Swift used his sleeve to wipe drips from his forehead and neck. A long, deep shelf ran the length of the veranda. The woodcarvings displayed there were unskilled and some of them were downright clumsy. They were mainly of birds, shaped from oak and aspen: owls on branches, hummingbirds, eagles, gannets, puffins and cormorants. There was also a scowling Green Man with a long beard, and an elephant carved from driftwood. At the far end of the shelf was a collection of attractive baskets, planters, bird feeders and trays made of willow.
Through the inner door, Swift saw a large, square room with an open-plan kitchen and a huge oblong dining table constructed from railway sleepers, with driftwood benches. A burly man with his back turned was working at the massive black Aga cooker, and there was a pungent aroma of garlic. Perhaps the smallholders ate communally, which would explain the lack of a proper kitchen in Afan’s cottage.
Swift realised that the harp had stopped. The man who had found him appeared through a door at the far end of the kitchen, followed by a woman. She wore Birkenstocks that clicked on the floor, and an orange felt hat. Her hand rested on the man’s shoulder. She had a long face, high forehead and hazel eyes with dark brown rings around the pupils.
‘I’m Jasmine Merchant, and this is Bruno Andersen,’ she said to Swift. ‘Bruno tells me you’re Afan’s friend.’ She gave him a languid handshake.
‘That’s right. I’m Tyrone Swift. Afan was expecting me this afternoon.’
‘Yes, he did mention that you’d be visiting. He booked you a guest room. Let’s discuss.’
She made a sweeping gesture with her hand that put Swift in mind of royalty. She led the way back through the kitchen, along a corridor and into a room that had a sign over the door saying ‘The Parley’. It had huge windows patterned with fat raindrops and a floor made of blocks of granite. A tall, elegant beechwood harp stood in the far corner, with a curved, cushioned seat beside it. The dozen or so low stools dotted around were fashioned from sections of tree trunk. Swift felt slightly ridiculous, perched on his stumpy seat, but Jasmine and Bruno were at ease.
‘Now, let’s see what we have here,’ Jasmine said. She was in her early fifties, had a plummy, authoritative voice and was dressed in animal-print yoga wear — high-waisted, grey leggings and a long, shapeless grey sweatshirt with a lime green vest beneath. ‘Bruno, what time were you expecting Afan to join you?’
He spoke impatiently, as if she and Swift should already know. ‘Around half two. We’d planned to reinforce the hives and inspect for disease. When he didn’t turn up, I waited for a while, and then I went to his place, but he wasn’t in. So I searched all over, but no one had seen him.’ He glared at Swift as if he’d caught him up to no good. ‘Then I spotted this guy in Afan’s garden, so I went back to see what was going on.’
Jasmine fiddled with the toggle on her sweatshirt. ‘Well . . . It seems a bit odd, but maybe Afan decided there was something he needed to do in Holybridge.’
Bruno shook his head. ‘The Land Rover’s here and his bike’s at the side of his shed. He can’t have gone anywhere.’
Jasmine’s expression was kindly but supercilious. ‘He could have gone for a walk?’
Bruno had a broad forehead, a bushy beard and straight black hair that fell in untidy strands. He bit at the side of his thumb. ‘Why would Afan have done that? We were working this afternoon, there was a lot to do. He’s always reliable.’
‘And he was expecting me,’ Swift added.
‘Yes . . . of course . . . Had you told him you’d be here this afternoon?’
‘I emailed him and he replied. He said he’d probably be out working but he’d be back about six.’
Jasmine said, ‘Well, there we are. Let’s wait and see. It’s getting on for five now, so he’ll probably turn up by six. I’m sure there’s a very simple explanation. I expect something cropped up for him. Or . . . Afan does go off-piste sometimes, we all understand that.’
‘Meaning?’ Swift asked.
‘Oh, he likes to take himself off, have a bit of solitary time. He tramps the countryside and the coast paths for miles, makes the rest of us seem idle by comparison. We don’t live in each other’s pockets here, but it is hard not to bump into people.’
Swift saw that Bruno was unconvinced. He asked him, ‘Have you been all over the site?’
‘Everywhere. No one’s seen him since mid-morning.’
Jasmine stood in a fluid movement. ‘I’m sure Afan will appear soon. Bruno, can you show Mr Smith to his room? He’s in Willow.’ It sounded like an order rather than a request.
‘It’s Swift, not Smith,’ Swift said. He had to place his hands on the floor to lever himself up.
‘Swift, yes. Actually, we use first names here. May I call you Tyrone?’
‘Ty is fine.’
‘Lovely. Well, Ty, perhaps you can wait at Croeso Adref once you’ve seen where you’re sleeping, and then with Afan, join us for supper in the refec. We eat at seven thirty. I must get back to my harp practice, I’ve a concert coming up and I’m doing two new pieces.’
Bruno left the room without a backward glance. Swift followed him along a corridor and up a wide wooden staircase. The first-floor walls were painted a pale tangerine and all the rooms had plant names: Sage, Thyme, Magnolia, Bay and at the end, Willow. Bruno threw open the pine door to a small box of a room, just big enough for bunk beds, a built-in wardrobe and adjacent shower and toilet. The light and warmth compensated for its proportions, although Swift didn’t care much for the egg-yolk-yellow walls and he was dubious about fitting his six-foot-three frame on one of the beds.
‘Not much to see,’ Bruno said.
‘Why is this building called the Bivium?’
‘Jasmine named it. She did all the naming. It’s Latin for an intersection. It’s where our lives join and cross.’
‘Is there anyone else staying here?’
‘Nope. The five rooms are for guests or volunteers who want to stay over, but we don’t get that many of either. The accommodation isn’t the source of income it was intended to attract.’
Swift was surprised. ‘Why is that? It’s an interesting place in terms of conservation and community projects.’
‘Sure, but maybe the far west of rainy Wales isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time. A lot of young people head off to more exotic, sunny countries to practise being green. Although, I guess that with the right kind of energy, a lot more could be done here. There have been various ideas and plans but they haven’t come to anything.’ He fingered his beard. ‘Best if you head back to Afan’s now.’
‘I get the impression you’re worried about him.’
Bruno hooked his thumbs through his dungaree straps and mulled that over. ‘I could set my watch by Afan. He doesn’t disappear when work’s scheduled without saying anything.’ He turned on his heel and made off.
Swift stood for a moment at the window. He could hear the harp again, a light, rippling tune. Now and again Jasmine stopped and replayed a phrase. In the distance were the blueish hills of north Pembrokeshire. He could just see Afan’s cottage and Bruno on the path beside it with his pigeon-toed walk, head down against the rain. Beyond Bruno’s huddled figure, Swift could make out an apiary with clusters of beehives. The sky was steel-grey now, the rain thinner but drifting and persistent. Swift guessed that it had set in for the night. He gazed at drenched rows of late raspberries and a rowan sapling sagging in the blustery breeze. A small figure in a hooded raincoat splashed through puddles and pushed a wheelbarrow along the path. Hot, arid London seemed a continent away.
It wasn’t going to be a night to be out and about.
Chapter 3
When they were all seated at the dining table, Jasmine Merchant made introductions, gesturing with her imperious hand movements.
‘This is Peter, my husband, Kat Glover, Suki Mehta and Bryn Price. You’ve met Bruno. Guy and Elinor Brinkworth also live here but they often eat at home. Now, everyone, Ty has come to visit Afan, who is unaccountably
not to be found at present. I have explained to Ty that Afan does head off to seek solitude at times and of course, we respect that. Respect is our watchword at Tir Melys. However, Afan was expecting his guest this afternoon, and he’s always unfailingly polite and hospitable. I expect he’ll rush through the door any minute, full of apologies. We’ll have our main course and then if he hasn’t turned up, we’ll discuss.’ She held her hands together in a Namaste greeting and closed her eyes as she intoned, ‘We gently caress you, the earth, our planet and home. May harmony and peace bless our land.’
Swift saw that the others listened to Jasmine in the same pose. Except for Bruno, sitting opposite him, who held his hands joined, but glanced at him and rolled his eyes. Swift was surprised. He hadn’t noted that Bruno had a sense of humour. Jasmine sat at the head of the table, in a larger chair with a curved back and arms. She might as well wear a badge saying Head Girl. She still had her hat on, and Swift wondered if it was an affectation, or if she suffered from a scalp condition. Peter Merchant sat at Jasmine’s right, opening and refolding his paper napkin. He was bony faced, with thinning greyish hair and a faded complexion. Bryn, tonight’s cook, sat at Swift’s left and Kat and Suki sat either side of Bruno.
The evening was gloomy and tall white pillar candles in ornate pewter holders, four of which were spaced along the table, provided the only light. They gave the meal a vaguely ecclesiastical ambience and Swift found this irritating. It was another affectation, with Jasmine playing the role of high priestess.
Bryn wore a long blue-and-white-striped butcher’s apron, splashed with food smears and tied below his impressive beer gut. He brought the meal to the table with a great deal of fuss and noise, pretending to play a trumpet fanfare. ‘I present my heavenly slow-cooked lamb with herbs. Sweet and tender, like me! I want to see clean plates or there’ll be questions! Oh — and a nut cutlet for our plant muncher, Suki. You’ve no idea what you’re missing.’
Suki sighed. ‘You say the same thing to me every time, Bryn, but I suppose it amuses you, so I indulge you.’
He laughed and set a huge orange casserole down with a thump, so that the table vibrated.
‘We don’t need quite so much theatre,’ Bruno said.
‘Food should be theatre, man! Tuck in, everyone.’
The lamb casserole was served with roast vegetables and home-baked bread. They ate from shallow turquoise earthenware bowls. Suki, a tiny woman with short black hair, had informed Swift that she made them in her pottery. The food was tasty, but Swift was anxious about Afan and had little appetite. There was no sign of him, and Swift couldn’t understand his absence. Bruno had returned to his cottage to find Swift and had confirmed that Afan’s phone wasn’t by the bread bin, where it usually sat. The black cagoule he habitually wore was missing from its peg by the door.
Swift ate silently, listening to the scrape of cutlery. This was an odd, uncomfortable situation, to be a guest where he knew nobody and had no points of reference. He couldn’t relax. There were two carafes of elderberry wine, dry and slightly sharp, on the table. Bryn Price helped himself regularly to the one nearest him.
He asked in a forceful voice, ‘How d’you know Afan, Ty?’
‘We worked together a while back in Lyon, at Interpol.’
Price’s eyebrows went up. ‘Gosh! Hey, Jasmine, Afan worked for Interpol!’
She paused as she mopped her bowl with bread. ‘Indeed. Is that where you work, Ty?’
‘I used to.’
‘What do you do now?’
His instinct was to keep that quiet. ‘I’m self-employed.’
‘Well, I hope it’s not too quiet here for you after your European connections. No international intrigues at Tir Melys.’
‘We had some sheep rustling the year before last,’ her husband said with a little smirk. He spoke lightly, with a Home Counties drawl. ‘This is great lamb, Bryn. Tasty.’
Bryn grinned and tilted his head towards Suki. ‘I could probably name the lamb it came from, but that might upset some people, and I don’t want to be accused of insensitivity. The recipe’s from my great-nan, with my own little additions.’
Jasmine swept a hand in Swift’s direction. ‘We aim to be as self-sufficient as possible here, Ty. All our own vegetables and fruit, chicken, eggs and lamb. Wine, too. We take turns cooking and we make all our own bread. We respect the land that nurtures us. We live by Thoreau’s philosophy: “Live in each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” It’s a simple life and a good one.’ She had a didactic manner and when she made a pronouncement, she gave a private smile.
Her husband murmured in agreement and Kat Glover patted the table in approval. It was a reasonable and benign philosophy, although self-evident — it would be difficult not to breathe the air. Listening to Jasmine, Swift placed a bet with himself that she’d written the self-satisfied description on the Tir Melys website.
He asked, ‘Have you all been here a long time?’
‘It feels like only yesterday, but we moved here from London sixteen years ago, and people gradually joined us,’ Jasmine said. ‘We all grow fruit and veg and then of course, we have our own specialties. Bryn has chickens and sheep, Bruno and Afan keep bees — Afan also makes mead with the honey, Suki’s a potter, Kat specialises in woodcraft and is an expert forager. Guy and Elinor are jewellers, Peter makes willow furniture and wine, and I generally manage the site, run healing and therapy workshops and of course, I play the harp.’
Bryn belched and grinned. ‘An alternative script that Jasmine could give you is that she and Peter are Mam and Dad, I’m the naughty one, Suki’s the normal, balanced one, Bruno’s the troubled one, Kat’s the problematic one, Elinor’s the damaged one, Guy’s the scathing one and Afan’s the high-minded one.’
‘Three cheers for the cod psychology, you should take it up as a career,’ Kat told him, sounding annoyed.
Peter Merchant cleared the plates while Bryn brought a huge oval platter heaped with fruit salad and pitchers of cream to the table. He set the platter and a ladle in front of Jasmine with a stack of bowls.
‘The Queen was in her counting house, counting out her money,’ he teased.
Jasmine glanced at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Just an old rhyme that popped into my head.’
She dished out portions and passed them around. Swift imagined he was back at school. As soon as everyone had a serving, he asked, ‘Has anyone seen Afan today?’
Jasmine frowned at his taking the lead on the subject but said nothing.
‘I came by the refec for breakfast,’ Suki said. She had neat, symmetrical features and her hands were chapped from shaping clay. ‘Afan was here, eating muesli and reading. He always brings a book with him.’
Swift asked, ‘What time was that?’
‘Just gone eight. I made him a cuppa as I was having one myself. I’m not much of a morning person, so we didn’t talk as such. I grabbed a roll and honey. I’d finished by a quarter past eight. Bryn came in just as I was leaving.’
Bryn said, ‘That’s right. I’d had breakfast at mine, but I wanted to check out the ingredients for dinner. We said good morning. Afan headed off while I had my head in the fridge.’
‘Has anyone seen him since then?’ Jasmine had drawn herself up, taking over.
Kat waved her spoon. Swift had noticed her gazing at him intensely throughout the meal. ‘I saw him hoeing the communal allotment around ten thirty this morning. We didn’t speak. He just waved and carried on. I popped in to Elinor and Guy’s on my way here. They both said they hadn’t seen Afan today.’
No one else spoke. The fruit salad was laced heavily with honey and Swift found it too sweet. He took a sip of the sharp wine to clean his palate and asked, ‘Did Afan tell anyone his plans for today?’
‘Plans?’ Kat seemed mystified.
‘I told you, he was supposed to work with me this afternoon
,’ Bruno muttered.
‘You see, Ty,’ Jasmine explained, ‘unlike most other people, we don’t usually have “what I’m doing today” conversations. We tend to have the same plans day in, day out here. We work the land and carry out our daily tasks. Each day, each week, each month, we move with nature’s cycle. Steady, routine and no doubt mundane, but that’s what the land demands of us as its stewards. Occasionally, we go to Holybridge to pick up supplies we can’t provide for ourselves, or to sell our products. Sometimes to use the internet in a café there, although few of us have regular need of it.’
Swift asked, ‘Were you all aware that I was coming?’
‘Afan mentioned it on Saturday evening at our colloquy, but he didn’t say what time,’ Peter said.
‘What’s your colloquy?’
‘It’s our weekly information sharing session, just before Saturday supper. We discuss the past week and the one to come, talk about any challenges or developments we need to make.’
‘Although developments are few and far between,’ Bruno commented, glancing at Bryn.
Swift wondered about this need for strange names. Why did a place to hang out in have to be called a Bivium, a meeting room the Parley, a chat a colloquy and the kitchen/dining room the refec? Jasmine’s choices bore the hallmark of a snob. He wondered what her background was and placed another bet with himself that she’d gone to public school. ‘Did Afan say anything else about my visit?’
Peter rubbed his chin. He had deep lines around his mouth. He must have a good ten years on his wife and looked even older, dressed in a fusty cable-knit cardigan. ‘He said you were an old friend. He hadn’t seen you for a while and he’d booked you a room.’
One of the candles sputtered. Bryn leaned forward, licked a finger and thumb and straightened the wick. He rose and brought a tray with a bottle of mead and tumblers to the table. ‘Here. In Afan’s absence, the next best thing is his lovingly made mead.’ He poured a couple of inches of the drink into a tumbler and handed it to Swift.
‘Thanks.’ Swift sipped some. He could taste honey, but it was surprisingly tangy and dry.
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 3
