Candlenight, page 24
the bad news.
"Problem is, there's nowhere to stay in this town," he'd said. "By-election, you see."
And then, without even looking at Elinor, he'd turned automatically to his daughter and said . . .
Actually asked her, without even thinking . . .
"Don't suppose there's any chance of you putting us up for the night, is there, Claire?"
Elinor had wanted to pour her coffee over his head.
But she could not help noticing that, for the first time, Claire had appeared discomfited. "I'm not sure that would be wise."
Elinor was damn sure it wouldn't be wise, having long ago sworn never to set foot in that abominable house again.
"Well unless you can lend us a tent." George said with a silly laugh, avoiding his wife's blazing gaze. "I don't know quite what we're going to do. The garage chappie said Aberystwyth was about the nearest place we could hope to get in, and apparently several of the hotels there are closed for the winter. Bloody inconvenient."
"It's absurd," Elinor said.
And then Claire had said, "Look, if it's only for one night, perhaps—"
"No!" She couldn't stop herself.
"I was thinking of theTafarn" Claire said. "The village inn."
And now the Land Rover was rattling down from the hills, out of the forestry, Elinor next to Claire in the front, George in the back. Claire had told them she'd acquired the second-hand farm vehicle from someone called Dilwyn, in exchange for Giles's car. Which Elinor thought was a disgusting thing to do within a few days of his death, as well as a disturbing indication that Claire was now committed to living in a place where a Land-Rover was considered a sensible mode of transport.
A grey squirrel shot out of the hedge, apparently intent on hurling itself under their wheels. Claire ignored it.
"Look out!" Elinor yelled, but Claire neither braked nor swerved.
"You've run over it!"
"Perhaps." Claire didn't even look in the mirror.
Elinor was profoundly shocked. "What's happened to you. Claire? What's happened to you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, mother." Claire tossed her ragged black mane. 'They're vermin."
Elinor was hunched in the corner, well away from her daughter, wrapping her arms around herself, shivering inside.
Claire spun the wheel as they rolled out of the trees and past the sign that said simply, Y Groes. The lumbering vehicle went across the river bridge with only inches to spare either side. The inn lay before them, and above it reared the church, its squat tower massive from this angle, its weather vane pricking a pale halo in the cloudy sky.
"Stopping raining, anyway," George observed from the back seat.
Chapter XLIV
It took Berry all of twenty minutes to find out where Bethan McQueen lived.
First off, he went into the Welsh Pizza House and ordered a plain cheese and tomato from an English guy who wore a white plastic apron. On the apron a drooling red dragon brandished a knife and fork. The pizza was crap, but the guy thought Bethan McQueen might be the girl who lived over the bookstore.
Hampton's bookshop had a window display featuring thenew Ordnance Survey maps, local travel guides and a handful of books—in both English and Welsh—about the history of Wales. Most prominently displayed was a paperback with a man's face superimposed over a map of Wales. The face looked thoughtful and ended in a beard with a forked tip. The book was called Glyndwr, The Last Prince. It was by a Dr. D. G. Evans.
"Naw." Berry said aloud. 'Couldn't be."
He went in out of the rain.
"Dreadful weather," said an elderly man, looking up from a copy of the Spectator spread before him on the counter.
"Could be worse. I guess," Berry said.
"It was worse a few nights ago. The river almost burst its banks."
Berry picked up the Glyndwr paperback and turned it over and saw another bearded face in a black and white photograph on the back.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Sold seven copies in the past couple of days," the elderly man told him proudly. "Mostly to journalists more interested in the author than the subject."
Berry put the paperback on the counter with a ten pound note. "Guess that makes it eight."
"Actually, they're remainders," the bookseller confessed. "Touch of inspiration, though I say it myself. As soon as I heard Plaid'd picked him as the candidate, I rang the publishers and offered to do a deal for however many copies they had left, they were only too pleased, only having managed to get rid of a couple of thousand."
"When'd it come out?"
"Five years ago? Six? Not much interest, you see, outside Wales, in Owain Glyndwr." He wheezed out a laugh. "Actually, not much interest inside Wales until now. But that's business. You have to seize the moment. If he wins I'll doubtless flog the lot, if he doesn't I'll still have made a reasonable profit."
Berry said. "Listen, can I ask you . . . Does Bethan McQueen live here?"
"Ah," The bookseller folded the paperback into a brown paper bag and handed Berry his change. "The lovely and intriguing Mrs. McQueen." He pointed to the ceiling. "Up
there."
"Intriguing?"
"Oh well." He smiled ruefully. "Beautiful widow living quietly and discreetly. Never any visitors . . . Well, this chap" —he pointed to the Glyndwr books — "on occasion, but never for very long. I'm a terrible old gossip, as you may have gathered, so pay no heed to a thing I say. There's a short alley next to the shop door. Just inside that you'll find another door in a recess. Ring the bell. I don't know if she's in."
"Thanks." Berry stepped out into the rain and then dodged into the alleyway. The door in the recess was plain, no glass, and painted some indiscernible colour. He pressed the bell-push and waited, not able to tell if it was working. Until the door opened and Bethan McQueen stood there in white jeans and a turquoise sweater of soft wool.
"Mr. Morelli."
"Hi," Berry said, suddenly lost for words. "I, ah ... I have this feeling we should talk."
"About Giles Freeman?"
"And maybe other things."
Bethan McQueen said, "Did you tell Guto you were coming?"
"Sure did."
"And what did he say?"
"I don't recall the exact words. But he seemed to be indicating that if I bothered you I could expect to have him clean the street with my ass."
Bethan McQueen turned on a small, impish smile. "You had better come up," she said, "while he's safely out of town."
"Tea? Or coffee."
'Tea, please. No milk."
"I'm glad you said that, I don't think I have any milk. Do you like it strong?"
"Like crude oil," Berry said. While she made the tea he took in the apartment. It looked temporary, like a storage room for furniture that was destined for someplace else. There was a big sofa with a design involving peacocks. He sat in one of a pair of great fireside chairs with loose covers in a floral print. Too big for the room, like the enormous Welsh dresser in honeyed pine. The dresser was empty save for a few books.
As Bethan returned with a tray, two white cups with saucers on it, and biscuits, there came a hoarse crackle from outside and then a tannoyed voice announced:
"THIS IS SIMON GALLIER, YOUR CONSERVATIVE CANDIDATE. I SHALL BE AT THE MEMORIAL HALL AT SEVEN-THIRTY TONIGHT WITH MY SPECIAL GUEST, THE SECRETARY OF STATE FOR TRADE AND INDUSTRY, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN GORE. I HOPE TO SEE YOU THERE AND WE WILL BOTH WELCOME YOUR QUESTIONS ON LOCAL AND NATIONAL ISSUES."
Then the same message—presumably—was repeated, in Welsh.
"He's English, this Gallier." Berry said, taking a cup and saucer. "But he's learned Welsh, right?'
"I believe"—Bethan perched on an arm of the sofa— "that he has been on some sort of crash course. Two weeks work at a residential centre. Very intensive."
"Like, they wake you up in the middle of the night, flash a light in your face and make you answer personal questions in Welsh?"
Bethan smiled.
"That the kind of course you had Giles on?"
Bethan's smile became a frown. "Don't think me rude." She looked him hard in the eyes. "But who exactly are you?"
Simon Gallier's speaker-van made a return trip up the street, "DON'T FORGET, SEVEN-THIRTY AT THE MEMORIAL HALL. AND MAKE THOSE. QUESTIONS TOUGH ONES!"
"That's a tough one," Berry said.
"You do not know who you are?"
He drank some tea.
"Who do people think you are?" she asked.
It was the strongest tea he'd ever been served. It had to be at least a six tea-bag pot.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not helping the situation am I? I, ah . . . I'm a reporter. I work for an American news agency in London. Giles was my friend. Originally, what happened with this guy we both respected—dead now—he told me to dissuade Giles from throwing everything up and moving to Wales. So I came out here with Giles—early in the fall this was—lo look at his cottage. And there was . . . something there I didn't take to, OK? Now Giles is dead. That's it. That's everything. Basically."
This was what reporters were supposed to be able to do. reduce the Bible to a paragraph.
And edit all the meaning out of it.
Bethan McQueen drank her tea slowly, watching him.
"Giles was my friend too," she said eventually. "I tried to teach him Welsh, and I failed. It was a disaster. I came to feel that the lessons were doing him harm. When I learned
about his . . . tumour, it was as if I had personally, you know . . ."
"Finished him off?"
"Yes."
"That's crazy, Beth."
"Bethan."
"Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry. My husband called me Beth. I'm being stupid"
"If we're getting into self-flagellation here," Berry said, "most likely, I killed him. I failed to persuade him not to come here. Didn't hardly try. If he'd been in London maybe he'd have gotten some medical attention instead of pushing himself like he did, to move out here in record time, commuting to and fro, all that."
"I don't think that is what you're saying, is it?" Bethan said.
"I'm sorry ... ?'
"You said you think you might have killed him because you failed to persuade him not to come here. You are implying he died because he came to Y Groes."
"Well, no, I . . "
"That is not what you were implying?"
"I . . . Shit, I don't know." Berry rubbed his eyes, drank more tea. She was forcing him to say things he hadn't even put into thoughts.
"Look, give me your cup." Bethan said. "I should not have tried to poison you."
"What?"
"Nobody can drink tea as strong as that. Except for me when I am feeling beaten, which is most of the time at present."
Berry held out his cup. "It was wonderful tea. I mean that, seriously."
"You are joking. I'll make some fresh."
"Listen, forget the tea. Siddown please."
Bethan put her cup and saucer on the floor and sat down on the sofa. She reached forward and flipped the switch on the side of an archaic three-bar electric fire.
"This is kinda hard." Berry said. "It's like we're walking round each other, keeping a distance. Like suspicious dogs, trying to provoke each other into snapping or something,
Listen, how about we go for dinner tonight? Always presuming there's some place other than the Welsh Pizza House where we can actually get some dinner."
"I'm sorry. I mean, I really am sorry. I have to go to Simon Gallier's meeting. In my role as Guto's secret agent. I have to report back."
Berry thought about this. "Well, would you mind if I tagged along? I have to file some kind of piece to the agency tomorrow. I do need to see this guy Gallier in action."
"All right."
"Good. Maybe we can figure out how to approach this thing. Always assuming there's something that needs to be approached."
"Mr. Morelli, I've lived with this for so long that I don't know who to trust any more."
"Berry, for Christ's sake."
"Bury?"
"As in strawberry. My name."
"Oh."
They stood up. Bethan straightened her sweater.
"I would love to say you can trust me," Berry said. "Only I'm not sure I can trust myself. I'm notoriously neurotic."
She faced him from the other side of the monster sofa with the brilliant peacock fans on it.
"She said, "Do you believe Giles died because he came to Y Groes?"
"I . .
"It's important. Do you believe it?"
Berry shook his head. "Also, I'm indecisive."
"Well, I believe that Robin . . ."
"Robin?"
"My husband. I believe Y Groes killed Robin. I hate that village, Mr. Morelli. I'd like to see the church fall down and every stone of every building smashed and pounded into The ground."
Part Seven
THE NIGHTBIRD
Chapter XLV
ENGLAND
Miranda had been absolutely determined not to do this. A clean break was the only way. They simply didn't need the hassle of each other any more.
The problem was she'd got rather pissed on the plane - private plane owned by the company, no expense spared when you were working with these people, lots of Champagne, none of this Sangria nonsense - and the thought of ferrying all her luggage out to Daddy's place had been too tedious.
Besides, the Spanish resort where they'd been shooting - two days for about six seconds - had been a sort of hot Bognor, the kind of location that dictated at least an hour in the shower absolutely as soon as one reached civilisation.
So Miranda let herself into Morelli's flat and made straight for the immersion heater. It was supposed to be one of those rapid ones, but she decided to give it twenty-five minutes, because an hour in the shower was a long time for Morelli's primitive cistern to cope with.
She picked up the mail and put it on his desk. No point in trying to pretend she hadn't been here - Miranda would have been the first to agree that her personal ambience was not the easiest to dispel.
OK then.
She switched on every heater she could find, flung her case into the middle of the floor and stripped off most of her clothes. Sometimes feeling rather cold could be quite a luxury.
Miranda hated Spain. On the other hand, she did rather enjoy doing commercials. So many well-known actors were doing them these days that people tended to think that if you were in one you must be a rather respected figure too.
She wandered into the bedroom. Duvet still thrown back. He obviously hadn't returned from Wales. What an utter plonker he was. Always worrying about the effect he might be having on the great cosmic scheme of things, or the effect he ought to be having. "Taking responsibility, kid," was how he'd put it, explaining that you shouldn't eat meat if you weren't prepared to kill your own.
Morelli was a mass of conflicting neuroses. How could anyone be the young Al Pacino on the outside and mid-period Woody Allen underneath?
Miranda marched into the bathroom and ran the shower. She gave it a couple of minutes to heat up and was about to step in when the phone bleeped.
She decided to go ahead regardless, but remembered then how annoying a telephone could be when one was showering—the shower never quite managing to drown out the bleeps. So she decided to unplug the thing. But, of course, curiosity won in the end and she picked it up and affected a Deep South sort of voice.
"Thiyus iyus the Morelli res'dence."
A man's voice, educated, not young said: "Oh, is that Mrs. Morelli?"
"It most certainly isn't!" snapped Miranda, reverting to type.
"Oh dear. Well, would it be possible to speak to Mr.Morelli? I'm afraid this is about the seventeenth time I've tried over the past two days."
"I regret to have to tell you." Miranda said, "that he's in Wales. Please don't ask me why."
"Wales, eh?"
"Wales."
"Well, would you happen to know precisely where in Wales he's gone?"
"Somewhere full of grim mountains and dead sheep, I expect," said Miranda, beginning to feel rather chilly standing there in the altogether. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"Look, if I'm barking up the wrong tree, cut me off or something . . ."
Don't tempt me.
". . . but it wouldn't be a village called Y Groes, would it?"
"Called what? They all sound the same to me."
"Y Groes. Spelt I-Grows."
"Oh, well, look, I believe he has spoken of some such place, yes. But I really couldn't be certain."
"Ah. Do you know if he's staying at the inn there?"
"I can't honestly say where he's staying. Look, can I take a message?" Over her shoulder. Miranda could hear the beckoning patter of the hot water.
"You see, it was about Y Groes that I wanted to speak to him. Are you a friend of his?"
"Friend, ex-lover, confidante—and highly qualified to pass on messages." Come on, you old fool, spit it out.
"Perhaps I should explain . . ."
Must you?
"My name's Peters."
"I'm writing it down."
"Canon Alex Peters."
This has to be a first, Miranda thought morosely. I'm standing here tit-and-bum naked, talking to a vicar.
"I conducted the funeral service for Winstone Thorpe. Perhaps your, er, friend mentioned him."
Miranda barely managed to suppress a groan.
"You see, I was chatting to your friend after the funeral, and he told me how poor Winstone had begged him to discourage young Giles Freeman from making his home in
Wales. Of course, I was born and brought up in South Wales and I'm afraid I was rather dismissive about the whole thing. Nonsense. I said. Lovely place, lovely people."
Get on with it! Miranda was grinding her teeth.
"Then, you see, I read about Giles's death, and it said he'd been living at Y Groes. and immediately I thought about Martin Coulson and this awful man Ellis Jenkins."
"I really think I should leave a message for Berry to ring you when he gets back," Miranda said, goose pimples on her arms now.
