108
The evening sky is lit by a falling scarlet sun as Mitzi books into the Norton. The guesthouse is an imposing sandstone manor and her bedroom has a panoramic view across the valleys and a never-ending soundtrack of fast-flowing streams beneath her window.
While she runs a bath to soak off the aches of the long day, she calls Bronty and finds he’s just got off the ferry in Lundy.
‘I’m exhausted,’ he says over crashes of breaking sea and squawking gulls. ‘You can get to heaven quicker than reach this place.’
Mitzi laughs as she tests the bathwater and adds more hot. ‘I promise you, Wales was as difficult to reach.’
He looks around the jetty. ‘I think I just saw seals in the water. Grey seals — eight, maybe ten feet long.’
‘Stop sounding like you’re having fun. I’ve had a day from hell and couldn’t even find Caergwyn Castle.’
‘How can you miss a fortress?’
‘Believe me, out here it’s easy. When you call me on a secure line I’ll tell you what Mallory had to say about the ambassador.’
‘Will do. The light’s virtually gone here, so I’ll take a look around the island in the morning and then get back to you.’
‘That’s fine. Sleep well.’
‘You too.’
Mitzi ends the call and checks the bathwater. It’s now hot enough to boil a lobster. She runs the cold full blast, then kicks off her clothes and calls her daughters.
No one picks up.
She gets the answerphone for a second time.
Ruthy has no doubt taken them all out for the day. She’ll call again after dinner.
She eases herself into the water. It feels too good to remain silent. ‘Aa-a-h, that’s soo-o good.’
The guesthouse has provided her with little bottles of bath foam, body scrub, shampoo and hair conditioner. Mitzi uses the lot. It feels great just to be lying in a big pool of soapy spa bubbles and smells.
Her phone rings.
She looks across the other side of the bathroom, and sees it on the shelf over the sink. Too far away to reach.
The water is working its therapeutic magic and for a moment she thinks about ignoring the call.
‘Damn it!’
She climbs out and takes a gallon of water with her.
‘Fallon.’ She grabs a white towelling robe from behind the door.
‘Lieutenant, it’s Owain Gwyn.’
‘Hang on.’ She puts the phone down and quickly pushes her arms into the robe and ties it up. ‘Sorry, I was just getting out of a bath.’
‘My apologies for disturbing you. Outside your hotel, there is a black Range Rover and one of my men. When you are ready, please get in and you’ll be brought straight to my home.’
‘I thought I’d come by in the morning.’
There’s no answer.
‘Sir Owain?’ She looks at the phone to see if she’s accidentally cut him off.
She hasn’t.
He’s hung up.
109
An ice-blue quarter moon hangs above the Range Rover as it speeds down unlit country lanes.
Mitzi snatches a grab-handle as they hit a bump and she clears the back seat. ‘What’s wrong with this country? I thought the Romans laid roads for you?’
The driver doesn’t answer. He hasn’t spoken since he checked her name at the guesthouse and held the vehicle’s door open for her.
‘Any chance of slowing down? You know, maybe just below warp speed so we get there alive?’
Again, there’s no reply from the broad-shouldered man in the front.
She settles back as best she can and listens to her stomach grumble. Now she wishes she’d accepted Mrs Mallory’s rabbit stew.
Lights appear in the distance. The 4 × 4 crunches to a halt. Through a gap between the front seats, she sees shadows inside a gatehouse. A man comes out and walks to the driver’s side.
The silent lunatic behind the wheel slides down the window and shows his ID. A flashlight shines in her eyes. ‘Hey!’ She puts up her hands to block the glare. Darkness returns. There’s a tap on the roof and the vehicle crunches gravel. Metal gates clank shut behind them. The tyres rumble more smoothly now. They’re on asphalt but the road is unlit. Mitzi peers out into the darkness. Sheep appear in the headlights like a crop of woolly rocks.
The luminous fingers on her watch tell her it’s half past ten and they’ve now been driving seven minutes along the driveway. That’s as long as it used to take her to drive from her old house in LA to the mall.
The soft yellow lights of Caergwyn Castle appear in the velvet night. The building is uplit by powerful ground beams. She sees syrup-coloured sandstone walls, soaring towers and crenulations that run like a gap-toothed border in the sky.
The Range Rover stops and the mute driver gets out and opens her door.
She stands for a moment in the cool evening air, picks up the smell of lavender and pine. It’s easy to imagine kings and queens living here, being waited on hand and foot, dining in fine halls and celebrating glorious battles and conquests.
Metal clunks against metal. Heavy bolts slide behind the huge, arched oak entrance doors facing her. A round-faced servant dressed in a smart black suit strides out. Behind him hurries a younger man in cream-coloured trousers and a red jacket.
‘Good evening. I am Alwyn, Sir Owain’s butler. Please follow me.’
He leads the way inside.
She’s struck by an array of new scents. Brass polish. Silver polish. Marble polish. Thick, waxy wood polish.
‘Sir Owain said to show you to the library.’ Alwyn opens a door and stands to one side.
Mitzi steps in and double-takes the endless walls of books. ‘Look at the size of this! Man, has he never heard of the Kindle?’
110
The butler leaves Mitzi staring in amazement at what appears to be a cathedral filled with books.
The oak-beamed library is two storeys high and its top level is an octagonal gallery reached by spirals of wooden staircases almost fifty yards apart. There are twenty stone archways on either side of the room, all creating deep alcoves filled with twenty rows of shelving. Sliding ladders are propped against each of the racks so books at the top can be more easily reached.
Along the centre of the stone floor stand various large display cases, all showcasing ancient folios. Only now, as Mitzi wanders the cool, musty room does she note the surveillance cameras, flashing red lights and sensors of a very sophisticated alarm system.
On the far wall is an impressively large oil of a medieval battles. The canvas covers more than three hundred square feet and in the foreground, the body of a fallen king is being carried away by soldiers. Under a shimmer of almost heavenly light, a fully robed bishop is picking up his crown.
There’s another painting, a fraction of the size, above the door she just came through. It’s a portrait of a man with long hair and a moustache, dressed in a black cloak with a white ruffle collar and a large black, floppy bow tie. He has brooding, dark eyes that strongly remind her of Sir Owain.
As though cued by her thought, the door beneath the portrait clicks open and the ambassador walks through. He’s dressed in black trousers and a crisp white open-necked shirt worn beneath a black cashmere jumper. ‘Lieutenant Fallon, how are you?’ He steps forward and offers his hand.
She shakes it then points to the painting. ‘I’m fine, Mr Ambassador. I was just looking at the portrait. An ancestor, I presume?’