Sleeper’s Castle Page 13

  ‘You think Catrin is trying to tell you something?’

  ‘Perhaps she is,’ Andy said. She stared down into her cup. ‘I think I may have seen her – or perhaps sensed her is a better word – in the house, when I was awake.’

  ‘Not a ghost!’ Ella sounded excited.

  Andy smiled. ‘I have always been interested in ghosts. I may not have seen one, but I do believe in their possibility.’

  ‘I do too,’ Ella said eagerly. ‘Most people do, of course, whatever they say. In my case, it’s probably as much a part of my interest in local history as anything else; I like to collect ghost stories. Sometimes they contain snippets of actual memories of past events. I’m sure they do.’

  ‘I would love to think that is what this is,’ Andy said. ‘Two poets on tour and—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘I hope I’m not going to find out that their journey ended in tragedy.’ She sighed. ‘Sian took me up to see if there was any sign of your friend Meryn at his house,’ she changed the subject.

  Ella sat forward, her elbows on the table. ‘And was there?’

  ‘No.’ Andy took a sip of coffee. ‘What makes him such an expert on the paranormal?’

  ‘What makes anyone an expert on anything?’ Ella thought for a moment. ‘Interest. Study. In the case of the paranormal, I suppose people feel they have a certain facility which is not given to everybody and when your name gets around then you become the local consultant of choice. Meryn claims to be something of an academic. He travels round giving lectures, although as far as I know he isn’t attached to any university. His speciality is Celtic Studies but he also claims to be a spiritual man. Not too long ago a story went round that he was working with some people in the West Country and was involved in some sort of a haunting which involved Jesus’s visit to Glastonbury.’

  ‘The Jesus?’ Andy said, startled.

  Ella laughed. ‘The one and only. Don’t quote me. Perhaps one day he will tell you about it himself.’

  ‘I am so looking forward to meeting him.’

  ‘You will.’ Ella hesitated, then pushed aside her cup. ‘Be careful, Andy. Interesting as all this is, don’t get drawn in too much. You’ve obviously got a good imagination. Don’t let it get the better of you, will you.’

  Andy drained the last dregs from her cup. ‘Don’t worry. If ever I wake up drenched in the blood of battle, you won’t see me for dust. I shall be off back to London the same day!’

  They both laughed.

  Ella sighed, glancing at her watch. ‘Much as I’m enjoying this chat I have to go, I’m afraid. Roy will be cross if I’m late back to the shop. Keep me posted about what happens next to Catrin and her family, won’t you.’

  Andy watched her as she made her way to the door, greeting people as she went out, turning along Castle Street, threading her way through the morning shoppers until she was out of sight.

  Why, she was wondering, hadn’t she mentioned Owain Glyndŵr to Ella, the name that told her the exact date of Catrin’s adventure – the early 1400s. Even she, as a mere Englishwoman, knew that Glyndŵr was one of Wales’s greatest heroes, a freedom fighter and something of a King Arthur figure, half history, half myth. Instinct had stopped her talking about him, and maybe she had been right. She wanted to be a bit more sure of her facts before she talked about her dreams to anyone else.

  She followed Ella out only a few minutes later, heading for the car park and home.

  There was something she wanted to try.

  Andy parked the car next to Bryn’s van and sat glaring out of the window at it. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she couldn’t help resenting his presence, turning up at odd hours, removing at a stroke her sense of privacy. Not that he was likely to bother her one way or the other. She got out of her car, glancing up at the front garden clinging to its precipitous perch above the parking area. The early morning rain had moved away towards the east and the sunlight was reflecting in a million raindrops, dazzling in their diamond brightness. She ran up the steps to the front door, let herself in and walked through to the kitchen.

  Pulling off her jacket she hung it on the back of the chair. There was no sign of Bryn outside but even so his presence in the garden made her feel jumpy. She made her way up to her bedroom and closed the door behind her, then sat on the bed, settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to travel in her waking mind. Could she guide herself back in meditation or reverie and control what happened? One or two of her books seemed to think it was possible. It was worth a try.

  Carefully and in as much detail as she could manage, she imagined herself back into Catrin’s world. She pictured the trees, the horses and the mule with its long velvet-lined ears, the mist hanging on the horizons. She smelt the scent of the sweet grasses under their hooves as they rode.

  It didn’t work.

  She kept her eyes closed and tried to make herself relax until she found herself struck with an unexpected pang of guilt. How Graham would have hated her doing this. She could picture his face, almost feel his cold scorn at such childish behaviour. ‘Grow up, Andy!’ His voice seemed to echo round the room. ‘Get a real life!’

  He was sitting outside on the terrace, a glass of wine at his elbow, a newspaper lying folded on the table beside it. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed against the sunlight. She watched, holding her breath, noting every tiny detail of his face, the sunburned V revealed by the open neck of his shirt, the tiny fair hairs on the backs of his fingers gold in the sunshine to match his unruly hair. She felt herself smile.

  ‘Graham,’ she whispered. ‘Can you see me?’

  He didn’t move.

  She could see herself tiptoeing up the steps from the lawn and standing near him, but there was something not quite right in the picture. She moved uncomfortably on the bed and realised that she was still there, in her bedroom, that this picture in her mind was still just that, in her mind. She leaned towards him and reached out her hand, but she was casting no shadow as she came between him and the sun. He was smiling lazily now, the smile she loved so much, the momentary irritation gone, but it was a smile from her own memory. He wasn’t real. ‘Relax,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Let it come naturally. Graham, darling, I’m here, with you. Can you see me?’ He smiled again, easing himself on the wrought-iron chair, his fingers tapping on the tabletop. The paper. What was the date on the paper? She leaned forward, trying to see.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here? Can’t even the police keep you away!’ The shrill voice cut across her reverie like a knife. She heard the squeak of the kitchen door as it was pushed back and Rhona stepped out onto the terrace only six feet from her. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans with strappy sandals. She marched towards the table and pushed in the empty chair on which Graham had been sitting so hard that its legs grated on the boards. He had gone. He had never been there. Reaching into her hip pocket, Rhona brought out her phone and brandished it in Andy’s face. With a grim smile she raised it and clicked a picture. ‘Now we’ll see if the police believe their own eyes. This time you will find yourself in a prison cell. Stalking is a crime, you know.’

  Paralysed with shock, Andy couldn’t move. She clenched her fists trying to regain control of herself, of her dream; she and Rhona were looking at each other, their eyes locked, for several seconds, or so it seemed, before she found herself back in her bedroom, wide awake, her heart thudding with adrenaline, her hands sweaty and hot.

  She sat up, trying to steady herself. The room was spinning. Her mouth was dry and downstairs the phone was ringing.

  Rhona stared at her phone. There was no answer when she tried Miranda’s mobile. There never was. She pulled up the photo file and studied the last one. It was a picture of the table, the empty chairs, the house wall behind the terrace. There was no sign of Miranda on it at all. She shook it angrily and stared at it again then let out a string of expletives. The woman was there, in front of her and then she had gone.

 
; She had imagined her.

  Deep in thought, she stepped back into the kitchen and pulled the door shut behind her.

  There had been no point in her threat to go to the police again; they had made it absolutely clear that they viewed her as a jealous, demented old bag. She tightened her lips. On the other hand, they had believed her enough to check up on Miranda’s whereabouts at the time of her last visit and apparently she had an alibi. Her mother! As though anyone would believe a mother’s word.

  Her hatred of the other woman was increasing with every moment she thought about what had happened. Had her jealousy really deepened to the point where she was capable of imagining her rival in front of her? Because she was jealous, there was no denying that. She had reason enough after all. Miranda had stolen the best years of Graham’s life and then she’d driven him to an early grave with her selfish demands. She was a murderer. Oh yes, they said it was cancer. They always said unexplained deaths were due to cancer, but Graham had been a fit, strong man. He wouldn’t have dropped dead just like that in his fifties, and she was going to prove it. Then she was going to destroy the woman who had killed him.

  She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down heavily, her chin propped on her hands.

  Either she was imagining Miranda’s presence with a vividness which was terrifying or Miranda was really here, perhaps staying with a neighbour and somehow sneaking in with the express intention of tormenting her. But how could she? The gates and doors were locked.

  The first thing was to establish where Miranda was supposed to be staying. Even the police were determined to keep Miranda’s whereabouts a secret. That in itself was suspicious. She sat back in the chair and thought hard. Three people had Miranda’s address. Her mother and the Allardyces. That had been a good guess. She knew they had been close friends. She scowled. Where did that get her? They weren’t going to tell her. She thought back to the embarrassed young policeman who had come round to inform her that Miranda had an alibi and anyway was too far away. Had he actually said that? She squeezed her eyes tightly, trying to think. Yes, he had said those words. Inadvertently he had given her a clue. She wasn’t based in London. She was far away.

  She gave a slow triumphant smile. Now all she had to do was work out with which of her friends she was staying, and in the top drawer of the bureau bookcase, which would soon be on its way to the auctions, Rhona had found an old address book of Miranda’s. She climbed to her feet and went through into the next room. Most of Miranda’s belongings had been consigned to the incinerator, but this was one of the things she had kept.

  Slowly and methodically she began to go through the book page by page. The majority of Miranda’s friends lived in London and for now she discounted them. She picked up her phone and one after the other she began to dial the rest. After an hour she was left with three names and addresses which she had not been able to verify or discount for one reason or another. One of them was Sue Macarthur. She dialled the number twice. There was no reply. The name was familiar. Graham must have mentioned it to her at some point. The woman lived in a remote farmhouse and he had been to stay with her, that was it. He had told her he couldn’t meet her because he and Miranda were going to Wales for the summer. Wales. She studied the address in front of her. It was a definite possibility. So, all she had to do was keep ringing. In the end somebody would be in and pick up the phone and then she would know for certain.

  She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the information once she had it, but the knowledge would be empowering. With a small, satisfied smile she climbed to her feet and went to fill the kettle. A cup of one of the special coffees she had found in the cupboard would be a perfect way to celebrate her newly honed forensic skills. If the distance between Miranda Dysart’s hiding place – even inside her head she gave the name a mocking emphasis – gave the woman an alibi, it could work in both directions.

  Supposing Miranda had some kind of accident in her hideaway, be it in Wales or in any of the other addresses in this book. An accident to stop her in her tracks. An accident to pay her back for tormenting her and for being here, with Graham, and being happy. If something happened to the woman, nothing even remotely suspicious would be laid at her door; after all, the police knew she lived miles away on the other side of the country. It was a delicious thought. Rhona smiled to herself. Until this second she had not contemplated why she wanted to find Miranda so badly, but this last sighting of her had made one thing clear. She was never going to be rid of her as long as the woman was freely roaming round this house. How she had transported herself here and why she was making herself such a problem, Rhona couldn’t fathom. All she needed to focus on was the fact that it must not happen again.

  Wearily Andy walked over to the window and stared out over the garden. There was no sign of Bryn. A rain shower raced across the valley, splattering against the window, reducing the visibility to nil. Minutes later it had gone and bright sunlight spread across the herb beds once more. Behind her the phone rang again. She ignored it, clenching her fists in the pocket of a jacket.

  ‘Graham,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God, I miss you so much. Why aren’t you there for me?’ Warm tears trickled down her cheeks. Miserably she wandered back upstairs. She paused in the doorway to Sue’s bedroom where her mother had slept. The room was still full of her presence. She walked over to the bed. Her mother had stripped off the sheets and the duvet was looking naked and bereft without its cover. Without thinking clearly what she was doing Andy crawled under it and curled up to a tight ball.

  Outside the window the sunlight dimmed and black clouds massed behind the hills. Shadows spread across the garden and with the shadows came the howl of the wind. Andy shivered. Somewhere out there beyond the mountains Catrin was waiting, staring into the distance, her ears strained for the sound of hoofbeats.

  9

  Catrin glanced up at the sky. Another storm was threatening; the wind had grown stronger, tearing at the clouds, fragmenting the sunlight into patches of light and shade. They had found a brook and she slid from her saddle, allowing her pony to drink as she looked nervously around her, narrowing her eyes against the wind. Behind her, her father sat slumped on the cob without moving. When she spotted Edmund she almost cried out in surprise. He was concealed behind the bushes at the side of the track quite a distance in front of them. He put his finger to his lips and beckoned them on and then he was gone, back into the shadows. Catrin looked at her father, who was sitting, arms folded, his rein loose on his horse’s neck as it lowered its head to drink. ‘Tad, I have seen Edmund. He wants us to move on quietly,’ she whispered. ‘There must be danger back there. Let’s walk on slowly.’

  For once he didn’t argue. He gathered his rein as she scrambled onto her pony and they turned back onto the track, riding as casually as they could towards the shelter of a copse ahead. Her mouth had gone dry. As far as she knew they hadn’t been seen yet, but any loud noise might draw attention to their presence.

  Catching up with Edmund they followed him off the track and round into the copse. Only when they were a good distance further on did he stop. ‘There are large numbers of men back there,’ he said once he thought they were sufficiently concealed from the road. ‘Men-at-arms, wearing Grey’s blazon. I’m not sure what they are up to – a training sortie, at a guess, but I would rather they didn’t see us. They must be in hiding for a reason.’

  ‘Was he there?’ Dafydd asked, frowning.

  ‘Not that I could see. There was one knight in charge. They were fully armed. My guess is that they were mustering to join the king’s army for his Scottish campaign, but any body of armed men on the move is bad news for a small group like us.’ He glanced anxiously at Catrin. ‘I want us out of this area as soon as possible.’

  ‘Keeping in mind that Sir Reginald is no friend to the Lord Glyndŵr, so it would be little protection to say that was where we were headed,’ Dafydd added with a nod. He pulled himself up onto his saddle. ‘I will feel safer once we are safely u
nder his rooftree. Kind though Lady Grey was to you, I fear I disgraced myself last night.’ He shivered. ‘I have no way of knowing what I may have said to betray our destination.’

  Edmund and Catrin exchanged glances. Edmund moved to Catrin’s side. ‘Let me help you mount. We have a long way to go and the sooner we are on our way the sooner we can be sure of being safe.’

  They arrived at Sycharth, the residence of Lord and Lady Glyndŵr, as the sun was beginning to set. The house was beautiful in the slanting light, the elegant manor house with its orchards and gardens and fish ponds lying still and tranquil in the gold of the autumnal evening sun. They were greeted by the Lord of Glyndŵr’s wife Margaret, and her eldest daughters, Alys and Catherine. To Dafydd’s disappointment and intense frustration she told them her husband and their elder son, her husband’s brother and their advisors and senior household staff were all at his other residence, half a day’s ride away across the Berwyn Mountains at Glyndyfrdwy. Without knowing it, Dafydd and Catrin had ridden near it on their way south from Ruthin.

  There was nothing to be done that night. They were exhausted, as were their horses, and Dafydd and Catrin gladly accepted her invitation to stay and await Lord Owain’s return.

  It was seventeen years since Owain Glyndŵr had married Margaret, his childhood sweetheart. It was in the household of Sir David Hanmer, Margaret’s father, that Owain had first set eyes on her and fallen hopelessly in love. After the early death of his parents, Owain, a royal ward, had been put in the care of Margaret’s father, a close family friend and neighbour and a kinsman. The older man was a member of parliament and a King’s Bench judge at Westminster and he had sent his ward to university and then to London to study law at the Inns of Court. After that Owain became a squire to the Earl of Arundel, with whom he learned the art of war in service both at sea and on land. He was a talented and well-connected young man.

  The match between the Anglo-Welsh heiress and the brilliant young Lord of Glyndŵr was met with approval on all sides and the marriage had been by all accounts a great success.