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

‘People interest me, full stop.’

She smiled coyly. ‘Do I?’ She’d done something strange with her eyebrows. They seemed dense and a bit startling.

‘Where were you living before you came here?’ he asked.

‘I was in Cardiff.’

‘Did you know Afan before you moved here?’

She reached for a pigtail and said sulkily, ‘Strange question. Why are you asking me that?’

‘You asked me if I was interested in you. Now you don’t seem to like a friendly enquiry.’

‘Jasmine’s about to start,’ she said with obvious relief, sticking the pigtail end between her lips.

Jasmine was wearing a long green velvet dress edged with blue and laced across the bodice. It was fitted at the waist and flowed down in panels. The sleeves billowed as she walked up the side of the packed room. Very Lady Guinevere, Swift thought, joining in the applause. Jasmine stood at the front, next to her harp, her hands joined in front of her waist.

‘Thank you all so much for coming tonight. Wales has an unbroken tradition of harp playing and I’m proud to continue that here at Tir Melys. I play the triple harp, which is considered to be Wales’s national instrument. It has a unique, shimmering voice. I’ll be playing traditional ballads and dances for you.’ Her smile turned to a solemn gaze. ‘This concert is dedicated to Afan Griffith, who was a member of our warm, close community here at Tir Melys. He was found brutally murdered last Tuesday. We all mourn Afan in our own ways, but I hope that the music tonight will help us to celebrate his life and honour his memory. You can drink to him afterwards also, with a glass of his wonderful mead. The final piece tonight will be “The Ash Grove”, which Afan was fond of. Thank you.’

She sat at the harp, shifted her stool, rested her hands on the instrument, lowered her head for a few moments and started playing. She was a good musician with a sure touch. Swift scanned the room. All the members of the community were present, most of them in the front row. Peter Merchant sat directly in front of his wife. Guy Brinkworth was staring up at the ceiling, his arms folded, his body language expressing boredom. Swift closed his eyes, relaxing into the rippling strings. Memories of the woman he’d seen in the mist at Ogmore returned and he pictured her again, appearing and disappearing like an entrancing wraith. He was aware of Kat beside him, watchful and tense, chewing on her hair, and resented her presence. After several pieces, all of which received hearty applause, Jasmine announced that she would now accompany Bryn Price singing the beautiful lullaby, Suo Gân. Bryn got up from the front row. Unlike Jasmine, he’d made no special effort with his appearance and was wearing jeans and a creased red T-shirt. He sang confidently, legs apart, his right hand over his heart.

‘Sleep my darling, on my bosom,

Harm will never come to you;

Mother’s arms enfold you safely,

Mother’s heart is ever true.

As you sleep there’s naught to scare you,

Naught to wake you from your rest;

Close those eyelids, little angel,

Sleep upon your mother’s breast.’

The big, brawny man singing the tender lyrics held the audience. Swift noted the door edging open and hoped that Caris was about to appear but saw that it was a flushed and awkward DS Spencer. There were no spare chairs, so he sat on the floor with his back to the wall, wriggling uncomfortably in his constricting suit and loosening his tie.

Jasmine played four more airs. After final warm applause, she stood, beaming, and invited everyone to have refreshments. Before anyone could move, Bryn got up again and stood beside her. His eyes sparked with excitement and malice.

‘Just before the nibbles, I’d like to inform everyone here of some news. Quite a few of you have been attending these concerts for a while now, and you’ve become our friends. Jasmine told you that we’re a warm, close community. We all work hard here, tending the land, and although we’re tenants, we put our hearts and souls into this place. Sad to say, Jasmine doesn’t mean her sweet-sounding words. There won’t be many more concerts. You see, Jasmine and Peter Merchant have had Tir Melys valued, and they’re planning to put it on the market next week. They’re selling out from under us and we’ll be given notice. This is reliable information, confirmed yesterday by my contact at the estate agents in Haverfordwest. I suppose you took your business there, Jasmine, rather than Holybridge, in the hope that we wouldn’t find out before you decided to inform us, when it would be too late for us to do anything.’

A gasp ran through the room. There were a few muttered Nos! Chairs shifted. Kat burst into tears and grasped the opportunity to clutch at Swift’s arm. Jasmine was white with shock. Peter Merchant slumped down in his seat.

‘Is this true?’ Elinor had shot up. She stood, gripping the back of her chair, staring at Jasmine.

Jasmine croaked, ‘This isn’t the time or the place . . .’

Bruno challenged her. ‘Oh, come on, Jasmine, just spit it out, there’s nowhere left to hide.’

‘Yeah, no more porky pies.’ Bryn smiled widely, enjoying himself.

Jasmine gazed at her husband but there was no help from that quarter. She stared over the heads of the audience and swallowed, as if she was about to fold to the floor, but she made a brave effort to hold her ground. ‘This isn’t the way we wanted to break this news, and I’m saddened that Bryn has chosen to mar our wonderful commemoration of Afan. Sadly, because of personal circumstances, we’ve had to take the very