Candlenight (40 page)

   
So Miranda let herself into
Morelli's flat and made straight for the immersion heater. It was supposed to
be one of those rapid ones, but she decided to give it twenty-five minutes,
because an hour in the shower was a long time for Morelli's primitive cistern
to cope with.

   
She picked up the mail and put
it on his desk. No point in trying to pretend she hadn't been here - Miranda
would have been the first to agree that her personal ambience was not the
easiest to dispel.

   
OK then.

   
She switched on every heater
she could find, flung her case into the middle of the floor and stripped off
most of her clothes. Sometimes feeling rather cold could be quite a luxury.

   
Miranda hated Spain. On the
other hand, she did rather enjoy doing commercials. So many well-known actors
were doing them these days that people tended to think that if you were in one
you must be a rather 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
Mrs
. Morelli?"

   
"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
always
seems anxious . . ."

   
"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
suffering
for this."

Chapter XLVI

WALES

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." George pronounced it Pontmoorig. "Make sure the parts
will be here tomorrow."

   
Elinor, distant, still staring
out of the window, said, "Should have had it towed away. Back to England,
if necessary. We could have taken a taxi."

   
George didn't bother to reply.

   
Elinor stood up and turned back
the covers of the bed to see if the sheets were clean. Unfortunately, they had
the look of being freshly-laundered. She sat down again, on the
edge of the bed.

   
As she sat down this time, the
bed shifted and a floorboard creaked.

   
"Better ring the office
too." George said. "Get them to stall any clients."

   
"We won't be here for
ever, George."

   
"Can't count on anything
these days." Tidy George unpacked two clean shins and hung them in the
wardrobe.
"Good job you're so efficient." he said brightly. "Enough clothes
here to last the week out."

   
Elinor was determined not to
rise to this bait.

   
"Handling it awfully well,
though, isn't she?" George said.

   
"What?"

   
"Claire. I was quite
surprised."

   
And relieved no doubt, Elinor
thought. He could never deal with women's tears. Blubbing, he called it once.
Only once—she'd almost had his eyes out.

   
"No, she's a tough girl."
George said admiringly. "What d'you think of her new hairstyle? Quite
fetching. I thought. I'd almost forgotten what her natural colour looked
like."

   
"George," Elinor dug
her nails into the bedspread. "Go and make your phone calls."

   
The floorboard creaked again as
she stood up.

That night must have been an encouraging one for Simon Gallier.
Conservative Parliamentary Candidate for Glanmeurig.

   
There weren't enough chairs in
the Memorial Hall in Pont; groups of people were blocking the firedoors and clustered
in the passageway to the lavatories.

   
Novelty value. Berry Morelli
thought. It was obviously a real night out for many members of the audience.
Most of the men wore suits and ties.

   
He was standing under the
platform, searching the crowd for Bethan McQueen and failing to spot her.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned expectantly.

   
"We're down here, mate."
Ray Wheeler said. "One space left on the Press table"

   
"Oh. Sure, Thanks."
Berry allowed himself to be steered to a chair between Shirley Gillies and Bill
Sykes.

   
"Mind boggles, eh?"
Sykes grated. "Bet old Johnny Gore's never pulled a bigger crowd since his
wedding. Oh, sorry John, didn't see you there."

   
"Evening, Bill," said
the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, leaning across the Press table
and then whispering. "Afraid I'm going to be a trifle boring tonight.
Don't want
to outshine the boy."

   
"Poor old Johnny,"
said Sykes, as the Minister hefted his considerable bulk up the three wooden
steps to the platform. "Couldn't outshine a ten-watt bulb."

   
"I was wondering."
Berry said, "what Ole Winstone would've made of all this. Think he'd've
come?"

   
"Not a hope," said
Bill Sykes. "You wouldn't have got Winstone back to Wales for a lorry load
of Glenfiddich."

   
It struck Berry that you could
get a hell of a lot of Glenfiddich on a lorry. More than enough to make a cynical
old hack overcome his prejudices. He made a mental note to raise this with
Sykes when the speeches were over.

   
There were a few cheers as
Simon Gallier stepped onto the platform. He was built like a front-row rugby
player, had prematurely greying hair and a shambling, untrimmed moustache like,
Berry thought, a badly made yardbrush.