Then the village was left behind. The road narrowed through the dark Aberglaslyn Pass. The roar of water from the river on his left echoed from the high rock walls that blocked out the sunlight and gave the place a chill, eerie feel. Even in a car he had found the place creepy. Now he was even more glad than ever to emerge on to the flat, green fields before Porthmadog. He skirted the town, then crossed the estuary by the narrow causeway they called the Cob, accompanied on his right by the little steam engine that went up the mountain to the old slate quarries at Blenau Ffestiniog.
On the other side the road wound through dappled oak woodland, then started to rise again. After a mile or so he came to impressive gateposts, each topped with a stone lion, its paw resting on a shielded crest. A discreet sign beside the gateway, carved from local granite, read, THE SACRED GROVE, CENTER FOR HEALING ARTS AND CELTIC SPIRITUALITY. As he passed through the gates and out of the sunlight, the wind in his face became colder. Over the crest of a little hill, and suddenly the most improbable of sights—an Italian-style bell tower, decorated with blue-and-white mosaic tiles rising from the green woodland. And beyond it the sparkle of the ocean. He rounded a corner and found the road ahead of him barred by a security gate. He looked around then spotted an intercom box on the left of the gate. He pressed it.
“Yes?” A male voice barked. “Can I help you?”
“It’s Constable Evans, North Wales Police, here on official business.”
“Hold on a minute.”
A long pause. Then the gate slowly opened. As soon as Evan had ridden through, it swung shut again with a loud clang. He could make out the roofs of buildings nestled among the trees. He came to a glass-fronted booth and a man in guard’s uniform slid open a window. “Leave your bike here, will you? They don’t allow motor vehicles any further. Disturbs their concentration.” He looked Evan up and down. “North Wales Police, is it? Who did you come to see then?”
“I’ve come to ask questions about a missing person,” Evan said. “Maybe I should start with the owners.”
“I’ll ring through and have you escorted down.”
“That’s all right. I expect I can find my own way,” Evan said.
The man gave him an unfriendly stare as he picked up the phone. “Someone will be up in a minute,” he said. “Wait here, please.”
Evan waited. He noticed there were several monitors in the booth and that the man was checking surveillance cameras. A lot of security for a place that is supposed to be a center of healing and tranquility, he thought. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching on the gravel. A slim young man wearing a large dark sweatshirt and scruffy cords came into view. He was slightly built, and walked with the awkward, gangly gait of someone who hasn’t quite grown into his body yet. As he came closer, Evan noticed that the sweatshirt had the Sacred Grove logo on it—an old oak tree with roots entwined into a Celtic knot around it.
“Hello,” he said. “C-can I help you?” He peered at Evan shyly through round wire-rimmed glasses.
Evan was surprised to find that the voice wasn’t local Welsh but betrayed a recent stint at an English public school.
“North Wales Police. I’d like to speak to the owners, please,” Evan said.
“I think you’ve come to the wrong place. We haven’t reported any ‘incidents,’ as you would say, and I don’t think we have any c-criminals on the premises either.” Evan sensed an uneasiness behind the banter. He suspected that the boy was shy by nature, but had picked up the upper-class innate arrogance when dealing with authority.
“It’s about a missing person.”
“Nobody’s missing from here.” The young man grinned. “Everyone was p-present and accounted for at breakfast, I can assure you.”
Evan sensed that the boy might have been sent to hedge. “This person might have stayed here a couple of months ago. Now if you’d just take me to the owner.”
“All right. This way then. I think Annabel’s in her study.”
“And you are?” Evan asked.
“I’m Michael. General dogsbody.”
He set off at a brisk pace. Evan found to his astonishment that he was walking down a narrow cobbled street lined with pink-and-white stucco cottages, tiled porticos, old archways, and battlements. It was as if he had been teleported to a mixture of the Italian Riviera, medieval Germany, and Disneyland.
“Bloody ’ell,” he exclaimed as the cobbled street came out above an area of reflecting pools and lawns. Rows of Greek columns lined the path. The lawns were bordered with statues. The pools were adorned with spurting mythical beasts.
“Yes, it does rather knock your socks off the first time you see it, doesn’t it?” Michael said. “The old man who built it was quite crackers, of course. But in a lovable kind of way. He created this fantasy around him. Was still working on it when he dropped dead.”
“His daughter owns it now, does she?” Evan asked. “That would be Lady Annabel?”
“She and her husband,” Michael said flatly. “Co-owners.”
Evan picked up his tone. “Her husband?”
“Her third husband. The American wonder boy. Randy Wunderlich.”
“Wunderlich?” Evan gave him an amused glance. He wondered if the boy was having him on.
Michael returned the grin. “His name really is Wunderlich. Isn’t that convenient? I bet it started out as plain old Smith. Randy Wunderlich, world-famous psychic and almost young enough to be her son. She married him last year.”
He cut up a flight of steps, past a medieval church, and under another archway. Evan found himself outside a very different building, this one with the simple elegance of the Georgian period, and genuine too. This was obviously the original stately home around which the fantasy land had been built. Michael led him in through a set of gracious double doors. “This is our main building. Offices, admin. The guests, when there are any, stay in the cottages.”
Evan shot him a glance. “I thought the place was heavily booked.”
“Not yet,” Michael said. “Cold, gloomy weather doesn’t encourage meditation and dancing in the dew. We’re hoping it will pick up in the summer.”
They were in a tiled entrance hall with a grand chandelier over a curved dark wood staircase. “Wait here, please,” Michael said. “I’ll go and see if Annabel is receiving visitors. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Evan said, “but it’s Constable Evans.”
“Right-oh. B-back in a jiffy.” The boy disappeared down a hallway, then returned almost immediately. “She’ll see you now.”
It was like being summoned to a royal presence. Lady Annabel was seated at a large desk. She had been reading but took off her glasses hastily as Evan was ushered in. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said to Michael. “Now please go and see if those idiots have got the loo in number eighteen unclogged.”
“You give me all the fun jobs.” Michael pushed his hair back from his forehead as he left.
“Now, Constable. Exactly how can I help you?” The voice was deep and very upper-crust. Lady Annabel must have been quite a beauty in her time but youthful curves had now given way to fat. Her rich auburn hair was impeccably styled around a large face with an extra chin or two. Her chubby hands were decorated with a lot of rings and she had a floating, flowered silk scarf at her neck. Spoiled rich girl gone to seed was written all over her.
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am.” Did you say “Your Ladyship” these days? It sounded very feudal. “We’ve had a report of a missing girl, so we’re going around all the likely places in the area. She’s an American college student and it’s just possible that she came here earlier this spring.”