The Magus of Hay(27)

Betty had Googled it. The origins of the castle, as much as she could find. Matilda, or Maud, had been the wife of a Norman baron, William de Braose, who ran most of the southern Welsh border in the twelfth century, the reign of King John. William had been known as The Ogre after organizing the massacre of several Welsh leaders he’d invited to dinner at Abergavenny Castle, twenty-five miles or so from here.

‘Built it on her own, do you think?’ Betty said. ‘Or did she just brief the contractors?’

‘No idea. I suppose it’s partly legend. Matilda was eventually starved to death by King John, apparently. Not here. Somewhere. Perhaps I’m oversensitive, but I find none of that romantic.’

Hilary Oliver turned away from the castle. As perhaps, Betty sensed, she always had.

‘’Scuse me.’ The man with the camera was on his feet, approaching Betty. ‘This is rather cheeky of me. Taking some shots for a tourist guide, and I need a figure to stand in front of the castle. Would you mind?’

‘Me?’

‘Only be middle-distance. To give the picture a sense of scale.’

Never liked being photographed. Native Americans thought it captured your soul. But then she thought about Robin.

‘OK, then.’

‘Very kind. If you stand there in the centre of the square, away from the cars…’

He took several in the end. Her looking at him, her looking up at the castle. She felt awkward, but he seemed professional and harmless enough – dumpy, bearded, middle-aged guy. And she knew that Robin would go, Hey, connection! You arrived. You’re part of the scene. You’re part of Hay.

‘If you give me your address,’ the photographer said, ‘I’ll send you some copies of the brochure when it’s printed.’

‘It’s OK, honestly,’ Betty said. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure it’ll be pointed out to me.’

They always promised you copies, but they never arrived.

And giving her address as Back Fold had an element of finality she was still unsure about.





13

Protocol and courtesy


‘DAVID HAMBLING,’ Bliss said.

‘So how are you, now, Frannie?’

‘Better than David Hambling.’

Merrily thought about this.

‘He’s dead, right?’

‘All right, considerably better,’ Bliss said. ‘How did you know he was dead?’

‘I just… know the way you approach things.’

She’d gone out without her mobile again, had to wait until she was home to call him back. Answering service. She could wait. She’d done some ironing and sketched out Sunday’s sermon on the general theme of bereavement. Sermon. Never a favourite word. One dictionary definition employed the verb harangue. How long would a haranguing vicar last these days? Little female pulpit punk screaming hellfire. They’d take you away.

See… already talking to herself. And bloody well forgotten that, with Martin Longbeach in the pulpit, she didn’t even need a sermon. God, she was losing it. Stress. Quite glad when Bliss had called back just before seven p.m.

‘How much you know about Cusop, then, Merrily?’

Sophie had been right, his speech was a little slurry, Mersey mud reclaiming its own.

‘I know where it is.’

An insignificant left turn, just as you were about to cross the Welsh border into Hay-on-Wye.



Bliss said, ‘Your patch?’

‘Certainly in the diocese.’

‘Separated from the Dyfed-Powys police area by two or three fields and the Dulas Brook,’ Bliss said. ‘Right on the rim. The brook actually marks the English border. Learned that today.’

‘New knowledge always makes a day worthwhile.’

‘Something wrong, Merrily?’

‘Nah, just a bit… Go on. tell me something else about Cusop Dingle.’

‘You can’t see Hay at all from there, close as it is. Too low. Can’t see much of anything, really. Funny kind of place. Secretive. Lorra trees. Would you like to see it?’

‘You’re asking me for a date?’

Merrily sat down, put an elbow on the scullery desk to take the weight of the phone.

Bliss said, ‘Have you heard of David Hambling?’

‘Not sure. Was he a priest?’

Small laugh from Bliss.

‘If you can spare the time, I’d like you to take a look at Mr Hambling’s library. As a person with knowledge of what we might call the spiritual underside.’

‘Satanist?’

‘Half-eleven all right?’

‘Sure. Why not.’

‘I wouldn’t keep you long, it’s just— Sorry, did I get that right? you just agreed without an argument and having to clear it with the Bishop?’