Fabric of Sin (46 page)

Gwilym said that the Master House had been leased by the Newtons to a group of people who had money to spare, took drugs and behaved with … a certain lack of inhibition. He supposed that, as country kids, they’d been fascinated and flattered to be invited to join in, half-expecting celebrities to be there.

Merrily said, ‘So that would’ve been you and …?’

‘Mainly young women – perhaps another reason I was keen to go.’

‘Do you remember their names, by any chance?’

Do you remember the black girl?

A minimal shake of the head. Pointless asking that at this stage.

‘And what happened at the party?’

‘I was offered cannabis, which I felt obliged to take. And which must have had an effect because I recall very little of what happened afterwards.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Although I do remember, towards midnight, someone suggesting
that – given the age of the house and its atmosphere by candlelight – we should hold a sort of seance. With the intention of making contact with the dead.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘I doubt whether there’s a logical answer to that.’

‘A
sort
of seance?’

‘I do remember some of the people there being excited to discover that many generations of my family had lived in the house. Someone suggested that it would be interesting for me to be put in touch with my ancestors.’

‘How did you feel about that?’

‘Hardly in a position – or, I would guess, in any state – to say no.’

‘And how did they go about it?’

‘All a blur, I’m afraid, Mrs Watkins.’

‘Ouija board?’

‘You mean letters and an upturned glass? Not that I
recall
.’

‘Do you remember which of your ancestors they were trying to reach?’

‘I imagine any one of them would have been more than welcome. Why? Do you think we might somehow have conjured up something that is still, ah, walking the place?’

‘It’s just that … your first name, the names of several of your forebears and your son seem to correspond to a particular pattern. One called Owain. Then there was Gruffydd. And Fychan?’

‘My father. And my great-grandfather.’

Merrily looked up at the engraving of the fork-bearded man with the sceptre.

‘The last man to try to bring about an independent Wales by force, in the fifteenth century – having himself declared Prince of Wales – was Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan.’

Was that an actual movement in Sycharth’s sleepy eyes?

‘Widely known as Owain Glyndwyr. And
his
father’s name …’ Merrily consulted the pad ‘… was, I believe, Gruffydd Fychan ap
Madog
.’

‘You have a better knowledge of Welsh history than most of your countrymen, Mrs Watkins.’

‘Welsh friends. Now. Owain’s father, I think, was baron of somewhere called …
Cynllaith Owain
?’

No reaction.

‘And Glyndwr’s own mansion in north-east Wales was, of course, called …
Sycharth
.’

‘Well done indeed, Mrs Watkins.’

‘So the Gwilyms have a family tradition of male children being given names connected with Owain Glyndwr. Who is said to have stayed at the Master House while on the run from the English, after his campaign collapsed.’

‘I believe that is the story, yes.’

‘One your family is evidently very proud of.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose we are. Especially now, in a time when Owain’s vision is becoming reality. How gratified he would be to see the formation of the Welsh Assembly … as a start. Not yet enough, but a start.’

‘And all done without anyone being killed,’ Merrily said. ‘Or a single castle being burned to the ground.’

‘Yes, quite a number of castles in this area were destroyed. And people killed. Still, many landowning families in the vicinity of Garway supported his campaign. The whole area – even as far as Hereford itself – had been part of the old Wales, and allegiances remain to this day.’

‘And here he is on your wall, here in England. The
Mab Darogan
– Son of Prophecy? Who, according to legend, never died, just faded into the landscape of his beloved Wales, until such time as Wales has need of him again.’

‘I am a fan,’ Mr Gwilym said.

‘But if his daughter was at Kentchurch Court, just down the valley, why would he need to spend time at the Master House?’

‘To his enemies, Kentchurch would have been a rather obvious place to go. Not that he didn’t, but …’

‘Maybe there were other attractions at the Master House?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I was wondering …’ Merrily was gazing up at Owain, the sceptre rising meaningfully from between his legs ‘… if perhaps there was … I
don’t know, a Gwilym daughter? Who, when Owain was in hiding and understandably a bit depressed about the way things had turned out, devoted herself to … kind of cheering him up a bit.’

‘You are suggesting that we might be descended directly from Owain Glyndwr.’

Merrily shrugged.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Some of my family have believed that. There was a woman called Elinor Gwilym, born around the turn of the fifteenth century, who became quite a matriarch in my family. Some of my ancestors bore quite a resemblance to …’ He glanced up. ‘It has even been said that I … Anyway, which of my countrymen would
not
wish to be related to the greatest Welshman in history, the last real Prince of Wales?’

‘Quite.’

Merrily was remembering the way Adam Eastgate had looked at her when she’d reminded him, rather tactlessly, that Edward II was only the first
English
Prince of Wales.

‘However,’ Gwilym said, ‘I doubt that the great man would have deigned to appear to a bunch of stoned kids.’

‘Of course, Owain wasn’t the only great historical figure to have stayed at the Master House. Would your ancestors have been there while the Templars were in Garway?’

‘It was a Templar farm.’

‘Perhaps hosting Jacques de Molay in 1294?’

‘So it is said.’

‘And whatever he brought with him?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m not sure I do either, but people keep mentioning the possibility of Templar treasure winding up in Garway.’

Sycharth Gwilym laughed.

‘Your family never looked for it? Although, when you think about it, I expect the Gwilyms had already lost the house when all this speculation started about the Templars and their wealth and the secrets they guarded.’

No response.

‘Be a good reason to want the house back,’ Merrily said. ‘Especially if you had all the family records.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Just passing on gossip.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Yes. I expect it is. It’s just that a friend of mine – a Welsh friend – was pointing out that Glyndwr’s campaign was fired by the unjust treatment of the Welsh by the English marcher lords. And, more specifically, a personal injustice, when some of his own land in North Wales, near the English border, was seized by his neighbour, the Lord of Rhuthun.’

‘That’s recorded history.’

‘Owain then sought justice from the English parliament and was turned away. Lord Rhuthun kept the land. Another version of the story suggests that Lord Rhuthun was close to the king of England, Henry IV, and blackened Owain’s name at court. Either way, it started a devastating war.’

‘And?’

‘Lord Rhuthun’s name was Reginald Grey. That’s an interesting coincidence, isn’t it?’

Sycharth Gwilym raised an eyebrow.

‘I mean the way the Master House fell, quite recently, by marriage, into the hands of the
Grays
. Unlikely to be any relation, but I suppose it has a certain … poetic resonance.’

Gwilym shaking his head dismissively, but Merrily wasn’t abandoning the punchline.

‘And
then
… just when you thought you were going to be able to buy it back, and can well afford to – this house, the house that puts you at the centre of so much crucial history, handed by the Grays to … well, not to the Crown exactly, but, even worse, to—’

Merrily’s phone chimed in her bag. Not now, Lol, please …

She saw Sycharth Gwilym wetting his lips and shut her bag on the phone.

‘… To the latest
English
Prince of …’

‘I think you had better answer your call,’ he said. ‘Go outside, if you like.’

‘Thank you … I’m sorry.’

When she stood up and was taking the phone to the door, Merrily saw Sycharth Gwilym standing up too, following her out. When she was holding the phone to her ear, he’d closed the office door behind them.

‘Lol,’ she said, ‘look—’

‘Do yourself a favour, lass,’ Huw said. ‘Get over to the cathedral. Now.’

‘Huw, if you can give me just a few minutes, I’ll call you back.’

‘I wouldn’t hang around, I were you.’

‘Most pleasant talking to you, Mrs Watkins,’ Gwilym said as she folded the phone. ‘You are a most intelligent and charming woman. But I’m afraid I have a meeting at three-thirty.’

‘Mr Gwilym …’ Dropping the phone in her bag, feeling a fizzing of panic in her stomach. ‘Before you go … the main reason I came was to ask if you’d be interested in joining me and one of the Grays and a representative of the Duchy of Cornwall at a short Requiem service at the Master House.’

‘I think I shall probably discover a prior appointment on that occasion,’ Gwilym said. ‘As it is not our house any more.’

The two fountains trickled. Merrily felt spray on her face.

‘I was thinking that, as the house no longer belongs to either of you, this might be a good time to draw a line under the years of bad feeling between the two families. For instance, I was hearing only this morning about your great-grandfather. Madog? The way he died?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Outside the pub.’

‘That’s a lot of nonsense. Madog seems to have had a heart condition.’

‘Anyway, I was just thinking we might … heal some history.’

‘The idea,’ Gwilym said, ‘that history can – or should – be healed is, to some of us, anathema.’

Merrily looked over at the woman receptionist who wore a pale dress secured with a brooch at the shoulder, Roman-style. She was on the phone.

‘The people leasing the house – Lord Stourport …’

‘Mrs Watkins, I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure he wasn’t a
lord.’

‘And another man who called himself Mat Phobe … do you remember him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you remember a black girl called Mary?’

‘
No
. I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.’

‘Do you know what happened to—?’

She watched him slip away under an archway. The phone rang, and this time it
was
Lol.

‘Merrily, if Gwilym’s there don’t react, but I’ve just seen Jimmy Hayter going into the main bar.’

W
HEN
J
ANE GOT
in from school, the Volvo was parked in the vicarage drive, but there was no sign of Mum, just Mrs Morningwood and Roscoe. Mrs Morningwood was unwinding her scarf.

‘I’ve been across to the shop, Jane. He was getting tired of cat food. My God, I felt like the Phantom of the bloody Opera in there, the way people stared.’

‘You should’ve asked me to go,’ Jane said. ‘As I understand it, nobody’s supposed to know you’re here.’

‘Felt liked a caged tiger today, darling, I can tell you.’

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘In Hereford. Talking to Suckarse. Wish I was a bloody fly on
that
wall.’

‘Mrs Morningwood, while we’re on our own …’ Jane shed her bag and her parka in a pile on the flags, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘You got beaten up, didn’t you?’

‘What’s wrong with a car crash?’

‘What’s wrong with it is I’m seventeen. As distinct from, like, nine?’

‘Poor Jane.’ Mrs Morningwood sat down. ‘Balancing on the cusp.’

‘What’s that mean?’ Jane looked at the ruins of what she guessed had once been a seriously cool woman. ‘Who did this to you? Why can’t you just spit it out?’

‘I well remember being your age. The fear of making a commitment to the wrong future.’

‘The future. Right. I hate the sodding future.’

‘Yes, that’s how things
have
changed, isn’t it? When I was your age we couldn’t wait to plunge into it, like a deep blue swimming pool. Now the
pool seems have gone and you’re looking down into hard, cracked mud.’

‘Yeah.’ Jane decided she wasn’t going to get anywhere on the phoney car crash. ‘You believe in clairvoyance, Mrs Morningwood?’

‘Depends how you’re spelling it.’ Mrs Morningwood broke into a fresh packet of cigarettes. ‘I accept, to an extent, the phenomenon of clairvoy
ance
. While remaining generally sceptical about clairvoyants – people who profess to prophecy.’

‘A woman once did a tarot reading for me,’ Jane said. ‘She said – for instance – that I’d have more than one serious lover before I was twenty?’

‘Not the most ambitious prediction, darling.’

‘I went out with this guy for, like, ages? Well over a year.’

‘A serious commitment.’

‘We were good friends.’

‘Quite rare.’

‘And I’m thinking, you’re
seventeen
. And you’re in danger of becoming, like,
half of a couple
?’

‘Too cosy?’

‘I mean we’d nearly broken up a couple of times, but it never lasted. Then he went to university – last month. And I just stopped answering his calls.’

Mrs Morningwood sat and thought about this.

‘You mean you were angst-ridden because your love life was lacking in angst? No one else on the horizon?’

‘There was this guy I
quite
fancied. Not realizing that he was married. At one stage I was kind of thinking that could be, you know, quite … quite an experience. Being the other woman. But then I thought …’

‘Breaking up someone’s marriage?’

‘Then I thought of my dad betraying Mum. He had another woman. He was a lawyer, and she worked in his office and they got killed together in a car crash when I was little.’

‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Morningwood sounding less than sympathetic. ‘I … did that once, you know. Broke up a marriage.’