It sounded oppressive. ‘It can’t be too amusing if you’re Afan.’
‘No, but . . . I told him, buddy, she’s not the kind of woman to get nuance. He’s too much of a gent.’
‘You work together a lot?’
‘Sure, yeah, as a team. We invested jointly in the beehives and equipment. We’re pretty much self-taught about beekeeping so we share information. Afan did a course recently in Holybridge, and that was very helpful. I’m pretty pissed at him just taking off, because there’s a lot to do. Nectar flow slows down in August, so we have to check for mites and take precautions against robbers.’
Swift was surprised. ‘People come to steal the honey?’
Bruno smiled. ‘No, not people, mainly other bees and wasps.’ He yawned. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about Afan. It seems strange, the way he vanished without saying anything. Not like him at all. What could be such an emergency that he couldn’t have dropped by and told me?’
‘I’ve had similar thoughts.’
Bruno glanced at him. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any connection, but someone went missing from around here about four months ago.’
‘Who was that?’
‘His name was Morgan Callender, a young guy. He was one of our volunteers.’
‘Were the police involved?’
‘Yeah, they came here. Jasmine wasn’t best pleased. Morgan was living with his family and there’d been problems. Apparently, he’d told friends that he’d had enough and was planning to leave home. I heard he left a note. That’s what the police believed had happened — young guy decided to take off. I suppose they checked it out.’
It could mean something or nothing. Swift asked, ‘Did anyone ever hear from him?’
‘No idea.’ Bruno ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Afan mentions you now and again, he holds you in high regard. One time when we were working, he said that you’re one of the few people he’s ever trusted.’
Swift was embarrassed. He’d had no idea that Afan had valued him in that way. It made him regret the loss of contact. He said, ‘I’ve always found Afan a good man, kind and reliable.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Bruno had placed the wildflowers on his lap. Swift could smell the rainwater on them.
He asked, ‘How did you get from Alberta to Pembrokeshire?’
Bruno hesitated before replying. He sounded cagey. ‘A circuitous route. I kind of tripped over this place and it suited. My mom was from Wales, she emigrated to Canada as a war bride, so I guess I was maybe following an umbilical cord. There’s a Welsh word, hiraeth. It means homesickness or nostalgia.’ He got up and placed the flowers on the altar, making a little bow. ‘These are just a general offering to the gods, whoever they may be, asking that they keep our bees happy and our honey rich and bountiful.’
Swift followed him, walking around the altar to the stone wall. He saw that there was a concealed opening, about five feet high and just wide enough to enter. He ducked and went in. Immediately, the air grew colder. A couple of paces brought him to a cavity, about four feet square, reaching up to the roof. He imagined a hermit scuttling in here when he heard footsteps or the sound of voices. You wouldn’t want to loiter for long, it would chill and cramp your bones, but then he supposed that hermits would have been used to discomfort.
Bruno peered in at him. ‘Boo! Good place for hide-and-seek.’
They walked back together. Bruno became quieter, more his taciturn self from yesterday. Swift wanted to ask him more about the set-up at Tir Melys but gauged that the time wasn’t right. When he commented that he was surprised that Afan’s house had no proper kitchen, Bruno replied that a couple of cottages were built that way to keep costs down and because the Merchants wanted to encourage communal eating. Anyone who wanted could have a takeaway supper and heat it through in their microwave. When they reached the Bivium, he turned abruptly away with no farewell, leaving Swift to enter the refec for breakfast.
* * *
A large, heavy woman with wispy shoulder-length curls and a smiling, eager expression was sitting at the dining table eating scrambled eggs. She wore black leggings and a voluminous cream and brown kaftan, circled by a woven belt which emphasised her girth. On her lap was a tiny dog, with a long silky beige-and-white coat, a round face and a black button nose. She introduced herself as Elinor Brinkworth and picked the dog up, waving one of its paws at Swift. Her fingers were so plump that her gold wedding ring was embedded in the flesh.
‘Meet Frankie. He’s my lickle cuddle buddy.’ She pronounced his name Fwankie.
Swift greeted them both and explained that he’d come to visit Afan. His last close encounter with a dog had resulted in a nasty bite. Admittedly, Frankie was like a toy in comparison to the Alsatian that had been instructed to attack him, but he decided to keep his distance.
‘Let me make you some breakfast,’ Elinor said, beaming. ‘There’s porridge on the hob, or you can have muesli, bacon and egg, scrambled egg on toast — or maybe you prefer your eggs boiled, with soldiers? Just say, and I’ll sort it for you.’
‘There’s no need. I can help
