respected figure too.
She wandered into the bedroom. Duvet still thrown back. He obviously hadn't returned from Wales. What an utter plonker he was. Always worrying about the effect he might be having on the great cosmic scheme of things, or the effect he ought to be having. 'Taking responsibility, kid,' was how he'd put it, explaining that you shouldn't eat meat if you weren't prepared to kill your own.
Morelli was a mass of conflicting neuroses. How could anyone be the young Al Pacino on the outside and mid-period Woody Allen underneath?
Miranda marched into the bathroom and ran the shower. She gave it a couple of minutes to heat up and was about to step in when the phone bleeped.
She decided to go ahead regardless, but remembered then how annoying a telephone could be when one was showering — the shower never quite managing to drown out the bleeps. So she decided to unplug the thing. But, of course, curiosity won in the end and she picked it up and affected a Deep South sort of voice.
'Thiyus iyus the Morelli res'dence.'
A man's voice, educated, not young said: 'Oh, is that
'It most certainly isn't!' snapped Miranda, reverting to type.
'Oh dear. Well, would it be possible to speak to Mr.Morelli? I'm afraid this is about the seventeenth time I've tried over the past two days.'
'I regret to have to tell you.' Miranda said, 'that he's in Wales. Please don't ask me why.'
'Wales, eh?'
'Wales.'
'Well, would you happen to know precisely where in Wales he's gone?'
'Somewhere full of grim mountains and dead sheep, I expect,' said Miranda, beginning to feel rather chilly standing there in the altogether. 'Would you like to leave a message?'
'Look, if I'm barking up the wrong tree, cut me off or something…'
Don't tempt me.
'… but it wouldn't be a village called Y Groes, would it?'
'Called what? They all sound the same to me.'
'Y Groes. Spelt I-Grows.'
'Oh, well, look, I believe he has spoken of some such place, yes. But I really couldn't be certain.'
'Ah. Do you know if he's staying at the inn there?'
'I can't honestly say where he's staying. Look, can I take a message?' Over her shoulder. Miranda could hear the beckoning patter of the hot water.
'You see, it was about Y Groes that I wanted to speak to him. Are you a friend of his?'
'Friend, ex-lover, confidante — and highly qualified to pass on messages.' Come on, you old fool, spit it out.
'Perhaps I should explain…'
Must you?
'My name's Peters.'
'I'm writing it down.'
'Canon Alex Peters.'
This has to be a first, Miranda thought morosely. I'm standing here tit-and-bum naked, talking to a vicar.
'I conducted the funeral service for Winstone Thorpe. Perhaps your, er, friend mentioned him.'
Miranda barely managed to suppress a groan.
'You see, I was chatting to your friend after the funeral, and he told me how poor Winstone had begged him to discourage young Giles Freeman from making his home in Wales. Of course, I was born and brought up in South Wales and I'm afraid I was rather dismissive about the whole thing. Nonsense. I said. Lovely place, lovely people.'
Get on with it! Miranda was grinding her teeth.
'Then, you see, I read about Giles's death, and it said he'd been living at Y Groes. and immediately I thought about Martin Coulson and this awful man Ellis Jenkins.'
'I really think I should leave a message for Berry to ring you when he gets back,' Miranda said, goose pimples on her arms now.
'You see, I didn't know until I read about Giles's death that we were talking about Y Groes. Which, of course, is where Martin died so tragically a couple of years ago. Do you know the case I'm referring to?'
'I don't think so, but—'
'Died in the church. Twenty-five years old. Dreadful. And then Jenkins refusing to have him in his churchyard. Caused quite a stir in church circles. So I thought I ought to pass this on to Berry Morelli, as he'd seemed rather anxious, a little unsure of what he ought to do.'
'Oh. he
'It's probably of absolutely no relevance. Though I confess to being rather curious about where Giles Freeman was eventually buried.'
'Well, I'm afraid I really can't help you there.' Miranda said. 'Look, I'll get Berry to ring you. shall I? What's the number?'
Canon Alex Peters gave her a number. 'I'm at Woodstock, near Oxford. In retirement. Not much else to think about, you see. As I say, probably nothing, but if he should happen to ring you from Wales, pass on my number, would you?'
'Oh, I will,' Miranda said. And then, just a tiny bit curious herself by now. 'Look Mr., er — Canon—'
'Peters. Alex Peters.'
'Of course, I wrote it down. Listen, I shall probably regret asking this, but why wouldn't they let this chap be buried in the churchyard?'
'Ah. well…'
'Yes?'
'Well, because he was English, my dear.'
When she got back log the shower it was lukewarm.
Miranda shrieked in rage and frustration.
'God, Morelli,' she rasped through her teeth, groping for his bathrobe and discovering he'd taken it with him.
'Wherever you are, I hope you're really
Chapter XLVI
Elinor said, 'I hate this room.'
She didn't hate any particular part of the room. She didn't hate the Victorian bed. She didn't hate the deeply recessed window, or the low-beamed ceiling. Or even its size— rather cramped, with that enormous wardrobe.
'I suppose,' said George Hardy, with heavy resignation, 'that I'm supposed to ask you why you hate the room.'
Still wearing her funeral dress, Elinor sat on a corner of the bed, glazed gaze fixed on the window through which she could see, in the late-afternoon light, the rooftops of the cottages opposite the inn, the winter-browned oak woods on the edge of the village and the misting hills beyond.
She was wondering if all this — the car breaking down, having to come here — was fate's fumbling attempt to heal the cuts she and Claire had inflicted on each other.
Wasn't working, though, was it? Anyone could see the wounds had only widened.
'I don't know why I hate it,' Elinor said.
George said. 'I think I shall ask that fellow if I can use his phone, give the garage a ring in Pontmeurig.'
