Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘Weakens it. At the wrong time, Dobbs thought. That’s where he and van der Post fell out. All that about all religions being the same dog washed, that came from van der Post.’

‘I don’t knock it,’ Merrily said. ‘If we can coexist …’

‘Aye, in theory. In practice, it gets politicized, and Islam wants to run the show. And that’s where the Templars came in – the first fusion. Picking up Islam from the Saracens, Jewish mysticism, Egyptian mysteries, happen some Celtic paganism and goddess-worship via the Cistercians. They were accused of undermining Christianity from within and happen there’s some truth in it. A multifaith multinational, building up massive wealth, very, very quickly. Undermining kings and popes.’

‘And did they practise some kind of ritual magic?’

‘It were said they used their knowledge of the so-called dark arts in warfare. Change the weather? Bring down mist, create storms? We’re never really going to know what they were about.’

‘And you see van der Post in the Templar tradition?’

‘In some ways. Mate of Carl Jung, who was an admirer of the Gnostics … and can you find a better Jungian archetype than the green man or the Baphomet? Ah, you can go on like this for ever.’ Huw started gathering up papers. ‘Folk might well be asking why the Duchy’s suddenly buying Templar properties in Herefordshire.’

‘Just the one, surely?’

‘No. Let’s not forget the big project – Harewood Park. Large estate, with an old chapel in the middle, granted to the Knights Templar in 1215 by King John.’

Upstairs, Roscoe started barking.

‘Why don’t I know these things?’ Merrily said.

‘And a satellite of Garway, as it happens. Could be pure coincidence, but some folks might see a significance. The Masons, for instance. They don’t like no longer having a foot under the throne. If he appears to be into Templarism, they’re happen wondering if he might not be ripe for a new approach.’ Huw looked up. ‘How do, lad.’

Lol had let himself in, having slipped off home in the early hours.

Merrily thought he still didn’t look too happy.

For some reason, he was insisting that when she went to see Sycharth Gwilym, she shouldn’t go alone.

THE WORD ACROSS Hereford was that The Centurion was already a gold mine. Converted out of a single-storey derelict factory off Roman Road, to the north of the city. Good access, sweeping views, plenty of parking.

And now that Roman Road had become the outlet for the network of new roads serving Hereford’s secret bypass … why, you’d almost think Sycharth Gwilym had learned something in advance.

Merrily had been thinking about this and what it might imply but now, suddenly, she wasn’t.

‘He did what ?’

Sitting up hard, the seat belt straining.

‘Didn’t seem a good time to tell you last night,’ Lol said.

‘For God’s sake !’

‘I’m not saying Gwilym operates on the same level, but maybe it’s as well to know the kind of people you just might be dealing with.’

‘This …’ Merrily shutting her eyes ‘… is all my fault.’

Broken into the truck, hot-wired it, driven it away and forced the box. Then used another kind of hot wire on the Boswell. She stared at Lol, an acid sensation in her chest. Knowing he hadn’t gone to the police because that would have meant explanations. Same with the insurance.

‘It’s not … your fault. Can’t say Prof didn’t warn me about the kind of people he employed.’

‘It was your most precious …’

‘It was just a guitar.’

‘Four grand’s worth. More than that, a huge sentimental …’

‘Maybe,’ Lol admitted.

‘I’m going to call Al Boswell, see how much it would cost for him to replace it.’

‘Merrily, we don’t even tell Al Boswell. He’d take it very personally, and he isn’t getting any younger and all his guitars are like children. And neither of us has four grand to spare, and even if we did …’

‘ Bastard .’ Tears stinging her eyes. ‘Plus, he’s giving you a clear warning that he’s going to try and destroy your career.’

‘What could he do? Independent producer, independent label …’

‘… Reliant on major distribution networks and chain stores. Sorry if this sounds like I’m getting drunk on conspiracy theory.’

‘But you …’ Lol glanced sideways. ‘You’re OK, though?’

‘Mrs Morningwood’s offered to give me more reflexology tonight.’ Merrily leaned back, trying to kill the tightness. ‘I’m fine. Much better. So this is why you were insisting on coming with me.’

‘I’ll stay in the truck when you go in, but I’ll be just outside. Call you on the mobile after an hour?’

‘How could they know the importance of the Boswell?’

‘Look …’ He sighed. ‘Let’s leave it for now.’

‘But how?’

‘It was in Mojo . Someone showed me a copy at the gig. Concert review, picture of me and what – unmistakably to any musician – is a Boswell.’

‘How did you manage at the gig?’

‘Still had the Takamine, which they hadn’t damaged. You said do it for Nick, so I did. He was sitting at the back. He didn’t walk out.’

‘ Lol? ’

‘Kidding. I think.’

‘But it went well?’

‘Strangely, it did. I felt very tired afterwards. Slept for half an hour in the car park with the top of the box held down with bailer twine. Look, be careful in there. None of this smells good. Stourport, Gwilym, Mat Phobe.’

She’d told him about the anagram.

‘Of course, we only have Hayter’s word that Mat’s actually dead,’ Lol said. ‘This the entrance?’

Merrily looked up at an archway of sandstone.

‘Think it’s supposed to look like a Roman villa?’

‘Chapel of Rest, circa 1963.’

‘Maybe ’65,’ Merrily said.

This time, when she’d called, the receptionist had said that Mr Gwilym would be happy to talk to her at two-thirty. When she walked in five minutes early – best black woollen coat – he was already waiting, on the edge of a mosaic tile circle, standing between two small fountains burbling into bidet-type projections. Bending to her, handshake smooth and soft, like suede.

‘Mrs Watkins.’

‘Good of you to spare the time.’

‘How could I not? All so intriguing. My office is just here. Can I order you a drink? Coffee … wine?’

‘Just had lunch, thank you, Mr Gwilym.’

‘Here?’

‘A sandwich. At home.’

‘Most remiss of me not to have offered you a proper lunch. My apologies.’ He shouldered open a matt-white door in a recess. ‘Business, of late, has been utterly fren et ic.’

His voice was public-school English but – whatever anybody said – there was posh South Wales down there, something slow and rhythmic like an evening tide washing against a jetty.

‘I wouldn’t have had time,’ Merrily said. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

For some reason, she’d been expecting barrel chest, spider veins, flashing eyes, belligerent – someone it would be easy to goad into saying too much. But Sycharth Gwilym was a loose, big-boned man with a jutting chin and grey-brown hair which rose and fell, like the plume on a knight’s helmet, and his manner was relaxed, his eyes pale and tranquil. And when you looked into them you didn’t see anything of Fuchsia Mary Linden.

Merrily’s confidence waned. This was going to take time and maybe skills that she didn’t have.

Mr Gwilym waited for Merrily to sit before moving behind his desk. The office had a picture window with a view over the car park, over the city, towards the cathedral and the river. White walls and a glass-topped, white-painted desk with the wood grain showing through. Twin swivel chairs in grey leather. A small conference table.