‘This would be the girlfriends, before they left?’
‘Would’ve been the time when Sycharth’s father, Gruffydd – keen as ever to shaft the Newtons – was apparently complaining to the parish council about Lord Stourport’s habit of biking around the lanes stark bollock naked except for a pair of Doc Martens.’
‘You ever meet Stourport?’
‘I’ve told you, I wasn’t there.’
‘You knew Sycharth, though. When you and he were young.’
‘He made a play for me once, at a barn dance. I was almost tempted to go out with him – he had an old Triumph Spitfire. Yellow. Passed his test on his seventeenth birthday. It used to roar sexily up and down the lanes. I always liked speed.’
A moist sadness came into Muriel Morningwood’s bruised eyes. Days of innocence? Yeah, sure.
‘Long time on the phone, Watkins.’
‘I was consulting a colleague. Didn’t want to miss anything out. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a priest. A proper priest. Nothing gets out.’
Mrs Morningwood drank some brandy.
‘Tell me, what
were
they doing, apart from taking drugs and shagging? Do hate the way another generation has appropriated the word
shag
as if they invented it. Why can’t they they come up with one of
their own? Sorry, I’m rambling again. I don’t think I want to know what they did to Mary Roberts. Not in this state.’
‘Didn’t you ask any of the other girls who were involved?’
‘As far as I know there were only two. My mother wouldn’t have anything to do with them again. I tried to talk to one about it – she just walked away. Too well paid. They’ve both left the area now. I don’t think either of them was there at the end. You should get to Suckarse before he has time to fabricate a story.’
‘You ever hear of a man calling himself Mat Phobe?’
‘Never. Who’s he?’
‘It was all apparently stage-managed by this man. He seems to have decided there was some kind of Templar treasure hidden at the Master House.’
‘Never heard of
that
.’
‘Mat Phobe – it’s an anagram of Baphomet – the sacred head? Also the name adopted by the occultist Aleister Crowley as leader of a Templar-based outfit experimenting with the magical power of sex.’
‘That what the Knights Templar did, do you think?’
‘They were more less accused of it, weren’t they? Maybe riches led to decadence.’
‘I can certainly see Sycharth in ceremonial robes.’
‘They seem to have tried some kind of mediumistic thing, to put him in touch with his ancestors – the Welsh princes, he claimed, apparently.’
‘His ancestors were sheep-shaggers.’
‘People keep saying he doesn’t speak Welsh,’ Merrily said. ‘Is he likely to know any Welsh at all?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. Wasn’t compulsory at school when Sycharth was a boy, not in an Anglicized area like Monmouth. His son would have to learn it, I expect – Cynllaith.’
‘How old’s he?’
‘Fifteen or sixteen.’
‘Cynllaith? What’s that mean?’
‘Could be something to do with milk –
llaith
. Or – more sinister, according to my dictionary –
battle
or
slaughter
.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Pretentions to warrior status. These sex rituals – was that just an excuse?’
‘Was for Lord Stourport.’
‘But in the course of it …’ Mrs Morningwood’s voice hardening ‘… one of them seems to have impregnated Mary Roberts.’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘And was, therefore, Fuchsia’s father.’
‘Yes.’ Merrily heard the phone ringing, let it ring. ‘I’ve thought of that.’
‘Suppose it’s Sycharth?’
‘We’re unlikely ever to know.’
‘But does
he
? And if that child was born as a result of some degenerate ritual, Watkins, what might the effects of that be? I’m asking you as a priest.’
‘As a priest, I don’t really have an answer.’ Merrily stared into the fire. ‘Looking at it psychologically, I would think that would depend on whether she knew about it, wouldn’t you?’
‘If she knew, might she think of herself as inherently soiled and corrupt because of the circumstances of her conception?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And
did
she know, do you think?’
‘It would explain some things, wouldn’t it? But if she knew of her own connection with the Master House
before
Felix tendered for the job, why did she go along with it,
then
throw a wobbly? What was she like when you first met her?’
‘Inquisitive. Lots of questions.’
‘Not spooked at that stage?’
‘No suggestion of it. This would’ve been their first visit, and they were both fired up with the idea of restoring the house in a sympathetic way. She wanted to know what I could remember about it – the atmosphere, the colours of the walls. Hard for me to recall what she asked in much detail because, of course, I knew at once who she must be and it had, as we used to say, rather blown my mind.’
‘You
definitely
didn’t say anything to her about that … or give any indication? I mean, if she saw you looking shocked …’
‘I don’t give anything away unless I want to.’
‘Suppose Fuchsia really didn’t know about Mary and the Master House until she actually came here.
Something
happened to make her go dashing into the church demanding a blessing and spiritual sanctuary from Teddy Murray.’
‘Who would’ve recommended a five-mile walk in the fresh air,’ Mrs Morningwood said sourly.
‘If someone had already recognized the resemblance to Mary the way you did and made Fuchsia aware of it … then the idea of the place being haunted, something rising from under the dust sheets, might have been her own way of externalizing her feelings. Or is that psychobabble?’
‘The past rising up to haunt her?’
‘And she’s a devotee of M. R. James, and perhaps she’s learned that James went to Garway, where something happened to disturb him – and all
that
goes into the emotional mix. She’s afraid she’s carrying around something corrupt, tainted. She wants to be blessed, purified.’
What is this that is coming?
‘Perhaps, for the first time, starting to question the fate of her mother,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘
Did
Mary come back to Garway, after she wrote to me and I failed to respond? Was your friend able to find that out?’
‘Mmm. I think so.’
‘So they would have known about the baby. Sycharth and the other clowns.’
‘I presume.’
Mrs Morningwood was silent. Merrily heard Jane coming in with Roscoe, big paws skidding on the flags in the kitchen.
‘Sycharth would hardly have wanted a bastard child,’ Mrs Morningwood said at last.
‘Perhaps I’ll get to talk to him tomorrow.’
‘But first, I think you need to talk to the Grays.’
It was after midnight when Merrily switched off the lamp in the parlour. Mrs Morningwood had gone to her herbal bed, taking the dog up with her. Jane had gone over an hour ago to her apartment in the
attic. Merrily went through to the kitchen for the last time, put some food down for Ethel, smoked half a cigarette and listened to the answering machine bleeping in the scullery. Eventually, she stubbed out her cigarette, went through and hit the button.
‘
Coming over, lass. I’ve things to clear in the morning, so it’ll be mid-afternoon
.’
Huw seemed about to hang up, then came back.
‘
The bloke who cleared you for the Duchy. Nowt to worry about
.’
Another silence, questions drifting like steam in the scullery’s sepia light. There was a soft tapping at the window; Merrily turned sharply.
‘
But don’t go near Dunmore yet
,’ Huw said.
‘You did say it didn’t matter what time,’ Lol said at the back door. ‘I’ve been back an hour, but you were obviously busy.’
‘Why didn’t you just come
in
?’
They’d swapped keys months ago.
‘I thought I’d walk around for a bit.’
Maybe it was the light or the lateness, but he looked washed-out, stripped down, drained, as sorrowful and weary as Jesus in
The Light of the World
that still hung in the hall.
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No, thanks. Not hungry.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Come to bed, then,’ Merrily said.
S
HE WAS AT
the farm by eight-forty-five. Not a problem; Roxanne reckoned she’d been up since five. A wiry woman, early thirties, in a dark blue fleece and a baseball cap over curly hair already greying at the front. Out by the gate with two sheepdogs when Merrily drove in; now in the kitchen, clinking mugs, scraping toast.
‘You’ve just missed Paul, he’s taken the kids to school, then he’s got an appointment at the hospital, which always puts him in a bad mood. Very wary of the drugs, reckons your mate Mrs Morningwood does him more good. The doctors humour him on that score, and that makes him even madder.’
‘What, reflexology?’
‘Has it once a week now. Probably just as well he isn’t here, actually – you talk to him about the Gwilyms, it takes him the rest of the day to calm down. And he isn’t even family.’
The farmhouse was red brick and pebble-dash with bay windows downstairs. Built to function, two barns in front, no name displayed. The kitchen table was scrubbed pine, the coffee as bitter as Roxanne.
‘You know they brought Foot and Mouth into the valley in 2001? You know that, do you? Way to get rid of all your stock, clean up on the compensation. Well, a lot of unscrupulous farmers did it, but rarely anything so blatant. He made no secret of it, he
wanted
it, he
embraced
Foot and Mouth.’
‘You mean Sycharth Gwilym had his farm deliberately infected?’
‘Yeah, but try to prove it. Well, we did, we told the press, but the press wouldn’t use it. He’s a big man now, Sycharth, the King of Hereford. Most of his money’s in property and he wanted his stock gone, and he
grabbed the opportunity and sod the rest of us. We had a lovely herd of Herefords, wiped out in an afternoon by the trigger-happy bastards from DEFRA. Paul cried. He stood out there and he cried. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I’m a Newton, I know what they are, the Gwilyms. Scum is what they are.’
Roxanne brought her coffee to the table, snatched off her baseball cap.
‘Adam put us in the picture about what you’re doing. I’ll be there, never fear. Well, it
should
be me. I’m the Newton, no way Paul should be put through
that
.’
‘It’s not meant to be an ordeal.’ Merrily spread some honey on a half-slice of toast. ‘Most people say they feel much better afterwards. Some people even …’
She didn’t like to mention the sense of healing. An occasional side effect of a cleansing and not necessarily restricted to residents of the affected property. But … too many false dawns in this household, you could tell.
‘I’m sorry,’ Roxanne said. ‘I didn’t mean you. Sycharth Gwilym. Always so considerate to Paul, opening doors, laying ramps. With a sneer on his face that he barely tries to conceal. Gives him a sick buzz. Or it did, when he thought we’d have to sell up and get out. So, yeah, I’ll do it, you can count on me, I’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with Adam Eastgate, and I’ll look Sycharth in his shifty eyes and I’ll pray to God for anything that remains of the Gwilyms to be eradicated from that house until the end of sodding time.’
‘Knows all the history, that girl,’ Mrs Morningwood had said when she came off the phone at seven-thirty a.m., ‘but you’ll need to keep her on track. All she really wants is to pour venom on the Gwilyms.’
Was the venom deserved? Rage could be inherited, the reasons for it long forgotten. Sins-of-the-fathers.
‘You know what this is about,’ Merrily said to Roxanne. ‘Some people refusing to work in the house.’
‘Poor bloke. I showed him round, the first time he came. He was all right, I thought.’
‘But did that make any sense to you? Why people were scared.’
‘Just the one person, I think?’
‘Maybe one more.’
The darkness of the inglenook, the crackle of bird bones, the face
. She took a hit of the coffee. ‘Possibly.’
‘Well, I never lived there, obviously.’ Roxanne crunched toast. ‘My parents’d been over here for some years when I was born, so this is the only home I’ve ever known. But I know my mother was glad to move out of the place.’
‘You know why?’
‘Not really. When I was a kid, the times it was empty – between tenants – I always wanted to get inside, it looked so mysterious, like an old castle or something. But it was always kept locked up, and my mum told us it was dangerous. I mean falling slates and stuff. Then it would be let again, to some family – people with horses once – but they never stayed long. I remember one couple, the Rogersons, banging on the door one morning and the woman yelling, “You should’ve told us! Should’ve told us about it, we’d never have taken it.”’
‘You ever find out what had happened to them?’
‘Nope.’ Roxanne shook her head. ‘Wasn’t talked about in front of us kids. Any more than I’d talk about it in front of mine.’
‘They didn’t want to sell it?’
‘No, they didn’t. I suppose the farm was doing well, and it was an asset. Also, the Master House is in the centre of the land, and they didn’t want to sell any land. So there’d be access to organize, a road to put in, rights of way … and the Gwilyms were always hovering. They’d bought another farm – the one Sycharth has now – and the Master House was between us and them, and even if we’d sold it to someone else, what was to stop them selling it on to the Gwilyms?’
‘What’s to stop the Duchy doing the same?’
‘I don’t think they would. He doesn’t give up on things, the Prince, what I’ve heard.’
‘I wouldn’t really know. Was much said about what happened when it was leased to a commune?’
‘That was before my time, but I’ve heard there was a lot of drugs and wild parties. Oh … and I also remember, when I was little, some chap
with a big beard coming to the house, saying he was researching a history of … I think it must’ve been the Templars, and could he have a look around the Master House? And my dad was quite rude. He said, “No, bugger off, we’ve had enough of all that.”’