Merrily Watkins 11 - The Secrets of Pain

by Phil Rickman

  In the straggling village of Peterchurch, she pulled into the parking area opposite the Norman church, called home to check the machine and found just the one message:

  ‘Merrily, this is Fiona Spicer. I think we have loose ends.’

  A voice still perfectly contained, wholly together. A widow of one day. Merrily sat staring across the parking area at a children’s playground which looked like a small power station. Lit a cigarette and called Fiona.

  Lol had been in Danny Thomas’s barn since eight. Danny was walking up and down in the straw, rehearsing a verse of ‘Trackway Man’, talking it into the mic.

  ‘“Among the hills where shepherds watch, we’ll march towards the skyline notch. From tump to twt we’ll mark the route…” What the hell’s a twt, Lol?’

  ‘I thought you were Welsh.’

  ‘I’m from Radnorshire, it en’t quite the same.’

  ‘I thought it was a Radnorshire word. I dunno, maybe a burial mound, a small tump. Rhymes with route, anyway, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘This don’t seem like your kind o’ song, somehow,’ Danny said. ‘Them Biblical quotes at the start. “Set me up waymarks, writes Jeremiah”?’

  Lol explained how Alfred Watkins had collected bits from the Bible which seemed to support the idea of ley lines. He was thinking it would be quite good to use them with a kind of monastic echo. Resonant.

  ‘Just trying to connect, Danny. You were born here, I’m just… don’t know.’

  Passing through?

  ‘Just ’cause you lives yere, it don’t necessarily mean you connects.’ Danny squatted down in the straw between a vintage Marshall amp and Jimi the sheepdog. ‘Did once, mind. Had what you might call a spiritual experience where I seen the poetic truth of ley lines. Looked at the veins in my wrist and seen the arteries of the countryside. Magic, that was.’

  ‘I thought it was acid.’

  ‘Well, aye, it was, but a vision’s a vision, ennit? Bloody hell, what a long time ago that was. I was only a kid. Thirteen, fourteen?’

  ‘You were dropping acid at thirteen?’

  ‘Very progressive area, Radnorshire, in the ole days, boy. ’Sides, nobody knowed, back then, what it could do to your brain.’

  ‘Radnorshire?’

  Danny grinned. Then, abruptly, his face was solemn.

  ‘Seen much of young Jane, past day or so?’

  ‘Uh… not really.’

  ‘That business in the Swan, where she poured that feller’s beer… Got a bit overshadowed, that did, when the word come in about Mansel Bull.’

  ‘An ill wind.’

  ‘Never seen her like that before. Serious. The changes round yere – gettin’ to her. Savitch.’

  ‘Getting to all of us, one way or another.’

  ‘Only, Gomer and me, we got a problem,’ Danny said.

  Fiona said, ‘No commiserations. Sympathy cards, I won’t even open. Don’t want to be treated like an invalid. When you’ve lived with a vicar, you know all the bereavement rituals. ’

  Merrily thought naked grief was easier to handle.

  ‘You’re not still on your own, are you?’

  ‘Emily’s on the way up to Hereford, with her boyfriend. And I have things to organize. Better than thinking. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk last night, and I’m grateful for what you did. And what you might have done if we… if we’d been in time. You will take the funeral?’

  ‘Well, if you… I don’t do quickies, Fiona.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t mean endless eulogies. But there are things I need to understand. Whatever he wouldn’t tell me, it’s not going to rebound on him now. Which… is one reason I’ve just been over to Allensmore. To talk to Byron Jones’s ex-wife.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘When you were talking about the books that Syd was reading, back in the Cathedral, I don’t recall you mentioned Byron Jones. So when I found that book, with the others…’

  ‘I was certainly surprised to see a copy of that book on the desk.’ A pause. ‘OK, the last time I saw one was when we were at Wychehill. A parcel arrived one day with a copy of Caradog inside. Newly published.’

  ‘This was when they were still friends?’

  ‘I thought they were. A short time afterwards, I opened the wood stove, because it seemed to be nearly out and… you know how you can tell something used to be a book, for just a second, before the ashes collapse?’

  ‘Syd burned the book? Without even reading it?’

  ‘He never explained. Though he now seems to have acquired another copy. They were good friends, once. Byron was a bit older than Sam. He came out of the army first, but they stayed in touch.’

  ‘Was Syd in Byron’s local-history group?’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Liz says Byron was in – or might even have set up – a society to study the history around Stirling Lines. Romano-British history. The inference being that this was where he got much of the background for his fiction.’

  ‘I know nothing about that. Though it’s hardly something you’d need to keep secret.’

  ‘Liz said Byron despised Christianity.’

  ‘Not sure if he despised it quite so much before Sam got into it. Sam was hyper at that time. His ground-to-air missile period.’

  Merrily shifted in her seat, looked over towards Peterchurch’s Norman church with its fibreglass steeple. It was called The St. Peter’s Centre now, and it had a café and a library. Was this what Uncle Ted had in mind for Ledwardine? Which reminded her there was a parish council meeting tonight to discuss it. Bugger.

  She said, ‘You do know about Syd going to visit Byron at Liz’s place?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Liz said two or three years after Byron left the Regiment. Possibly around the time Caradog was published. Would that have been after the burning of the book?’

  ‘I didn’t know that Sam had ever visited Byron,’ Fiona said. ‘Or imagined he’d want to. What did Liz say about it?’

  Merrily told her. Everything, including the shotgun, which provoked a short, sour laugh.

  ‘Perhaps he felt he needed it as protection. Turning the other cheek was the one Christian premise I always felt Sam could never quite swallow.’

  ‘You’ve met Liz?’

  ‘One or twice. At funerals. Walking – metaphorically – half a pace behind Byron. They’re often the ones who get hurt in the end. Wholesale philandering goes with the territory. Like Vikings.’

  ‘But not Sam.’

  ‘Sam was a misfit who didn’t know what he wanted or where he wanted to be. The army straightened him out for a while, religion messed him up again.’

  ‘Did he ever mention Brinsop?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s a hamlet near Credenhill. Where Byron lives. Where, according to Liz, he seems to think it’s very important for him to live. Syd ever mention it?’

  ‘No. And if you were thinking of going to visit him I’d urge you not to. Some of these guys, there’s another side to them which is great in warfare but, in ordinary life, relatively… antisocial.’

  ‘Fiona… do you have any idea what all this is about? You must’ve given me those books for a reason.’

  ‘Knee-jerk reaction. Probably a mistake. I don’t know anything about deliverance, and Wordsworth – no idea what that’s about either. Merrily, I have to go. Have people to see… solicitors… and whoever you see to register a death. I’m sorry.’

  ***

  Danny pulled down a squared bale of straw and sat on it.

  ‘Likely you don’t know much about cockfighting. Well, me neither. Us ole hippies, we never done that stuff. Foreign to our nature. But it went on.’

  ‘Round here?’

  ‘Part o’ country life. Country folks was cruel, too.’ Danny reached over and turned off the amp. ‘Gomer found a dead gamecock in the vicar’s shed. Turns out young Jane put it there. Told Gomer a feller dumped the s
ack in a bin on the square. Feller was this Cornel.’

  ‘Oh…’ Lol closed his eyes ‘…God.’

  ‘You en’t lookin’ as surprised as I figured you might be.’

  ‘No.’

  Lol pulled the Boswell across his knees and told Danny about what he and Merrily had watched in the Swan, the night before last.

  ‘Only we got the impression from Barry that it was a pheasant.’

  ‘He still stayin’ at the Swan, this Cornel?’

  ‘I think he just comes in for meals now. I don’t know where he’s staying. How did Jane know it was a fighting cock?’

  ‘Her didn’t. Gomer knowed straight off.’

  ‘Gomer’s on the case?’

  ‘En’t nothin’ Gomer wouldn’t do for Jane, is there? Jeez, why they gotter—’ Danny pulled off his baseball cap, sent it spinning to the straw. ‘Cockfights! They tells us we’re in recession, so we gotter degrade ourselves by stagin’ cockfights for the freakin’ tourists?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who d’you think?’

  ‘You really think Savitch would risk his reputation by supporting something illegal and… universally condemned?’

  ‘Gomer phoned around. Farmers, dealers. Drew a blank. Wherever it’s happenin’ it en’t at no farms round yere. Gotter be some bastard from Off. Now… where was the ole Ledwardine cockpit?’

  Lol shook his head.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Danny said. ‘Up by the top bridge, where the river come through in the floods? Used to be a pub there, knocked down seventy, eighty year ago. You can still see the outline, they reckons. Like a depression, middle of a copse, now. Cockpit was back o’ that pub.’

  ‘So that…’ Lol stroked a sinister E-minor on the Boswell ‘… would be on the ground…’

  ‘Bought up by The Court last summer – when wassname, Wickhams, sold up?’

  ‘You’re saying that whatever remains of the old Ledwardine cockpit is now owned by Ward Savitch.’

  Suddenly, Lol could see why this just might be Savitch. All for traditions. The first man to stage a cockfight in Ledwardine for a century or whatever. Even if he only did it once or twice, for selected guests.

  ‘Jane know about the cockpit?’

  ‘Not yet, boy. See the problem?’

  ‘Case closed, far as Jane’s concerned. And it looks very likely, doesn’t it? I mean, how else would Cornel’ve been to a cockfight?’

  ‘Exackly.’ Danny stood up, strapping on his Telecaster. ‘So what’s Gomer do now, boy? Do he tell her… or don’t he? Bein’ as how her’s likely to go off like a rocket.’

  ‘Even if Savitch wasn’t charged with anything,’ Lol said, thinking hard, ‘it would make him a figure of hate.’

  ‘Sure to.’

  ‘Would you be able to tell, if you saw the pit, whether it had been used recently?’

  ‘Gomer might. But… private land now. Big fences.’

  ‘Not this weekend. It’s open to the public on Easter Monday.’

  ‘Still be restricted access. Public won’t get near an active cockpit.’

  Lol said, ‘Tomorrow, however…’

  Laying down the Boswell in a manger full of last year’s straw, he told Danny about Savitch’s visit and the offer of a site for an open-air music event. Half afraid that Danny, whose musical aspirations had been frustrated for so long, would see it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stage some kind of Welsh Border Woodstock. Danny sniffed and smiled.

  ‘En’t life a bitch?’

  ‘So I’ve got these two tickets for the press launch and reception for invited guests. Be far more informal. Fewer stewards, not much security.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘If I gave the tickets to you and Gomer, would you be able to maybe find out one way or another?’

  A short, worried whine came out of Jimi the sheepdog as Danny stood up, gripped the Telecaster around the bottom of its neck, pulling it hard to his gut.

  ‘What time?’

  35

  Comper’s Bling

  AT ONE STAGE, the narrow lane to Brinsop pointed you directly at a wooded flank of Credenhill. You felt that if it didn’t veer off soon you’d vanish into a green mouth.

  The first time, Merrily missed the turning to the church, then spotted in the rear-view mirror what might be a bell tower. At approaching midday, a pale blue hole in the clouds was broadening into a small lagoon. She reversed into the next track, and the long hill fell away to the side. Nobody about. No other vehicles.

  No village. Plenty of fields, woodland, a few dwellings, and a church, on its own, set apart.

  Merrily’s stomach was hurting. Really needed something to eat. Maybe she should go home. Only twenty minutes away. Three warnings about Byron Jones – secretive, embittered, obsessive. She didn’t want to find him, not yet. Just to get a hint of what, in Brinsop, had caught his eye.

  The church was at the end of a private track with weeds growing up the middle. A sprinkling of homes, old and newish, barns and sheds, and then the Volvo was up against a fenced field of ewes and lambs. A dead end with the churchyard alongside, raised up. Jane maintained that an elevated churchyard always indicated a former pagan ritual site. But then, for Jane, signs of paganism were everywhere.

  OK. Merrily stayed in the car and leaned back, easing the pressure on her stomach. Do this properly. She pulled her bag onto her knees and consulted her contacts book.

  Dick Willis, priest in charge of the Credenhill cluster of churches. A cautious guy, not far off retirement. The signal here wasn’t good, but she got him.

  ‘Ah, Brinsop,’ he said. ‘The jewel in my crown.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never been before.’

  ‘Then I mustn’t spoil it for you, Merrily. Is there a problem there? I certainly haven’t heard of one, but when one hears, out of the blue, from your good self…’

  ‘Do you know a guy called Byron Jones? Colin Jones?’

  ‘Ah, now, that would be the man with the private army base?’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘I exaggerate. He calls it The Compound. Once a pig farm, a mile or so out of what used to be the village. The farm became derelict, the house was sold off and this chap bought the land. Lived there in a caravan, then suddenly built this rather lavish bungalow, as if he’d come into money.’

  ‘What did you mean by private army?’

  ‘Not an army, a base. He has a training area with an assault course and all that sort of thing. He run courses for military enthusiasts, and the place is done out like a real army base with high wire fencing and authentic warning signs. Part of the mystique, I suppose. Looks more secret and exciting than the actual SAS place down the road. Boys will always be boys, Merrily.’

  ‘He had planning permission for all this?’

  ‘Not always needed. And some of the objectors were appeased when, at his own expense, he planted extensive woodland to conceal the site. That was about a year ago.’

  ‘Mr Jones is ex-SAS, I believe.’

  ‘Well, yes, that always helps, doesn’t it? Especially in this area.’

  ‘Does he come to church?’

  ‘If he does, it’s not when there’s a service on,’ Dick Willis said.

  The sun was just visible through the cloud, like a pound coin in a handkerchief, as Merrily got out and locked the car. She shook herself, felt a little better.

  The site was fairly remote, but the churchyard was well looked after. Nothing overgrown here, and most of the uncrowded gravestones were upright. A huge sentinel evergreen stood beyond the wooden gate, looking taller than the church which sat behind it, under the hill. A compact greystone church with a conical bell-tower. More central Wales than Herefordshire, but comfortable in its lusher ground.

  And the site… Jane might well be interested. Different levels, perhaps a suggestion of earthworks and, across the lowest field beyond the church, a small, dark-green lake. Or a big reeded pond. Or, possibly, a moat, all wooded-in.

 
; A lovely spot, really. This was one of those churches that had had to be here, Jane would say. Had to be here. Sacred ground long before Christianity.

  Merrily walked past the church porch towards the water and was pulled up by a name on a gravestone, directly in front. Not ornate, but tall and prominently sited and making an instant connection with one of the paperbacks on Syd Spicer’s desk.

  SACRED

  TO THE MEMORY OF

  JANE WINDER

  WHO WAS BORN AT KESWICK, CUMBERLAND

  AND DIED AT BRINSOP COURT,

  IN THIS PARISH OCTOBER 16, 1843

  IN THE 43 YEAR OF HER AGE.

  This Stone is erected by WILLIAM

  and MARY WORDSWORTH, of Rydal Mount

  Westmoreland in affectionate and grateful

  remembrance of her faithful services continued

  through fifteen years.

  Good God. Merrily began to tingle. That sense of the preordained. A piece of an unknown jigsaw. The piece that slotted in to tell you there was a jigsaw.

  William and Mary. Rydal Mount. Westmoreland. The Wordsworths – the Wordsworths – were here?

  She walked back to the porch, went in. Always the same when you approached an unknown church, that frisson of mild apprehension, as you turned the ring handle. Some resistance, but the door wasn’t locked. It gave, and she went in, and whatever she was expecting – perhaps, given the location, something frugal, cold, drab, rudimentary – it wasn’t.

  No smell of stone or damp. She made out lurking colours, and not only in the windows. Much metallic glistening from the chancel.

  Merrily waited at the bottom of the nave. Waited for something to happen, something to move, shadows to part.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, to nobody she could see.

  This was all strongly medieval. Medieval like in the actual Middle Ages. A concave golden canopy was shining over the altar, like the reflector on a lamp. There were three gilded angels, wings aggressively spread, brandishing candles.