by Thomas Brown
“Wait!” Helen shouted.
Having reached the top step she pressed her palm on the cold bell sited next to an impressive brass plaque bearing Dee Salomon‘s name. The Pink Suit almost reluctantly, it seemed, let her in, locked the front door behind her and left her to it. “Given what’s been going on at Heron House, I’ve a right to be here,” Helen called after her, but only the echoing hallway heard. “And please may I use the loo?”
“First left,” came the answer.
Millionaires’ Row, Helen had thought when first entering Hurst Crescent, and those first impressions were proved right. Inside this tall town house, steel, glass and the palest, smoothest wood had transformed the original Victorian shell. While under her scuffed trainers, that still bore traces of that crowded wheelie bin, lay the most awesome stone tiles she’d ever seen. Heffy’s parents’ hotel, lush as it was, didn’t come close. There were white lilies, too. Real ones, fully opened, giving off that funereal smell that always made her sneeze. Like now. At least her jeans weren’t ruined.
Afterwards, as she squeezed out a blob of something exotic from a hand wash dispenser on to her palms, they were still trembling.
“We’re in here,” called out Mr Flynn from a doorway lower down the hall. “I’m keeping it brief. Every second costs. “No comments from you. Understood?”
She nodded, sensing more than a physical distance between them now. He’d knowingly hooked her and Jason into a secret, dangerous world for his own purpose. The kudos of the Heron House address had come at a price. A very hidden price.
She stared at him as she took her place in the office overlooking a rectangular garden where not a blade of grass grew. Only palms and more palms whose spiky, brown-tipped leaves seemed to sum up her mood. She looked across at him again. A barefaced liar, yes. But above all a fool.
“By the way, someone’s cleared out your study,” Helen announced as Dee Salomon, who had so far ignored her, now looked up from an unopened dark-green box file. “Jason discovered it yesterday. I’ve not had time to tell you.”
Mr Flynn’s eagerly-clenched fists tightened.
“But I locked it. Are you serious?”
Before she could reply, the pink-suited woman was clicking open the file and her matching pink fingernails were pulling out a collection of papers bound by a thin, black ribbon.
“It was unlocked. And I am,” Helen replied.
“Did you call the police?”
“Like I said, there’s been no time.”
With a cavernous sigh, he slumped back in his chair.
“Was anything incriminating or potentially damaging in there?” asked Ms Salomon.
Was his answer too quick?
“No. Of course not. Why should there be?”
“It should definitely be looked into. In my experience, theft can lead to other more serious activity. And I don’t just mean blackmail.” She glanced at her discreet gold watch. “As I explained earlier when you telephoned, as a settled tenant of the deceased, and modest beneficiary…”
“Modest?” he interrupted, sitting on the edge of his chair.
“… you are of course entitled to see me. However, my time is limited. I’m obliged to tell you that I’ve received six telephone calls already, enquiring after Mr Pitt-Rose’s will.”
Mr Flynn perked up. “Really? Who?”
“All anonymous. All male. Five on Friday morning and one in the evening while I was working late. I’ll be asking the police for a trace. I won’t tolerate harassment, because that’s what it was.”
“Quite right.” Yet he was frowning. Something was wrong.
“So, we’ll make a start.” She angled a beige sheet of paper towards him. “Mr Charles Pitt-Rose’s last Will and Testament. Dated 10th March 2009, witnessed by my part-time colleague, Simon Catterall, and Ellie Peterson, my secretary.”
“That’s not even a month ago,” interrupted Mr Flynn peering at it. “Any reason why?”
She paused. “Between ourselves, I confess I’d had the feeling something wasn’t quite right when Mr Pitt-Rose last called in here. Agitated would best describe his state of mind. As if he was frightened. When I asked if he lived alone, he hesitated before saying yes. So should any Inquest verdict suggest suicide, I’ll speak out against it. Why any hint of a secret enquiry is deeply worrying. Did you know the Justice Minister’s proposal for such an abuse of liberty’s just been dropped?”
Mr Flynn shook his head. He didn’t look normal.
“Dodgy contacts. That’s what DCI Jobiah at Islington police station implied earlier today,” said Helen. “What did he mean?”
Her boss placed a forefinger over his lips. Gave her a death stare.
“That’s for them to find out,” said the solicitor. “But as I’ve said, I feel my client was living under some kind of malevolent cloud and I hope whatever or whoever it was, soon comes to light. And now the will.” She returned to that green box file. “Given my time constraints, I’ll keep to the point.”
At this, Mr Flynn loosened his crumpled tie, fiddled with his cuff buttons while Helen wondered if some mysterious group or other might have caused Charles Pitt-Rose’s death and if they’d ever be unmasked. For example, many Welsh people claimed Wales was run by Masons, and according to her mam, her da had even tried joining his local Lodge but had been turned down.
Now Mr Flynn was perched forwards on his seat as far as he could go. His eyes solely on Dee Salomon’s painted lips. Clearly, news of extreme importance was about to follow.
She was right.
“...being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds to Mr Montague Flynn, c/o Heron House, Rhandirmwyn, Carmarthenshire, for supervising its affairs for the past three years…”
His fists immediately clenched again. Spittle bubbled in the corners of his mouth. “Is that all? Two hundred pounds?”
Dee Salomon, having glanced at him with the utmost disdain, kept reading.
“… and the rest of my estate passes to Miss Betsan Anwen Griffiths, spinster of Golwg y Mwyn, Rhandirmwyn, Carmarthenshire in grateful appreciation of her loyalty and care towards my sister Margiad Pitt-Rose of Heron House…”
My God. Margiad.
Just then, Helen’s period ache intensified, bringing a release of blood that made her press her thighs tight together. The Irishman had slumped back in his chair. Now was her chance. “There you go. How can you not say sorry?”
A sneaky, sideways glance.
“You’ll be the one saying sorry.”
“Please, both of you,” said Dee Salomon. “Let me continue… during her prolonged times of trouble. Should Betsan Anwen Griffiths pre-decease the signatory, this estate will be dispersed amongst any of her remaining family.” Her words seemed to well up and swirl around like a winter storm on Llyn Brianne reservoir, while Mr Flynn stayed wordless, grey.
“But poor Betsan’s dead!” Helen cried. “Jason Robbins and I found her when Mr Flynn had left for London yesterday morning. She’d been murdered, and it looked like she’d been expecting someone. Hasn’t anyone let you know?”
Before the shocked lawyer could reply, the Irishman broke in. All trace of that recent threat gone. Steel now so easily replaced by honey. “Helen here, did give me the terrible news. She was a wonderful person who never harmed a soul. A real treasure. Let’s hope her killer’s brought to justice.”
The solicitor got up, filled three Styrofoam beakers from the water cooler in the corner, and passed them round. She then eyed Helen before jotting down this information. “This changes everything. She may or may not have known about her good fortune. She may or may not have any family left.” She paused. “Her death is being investigated, of course?”
“Yes,” said Helen. “But she’s not the only one the police are interested in…”
“Let Ms Salomon finish,” Mr Flynn butted in again, fidgeting with his nails and his reading glasses, suddenly looking twice his age.
Dee Salomon meanwhile, sipped fro
m her beaker, still focussing on the first sheet of paper. “Two things,” she continued. “Firstly, and irrespective of whether any of Betsan’s family decides to keep the house or sell it on, the executor – myself – must ensure Idris and Gwenno Davies are removed from the property forthwith. They are to receive the sum of one thousand pounds sterling apiece to relocate out of the area.” She glanced up, giving no space for any reaction. “Secondly, and this is a surprise, we have Llyr who is in fact named on his birth certificate as Edmund Pitt-Rose’s second son, born on July 3rd 1967, shortly before his father’s death. His mother, being Gwenno Davies, may well force him to contest this will.” She fixed her gaze on Mr Flynn. “Especially if being evicted and with no other living connections to Heron House, she’d have a strong case for a Deed of Variation.”
The air in that office seemed as thick as wool. Thick and sickly. Mr Flynn seemed about to keel over but gripped the arms of his chair in time.
“Llyr Davies, eh? Well, well,” said Helen feeling liberated. “There’s another one who’s not supposed to exist. Whatever his name, he’s a criminal on the run.” How this possible inheritor to a fortune had been following her just minutes ago. “He tried abducting me last night,” she said. “I nearly died, and this was his threat to me.” When she’d finished, Mr Flynn was staring at his hands. Still in denial. And then she realised with a judder he might be protecting the thug. But, why?
“Where’s proof it was him?” he said.
“Just you wait, and as for the mother, she’s nuts, like her brother. You’ve said the same.”
Dee Salomon’s eyebrows had hit her fringe. “Have either or both ever been assessed, or indeed, sectioned?”
“No,” said the Irishman having pulled himself together. “But they’re a menace. Why C P-R wants them out. By the way, do you have a copy of this Llyr’s birth certificate? Did Edmund Pitt-Rose actually sign it?”
“He did, and a copy’s on its way.”
“Where’s the original?”
Dee Salomon, for the first time, seemed uneasy. “It’s already been requested by a third party. Confidential, I’m afraid.”
“How much of the lease is left on the Sandhurst Mansion flat?” Flynn asked.
“That’s also a private matter, I’m afraid.”
“And I’m afraid I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look it, and as for The Pink Suit, Helen could tell she was weakening. Especially after the birth certificate grilling.
“Entre nous, Charles Pitt-Rose bought its freehold last year, which considerably adds value. Given the location, I’d say it’s worth one and a half million pounds at least, plus what Oracle Shipping Services made when he sold the firm back in 1989. But he never returned to Heron House after 1945, and certainly never mentioned any half-brother to me. After his father’s death, all maintenance work was done by Londoners. No-one local. That’s how much he disliked the place.”
Silence, in which the scene beyond the window seemed to drain of colour: the palms, the Mediterranean blue tubs, the orange gravel, even the promising spring sky. Helen tried imagining Gwenno and Edmund Pitt-Rose at it, but couldn’t. This must be some huge mistake.
“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 practise 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.”