by Charles Todd
Just where had Susan Milford gone from here?
There’s the river here, but it’s not deep enough. I’ll have to find another way.
Wales wasn’t large, but there were tiny villages everywhere, any one of them a potential hiding place.
“No’ too small,” Hamish suggested. “Too small, and they ask too many questions.”
“Take away half of them, and it’s still a mare’s nest.”
He turned back to the room, went to his valise, and took out the slim book on legends and myths.
It was a Victorian collection of Welsh stories, very likely inspired by Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Rutledge tried to recall when they came out. His father had possessed a lovely leather volume with the twelve poems relating the story of King Arthur, his rise and his fall. He had read to his son and daughter from it, his voice alive with the feel of the story and the glory of the words, and they had loved listening to him.
And the Idylls had revived interest in the old stories and legends of Wales.
Rutledge went back to the title page. The little volume was printed in 1875. That was about right, he thought.
Leafing through the pages, he found a series of tales, all of them heroic in nature as men fought the dark forces arrayed against them. Kings helping kings, faithful retainers saving the day, servants acting for beleaguered masters.
One of the dark forces was a scream.
Intrigued, he kept skimming through the tales. And he found one that was marked with a blot of ink. The same thick black ink that Susan Milford favored for her correspondence.
It was another story of courage and service and battles with evil. There was a note from the editors at the bottom of the first page, informing the reader that this story was not as old as some of the other legends and myths, but was included for completeness.
And it was about a woman who took her cowardly brother’s place in a bloody battle, drugging him so that he would sleep through it, then stealing away with his armor and his horse. She destroyed the enemy but was killed in the battle, and everyone believed that it was the brother who had died. The army’s grief was overwhelming, the victory tarnished by the death of such a great warrior. The brother, coming on the scene as the army wept for him, realized what his sister had done. Ashamed, he slipped away and let the army bury her in his place, a monument she deserved and he didn’t.
Rutledge, finishing the convoluted tale, closed the book.
Helpful in understanding Susan, perhaps, but not much use in finding her . . .
Hamish said, “The lass was buried. There would be a tomb.”
Wales was full of mystical places. There was even a tomb somewhere to a gallant dog.
He found a bookshop on the main street, a tiny place owned by a man who might have been a troglodyte in his dark cubby beneath the stairs. But he knew his books, and he found what Rutledge was after. A 1901 guidebook of Great Britain, designed in the style of the far better-known work of Karl Baedeker. It was not in the best condition, clearly well used, but it was intact.
He went back to his hotel, stopping only for sandwiches and a refill of tea for his Thermos.
And he scoured the fine print on the thin pages for what he wanted. The grave of Gwian the Brave.
It was nearly seven thirty in the evening before he found it.
A village in the mountains where three rivers came together. There was a cairn in a field just beyond, in the shadow of a ridge.
He stared at the name—then went back to the guidebook. He recalled seeing a glossary in the back, explaining the meaning of some Welsh terms.
Bedd, he discovered, meant “grave of.” Then Beddgwian must mean the grave of Gwian.
Rubbing his tired eyes, he sat there for several minutes, then rose and closed the curtains at the windows.
What was the connection between this place and Susan Milford?
Had she read the story of Gwian, and felt an attraction to the heroine? Or something else, a friend, a sanctuary, the distance from Betws y Coed, or even mere curiosity about the legend? The only way to find out was to go there. And hope for another clue, even if she had moved on. His inclination was to go down to his motorcar and set out straightaway. His good sense warned him that it was far too late to drive those twisting mountain roads tonight.
He’d made the right decision.
There were places where the road was nothing more than a track that nearly lost itself several times. He was heading in the direction of Mount Snowdon, the high peak in northern Wales that was famous for its cog railway to the summit. But here he was in forest, steep drops on first this side and then that, while rivers far below were in spate with the winter runoff. A time or two, he wasn’t certain there was room for the motorcar to pass through, and then the road would open out just enough to make the next turning. Once he stopped to check the map, taking out his military compass to be sure he hadn’t missed his way somewhere.
Looking down as he folded his map, he noticed the carpet of bluebells just beyond his tires, already up and waiting for warmer weather to bloom.
By fits and starts he finally made his way to Beddgwian.
It was hardly a village, he thought, so much as a place where the road, rushing down the hill to cross the river over a pretty little stone bridge, suddenly realized that it had come up against the steep face of a cliff. And with no other choice to make, it split, one turning to the left, one to the right.
Houses straggled down the hill on the left, and then the right, but most of them clustered around the bridge and beneath the shelter of the cliff face. People passing by stared at the big dark red motorcar, then at him, as if he’d suddenly fallen from the sky into their small world.
The stares, he noticed, were reserved, but not unfriendly.
Finding a place to reverse, he went back up to the hotel perched on a plot of land overlooking a wooded hillside that fell away sharply to the river below.
He’d been surprised to see it there, but it was a welcome sight too.
Pulling into the bare patch of ground across the road from the steps, he got out and went in.
The hotel was older than it appeared on the outside. He stepped into a narrow hall that widened into Reception, but there was no one at the desk. Noticing the bell, he rang it, and after a moment someone came out from the kitchen, a young woman wiping her hands on her apron.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked in the rhythmic speech of the Welsh. Then she added apologetically, “I’m afraid we’re closed. It’s off-season.”
“Is it, indeed?” he said pleasantly, smiling for her. “I was hoping for a room, if that’s possible?”
“I dunno, sir. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Thomas.” With a bob that might have been a hint of a curtsy, she disappeared through a door to one side of the desk.
Five minutes later she was back. “Mrs. Thomas says, one room won’t make that much work. Number seven, second floor. Unless you’d prefer a room in the back, sir? The road can be noisy.”
He hadn’t passed another vehicle since two o’clock in the afternoon. “I’ll take my chances with the traffic.”
She smiled. “If you’ll sign the register, please, sir?”
He did, putting down Rutledge. London.
She had watched him write, and as London flowed from his pen, she said, “That’s ever so far. How did you find us?”
“Luck, I think.” He gestured around him. “I hadn’t expected to find such a place as this in such a small village.”
“Oh, we aren’t the only hotel, sir. There’s one across the bridge and to your right.”
“Who generally stays here?”
“Walkers, sir. There’s fishing as well. Trout and salmon. And people stop here on their way to Mount Snowdon. There’s a copper mine not far away. The directors sometimes choose the hotel for meetings.”
He thanked her and went up to his room, looking down at the road and his motorcar across the way. Just then there was a roaring noise and someone came dow
n the hill at great speed on a motorcycle, quickly disappearing from view as it rounded the slight curve before the road went straight to the bridge.
So much for traffic keeping him awake.
He walked down to the village proper, where the road divided. Houses, shops, a small general store on this side of the little bridge, and a shop that sold souvenirs just across the road. To his surprise, it was open.
He went over there, and found that it specialized in paintings of the area—mostly mountain, woodland, and river views—and in woolen goods, which the owner, a young woman, claimed were entirely handmade. Looking at them, he thought she might be right. Concentrating on the paintings hanging on the wall of the smaller back room, he said casually, “These are quite good.”
The young woman flushed pink at the praise. “They sell rather well,” she replied, but he thought she was the artist.
He said, “I don’t see any views of the famous grave.”
She looked at him as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, then smothered a laugh. “It’s a fiction, sir. I’ve lived here all my life and never seen the grave. My father told me once that he’d come across a cairn in a field. But he wasn’t all that certain it was a grave.”
If the story was old, twelfth century or earlier, there might not be a grave as such, he reminded himself. Cairns, or piles of heavy stone, were often erected over the bodies of warriors, and those who came to pay tribute would add a stone to the pile, increasing its size and thus its importance.
“That’s too bad. I’d come to see if it was true, that Gwian was buried here.”
She looked at him, a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t think I ever met anyone who actually came to see the grave.”
Rutledge laughed. “Is there a Constable in the village?” he asked then.
She was still amused. “Ah, and what would you do with a policeman, arrest whoever made up that legend?”
“It’s the name of the village,” he pointed out.
“And so it is.”
Someone came through the outer door, setting a little bell jingling, and with a nod, she went to see who it was.
Rutledge looked at the paintings again. The cliff face in sunlight, leaves floating in a pool where the river deepened, several views of the little stone bridge and the hotel. But no cairn.
He’d hoped not to have to reveal he was Scotland Yard, but speaking to the Constable now seemed unavoidable if he was to ask questions about Susan Milford.
Moving into the main room, he caught the young woman and the man who had just come in standing with their heads together, laughing. He thought she had told the man about the strange Englishman hunting for the Gwian cairn.
They turned guiltily, looking at him.
The fair-haired man was not much older than Rutledge, a bad scar across his nose and one cheek. It looked like a shrapnel wound, and when the man moved away from the young woman, it was awkwardly done, as if one leg troubled him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, the color rising in her face again. “Is there anything else I could help you with, sir?”
“Thank you, no,” he said and, with a nod, went past them to the door.
He stood in the tiny scrap of yard at the edge of the road, and looked toward the bridge, hoping to pick out just where the police station might be.
The door opened and closed behind him, and the man said, “Sorry. We aren’t usually that rude toward visitors. But locally that legend is not given much credence.”
Rutledge turned. “I happened across a book of myths and legends while I was at Betws y Coed.”
The man said, “Betws? I grew up there. Shepherd’s the name. Geoff Shepherd.”
“Ian Rutledge.”
Shepherd gestured across the bridge. “The pub is just over there. Opening time, I think. Join me for a drink?”
Rutledge nodded and the two men walked on toward the bridge, then crossed the road where it widened a little to form the junction. High above their heads, the rounded dome of the cliff top caught the last rays of the sun.
He’d been right about the wound, he thought, as Shepherd limped heavily beside him.
“What brings you here, besides literary curiosity?”
Rutledge laughed. “I’m on my way to Snowdon,” he said. “This was just a diversion.”
“Good food at the hotel,” Shepherd said. “Be sure to dine there tonight.”
They found a table in a corner of the pub, and Rutledge bought the first half. Bringing their glasses over, he sat down and said, “Tell me about the village.”
“Nothing to tell, really. Oh—yes—there’s a true story you might enjoy. One of Victoria’s sons came to visit Beddgwian. It was an unexpected honor, but the village was up to it. They did what they could, bringing out flags and bunting, someone even found an ornate arch and a length of carpet to welcome him into the hotel. There was a lot of jostling as everyone tried to see the prince arrive. I don’t know precisely what they were expecting, but they missed him entirely. He was only a boy, and just walked quietly past everyone and into the hotel without any pomp or circumstance while they were watching for a great personage.”
Rutledge smiled. “Disappointment indeed. What brought you from Betws?”
Shepherd said, “I’m what passes as the local doctor. They had a need.”
“Are you, indeed?”
“It’s a remarkably healthy village. An occasional farm accident. Not much call for my services. That suits me.”
Rutledge could hear the undertones in his voice. “In the war, were you?”
“Surgeon. I’d be happy if I never saw another scalpel.”
He understood. The doctors at the Front had worked on torn bodies until they were ready to drop from exhaustion, then worked around the clock again, one man after another laid on their tables and no respite from the broken bodies and blood and hopelessness.
“You?”
Rutledge nodded, and gave his regiment.
“God. The Somme. I was there.” A shadow passed across his face.
They drank in silence.
Then Shepherd said, “Why are you really here?”
11
Rutledge let the words hang in the air between them. Then he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You came from Betws y Coed. Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.”
“That silly business about the grave. You could have thought of a better excuse. Or just come and knocked at my door. We’re civilized here. We don’t bite.”
“Sorry. You’ve got it wrong.”
“Have I? I’m not a fool. I’ve only to look at you to know you come from London. Who sent you? Lambert or Cunningham?”
“Gibson,” Rutledge replied after a moment.
“I don’t know him. Is he a partner?”
“He’s a policeman.”
Shepherd’s blue eyes widened. “For God’s sake, what are they going to do? Arrest me?”
“Depends on what they think you’ve done.”
“I didn’t know that disappointing one’s father was a crime.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Shepherd swore under his breath, long and with feeling. “You can turn around and drive back to London, and tell them to go to hell.”
Rutledge reached into his pocket, took out his identification, and placed it on the table between them.
The other man stared at it.
“I’m here for reasons of my own,” Rutledge said quietly. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
Shepherd gave a bark of a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Damn it, are you telling me the truth?”
“Unless you’ve murdered three people in the past fortnight or so, I’ve got no more interest in you than I do in that cairn.” He kept his tone light.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He drank his ale, and then shook his head. “My turn to say I’m sorry. My father has never given up on the notion that what I want to do with my life is wor
k in London hospitals side by side with him. Lambert and Cunningham are his solicitors. They are indefatigable in their efforts to find me, wherever I go. As if I can be worn down by their pleas and their promises and their persistence.”
“Oddly enough, my father was a solicitor. He wanted me to join the firm as well.”
“But you escaped.”
“I think in the end, he was pleased for me.” He didn’t add that his father had died soon after he’d made his choice of career, and he had never known what he’d really felt about it.
Shepherd lifted his glass in a mock toast. Then setting it down again, he said, “You can’t seriously believe there’s a murderer hiding out in Beddgwian.”
“Given the difficulty in getting in and out of here, I’m beginning to have my doubts.” He changed tactics. “I’m also searching for a missing child.”
The man across from him went still. “What do you mean, a missing child?”
“Just that. A child who was taken from her family a year ago.”
Shepherd drained his glass. “This isn’t the place to talk after all. You’d better come with me. I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Again they walked in silence, taking the right fork of the road to a cottage that was just out of sight of the stone bridge.
“My surgery,” Shepherd said wryly, leading the way up the short path to the door. Inside he took Rutledge into the little back room that he used to confer with patients. It was cold, no fire lit against the still-early spring chill in the air at these heights. But one was laid on the hearth, and Shepherd busied himself lighting it.
When it was burning to his satisfaction, he sat down not at his desk but in the chair across from Rutledge.
“There’s a woman here in town—well, was, actually. I haven’t seen her in some time. She lives in that small house that sits back in the trees just beyond the hotel. You probably haven’t noticed it. The house was to let, and she took it about three years ago. Arrived almost in the dark of night, you might say. One day the house was empty, the next it was occupied. She kept to herself. I wasn’t here then, still in France. Then one day the house was closed again, and she was gone. One of the local women thought she might have been recovering from an illness. She ordered from the shops, had it delivered, but she was sometimes seen walking in the early morning or late in the evening.”
