in Suffolk – moody sort of place, apparently, very inspirational. In later years, he reckoned there was only one area to match it.’
‘Let me guess.’
‘Aye. Specifically, the countryside around Kilpeck and Much Dewchurch. Four miles from Garway? Five?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘The trail, however, does lead to Garway itself.’
Merrily pulled her cloak over her knees, wanting a cigarette. Watching an unexpected sunbeam stroking a mossy headstone. Where was this going?
‘Monty never married,’ Huw said. ‘But he did have a close, though presumed platonic, female friend called Gwendolen McBryde. Widow of his good mate James McBryde, a talented artist, illustrated some of the early stories. Gwen was pregnant when he died, very young, and gave birth to a daughter. Mother and daughter moved to Herefordshire.’
‘As youngish widows with daughters sometimes do.’
Oh, sod it
. She pulled her bag onto the bench, found the cigarettes. ‘Seems Monty would visit Gwen on quite a regular basis,’ Huw said. ‘Finding the countryside much to his taste, like I said. Monty was very fond of old churches and extremely knowledgeable about them. No big surprise that he’d visit Garway.’
‘If you say so.’
‘This is the point. After Monty’s death, Gwen published a collectionof his letters –
Letters from a Friend
. In one of them, James recalls a particular visit to Garway in, I think, 1917. Actually, there are two mentions of Garway, but one just in passing. The one you need to know about … Well, I’ve already emailed it to you. Best if you read it when you get back home.’
‘Huw, for heaven’s sake—’
‘The woman who edits the website, Rosemary Pardoe, says Monty appears to have had, quote,
a peculiar experience
at Garway, the nature of which is, quote,
tantalizingly unclear
, but which he writes about with
typical spooky Jamesian humour
.’
‘Saying …?’
‘Read it when you get back. I don’t want you thinking I’m embroidering it, winding you up. Some places just attract this kind of thing.’
‘
Huw
—’
‘Have to be off, anyroad. I’ve work to do, and so have you.’
And then he wasn’t there, the bastard.
But if he’d thought it was
so
important, surely he’d have told her.
13
Couldn’t Make it Up
A FTER THE SERVICE , when everybody else, even Shirley West, had gone, Merrily had a furtive cigarette with Gomer Parry behind the tower. Asking him what the feeling was in the village about the resurrection of the old stones in Coleman’s Meadow. Maybe most people would actually prefer a new estate of executive homes?
‘En’t so much that, vicar,’ Gomer said. ‘Few more fancy houses en’t the argument. Tip o’ the muck-heap. It’s who’s in bed with Lyndon Pierce. Who wants to see the village turned into a town? Supermarkets and posh restaurants. And who’s on young Janey’s side.’
‘And yours, Gomer. Let’s not forget that.’
‘Ar. I’ll be doin’ my bit, sure to, to see Pierce gets his arse kicked, vicar.’
The light was back, big time, in Gomer’s wire-rimmed glasses, his white hair topping his weathered brown face like the froth on beer. Councillor Pierce had said Gomer Parry was halfway senile, an old joke who ought to be in a home. Gomer would need to be a long way into senility to forget that.
‘Harchaeologists needs a JCB and a driver,’ he said. ‘Won’t be no charge from me.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Gomer. I’m sure Jane’ll see it gets back to the right people. Erm … you know Felix Barlow?’
‘Barlow …’ Gomer adjusted his cap, screwed up his eyes. ‘Builder?’
‘From Monkland. Knows Danny.’
‘Ar. Met the feller a few times over the years. He don’t build no mock-Tudor rainbow-stone crap. Don’t build nothin’ new at all, far’s I can see.’
‘Good bloke?’
‘Oh, straight, I reckon. Liked a drink at one time, so I yeard. That’d be when he was married.’
‘When was that?’
‘Eight years,
‘Let me guess.’
‘Aye. Specifically, the countryside around Kilpeck and Much Dewchurch. Four miles from Garway? Five?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘The trail, however, does lead to Garway itself.’
Merrily pulled her cloak over her knees, wanting a cigarette. Watching an unexpected sunbeam stroking a mossy headstone. Where was this going?
‘Monty never married,’ Huw said. ‘But he did have a close, though presumed platonic, female friend called Gwendolen McBryde. Widow of his good mate James McBryde, a talented artist, illustrated some of the early stories. Gwen was pregnant when he died, very young, and gave birth to a daughter. Mother and daughter moved to Herefordshire.’
‘As youngish widows with daughters sometimes do.’
Oh, sod it
. She pulled her bag onto the bench, found the cigarettes. ‘Seems Monty would visit Gwen on quite a regular basis,’ Huw said. ‘Finding the countryside much to his taste, like I said. Monty was very fond of old churches and extremely knowledgeable about them. No big surprise that he’d visit Garway.’
‘If you say so.’
‘This is the point. After Monty’s death, Gwen published a collectionof his letters –
Letters from a Friend
. In one of them, James recalls a particular visit to Garway in, I think, 1917. Actually, there are two mentions of Garway, but one just in passing. The one you need to know about … Well, I’ve already emailed it to you. Best if you read it when you get back home.’
‘Huw, for heaven’s sake—’
‘The woman who edits the website, Rosemary Pardoe, says Monty appears to have had, quote,
a peculiar experience
at Garway, the nature of which is, quote,
tantalizingly unclear
, but which he writes about with
typical spooky Jamesian humour
.’
‘Saying …?’
‘Read it when you get back. I don’t want you thinking I’m embroidering it, winding you up. Some places just attract this kind of thing.’
‘
Huw
—’
‘Have to be off, anyroad. I’ve work to do, and so have you.’
And then he wasn’t there, the bastard.
But if he’d thought it was
so
important, surely he’d have told her.
13
Couldn’t Make it Up
A FTER THE SERVICE , when everybody else, even Shirley West, had gone, Merrily had a furtive cigarette with Gomer Parry behind the tower. Asking him what the feeling was in the village about the resurrection of the old stones in Coleman’s Meadow. Maybe most people would actually prefer a new estate of executive homes?
‘En’t so much that, vicar,’ Gomer said. ‘Few more fancy houses en’t the argument. Tip o’ the muck-heap. It’s who’s in bed with Lyndon Pierce. Who wants to see the village turned into a town? Supermarkets and posh restaurants. And who’s on young Janey’s side.’
‘And yours, Gomer. Let’s not forget that.’
‘Ar. I’ll be doin’ my bit, sure to, to see Pierce gets his arse kicked, vicar.’
The light was back, big time, in Gomer’s wire-rimmed glasses, his white hair topping his weathered brown face like the froth on beer. Councillor Pierce had said Gomer Parry was halfway senile, an old joke who ought to be in a home. Gomer would need to be a long way into senility to forget that.
‘Harchaeologists needs a JCB and a driver,’ he said. ‘Won’t be no charge from me.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Gomer. I’m sure Jane’ll see it gets back to the right people. Erm … you know Felix Barlow?’
‘Barlow …’ Gomer adjusted his cap, screwed up his eyes. ‘Builder?’
‘From Monkland. Knows Danny.’
‘Ar. Met the feller a few times over the years. He don’t build no mock-Tudor rainbow-stone crap. Don’t build nothin’ new at all, far’s I can see.’
‘Good bloke?’
‘Oh, straight, I reckon. Liked a drink at one time, so I yeard. That’d be when he was married.’
‘When was that?’
‘Eight years,
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