The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Alan was trying the fifth house, the next-to-last, when I turned around with Watson and saw a car approaching. As it neared, I saw it was a truck, actually, a pick-up truck. It was dented and dusty, and its engine was making unhealthy sounds.

  I pulled Watson to one side of the narrow road, but the driver slowed and stopped. The truck continued to shudder and clank. The driver leaned out, nodded his head toward Alan, and asked something. From the intonation I knew it was a question, but I couldn’t understand a word. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Welsh,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘would you be looking for someone?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you speak English! Yes, we’re looking for a friend, Matthew Thomas. He used to live here.’

  The driver nodded. ‘His people lived here once, but no one lives here now. There’s no work.’

  ‘Are they still living, his family?’

  The driver shook his head. ‘The slate’s not so healthy for the lungs. His da worked it till he died, then his ma went on after him. No one lives here now.’

  The repeated phrase was a dirge, a solemn tolling of a funeral bell. I nodded my thanks for the information, and as he drove off he called out to Alan, ‘No one lives here now.’

  We got back in the car and headed back towards Caernarfon.

  ‘Not the most cheerful chap,’ said Alan after a time.

  ‘No. He’d have been a great hit marching in a Victorian funeral behind horses with black plumes. But Alan, even though we didn’t find Matt, he did live there once, or his family did. They’re all dead. Something about lungs?’

  ‘Silicosis. When the working of slate was mechanized, the labourers breathed in the dust, and it killed them in the end, those who had survived the harsh working conditions. It’s not a pretty story.’

  ‘No. But Alan, why would Matt have come here, if his family are all dead and the place he lived in is dead, too?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t know that he did. It was an idea, but apparently not a practical one.’

  The urgency was gone, and I, who had not been eager to take this trip in the first place, felt stricken. Alan is right so often, and despondent so seldom.

  ‘Well, but look. It’s a beautiful day, and Caernarfon is a magnificent castle. Why don’t we go back and tour the castle and then the town? You booked the room for three nights. We might as well use at least two of them. And,’ I added as I saw the look on his face, ‘if you’re worried about what’s going on back home, you can always call Jane and Derek. Between the two of them they should know everything.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re right, love. We can have a little holiday. Perhaps it’ll give us a new perspective on the problems at the college.’

  We left our car at the guest house. It was at the edge of town, but the town was so small, and driving so difficult, it was much easier to walk. Watson, we had learned, was not allowed in the castle, so we left him snoozing happily enough in our hostess’s garden and set out.

  Castles all have a family resemblance. They are not, as I used to think back in the States, fairy-tale places with romance written all over them. They were built as fortresses, made to withstand almost any attack, so they’re massive, solid affairs. Of course, they’re many centuries old, and they show their age. To me, although they ooze glamour, they’re also somewhat frightening.

  This one was especially so. For one thing, it’s much bigger than the others I had seen and loved in Wales. Here, I felt, an army could withstand a siege for long enough that the besiegers would grow weary and go away. And they could stay in some comfort, for Caernarfon, I read in the guide book, was built to be also a royal palace, and Edward I actually lived there from time to time. Or at least his wife did, for his son, the first English Prince of Wales, was born there in the thirteenth century.

  The huge size of the place intimidates. As, of course, it was meant to do. Octagonal towers and decorative bands of coloured stone set it apart from the others. It’s in rather better repair than most, since it’s still used on occasion by the Prince of Wales for various ceremonies since his investiture there over forty years ago.

  It’s a big tourist attraction. On a lovely day there were children running about; one toddler sat astride an ancient cannon. Yet for all its size and interest, it began after a while to make me feel claustrophobic. What would it have been like, I pondered, to be garrisoned there, or even living there in the relative luxury of the royal apartments, during a siege, when one couldn’t get out?

  I shivered, and was happy when Alan asked if I was ready for lunch.

  ‘More than ready. I think I’m suffering from castle fatigue.’

  ‘Never did I think I hear you say you were tired of a castle!’ He offered me his arm and escorted me to freedom.

  We found a pleasant place that served reasonable food and then went to pick up poor neglected Watson for a good walk around the town.

  It didn’t take long to reach the street where Alan had parked the day before. I recognized the second-rate art in the galleries. Neither of us was attracted by the souvenir shops, but the one gallery I hadn’t had a chance to see was just on down the street. Literally down. The street at that point sloped steeply down toward the river. I handed Watson’s leash over to Alan; when the dog gets enthusiastic he exerts quite a pull, and I didn’t want to lose my balance.

  I was glad we’d gone as far as the gallery. Gwyneth Davies, it said in gold letters on the window – apparently the name of the owner. It was several notches above the others. Yes, there were paintings of the castle and the town, in various media, but they were well done, and didn’t constitute the entire stock of the shop. Displayed near the front window were—

  ‘Alan! Look!’ I pointed. ‘Those are Matt’s woodcuts or I’m a Chinaman!’

  They were scenes of the town as it might have looked when the castle was built. No modern buildings. No suburbs. Just the walled town, the castle dominating even more than it seemed to now. They were done with amazing clarity and delicacy, and they conveyed far more than a picture of history. There was also the strong sense of how the Welsh felt about this stronghold of the English looming over their city.

  Alan looped Watson’s leash over a bicycle stanchion on the pavement outside the gallery, and we went in.

  I had read somewhere that Caernarfon was a centre of Welsh nationalistic sentiment. The Welsh (with good historical reason) are sometimes not terribly friendly toward the English. Without even consulting Alan, whose accent was unmistakably English, I took the initiative, making an effort to inject as much Hoosier into my speech as possible.

  ‘We’re very interested in the woodcuts of old Caernarfon,’ I said to the proprietor. ‘I don’t remember seeing them in here before.’

  ‘Have you visited the gallery before, then?’ she asked in a strong Welsh accent.

  ‘No, but I’ve passed by and glanced in the window.’ Half a lie is better than a whole one, and this woman looked very sharp. She’d remember who’d been here recently.

  ‘You are right. These came in just a few days ago. They’re lovely, are they not?’

  ‘They are. They look new, though the views are old. Are they by a local artist?’

  ‘He is from a local village. He does not live here now, but he came to visit and brought these to me. I have sold three already, and I am hoping he will be bringing me more. They are very fine.’

  ‘They certainly are! Would I have heard of his name? They’re so good, I’d think he’d be famous.’

  ‘His name is Thomas, Matthew Thomas in the English – and here he is!’ We turned around as Matt walked in the door with a portfolio under his arm. He stopped, saw us, dropped the portfolio, and ran out the door and down the street.

  The proprietor said something in Welsh, and though I couldn’t follow the words I understood that they expressed the same astonishment I was feeling.

  ‘I must say I didn’t expect that, any of it!’ I said to Alan. ‘How utterly frustrating, to find him and
then lose him again. I don’t suppose there’s any point in going after him?’

  ‘He’s far younger and fitter than I am,’ said Alan. ‘But this proves what we already surmised.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He’s very much afraid.’

  ‘But, Alan, why would he be afraid of us?’

  ‘It’s only a guess, but perhaps he’s afraid we’ve come to take him back to the college. And it’s not much of a stretch from that to suppose that whatever he fears is at the college.’

  ‘It’s not a stretch at all. It’s only reasonable, given all the things that have been going on there. Something is rotten in the state of the Wolfson College of Art and Design.’

  The proprietor had given up trying to follow our rapid English, concentrating instead on picking up the papers that had fallen from Matt’s portfolio. Now she turned to us.

  ‘Is it that Matthew is afraid? Is that what you are saying? Why should he be afraid, a fine young man, a fine artist as he is? He cannot have done anything wrong.’

  ‘No,’ said Alan reassuringly. ‘Some odd things have been happening at the college where he teaches, and we think he may be worried about them.’

  ‘Are those more woodcuts?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure, but I thought Alan would be happier with a change of subject.

  ‘Indeed, and fine they are.’ She held one out for us to see, and I gasped.

  ‘But it’s Sherebury! The Cathedral – and look, Alan.’ I pointed to one corner. Matthew had chosen to show the Cathedral from an angle that showed also the vast expanse of close, and just on the other side of the wall—

  ‘Our house!’ Alan was as delighted as I. He pulled out his wallet. ‘I think we must have this, Mrs Davies.’

  She named a price that took my breath away, but Alan didn’t bat an eyelash. He handed over a credit card, saying, ‘And can you recommend a good framers’ shop? I don’t like to risk taking it home unprotected.’

  Mrs Davies shook her head. ‘No, that is the price with the matt and the frame. Come.’ She led us to a counter at the back of the shop, where various matts and frame mouldings were on display. I let Alan work out the details of the transaction while I pondered the implications of Matt’s appearance and rapid disappearance.

  It was a great relief to find him, I had been desperately afraid he was dead, either by his own hand or another’s. The fact that he had come back to his native heath made me think that his depression was easing a bit. He had sought the friendly, the familiar, the comforting. Further, he was showing initiative, selling his work to keep him going. Perhaps he meant never to go back to his teaching job. Perhaps he thought he’d be sacked for disappearing without notice.

  One thing was perfectly plain, at least to me. Matthew Thomas knew something, something that would damage someone at the college. And Alan and I had to find him and get him to tell us what that was.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘It won’t be ready until tomorrow,’ said Alan, leaving the shop. An ecstatic Watson greeted us as if we’d been missing for days.

  ‘That gives us one more day to find him. Do you think we can?’

  ‘I gave Mrs Davies our phone numbers, yours and mine, and asked her to have him call us if he came back to the gallery. I tried to convince her that Matt had no reason to fear us, quite the contrary. I’m not sure I succeeded.’

  ‘Well, what is the poor woman to think when he takes one look at us and flees as from all the devils in hell? Added to the fact that her English is a bit limited, and it’s no wonder she doesn’t quite trust us. Where would he be staying, do you think? Obviously not at his old home.’

  ‘Probably not, though he could use it as a squat, if he’s not fussy about his comforts.’

  ‘But someone would notice. I know the village is deserted, but that makes it all the more likely that someone like the old fellow in the truck would spot any comings and goings. I’ll bet he’s holed up somewhere with one of his friends. And I have absolutely no idea how we could find out who they are.’

  Alan got that faraway look in his eyes that may mean he’s tuned me out completely. In that case his next words would be ‘Yes, dear’. But what he said was, ‘I wonder.’

  That meant something I’d said had started him thinking. I waited.

  ‘Darling, you remember the policeman who investigated those deaths when we were in Wales before? The competent, helpful one?’

  ‘Mm. More or less. Wasn’t his name Owen?’

  ‘Probably. Every fifth inhabitant of Wales is named Owen. But I wonder if he’d know anything about Matt’s family and friends.’

  ‘But he’s in a whole ’nother part of the country. Why would he know people here?’

  ‘As you so frequently remind me, dear heart, every part of the UK is small. Wales is especially so, and we’re still in North Wales. The big political division in Wales is between north and south, not so much east to west. It’s true that Mold and Flint, where Inspector Owen has jurisdiction, are in a different county, but they’re only about fifty miles from here. Some of you Americans commute that far to your jobs every day. And given that Owen has the name he does, he probably has cousins who live in these parts. We’ve nothing to lose by phoning him.’

  I couldn’t argue with that, so I wandered with Watson on down the street while Alan went through the tedious business of finding the inspector’s number and calling him. There wasn’t a lot to see, but apparently there were all sorts of entrancing smells, so Watson was happy. ‘You’re a useless mutt, you know,’ I told him. ‘Why didn’t you stop Matt when he went hightailing it down the street?’

  Watson grinned his happy doggy grin at me. I was talking to him. I was taking notice of him. Only if I offered him a treat could life be any sweeter. I ruffled his soft ears and turned back to Alan.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I left a message. What would you like to do while we wait for him to ring back?’

  ‘Find some tea! That lunch was fairly sketchy.’

  ‘That probably means a hotel.’

  He took my arm and we made our way to the Black Boy Inn, where it was just warm enough to eat outside at a table in the sun. We weren’t sure Watson would be welcome inside, and we didn’t want to abandon him again.

  We’d just poured our tea, and I’d had one bite of a lovely piece of bara brith (a delightful Welsh tea bread), when Alan’s phone rang. He looked at the number, said ‘Owen’, and moved away from the table to a sheltered spot where he could be relatively private. I didn’t even try to listen. He’d tell me when he came back and meanwhile there was a plateful of my favourite kind of food in front of me.

  I had time to demolish very little of it, though, before Alan came back. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Some. He knows some people who know some people who might have known the family. I have a few names to start with. After I have my tea.’

  We had seen Matt. We knew he wasn’t dead or a prisoner. Talking to him could wait a little.

  I buttered another piece of bara brith.

  When all of us, including Watson, had had enough to eat, we strolled back to our guest house. It was getting chilly, and I wanted a sweater. While I brushed my teeth, Alan busied himself copying some of the names and numbers Inspector Owen had given him. ‘Why don’t we divide them up, love? We can get through the list quicker that way.’

  It didn’t sound like a lot of fun. There were five names on my list. ‘What if they don’t speak English?’

  ‘Almost everyone here does, as a second language at least. And I’ll fare no better than you, if someone doesn’t. I have about three words of Welsh.’

  ‘Is this what the police call “routine”?’

  ‘Usually with some unpleasant adjective before the word, yes.’

  ‘Okay. What am I supposed to say, assuming I actually reach someone I can talk to?’

  We worked out a script, and with a sigh, I began to work.

  As a way of spending a late afternoon, it was somewhat more interestin
g than watching the grass grow. My first two calls were picked up by voicemail. I left a brief message, giving my name and saying that I was a friend of Matthew Thomas, that I was in Wales wanting to see him, and would they call me back. I thought as I hung up the second time that if I were a Welsh friend of Matt’s, and he was hiding out with me, I would never in this world reply to a message like that, much less one in a slight American accent.

  The third number I tried was answered by a man who either spoke only Welsh, or was defeated by my American-accented English. We gave up trying to communicate.

  Doggedly I punched in the next number. This time it was answered by a woman. I could hear a radio or television playing loudly in the background. ‘Hello, my name is Dorothy Martin. I’m a friend of Matthew Thomas’s, from Sherebury—’

  ‘Who?’ A spate of canned laughter. Television, then.

  ‘Matthew Thomas. He used to live in this area—’

  ‘Never heard of him, sorry.’ The phone was clicked off.

  One more number. I looked over to see if Alan was having any luck, but from his expression I didn’t think so. He was punching in a number. I sighed and did the same.

  Another voicemail. I was batting zero. I left my message and put my phone down.

  ‘Nothing?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Nothing. I left some messages.’ My voice told Alan what I thought of the chances of joy from that.

  He nodded. ‘It was worth a try. There was never a lot of hope—’ His phone rang. Both our faces brightened. ‘Alan Nesbitt here. Yes. Yes, we are, very much so. We’re at a guest house.’ He gave the name. ‘Any time; we’ll be here.’ He clicked off and smiled broadly at me.

  ‘A lead?’

  ‘Better. Much better. That was Matt. He’s agreed to meet with us.’

  The first thing Matt said when we opened the door to him was, ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ said Alan agreeably, and Matt relaxed a little. ‘Why don’t we talk about it over a drink at the Black Boy?’