It sounded oppressive. ‘It can’t be too amusing if you’re Afan.’
‘No, but . . . I told him, buddy, she’s not the kind of woman to get nuance. He’s too much of a gent.’
‘You work together a lot?’
‘Sure, yeah, as a team. We invested jointly in the beehives and equipment. We’re pretty much self-taught about beekeeping so we share information. Afan did a course recently in Holybridge, and that was very helpful. I’m pretty pissed at him just taking off, because there’s a lot to do. Nectar flow slows down in August, so we have to check for mites and take precautions against robbers.’
Swift was surprised. ‘People come to steal the honey?’
Bruno smiled. ‘No, not people, mainly other bees and wasps.’ He yawned. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about Afan. It seems strange, the way he vanished without saying anything. Not like him at all. What could be such an emergency that he couldn’t have dropped by and told me?’
‘I’ve had similar thoughts.’
Bruno glanced at him. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any connection, but someone went missing from around here about four months ago.’
‘Who was that?’
‘His name was Morgan Callender, a young guy. He was one of our volunteers.’
‘Were the police involved?’
‘Yeah, they came here. Jasmine wasn’t best pleased. Morgan was living with his family and there’d been problems. Apparently, he’d told friends that he’d had enough and was planning to leave home. I heard he left a note. That’s what the police believed had happened — young guy decided to take off. I suppose they checked it out.’
It could mean something or nothing. Swift asked, ‘Did anyone ever hear from him?’
‘No idea.’ Bruno ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Afan mentions you now and again, he holds you in high regard. One time when we were working, he said that you’re one of the few people he’s ever trusted.’
Swift was embarrassed. He’d had no idea that Afan had valued him in that way. It made him regret the loss of contact. He said, ‘I’ve always found Afan a good man, kind and reliable.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Bruno had placed the wildflowers on his lap. Swift could smell the rainwater on them.
He asked, ‘How did you get from Alberta to Pembrokeshire?’
Bruno hesitated before replying. He sounded cagey. ‘A circuitous route. I kind of tripped over this place and it suited. My mom was from Wales, she emigrated to Canada as a war bride, so I guess I was maybe following an umbilical cord. There’s a Welsh word, hiraeth. It means homesickness or nostalgia.’ He got up and placed the flowers on the altar, making a little bow. ‘These are just a general offering to the gods, whoever they may be, asking that they keep our bees happy and our honey rich and bountiful.’
Swift followed him, walking around the altar to the stone wall. He saw that there was a concealed opening, about five feet high and just wide enough to enter. He ducked and went in. Immediately, the air grew colder. A couple of paces brought him to a cavity, about four feet square, reaching up to the roof. He imagined a hermit scuttling in here when he heard footsteps or the sound of voices. You wouldn’t want to loiter for long, it would chill and cramp your bones, but then he supposed that hermits would have been used to discomfort.
Bruno peered in at him. ‘Boo! Good place for hide-and-seek.’
They walked back together. Bruno became quieter, more his taciturn self from yesterday. Swift wanted to ask him more about the set-up at Tir Melys but gauged that the time wasn’t right. When he commented that he was surprised that Afan’s house had no proper kitchen, Bruno replied that a couple of cottages were built that way to keep costs down and because the Merchants wanted to encourage communal eating. Anyone who wanted could have a takeaway supper and heat it through in their microwave. When they reached the Bivium, he turned abruptly away with no farewell, leaving Swift to enter the refec for breakfast.
* * *
A large, heavy woman with wispy shoulder-length curls and a smiling, eager expression was sitting at the dining table eating scrambled eggs. She wore black leggings and a voluminous cream and brown kaftan, circled by a woven belt which emphasised her girth. On her lap was a tiny dog, with a long silky beige-and-white coat, a round face and a black button nose. She introduced herself as Elinor Brinkworth and picked the dog up, waving one of its paws at Swift. Her fingers were so plump that her gold wedding ring was embedded in the flesh.
‘Meet Frankie. He’s my lickle cuddle buddy.’ She pronounced his name Fwankie.
Swift greeted them both and explained that he’d come to visit Afan. His last close encounter with a dog had resulted in a nasty bite. Admittedly, Frankie was like a toy in comparison to the Alsatian that had been instructed to attack him, but he decided to keep his distance.
‘Let me make you some breakfast,’ Elinor said, beaming. ‘There’s porridge on the hob, or you can have muesli, bacon and egg, scrambled egg on toast — or maybe you prefer your eggs boiled, with soldiers? Just say, and I’ll sort it for you.’
‘There’s no need. I can help myself.’
‘Are you sure? You’re a bit on the slim side for such a tall man. You could do with a proper breakfast to set you up. It’s no trouble at all and you are our guest. I’m sure Afan would do the same for you if he was here. Isn’t it odd, that he’s gone off so suddenly without telling anyone? I suppose it must have been something very urgent. I do hope everything will be okay for him.’ She started to get up, Frankie fussing in her arms.
He said firmly, ‘Please don’t bother. I can manage fine.’
He helped himself to porridge from a slow cooker, coffee, toast and marmalade. The kitchen was well stocked, with pots and pans hanging from brass hooks and a walk-in cupboard, its shelves lined with cooking aids: a bread maker, electric mixer, pasta machine, pressure cooker, raclette and fondue sets, a toasted sandwich maker, spaghetti pot and several utensils that Swift didn’t recognise. The cupboards were full of jars of herbs and home-made cordials, preserves and pickles.
Elinor called out to him as he found what he needed. ‘There’s jam, honey and marmalade in the right-hand cupboard and butter and various other spreads in the fridge. Just shout if you need anything.’
He wished she’d stop fussing. He collected his food, put it on a tray and brought it to the table. Elinor was feeding Frankie shreds of scrambled egg.
‘You’re the self-sufficient type, I see,’ she said. ‘Do you live on your own?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘How come you’re single, a handsome man like you?’
He smiled at her, his eyes saying back off. ‘It’s a long story and it’s also by choice.’
The dog glanced back and forth between them as they talked, his nose twitching. Elinor chucked him under the chin, and he wriggled in ecstasy. She wore a long silver and agate pendant decorated with an ivy garland. It rose and fell on her round, squashy bosom when she moved.
‘Ooh, that sounds interesting, doesn’t it, Fwankie? You’ll have to tell me some time. I couldn’t imagine living on my own, with no one to chat to and share things with. If Guy, my hubby, goes out for more than a couple of hours, I get anxious. He cycles, takes off most days for a spin. I tell him not to be gone for more than two hours or I’ll be climbing the walls. He says I’m a fusspot, but it’s just the way I’m made. It’s the only time I wish we had a phone signal here, so that Guy could call me. He’s out cycling at the moment, that’s why I decided to have breakfast in here. I was hoping I’d have some company and hey presto, in you walked!’
Swift smiled. If he was Guy, he’d probably be gone for most of the day.
‘I do hope Afan is okay,’ she carried on. ‘We’re worried about him, aren’t we, Fwankie?’ She had protuberant blue eyes and a tremulous voice, as if all her speech was a question.
‘Yes, I hope so too. Which house do you live in?’
‘Cuddfan, just by the polytunnels.’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s well designed so to be honest, it’s not hard work. We were keen to help biodiversity and create a natural habitat for flora and fauna. And of course, it’s another way of reducing our carbon footprint.’
‘It fits well into this landscape.’
The dog tried to climb onto the table, its tiny paws scrabbling. ‘Now, now, Fwankie, don’t be naughty. Aunty Jasmine doesn’t allow doggies on the table.’ Elinor rubbed noses with her pet and fed him a sliver of toast. She winked at Swift. ‘Jasmine doesn’t like me feeding him at the table, but she’s not here and I’m sure you won’t tell tales.’
He asked, ‘Does Jasmine lay down the rules?’
‘Well . . . I wouldn’t quite say that. But it’s her place — hers and Peter’s, so you have to observe tenancy conditions. Not that there are that many.’
‘You’re tenants? I assumed you owned your homes here.’
‘No, we’re tenants. We moved here last year. The Merchants own all of this.’ She pointed vaguely and Frankie whined. ‘It’s their baby, their dream, their development, their risk. They bought the farmhouse — it’s seventeenth-century and gorgeous — and the land. Then they decided to set the farm up as smallholdings.’
‘How long are your tenancies for?’
She scratched the dog’s head. ‘Ooh, Fwankie, he’s a nosy one, isn’t he?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’ Although it helped explain Jasmine’s lady-of-the-manor style.
‘Oh no, that’s okay. Five-year tenancies, renewable. We pay a reasonable rent, you see, enough to cover our utilities and something for the communal pot. Really, it’s all about the cooperative. And there aren’t that many rules and regs. Guy and I adore it here. We’re jewellers, we have our studio near the house. It’s a dream come true for us, being in this paradise, living off the land. And we hope our other dream is going to come true too, don’t we, Fwankie?’
Things were becoming clearer for him. The picture painted by the website was somewhat misleading. He buttered more toast, watched closely by Frankie, whose nose quivered. Having accused him of nosiness, Elinor turned out to be one of those garrulous people who spill out their personal information to strangers. She started to explain that she and her husband were applying to become adoptive parents.
‘I’ve got a useless womb, you see. It was hard to accept at first, because all the women in my family are amazingly fertile and pop out bambinos as if they’re shelling peas, but I’ve come to terms with it now. Guy and I believe that we should offer the chance of this amazing life here to an unwanted infink. That’s why we chose Tir Melys, it’s such a lovely place to raise a littl’un. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it? I mean, we did discuss a surrogacy arrangement, but Guy was against it and said it just didn’t seem right, with the world in the state it’s in. There are thousands of kiddies waiting to be adopted in the UK, aren’t there, Fwankie? The whole thing takes at least six months and we’re three months in. We’ve done stage one, all the checks and references and self-assessment questionnaires. Guy grumbles about it all. He doesn’t like the way we’re being scrutinised, but then he’s never been keen on bureaucracy and he’s got high standards — he has a doctorate, you see.’ She stated this proudly. ‘Some of the social worker’s reports have had spelling and grammar errors and Guy’s been sarcastic to him about it. He corrected one report in red pen and sent it back! We have to go to preparation classes and have a lengthy assessment done by Terry, the social worker. Guy says it’s a bit like being dissected in a laboratory, put under a microscope, but I’ve said to him that they have to be very careful. So, it’s complicated and we’re keeping everything crossed like mad. It’s a bit of an emotional tightrope. You’d love an ickle playmate, wouldn’t you, Fwankie? If we’re successful, our little cherub will be the first in the community for a while. Between you and me, Jasmine’s not that keen on having kiddiewinks here, although she’s got one son, but he’s all growed up now and lives in London. But there’s no rule against them and I’m sure she’ll love our little bundle of joy as much as we will.’
Swift was battered by this gale of information. The dynamics of the Brinkworths’ marriage sounded intricate. He rallied and managed, ‘Best of luck with it all, I admire you.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
He finished his coffee. ‘Would you say that Afan is happy here?’
She blinked at the change of subject. ‘That’s an odd question.’
‘Is it? As you all see a fair amount of each other, I assumed you’d have a view.’
‘Oh, right — well, he seems happy. He’s never looked unhappy. He’s one of those level-seeming people, unflappable, a man who doesn’t really show emotion. Not like me, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I cry at the least thing, don’t I, Fwankie? Old films, EastEnders, any of those programmes about finding lost family. Guy says I’m like a tap. Still, we can’t all be the same, can we?’
Swift agreed that this was the case.
‘Mind you,’ Elinor carried on, ‘I’m not as bad as Bruno. You can never tell if he’s going to smile or bite your head off. I shouldn’t really say that, because he has depression, but it can be difficult, gauging his moods. There’s been times when he’s really upset me. I’ve only been checking he’s okay and he’s snapped, told me to lay off. Guy says it’s my own fault, and I worry too much about other people. I suppose it’s my maternal instinct expressing itself. Bruno takes medication of course, so most of the time his illness is under control and working with the bees must be very soothing.’
She stopped speaking as Kat Glover clumped in, wearing a khaki body warmer over a short-sleeved checked shirt. She made a beeline for Swift.
‘Any news of Afan?’
‘No, unless he’s phoned the landline here.’
She shook her head. ‘I checked it. I made sure the answerphone was switched on last night.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I checked my place carefully as well, in case he’d left me a note and I’d missed it. Whatever’s happened, he must have been in too much of a hurry to tell me.’ She twisted a pigtail around her finger.
Swift was impressed by her well-developed biceps, which were on show this morning. Her eyes were red and watery, and he wondered if she’d been crying. He stood and cleared his breakfast things from the table.
‘I’ll stay around for a couple of days. I’ll make sure it’s okay with Jasmine.’
Elinor fluttered her fingers at him. ‘Of course it will be, won’t it, Fwankie? Jasmine loves visitors. We all do.’
Chapter 5
The Merchants’ house was also called Tir Melys, giving its name to the land. Swift went to lift the heavy brass knocker on the door, but paused as he heard their raised, angry voices through an open window. Mainly Jasmine shouting the odds, with Peter sounding cross but resigned.
‘What else can we do, Peter? You haven’t come up with any better ideas and we’ve been talking about it long enough. The bank won’t lend to us and even if we found one that would, the kind of interest they’d charge would be crippling. Giles is going to need the help and soon, if he’s going to sort this bloody mess out.’
‘But I love this house. I’ve devoted my heart and soul to it. We’ve put down roots here. I don’t see why Giles can’t sort himself out. It’s not as if he ever comes here or takes any interest in us. This will cause so much upset and bad feeling . . .’
‘This is a business as well as our home, when all’s said and done, not a charity. We have to put our family first and make a decision. You’d procrastinate till the cows come home.’
‘This is awful. What will people say? Such an upheaval!’
‘Yes, it is awful, but don’t make me into the bad cop here. We just have to face facts. Giles needs the help, and we don’t have a lot of choice.’
As soon as he knocked, si
lence fell. After a good half minute, Peter Merchant opened the door, said hello and asked him in. As they entered the kitchen, Jasmine was stuffing paperwork into a drawer. The atmosphere was stiff with tension, but she managed a tight smile as they sat at the table. She wore a different yoga outfit today, in deep greens, and another felt hat in the same style, in a paisley pattern. When Swift asked if it was okay to stay on for a while, she said of course, although her tone was cool. She and Peter had bowls of porridge topped with bananas in front of them. The porridge was congealing and the same colour as Peter’s cardigan. A cafetière stood in the centre of the table, but Swift wasn’t offered any coffee.
‘We ask for a contribution of ten pounds per day, if that seems fair,’ Jasmine said.
‘More than fair. I’ll stay at Afan’s for now, if that’s okay, rather than in the Bivium, as there’s a bigger bed.’
Peter Merchant ate fussily, stabbing the lumpy porridge with his spoon. He had an anaemic pallor but perhaps it was his colourless eyes that made him seem insipid. ‘I suppose you’re hoping that Afan will be back soon.’
Swift saw a flash of gold filling in his mouth. ‘That’s the idea. If I hang on, I’ll get to catch up with him as intended.’
Jasmine gave him a narrow stare. ‘How long are you planning to be with us?’
‘A couple of days at least. Then I’ll take stock, based on what’s happening with Afan. I hope he’ll be in touch soon.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you needn’t be at a loss for things to occupy you. We can always make use of an extra pair of hands in the community. Every season is busy here. I can draw up a little plan for you.’
I bet you can. He didn’t mind helping out, but he wasn’t proposing to spend his time being bossed around by Jasmine. ‘That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll pitch in when I’m ready but first, I want to visit Holybridge and get my bearings.’
‘As you wish,’ she said, stirring her porridge.
The kitchen was cluttered and homely, decorated in a rustic style with low ceiling beams, open shelving, a cream Aga, piles of magazines and newspapers and a worn farmhouse table. There were vases of dried blossoms and wildflowers dotted around. Swift admired a sturdy willow armchair sitting at an angle to the fire, and an elegant white willow chaise longue with scalloped edges resting below a window.
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 5