We go to the vestry.
An overhead light. A peg with clerical robes and an old scarf. Ecclesiastical clutter.
‘Do you know what we’re looking for?’ asks Bowen.
‘No. Just anything old.’
‘Fifth or sixth century,’ says Katie. ‘Tydecho’s era, basically.’
‘There’s nothing here like that. There was a lot of stuff when I arrived here. Old papers and the like, just kept a heap in that box.’ He points to a polished wooden box, nineteenth century maybe, that hangs on the wall. ‘They seemed in reasonable condition, but I worried about moths or woodworm, or I don’t know, whatever eats paper. So I got some plastic storage cases, added some silica gel – you know, to protect against damp – and bunged them up on that cupboard. The theory was I was going to sort through them at some point, but . . .’ He shrugs, the way you shrug if you’re the rector of a parish now approaching the end of its fifteenth century. ‘I was happy enough when the cathedral people said they’d take the lot.’
Katie, taller than me, stands on a chair and looks on top of the cupboard.
‘Dust,’ she says. ‘Spiders. A little piece of cornice.’
‘Anything down the back?’
Bowen shifts the cupboard away from the wall and we stare at the filth behind. A thick web of cobweb, fallen plaster dust and flaking paint, dead insects. Some fragments of wood.
Inside, everything clean and tidy enough, but nothing of interest.
We look in the box where the documents had been stored before Bowen moved them.
Nothing.
A sheet of newspaper covers the bottom. The paper is a local thing dated 1953. The front page story: a fire at a local fish restaurant.
A theft of Tydecho’s papers from the cathedral and now a second break-in here. You’d have to guess that they were after documents here too. Either because the cathedral documents were missing something, or because the thieves just wanted to double-check they’d got everything there was to be found.
And on Bowen’s account, there was nothing here.
Dust. Spiders. A bit of cornice.
We go back into the church itself.
The forensic guy has his blood samples.
‘Do you want me to look for prints?’ he asks, in a voice that implies the answer ‘no’ would be welcome.
I shake my head. ‘They were wearing gloves.’
A uniform sticks his head through the main door. Tells me that they’re close to abandoning the search ‘for your suspects’.
I shrug. The light now has failed almost completely. The two men won’t be found unless they’re the stupidest or unluckiest criminals this side of Oswestry.
The uniform goes. The forensic guy goes. The church lighting somehow just emphasises the darkness. It thickens the air into something yellowey-orange. Gluey.
We regather in the vestry, just because Katie’s left her coat there.
Bowen lifts the 1953 fish-restaurant newspaper out of the wooden wall box.
‘I suppose that can go.’
He looks glumly at the mess behind the cupboard, knowing that it’ll be his job to clean it. Katie looks into the box, now missing its newspaper floor.
Glances once, then looks more sharply.
‘No, that’s not right,’ she says, and starts picking at the bottom with a fingernail.
I already looked under the newspaper and saw just the pale, bleached colour of old pine – pine that has never seen the sun – but that was me being dumb. Me not knowing how to see.
Katie picks at the bottom and it comes away.
A sheet of paper, blank on the upper side, but with writing in clear purplish-black ink on the lower.
Latin text.
A hard-to-read medieval hand.
Bowen stares. I stare. We all stare.
‘Katie,’ I say, ‘This paper? We can get it dated, presumably?’
In the gluey light, she shakes her head.
‘No. No, we can’t.’
‘We can’t?’
There’s something about this light, this thickened silence which makes everything seem slow, unnatural.
‘We can’t test this paper, because it isn’t paper. It’s vellum. A dead sheep, basically, scraped clean and stretched out thin.’
She takes the vellum and places it under the best of the light.
‘What’s this? . . . No, it’s nothing. This doesn’t look helpful. It’s just a record of a grant of some land to the church.’ She reads to the end, then confirms her diagnosis. ‘What we’ve got is an old bit of vellum, with some really boring text.’
That leaves us with our original mystery – why would armed robbers come to a place like this? What were they searching for?
But it leaves us also with something more tangible. Something helpful.
Our piece of boring vellum tells us, for sure, that there were once old documents stored in this church. Documents that are now, presumably, in the hands of the thieves.
I still can’t tell what’s going on here, but I’m now more certain than ever that this strange path is the right one to follow.
Shotguns and vellum.
Churches and saints.
And Gaynor Charteris’s severed head watching on with grim pleasure as we pluck at her riddles.
9
There’s no more that we can do here in the dying, rain-murkened light. I want to get back to Cardiff, but Bowen insists on giving us something to eat.
Katie, who’s hungry, is quick to accept. Bowen extricates his Land Rover and we follow him two miles down the Dyfi, before turning up into a valley, Cwm Cywarch, to a cottage-cum-smallholding hard up against the jut of the hill.
‘My wife’s place, really, this is. But we prefer it to the vicarage, so we stay up here most of the time. Sixty ewes, she’s got, nothing much, but it keeps us busy. Her busy, that is. I’ve got a full-time job and never have to help with the lambing.’
He says that with his ‘at least that’s what I tell my bishop’ face on.
He tells us also that his wife is away at the moment, but he promises us a teenage son whose presence is marked by an audible heavy-rock thumping from upstairs.
Tea, toast, eggs, bacon.
Katie sits at table, with that awkward breathing of hers, intermittent but clearly discernible when it comes. She inspects the vellum as closely as she can, angling it against the light.
I don’t know what she’s looking for. Don’t ask. But I do say, ‘The vellum itself. Can we get that dated?’
‘Hmm? Yes. Radiocarbon. We can date the vellum and there are things you can do – ink analysis, some palaeographic techniques – to date the text as well.’
I put the vellum, carefully, in a large evidence bag.
Between mouthfuls, I tell Bowen about Charteris. What happened to her. The reason we’re here.
‘The things people do,’ his only comment.
When I’m done eating, I go outside to bring the car up to the front door. In the dark and the rain, however, I fail to see a drainage ditch and, turning the car, drop a wheel into it. Rev stupidly and angrily, knowing that I’ll need to be pulled out.
‘That damn ditch,’ says Bowen, who comes out with a torch. He’ll pull me out in the morning, he says but, ‘No use trying now.’
Back inside, Bowen says, ‘There’s a spare room upstairs. If you don’t mind sharing.’
We don’t and, pinned here for the for night, we talk. Not just about Charteris, but about the investigation more broadly. Its central puzzle: Why would anyone behead Gaynor Charteris for something that happened fifteen centuries ago? For that matter, why would anyone break into a church that has nothing in it?
I don’t know. I have no ideas.
I ask Bowen about Tydecho. No reason particularly, except that Tydecho lived long ago and this whole case seems rooted in that dark past.
‘Tydecho? Half-saint, half-mad, probably. He was a hermit. Plenty of legends about him, but no question he had a big following in these p
arts. He’s got a few churches dedicated to him round here.’
He shakes his head. Slurps his tea.
Does those things, and adds, ‘But look, I know I’m on Tydecho’s team and all, but I don’t suppose anyone’s still interested in him. I’d have to guess they were more interested in his uncle.’
‘His uncle?’
Katie darts a rapier look at Bowen, then says, ‘Oh, no. For fuck’s sake.’
Bowen looks at Katie, at me, then grins.
‘Tydecho’s mother was Anna Pendragon. That’s not formal history, I suppose, just oral tradition, but oral tradition means something in these parts.’
I’m slow here. Five or ten metres behind the pace.
‘Sorry. Tydecho’s mother was Anna who?’
‘Pendragon. Arthur’s sister.’ Since I’m still not getting it, Bowen adds, ‘King Arthur. My Saint Tydecho was King Arthur’s nephew.’
My jaw drops, or I think it does. At any rate, I’m dumbstruck and saying nothing, when Katie chips in with her own thoughtful genealogical contribution.
‘Yes and, you know, Tydecho was also brother to Robin Hood, father to Cinderella, and grandfather to the fucking Tooth Fairy.’
Bowen looks at me, indicates Katie, and says, ‘She’s English, isn’t she? A little bit Saesneg.’
‘’Fraid so,’ I tell him. ‘A hairy-arsed barbarian, that’s our Katie.’
Bowen grins and pulls at his neck. He doesn’t mind Katie’s outburst. He’s enjoying it.
I say, ‘Look, stupid question, but was King Arthur real, yes or no?’
It’s Bowen’s house. He gets first dibs.
‘Yes, probably. We don’t know for sure. We don’t know anything about that period for sure, but Arthur’s existence is one of the more solid facts we have.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m not expert exactly, but since I took over Tydecho’s parish, among others, I got interested in our early history. Made a bit of a study of it, I suppose.’
Katie nods in slow agreement, the academic historian joining forces with the skilled amateur.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s about right. King Arthur, Snow White, all seven of the dwarves – including Dippy, Dopey, Loopy and Crazy – that lot, plus the bloody Tooth Fairy. All real.’
‘I’m sensing some disagreement here.’
Katie: ‘Look, where do you want to start? The Lady in the Lake? The Sword in the Stone? The Knights of the Round Table, for fuck’s sake. It’s all just medieval invention. I mean, is it pretty? Yes. Romantic? Ditto. Real? No chance. The only people who believe any of that stuff are – sorry, George – cranks and obsessives.’
As Katie talks, Bowen brings wine and glasses. Sets one in front of Katie.
She looks fierce, then apologetic, then turns all Home Counties polite as she says, ‘Yes, a glass of wine would be lovely. Sorry for swearing.’
Bowen shrugs. ‘I’ve got a sixteen-year-old son who’s into video games and heavy metal. I’ve got a wife who’s an upland sheep farmer. And I’ve got a parish full of Welsh countryfolk who aren’t afraid to voice their opinions. I’ve heard worse than your swearing, Saxon. I’ve heard worse.’
I say no to wine, but the others clink glasses and drink. The mood changes. Bowen says, ‘Here, let’s go through to my study. We’ll be more comfortable there.’
We go through. Not huge, but nice. A wide view of a light-twinkled valley. Two walls lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Katie starts looking at book titles. No reason, except that’s what people like me and Katie do when we walk into a room with books. After a few seconds, she pulls up abruptly. Darts a sharp look at Bowen.
He says, apologetically, ‘I know. A crank and an obsessive.’
I take a look at the titles myself. It takes me longer to figure it out than Katie did, but realise that one whole wall of books is devoted to Dark Ages history and all things Arthurian. Serious books too. Scholarly. Facsimile manuscripts of Old Welsh, Old English and Latin sources.
I’m impressed. Like Katie, I want to know more.
Pointing at the two book-lined walls, Bowen says, ‘That wall’s reserved for Arthur. That one for God. I try to make sure that God gets more than half my attention, but there are times when Arthur wins.’
Katie says, ‘This is a serious collection. Have you published anything?’
Bowen nods. ‘A few pieces, yes.’ He names the scholarly journals where his work’s appeared. ‘Early Welsh legend, that’s my specialist area, but there’s history behind the legend – or so I think, anyway.’
Katie realises that, whatever her theoretical differences with Bowen, she hasn’t been arguing with an idiot.
She says as much, and we end up divulging everything. About the bit of stone cross which brought us up here. The theft from Bangor.
‘And I guess we were right about how that cross came to be in south Wales,’ Katie says. ‘Tydecho probably wasn’t originally from this area. It’s more likely that he came from further south. So if, say, Dinas Powys was Tydecho’s birthplace, the folks back home might well have wanted a cross to remember him by.’
Bowen nods. ‘That’s one theory,’ he says, in a voice which implies it’s a rubbish one.
‘What? So you’ve got anything better?’
Bowen says, ‘Well, let’s suppose a famous warrior died. The most famous warrior-general of his era or, come to think of it, any era whatsoever. No doubt he’d have memorial stones of his own. And personally, I’d say those things were more likely to travel cross-country than if they belonged to a somewhat obscure local saint.’
‘What, now you’re hypothesising that King Arthur happened to fall down dead in your backyard. That’s your theory?’
Bowen: ‘No, that’s not my theory. It’s in the history books. The Annales Cambriae, the Welsh Annals.’ And, quoting from memory, says, ‘In the year 537, the Annals tell us “Gueith camlann in qua Arthur et Medraut corruerunt.”’ For my benefit, not Katie’s, he translates. ‘That’s the Battle of Camlann in which Arthur and Medraut – or Mordred – perished.’
‘OK,’ says Katie. ‘OK. So let’s suppose that’s real history. Let’s just say that it is. No one knows where Camlann is supposed to be. There are people who claim it for the River Camel in the West Country. In the north of England, there was a Roman fort, Camboglanna, which—’
Bowen interrupts, swigging wine and enjoying himself. ‘Or maybe the Battle of Camlann happened in Camlann. I mean, that has to be quite a strong possibility, doesn’t it?’
Katie says, but uncertainly now, ‘There isn’t anywhere called Camlann.’
‘Well, it’s lost an N, that’s true. It’s just Camlan, with one N, these days, but you’ll find it about two miles down the road there,’ Bowen says, jerking a thumb through the kitchen wall. ‘You drove past it today.’
Katie, for once, is lost for words.
In the silence that follows, I creep out on a little bridge of conjecture.
‘OK, let’s just say that Arthur existed—’
Bowen – stirring – nips in to add, ‘As all the earliest histories agree he did—’
‘And let’s say he died here, or somewhere around here. That damn cross might well have been carved from local stone and transported to some other part of the country. Somewhere that had an association with the guy. Yes?’
Katie says grumpily, ‘Yes. I mean, if you believe any of that stuff, then yes, that’s a plausible theory.’
‘And Dinas Powys?’ I ask. ‘Is there any evidence that links Arthur to that hill fort? Or even just south Wales?’
Katie shakes her head.
Bowen does the same, but he adds, ‘Look, the very earliest reference to Arthur is in Welsh. Some of the earliest historical references link him to places in south Wales. I mean, those things fall short of proof, definitely, but if you were betting? You’d bet on him being Welsh. And yes, you’d probably guess he originated a good bit south of here.’
‘For example, Dinas Powys?’
‘No
reason why not.’
Katie, grimacing, says, ‘I hate to agree with you, but it would actually be quite a plausible site. You wouldn’t get to be a successful warlord unless you were born into the nobility in some way. And that Dinas Powys fort was wealthy, well-connected, well-fortified. If you grew up there, you’d have a strong family recollection of the good times under the Romans. So yes, it’s a plausible site.’
Katie and Bowen are thinking about Arthur, but my thoughts are all with Gaynor Charteris.
An archaeologist, brutally murdered.
Some stolen finds.
A burgled library.
Two men – armed men – breaking into a church.
This isn’t about whether or not Arthur existed. It’s about what those men want and why.
I say, ‘Katie, what did Gaynor think about all this? About Arthur—’
‘Oh, she loved all that. Loved it. That picture in her hallway?’
She starts describing it, but I remember it anyway. A pissed-off woman at a loom, a big circular window behind.
Katie says, ‘That’s the Lady of Shalott. Only that wasn’t a window she was looking at: it was a mirror reflecting the beautiful world of Arthur’s Camelot. I mean, that part is a myth, of course, but Gaynor loved all of it. The history. The myths. All of it.’
We talk a bit more, but it’s bedtime. Bowen takes us upstairs. Shows us a pretty bedroom, with a rose-sprigged double bed and the same roses on the curtains.
Bowen yanks some bedding out from under the bed. ‘One of you will have to sleep on the floor, I’m afraid, but you’ve got everything you need here.’
He shows us the bathroom. Leaves.
The room we’re in is built up into the roof and we can hear the drumming of rain on slate, just a foot or two above our heads.
Katie says, ‘I’m not sleeping on the floor.’
I don’t care. I really don’t. I’d already sort of assumed that, since Katie only came on this trip as a favour to me, I should be the one to take the floor.
But there’s something about her needless prickliness that makes me prickle back.
‘I’m not sleeping on the floor,’ I tell her.
She glares at me a second, then says, ‘So,’ as though we’ve just come to some sensible adult arrangement.
The Deepest Grave: Fiona Griffiths Crime Thriller Series Book 6 (Fiona Griffiths 6) Page 7
