Murder at the Old Abbey

by Pippa McCathie

  He turned as his wife, Sheryl, came up behind him. “You’ll wear that glass away if you go on polishing it much longer,” she said, giving him a sharp sideways glance. “They still going on about Caradoc?”

  “Yup. Wish they’d lay off the poor old sod.”

  “Poor old sod!” she said, with a touch of irritation. “He’s not done you that many favours, has he?”

  “He set me up here.”

  “So he should in the circumstances.”

  “And he’s been a good friend to Mam, in spite of everything.”

  “I’ll give you that,” she conceded, “but you’ve worked damn hard, pulled this pub up from nothing to a bloody good business, and I’ve not heard him thank you for it, and you his–”

  “Don’t start on that,” he snapped, his tone unusually sharp.

  “But we’ve got to think about it, Garan. It’s our future at stake.”

  “I know, I know, but there’s nothing we can do until we know if the old man’s going to live or die. A stroke at his age, it’s not good, is it?”

  “They sure it was a stroke?”

  “Think so, although why the police should be involved if that’s all it was, I don’t know – that’s another thing that’s worrying me.”

  “Police!” Her voice was sharp enough to turn a few heads. She lowered it quickly. “How do you know?”

  “I saw that sergeant go by, the one that came when they had that trouble with the silver. She was on her way up to the Abbey; nowhere else she could have been going up the Cwmbach Road – it doesn’t lead anywhere but to the Abbey – except perhaps Ted Marsden’s place by the back road.”

  She gave him a hard look under her dark brows. “They could have been going there. Anyway, there’s no point in speculating, so let’s just concentrate on selling a few more drinks to this lot, take advantage of the crowd.” She turned to greet a customer, put on her practised smile, and said, “The same again?” as she took the glass from him. She was halfway through pulling the pint when a sudden hush descended on the room.

  The man who’d just come in was stocky and powerfully built, with a boxer’s nose. He looked about him as he crossed towards the bar, but before he got there, someone shouted across the room.

  “That car of yours, Mr Cotter, you got it sorted yet?” The speaker was a mechanic from the local garage.

  “Yes. I took it to a specialist in Newport,” he said, his London accent at odds with the softer Welsh ones of the locals.

  “And was I right, was it the hydraulics?”

  “As it happened, it was.” He didn’t sound particularly pleased at being questioned.

  “Ah, thought so. So, have they fixed it for you?”

  Mike looked annoyed. “They have.”

  “You should have left it with me,” the mechanic said, with a grin. “It would have cost you much less than some fancy garage in Newport, that’s a fact, that is.”

  “Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t.” He’d arrived at the bar and turned his back on his questioner.

  “And how’s the gorgeous Sheryl today?” His eyes flicked down to her cleavage, lingered there, then came back to her face.

  “Good morning, Mr Cotter. What can I get you?” she asked, her tone cool.

  “Call me Mike, please. As I’ve said before there’s no need for formality, and I’ll have gin and tonic, a double, I certainly need it.”

  The buzz of talk had started up again, slightly higher pitched, but Sheryl could tell there were many straining to hear their conversation.

  “Oh yes?” she said, “and why is that?”

  “You heard about the old man?”

  “The old man?” Her tone was even cooler. She may have her issues with the Mansell family, but that didn’t mean she wanted this incomer to show any disrespect.

  “My poor sister’s father-in-law, Caradoc, he’s had a bit of a seizure. Hardly surprising at his age, but what must they do but drag the local coppers in, God knows why.”

  “I hope it’s not as bad as we thought?” Sheryl said, a question in her voice.

  “I don’t know, he’s still with us, but they don’t know for how long.” He leant one elbow on the bar, turned and looked at the crowded room, his eyes flicking from person to person. “The family’s in a right panic, so I thought I’d do them a favour and get out of their way.”

  Sheryl hadn’t heard Garan come up behind her. “Very supportive of you,” he said. She turned and realised he’d heard it all and he was very angry.

  “Well, you know me, Garan, always like to help out.”

  Garan gave Cotter a look of extreme dislike, then turned to his wife. “We need some more tonics, I’ll go down for them,” he said before switching to Welsh, “Don’t let this shit distract you, there are others to be served.”

  She nodded and walked slowly down to the other end of the bar. What a day, and what the hell was going to happen next?

  Chapter 3

  From her place at a table by the door of the Chapel Gallery in Newport, Fabia Havard looked around and wondered how on earth she’d got to this point in her life. Was she really the artist responsible for all these paintings? It was hard to believe, but yes, she was. She smiled and gave herself a mental pat on the back.

  The gallery, which had once been a Baptist chapel, was an elegant building with white painted walls, tall windows and a ceiling supported by the sweeping curves of oak beams. All the pews had been removed, but the wooden floor had been retained, and there were several screens placed at an angle down the length of the room. On these Fabia’s work hung, together with several of her larger works on the walls. She was delighted with the result.

  As she sat by the entrance, she’d been busy asking all those who came in to sign the visitors’ book, taken details for the occasional commission, and the money for any sales. So far there’d been a steady stream of punters and she was quietly pleased with the numbers.

  She glanced up as the glass door opened once again and smiled when she saw it was her friend, Cath Temple, vicar of her local church in Pontygwyn. She was even more pleased when she saw that Cath was carrying a paper bag from a nearby delicatessen in one hand and a container with two cardboard cups of coffee in the other. Fabia hadn’t realised how hungry she was until this moment.

  “You’re an absolute life saver, Cath, bless you.”

  “Well, it’s nearly one o’clock and I thought you’d be getting a bit peckish.” Cath put everything down on the table, then she thrust her hand into the bag and brought out several packages. “That’s feta, pesto and tomato, this one is coronation chicken and – what was the other one? – ah yes, avocado and prawn with lime mayo, I thought we could have a bit of each. And I got you your usual latte, oh, and some Welsh cakes for later.”

  “Cath! It’s no wonder the two of us have expanding waistlines.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Cath said, grinning and smoothing her hands over her generous hips. “Anyway, I believe in being a comfortable size. I hate all those stick thin models, and it’s about time you put on a bit more weight, you lost so much after that ghastly business–”

  “Cath, let’s not go there,” Fabia said, her voice tight.

  This was a reaction Cath had become used to. “Okay,” she said, glancing sideways at her friend.

  What she saw was a tall, statuesque woman who could easily carry a little more weight. She was an imposing figure, with a fine complexion and a mass of coppery hair, who used to strike fear into subordinates when she was a superintendent of police. Cath, on the other hand, with her short, rounded figure and curly hair clustered round pink cheeks, was the epitome of a kindly vicar ready to listen to all your troubles. The fact that she had a sharper, more unconventional side was only known to her closest friends.

  “Has Matt Lambert been in yet?” Cath asked through a mouthful of feta and pesto sandwich.

  “No, he hasn’t,” Fabia said, and there was disappointment in her voice. “But then, I hadn’t really expected
him during the day; he’s more likely to come in early evening, maybe on his way home from the station.”

  “Is he very busy at the moment?”

  “He’s always busy. Since he made Chief Inspector he’s been rushed off his feet. Once he – we – solved those murders in Pontygwyn and the case was wrapped up, he was involved in clearing up the aftermath of the Cwmberis fraud–”

  “And clearing your name.”

  “Yes, bless him. Then he went straight onto a drugs case involving some Newport nightclubs, followed by god knows what else. Some weeks I go without seeing him at all,” Fabia said.

  “You would expect to see him every week, would you?” Cath’s tone was a little teasing.

  Fabia could feel her cheeks warm. “Well, I’d–”

  “You’d like to.”

  She gave her friend a rueful grin. “You know me too well, but it’s not going to happen, is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It strikes me it’s you holding back, not Matt. I think, deep down, you’re still a bit angry with him for taking so long to realise the truth about your so-called sick leave, and he’s still feeling guilty about not supporting you at the time. That’s not a happy combination. One of these days you need to sit down and talk it all through, that’s my advice.”

  “Easier said than done,” Fabia said.

  “And then, of course, there’s the fact you’re so much older than him.”

  “Cath! It’s only seven years.”

  “I know, so I really don’t know why you make such a fuss about it.”

  “I don’t,” she said, indignant. “It’s– it’s difficult.”

  Cath relented. “Never mind, Fabia, I’ll stop teasing. But you do need to sit down and talk, the two of you, one of these days.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They finished their meal without returning to the subject of Matt Lambert and, when Cath came back from disposing of the wrappers and coffee mugs in the gallery’s kitchen, she remembered something else she’d wanted to ask Fabia.

  “How was your trip to White Monk Abbey? Are the Mansell family as doolally as you remembered?”

  Fabia thought for a moment. “More dysfunctional than doolally, I think. The tensions between them are pretty obvious, but half the time I couldn’t work out what was actually causing it. One moment one of them would say something that would reveal some kind of background to the atmosphere, the next they’d clam up and nothing more would be said.”

  “Tell me about them. You were invited by the daughter, weren’t you? Megan is it?”

  “Yes, she’s written this book of Welsh fairy tales, modern versions; they’re rather good, and she wants me to illustrate it. It’ll be a lovely job, right up my street, and my agent is interested. I’m planning to use just pen and ink, I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “A bit like the style you used for that sketch of Matt?”

  “Yes, that sort of thing. Anyway, Megan’s very sweet, but frightened of her own shadow, and I don’t think she gets on with her sister-in-law, Delma, who’s a very different kettle of fish. Determined, a bit brassy, but the funny thing is I think she’s scared too, but of her own brother. I came across a lot of men like him when I was in the force – arrogant and, I wouldn’t mind betting, a thorough misogynist, and that wasn’t just the criminals, it was some of the policemen as well, as you know.”

  “And what about the brother, Rodric? He’s the only one I’ve met, other than Caradoc himself.”

  “The old man was away at some Welsh Guards reunion in London, so I didn’t meet him. And as to Rodric, a nice enough chap, but discontented. I don’t think he’s that strong a character and I got the impression his marriage isn’t happy. I mean, talk about chalk and cheese when it comes to him and Delma – she’s always perfectly made-up and very smart, and he’s a bit shabby and down at heel, as if he can’t be bothered what he looks like. What’s more she’s absolutely obsessed with their stables, to the exclusion of all else, whereas he has the whole estate to worry about. I gather Caradoc fights every single attempt to modernise, he seems to want to live in the past and won’t admit their finances are in a parlous state, which, apparently, they are. A classic case of property rich and cash poor.”

  “But I’ve heard the Abbey is chock-a-block full of treasures. Couldn’t they sell some stuff off and plough the money back into the estate?”

  “That’s one of the things Rodric was talking about, but he says his father won’t hear of it.”

  “Difficult, particularly while he’s still head of the family.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Is that everyone?”

  “No, there’s Rhiannon Giordano, known as Nonna.”

  “That’s a name to conjure with.”

  “It’s her married name. Elizabeth, their mother, was her sister, and she came to live with them when Rodric and Megan were small as Elizabeth was always rather sickly. When she died Nonna stayed on as a sort of surrogate mother. It’s obvious she’s devoted to the family and I got the impression Rodric’s choice of wife didn’t go down very well with her.”

  “That must make things rather difficult for Delma.”

  “Yes, I think it does, but she hides herself away in the stables most of the time. She runs them and has an office out there. She has a riding school for children and adults, and she also has a couple of stallions she puts out to stud. Megan told me her father hates horses, something to do with an accident he had as a child. That must make things that bit more difficult for his daughter-in-law, particularly as I believe the stables are one of the few areas that are making money.”

  Fabia sat looking thoughtful for a moment. “I have to admit I found the whole atmosphere rather disturbing. Staying there I got the feeling I was sitting on a powder keg waiting for it to explode. I was fully expecting to have one of those nightmares while I was there, but I didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s good, maybe you’re getting over them.”

  “God, I hope so.” She gave Cath a sideways grin. “Ignore me, I’m letting my imagination run away with me.”

  A moment later there was a flurry of activity with visitors to the gallery; then Cath had to get going, so they didn’t have the chance to renew the conversation. But that didn’t stop Fabia going over everything that had happened during her visit to White Monk Abbey.

  * * *

  Anjali Kishtoo sat on the train gazing out of the window as it made its steady way towards Cardiff and Newport. She wasn’t really seeing the back gardens of the houses, the parks where people wandered with their dogs or watched their children playing, the warehouses and high streets they passed. She was thinking back a few days to the extraordinary meeting that had changed her whole life.

  At his request, she’d met Caradoc on Sunday at the Cavalry and Guards’ club in Piccadilly. He’d told her he always stayed there when he came to London. When she stepped down from the bus at Green Park, part of her had wanted to turn and run. Nerves made her stomach churn, but she’d forced herself to mount the steps to the impressive porticoed entrance and ask for him at the reception desk. She’d paced up and down as she waited, looking around at the vast paintings on the walls, and the sweep of thickly carpeted stairs with wrought iron bannisters. It felt like an age, but was only a few minutes later when a tall, elderly man, his mane of grey hair receding a little, made his way towards her. He was wearing dark twill trousers, a checked shirt, a tweed jacket and regimental tie, and through his glasses he studied her with hawk-like care as he crossed the tiled hallway. Over his shoulder was slung a canvas holdall.

  “Anjali?” His deep voice hesitated on the name.

  “Yes.” She was surprised that her voice sounded normal. “I– I’m not quite sure what to call you.”

  His lips had twisted in a rueful smile. “How about just Caradoc for now?”

  “Okay – just Caradoc.”

  “I’ve ordered coffee in the lounge, it’s this way.”

  There wa
s no hug, no kiss on the cheek, but, as he’d studied her face, he had briefly clasped her shoulders with large, warm hands.

  She followed him, still looking around her. Where in the world would you find another place like this? It was so typically British, and yet she knew there was a similar club back home in Mauritius, in the capital, Port Louis, although that one also had ornate brass fans hanging from the ceiling, and there’d probably be others in New Delhi, Lagos and other Commonwealth capitals.

  The room, when they entered it, was virtually empty, just a couple of men at the far end, heads together over a laptop. They didn’t even look up as Anjali and Caradoc sat down. She put the briefcase she’d been carrying beside her chair and, as the waiter brought their coffee, they stumbled through an awkward conversation about the weather, their respective journeys, his from Wales, hers from her friend’s flat in Streatham. Finally, the waiter asked if there was anything else they needed.

  “No thank you, Tony,” Caradoc told him, “I’ll look after this.”

  Neither spoke as he poured the coffee, offered her a biscuit, which she refused, asked if she took milk and sugar. At last he sat back. Elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his hands under his chin and looked at her over the top of his glasses.

  “How long have you got in London?”

  “I’m here for a few weeks, going around with samples of my work. Sending photos over the net is all very well, but actually visiting the buyers works much better, making that human contact.”

  “The net,” he said ruefully, “not a means of communication I’m that fond of, but it has its uses.”

  “It does indeed. Without it, my work would never have been noticed,” she said. “I had a really good write-up in one of the Sunday supplements and, so far, the reaction has been very encouraging. Several people are interested and I’m hoping to get quite a few orders. Then I’m planning to take some time off while I’m here, but I’m not sure for how long, so I haven’t booked a flight home yet.”