The House on the Cliff by Charlotte Williams Page A

“Where are you going?”
    “I haven’t decided yet. But it won’t be West Wales.”
    She laughed. “D’you want me to come with you?”
    I thought about it. “No. I think I need some time on my own, actually. But thanks for offering.”
    We went on to chat about this and that. Mari told me she was up for a part in a new film about the early life of Shirley Bassey, set in Cardiff in the fifties. She was hoping to play Bassey’s mother, the redoubtable Eliza Jane, and had been practicing her accent for the audition. Then she asked me about how Nella’s singing was going, and I told her about Emyr Griffiths. I said I was worried about him, explaining how he’d been sacked from his job at the school, but I didn’t tell her that he’d come to me as a client afterward. As I’ve said, Mari isn’t the most discreet of souls. She advised me not to worry, to let Nella get on with her life, as I knew she would. Then she asked me how things were going at work.
    “Actually, there’s something going on with one of my clients.” I hesitated, not wanting to break my rule about patient confidentiality. “I can’t really tell you about it, but it involves that director you told me about, Evan Morgan.”
    “Oh yes?” Mari sounded intrigued.
    “Didn’t you mention there was some kind of scandal about him and a young girl. Way back?”
    “That’s right. She was working for the family at the time.” Mari gave an ironic laugh. “The Swedish au pair. Priceless, isn’t it.”
    “She was Swedish?”
    “As far as I remember. There was some kind of accident. She went off swimming on her own. Drowned, out there in the bay behind the house . . .”
    My mind was racing. So the Swedish tourist that Arianrhod had told me about wasn’t a tourist at all. She was the family’s au pair.
    “I really can’t remember the details. But the family were upset about it,” Mari went on. “And of course, there was the suspicion that . . .”
    “That what?” I pictured the photograph of Evan Morgan, with the blacked-in eyes, and felt a cold fear rise up from my belly.
    “Well, you know what he was like.”
    “What d’you mean? You think he had something to do with the accident?”
    “Of course not. No, that there’d been some hanky-panky between him and the girl.” Mari sighed. “It wouldn’t have looked good if that had come out. Not in the circumstances.”
    “But wasn’t there an investigation?”
    “I suppose there must have been. But the family managed to hush it up, or that’s what was rumored. They’re a pretty influential lot, the Morgans, aren’t they?”
    I pictured the little plaque at the top of the cliffside at Creigfa Bay, the unfamiliar script with its circles over the As and dots over the Os. I wondered who had put it there. Her parents, most probably, as a memorial. I wondered what it said and, if I could find out, whether it would tell me anything more about the girl who had drowned out there in the gray waters.
    Mari began to press me for information as to who my mysterious client might be. She must have thought she was being subtle, but it was clear to me that she was simply looking for gossip. So I brought the conversation to a close, telling her that I was running late, that I had a ton of household chores to do, and that we’d have to talk another time. She sounded disappointed, but I rang off all the same.
    Damn, I thought, as I put the phone down. I went over to the table and began to clear up the breakfast things. Outside, the sun was still shining. I’d been looking forward to getting out there, pottering about in the garden in a haphazard way, perhaps hanging out the washing if the weather held. Now I had this to think about, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax.
    I stacked the plates and cups by the dishwasher and started to load it, pondering on the problem as I did. Why had Arianrhod lied to me about the girl? Was it to shield her husband from a sex scandal, or for some other, more