‘It’s intriguing, Jane, however—’
‘And how long did he take to die?’
‘Nine minutes?’
‘Hours, actually.’
‘Ouch. And all this
means
…?’
‘It’s to do with cosmic correspondences. As above, so below.’
‘You don’t actually know, do you?’
‘Well, no, but if you put it all together, it’s like the landscape and the community of Garway was being primed for some sacred purpose. The number and the symbols that keep recurring. The astrological pubs. You could probably go into the church and find the numbers nine – and three, of course – reflected in all kinds of architectural features. They were, like, building something into the landscape?’
‘Like?’
‘Just bear it in mind. Nine witches, nine original Templars … maybe you’re looking at the need for there always to be nine people in the know. Nine people preserving the tradition.’
Merrily said, ‘Have either of you eaten?’
‘We were waiting for you, Mum. Do you want me to make something?’
‘I know we’re trying to stop doing this, flower, but why don’t you pop over to the chip shop?’
‘It’s peak time! There’ll be a queue a mile long!’
‘Chips,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Yes, I think I should quite like some chips.’
It was fully dark now. The light came from the fire and just one reading lamp. Quiet light. Merrily sat down in the armchair opposite Mrs Morningwood, who’d removed her sunglasses.
‘How do you feel now?’
‘I’m sore. What would you expect?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But rested, thank you. I may go home tomorrow.’
‘We can talk about that later. Erm … I’ve been finding out some background. My friend Lol … has been to see Lord Stourport.’
‘Has he indeed?’
‘Which means I can now tell you quite a bit about the days before the police raid on the Master House. Only it’s … it’s a bit of a one-way street at the moment, isn’t it, Muriel?’
‘Don’t call me Muriel. Hate it. Sounds like a bloody librarian.’
‘I’ve had some background on you, too,’ Merrily said. ‘Hard to avoid it really.’
Mrs Morningwood shook her head gently; even this was clearly painful.
‘Just been talking to an old friend of mine,’ Merrily said.
‘In a community this centralized, Watkins, it would be surprising if you hadn’t.’
‘We didn’t talk
much
about you. But we could have.’
‘Who was this?’ Mrs Morningwood’s gaze was on the sweatshirt. ‘As if I couldn’t guess.’
‘This friend … I think he knows a lot more about you than he felt able to tell me.’
‘So go back and ask him.’
‘You don’t think he’d tell me?’
‘You can try.’
‘And, you know, I think I could probably persuade him.’
‘To tell you what? You think there’s some big secret? I’m the Pope’s secret love-child?’
‘The thing is,’ Merrily said, ‘I don’t
want
him to have to tell me. I don’t want him to feel he’s betrayed you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do either.’
‘Although I do think he
would
tell me. I’m just trying to convey to you that I’m …’ Merrily held up a thumb and finger, minimally apart ‘… that close.’
‘Watkins … this is not about betraying
me
.’
‘The first time we met, you took a phone call from a Mr … Hinton?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You were obtaining something for him. At first – putting this together from what I heard – I thought maybe you were fixing up Thai brides for lonely farmers. Doing the paperwork.’
Mrs Morningwood laughed.
‘Then I heard about what your mother did, on the side. And there was something that Lord Stourport said to Lol. About country girls.’
‘Country girls.’ Mrs Morningwood sniffed. ‘She was livid about that. Do you know how much they were paid? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t sound very much in today’s money, but
then
… absolute fortune. Rural wages were a complete joke, even then. Farm labour one up from slave labour, and ordinary people would need two or three jobs to get by – many still do, of course, as you know. Ironically, it’s largely the farmers themselves now. Tragic.’
‘These were your mother’s girls.’
‘
Were
. It all rather fell apart after that. I had to laugh. She’d been ripping those girls off for years. And my grandmother before her.’
‘The Morningwood heritage. How far does it go back?’
‘That’s it, really. Two generations. Before that, I imagine they
were
witches. Lived in a tiny little place over towards the White Rocks, I think it’s a sheep shed now. But, you see, Watkins, it was part of the rural culture … a
necessary
part of the culture.’
‘We’re talking about abortions?’
‘And the rest. My grandmother, who never married, raised three daughters on the profits of what, basically, was prostitution.’
‘She was doing it herself?’
Merrily trying for surprise, but once you knew, you knew.
‘And then, as she got older, began pimping for youngsters trying to earn enough money to make something of their lives. It was like …’ Mrs Morningwood’s mouth twisted at the thought, and her lip began to bleed again ‘… almost a
gap year
for some of them before they left the area, went to college, got themselves good jobs. Strong independent young women who’d learned how to … handle men.’
‘Can I get you something for that lip?’
‘Won’t die, Watkins. And when I say handle men, that was all it amounted to in most cases.’
‘You make it sound like an essential social service. Which I suppose …’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘Still?’
Mrs Morningwood sighed. A shift in terminology for the new millennium. Sex therapist specializing in rural needs. As a teenager, she’d grown – despicably, she said – to despise her mother. She’d gone to London, to work as a secretary for a theatrical agent – loose term,
very
loose. Had ended up working on what she described as adult magazines.
Very
adult. All very enlightening and destined to alter her opinion of her mother and her grandmother. Got married, not for long. Had been single again when the letter from Mary Roberts had finally reached her.
‘So was Mary …?’
‘Not up to the time I left. Eric Davies – that
was
a respectable job. But afterwards, perhaps inevitably, she made friends with the other girls.’
‘How many girls were there at the time?’
‘Three, I think. A very informal arrangement by then. My mother really was more of a herbalist, and the demand for herbs was increasing – from middle-class people by then, able to pay more, alternative health becoming quite an industry. She was still furious, though, when two of the girls took the Stourport shilling.’
‘And Mary?’
‘My mother always claimed she didn’t know about that until it was too late.’
‘I would have thought maybe she would’ve offered to get rid of Mary’s baby?’
‘Oh no.’
‘She’d stopped doing that?’
‘No, she was still doing it. She simply wouldn’t tamper with a foetus conceived at the Master House. Call it superstition.’
‘I’m not getting this.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘But the tradition … that didn’t end.’
‘It altered. My mother became ill. I nursed her over the final weeks – all over very quickly, as it always used to be before the medical profession became part of the drug culture. During that time I fielded seven phone calls from hesitant men. Two of whom I felt so sorry for that I … Well, what was I supposed to
do
?’
‘A warm heart under that bluff exterior?’
‘You can’t embarrass me, Watkins. Rural needs are essentially different to urban needs. No verge-crawling in the Land Rover. Extreme discretion is crucial, and there’s a certain mutual respect. Wasn’t going to dress up, mind. Take me as you find me.’
‘Literally?’
‘God, you’re prurient. It was nothing where I couldn’t pretend I was milking a cow.’
‘So Mr Hinton, the other day …?’
‘All sorted. Safely delivered. Delia, I think he’s called her. It’s not a major enterprise or anything, I think I’ve supplied seven in two years. A comfort, for mild-mannered chaps lacking in social skills. In one case, because of the cost, one was shared between two brothers.’
‘I see … do I?’
‘Delia – she and her sisters, the point about them is that they’re not impossibly beautiful. They don’t
pout
. They’re not
Hollywood
. The fantasy in these parts, it’s the girl in the T-shirt behind the counter at Hay and Brecon Farmers. You know what I mean? Sometimes, the outlet I deal with, I’ve actually provided them with photographs to work from – from the local papers.’
Jumbo’s Michelle, he really loves her, see
, Gomer had said.
Wouldn’t swap her for a top o’ the range quad bike. Had her reconditioned twice. Jumbo weighs seventeen stone, mind …
‘Mum?’ Jane’s head came round the door. ‘You going to have them by the fire or what?’
‘No, I think we’ll come into the kitchen, flower, if you want to get some plates down.’
‘OK.’
‘Rubber dolls?’ Merrily said. ‘Inflatable girlfriends? That’s why you won’t go to the police?’
‘How could I?’ Mrs Morningwood easing Roscoe’s head from her lap. ‘Seriously, how could I? All right, it’s mainly the inflatables now, nothing illegal there, but they’d start excavating.’
‘I think you could handle it. The identity of rape victims—’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, this is
Garway Hill
. Besides, even if they believed me after they discovered what they would very quickly discover … it isn’t just me, is it?’
‘You’re worried about the clients.’
‘It would be like a bomb under the hill. Don’t get me wrong, Watkins, I don’t fear personal exposure, but the handful of shy, vulnerable men throughout South Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, the Black Mountains, whose private lives would be taken apart, who’d would be subjected to the most degrading—’
‘OK, I understand.’
And as they went through to the kitchen, she finally
did
understand.
She was asking for it, of course. Been asking for it for years, the old slag.
Generations, even
.
‘Besides,’ Mrs Morningwood murmured in the hall, ‘what he intended was to kill me. Don’t you think?’
O
BVIOUSLY,
J
ANE KNEW
there was something she wasn’t party to. At one stage, washing the dishes, she looked at Mrs Morningwood and then tentatively grinned at Merrily.
‘I hope Siân was still here when you got back.’
‘Erm, no. She’d gone.’
‘Pity. I was only explaining to her why it was so essential we should have a big vicarage. Like because of the, you know, damaged people you had to bring back sometimes?’ Sheepish smile for Mrs Morningwood. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damaged,’ Mrs Morningwood said tonelessly. ‘And yet somehow still alive.’
And, perhaps sensing the need for a mother and daughter to talk in private, she went off – quite unsteadily, Merrily noticed, still worried – to the bathroom.
‘Mum,’ Jane said when she’d gone. ‘There’s something I have to tell you about, and it’s not going to—’
‘Shirley West?’
‘Oh.’
‘Siân told me.’
‘As an example, presumably, of why your daughter would be unlikely to make it as a private eye.’
‘That was the encouraging bit. I’m now going to tell you the rest. In absolute confidence. Just sit down for a minute.’
Even summarized, the story of Shirley’s obsession made a sad sense. More than twelve years since Fred West had hanged himself while
awaiting trial, a core of unexplained evil still hung in the air like an invisible planet. Shirley’s story was not so ridiculous. Might not even be an illness.
‘Well,’ Jane said, ‘I’m quite glad she’s certifiably insane. I mean, it helps, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s typically selfless of you, flower.’
‘So, you know … what will you do about her?’
‘I think Siân’s going to handle it herself. With some psychiatric support. Makes sense for me not to be involved. I think … Siân was proving something to me. She didn’t
need
to do that.’
‘Yeah. She’s not quite what I imagined.’
‘From my comprehensive character assassination? She’s made me feel a little wanting in the generosity-of-spirit department.’
‘Maybe she’s changed. Or maybe she’s just seen another side of you.’
This kid was getting so smart she could scare you sometimes. Merrily sighed.
‘She has principles. Moral fibre.’ She tapped a teaspoon against an open palm. ‘Perhaps it’s time I got some.’
‘Along with five more parishes?’
‘Yeah, well … who knows? Jane, look, go and hang around in the hall, will you, in case Mrs Morningwood needs any help?’
At the door, Jane looked over her shoulder.
‘She wasn’t in a car crash, was she?’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Huh.’
‘Look, I need to make a phone call, and it might take a while. You’ll have to talk among yourselves. Numerology, Renaissance cosmology …’
In the scullery, the sermon pad was still open to the word B A P H O M E T. She tore off the page and screwed it up very tight. Looked at the mobile and then – why fry your brains for these bastards? – picked up the big black bakelite receiver.
‘I need some help,’ she told Huw Owen. ‘Badly.’
‘Sycharth.’ Mrs Morningwood smiled thinly. ‘I ought to have known.’
‘How would you?’ Merrily said. ‘He’d want to keep it very quiet that
he’d been spending quality time at the old family home. Certainly wouldn’t want the Grays to know … or would he?’
‘Newtons. Still the Newtons, then.’
‘Sorry, yes, the Newtons.’
The fire was burning low. Jane had taken Roscoe for a walk, with a clothes line doubled up through his collar and a home-made poop-scoop. Dogshit watch, smoking watch. Ledwardine, heart of the New Cotswolds, had them all now, and they never slept.
‘Getting a foot inside the ancient portal.’ Mrs Morningwood had a cigarette and a glass of neat brandy. ‘That alone would make it worthwhile to Sycharth. Other obvious attractions, of course. Nubile young things bathing naked in the Monnow. Would’ve taken a youth with more will-power than Suckarse to look the other way.’