It was down this stretch that I found Mr Giles sitting in the harbour-side pub, the Ship's Biscuit.
'Morning Mr Giles!'
He gave me a sheepish look as if embarrassed about the other night.
'Oh hello. Everything OK?'
'Fine, and yourself?'
'Oh, can't complain,' he said stoically in a tone that stabbed the heart. He was a gentle man who had dedicated his years to the nurturing of tender shoots and seedlings, yet now some cruel trick of fate had led to him spending the autumn of his life as caretaker at St Luddite's. Who in the world had a right to complain if he didn't?
I bought him a pint and asked about the Bronzini incident.
After taking a long drink he spoke quietly to his glass.
'Few weeks ago Mrs Morgan went walking with her dog Lucky across the school grounds. You know we've got a sign up, says "Beware of your Dog", but they never read it, do they? You see a sign like that every day, so you read it but you don't really read it, if you know what I mean. You miss the difference in the wording. So she takes Lucky for a walk, and the dog disappears. Can't find him anywhere. All afternoon she's wandering around, shouting "Lucky, Lucky, Lucky!", but he's gone without a trace. Come nightfall, she has to give up. Never mind, she thinks; he'll turn up. But he doesn't. Next week Mrs Morgan's walking past the school and Bronzini appears at the gate and offers to sell her some fur gloves. Said he'd made them himself. Well, she was only too pleased to encourage a bit of industry and self-reliance among the youth, especially after all those terrible things she's been hearing about the school. So she buys the gloves. Nicely made they were, and there's something about the pattern she likes, something familiar, but she can't quite put her finger on it. They say when she got home she put the gloves on the reading table next to the fireplace and goes to make a cup of tea. When she comes back in she finds Sheba — the dog's mother — standing at the foot of the table staring up at the gloves and making this pitiful whining sound, and pawing at the ground. Terrible thing it was.'
I shook my head, appalled at the crime.
'Of course,' the caretaker added, 'the kids have their own theory about the murders.'
'Yes?'
'They think it's the Welsh teacher.'
Chapter 4
I THINK MY great-great-uncle Noel must have been in love with the woman in the jungle, Hermione Wilberforce, even though he had never met her — or at least, if he did, he only met her years after he fell in love with her. Is such a thing possible? I leaned back in the chair and listened as the scratchy strains of Myfanwy Live at the Moulin filled the room. Mrs Llantrisant had brought the LP round that morning. She said she'd found it in her garage but the cover didn't look like it had been gathering dust anywhere. So typical of Mrs Llantrisant to fib like that. After spending months at her stall every night calling the celebrated night-club singer a flibbertigibbet, she couldn't bring herself to admit that she liked her music as much as anyone else. I looked up at the portrait of great-great-uncle Noel, now sadly defaced by a hairline crack in the picture glass - a legacy of the recent ransacking. Those Druid tough guys would never have manhandled him like that if he'd been alive, that was for sure. He was, by all accounts, a man to be reckoned with. A man who liked nothing better than to enter the ring at county fairs to take on the roving pugilist. When friends and family and several members of the Borneo Society condemned his quest to rescue the white woman lost in the jungle as a romantic fool's errand, it just made him more determined. And so on 14 January 1868 he set off from Aberystwyth for Shrewsbury, en route to Singapore. Five years later the bishop's wife traded two brass kettles for his journal which had been found gathering dust under a chandelier of skulls in the corner of a longhouse.
Further contemplation of his fate was halted by the arrival in the office of a man who looked liked he'd just stepped out of an Al Capone movie: double-breasted suit in dark blue pinstripe, baggy parallel seamed trousers, silk tie, fedora hat — it was Tutti-frutti, the eldest Bronzini son. Two muscle-bound henchmen followed him in.
'The boss wants to talk to you,' he said simply.
'Would he like to make an appointment?'
The two henchmen walked round the desk, grabbed my arms, and held me pinned against the back of my seat.
'Just sit down and keep your mouth shut.'
Papa Bronzini walked in, leaning heavily on a cane. Tutti-frutti eased the old man's coat off his shoulders and helped him into the client's chair. He took his time making himself comfortable but did not seem bothered by the fact that a roomful of people was waiting for him. It came naturally to him. Once he'd made himself at ease he looked slowly up at me.
'Buon giorno.'
'Bore da. I'm sorry about your boy.'
He raised a hand as if to indicate my condolences were taken for granted. 'It's been a great shock for the family.'
'I'm sure.'
'Naturally we would like to find out who did this thing.'
'Naturally.'
For a while no one spoke. The Papa seemed to be pondering the right way to broach the subject.
'You will forgive the impertinence, I hear you were a recent guest at the police station?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'May I ask why?'
It was my turn to ponder. What should I tell him? Protecting client confidentiality was a ground rule of the profession. It was true that technically Myfanwy wasn't a client because I wasn't getting paid, but that was only a technicality. Morally I was beholden to protect her interests. I knew, too, that Papa Bronzini was no fool. He had connections; he would already know why Llunos took me in.
'Are you having trouble remembering?' The question was politely put, but the undertone of impatience was clear.
'I can't tell you,' I said.
The thug on my left took out a small rubber cosh and cradled it casually in both hands.
Papa Bronzini looked at me sadly. 'I'm dismayed to hear that.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Especially about your boy; but Llunos wanted to speak to me about a different matter.'
'Is that so?' he asked simply. Again there was silence. This time with an edge of tension. 'You should understand Mr Knight, no one is accusing anyone of anything. It's simply a matter of fact-finding. You're a father yourself, you must understand —'
'No I'm not.'
Papa Bronzini looked confused.
'I'm not a father.'
He picked up the photo of Marty.
'He's not my son. He was a school friend of mine; he died when I was fourteen.'
Bronzini put the photo frame back on the desk with exaggerated respect. 'You must have been very close to him, to keep the picture on your desk all these years.'
'I suppose you could say so. Although it's a bit more complicated than that.' I didn't tell him Marty died for starting a mutiny during a PE lesson.
Bronzini raised a hand. 'Even so, someone with such sensitivity would surely understand my feelings as a father. We're talking simple courtesy and decency here —'
'I do understand, Mr Bronzini, but I can't tell you what Llunos wanted to see me about. It's a matter of honour. As a Sicilian you would surely —'
Papa Bronzini banged the desk with his fist. 'You talk of honour and lie to me in the same breath!'
I wondered how long it would be before they used the cosh. Suddenly I became angry; who were these cheap gangsters to force their way into my office and give me a lecture on manners?
'Look, Mr Bronzini!' I snapped. 'I sympathise about your son, but let's not get carried away; we both know what you and your boys get up to round this town, so don't come here preaching to me about courtesy —'