The Fabric of Sin

The word across Hereford was that The Centurion was already a gold mine. Converted out of a single-storey derelict factory off Roman Road, to the north of the city. Good access, sweeping views, plenty of parking.

And now that Roman Road had become the outlet for the network of new roads serving Hereford’s secret bypass … why, you’d almost think Sycharth Gwilym had learned something in advance.

Merrily had been thinking about this and what it might imply but now, suddenly, she wasn’t.

‘He did what?’

Sitting up hard, the seat belt straining.

‘Didn’t seem a good time to tell you last night,’ Lol said.

‘For God’s sake!’

‘I’m not saying Gwilym operates on the same level, but maybe it’s as well to know the kind of people you just might be dealing with.’

‘This …’ Merrily shutting her eyes ‘… is all my fault.’

Broken into the truck, hot-wired it, driven it away and forced the box. Then used another kind of hot wire on the Boswell. She stared at Lol, an acid sensation in her chest. Knowing he hadn’t gone to the police because that would have meant explanations. Same with the insurance.

‘It’s not … your fault. Can’t say Prof didn’t warn me about the kind of people he employed.’

‘It was your most precious …’

‘It was just a guitar.’

‘Four grand’s worth. More than that, a huge sentimental …’

‘Maybe,’ Lol admitted.

‘I’m going to call Al Boswell, see how much it would cost for him to replace it.’

‘Merrily, we don’t even tell Al Boswell. He’d take it very personally, and he isn’t getting any younger and all his guitars are like children. And neither of us has four grand to spare, and even if we did …’

‘Bastard.’ Tears stinging her eyes. ‘Plus, he’s giving you a clear warning that he’s going to try and destroy your career.’

‘What could he do? Independent producer, independent label …’

‘… Reliant on major distribution networks and chain stores. Sorry if this sounds like I’m getting drunk on conspiracy theory.’

‘But you …’ Lol glanced sideways. ‘You’re OK, though?’

‘Mrs Morningwood’s offered to give me more reflexology tonight.’ Merrily leaned back, trying to kill the tightness. ‘I’m fine. Much better. So this is why you were insisting on coming with me.’

‘I’ll stay in the truck when you go in, but I’ll be just outside. Call you on the mobile after an hour?’

‘How could they know the importance of the Boswell?’

‘Look …’ He sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’

‘But how?’

‘It was in Mojo. Someone showed me a copy at the gig. Concert review, picture of me and what — unmistakably to any musician — is a Boswell.’

‘How did you manage at the gig?’

‘Still had the Takamine, which they hadn’t damaged. You said do it for Nick, so I did. He was sitting at the back. He didn’t walk out.’

‘Lol?’

‘Kidding. I think.’

‘But it went well?’

‘Strangely, it did. I felt very tired afterwards. Slept for half an hour in the car park with the top of the box held down with bailer twine. Look, be careful in there. None of this smells good. Stourport, Gwilym, Mat Phobe.’

She’d told him about the anagram.

‘Of course, we only have Hayter’s word that Mat’s actually dead,’ Lol said. ‘This the entrance?’

Merrily looked up at an archway of sandstone.

‘Think it’s supposed to look like a Roman villa?’

‘Chapel of Rest, circa 1963.’

‘Maybe ’65,’ Merrily said.

This time, when she’d called, the receptionist had said that Mr Gwilym would be happy to talk to her at two- thirty. When she walked in five minutes early — best black woollen coat — he was already waiting, on the edge of a mosaic tile circle, standing between two small fountains burbling into bidet-type projections. Bending to her, handshake smooth and soft, like suede.

‘Mrs Watkins.’

‘Good of you to spare the time.’

‘How could I not? All so intriguing. My office is just here. Can I order you a drink? Coffee … wine?’

‘Just had lunch, thank you, Mr Gwilym.’

‘Here?’

‘A sandwich. At home.’

‘Most remiss of me not to have offered you a proper lunch. My apologies.’ He shouldered open a matt-white door in a recess. ‘Business, of late, has been utterly frenet ic.’

His voice was public-school English but — whatever anybody said — there was posh South Wales down there, something slow and rhythmic like an evening tide washing against a jetty.

‘I wouldn’t have had time,’ Merrily said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

For some reason, she’d been expecting barrel chest, spider veins, flashing eyes, belligerent — someone it would be easy to goad into saying too much. But Sycharth Gwilym was a loose, big-boned man with a jutting chin and grey-brown hair which rose and fell, like the plume on a knight’s helmet, and his manner was relaxed, his eyes pale and tranquil. And when you looked into them you didn’t see anything of Fuchsia Mary Linden.

Merrily’s confidence waned. This was going to take time and maybe skills that she didn’t have.

Mr Gwilym waited for Merrily to sit before moving behind his desk. The office had a picture window with a view over the car park, over the city, towards the cathedral and the river. White walls and a glass-topped, white- painted desk with the wood grain showing through. Twin swivel chairs in grey leather. A small conference table.

‘So …’ He sat down, leaning back, composed. ‘You wanted to ask me about the Master House.’

Behind his head was a large framed print: an engraving of a robed man with a forked beard, sitting in a Gothic canopied throne, holding a sceptre.

No prizes.

‘You do realize,’ Sycharth Gwilym said, ‘that the house hasn’t been in my family for over a century?’

‘I do know that. But it does seem to have been occupied by Gwilyms for several centuries before that.’

‘I’m not entirely sure about Gwilyms, as such, but various of my ancestors, yes.’

Start off with the routine stuff. Merrily brought out a pad and a pencil.

‘Do you know exactly how long the family was there?’

‘I do not know when the family was not there. Although records — such as they are — go back no further than the fifteenth century.’

‘That would be the time of the Owain Glyndwr rebellion.’

‘Indeed. Mrs Watkins, may I … inquire the purpose of this? The stories I hear about the nature of your mission to Garway are probably far more lurid than the truth.’

Merrily told him why the late Felix Barlow had refused to work in the Master House, what had happened to Felix and Fuchsia, and he lifted his jaw.

‘Oh. Not more lurid then.’

He didn’t smile. There was always a point, during every inquiry of this kind, where you felt fairly foolish, where you thought, What am I doing here?