"It most certainly isn't!" snapped Miranda, reverting to type.
"Oh dear. Well, would it be possible to speak to Mr.Morelli? I'm afraid this is about the seventeenth time I've tried over the past two days."
"I regret to have to tell you." Miranda said, "that he's in Wales. Please don't ask me why."
"Wales, eh?"
"Wales."
"Well, would you happen to know precisely where in Wales he's gone?"
"Somewhere full of grim mountains and dead sheep, I expect," said Miranda, beginning to feel rather chilly standing there in the altogether. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"Look, if I'm barking up the wrong tree, cut me off or something…"
Don't tempt me.
"… but it wouldn't be a village called Y Groes, would it?"
"Called what? They all sound the same to me."
"Y Groes. Spelt I-Grows."
"Oh, well, look, I believe he has spoken of some such place, yes. But I really couldn't be certain."
"Ah. Do you know if he's staying at the inn there?"
"I can't honestly say where he's staying. Look, can I take a message?" Over her shoulder. Miranda could hear the beckoning patter of the hot water.
"You see, it was about Y Groes that I wanted to speak to him. Are you a friend of his?"
"Friend, ex-lover, confidante — and highly qualified to pass on messages." Come on, you old fool, spit it out.
"Perhaps I should explain…"
Must you?
"My name's Peters."
"I'm writing it down."
"Canon Alex Peters."
This has to be a first, Miranda thought morosely. I'm standing here tit-and-bum naked, talking to a vicar.
"I conducted the funeral service for Winstone Thorpe. Perhaps your, er, friend mentioned him."
Miranda barely managed to suppress a groan.
"You see, I was chatting to your friend after the funeral, and he told me how poor Winstone had begged him to discourage young Giles Freeman from making his home in Wales. Of course, I was born and brought up in South Wales and I'm afraid I was rather dismissive about the whole thing. Nonsense. I said. Lovely place, lovely people."
Get on with it! Miranda was grinding her teeth.
"Then, you see, I read about Giles's death, and it said he'd been living at Y Groes. and immediately I thought about Martin Coulson and this awful man Ellis Jenkins."
"I really think I should leave a message for Berry to ring you when he gets back," Miranda said, goose pimples on her arms now.
"You see, I didn't know until I read about Giles's death that we were talking about Y Groes. Which, of course, is where Martin died so tragically a couple of years ago. Do you know the case I'm referring to?"
"I don't think so, but—"
"Died in the church. Twenty-five years old. Dreadful. And then Jenkins refusing to have him in his churchyard. Caused quite a stir in church circles. So I thought I ought to pass this on to Berry Morelli, as he'd seemed rather anxious, a little unsure of what he ought to do."
"Oh. he always seems anxious…"
"It's probably of absolutely no relevance. Though I confess to being rather curious about where Giles Freeman was eventually buried."
"Well, I'm afraid I really can't help you there." Miranda said. "Look, I'll get Berry to ring you. shall I? What's the number?"
Canon Alex Peters gave her a number. "I'm at Woodstock, near Oxford. In retirement. Not much else to think about, you see. As I say, probably nothing, but if he should happen to ring you from Wales, pass on my number, would you?"
"Oh, I will," Miranda said. And then, just a tiny bit curious herself by now. "Look Mr., er — Canon—"
"Peters. Alex Peters."
"Of course, I wrote it down. Listen, I shall probably regret asking this, but why wouldn't they let this chap be buried in the churchyard?"
"Ah. well…"
"Yes?"
"Well, because he was English, my dear."
When she got back log the shower it was lukewarm.
Miranda shrieked in rage and frustration.
"God, Morelli," she rasped through her teeth, groping for his bathrobe and discovering he'd taken it with him.
"Wherever you are, I hope you're really suffering for this."
Chapter XLVI
Elinor said, "I hate this room."
She didn't hate any particular part of the room. She didn't hate the Victorian bed. She didn't hate the deeply recessed window, or the low-beamed ceiling. Or even its size— rather cramped, with that enormous wardrobe.
"I suppose," said George Hardy, with heavy resignation, "that I'm supposed to ask you why you hate the room."
Still wearing her funeral dress, Elinor sat on a corner of the bed, glazed gaze fixed on the window through which she could see, in the late-afternoon light, the rooftops of the cottages opposite the inn, the winter-browned oak woods on the edge of the village and the misting hills beyond.
She was wondering if all this — the car breaking down, having to come here — was fate's fumbling attempt to heal the cuts she and Claire had inflicted on each other.
Wasn't working, though, was it? Anyone could see the wounds had only widened.
"I don't know why I hate it," Elinor said.
George said. "I think I shall ask that fellow if I can use his phone, give the garage a ring in Pontmeurig." George pronounced it Pontmoorig. "Make sure the parts will be here tomorrow."
Elinor, distant, still staring out of the window, said, "Should have had it towed away. Back to England, if necessary. We could have taken a taxi."
George didn't bother to reply.
Elinor stood up and turned back the covers of the bed to see if the sheets were clean. Unfortunately, they had the look of being freshly-laundered. She sat down again, on the edge of the bed.
As she sat down this time, the bed shifted and a floorboard creaked.
"Better ring the office too." George said. "Get them to stall any clients."
"We won't be here for ever, George."
"Can't count on anything these days." Tidy George unpacked two clean shins and hung them in the wardrobe.
"Good job you're so efficient." he said brightly. "Enough clothes here to last the week out."
Elinor was determined not to rise to this bait.
"Handling it awfully well, though, isn't she?" George said.
"What?"
"Claire. I was quite surprised."
And relieved no doubt, Elinor thought. He could never deal with women's tears. Blubbing, he called it once. Only once — she'd almost had his eyes out.
"No, she's a tough girl." George said admiringly. "What d'you think of her new hairstyle? Quite fetching. I thought. I'd almost forgotten what her natural colour looked like."
"George," Elinor dug her nails into the bedspread. "Go and make your phone calls."
The floorboard creaked again as she stood up.
That night must have been an encouraging one for Simon Gallier. Conservative Parliamentary Candidate for Glanmeurig.
There weren't enough chairs in the Memorial Hall in Pont; groups of people were blocking the firedoors and clustered in the passageway to the lavatories.
Novelty value. Berry Morelli thought. It was obviously a real night out for many members of the audience. Most of the men wore suits and ties.
He was standing under the platform, searching the crowd for Bethan McQueen and failing to spot her. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned expectantly.
"We're down here, mate." Ray Wheeler said. "One space left on the Press table"
"Oh. Sure, Thanks." Berry allowed himself to be steered to a chair between Shirley Gillies and Bill Sykes.
"Mind boggles, eh?" Sykes grated. "Bet old Johnny Gore's never pulled a bigger crowd since his wedding. Oh, sorry John, didn't see you there."