‘He’s supposed to have retired here, after his campaign collapsed.’
It had always seemed odd to Merrily that Glyndwr should spend his last years in the border area where he’d caused maximum damage, burning down most of the major castles. You’d have thought he’d feel safer in some Welsh heartland.
‘Hidden away, more like, with a price on his head,’ Teddy said. ‘A celebrity outlaw. His daughter, Alice, had married a Scudamore from Kentchurch Court, and they might have helped to conceal him. He was never caught, he just disappeared. There is a legend that he once hid out at the Master House – but, then, lots of places claim that connection.’
Beverley said, ‘It’s the sort of legend I imagine some of the Gwilyms liked to pretend was actual history.’
‘And they’ve been trying to … reacquire it?’ Merrily said. ‘I mean, the Master House?’
‘Periodically, yes. I’m not sure how bothered Sycharth is now.’
‘I heard he was totally hell-bent on getting it back.’
‘Well, you could be right.’ Teddy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. How are your plans going, as regards, ah …?’
‘Still thinking it would be good to get the Gwilyms and the Grays under that roof. Especially as it no longer belongs to either of them. No better time to heal old wounds.’
‘Would you like me to have a word?’
‘With?’
‘The Grays, at least. They come to church – Paul in a wheelchair now, poor chap. My feeling is that they were more than glad to get rid of that house. Whether you believe in some sort of spiritual malaise or not, they haven’t had much luck. The question is, will they come if the Gwilyms are going to be there? I don’t know. I’ll talk to them. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thank you, Teddy.’
‘If I tell them someone from the Duchy of Cornwall will be there?’
‘I’ll try and talk to the land agent tomorrow.’
‘Not the, ah, Duke himself, presumably.’
‘At a rite of cleansing?’
‘Quite.’ Teddy smiled. ‘Although that would certainly bring both families out of their cupboards, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would also bring the Special Branch out of theirs,’ Merrily said. ‘And, on the whole, I don’t think my nerves would stand it.’
Earlier, sitting on a corner of the bed at The Ridge, with the bedside lamp on, she’d called Lol on spec, a bit surprised to catch him in.
‘I’ve been back all day,’ Lol had said patiently. ‘Last night’s gig was Brecon. Thirty miles?’
‘Of course … sorry.’
‘Old hippies and young soldiers, mainly.’
‘What?’
‘Brecon. It’s a garrison town. Plus a few girls who couldn’t have been born when Hazey Jane started.’
‘Groupies?’
‘In Brecon?’
The power of bad dreams. Merrily closed her eyes. Sometimes you could punch yourself in the mouth.
Lol said, ‘Been watching Canon Callaghan-Clarke familiarizing herself with the village landmarks: church, market hall, Black Swan, Gomer Parry …’
‘I’m sorry. Couldn’t even let you know we were getting her. Events … overtook.’
Lol had met Siân only once, last spring, during a tense and troubling evening in Ludlow Castle, when Siân had finally been exposed to the blurred reality of deliverance. Not a comfortable night, for any of them.
‘Not a problem,’ Lol said. ‘I kind of thought you’d wind up going. Under the circumstances.’
Not a problem? Why wasn’t it a problem?
‘Lol, I’m sorry, it’s … I’m still a bit tired. Got up feeling lousy and wound up having foot-reflexology. From this Mrs Morningwood. It was … strange.’
‘But it worked?’
‘Something worked. I think. It’s just knocked me out a bit. After some moments of rare clarity, I’m tired and confused again, but yeah, I feel better. Don’t knock it.’
‘Merrily—’
‘Never straightforward, this job. You turn over stones, things crawl out. You ever come across Lord Stourport?’
‘Lord …?’
‘Stourport.’
‘Well, we’ve obviously exchanged nods at various receptions,’ Lol said. ‘Buckingham Palace garden parties, that kind of …’
‘You’ve never heard of him, then.’
‘No.’
Merrily took a long breath and told him, in some detail, about Lord Stourport’s time at the Master House, his supposed connections with the music industry. About Mary Linden nearly thirty years go. It was good to talk about it, to bring it out of the dreamlike fug of the day.
‘We think she was abused.’
‘Abused how?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t know anything for certain. Or even if there was an element of fantasy. Drug-fuelled. I mean, it was a very long time ago but I really, really don’t like the feel of it.’
‘How about I ask Prof about this guy,’ Lol said.
‘Prof. Of course. That would be … What the hell is that?’
Her head wouldn’t process the clamour, but its vibration brought her to her feet.
‘You OK, Merrily?’
‘It’s …’ She started to laugh. ‘It’s a dinner gong.’
And no time to hang out of the window to smoke half a cigarette.
‘A period boarding house,’ Lol had said. ‘I so envy you.’
There was a strained kind of formality about the Murrays. As if she was a child they were in the process of adopting.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Merrily …’ Beverley was putting out nut roast; why did non-veggies always think it had to be nut roast? ‘… You seem rather … sleepy. I was quite worried about you this morning. Now, you don’t look unwell, but you do look exhausted. And Teddy, please don’t say anything about the powerful air of God’s own country.’
‘Actually,’ Merrily said, anything to get this sensible woman off her back, ‘I had some treatment today.’
Telling them about Mrs Morningwood. No reason not to. Presumably it was a legitimate business, the reflexology.
Beverley frowned. Teddy looked intrigued.
‘It was effective? Because I’ve often thought of consulting her myself. A lot to be said for preventative therapy. Beverley’s not so sure, though, are you, Bevvie?’
Beverley didn’t reply until she’d finished serving the nut roast, the onion gravy and the veg.
‘It’s nothing to do with alternative therapy, which I’m sure has its place. I just never know quite what to think of Mrs Morningwood.’
‘In what context?’
Merrily realized how hungry she was, the body craving food, even nut roast. Beverley sat down, pushing a strand of blonde hair away from an eye.
‘Oh, you hear things. Put it this way, if Teddy was to go I’d certainly make sure I went too.’
Merrily’s fork froze just short of her lips.
‘Something of a man-eater,’ Beverley said. ‘That’s what they say, anyway.’
‘Mrs Morningwood?’
‘Always strikes me as a little … threadbare for that sort of thing. Eccentric, deranged. The way she drives around in that big Jeep, taking corners too fast. Sorry, I didn’t mean deranged, I think I meant disarranged.’