Candlenight

'Oh, Mr. Morelli. Him you're looking for?'

'I am indeed.'

'Well, he left, not two hours ago.'

'Do you know where he's gone?'

'Well. I never asked him, not wanting to pry, Miss—'

'Moore-Lacey. Miranda Moore-Lacey.'

'Oh, lovely. He'll be terrible sorry to have missed you. Let me see now… I wonder if my son… Perhaps he can tell you where Mr. Morelli is. Do you know my son?'

'I'm afraid I don't know a soul here.'

'Well you can't miss Guto. Very distinctive, he is. Black beard and a big green rosette. Can't be far away, he's a meeting to do in town tonight. He'll be at the Memorial Hall by seven. Do you know where that is?'

'I'll find it.' Miranda said. 'Thank you very much.'

As she slid into the car, the first snowflakes landed on its bonnet and instantly evaporated. Within ten minutes there were rather more of them and they were not evaporating quite so rapidly.

When they found Bryan Mortlake, he was splitting logs outside his house, a former lodge next to the main road. He did not stop splitting logs when they spoke to him, and he did not invite them in.

'Ingley,' he said, raising the axe. 'Nutcase,' he said, bringing it down.

The axe hit the log dead-centre and the two halves fell from the block. One rolled over Bethan's shoe.

'Safer to stand further back,' Mortlake said, looking and talking more like a retired colonel than a retired academic. Except retired colonels, in Berry's experience, were more polite.

He set up another log. 'Not still hanging around, is he?'

'He's dead.' Berry said.

'Oh? Well, he was still a nutcase.'

'You have many dealings with him?'

'Not when I could help it. Would you mind moving out of my light. Snow's forecast for tomorrow, did you know that?'

'Dr. Mortlake,' Bethan said. 'Would you tell us what Dr. Ingley came to see you about?'

Mortlake brought down the axe. There was a knot in the log, and it jammed. He looked at Bethan as if it was her fault then hit the axe handle with the flat of his hand to free it. Both log and axe tumbled off the block and Mortlake looked furious.

'Look, what's all this about?'

'We found your name and address in this,' Bethan pulled the red book from her raincoat. 'I am a schoolteacher in a village in West Wales, where Dr. Ingley was doing some research. When he died, his notes were passed on to me. I'm writing a history of the village and I thought—'

Mortlake snatched the book and thumbed through it for about half a minute before handing it back with what Berry assumed to be a superior, academic sneer.

'Bilge.' Mortlake said.

'What's bilge?' Berry said. 'What's he saying here? That's all we want to know.'

'You a Welsh schoolteacher too?'

'I'm a friend of Mrs. McQueen. You have a problem with that?'

'Look,' Mortlake hefted the axe and the log onto the chopping block and stood back panting. 'Did you ever meet the man?'

Berry put a foot on the log, hit the axe handle, freed it and gave it to Mortlake.

'No,' he said.

'He had a crackpot theory about Glyndwr. Who, you may remember, was supposed to have ended his days a few miles from here, at Monnington.'

'We are going there next.' Bethan said.

'Can't see what good that will do you. None of its proven. There's an unmarked stone in the churchyard there, which they say is Glyndwr's grave. I doubt that.'

Berry said, 'What was the crackpot theory?'

Mortlake threw down the axe. 'You know, half the foolish myths in British history begin like this. In my view, when someone cobbles together a lot of patent rubbish and then dies without publishing it, we should all be damned thankful and let it lie.'

'Dr. Mortlake.' Bethan said. This is only a little village project. What harm can that do?'

'What d'you say the village is called?'

'Y Groes.'

'Never heard of it.'

'It's near Pontmeurig.'

'Oh, the by-election place.' Mortlake gave in. 'All right, there's a legend — I mean, when you're talking about Glyndwr, half of its legend — and the story goes that some years after his death— No. actually, there are two different stories, one says it was after his death, the other says it was when he was dying. Both come to the same conclusion— that four patriotic Welshmen couldn't stand the thought of the old hero dying in exile, came across the border and took him home. Or carted his remains home, whichever version you prefer.'

Berry sensed Bethan's excitement.

'Ingley was convinced this was true,' Mortlake said. 'He maintained there was a place in Wales where all the heroes went to die or whatever, according to some ancient tradition. You see, it's complete nonsense — man was bonkers.'

'Did he say where the place was?' Bethan asked.

'Wouldn't tell me. Big secret. As if I really wanted to know.'

'What evidence did he have?'

'Oh, he claimed to have discovered the names of the four Welshmen who came for Glyndwr. He suspected there may have been some collaboration here with John Skydmore, of Monnington Court, who was Glyndwr's son- in-law. Which was why he came to me.'

'You helped him?'

'He left me the names. I said I'd look into it. Didn't bother, to be quite honest. I can tell a crank from fifty paces. And don't ask me for the list because I've probably thrown it away.'

'Well, thanks,' Berry said. 'We'll leave you to your logs.'

'Very good memory, though, as it happens.'

'I'm sorry?'

'My memory. Very good. If it's any use for your… village project… the four men were a farmer, a lawyer, a coachman and… a carpenter, yes. He was said to have made an ornate coffin, fit for a prince, as they say. And their names, d'you want their names? Very well.

He leaned on his axe, pursed his lips. 'Vaughan — John Vaughan. Robert Morgan. William, or Gwilym Davies and—'

Mortlake paused triumphantly. He'd plucked all four straight out of his head.

' — Thomas Rhys.'

He beamed.

'Don't tell me,' Berry said. 'He was the lawyer.'

Mortlake, in a better temper now, picked up a big log with both hands and set it on the block, 'You know more than I do, sir,' he said.

Dusk now. A pair of black swans glided across the pond behind the church. It was cold and utterly still.

'He was right.' Berry said. 'Gonna snow.'

The sky was taut and shiny, like a well-beaten drum.

'Snow is for the Christmas cards.' Bethan said. 'You won't find a country person who likes it.'

'This is a wonderful place.' Berry said, putting an arm around her.

Like Y Groes, Monnington was a dead end. Like the immediate environs of Y Groes, the surrounding land was soft and peaceful. But although the church was in a secret place, approachable only by foot along a shaded green lane, the landscape around was opened out, mostly flat, the hills serene in the distance.