The Dylan Thomas Murders (17 page)

I decided it would be tactful to say nothing further about Cressida's doubts. But I told her about the malacca cane that I'd found at the jumble sale, with the tooth in the top, and the art deco spanner from de Walden's sports car. She was pleased that these at least confirmed what she'd been telling me.

“So Waldo's been having a clear-out.”

“Mostly Eliot stuff, apart from the spanner.”

“Waldo was so fond of it.”

“I wonder sometimes about Waldo and the connection to Stillness.”

“You have the whole story on tape.”

“I'm not inclined to break a confidence.”

“Or break ranks. We're in this together.”

I was torn between anxiety and confusion. “Please explain.”

“Telling the police about the link between Waldo and Stillness would be as preposterous as me telling them about the link between you and Stillness.”

I choked and spluttered on my coffee.

“If one is going to be absurd about Waldo, then I could say that you had a perfectly good motive for killing Ogmore Stillness.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Not at all. I could certainly make a story about it. I might say that you were worried that Ogmore Stillness would persuade me to hand over Dylan's papers to him. Heaven knows, I could do with the money. If I'd done that, it would have meant the end of Rachel's nice little project.”

“But I didn't know Stillness was in literary acquisitions until after his death.”

“Well, you'd have to prove that to the police, wouldn't you?”

My amazement was turning to anger, and Rosalind noticed. “Don't worry,” she said, reaching out to pat my hand. “I'm not serious, I'm just trying to give you a sense of perspective. The trouble is that we're on the inside of the murder case. We can see only the connections amongst ourselves with Ogmore Stillness. But what do the police see? You and I and the rest of us here are simply asking who in the village could have done such a thing. But the police are asking who else in Stillness' life might have done it, and travelled to Wales for the purpose.”

“It's hard to tell fact from fiction, wherever you stand.”

“Martin, can't we agree on one thing? We are working on this together, aren't we?”

I nodded, though I wasn't indicating agreement, only acquiescence.

I arrived home in a thoughtful mood. I fed Bedwen, poured some parsnip wine, and sat down to read through
Under Milk Wood
, yet again, to see who else was in Mister Waldo's life. The answer was clearly Polly Garter, in whose garden only washing and babies grew, most of whom were Mister Waldo's. This gave me no comfort whatsoever, not least because the text reminded me that Mister Waldo was searching for an Eve-like woman, soft but sharp, with whom to share his bed. That description fitted Rachel.

It was at this point that I began to wonder if I was going mad. Here I was, parsnip wine in hand, and only a few sips gone to mouth, wondering whether my wife's well-being was at risk because of something that Dylan Thomas had put in
Under Milk Wood
almost fifty years ago. In the parched light of an early Sunday afternoon, that seemed ridiculous. Its only legitimacy came from an old friend who was, as it happened, a world-famous professor of psychiatry. But might it be that her own judgement had become seriously impaired after her husband had been killed by a landmine? Was it possible that the awful tragedies that she had encountered in Rwanda and Yugoslavia were distorting her own clinical assessments?

We each had different objectives. Rachel wanted to publish Dylan's poems and to ‘save' Waldo, to bring him within the care and nurture of the Quaker Meeting. I wanted to protect Rachel from the man she was trying to save. But what did Rosalind want? Certainly she wanted Rachel to publish Dylan's letters and poems but I felt in no doubt that they were a lure or bait to achieve some other end. As I was thinking all this, I experienced a wave of desolation as my situation became clear – I was just a dispensable player. Disempowered, as Cressida would put it. As I came out from under the wave, I briefly caught sight of the sky – could it be that Rosalind's end-game was to secure a Jewish wife for Waldo? In which case, I truly was dispensable. Even to think such a thing was preposterous, as if my rationality had been eroded by the wash from Llareggub's bow.

But could it be true? Was the woman who had been forced to conceal her Jewishness when she first came to Wales now driven by a need to re-assert it through her son? Indeed, she had been forced to conceal both her Jewishness and her relationship with Dylan. Now, in the last years of her life, she had chanced upon Rachel who was uniquely positioned to clarify both of these important elements of her life.

I heard Rachel park the car outside the house and I wondered again if these thoughts were nothing more than testimony to my own derangement. Not that I was organically mad, but that I was becoming so as a result of the events in which I had been caught up, beginning with the wren in the bottle and Waldo's eating of spiders. I was part of an unfolding story that seemed to be nibbling away at my rationality.

I opened the front door for Rachel. She looked exhausted. “No Waldo again,” she said, coming into the house and inadvertently stepping on Bedwen's tail.

Over a very late lunch, she told me that the Meeting had asked her to contact Waldo to see if all was well. I must have pulled a face, because she asked: “What's the problem?”

“Couldn't somebody else do it? Maybe one of the men.”

Rachel sighed. “I'm an Overseer, and I live nearest to Waldo.”

If there's one word that might stop me becoming a Quaker that is it. Overseer conjures up images of savage galley masters whipping chained and manacled slaves; it was also the title given to the parish officials who administered the Poor Law. But indeed, in the Quakers, an Overseer is simply one who has oversight. Their chief concern is with pastoral care. Hence the visit to Waldo: an Overseer would take note of absences, particularly of new attenders, and would be expected to enquire discreetly why someone had stopped coming to Meeting.

Rachel tried to telephone Waldo two or three times that afternoon but his phone was engaged. In between times, I tried to explain some of the matters I had discussed with Cressida, but my brain was so blocked with anxiety that the ideas came tumbling out half-baked. Psycho-babble, said Rachel, as I expected she would, and she seized on the fact that Cressida had said there was a good chance that Waldo was being helped by his involvement in Quaker meetings. End of discussion.

Rachel settled down to work on Dylan's papers. I pottered around in the garden and then took Bedwen along the Beech Walk. We climbed up the hill and I sat on the pile of stones, looking down the valley towards the sea. The farms were shining in the strong afternoon sunlight. Our cottage stood out brightly above the river. I could just see Rachel on the terrace. Then she went inside. She came out a few minutes later and got into the car. I watched it pull away, lost it for a while as it dipped down into the valley, then followed it around the road to New Quay. It pulled up outside the entrance to Fern Hill.

No, I didn't panic. I called Bedwen and we returned home, walking quickly to eat up the tension that was growing inside me. There was a note on the kitchen table explaining that the operator had told Rachel that Waldo's phone had been left off the hook, and that she had decided to visit him. I was calm enough to know that I couldn't call the police because how would it be possible to explain that my wife was caught up in a possible dénouement of
Under Milk Wood
? Neither could I rush round to Fern Hill on my white horse because that would make Rachel extremely angry. And if Cressida was right, going round to Fern Hill might make matters worse because it could suggest to Waldo that he was in competition with me. So I rang Cressida. She was at home but she was about to leave for London.

“You did the right thing calling me,” she said when I explained what had happened, “but I have to leave for the railway station right now.”

“But I need help. God knows what Rachel's walking into.”

“My cab's here.”

“This is a nightmare.”

“Do you have a mobile? Okay, give me the number. Start walking towards Fern Hill, and I'll call you back in a minute.”

My mobile rang as I was crossing the bridge. “I'm in the cab,” she said. “Let's start with Waldo. Why hasn't he been coming to meeting? Been ill? Busy on the farm? Lost interest? Not at all. He's stayed away to check out that they've missed him. So Rachel's calling will reassure him that he's valued and he'll be back next Sunday. Where are you now?”

“Walking past the pub.”

“Tell me when you get to the farm gate.” Cressida paused as the signal weakened. “I've no idea what state of mind Waldo is in,” she continued, “and neither have you. Let's be cautious and assume it's fragile. We mustn't do anything that makes him angry with Rachel or with you.”

“You make it sound as if we have a bomb to defuse.”

“I'm at the station, hold on while I pay the driver. Are you there yet?”

“Couple of minutes more.”

“Okay, I'm hanging up whilst I get my tickets. Call me in five minutes.”

When I reached Fern Hill, I stood in the shade of a holly tree, next to the parked car. It was almost early evening but the sun was still hot. Midges were gathering around my head. My back ached with tension. I took out my phone again and rang Cressida's number. “I'm at the gate,” I said.

“What can you see?”

“Just a gate for God's sake.”

“Martin, please, you have to be my eyes. Now look carefully.”

“The sign is gone.”

“Which sign?”

“Loose dogs, no callers.”

“That's encouraging, that's something in our favour.”

“What shall I do?”

“I'm in the train, and I may lose you now and again.”

“I can hear you fine.”

“I want you to walk up the track, there's another gate I think you said.”

I reached the second gate in seconds. I knew what she wanted to know: “It's been unchained but the dead birds are still here, or what's left of them.”

“But no new ones?”

“No.”

“Can you hear anything?”

“Completely quiet.”

“No birds...”

“Nothing.”

“That is strange. Just going in....” I lost her again. “Sorry, a tunnel. I want you to come off the track and come in sideways to the farm. I don't want him to see you.”

“You have a plan?” I asked, as I climbed over the wire fence into the field.

“I want you to get close enough to the farmhouse to tell me what they're doing, but without being seen.”

“I'm not a Marine.”

“Regress, go back, it's cowboy and indian time again.”

“I'm half-way across the field. There's a small coppice ahead, and the farmhouse is the other side of it. I can smell something burning.”

“Any smoke?”

“No. There's a dog barking somewhere.”

“What's that awful noise?”

“Jet plane overhead. I'm on the edge of the farmyard.”

“I want you stay there, don't go any further.”

“I'm going up to the house.”

“That's too much of a risk. Any sign of Rachel?”

“No, the place feels empty.”

“Just stay where you are.”

“I have to see what's going on.”

“If Rachel's in trouble you'll hear about it soon enough.”

“Not if Pugh the Poisoner's in there.”

“Your trouble is...”

“That I love my wife too much just to...”

“...that you can't stand not being in control. Sounds like a lot of unhealthy macho stuff to me. Rachel wouldn't like it.”

“I'm going to have a look.”

“It's against my advice, Martin...”

“I'm almost across the yard.”

“You're risking a lot...”

“I'm underneath the window. I'm just taking a look inside. They're sitting round the table...”

“What's changed?”

“The table's been tidied up.”

“Is the wren in the bottle?”

“Can't see. It's in the other side of the room. Waldo's eating, Rachel's talking.”

“What's he eating? Don't argue. I know what I need to know.”

“Looks like bubble and squeak with...Jesus!”

“What?”

“Kippers!”

“Anything else?”

“Some sort of salad, could be watercress, and a bottle of Guinness. Three different types of brown sauce on the table.”