The Magus of Hay(154)

‘A problem to which we are now applying ourselves.’

‘I had a similar idea.’

Involving Athena White and a small but meaningful portion of Peter Rector’s library. They couldn’t all be relevant to the future of the last redemptive project.

‘Gwyn… one thing…’

‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘Go on.’

‘Gwenda describes you, more than a bit disparagingly, as “the King’s Chief of Police”.’

‘Now how would she know a thing like that?’

‘She knows everything, Gwyn.’

‘Well, it’s a joke, obviously.’

‘Is it? Like the Kingdom of Hay itself?’

‘Look… Even as a working policeman, I was always a tacit admirer of Richard Booth, for whom life was not always easy. Over the years, there have been many attempts by people in local and national government to discredit him. Some – usually by rival businessmen with far more money – quite public. Others shady and scurrilous. I have, at various times, been in a position to provide what you might call counter-intelligence. I tend to prefer the term Internal Security, to police. Please don’t broadcast this.’

‘Of course not. Thank you. That explains a lot. Including why you offered to look after the wet effigy. I expect he’ll be returned to the right hands.’

‘Already done, Merrily. Not that I would admit to giving any credence to, ah… However, the matter of Mrs Villiers…’

‘Gwyn… I don’t know what to tell you.’

‘Natural causes, they say. A heart attack is likely. There’ll be a post-mortem. She’d… been there quite a while, it seems. Dead. DS Dowell, who was the first to examine her, tells me there were obvious signs of rigor mortis around her mouth and jaw. Even in warm weather, which apparently accelerates the process, it’s at least three hours before that happens.’

‘Yes, that… in view of one thing and another, that’s odd.’

‘And died there. Where the Dulas Brook enters the Wye.’

‘I’m going to try not to think about it for a while,’ Merrily said.

But couldn’t stop thinking about something Athena White had said, relating to the immediate afterlife of Peter Rector.

She parked on the square at Ledwardine at just after eight a.m. Sunday. Locked the Freelander, shouldered her bags, started down Church Street to Lol’s cottage. Then stopped and turned, dragged out the church keys and went back across the square to the lychgate.

The main door was already unlocked.

Colours.

On the step outside, a scrap of something light blue, a fleck of something yellow. She slid through the lifting shadows, into the nave. The flush of red apples in the stained window and Martin Longbeach, emerging, pink-faced, from the chancel with a covered dustpan.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Merrily. Are you up early or…’

‘Home late. You know what it’s like, clubbing, you lose all track of time.’

‘Yes,’ he said, as though he believed her.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Oh. Yes. Everything’s… fine. Absolutely fine.’

‘Am I right in thinking Ms Merchant was here last night?’

‘Last night? Oh… yes. Can’t imagine you’ll hear from her again. Much better now. She left very happy. Very happy.’

‘With a friend?’

‘With a friend, yes. Indeed.’

She sought his eyes.

‘What’s in the dustpan, Martin?’

‘Ah, Merrily… we all do what we think best, you know?’



‘An occasion?’

‘A small occasion, yes. Under cover of night.’

‘The friend was her medium.’

‘Her name’s Gillian Williams.’

‘Able to channel Alys.’

‘So she says. But who knows?’

‘So Alys was there, too. As it were.’

‘As it… were. Yes.’

‘What’s in the dustpan, Martin?’

‘Oh…’ He didn’t lift the lid. ‘Dust… you know… bits of paper.’

‘Coloured paper.’

Martin shrugged.

‘It’s confetti, isn’t it?’ Merrily said.

Closing her eyes.

She didn’t want to talk any more. She wanted to go to bed and smother her screams in Lol’s pillow.