Candlenight (43 page)

   
"Any of them there?"
Berry asked.

   
"No. And with only
twenty-one people in the bloody room, I can be sure of that, at least. But
they'll have heard, see. Word travels fast. I tell you, if it goes on like
this, I'm finished, man."

   
"It won't, Guto."
Bethan said. "Believe me. It is not like other places, that village. I
know this. And you have over a week, yet" She squeezed his arm.

   
Berry thought. He's worried
about this getting out and he just told the entire story to a reporter

   
He didn't know whether to be
flattered or insulted that neither Guto nor Bethan seemed to consider him a
real journalist.

When Guto, reluctantly be-suited, had left for the Drovers', Berry
wedged himself into the telephone alcove of Mrs. Evans's china-choked sitting
room and called American Newsnet, collect.

   
"I was beginning to
think," Addison Walls said, "that the telephone system had not yet
been extended to Wales." He sounded like he had a cold.

   
"It got here at the
weekend," Berry said. "Just nobody could figure out how to connect
the wires. So, how much you want me to file?"

   
"I don't want you to file
a thing." Addison Walls said. "I read every damn word printed about
that by-election and, as I predicted, it's full shit and of purely domestic
interest. So what I'm lookin' for is you back here by tonight, yeah?"

   
"Ah, I don't think I can
do that." Berry said. There was a long pause during which Berry could hear
Addison trying to breathe.

   
"I hear you correctly? I
said I needed you back here by tonight, and you said—"

   
"I said I didn't think I
could make it. Like, you know, my car broke down."

   
"You drive a pile of crap,
Morelli, whadda you expect?
So take a train. If there's no trains, take a bus. Fuck it, grab a cab, but get
your ass back here by tonight. OK?"

   
"Addison, listen,"
Berry said. "How about I take a couple days vacation—"

   
"Nearly December, Morelli.
You took all your vacation."

   
"OK, I'll take some of
next year's."

   
"Morelli, Goddamn it—"
He heard Addison Walls blow his nose. "Listen, we're up to the eyes here.
Paul went sick, I can't see the top a my desk for fuckin' influenza remedies that
don't fuckin' work. You know what, Morelli, you've become a real weird guy. So,
listen, you don't show up tomorrow, I am not gonna be all that worried. Give me
an opportunity to test out my new shredder on your contract."

   
"Addison, hey, come on . .
. Just two days is all I'm asking."

   
"You getting the general
direction of my thinking. Morelli?"

   
"Yeah," Berry felt
some perverse kind of euphoria filling up his head. "Yeah. I think I'm
finally piecing things together."

   
"Good," Addison Walls
said, and he hung up.

The sun was out, pale but definitely out, and the street sparkled after
an overnight frost. Berry could see the broken denture of the castle walls, a
sign pointing to the Welsh Pizza House—lousy name, lousy pizzas. Feeling
suddenly very strange, very different, he began to walk up the street. Saw
Guto's mom coming back from the shop with a teeming basket over her arm and a
headscarf over her perm. Felt a crazy kind of affection for Guto's mom.

   
Guto too. He'd make the right
kind of MP. Always be in trouble, always say the wrong things to the wrong
people. Berry liked that.

   
But how much of a chance did
Guto really have? Why didn't Y Groes want him? Heart of the Welsh-speaking heartland.

   
He could get back to London in
four, five hours. He could spend most of today here and still get back to
London by tonight. Maybe come back next weekend, see how things were going.

   
Sure. No problem.

   
At the top of the street, past
Hampton's Bookshop but before you got to the bridge, there was a teashop which
also sold Welsh crafts. Mainly lovespoons, which were made of
wood and were intricately carved and came in a variety of sizes. Berry wondered
what they had to do with love. Maybe he'd ask Bethan, who ought, by now, to be
waiting in there. An arrangement they'd made last night.

   
They'd talked until
eleven-thirty, then Berry had said he ought to go because Guto would be home
and Mrs. Evans would want to get to bed. He hadn't
wanted
to go. Christ, no.

   
As he approached the teashop,
he could see her sitting in the window, black hair tumbling into a black
cowl-neck woollen sweater.

   
She'd told him last night how
she'd done this dumb thing, gone to the education department and suggested they
close down the village school. How she felt the school had been corrupting
generations of kids. She'd found it hard to explain why she thought this. Said
he'd need to meet the other teacher to understand.

   
Berry had told her about
breaking into the judge's house that day with Giles. He'd told her about the
study, the deep, dark atmosphere of hate.

   
"Yes." she'd said.
"Yes."

   
He hadn't told her about the
room whispering,
sice
. . .
sice
. . . because he wasn't even sure
that had happened.

   
The education department had
told Bethan to take two or three weeks off. They figured she had to be nuts,
trying to get her own school shut down, maybe heading for a
breakdown.

   
 
I think a nervous breakdown would be quite a
relief.

   
He walked across the road to
the teashop. She had her back to him, talking to someone maybe. He caught a
flash of gold earring as she tossed her hair back. No way could this woman be
insane, but then, who was he to judge?

Chapter XLIX

Inside the teashop it was very dim, all the furniture stained as dark as
the lovespoons on the walls. Which was why, from outside, you could only see
the person sitting in the window. Why he hadn't seen the other two people at Bethan's
table.

   
It was the older couple who'd
been at Giles's funeral. The guy with white hair, yellow at the front, and deep
lines down both cheeks. The woman thin-faced, harsh hair rinsed an uneasy
auburn, looking like copper wire.

   
"Berry, this is Claire's
mother and father."

   
"Oh." Somehow, he'd
thought they must have been relations of Giles, rather than Claire.
"Hi," he said, pulling out a chair.

   
Bethan introduced him as a
friend and colleague of Giles's, down here for the election. "Mr. and Mrs.
Hardy had to spend the night at the
Tafarn
at Y Groes. They are having problems with their car."

   
"But we're getting it back
this morning," George Hardy said. "That's why we're here. Claire
dropped us off."

   
Berry turned to the woman. He'd
heard her muttering "Thank God," when her husband talked about
getting the car back.

   
"You don't like it
here?"

   
"Not really our son of place.
I'm afraid," Elinor Hardy said, tight-voiced.

   
"Not being
snobbish
or anything," George assured
Bethan. "Good God, no. Wonderful place for a quiet summer holiday. Just
that at this time of year it seems a little cold and remote and it's not quite
what we're used to. Certainly never had to wait two days before to get what
seemed quite a simple problem with the cam belt seen to."

   
"We didn't get much sleep,
I'm afraid," Elinor said. The skin under her eyes was blue, Berry saw, and
it wasn't cosmetic. She was fingering her coffee cup nervously. He wondered why
Claire had put them in a teashop and just left them.

   
"Bloody bed kept creaking,"
George said. "Had to get down on my hands and knees and mess about with a
loose floorboard underneath to stop it. Good God, I'd forgotten— Elinor, why
didn't you remind me?"

   
From an inside pocket of his
overcoat he pulled a slim, red, hard-backed notebook. "Found it under the
damned floorboard. Meant to give it to the manager chap this morning."

   
"Unlikely to have been his
anyway," Elinor said.

   
"Suppose not. Must belong
to somebody, though, and he'd be belter placed than us to find out who,
obviously."

   
Bethan said. "You found it
under the floorboard in the bedroom? Can I see?"

   
George passed her the book.
"Keep it, if it's of any interest. Odd little hand-drawn maps of the
village, that sort of thing. Probably mean more to you than me."

   
'Thank you." Bethan made
no attempt to look at the notebook, slipping it into her bag.

   
"If you find any treasure,
send us a few bob, won't you." Ignoring his wife's withering glance.
George laughed and coughed and pulled out his cigarettes. "Don't mind, do
you? Only things that seem to
stop
me
coughing these days."

   
A waitress appeared, glum girl
of about seventeen. Bethan said, "Can I order you more coffee?"

   
Elinor grimaced.

   
"Just one pot of tea,
then." Bethan told the girl, "
Un
te
,
plis
." Pointed at Berry.
"
Dim laeth
. "

   
Berry saw the woman flinch when
Bethan spoke Welsh. She was in some state.

   
The hell with tact. He said.
"I hear that Claire ... she has this amazing aptitude for the Welsh
language."

   
Elinor said, tonelessly.
"Has she?"

   
George Hardy looked at his
watch, stood up, cigarette in hand. "Think I'd better pop round the comer
lo the garage, see how they're getting on with it. Have to stand over these
chaps sometimes. Nice to meet you. Miss . . . er. Yes."

   
When he'd gone, squeezing his
overcoated bulk past the racks of lovespoons, his wife just came apart.

   
She leaned across the table,
seized Bethan's wrist. "Look, I don't know anything about you, but please
will you help?"

   
"Of course." Bethan
was startled. "If I can."

   
"I'm sorry. I don't
usually behave like this. Bui I don't
know
anybody here, do you see?" Berry saw her eyes fill up. She let go of Bethan's
wrist, pulled a paper napkin from a
wooden bowl. "Pen."

   
Berry handed her his.

   
"I want to give you my telephone
number." She began to write erratically on the napkin, talking as fast and
jerkily as her wrist was moving. "Want you to promise to ring me. If anything
happens. You see Claire, don't you?'Of course you do. Teaching her . . . that
language."

   
Bethan said, "I—"
Berry's eyes said. Don't contradict her, let her talk.

   
"Something's happened to
her. She's not the same."
   
"No." Bethan said.

   
"You can tell that, can't
you? You've only known her a short time, but you can see it."

   
"Yes."

   
"I won't say—" Elinor
put down the pen, folded the napkin; Bethan look it. "I won't say we were
ever terribly close. Dreadful admission, but I have to be frank. Have to."

   
She looked defiantly from
Bethan to Berry and back to Bethan.

   
"Often felt closer to Giles.
He would tell me things she concealed. And now he's dead. And we weren't told. Weren't
invited to the funeral, you know."

   
"That's awful."
Bethan said.

   
"She said," Elinor
pulled another napkin from the bowl, dabbed her eyes. "She says she wrote
to us, but she couldn't invite us here. We had to decide. For ourselves."
She blew
her nose, crumpled the napkin in her hand. "Never saw a letter. Read about
it in the paper. Suppose she didn't tell us because . . . when my father died
... we were about to leave for a holiday and I didn't tell
her
. None of us went to his funeral. I didn't want
her
going, didn't want her anywhere
near him again."