by Fay Sampson
“Let’s go.”
As the constable leapt into Lincoln’s car, the detective sergeant called back to Aidan, “I should stay where you are, sir. We’ll handle this. Hopefully, we’ll have your daughter back to you pronto.”
The car whirled away, back up the lane and on past the House of the Hare.
Aidan cast an anguished glance at the smoke-blackened church tower. First a murder at the House of the Hare, which had seemed such a place of welcome and refreshment. Then the fire at this much-loved pilgrimage church. What else? What new and terrible desecration might he find at the ancient stones of Capel-y-Cwm, which Caradoc Lewis had sold his museum to buy?
He wished he knew more of the rites of the goddess Lewis worshipped. Did he believe they sacrificed more than hares?
He did not remember getting back into his car. But he found he was already driving past the St Melangell Centre, with the weathervane of the hare on its slate-roofed garage.
The walls of the valley closed in around him. Dark conifer forests swept down on one side. The day was still overcast.
He had not told Jenny where he was going.
He came to the place where signs warned that the road ahead was private. The gate stood open. He drove through and saw farmhouses on either side of the river. Capel-y-Cwm lay beyond the left-hand one. The last house before the waterfall of Pistyll Blaen-y-cwm.
Beyond the farmhouse, the metalled drive ran out into a rutted track. Grass grew down the middle, between the tyre marks. The detectives’ car lurched ahead of Aidan’s. He had wondered if Lincoln would order him back, but the sergeant seemed to be ignoring him.
The neat fields gave way to rougher meadow. No sheep had grazed here. Tall stems of hedge parsley were spreading umbrellas of lacy white flowers. Thistles spiked through the long grass.
There was a belt of trees ahead he remembered. That was where a stone wall had barred their way, when he and Melangell were seeking an easy route back from the waterfall. Where they had heard Thaddaeus arguing with Caradoc. Capel-y-Cym lay on this side of the trees.
The car ahead stopped suddenly. Aidan was jolted into the present as his foot stamped on the brake. He had failed to notice a nearer stone wall crossing the track. This gate was closed.
The rangy Parkinson unfolded his limbs from the car and got out to open it. Lincoln drove through. Aidan followed.
Only now could he see the low grey house which Caradoc had reconstructed from scattered stones. Aidan was quickly out of the car.
Immediately he felt the silence. The floor of his stomach dropped as his instinct told him Melangell was not here.
All the same, the men moved towards the house.
“Some sort of church, is it?” Parkinson asked.
“He says it used to be. That nutter Lewis. Locals say it was a Methodist chapel. He swears it’s older. Did a lot of the restoration work himself, apparently. Dan Pritchard the builder says he was a pain to work with. He had some weird ideas.”
“There was something older here,” Aidan raised his voice behind the detectives. “Look at that tall stone in the door frame. That’s prehistoric. And the stone carving over it is at least medieval.”
The two men turned. Their faces registered no more than polite acknowledgment. They were not really interested in architectural history. He should be glad of that. None of this was important now.
All the same, he could not have spent so many years accompanying Jenny round ancient churches, standing stones, medieval castles, photographing the places she wanted to write about, to miss the signs here. He felt a flash of anger that Caradoc’s “reconstruction” could so cavalierly have mixed together features from different centuries. The nineteenth-century arched window of the Methodists, timbers that might have supported a Tudor farmstead, and that stone over the door with its interlace of Celtic knotwork, eroded enough to take them back before Norman times, at least. As old as St Melangell’s monastery? Older? And where had that standing stone by the door come from?
DS Lincoln was hammering on the stout oak door. Aidan had not expected an answer. His mind was running ahead to think where else Melangell and Lorna could be.
DC Parkinson placed an enormous foot against the lock and pushed. It did not give. He shoulder-charged the door, and withdrew rubbing the bruise.
“That’s not the sort of door you buy down the DIY store,” Lincoln told him. “And that lock’s solid iron.”
“Window, guv?” his constable asked.
“Try not to make more mess than you have to. I didn’t waste time on a warrant.”
The small-paned window was meant to look in period, but it was almost certainly modern. Parkinson carefully broke a pane of glass and reached inside for the catch. He thrust a long leg over the sill. Lincoln followed him.
Aidan hesitated. At first he had been sure that Melangell wasn’t here. But a chill thought crept up on him. What if he was wrong? What if he had failed to sense her living presence because only her body was here?
He had to overcome an enormous reluctance to climb over the windowsill into the small dark room on the other side.
The detectives had already moved on. He could hear one in the downstairs room beyond this. Another was going up the wooden stairs.
Aidan looked around at the signs of their swift search. A battered sofa, with a crimson loose cover, had been pulled out from the wall. The lid of an oak chest stood open. In other circumstances, Aidan would have thrilled to explore the stash of documents it held. Knowing Caradoc Lewis’s interests, there might be gems of historical importance. But he delved through them only far enough to satisfy himself there was nothing hidden underneath. A sideboard door hung ajar. There was nowhere else to hide the body of a seven-year-old girl.
By the time he reached the inner door, Lincoln had already finished examining the kitchen. He shook his head.
They could hear Parkinson overhead.
“Any joy?” the sergeant called.
“Nothing so far,” came the muffled reply.
Lincoln mounted the narrow stairs, Aidan behind him. There were two rooms upstairs. One was a rather Spartan bedroom. There were rag rugs on the bare floorboards. Parkinson had clearly examined the old-fashioned walnut wardrobe and the brass-framed bed.
They turned to the second room.
There was a jolt of surprise. It was unexpectedly modern. A large desk stood in front of the window, with its view of the mountains opposite. It was equipped with computer, monitor, printer. Aidan’s eye was briefly caught by an etching on the desktop. It seemed to show the waterfall, with a man in Victorian costume posed before an upright stone.
He turned to search for other clues. Metal-bracketed shelves on one side bore neatly labelled box files. On the other wall they supported row upon row of books. Aidan raked his eyes over the titles. Ranks of well-regarded authors on ancient and medieval history. Celtic myths and poetry, in the original and in translation. The lower shelves carried more esoteric material. The Goddess Way. A Magic Primer. Pentangles and Power.
His eye ranged further along the line. Darker covers. Darker material.
Black fear began to crawl along Aidan’s spine. He tried to tell himself that the presence of the books did not mean that Caradoc Lewis believed in them. Jenny’s own bookshelves contained a range of esoteric material.
But this was his daughter. It was impossible to remain coolly rational.
He pointed out the books to DS Lincoln. His constricted throat would hardly let him speak.
“You don’t think… You hear sometimes… I thought he was just an amateur archaeologist with a thing about Celtic religion. Most modern paganism is pretty harmless. But what if he…?”
Lincoln scanned the shelves. His face showed the same fearful understanding. “You’re thinking a Satanic cult?” Their eyes met.
“Do they do child sacrifice?” Parkinson’s voice blurted out what the other two dared not.
Chapter Thirty
“WE’RE RUNNING AHEAD of ourse
lves.” Lincoln made a visible effort to take charge of the situation again. “She’s not here. We don’t even know that she’s with him, let alone that he’s done her any harm.”
He had his mobile in his hand, toying with it regretfully. Aidan could see he was wanting to contact his chief inspector. It was not reassuring to Aidan that the detective sergeant was wondering what to do next.
“I’ve got my radio, guv,” Parkinson offered.
Lincoln snatched it from him and bounded downstairs. Aidan and Parkinson followed at a respectful distance. The sergeant was under a rowan tree, head bent in conversation with his senior officer.
“Sarge! Have a look at this.” Parkinson’s shout made both of them swing round. The detective constable was waving from the corner of the house. They ran to join him.
A crude car shelter had been made from wooden poles and a corrugated iron roof. A car was parked under it. A metallic red BMW. There was an expression of triumph on Parkinson’s freckled face.
“That’s it, isn’t it, Sarge? That’s Brown’s car.”
Lincoln ran his hand over it, as if to confirm the evidence of his eyes. “That’s Mr Brown’s, yes. We handed it back to Lorna Brown. Well done, boy.”
Aidan felt the rush of adrenalin that might be either joy or fear. That could only mean that Lorna was close. And if Lorna was here, then Melangell…
His stomach sickened as Lincoln raised the unlocked lid of the boot. He relaxed in relief as it showed the space to be empty, except for two pairs of walking boots, a groundsheet and a coil of rope.
Lincoln studied these. “At least we know what she didn’t think necessary,” he said, enigmatically. “That’s probably good news.” He turned to Aidan with a sudden intensity of expression. “Denbigh reminded me that you saw Lorna Brown around here shortly before the murder. Where, exactly?”
Images of that day leapt back into Aidan’s mind. Two figures glimpsed from high above, on the path along the stream to the foot of the waterfall. Then Lorna dashing past them. The torn white shirt, her tear-stained face. Later, coming upon Caradoc Lewis and Thaddaeus Brown in a shouting match.
“It was almost at the waterfall.” He nodded along the narrowing valley to where Pistyll Blaen-y-cwm came tumbling down the wall of rock that barred their view. “We’d seen two of them earlier, from much higher up. Lorna was one. I couldn’t say who the other was. Something had happened then. When she rushed past us she was in tears. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t stop. It was after that that Jenny… Jenny heard her come back. Thaddaeus must have already driven back to the house by then.”
“To be killed. So we don’t know what those two were doing there?”
“I’ve always assumed it had something to do with land. Who owned what, and what they could do with it. But the waterfall is public access land.”
A thought struck him. The memory of an etching laid out prominently on Caradoc Lewis’s desk. A standing stone, very like the one which now formed part of Lewis’s doorway. A figure standing beside it.
“That’s it! I don’t know what Caradoc Lewis is up to, but there was a picture of the foot of the waterfall on his desk. And his raid on the museum has to have something to do with it, too. That’s where they are. I’m sure of it!”
“Right. It may be a long shot, but that’s where we need to go. Let’s move it.”
For all his desperation to find his daughter, Aidan’s shorter legs found it hard to keep up with the two tall detectives.
They sped through the gate in the wall under the trees, where Aidan and Melangell had stumbled upon the men arguing. It was open moorland beyond. But a trodden path that seemed to be more than a sheep track converged on the crystal stream that was the young River Tanat.
Aidan’s eyes were racing ahead to the shadows under the horseshoe of hills that enclosed the foot of the falls. The ground was hillocky, with unexpected mounds and boulders. The river had split into a confusion of streams. He stumbled. He needed to watch where he was going.
Parkinson had taken the lead.
“They’re here!” He stopped dead on the path and held out a long arm to stop Lincoln and Aidan from going further. They rushed to join him.
The constable was standing on a raised bank some thirty metres from the base of the waterfall. Out of the corner of his eye, Aidan caught the flash of its triple streams glancing down the rocks. But all his attention was directed to the figures frozen at the foot of the tumbling water.
There were two of them. Lorna and Melangell.
A wave of indescribable gratitude surged over him. Melangell was still alive. Apparently unhurt.
He tore his gaze from her small pointed face under the mop of unruly curls, to the figure beside her.
He knew than why Parkinson had warned them to halt. Lorna Brown had, after all, taken something from the boot of her car. In her hands she gripped a spade. Even as she turned her startled gaze on them, she raised the blade.
The images were framed in Aidan’s mind. The silvery steel of the lifted blade. The darker green of the handle. Lorna’s black hair falling around her heart-shaped face. The eager surprise of Melangell’s expression. Even the golden stars of gorse behind them. All frozen in a moment of shock. Digitally recorded on his memory.
DS Lincoln raised his voice. “Put the spade down, Miss Brown. Now!”
Lorna stared at him, unmoving. Every nerve in Aidan’s body was urging him to dash forward and wrench it from her hands. But the gap was too wide, Melangell too close to her.
Then Melangell’s high voice called across the distance. “I want to see the hare.”
Lincoln turned to Aidan, his face puzzled. Aidan’s own mind was blank. He gazed back at his daughter.
“Daddy! She’s going to show me. She promised.”
Sergeant Lincoln shrugged slightly in incomprehension and nodded to Aidan. The detective stood back from the path to let him past.
Aidan walked slowly towards the two girls. Lorna said nothing, but she lowered the spade. The blade rested on the peaty earth.
Melangell was bouncing with excitement now. As soon as Aidan got near she shouted, “Lorna knows it’s here. Mr Caradoc told her where to look. She said if I came with her, we could find it together.”
Aidan tore his eyes away from the eager face with its dusting of freckles. He turned to look at Lorna. His hostile stare interrogated her.
“You promised to show Melangell how to shoot a bow. We left her with you in the garden. How dare you take her away without telling us?”
“We’ve got half the police force in Wales out looking for her,” put in DS Lincoln.
Lorna’s usually pale face flushed. “You were all busy looking for Uncle Thad’s killer. There’s not one of you understands what this is all about.” She looked almost as small and defiant as Melangell.
“Perhaps you’d tell us just what it is about,” Lincoln answered, coming closer.
“This.” Lorna’s spade jabbed the ground at her feet. “At least… I think it’s here… Yes! I know it is. Caradoc explained to me. He had a picture. I’ll show you!”
She began to dig, swiftly, convulsively. The men watched her. Melangell’s head was bent over, so close that Aidan was afraid she was in danger from the jabbing, lifting blade.
He went and put an arm around Melangell and drew her gently back. She twisted her head to look up at him. Her light grey-blue eyes were shining under pale gold lashes.
Small clods of black earth were flying through the air. Lorna did not dig the spade far. She was deepening her hole inch by inch. Sometimes the steel struck sparks from a stone.
“Do you need any help, love?” Parkinson offered.
She glanced around her, past the watching men, and then down at the rectangle of soil she had cleared of turf. She might, Aidan thought, be checking for landmarks, to judge whether she was digging in the right place.
She smiled, a little secretive smile.
The spade struck something. It was not the scree
ch of steel on stone, but a more hollow sound. At once, Lorna dropped her tool. She was down on her knees, hands scrabbling away at the dark soil.
Melangell darted forward to kneel opposite her.
Between their two heads, one black, one mousey brown, Aidan saw a glimpse of reddish pottery.
From the pocket of her anorak, Lorna drew a small trowel and a brush. She was carefully uncovering more of her find.
“Is this it?” Melangell cried. “Is this what we’re looking for?”
Still Lorna said nothing. Her breathing had quickened.
Aidan was beginning to know what he was seeing. The rough earthenware, red streaked with black. The band of chevrons incised around the shoulder. There had been urns like that in the Lewis Collection in Llanfyllin. He was already starting to suspect what they would find inside.
Lorna sat back on her heels. She looked up defiantly at Aidan and the policemen. “I told you. I knew it was here. Uncle Thaddaeus thought I was talking nonsense.”
“Is that what you were arguing about on Tuesday?” Aidan asked. “When you were here?”
She stared back at him, her vivid blue eyes unreadable. “That, and other things.”
“Come on, now,” Lincoln said reasonably. “How could you know it was exactly here? And what is it, anyway?”
“Caradoc knew. There used to be a stone to mark the spot. You wouldn’t understand. And it’s a burial urn. Of course.” There was an edge of hostility in her voice.
Aidan waited. He knew there was more to come.
Lorna bent and scraped away the deeper soil that still held the urn trapped. The full curve was starting to emerge. At last it lay below them in full view, free of its hiding place.
Lorna put down the trowel and brush. She reached down her pale, peat-smeared hands, and cupped them to lift her find. Her eyes darted across at Melangell.
“Help me.”
Almost too excited to breathe, Melangell leaned over, so that their hair brushed and mingled. Two small hands, and two even smaller, lifted the urn out of the hole and set it reverently on the turf.
