Fabric of Sin (45 page)

‘Go on.’

‘For instance, Governments, national and European, don’t like alternative medicine, they like straight doctors, drugs and drug companies. They like GM foods and meat imports and they don’t really give a shit for animal welfare. Or farmers, for that matter.’

Huw stopped and looked at Merrily. Merrily shrugged.

‘Plus, unless you’re Islamic and they can’t decide whether to bang you up or kiss your arse, this is now a secular country. Merlin the Wizard, he could be heading for the sideboard, too, and he knows it. And yet, despite what anybody says, there’s a great spiritual yearning out there.’

‘Just that the way some of it’s expressed doesn’t please some of our more traditional colleagues,’ Merrily said.

‘And if some of these oddball spiritual pathways appear to have been
trodden by the heir to the throne – well, not good news for the Church, but not necessarily bad news for the republicans. Use it to shaft him again – eccentric’s one thing, bonkers summat else. There’s quite a body of opinion thinks this could turn out to be a good time to lose ’em.’

‘Dump the monarchy?’

‘Or stand well back and allow it to dump itself. A lot of cynicism about the Family right now. What’s your view?’

‘Expensive, undemocratic. And some, on the fringes, have been free-loading airheads. But, at the end of the day, I suppose I feel happier that they’re there. They represent something I feel kind of reassured to have around. Plus, can you think of a contemporary politician you could stand to see as President?’

‘Happen you’d’ve got on with Dobbs better than either of you thought possible.’

‘I’m guessing Dobbs was closer to all this than you. He knew Laurens van der Post, for a start.’

‘Aye, he did. Knew him way back, and renewed the contact not long before his death. See, there’s a lot of superstition around the monarchy, and Charleses haven’t been too lucky. Charles I, executed – very public human sacrifice. Charles II had to hide in an oak tree, thus becoming the Green Man. You heard that one?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘The head of Charles II peering through the foliage … the green man to the life.’

‘I suppose it is. What’s the significance?’

‘A title which, for different reasons of his own choosing, could easily be applied to the future King Charles III. But because Charles is seen as an
unhappy
name for a king, the word is he’ll adopt one of his other names and become King George VII. Which doesn’t change things
much
, as your green man in churches has also been associated with
Saint
George. But that’s by the by.’

‘Huw, aren’t we getting just a bit …’

‘I’m giving you the folklore. The mythology. The superstition. Dobbs was a mystic. He believed the monarchy – good or bad, strong or weak – was preserving something fundamentally essential to the spiritual
welfare of Britain … part of the soul of the nation, if you like. That if Church and State were still in bed together, nowt much would go wrong in the great scheme of things.’

‘So Charles suddenly announcing he wants to be defender of faiths plural …?’

‘Weakens it. At the wrong time, Dobbs thought. That’s where he and van der Post fell out. All that about all religions being the same dog washed, that came from van der Post.’

‘I don’t knock it,’ Merrily said. ‘If we can coexist …’

‘Aye, in theory. In practice, it gets politicized, and Islam wants to run the show. And that’s where the Templars came in – the first fusion. Picking up Islam from the Saracens, Jewish mysticism, Egyptian mysteries, happen some Celtic paganism and goddess-worship via the Cistercians. They were accused of undermining Christianity from within and happen there’s some truth in it. A multifaith multinational, building up massive wealth, very, very quickly. Undermining kings and popes.’

‘And
did
they practise some kind of ritual magic?’

‘It were said they used their knowledge of the so-called dark arts in warfare. Change the weather? Bring down mist, create storms? We’re never really going to know what they were about.’

‘And you see van der Post in the Templar tradition?’

‘In some ways. Mate of Carl Jung, who was an admirer of the Gnostics … and can you find a better Jungian archetype than the green man or the Baphomet? Ah, you can go on like this for ever.’ Huw started gathering up papers. ‘Folk might well be asking why the Duchy’s suddenly buying Templar properties in Herefordshire.’

‘Just the one, surely?’

‘No. Let’s not forget the big project – Harewood Park. Large estate, with an old chapel in the middle, granted to the Knights Templar in 1215 by King John.’

Upstairs, Roscoe started barking.

‘Why don’t
I
know these things?’ Merrily said.

‘And a satellite of Garway, as it happens. Could be pure coincidence, but some folks might see a significance. The Masons, for instance. They
don’t like no longer having a foot under the throne. If he appears to be into Templarism, they’re happen wondering if he might not be ripe for a new approach.’ Huw looked up. ‘How do, lad.’

Lol had let himself in, having slipped off home in the early hours.

Merrily thought he still didn’t look too happy.

For some reason, he was insisting that when she went to see Sycharth Gwilym, she shouldn’t go alone.

T
HE WORD ACROSS
Hereford was that The Centurion was already a gold mine. Converted out of a single-storey derelict factory off Roman Road, to the north of the city. Good access, sweeping views, plenty of parking.

And now that Roman Road had become the outlet for the network of new roads serving Hereford’s secret bypass … why, you’d almost think Sycharth Gwilym had learned something in advance.

Merrily had been thinking about this and what it might imply but now, suddenly, she wasn’t.

‘He did
what
?’

Sitting up hard, the seat belt straining.

‘Didn’t seem a good time to tell you last night,’ Lol said.

‘For God’s
sake
!’

‘I’m not saying Gwilym operates on the same level, but maybe it’s as well to know the kind of people you just might be dealing with.’

‘This …’ Merrily shutting her eyes ‘… is all my fault.’

Broken into the truck, hot-wired it, driven it away and forced the box. Then used another kind of hot wire on the Boswell. She stared at Lol, an acid sensation in her chest. Knowing he hadn’t gone to the police because that would have meant explanations. Same with the insurance.

‘It’s
not
… your fault. Can’t say Prof didn’t warn me about the kind of people he employed.’

‘It was your most precious …’

‘It was just a guitar.’

‘Four grand’s worth. More than that, a huge sentimental …’

‘Maybe,’ Lol admitted.

‘I’m going to call Al Boswell, see how much it would cost for him to replace it.’

‘Merrily, we don’t even
tell
Al Boswell. He’d take it very personally, and he isn’t getting any younger and all his guitars are like children. And neither of us has four grand to spare, and even if we
did
…’

‘
Bastard
.’ Tears stinging her eyes. ‘Plus, he’s giving you a clear warning that he’s going to try and destroy your career.’

‘What could he do? Independent producer, independent label …’

‘… Reliant on major distribution networks and chain stores. Sorry if this sounds like I’m getting drunk on conspiracy theory.’

‘But you …’ Lol glanced sideways. ‘You’re OK, though?’

‘Mrs Morningwood’s offered to give me more reflexology tonight.’ Merrily leaned back, trying to kill the tightness. ‘I’m fine. Much better. So
this
is why you were insisting on coming with me.’

‘I’ll stay in the truck when you go in, but I’ll be just outside. Call you on the mobile after an hour?’

‘How could they know the importance of the Boswell?’

‘Look …’ He sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’

‘But how?’

‘It was in
Mojo
. Someone showed me a copy at the gig. Concert review, picture of me and what – unmistakably to any musician – is a Boswell.’

‘How did you manage at the gig?’

‘Still had the Takamine, which they hadn’t damaged. You said do it for Nick, so I did. He was sitting at the back. He didn’t walk out.’

‘
Lol?
’

‘Kidding. I think.’

‘But it went well?’

‘Strangely, it did. I felt very tired afterwards. Slept for half an hour in the car park with the top of the box held down with bailer twine. Look, be careful in there. None of this smells good. Stourport, Gwilym, Mat Phobe.’

She’d told him about the anagram.

‘Of course, we only have Hayter’s word that Mat’s actually dead,’ Lol said. ‘This the entrance?’

Merrily looked up at an archway of sandstone.

‘Think it’s supposed to look like a Roman villa?’

‘Chapel of Rest, circa 1963.’

‘Maybe ’65,’ Merrily said.

This time, when she’d called, the receptionist had said that Mr Gwilym would be happy to talk to her at two-thirty. When she walked in five minutes early – best black woollen coat – he was already waiting, on the edge of a mosaic tile circle, standing between two small fountains burbling into bidet-type projections. Bending to her, handshake smooth and soft, like suede.

‘Mrs Watkins.’

‘Good of you to spare the time.’

‘How could I not? All so intriguing. My office is just here. Can I order you a drink? Coffee … wine?’

‘Just had lunch, thank you, Mr Gwilym.’

‘Here?’

‘A sandwich. At home.’

‘Most remiss of me not to have offered you a proper lunch. My apologies.’ He shouldered open a matt-white door in a recess. ‘Business, of late, has been utterly fren
et
ic.’

His voice was public-school English but – whatever anybody said – there was posh South Wales down there, something slow and rhythmic like an evening tide washing against a jetty.

‘I wouldn’t have had time,’ Merrily said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

For some reason, she’d been expecting barrel chest, spider veins, flashing eyes, belligerent – someone it would be easy to goad into saying too much. But Sycharth Gwilym was a loose, big-boned man with a jutting chin and grey-brown hair which rose and fell, like the plume on a knight’s helmet, and his manner was relaxed, his eyes pale and tranquil. And when you looked into them you didn’t see anything of Fuchsia Mary Linden.

Merrily’s confidence waned. This was going to take time and maybe skills that she didn’t have.

Mr Gwilym waited for Merrily to sit before moving behind his desk.
The office had a picture window with a view over the car park, over the city, towards the cathedral and the river. White walls and a glass-topped, white-painted desk with the wood grain showing through. Twin swivel chairs in grey leather. A small conference table.

‘So …’ He sat down, leaning back, composed. ‘You wanted to ask me about the Master House.’

Behind his head was a large framed print: an engraving of a robed man with a forked beard, sitting in a Gothic canopied throne, holding a sceptre.

No prizes.

‘You do realize,’ Sycharth Gwilym said, ‘that the house hasn’t been in my family for over a century?’

‘I do know that. But it does seem to have been occupied by Gwilyms for several centuries before that.’

‘I’m not entirely sure about Gwilyms, as
such
, but various of my ancestors, yes.’

Start off with the routine stuff. Merrily brought out a pad and a pencil.

‘Do you know exactly how long the family was there?’

‘I do not know when the family was
not
there. Although records – such as they are – go back no further than the fifteenth century.’

‘That would be the time of the Owain Glyndwr rebellion.’

‘Indeed. Mrs Watkins, may I … inquire the purpose of this? The stories I hear about the nature of your mission to Garway are probably far more lurid than the truth.’

Merrily told him why the late Felix Barlow had refused to work in the Master House, what had happened to Felix and Fuchsia, and he lifted his jaw.

‘Oh.
Not
more lurid then.’

He didn’t smile. There was always a point, during every inquiry of this kind, where you felt fairly foolish, where you thought,
What am I
doing
here
?

‘Mr Gwilym, look, I’m well aware that we live in a secular age and most people consider me some kind of anachronism and the basis of my job barely rational, but …’

He didn’t say anything. Why should he? Let her squirm.

‘… All I can say is that sometimes I’ve been able to help people feel more comfortable about their situations or a particular place.’

Sycharth Gwilym crossed his legs.

‘And who would you be helping in this particular instance, Mrs Watkins? The Prince of Wales?’

‘Well, I don’t imagine anyone knows, at this stage, who’ll eventually be occupying the Master House. We’d just like them not to be bothered by whatever remains of whoever was there before them. Or whatever they did.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘If you like.’

‘By which you mean the spirits of the dead?’

‘Or aspects of memory. Lingering guilt.’

Sycharth Gwilym nodded patiently.

‘I appreciate, Mrs Watkins, that you are doing your best to tread carefully, and I shall try to assist you however I can.’

‘Thank you.’

He extended a hand, offering her the floor.

It seemed a wide and exposed area.

S
HE SAT IN
the grey swivel chair, trying not to think of cigarettes.

‘Do you remember the last time you were in the Master House, Mr Gwilym?’

He didn’t hesitate, nodding in a resigned way.

‘Yes, I am rather afraid that I do.’

‘When would that have been?’

‘Oh … more than thirty years ago, certainly. I was a young man. I’d been invited, along with other local youngsters, to a party – the kind of party I would
not
attend today, but I expect that in your own, clearly more recent, youth, you also …?’