Murder on the Hour (27 page)

“I still don't know how I could have done it. But I did. What's going to happen to me?” asked Hughes.

“You'll be charged with the murder of Catrin Bellis,” said Bethan. “If you'd like to see your wife, I can notify her. We can even drive her here, if she wishes.”

Hughes made a scoffing noise. “I doubt she'd come. She won't want anything to do with me now.”

After Hughes had been escorted back to his cell, Davies and Bethan Morgan remained seated in the interview room.

“Why would someone who has everything—a beautiful home, family, nice life—what would motivate him to do something like that?” Bethan said.

“Because people who seem to have everything sometimes want a little more.”

As the green of the valley turned grey in late-evening shadow and the parade of restless clouds bringing the occasional bursts of rain had been blown away, Davies tidied up his desk, said good night to his colleagues, and left the station.

*   *   *

“So it's over,” said Penny, holding the door of the Spa open for him. “You got your man.”

“We did. Evan Hughes has confessed to killing Catrin Bellis.”

“Well, that's good. You can wrap up this stage of your career by cracking one last case.”

Davies smiled. “Well, officially, it won't be me who solved it. I suggested to Bethan that she return to duty for a few days so she could wrap up the case and get the credit for it.”

“Did you really?! That was wonderful of you.”

Davies looked serious. “Not really. It was her case and she did all the work early on. I wonder if it was the right thing to do, though. I hope I didn't just prop her up for now and next time, when she's on her own, she'll be in over her head. Because she was definitely floundering this time.”

“There's a few minutes of daylight left,” said Penny. “Let's go for a little walk beside the river.”

She locked the Spa door behind them and they pushed open the squeaking gate, then crossed the town square.

“And what did you mean, exactly, when you said ‘this stage' of my career?” Davies asked as they entered the churchyard.

“Oh, I think you'll be looking for something else to do before too long,” said Penny. “I don't think you'll stay really retired. I can't see you spending your days puttering about in your garden. You'll find some new projects to throw yourself into.”

“Well, you may be right. And for my first project, I thought I'd fix that awful squeaking gate at the Spa. It's been driving me crazy for months.”

Penny laughed as they seated themselves on a wooden bench and watched the river flow by for a few minutes. Then she turned toward him, facing upstream, with the churchyard on her left. She rested her arm on the back of the bench and gazed toward the chapel, surrounded by graves.

At the roar of approaching aircraft they lifted their faces to the sky. Two fast-flying, streamlined black jets flew directly ovehead, banked, and then disappeared into cloud cover.

“RAF jets from Anglesey on maneuvers,” said Davies. “There was an RAF station here during the war.”

“Do you ever stop and think about all the people who were here before us?” she asked. “The RAF crews who attended church here, in their blue uniforms, during the Second World War, for example. Who might have walked that very path when they said good-bye to their wives?”

Davies nodded. “Or the townsfolk turning out for the 1776 funeral of the local clockmaker,” he said.

“Or small boys who for some reason, buried their treasure near his grave over a century ago.”

 

Forty-one

July 1900

The long summer vacation stretches out endlessly when you're young. Day after languid day, filled with swimming and riding your bicycle down shady country lanes, the bright green leaves overhead casting dappled shadows across your friends' faces. Picnics of bread and cheese and an apple that taste so good, so special, simply because you're eating out of doors beside a fast-flowing stream bordered with wild flowers and it's summer and you are ten years old and enjoying every moment of this heady, delicious freedom.

This was the first summer Wilfred Williams had been allowed out on his own, to explore the fields and forests that bordered his family farm. With his black and white Border collie, Fran, by his side, he walked the pathways that led to the adjoining farm where his best friend Herbert Bellis lived. On some days they were joined by the third member of their little gang, Sydney Wynne, but more often than not Sydney's mother would come to the door with excuses why he couldn't go with them. His grandmother was coming to tea and he had to stay clean and tidy for the whole day in his Sunday best until she arrived. On another occasion, she explained that he had been very naughty, had disobeyed his father yesterday so for punishment he would have to remain inside all day today, working on sums and reading passages from the Bible.

In truth, his overprotective mother was extremely fearful of the dangers to which those other two boys might expose her precious child; she imagined all kinds of terrifying possibilities, each more awful than the last: her innocent, naïve boy would brush against a stinging nettle and spend the rest of the summer with a burning, itchy rash, or he would lose his grip and tumble out of a tree and suffer a terrible head injury that would leave him an invalid for life, or worst of all, fall into the River Conwy and get swept away, only to wash ashore downriver, drowned, his lifeless body sprawled on a reedy bank.

So on a sunny day at the end of June, when Herbert and Wilfred knocked on the kitchen door of the Wynne farmhouse, his mother, dressed so much better than their own mothers, told them that Sydney couldn't come out with them that day. “He's poorly,” she said. They thanked her and walked away, pausing for a moment to look back at the house. Sydney waved to them from an upstairs window.

“Doesn't look poorly to me,” said Herbert.

“Well, never mind him,” said Wilfred. “More strawberries for us!”

They hopped on their bikes and raced off down the country road, passing the Jones's farm, and turning into a small lane that ran alongside it. About half a mile up the lane they stopped, leaned their bikes against a tree, and cut off across a hay meadow. The tall, multi-coloured grasses gave off a warm, dry, slightly musty smell as they danced softly in the summer breeze. After a couple of minutes they reached Mrs. Jones's expansive strawberry patch.

“Do you think we should?” asked Herbert.

“'Course we should. Look at all she's got. She'll never miss a few.”

They bent down and picked a few plump red strawberries, warm from the sun, and popped them in their mouths where they burst, releasing a delicious trickle of juice. Eagerly and greedily, moving down the row, they picked more. Suddenly, Herbert stopped.

“Here,” he said. “Come and see this.” A triangular piece of something brown stuck out of the ground under a plant.

“What do you suppose it is?” he asked as his friend bent over it, his hands resting on his bare knees.

“Let's find out!” He knelt, bare knees in the dirt between the rows of strawberries, and began digging around the object with his hands. Herbert joined him and soon they had cleared away enough dirt to free most of the object. Together, they pulled it out of the earth, and brushed away the dirt. The strawberries were now forgotten.

It appeared to be a bulky parcel of dark brown leather, wrapped around something shaped like a box. The leather gave off a pungent, dank, earthy smell that spoke of a long time buried.

The boy slowly unfolded the smooth but cracked and brittle leather, revealing a small, casket-shaped box. It was black but when Wilfred rubbed the side of it with his shirt cuff, a dull green patina was revealed.

“Gosh!” said Herbert. “What do you make of that?”

“I don't know,” Wilfred replied. Across the meadow the small figure of Mrs. Jones appeared, her white apron fluttering in the gentle breeze and a large basket tucked under her arm.

“She's coming to pick her strawberries,” whispered Herbert. “We'd better hightail it out of here. What should we do with the box?”

“Give it here,” said Wilfred. “We'll bring it with us and work out what to do with it later.” He tucked it under his shirt and the two boys were soon flying down the road toward home on their bicycles.

When they reached Herbert's house they ran upstairs, eager to examine the box. They placed it on his bed and knelt on the floor, examining it from every angle and admiring it. Its small hasp was in place, unlocked.

“Open it! Go on!” said Herbert.

Wilfred slowly lifted the lid and peered inside.

“There's a bag or something,” he said.

“Well, go on, then. Give it here!”

He pulled out a leather purse with a drawstring around the top. He was just about to pull the drawstring when his mother's voice reached them from the bottom of the stairs.

“Herbert!” his mother called. “Are you up there?”

“Yes, Mum!”

“Is Wilfred with you?”

“Yes, Mum!”

“Well, it's time he was heading home. It'll be teatime soon and his mother will be wondering where he's got to.”

When the diminishing sound of her footsteps indicated she had retreated to the kitchen, Wilfred pulled the drawstring open and tipped out the contents.

“They look like those things ladies wear around their necks or on their ears,” said Wilfred. “Pearls, I think they're called. My
nain
has some. She wears them to chapel on Sundays and when it's a do, like me da's birthday.”

He picked one up, rolled it around in his fingers, and held it close to his face to examine it. The afternoon sun picked up its iridescent, creamy hue and bathed it in a rich, warm glow.

The two boys exchanged concerned looks.

“What do you think we should do with them?” asked Herbert. “Should we show them to a grown up?”

“Nah, we can't do that,” replied Wilfred. “They'll want to know where we got them and we'll have to tell them we were in Mrs. Jones's strawberry patch. And then I'll be in for it with me da.”

“Maybe we could put them back in her patch,” suggested Herbert. “You know, just put them back where we found them and no one's any the wiser.”

“But if we get caught, then they'll think we was trying to steal them. We've got to hide them somewhere while we work out what to do. I can't have them in my room because me mam goes in there all the time.”

“Same with me,” said Herbert.

“Let's have a think,” said Wilfred. He studied a picture of Jesus hanging on Herbert's wall and then, a flash of relieved inspiration crossed his face.

“I know!” he said. “Where is it that they're always digging holes?”

Herbert raised his shoulders in a vague shrug.

“The churchyard, you great lump!”

“Herbert! Let's be having you! Come downstairs this minute and get washed for tea! And as for you, young Master Wilfred, I'll not be telling you again! It's time you were off home! If you're not here by the time I count to ten, I'm coming up.” There was no mistaking the tone of Herbert's mother's voice and the two boys stood up.

“Hide this somewhere safe for tonight and meet me tomorrow morning, soon as you can get away, in the churchyard,” said Wilfred.

*   *   *

“Look!” said Herbert. “Over there, by the church. Someone's already dug a hole!” They made their way over to it, and peered in. On the other side of the churchyard, with his back to them, an elderly man in heavy woolen trousers and a white shirt was knee-deep in a grave. He carefully placed shovels of dirt to one side. Occasionally he leaned his shovel against the side of the grave, removed his cloth cap and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief that he then replaced in his pocket. After resting for a moment or two, he continued with his task.

“This here's the grave of the man who made all them clocks,” said Wilfred, pointing down at it. “Me
nain
showed it to me and said I should be really proud to come from Llanelen because of him. We got one of his old clocks in our parlour.”

“What's this hole for then?” asked Herbert.

“Don't know. Maybe he's going to plant a bush or something in it when he's finished over there.” He pulled the parcel from under his coat, and after pulling the leather wrapper tightly around it, set it in the hole. The boys then covered it loosely with handfuls of dirt that had been placed beside the hole, leaving space above it to accommodate whatever the hole had been dug for.

“Right,” said Wilfred. “Now we have to mark the spot so we'll know where to find it again.”

“Let's start from inside the chapel,” said Herbert. “At the stone baby.”

They counted off their steps to the hole where they'd placed the box and then wheeled their bikes out of the churchyard and headed for home. The gravedigger, now standing deeper in the grave, leaned on his shovel, watching them leave, and then wiped his brow with his handkerchief. A moment later another shovel full of dirt topped up the pile on the edge of the grave.

Hot and out of breath by the time they arrived at the Williams's farm, they leaned their bikes against the lambing shed and while Herbert drank a glass of water in the kitchen with Wilfred's mother, Wilfred ran upstairs to fetch a school notebook and a pencil from his bedroom.

“What have you boys been up to this morning?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing much. Just rode our bikes for a bit,” Herbert replied. He smiled his relief when Wilfred reappeared and after thanking Mrs. Williams for the water, the two boys ran outside.

“Don't slam the—” she called after them, but too late.

*   *   *

“Let's walk up to the little hill that overlooks the stream,” Wilfred suggested. Perched on the side of the hill, Wilfred handed the notebook and pencil to his friend.