “But oh, he’s given it. Since the day he ruined my womb. He knows what we both think. No love lost despite what he might say.”

  Jason stared at her, unable to connect this outburst with her earlier remarks when Helen had complained about h
im. Precious time was slipping away. His detachment from Heron House and its incumbents growing stronger with every second. Yes, he’d promised Betsan he’d fight her corner and find her killer, but things had changed.

  This old woman with too many secrets was either mad or bad or both. Also scared. “What do you think’ll happen now?” She focussed on the navy blue giant who’d helped himself to a sugar lump and was dissolving it in his mouth. “Why am I so nervous? Why can’t me nor Idris sleep at nights?”

  “Tell me, Gwenno,” Jason said.

  “Because Heron House might now be ours. And Mr Flynn, who’s protected us from our own flesh and blood, might leave.”

  25.

  Sunday 5th April 2009 – 12.15 p.m.

  Half an hour to spare, and to Helen’s relief, The Coffee Bean Café just a couple of streets away from D H Salomon & Co in Camden, had an immaculate loo. Although she’d lost way too much blood, the fresh pad from the dispenser and fragrant hand cream helped make her feel more up to the challenge of keeping tabs on the wily Irishman and learning the real truth behind his busy agenda.

  The café’s whole ambience, unlike its counterparts in Aberystwyth, was slick and efficient. Mr Flynn was clearly still as tense as when he’d ignored the affable proprietor and bagged the one spare table which looked out on to a trendily paved street just off Primrose Hill. Here, he scoured their surroundings with the watchful eye of some animal in the wild. Was he, too, on Black Beanie watch? If so, on her behalf or some other reason?

  She couldn’t tell, and dared not ask. Instead, sat opposite him and noticed how sunlight caught the ends of his chaotic hair. Cast his bad skin in an even more unflattering light. Here was a man who’d toyed too much with her emotions and, despite his touchy-feely ways, his often syrupy tongue, had treated her with callous disregard. His recent threat when she’d asked about Margiad had been one threat too many, and represented the end of the road. She too could act and lie. And now rehearsals were over.

  She was also aware of how, although this area was less busy than Islington, cranes of impossible height and reach, still loomed high above the rows of fine, pastel-coloured buildings whose Doric columned porches and Georgian-style windows, reminded her of parts of Aberaeron. But there any similarities ended, for these were mostly occupied by accountants, insurers and the like, and instead of the smell of the sea, a sly, pervasive dust hung in the air.

  She felt scruffy and looked it, not that Mr Flynn seemed to have noticed. She stared out at the weekend strollers decked out in the latest gear. Young women her age in thigh-length boots, sporting Vuitton and Gucci handbags. Some pushed giant-sized buggies, others were draped around men who could easily have stepped out of Hello! Ogling the celebs was one of her weekly sins which only made her situation in Heron House seem risible.

  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 nothng 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’d 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 reflecte
d 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.”