The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth (18 page)

I moved back slightly and said, ‘Maybe next time.’

He nodded, ‘Probably wisest.’

We went back into the parlour and he said, ‘They told me it was a movie of her life. They were shooting the funeral and wanted someone to play the gumshoe. Private detectives weren’t
my strong suit, to be honest, so I rented some Humphrey Bogart videos.’ There was a sudden strange transformation of his face as if an invisible hand had stuck a finger in the corner of his mouth and pulled it to one side. He spoke through a mouth shaped like a horizontal keyhole.

‘I never met a dame yet who didn’t undershtand a shlap in the kisser or a shlug from a .45.’

I forced a smile.

‘Having met you I can see that real private detectives aren’t like that, are they?’

‘We almost never hit ladies, or shoot them.’

‘When I turned up for the audition, I walked in and the director shouted “Next!” “Next,” I said, “I haven’t done me Bogart yet.” “You’re too short,” he said and then told someone to throw me out on my fanny.’

‘What exactly was the role?’

‘They said the important thing was not to look too gloomy. I was a bit unsure about that bit because people are supposed to be gloomy at funerals, aren’t they? So I asked the agent and he said this isn’t a normal funeral and I said, “Oh a modern reinterpretation or something, is it?” And he told me not to say things like that because the director didn’t like smart alecks.’

‘Who was the agent?’

‘I don’t know, just a guy I met in a bar. You know how it is.’

‘Did the private eye have a name?’

Iago furrowed his brow as he struggled to recall. ‘He did, but I’m damned if I can remember it. Began with L. Leopold or something daft like that.’

The fake Iago Prytherch walked me back to the station. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘You’re a lot more cheerful than the last visitor I had. You probably heard about him on the radio – the war veteran who had the fight with the policeman.’

‘You mean Rimbaud?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What was he doing up here?’

‘He’s the technical adviser on the project. On account of how deeply he has suffered – he wrote
The Vale of Tears Handbook
. It’s our textbook. But the bugger ran into a spot of bother with police down in Glanwern, didn’t he? They tried to take him in but he escaped and then baited some traps in the woods with his own pollution, so I heard.’

‘Did he tell you about his missing years?’

‘He would have done, but to tell you the truth I wouldn’t let him. “Oh God!” he said. “Don’t make me tell you about my missing years!” And I said, “I wasn’t going to.” And he looked a bit disappointed and said, “You can if you really want to.” And I said, “Actually I don’t think I do.” It was not long after that he had the fight with the policeman – I guess he didn’t want to hear about his missing years either.’ We arrived at the last stile and the fake Iago Prytherch stopped and reached me his hand to shake. And then a bright smile appeared on his face. ‘That’s it! I remember now. Louie Knight! That was the name of the private eye I had to play. Louie Knight.’

I shook his hand one more time and thanked him and just before he turned away he said, ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Luggage,’ I said. ‘Lefty Luggage.’

I went back to the office and opened the book the postman had given me for Sister Cunégonde. It was a biography of Pope Gregory the First, written by someone called Ulricus. Inside it was inscribed: ‘To Sister Cunégonde, in the hope that the life of this great man will prove as inspirational to you as it has to me. Fond regards from your loving brother, Frankie Mephisto.’

THE POOLS AND channels of water of the marsh blazed with the dawn sun as if the ground had torn in places to reveal the fire burning at the centre of the earth. Meredith was already up, and slamming the shovel down into the sodden peat, placing a wellington boot on the rim of the shovel and pushing down, then levering and prising the chunk of turf free like a kid trying to wiggle a milk tooth molar. I stood behind him and watched for a while and then not wishing to surprise him cleared my throat loudly. He eased up and turned to face me. A slight nod of acknowledgement.

‘Seen Seren round here recently?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘I was looking for her.’

He nodded as if such a revelation was devoid of significance.

‘Thought she might have come this way.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘I heard she likes to play over here.’

‘I haven’t seen her.’

I took a step closer and stared into his sunburned face, eyes dark as tar. ‘Just trying to find out what happened to Myfanwy. They say Seren knows this area well, maybe she could give me some help.’

‘She can’t help you.’

‘Probably not, but sometimes you never know. Kids often see things we grown-ups miss. She might know where they could have taken her.’

‘Could have taken her across the water there to Aberdovey.
Could have taken her on the train there to Shrewsbury. Could have taken her back to Aberystwyth in a car. Could have taken her out there to Ireland. Or maybe they didn’t take her anywhere, just left her here.’ He slung the spade on to his shoulder. ‘Don’t need no girl to tell you that.’

‘Which one do you think it is?’

‘I don’t.’ He made to move past me.

‘Seren was in trouble the other night.’

He stopped, but showed no interest.

‘I was over at the Waifery. She was bleeding, it looked pretty bad. They told me it was a nosebleed.’

‘And what makes you think it wasn’t?’

‘Blood was all over her face.’

He shrugged and walked past me.

‘Thought maybe Sister Cunégonde might have told you what was going on.’

He carried on walking and spoke with his back to me. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘I thought she was a friend of yours.’

He stopped and turned and took a step up to me. I thought he was going to hit me but he didn’t. Underneath it all he was a rough but gentle man.

‘We’re not friends.’

I considered his answer and then said, ‘What’s it like to kiss a nun?’

That’s when he hit me. He didn’t do it immediately. He paused long enough to make it appear that the moment had come and gone and then swung fast and viciously. I lay on the ground, head swimming, my cheek half-submerged in cold wet pond water. He stood over me and looked down. I climbed slowly to my feet, looked at him and said, ‘Mind if I get my hat.’ He said nothing so I bent down to retrieve it but picked up a wooden stake instead and swung it against the side of his head. It connected but didn’t seem to do much. I pulled back for a second
blow and swung again but this time he caught the stick in his hand and twisted it out of my grip. It didn’t look like it cost him much effort. He dropped the stick and swung the back of his hand into my face. This time I lay with my back in the water and looked up at a man looking down whose shovel was at my throat and whose wellington boot was poised gently on it. One slight heave was all it needed. I swallowed, my Adam’s apple grinding against the cold steel edge. He grunted and removed the spade. By the time I got to my feet he was walking back to the cottage with the spade hoisted on to his shoulder.

I followed at a distance and he knew I was there even though he didn’t look round. And, since he didn’t tell me not to, I followed him into the cottage. He hung up his coat, put the shovel down in the corner, and put the kettle on. I sat at the table.

‘Anything going on between you and Seren?’

‘Like what?’

‘Thought maybe you were sweet on her.’

I tensed in expectation of a fist, but he just sat at the table and said, ‘No you don’t. Stop trying to bait me.’

I let the tension ease from my clenched muscles. ‘Sister Cunégonde doesn’t like her much, does she?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that girl. She likes to be on her own a lot, so what? So do I. They say she’s strange, they say she’s awkward and wayward. I don’t. She plays truant now and again, but then which kid has never done that? Sometimes she goes out at night, I’ve seen her in the pub in Aberystwyth on occasion. Probably smokes too. She shouldn’t be there, of course. But I used to go to the pub when I was her age and I don’t know many people who didn’t. Sometimes they catch her and she gets punished, and sometimes they don’t. Either way it doesn’t stop her and that’s hardly surprising either. She tells a few fibs, I know that. So what? It can’t be much fun living at that Waifery and if she wants to dress it up a bit, that’s fine with me. They say she needs special treatment because she’s difficult and has special
needs. To me, all it means is she’s a normal kid. I like having her around. I wish there were more people around like her.’

It was probably the longest speech of his life. He stood up and walked over to a dresser against the wall. He opened a drawer and took something out. He put it on the table in front of me. It was an old photo, black and white, creased and torn, with a thin white border. It showed a teenage girl being crowned Borth carnival queen. Judging by the parked cars and the hairstyles in the crowd it was taken sometime in the Fifties. It was Cunégonde.

‘She was seventeen, about the same age as Seren is now. I was twenty-two, twenty-three.’

‘Quite a beauty.’

‘Yes, she was. Never seen anyone brush her hair so much.’

‘This chap looks familiar.’

Meredith flinched. ‘Yes, he’s a well-known man in these parts. More’s the pity.’

It was Frankie Mephisto, dressed like a backing singer in Bill Haley’s band. Hair slicked down, face shiny. And handsome. He had a girl on his arm: the carnival queen runner-up.

‘He’s changed a lot,’ I said.

‘This was before he became the big gangster. In those days he was just into small stuff.’

‘Did you know Frankie Mephisto was Cunégonde’s brother?’

‘Yes, I knew. She won’t thank you for putting it about though.’

‘Who’s the girl with Frankie?’

‘I don’t know. Frankie always had a pretty girl on his arm. He knew how to charm them in those days. I don’t know who she is.’

I peered at her. There was something familiar about her. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.

‘You kept it all these years,’ I said, handing it back.

He said nothing. It wasn’t a question.

‘Were you in love with Cunégonde?’

Again he said nothing. He didn’t need to. Why else do you
keep a photo of someone for thirty years? He walked to the back door and opened it in a manner that said he’d talked enough for today. He held out his hand to shake. ‘I hope they find Myfanwy.’

The college scarf hanging on the hat stand had alternating stripes of grey, henna and beige. We had a visitor from the college in Lampeter.

‘This is Iestyn,’ said Calamity. ‘He’s from the theology college.’

‘Always nice to meet a student,’ I said.

‘The honour is mine, sir,’ he replied.

‘Is this your first visit to Aberystwyth?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Just a lucky guess.’

There was a candle on the desk and the inside of a toilet roll.

‘Iestyn has been helping me with the case,’ explained Calamity. ‘We’ve almost cracked it.’

I sat down. ‘We had a client once from your college. Faculty of undertaking.’

‘Yes, some of the guys in the third year got the cadaver. “Come to Sunny Aberystwyth” knife lodged up to the hilt between the sixth and seventh intercostal. Nice job.’

‘Yeah, well, not all our clients end up on a slab.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to offend, sir.’

‘No offence taken. Tell me about the case.’

Calamity pulled a large book out from under the desk and thrust it down with emphasis.

‘Item one: Mrs Llantrisant’s book on meterology,
Red Sky at Night
.’

‘It’s an inquiry into the anthropomorphic fallacy in forensic meteorology,’ added Iestyn helpfully.

‘I know, she wrote it when I was paying her to swab my step.’

‘According to this, 1849 was the driest summer for thirty years.
The spinning wheels would have been tinder dry. Neglect to oil one, spin a bit too fast and, presto, you have a stray spark.’

‘Where is this leading to?’

Calamity placed her hands on her hips and paced up and down the room. ‘The stable boy said he saw burning and climbed up the ivy to save Cranogwen. The peelers say he stole the gems and then set the room on fire. But we already know he couldn’t have done that because the gems showed signs of fire damage. So they must have been removed after the fire and planted. But by who? Good question, I’ll come to it in a minute. And there’s a funny thing about the fire: only the bed burnt. The rest of the room was largely untouched. Except the spinning wheel in the corner.’

‘OK, the spinning wheel catches fire because it’s tinder dry, a spark jumps from the wheel and sets fire to the bed …’

‘It couldn’t have worked like that,’ said Iestyn. ‘If the bed catches fire so does the rest of the room. There’s only one way the bed can burn and not the room, only one thing produces such a localised effect.’