The Dylan Thomas Murders (20 page)

The guests looked astonished that this strange man from a little farm in Ciliau Aeron had access to money in America. I relished the irony that Waldo had used Eliot's money to untangle a mystery about Dylan.

“After more than ten years of searching, we tracked him down to a retirement complex in Florida. His name is Alayne Withers. You each have a photocopy of the autograph that he obtained from Dylan. It has been authenticated by a leading firm of Miami lawyers. We have a sworn statement from Mr Withers that he was the driver who picked up Dylan at Herdt's restaurant, and that he took him to Merle Kalvick's apartment.

“Dylan spent the night with her. He told her he planned to stay in America, and suggested that they might try to make a life together. His relationship with Caitlin was already dead, and, indeed, a letter was on its way from her to confirm this, but he was never to read it. His security in America was guaranteed by the contract with Gerstman. Merle agreed and after she had fallen asleep, Dylan wrote his final letter to Rosalind, telling her what he planned, and enclosing what would be the very last poem he was to write. He stayed up to watch the sun rising over the city, and called up the janitor to take the letter away for posting.

“When Merle sat down for breakfast, she told Dylan she had changed her mind. She had already made one bad marriage, divorcing within a year, and was not prepared yet to take on another serious relationship. Dylan was distraught. He left her apartment to keep an appointment with Liz Reitell at a seafood restaurant. He was distressed and angry, as well he might be, and refused to eat any food. It was at that point, after his rejection by Merle and knowing it was all over with Caitlin, that his mind and body began to collapse.

“On October 25, the relationship with Reitell also broke up. Thus Dylan was left alone, without any of the women he loved and so much depended upon. He was on his own in New York, thousands of miles from his beloved Laugharne. His props were gone, except the booze and the benzedrine. The rest you know.

“Dylan died in his 39th year – his name-number and its square root – on the 9th day of the month in a year, 1953, which adds up to 18, and divides exactly by 9. He died exactly 18 days after meeting Merle in her apartment.”

I must admit that I was impressed. I had always been extremely sceptical about the occult and cabalism, as I was about astrology and all the New Age variants that had sprung up in recent times, most of whose practitioners seemed to live in west Wales, self-seeking English refugees from the rough and tumble of urban life. But here was a totally convincing demonstration of the power of a name-number in someone's life. I knew enough about Dylan Thomas to know that Waldo's dates and calculations were correct.

Waldo went back behind the table and stood with his head bowed as if he were praying, and perhaps he was. The barn sat in a very Quakerly silence for almost ten minutes. It was broken, not by Waldo, but by the grandfather clock which started, for the first time that night, to sound the hour. It was nine o'clock. As the last chime reverberated through the barn, Waldo took out a sheet of paper from the pocket of his apron. “This,” he said, unfolding it gently, “is Dylan's last poem, written in Merle's apartment.”

I felt Rachel go tense with interest and expectation. It had not been amongst the poems Rosalind had asked her to edit. I knew she would be anxious to acquire it for the publication. “I would be grateful,” said Waldo, “if Martin would read it for us.”

He took me completely by surprise, not least because I thought that Rachel would have been a much better choice, and I could see from her face that she thought so, too. I went up to the table and took the typewritten poem from Waldo. I read it through silently a couple of times, and then started:

Held holy and scuffed between lamb and raven
In the hour's grain, the self priesting synod hangs
Solemn with the scope of still quiescent leaven
And now it grows, grinding the wheel of fire
That mills the circle, heart's icon ungraven;
Vibration of the Pentecostal lyre
Sings between ribs of silence, tongues
The quiver of blood in the tautened lungs.
They ride the updraught like a spark to heaven
Risen in the furnacing haven of their desire.
And I am left dumb and grounded, wrung
In the diminuendo of a bat-voiced choir.

I gave the poem back to Waldo, and returned to my seat. Some of the guests had started to talk amongst themselves but Waldo interrupted and raised his hands for silence. “Would the men please empty their pockets of money, take off your watches and remove any other metal you may have about you.”

We all did this without question, whilst the women looked on in amazement at the bits and pieces that were turned out of our pockets. There were several Swiss Army knives, which were obviously de rigueur for Quaker men of a certain age. O'Malley had not one, but two, corkscrews in his coat.

“I'd like you to go to the woods – there are torches and wellingtons at the back – and collect twigs from nine different kinds of tree.”

I led the way out, because I knew how to find the coppice at the side of the farm yard. Thankfully, the snow had long stopped and little of it was left on the ground. The wind was still from the east, but the farm buildings gave us some protection. We muddled around in the coppice until we were satisfied that we had enough twigs, though it was hard to tell in the dark. When we returned, the women were drinking mulled wine and eating cake. Rosalind took the twigs from us and separated them into various piles. When she'd finished, Waldo came across and set them crosswise into the pit.

He lit the fire and we stood around as fascinated as if these were the very first flames we'd ever seen. The wet bark of the wood hissed and spluttered as the fire took hold, and the smoke curled up into the roof of the barn, driving down the few remaining butterflies.

“In the old days,” said Waldo, “they tried to cure sick cattle by throwing a new-born calf into a bonfire.” He paused to pick up the poem from the table. He looked directly and intently at Rachel, and I felt that something awful was about to happen. I had a feeling that a little bit of the old Waldo was in the barn. “I wonder,” he asked, kneeling down by the fire, and putting on a few more twigs. “I wonder if we could purge the power of Dylan's name-number by throwing this last child of his into the flames?”

I thought for a moment that Rachel was going to leap on him, and snatch the piece of paper from his hand. Her face was taut with anger and she stood poised like someone at the end of a diving board. But, thankfully, Waldo stood up and broke into laughter. “What a ridiculous idea,” he said. “What a waste of a fine poem.” He looked again at Rachel. “Take it. I want you to study it. I want to know if you'd like it for the publication. I'm sure you will, I'm certain that something can be arranged.”

Rachel took the poem. She glanced at me, and there was no need for words. We both knew that Waldo was suggesting some sort of deal or trade-off.

“And now for some food,” said Waldo. “A traditional supper for this time of year, the
stwmp naw rhyw
, the mash with nine ingredients, specially prepared by O'Malley.” Waldo clapped his hands, and Rosalind came out of the shadows again, carrying a glass tureen. She put it on the table, went to the back of the barn, and returned with nine bowls. “The first round is just for the ladies,” said Waldo, and I saw Rachel and one or two of the other women exchange disapproving glances at his choice of word. “All good stuff. Potatoes, carrots, turnips, peas, parsnips, leeks, pepper, salt, and especially for Martin, spicy sausage, sliced-up thinly, which I had specially sent from Italy.”

Rosalind began ladling the mash into the bowls, and when she'd finished Waldo said: “And now for the surprise ingredient.” He searched in the pocket of his shirt and brought out a gold ring. “It was customary to place a wedding ring in the
stwmp naw rhyw
. The girl who picked it up with her spoon would be the first to be married in the coming new year.” He dropped the ring into one of the bowls, asked Rosalind to close her eyes, and then shuffled the bowls around until it was impossible to tell where the ring had been put. Then Rosalind gave each woman a bowl of the mash.

I have to say that both Rachel and I knew that she would end up with the ring. And so it proved, but I don't know how Waldo managed it. It was so predictable that when Rachel scooped out the ring on her third spoonful we burst into giggles. The rest of the guests clapped and whooped and made ribald comments. We both, of course, understood the significance and seriousness of what had happened. Rachel lifted the ring from the spoon and diligently wiped off the mash with a tissue, while she thought out what to do. There was now a certain tension in the barn, albeit light-hearted. Waldo stood pensively waiting for her response. I perfectly understood Rachel's dilemma. In our own private battle with Waldo, she had to reject the ring without rejecting him.

Even I was surprised by what Rachel did next. She went across to one of the Quakers and asked for his Swiss Army knife. The guests, of course, thought that this was a hoot. She returned to the table, picked out a stick of hazel, and stripped the bark right off. She handed the stick to Waldo. “My
ffon wen
,” she said, smiling at him as if she felt some affection, which she probably did in her funny, Quaker, all soul-saving way.

He took the stick and started chuckling and then laughing, until the whole party was falling about, though they didn't understand why. “Just my luck,” he said, “to choose a married woman.”

Rachel stepped forward and kissed him on his cheek, which I thought was going too far, and wondered what Cressida Lovewhich would make of it. Then music came falling like dew from the beams overhead, and the atmosphere changed once more as people moved to the tables at the back to find the food and wine. I took Rachel aside and asked: “What's a
ffon wen
?”

“The white stick, sent by women in the old days to certain men.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?”

“Get lost. Get stuffed. I'm not interested.”

“And Dylan's poem?”

“A piece of deception, and I'm going to tell Waldo so.”

She didn't have long to wait. Waldo was moving through the guests with every intention of ending up with Rachel. She was waiting for him, again calm and radiating warmth, what the Quakers call ‘unconditional acceptance'.

“And what do you think of the poem?” he asked.

“The trouble is,” she replied, “it's not by Dylan, and even if it were I doubt if it's good enough to be published.”

I thought that was going too far, since the poem was clearly very good.

“I think it needs a little polishing. Why don't you come to the poetry workshop on Tuesday night?” she suggested, believing she was handing Waldo off, but at the same time keeping communication open.

As we drove home, I said: “I still think it's a fine poem.”

“I know. And if he behaves himself, I'll make sure he gets it published somewhere or other.”

“He looked very upset.”

One evening, about a week or so after Waldo's event in the barn, the phone rang. Rachel answered and hung up almost immediately. Rosalind wanted to see her urgently, she said. She left the house about nine o'clock. I woke at midnight, but she was still not home. I rang Rosalind, clearly waking her from a deep sleep. Rachel, she said, had left just after ten. I phoned Rachel's friends in the village but none had seen her that evening, though one had noticed our car outside the Scadan Coch.

I grabbed a torch and rushed down to the pub. The keys were in the ignition. The engine was cold. This time I had no need of advice from Cressida, nor could I wait for the police. I had no doubt where Rachel was, and I was determined to get there as quickly as I could.

The gate to Fern Hill was tied closed with orange baler twine but I vaulted over and began to run. I heard Cressida's voice asking what I was going to do when I reached the farm. But I was overwhelmed by the present, stumbling and falling over the uneven track, startled by grotesque faces in the trees. I noticed small things. There were no cobwebs across the track. A screwed up yellow post-it floated in a pothole. Small blobs of vomit lay along the grassy edge of the bank. Toads sitting in pools, waiting.

I reached the second gate, breathless and hurting with fear. A paper carrier lay at the foot of the gate post. I opened the bag and shone the torch inside. I could see a cucumber, and two hooves covered in blow flies. It's significance didn't strike me until much later, when it was too late, anyway.

I scrambled over the gate. A rat was sniffing at a squashed hedgehog. A shoe in a pool of oily water looked familiar. Another yellow post-it. A pen. A credit card. A badger snarled as I passed too close. Bats stitched and gathered overhead. The seasonal smell of decay rank in the chill air.

Another paper carrier had been pinned to a fencing post at the entrance to the farmyard. This one contained the bushy, ginger tail of a fox. I know what this is all about, I thought. I shouted Rachel's name and then Waldo's but there was no reply to either. A piece of paper pinned to the door of the farmhouse fluttered in the breeze.