The House of Women Read online

  ‘They worked it to the bone. Some of the Irish peat lands are as bleak as moonscapes now.’

  ‘You’ll feel at home in Wales, then.’ Griffiths smiled.

  After a long silence, McKenna said: ‘I’ve never felt at home anywhere. I’m Welsh to the Irish, Irish to the Welsh, and trouble either way to the English.’

  ‘Come on! Your dad was Anglesey born and bred, like you.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ He picked up a marbled pebble, and rubbed it clean of sand. ‘But the past always catches up with you.’

  ‘What past? I imagine your grandparents left Ireland to escape from something, like every other emigrant. Poverty, oppression, whatever.’ Griffiths paused, then added: ‘Or to look for something better, like Dick Whittington, although nobody’s ever found the streets of Holyhead paved with gold, except our latter-day drug peddlers.’

  ‘One of our kinfolk was executed by the British after the Easter Rebellion in 1916, and there’s no escape from something like that, or what it means.’ He frowned, massaging the pebble. ‘And when my parents took me visiting our relatives across the water, I used to wave my toy gun around with the rest of the local kids, but we’d be playing “Irish and English” instead of “Cowboys and Indians”. So what does that make me?’

  ‘The sum of your history, like the rest of us, so quit bellyaching about it!’ A huge dark shape eclipsed the sun as Roberts loomed over them, and dropped the bucket and spade by McKenna’s feet. Filthy, sweat-stained, face ruddy with exertion, he went on: ‘I haven’t played on the sand for donkey’s years, and I’d forgotten how bloody tired you get, so I’m going for ice creams. Who wants what?’

  ‘You’re on a diet,’ Griffiths said.

  ‘It starts tomorrow with my hols, and you can’t have an afternoon on the beach without ices.’ He smiled down at McKenna. ‘Why don’t you take off your shoes and socks, like Owen here, and go for a paddle. Loosen up, man! Get your feet wet, for once in your life. It’ll do you no end of good.’

  4

  The white van belonging to the forensic team was still parked outside the house in Glamorgan Place when Dewi arrived. He walked to the front door, almost compelled to step over the long shadows thrown by the trees, and pushed the bell, looking at the manicured lawns and weedless borders, a drift of night-scented stock beguiling his senses. Behind the leaded lights of the half-glazed door, he saw a dark shape flitting towards him.

  She pulled the door wide, smiling brilliantly. ‘Hello! And who are you?’

  Another perfume drifted towards him, a musky, heady scent which sent a frisson through his innards. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Are you, really? Come in.’

  He followed, drawn by invisible threads into a cool hallway scented with polish, where the fading colours from the landing window lapped against the walls as the sun sank to the west. Watching her, he marvelled at the corn-coloured hair swinging to her waist, the golden skin of her shapely arms, and the beautiful moulding of hip and buttocks. She opened another door, and stood aside, then flitted away, leaving the perfume in her wake.

  Still wringing her hands, Edith Harris perched on a dusky brocade sofa set at right angles to a grand fireplace inlaid with blue Delft tiles, tall vases of creamy pampas grass framing the unlit grate. Opposite, her youngest daughter occupied a matching sofa, the tabby cat on her knees.

  ‘Yes?’ Edith looked up, her eyes glittering.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Prys, ma’am,’ Dewi said.

  ‘What do you want? And why are those other people still here?’

  ‘It’s just standard procedure, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s what that girl said earlier!’ Edith snapped.

  ‘They took Uncle Ned away ages ago,’ Phoebe offered. ‘To the mortuary.’

  Dewi nodded. ‘I’m sorry about all the upset, but we don’t have a choice.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous!’ Edith insisted. ‘All this fuss, when not a day went by without Ned having something wrong with him! One thing after another, day after day, week after week, year after year!’ She fell silent, then announced: ‘It must have been his heart! He’s complained of pains in his chest for years.’

  ‘What treatment was he having?’ Dewi asked.

  As Edith opened her mouth to reply, Phoebe intervened. ‘He wasn’t having any, because everybody thought it was all in his mind, so it’s a waste of time cutting up his body, isn’t it?’

  ‘Phoebe!’ Edith exclaimed. ‘Don’t be so horrid!’

  The girl’s eyes, Dewi thought, were the colour of slate on a rainy day. He wondered how old she was, and if there was still time for the swan to vanquish a very ugly duckling.

  ‘Somebody’s bound to say Uncle Ned was mad,’ she countered. ‘You’ve said it often enough.’

  ‘He had problems.’ Edith’s admission was reluctant.

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘The usual sort crazy people have,’ Phoebe said acidly.

  ‘Had he ever tried to hurt himself?’ Dewi asked.

  Edith looked at him warily. ‘I don’t know.’ She pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket, and dabbed her eyes. ‘You’ll have to talk to Dr Ansoni about that.’

  ‘Well, I won’t bother you any longer.’ Dewi smiled. ‘Can I have a word with my colleagues before I go?’

  Edith wafted the little square of clean linen. ‘Phoebe will show you upstairs. I’m really quite worn out.’ She slumped in the sofa, the back of her hand against her forehead.

  Gathering up the cat, Phoebe struggled to her feet, and as she led him into the hall, he glanced into the shadows, searching for the other girl. ‘Who’s the young lady who let me in?’

  ‘Minnie. She’s one of my sisters, but she isn’t a lady.’ Clumping up the staircase, the cat over her shoulder, she added: ‘Annie is, though. She doesn’t live at home any longer.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Llanberis. She’s a teacher.’

  ‘And what does Minnie do?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her that.’

  ‘Why don’t you like her?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her that, as well,’ Phoebe said. ‘Why are you so nosy?’

  ‘Because I’m paid to be.’ As she paused at the turn of the stairs, shifting the burden of the cat to her other shoulder, he asked: ‘Has that animal lost the use of her legs?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! And he’s a him, not a her.’ She frowned. ‘Well, he was a him. He’s an it now. Will he know there’s something missing, d’you think?’

  ‘I most certainly would.’ Dewi grinned. ‘And whatever he is, he needs more exercise. He’s quite fat.’

  At the head of the stairs, she stopped, staring gravely at him. ‘I’m quite fat, and I get lots of exercise.’ She hugged the cat. ‘I like holding him. He’s a comfort.’

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Couldn’t you think of something more original?’

  ‘He was already christened when I had him. Uncle Ned brought him from the farm.’

  ‘What farm?’

  ‘The family farm near Bala. It’s called Llys Ifor.’

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘Auntie Gladys and Auntie Gertrude.’ The slatey eyes darkened to basalt. ‘Mama didn’t know what to say to them, so she rang Annie and asked her to tell them about Uncle Ned.’

  ‘You’ll miss him, won’t you?’

  She nodded, clutching the cat.

  ‘And I expect it was a terrible shock when you saw him dead. Is that why you said someone must’ve killed him?’

  Gesturing towards a closed door at the end of the landing, she said: ‘That’s his room.’ Then she began to walk away in the opposite direction, stopping by another door. ‘I said that because it’s true, and you’ll find out I’m right, if you’re any good at what you get paid for.’

  He heard the creak of hinges, and the door thudded shut.

  5

  Janet stared. ‘I am honoured!’ Head swathed in
a bluey-green towel, body in a matching bathrobe, she smelled, Dewi thought, of mountain streams and sun-warmed heathers.

  He hovered on the doorstep. ‘I’ve been to Glamorgan Place.’

  ‘Then you’d better come in.’ She walked towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea.’

  He followed, peering through open doorways. ‘You’ve made the place very nice.’

  She filled two mugs, then sat at the kitchen table. ‘Not a bit like the manse, is it? No velvet drapes, no velvet sofas, no litter of ornaments, no knick-knacks on every surface.’

  ‘And no parents,’ Dewi added, looking around the bright room.

  ‘Quite.’ She lit a cigarette, and watched him through the smoke. ‘Did you want to tell me something about Edward Jones? I was on my way to bed.’

  ‘A stroll down the pier would do you far more good. It’s a gorgeous evening, there’s sure to be a little breeze off the sea, and you’re beginning to look like a plant that’s been shut in a cupboard.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ She clasped the mug, and smiled gently. ‘So say your piece, then I can get some sleep.’

  ‘Phoebe Harris thinks it was foul play.’

  ‘I told you that this afternoon.’

  ‘But you didn’t take her seriously, did you?’

  ‘Because there was no reason why I should. Sick old man drops dead. It happens every day.’

  ‘He was fifty seven. That’s not exactly old.’ Dewi stirred his tea, then dropped the spoon on the table. ‘And according to Phoebe, he was much sicker in the head than he was in the body.’

  ‘Then maybe he committed suicide.’

  ‘She says not.’

  ‘She’s not the fount of all wisdom,’ Janet said irritably. ‘She’s overweight, overwrought and over-imaginative!’

  ‘She could still be right.’

  6

  The street where McKenna had made his home since the collapse of his marriage, in a rented three-storey house, more resembled a slum, Dewi realized, each passing week. A nasty smell hung in the air, from torn plastic bags spilling rubbish in the gutters, smears of dog dirt on the pavement, and the patches of dark green mould daubed on the once white walls of the terrace opposite, where purple loosestrife and dusty weeds sprouted from fissures in the chimney stacks. At the end of the street, rusting tyreless wheels squashing the weeds which burgeoned between cracks in the pavement, two derelict cars had been dumped outside the empty house from where, last Christmas Eve, the police had evicted a group of squatters.

  McKenna opened the front door, bright yellow rubber gloves on his hands. ‘What a stroke of luck!’

  ‘What is, sir?’

  ‘You are. I could do with another pair of hands.’

  ‘For what, sir?’

  Shunted down the stairs and into the basement kitchen, Dewi found himself holding the gloves and a sponge, a bucket of steaming sudsy water at his feet.

  ‘It’s that stain by the cooker,’ McKenna said. ‘It won’t come out, even though I cleaned underneath the carpet. It comes back like Rizzio’s blood in Holyrood House.’

  ‘Serves you right for putting a carpet in the kitchen, if you don’t mind my saying, sir.’ On hands and knees, Dewi began to scrub.

  ‘It’s kitchen carpet. It’s supposed to repel stains.’ McKenna watched. ‘And I put it down because slate floors get ice-cold in winter.’

  ‘So what did you spill?’ Sweat began to glisten on the younger man’s face.

  ‘Bolognese sauce.’

  Dewi sat back on his haunches and brushed hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘You’re probably stuck with it, then. Tomato stains worse than blood.’

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ McKenna asked.

  ‘I’ve just had a cup of tea at Janet’s flat, but something cold would be nice.’ Wringing out the sponge, he brushed away the froth of suds, and surveyed the damp patch. ‘It’s not as bad as it was, but that’s not to say it’s gone for good.’ He stood up. ‘Who’s Rizzio?’

  ‘Mary Queen of Scots’ secretary, and allegedly her lover. Some of her nobles had him stabbed to death one supper-time.’ He filled two tumblers from a large bottle of cider, and sat at the kitchen table.

  Sitting in the other chair, Dewi said: ‘This could be my last visit, sir, because you can’t drink with the lower orders when you’re promoted. You’ll have to do your mixing elsewhere, like the golf club, or even the Lodge.’

  ‘If. Not when.’

  ‘It’s a foregone conclusion, sir. Inspector Tuttle said so before he went on leave yesterday.’

  ‘And he said the same to me when I went to relieve him of his cat-sitting duties, but we’ll see what Monday brings, shall we?’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, Eifion Roberts said the chief constable was being extraordinarily nice to me today.’

  Pushing an ashtray within McKenna’s reach, Dewi said: ‘Shouldn’t you think about moving house, then? This street’s really horrible.’

  ‘If I wait a bit longer, it might get gentrified.’

  ‘Who by? The locals haven’t got that kind of money, and all the English want to be on Anglesey. What happened to the old folk across the road?’

  ‘One’s gone to see out her days in a rest home, and the other two were carried out feet first in early April.’

  ‘A lot of people die in the spring, don’t they?’ Dewi asked. ‘Maybe they have to see the world turning again before they can leave it behind.’ He drank half the cider without stopping. ‘Then again, people die all the time. Janet was called out to a sudden death this afternoon, at one of those big detached houses in Glamorgan Place, and I’ve been back this evening.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to check things are sorted until the autopsy result comes through. The doctor couldn’t certify cause of death, but it looks like natural causes.’ Draining his glass, he added: ‘It’s a weird household. The dead man lodged with this relative called Edith Harris, and she’s got three daughters, but there’s no sign of a husband or other visible means of support.’

  ‘So perhaps her lodger was filling the voids, as it were. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir. He was fifty-seven.’

  McKenna grinned. ‘A year younger than Eifion Roberts, and you should have seen him leering at the girls on Llandudno beach. Still, you can’t blame him, I suppose. They don’t leave much to the imagination these days.’

  Dewi flushed slightly. ‘One of Mrs Harris’s girls is quite fetching. The youngest is so ugly I felt sorry for her. How they came out of the same pod is beyond me.’

  ‘What about the third?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. She lives in Llanberis.’

  ‘And the mother?’

  ‘Neurotic, irritating, and prone to asking questions you can’t answer.’

  ‘She was probably in shock. It takes people different ways.’

  ‘She struck me as being near hysterical most of the time.’ He uncapped the cider bottle and refilled his glass. ‘And Phoebe, the ugly sister, said her Uncle Ned was supposed to be crazy, but she also reckons he was bumped off, so maybe they’re all crazy.’

  ‘Why should she think he was murdered?’

  ‘I had a chat with Mrs Harris after forensics went and things had quietened down a bit, and she says Phoebe’s probably in denial. Ned Jones moved to Glamorgan Place before she was born, and they were very close.’

  ‘Ned Jones?’ McKenna frowned. ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘A village called Penglogfa, not far from Bala. The family had a farm and his sisters still live there.’ Quaffing cider, Dewi went on. ‘Ned came years ago to lecture at the university, but they retired him because he was forever ill. His room’s stacked from floor to ceiling with old books and papers, but nobody seems to know if he was doing anything constructive with them. Mrs Harris kept saying: “It’s such a shame when that sort of thing happens, isn’t it? Such a terrible waste of his talent, wasn’t it?”, which is what I meant about the questions, because
I hadn’t a clue what she meant.’ As McKenna rose to go to the parlour, he added: ‘Phoebe says the farm’s called Llys Ifor.’

  ‘I know.’ Rummaging through the books on the shelves in the chimney alcove, McKenna found what he wanted, then handed it to Dewi, open at a page of photographs. ‘See anyone you know?’

  Dewi stared with undisguised amazement. ‘It’s you, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Many moons ago.’ Retrieving the book, McKenna pointed to another face, hollow-eyed and melancholy. ‘And that’s Ned Jones, when he won the essay prize at the National Eisteddfod.’

  Dewi scanned the text. ‘And you got second prize. Why did you never tell anyone, sir? You could’ve been quite famous.’

  ‘Because I would have preferred to be very famous,’ McKenna confessed. ‘I felt like strangling him. He came from nowhere and snatched the glory right out of my hands.’ Seated on his old chesterfield, he cradled the Eisteddfod yearbook on his lap. ‘That year’s essay theme was “Identity in Crisis”, so I wrote about my family’s ruptured identity and cultural dislocation, and how I’d renegotiated myself out of an Irish past to a Welsh present.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I suppose it was a bit precious, but everyone expected me to win.’

  Dewi sat beside him. ‘And what was Ned’s contribution about?’

  ‘Guilt and atonement and visitation by the sins of the fathers.’ McKenna lit the cigarette. ‘His family owned other properties besides Llys Ifor, and huge tracts of land and a slate quarry, and because all that wealth came from the proceeds of slave-trading, he said he owed his existence to the black people his ancestors exploited.’ He paused, drawing on the cigarette. ‘He’d trawled the family records for biographies of some of the slaves, and described what he called their atomized private identities, how and where they died, what happened to their children, and so on.’

  ‘Heavy stuff,’ Dewi observed. ‘Did it deserve the prize?’

  McKenna nodded. ‘I wanted to weep with envy.’