Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘Where did you learn all this stuff?’

‘The basic herbalism – and it is basic – was from my mother and she had it from her mother and so on.’

Always be a Morningwood on Garway Hill, as long as badgers shit on the White Rocks .

Right. Merrily felt like someone abducted by aliens, taken away to the mother ship, physically investigated, brought back. Mrs Morningwood supervising the experiment.

‘Wasn’t complicated , darling. Bad diet, insufficient sleep and nervous stress. You’ll sleep well tonight, probably wee quite a lot first, mind. And after that it’s up to you. The reflexology, picked that up in London. Seemed to be something I could do, almost from the outset. Technique might go back to ancient Egypt – who knows that the Templars didn’t bring it back from the Middle East? Although it’s not, as far as I know, in the traditional repertoire of the nine witches of Garway.’

‘Garway’s loss. I expect.’

‘You feel better.’

Merrily eased herself up again, nodded slowly, very aware of the movements of her neck, the fulcrum of bones.

‘I feel – a bit worryingly – relaxed.’

‘Smoke if you want to. Why worryingly relaxed? You feel guilty about relaxation?’

‘Teddy Murray says it’s a function of the clergy to appear totally placid at all times. I realize that’s his excuse for spending hours strolling the hills, but maybe there’s something— How much do I actually owe you, Mrs Morningwood?’

‘Owe?’

‘It’s going dark, I’ve been here over half a day—’

‘Lots of other tasks were performed in between. You just didn’t notice.’

Mrs Morningwood arose from the chair, went over to the range. There was an earthenware teapot on the hob. She detached a brown mug from a hook.

‘But since you mention recompense, sadly from your point of view I’m not much of a Christian, so yes, I have every intention of extracting payment in kind.’

‘Oh.’

‘What brought you here – feeling of failure?’

‘Partly.’

‘What could you have done?’ Mrs Morningwood brought over the cup, steaming. ‘It’s only tea, weak as gnat’s piss, and I can assure you there’s nothing in it that will send you back to sleep. What do you think you might have done to save either of them?’

‘Could’ve believed her. Thank you.’ Merrily sipped, holding the mug in both hands, swinging her feet tentatively to the floor. ‘Although I had no reason to at the time.’

Drinking the weak tea slowly, telling Mrs Morningwood how Fuchsia had claimed to have been haunted by something which, it transpired, had been invented by M. R. James.

‘Interesting.’

‘You’ve read that one?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And you knew James was in Garway?’

‘My grandmother met him. And the girl – his ward, Jane McBryde. But that’s by the by. So Fuchsia Mary Linden borrowed Monty’s seaside ghost. How very imaginative of her.’

‘What’s that say to you?’

‘Only that she didn’t want to tell you – or Barlow – what actually happened to her in the Master House.’

‘Which was?’

‘How should I know?’

‘She wanted me to bless her, give her protection. Before she came back here.’

‘And then, afterwards, she returned and battered Barlow to death. What do you know about Barlow’s history?’

‘Not a great deal.’ Merrily thought about it; where was this going? ‘He spent time in a tepee community in West Wales where he met Fuchsia’s mother, who was already pregnant. Felix was a bit in love with her and also, I think, felt sorry for her. He said she was … fragile. And he seems to have accepted a role as a kind of godfather … guardian. Tragically sealing his own fate, if you want to be—’

‘Tepee community,’ Mrs Morningwood said.

‘Tepee City. In Cardiganshire.’

‘Why did Barlow go there?’

‘Gap year was all he said.’

‘No such thing in those days, darling.’

‘I think he was probably being ironic. It was just a year between leaving school and having to do something responsible connected with his dad’s building supplies business. Which maybe didn’t seem very appealing at a time when everyone else seemed to be sleeping around and taking exotic drugs.’

‘Did he …’ Mrs Morningwood sat on the piano stool ‘… mention being a part of any other community? Before Wales?’

‘No, he didn’t. What are you thinking of?’

‘ I ’m thinking of the one that was in occupation at the Master House in the 1970s, when the Newtons were repeatedly leasing it out.’

‘Don’t know anything about it.’ Merrily finally brought out her cigarettes. ‘Some kind of good-life smallholding – did you tell me that?’

‘Good life? Not me, darling. Bastards couldn’t even grow their own dope. The house was leased by the Newtons to an honourable – son of some minor member of the Midlands aristocracy. Newtons were well pleased, at first. Not realizing he’d turn out to be the kind of dissolute, overprivileged hooray hippie that could turn … I don’t know, Sandringham into a shell in a matter of weeks.’

‘Anybody I’ve heard of?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. Lord Stourport?’

Merrily shook her head.

‘Endless rumours about the things that went on there,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Orgies and the rest. Nude bathing in the Monnow. Place would probably’ve been burned to the ground, result of some discarded spliff, if there hadn’t been a rather timely police raid. Result of which Lord Cokehead was sent down for three months or so. Lease effectively terminated.’

‘So why would Felix Barlow have been there ?’

‘Most of the hoorays couldn’t replace a washer on a bloody tap, so anybody who was halfway practical was welcome to move into one of the sheds, drugs on the house, long as he brought his tools. That’s what I was told, anyway – wouldn’t know anything for sure, all this happened while I was … away.’

‘Well … Felix was indeed a very practical man, but I’m not getting why you think he would’ve been at the Master House. In fact …’ Merrily sat up, the cigarette halfway to her mouth. ‘What is your angle on this, Mrs Morningwood? Where are you actually coming from? Like, what did you mean when you said on the phone that someone didn’t do a terribly good job ?’

Merrily slumped on to the edge of the chaise longue. Her body felt weak but the low vibration was still there and went cruising up into her head, bringing on a dizziness.

‘Steady, girl. You got the works, you know.’

Mrs Morningwood turned and threw the remains of her cigarette, with practised accuracy, into the heart of the fire.

Merrily lay back against the pillows. The windows had dimmed, crimson caverns opening up in the iron range. Roscoe, the wolfhound rose up and stretched, his front legs extended, revealing the black smudges of old burn marks on the rug where he’d been lying.

Mrs Morningwood stood up and moved across to the ebony desk. Sound of a drawer sliding open. She bent and drew the piano stool towards the well of the desk, switching on a green-shaded oil lamp converted to electricity.

Placing a fold of paper on the floodlit blotter and beckoning Merrily over.

‘Sit there. Won’t take you long to read it. I have to go and shut the chickens in for the night. Toilet’s back into the hall, second left. You’ll probably need it now you’ve been on your feet.’

Merrily sat looking down at the paper, pooled in lamplight, apple green. She opened it out.

‘What is it?’

‘A suicide note,’ Mrs Morningwood said. ‘Kind of. With hindsight.’