MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective , GRETTA MULROONEY [books to read now .txt] 📗

He drifted in and out of sleep through the night. He had vivid dreams. In one, Ruth sat by the Rhône in Lyon with him. She wore a wedding dress and a circlet of flowers in her hair. He went to take her hand, telling her how happy he was to be her husband, but she frowned and told him he’d got it wrong. She’d married Emlyn, they were on their honeymoon and he would be here any minute.

* * *

Swift woke just after half six and peered out of the bedroom window. The rain had cleared, and the sky was an intense, cloudless blue. Somewhere, a cockerel crowed loud and long. He went to the bathroom and listened to the toilet make its loud, sinister groan. Bruno had explained that it was a macerating system, as the waste had some way to go to the main drain. He showered under a slow trickle of lukewarm water and dressed, then he made a cup of tea and wandered barefoot into the garden. He picked and ate tomatoes and loganberries. Jasmine had told him that he should help himself to breakfast in the refec. He decided to walk around the site first and get his bearings properly. He donned his jacket, closed the windows, locked the door and set off.

The dwellings all had turfed roofs and chimneys but had been constructed in different styles. There was another cottage like Afan’s, two hexagonal structures, painted bright pink with porthole windows, a cabin with a triangular front and a house that resembled a Viking longhouse, made of varnished timbers and with oregano, sedum and sea thrift growing on the roof. He passed several long polytunnels and a large, fenced area with henhouses inside.

The climbing sun was drying the drenched earth and the air smelled rich and loamy. Past the Bivium and through a wooded area of hornbeam and larch, he saw an elevated, handsome period farmhouse, fronted by a paved courtyard. It was stone-built, weathered grey and brown, with pargeting on the plaster around the sturdy oak front door. The courtyard was dotted with lemon trees in blue earthenware pots. Dark green willow planters containing purple fuchsias stood under the windows. Peter Merchant was standing in the centre of the paving with his back turned, his bare right foot against his left calf, arms reaching up with steepled hands. He wore a T-shirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms — a scrawny scarecrow. It seemed that the Merchants lived in the big house. Swift was puzzled about how this place fitted together.

He decided to walk as far as the chapel and hoped it would be open. The rutted path towards the entrance gate was deep in puddles. Swift was regretting his lack of wellingtons. He should have borrowed Afan’s, which he’d seen near the front door. He brushed the back of his hand along the tops of drenched ferns as he walked. His back was to the sun and he was glad of its warmth on his neck.

The chapel door had a simple latch, and it was open. On the right of the doorframe, Swift saw that a fish symbol had been carved into the stone. Inside was a shadowy space of about fifteen feet square with a vaulted roof. The walls were limestone, the earth floor dry and caked. A wooden collection box was fixed to the back wall with a laminated card above.

Welcome to St Finnian’s chapel

The Tir Melys community cares for this holy place

Please leave a donation towards its upkeep

He put a pound coin in the box. There was just a small stone altar with two wooden benches before it. Swift walked around the bare altar and then sat on one of the benches. The air was chilly but not damp. The chapel had a benign atmosphere, not particularly holy, but calm. He heard the door open behind him and turned to see Bruno entering, his dungarees tucked into wellingtons. He was carrying a bunch of wildflowers. He halted abruptly when he saw Swift, and then came and sat beside him.

‘You’re an early bird,’ he said softly.

‘So are you.’

‘I call in here now and again. It’s peaceful. A bit gloomy, and freezing in the winter, but peaceful.’

‘If you want to be on your own, I can go.’

‘No, no, stay as you are.’ Bruno seemed friendlier this morning. ‘No sign of Afan?

‘No, but if he’s had to deal with an emergency, I wouldn’t expect him to be back yet. I’ve been wondering why this is called St Finnian’s chapel. Wasn’t he Irish?’

‘He was trained in a Welsh monastery, in Glamorgan, in the fifth century. There’s no evidence that he ever actually hung out here. A handful of hermits used it over the centuries, I believe. There’s a cleft in the stone to one side of the altar, leads to a small chamber. It’s supposed to be a hidey-hole where hermits used to conceal themselves if they heard someone coming. The chapel isn’t in use anymore. Just a bit of interesting heritage.’

‘Kat told me it’s also called the Serpent’s Chapel.’

Bruno laughed. ‘Kat likes a bit of drama and embellishment. There’s some local stories that satanic rites were enacted here, possibly in the seventeenth century, but it’s all a bit vague. Might have been the teenage Goth equivalents of the time, having a bit of fun.’ He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles. ‘Afan comes here sometimes to meditate.’

‘He was a private kind of man when I knew him in Lyon. Is he religious?’

Bruno said, ‘Not religious in any formal sense. I used to work with horses back in Alberta. Sometimes, Afan reminds me of a nervous horse, skittish if you get too close.’ He pulled a face and tugged at his beard. ‘He probably comes here to hide away from Kat.’

‘Because?’

‘Kat’s a