The former innkeeper looked wildly about the room, as if either looking for escape or someone to help him in this sudden crisis. ‘Why you asking me all this, after all these years?’ he moaned.
‘Because the rest of this bloke may have turned up, that’s why!’ snapped the inspector. ‘Now stop messing me about and answer the questions. Who is he?’
‘I don’t know, guv! I swear to God that’s true. It was already in the pub when I took over. I was in the Merchant Navy until forty-six and when I went to the Barley Mow, that drum was already there. It must have been there when the previous licensee ran the place.’
‘Who was that?’ demanded Rickman.
‘Fred Mansell — but he’s been dead for years.’
Hartnell looked at his sergeant, then murmured into his ear. ‘I think this is getting too heavy for us. Better kick it upstairs for now, see how the brass want to play it.’
He turned to Franklin, whose shaking fingers were groping for another cigarette.
‘Right, Olly. For starters, you’re going to be charged with concealing a death, so you’ll be locked up for tonight, until it’s decided tomorrow what’s to be done with you. We’ll notify your wife; maybe she can bring in some fish and chips for you!’
THIRTEEN
On Saturday morning, Richard Pryor was alone in Garth House, with Angela gone to Berkshire, Sian at home and even Moira having a day off to go shopping in Newport.
She had left him a ham salad for his lunch in the old Kelvin refrigerator and he ate this quite early, as he wanted to get off to his appointment at the vineyard, forty miles away.
Picking up the A48 at Chepstow, he drove on it through Newport and Cardiff to the small country town of Cowbridge, an old Roman station twelve miles west of the capital city. It was now the market town of the lush Vale of Glamorgan, which lay between the hills of north Glamorgan and the sea. Here he followed the instructions given to him by Louis Dumas, supplemented by one of his one-inch Ordnance Survey maps. Richard loved maps and atlases, being happy to pore over them for hours as if he was reading a novel.
He turned off at the solitary traffic lights in Cowbridge and meandered through a few lanes until he came to the tiny village of St Mary Church, not far from the huge RAF station at St Athan. On a narrow lane beyond the village, he found a gateway in a high hedge with a discreet notice proclaiming ‘Saint Illtyd’s Vineyard’, named after the fifth-century founder of the first monastic ‘university’ at Llantwit Major, a few miles away on the coast.
Driving in through the open gate, a gravel track took him to a nicely renovated farmhouse, with extensive outbuildings visible behind. He stopped on a wide turning area in front of the house and was greeted by a friendly golden retriever which ambled out of the open front door, wagging its tail as it came to have its neck patted. The dog was followed by a slim man in his mid-fifties. He wore a tweed suit with a waistcoat and a paisley-pattern cravat at his throat, his silver-grey hair covered with a matching tweed cap. Richard thought he looked very much the gentleman farmer, perhaps more typical of the Home Counties than South Wales. However, as soon as he spoke, his French origins were clear, though his English was perfect — perhaps too perfect for a native Briton.
‘Doctor Pryor, welcome to my house. It is a pleasure to meet you.’ He extended his hand and shook it warmly.
‘We get very few vine enthusiasts here, though hopefully the number will increase as more people like yourself see the light!’
He escorted Richard into the house, where he introduced his wife as they settled themselves in an elegant sitting room. Emily Dumas was a small, neat woman, some years younger than her husband, even though her hair was quite white. Dressed in a dark blue dress with a prim lace collar, she was the epitome of a quiet, respectable housewife, yet somehow Richard felt that there was deep sadness in the eyes of both her and her husband. He sensed that they shared some deep unhappiness, but it was none of his business to probe.
After some polite small-talk about the improving weather, their amiable dog and the imminent approach of Christmas, Madame Dumas vanished, then returned with a tray bearing biscuits and coffee in exquisite Limoges crockery.
‘We’ll give you taste of good Welsh wine before you leave,’ promised the husband. ‘But have this before I take you on a tour of the estate.’
As they sat and enjoyed the coffee, Richard learned that they had lived in the house for twelve years, the vines having been planted the year after their arrival.
‘Only half an acre to start with, as it was very difficult to find any vine stock during the war. We scoured market gardens to get enough, until the war ended and we could import from France,’ explained Louis.
Emily Dumas took up the story.
‘We came to Britain at the fall of France in 1940, as my husband was a senior staff-officer in the army and we escaped to London with Charles de Gaulle,’ she explained. ‘Louis worked at the Free French headquarters in Carlton Terrace, but unfortunately fell ill two years later.’
‘It was a recurrence of a tropical disease I suffered when we were in Indo-China in the thirties,’ explained her husband. ‘But I was invalided out of the army in forty-three and we ended up here soon afterwards.’
At this, Richard caught a covert glance between the man and wife, which obviously had some private significance. Then briskly, Louis Dumas stood up, full of affability, and suggested that they go outside to talk about viniculture. The next hour was a fascinating one for the pathologist, who forgot all about headless bodies and lethal stab wounds during the Frenchman’s lucid explanation of the secrets of vine-growing and winemaking. What Richard really learned was the extent of his ignorance, confirming Jimmy Jenkins’ contempt for trying to become an expert by reading books. In the winter sunshine, they toured the acres of vines, now bare of leaves and looking like desiccated twigs as they clung to the wires that supported them.
‘It’s hard to believe that in a few months, these will spring back to life and by next autumn will be loaded with fruit,’ enthused Dumas. ‘We are the first to try winemaking in Wales since the twenties, when the last vines were grubbed up not far from here.’
When Richard sought encouragement that viniculture was a practical proposition in Wales, Louis Dumas reminded him that in the past, a great deal of wine had been made all over southern Britain, by both the Romans and the monasteries.
‘That was until the climate changed for the worse in the later Middle Ages, and of course, Henry the Eighth abolished the monasteries, who were the main producers,’ he explained. ‘There was then a hiatus for centuries until the Marquis of Bute, one of the richest men in the world, thanks to Welsh coal, started a vineyard in the late nineteenth century at Castle Coch, near Cardiff. He even sent his head gardener to France to learn the secrets, though I don’t understand how he could benefit much, as he didn’t understand French! The marquis’s son planted two more vineyards in the Vale, one at St Quentin’s, just a few miles from here. They made quite a lot of wine for a few years, producing twelve thousand bottles in 1893, being the only commercial vineyard in Britain at that time. But alas, they gave up soon after the Great War.’
‘Why was that, if they were making a decent vintage?’ asked Richard, eager to learn all he could, even if only to confound Jimmy’s pessimism.
‘It was too expensive to compete with imports,’ replied Louis. ‘And they chose the wrong grape variety for this cooler, wetter climate, as their Gamay Noir was better suited to Burgundy. They should have stuck to a white wine, rather than attempt to make a good red.’
As they walked towards the end of the first row of vines, Richard saw a figure ahead of them, bending over the wires. He wore green dungarees under a brown leather jacket and had a pair of strong secateurs in one hand.