The Dylan Thomas Murders (5 page)

“A boy, born the same week as Aeronwy, but a year older. That was always a problem for Dylan, two birthdays in the same week. I felt sorry for Caitlin, he wasn't with her when Aeronwy was born, and she assumed he'd been pubbing. This was the time when she realised that Dylan had become two people, as she put it, though she didn't know the reason. Anyway, he did his best for her. He left here soon after Waldo's first birthday party, and rushed up to London in my father's old dressing gown. It was terribly cold and that's all I could find in the house for him, but he was too late for Aeronwy's birth.”

“And that was his name? Waldo.”

“Waldo Sweeney Hilton. I asked each of them to choose a name for him, and that's what they picked.”

“What did he like to be called?”

“Oh, definitely Waldo.”

I wondered if appearance would provide any clues so I asked her who he looked like.

“He has Eliot's height and build, but it's Dylan's nose he's got.”

“Does he know about them?”

“They were uncles to begin with, but I told him the day that Dylan died, the whole truth.”

“How did he take it?”

“Very badly. I'm sure it's why he failed the scholarship. He became very introspective. And he really missed Dylan. He didn't visit very often, but when he did he made such a fuss of Waldo, especially on his birthday. Dylan loved birthdays, and he only once missed one of Waldo's.

“Mind you, he lost interest when Waldo started growing up. He only liked them when they were babies. By the way, have you noticed there are no proper families in
Milk Wood
, except Butcher Beynon's?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“There aren't any children in Llareggub.”

“Polly Garter's?”

“That's my point. There's only her babies, and Lily Smalls, the teenager. There's nothing in between. True, there are children in the school playground, but never with their families. It has something to do with the way Dylan was excluded by his own father. Do you and Rachel have any children?”

“No.”

“Never wanted any?”

This was not something I wished to discuss, and it was taking me away from the interview.

“What happened to Waldo?”

“You could try asking him yourself.”

“He lives here?”

“No, at Fern Hill.”

We paused for lunch. I walked around outside, whilst Rosalind prepared the food, and I wondered how such a person could be the mother of someone who eats spiders, and makes presents of puppy tails. I was rather absent-mindedly admiring the cottage, when I noticed a note under the windscreen wiper of my car. I was in no doubt who'd left it there. I went out of the wicker gate onto the road, and pulled the paper from under the wiper. It simply said

Rat's hair, dogskin, owlheart,
Pigs' eyes, womanchop.
Stir well and stew the lot.

I went back inside. There were curried turkey sandwiches, and a herb and rabbit pâté which, Rosalind said with pride, Waldo had prepared. I took the sandwiches. We drank from a pitcher of wine that Rosalind had made herself from vine leaves and sage. It was slightly medicinal, like a weak Campari, but it cut cleanly through the rich tastes of the sandwiches. I wanted to know more about Eliot, and asked her to tell me what happened after Dylan's death.

“Eliot took a lot more interest, but that caused quite a few problems. He wanted to take Waldo out of the secondary modern and pay for him to go to public school. That started a major row. He also objected to Waldo's not going to church. But on the plus side, he set up a trust fund for him in New York.”

“Eliot was taking his responsibilities seriously?”

“Partly, but he was also buying his way in, and that was fine by me. I wanted Waldo provided for.”

“What did Eliot want in exchange?”

“His Princess Volupine.”

“Did he get her?”

“Yes, he got his princess, his Jewish princess.”

“The typist in ‘The Waste Land'.”

“There was no other way, Martin. I was past the haymaking age, and was no good at sewing farmers' fly buttons back on, or raising their turn-ups.”

“Did you ever tell Waldo he was Jewish?”

“He found out quite by accident. We were clearing out the house, just after my father had died. There was an old trunk in the small bedroom. We opened it together, Waldo had to lever the lid off with a crow bar. And what did we find sitting on top? A skull cap! And a
menorah
. I was so angry with them. All that pretence to hide from the Germans...”

I hesitated for a minute, and then plunged straight in. “You know he's sending me funny letters?” I passed the latest note across for her to read.

“He's only doing what he's been told.”

“By you?”

She looked up angrily. “Of course not.” After a moment's silence, she said: “Waldo's not well, you know.”

That I did know.

“I'm sorry, I should have explained sooner.” She was twisting the ring on her finger so violently that I could see a small bruise appearing. “He hears voices.”

“Any old voices?” I asked, sounding more flippant than I'd intended.

“Voices from his father's pen.”

“Which father?”

“Dylan.”

“The voices from
Milk Wood
?” I asked, this time sounding incredulous.

“Usually Beynon the butcher.”

Beynon the hunter of wild giblets. Sneaking up on corgis with his cleaver, swaggering down Coronation Street with a finger in his mouth, not his own, purveyor of the finest shrew and budgie rissoles...

“Waldo's always been fascinated by Mr Beynon.”

Fox pâté, cats' liver, mole surprise and otter pie...

“I hope Waldo's letters haven't upset Rachel.”

Heart of owl, eye of mouse, tail of puppy-dog...

“Waldo's quite harmless really.”

Slice of buttock, cut of thigh, womanchop...

I rushed from the cottage and drove recklessly fast through the narrow lanes. I found our back door open and no sign of Rachel. I searched the outbuildings, the garden and the hut where she sometimes wrote her poetry. Then I remembered that she often went with Mably at this time of day to walk by the river. I ran down the hill, crossed the old bridge and crashed wildly through the trees to the river bank. I followed the path past the walled garden, and as I rounded the corner near the otter pool, I saw Rachel leaning against the wall with Mably lying on the ground beside her. I hugged her until it hurt and she squealed in protest.

“I'm glad you're all right.”

“I'm fine but the dog isn't. He won't move.”

Mably looked panic stricken, the look he always had at the vet's. “What scared him?”

“We came around the corner and saw a man standing by the hide. Mably rushed up to him barking like he always does. The man touched him on the head and Mably fell to the ground. By the time I got there, the man had disappeared.”

We pulled, shoved and cajoled Mably but eventually we had to pick him up and carry him home. He lay in his basket for the rest of the afternoon, and not even food would entice him out. The vet came and pronounced him fit and well. We had supper, watched television and went to bed. I came down in the morning to make tea, and Mably was dead in his basket.

It was not easy going back to Rosalind Hilton's, but it was helped by knowing that Rachel would be safe, out all day at Welsh classes. We had buried Mably by the poetry hut, near a spot we knew would be covered in daffodils in the spring. We had stood silently whilst the Aeron rushed past, and then trudged tearfully back to the house. I left Rachel at the bus stop, and drove to Rosalind's, pondering on how recent events had affected our relationship – it seemed that her son had killed our dog, and perhaps our own well-being was at stake. I felt responsible for what had happened, but I also wanted to see things through to a settled outcome. It wasn't in my nature to let matters hang in the air, incomplete. And, to be honest, I felt excited at the prospect of unravelling the mystery that was being spun in front of me. I'd been engaged to find a missing shed that was linked to both Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot, but it was giving me the opportunity to investigate, through Rosalind's story, their lives and works. Sleuth and sociologist were coming together in one project, and that was very satisfying.

Besides, where was the proof that the man Rachel had encountered was Waldo Hilton? I resolved to say nothing at the moment, and I arrived just as Rosalind was making coffee. We sat as usual next to the fire, and I switched the tape to record.

“There was the most awful row one year. I think it was early 1944, and Waldo was just coming up to his second birthday. Eliot was lecturing in Swansea and when he'd finished he came to stay for a few days. I was still quite fond of him then. He used to spend the morning writing, and then after lunch we would catch the bus to New Quay and walk along the beach. We had just returned from one of those walks when I heard a car pull up. I looked out and it was Dylan, jumping out of a taxi.

“I opened the door and went down the path to meet him. I thought it was better that Eliot saw as little as possible of Dylan's greeting, because he was usually exceptionally affectionate, and often a little lewd. I was carrying Waldo and, thank goodness, that helped to cramp Dylan's style a little. As we entered the house, Dylan stopped and sniffed the air. ‘Cats,' he said, ‘the bloody place stinks of cats.' It wasn't that he didn't like cats, they just closed his chest up, as if he were asthmatic. Then he saw Eliot and said: ‘Dr Crippen, I presume?'

“Eliot nodded his head and said: ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Thomas.'

“Dylan hated that kind of affected politeness, and, sure enough, he farted. Loudly. Then he held Waldo up in the air, the way most men seem to want to do with babies, and said: ‘And how's my little flannel-bottom.'

‘
Yours
, Mr Thomas?' said Eliot, reaching out to take Waldo from Dylan.

‘Bugger off.'

‘Fine words from a man who pretends to be a poet.'

‘
Pretends
, Mr Eliot,
pretends
?'

‘Such coarseness sits uneasily with responsible fatherhood, Mr Thomas.'

‘You know as much about fatherhood, Mr Eliot, as I know about banking,' replied Dylan, which was true in a way because Eliot had had no children in his own marriage. By this time, I had prised Waldo away from Dylan and put him down in his cot. It was just as well. Eliot crossed the room, and shoved Dylan out through the door. He tried to close it but Dylan managed to wedge it open with his foot. They were both shouting at each other, the baby had started to cry and I was in tears. I grabbed Eliot and dragged him away from the door. Dylan burst through, and threw a punch that skidded off Eliot's shoulder. Eliot didn't respond but stood there smiling down rather condescendingly at Dylan. I managed to get between them and Dylan backed off. Eliot continued to sneer and Dylan said: ‘Don't play the church warden with me, you trussed-up prig.'

“Now I swear Dylan knew nothing about Eliot's truss. How could he? I certainly hadn't told him, any more than I had told Eliot that Dylan rarely wore underpants. It was just a chance remark. Eliot went incandescent, I knew how sensitive he was about the truss, and how wounded he must have felt.

“Eliot left the room and came back carrying his suitcase. ‘You're welcome to stay, Mr. Thomas, but remember, I shall do everything in my power to keep the boy. Everything.'

“Dylan turned to me: ‘Let the old fart go. It's time you had a young man singing in your sheets.'

“The rest of the year was fairly uneventful. Eliot sent me a series of letters asking me to make him Waldo's legal guardian but I refused. He suggested we came to live in London. It was not difficult to say ‘no' to that. There were more letters from his solicitors but I ignored them, too. And, fair play, he always sent presents down to Waldo, including, of course, lots of practical jokes which were of no use at all to a baby. Still, at least he was thinking about Waldo, and that meant something to me.

“In September, Dylan moved into Majoda bungalow, just outside New Quay. He was happy living there, always boasting about the wonderful views he had of the bay, with a pub just down the road for the evenings.”

“What was Majoda like to live in?”

“The rooms were tiny and the walls were thin. There was nowhere quiet for Dylan to write. So I arranged for Eliot's shed from Tyglyn Aeron to be taken down and put on the cliff next to the bungalow. That made Dylan very happy though I didn't dare tell him that Eliot had used it for writing.

“October started badly. Vernon Watkins and Gwen were getting married, and Dylan was to be the best man. He was very excited about it, and asked me to come up to London, and Waldo, of course. The worst of the blitz was over, I'd been away for almost ten years and the thought of going back was too much to resist. We travelled up in a train crowded with troops, but I was never without a seat. The plan was that Dylan would attend the wedding, whilst Waldo and I would go down to Stepney, and maybe find some of our old neighbours there.