Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.
very kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? My sister’s supposed to be coming up on Wednesday so I’ll be OK after she arrives. But I must admit I don’t really want to stay there on my own …’
But I was no longer on my own. And although I had no idea at the time, it would make no difference where I stayed. What- or whom-ever my arrival had disturbed would remain with me wherever I went.
Mrs Parry accompanied me to the cottage to collect some belongings and waited outside whilst I rushed upstairs and hurriedly stuffed a few essentials into a carrier bag. Before leaving, I glanced through the living room doorway to check if I had left anything in there that I might need. I frowned as I noticed a newspaper lying on the floor, which I was sure had not been there earlier. Pushing the door fully open, I recoiled, taking a sharp intake of breath as I saw the whole pile of newspapers which had been neatly stacked in the basket by the fire now scattered across the floor, as though someone had thrown them around in a fury.
I stooped to gather the papers, some of which had been ripped and screwed up into balls. A couple of the newspapers appeared to have been placed, rather than thrown, squarely before the hearth. One particular headline caught my eye.
‘MISSING LOCAL GIRL: POLICE QUESTION HOLIDAYMAKER’
I smoothed out the rest of the page, my eyes widening as I read, then reread, the caption that accompanied the photograph beneath. I recognized the woman in the picture as the dour Marian Williams, who was brandishing a framed headshot of an attractive young woman with thick, dark hair that sat in waves on her shoulders.
‘Aneira Williams was last seen ten days ago when friends say she had seemed “agitated”. A man in his thirties holidaying at Bryn Mawr farm, near Llansadwrn, has been helping the local constabulary with their inquiries. Officers are trying to trace the driver of a small, dark-coloured van (registration unknown) seen at the farm on the night of Aneira’s disappearance and are appealing for anyone who may have seen or spoken to Miss Williams shortly before, or since, the last known sighting of her to come forward. Any information received will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
There followed a telephone hotline number to dial for the benefit of any possible witnesses. My eyes travelled to the top of the page. It was dated the third of August 2008.
I shivered. It was as if the article had been placed there for me to find. I realized at once that the man held for questioning must have been Peter, and wondered why Mrs Parry had neglected to mention the fact. After folding the newspaper under my arm, I quickly tidied the remainder of the pile as best I could and went out into the sunshine.
‘Have you got everything?’ Seeing my troubled expression, Mrs Parry’s expression changed to one of concern. ‘What is it?’
I said nothing but handed over the paper, watching for her reaction as she scanned the words, and the image of her neighbour. Mrs Parry sighed. She folded the article over again and looked me in the eye.
‘Yes, the police did question Peter. But they released him almost straight away. I mean, they had to find out what he knew, after the girl turning up here like that. And Marian had probably added fuel to their suspicions. Once they’d spoken to him, though, they certainly didn’t think Peter had anything to do with Aneira vanishing the way she did. As I said, I’m sure the key to finding her was that van.’
‘But you didn’t tell me they’d had him in for questioning. They don’t usually do that unless they suspect …’
Mrs Parry shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve known Peter most of his life. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And if I’d told you that he’d been arrested, not knowing him that well, you might well have thought there’s no smoke without fire. Most people would. No. Peter would never be involved with anything sinister; you take my word for it.’
Although I wanted to accept her explanation, a niggling seed of doubt had begun to germinate in my mind. I felt sure that the newspaper had been left strategically for me to discover. But who – or what – had put it there?
We walked back to the farmhouse in silence, she as deep in thought as I. The old woman led me through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the dingy hallway. A grandfather clock concealed in a recess chimed in the hour, startling me. On the wall facing the clock hung a grim-looking painting of an elderly woman in traditional old-fashioned Welsh dress, wearing a tall black hat with ribbon tied beneath her chin.
I paused to examine the image more closely. The scene depicted was that of the interior of a chapel, with several people seated in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. One man had lifted his face to look at the woman who was walking up the aisle, wrapped in a shawl and carrying what was presumably a hymn book.
Mrs Parry saw me staring at the painting and chuckled.
‘That used to be a very popular picture in these parts,’ she informed me. ‘It’s called “Salem”. Not my cup of tea at all – it belonged to Will’s mother. Here – ’ She waved a hand at the shawl the woman was wearing. ‘See, if you look carefully in the folds – it’s the face of the devil.’
I recoiled, wondering why on earth anyone would want to hang such a sinister, portentous picture in their home.
‘The story goes that the old woman arrived late for chapel so that everyone would notice her beautiful new shawl, apparently. The devil represents her wicked pride. Now then!’
I peered at the painting and shuddered. The creases of the shawl created the devil’s facial features – the fringe beneath its beard. It sent an unpleasantly cold feeling through my veins.
I followed Mrs Parry up the wide, dogleg staircase, gripping the sturdy oak banister for fear of slipping on the threadbare runner of carpet held in position by tarnished brass stair rods. She led me off the equally dark landing through a heavy wooden door into a pleasant but dimly lit room with an old sash window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, the long brocade curtains tied back with thick golden cord.
The aspect through the yellow-tinted panes of glass was to the opposite side of the farmland from Tyddyn Bach. It revealed several fields of sheep, divided alternately by the usual low walls and intermittent trees, far beyond which stood a small, solitary house. At the farthest side of the first field, I could make out the well that Mr Parry had spoken of. A shiver ran through me.
The room seemed untouched by time. It was like stepping back into the nineteenth century. The air was stale, as though the space had remained unoccupied for months, or even years. An ancient brass double bedstead stood in the centre, covered with a faded gold silk eiderdown. There was an old blanket chest at its foot. A tallboy stood against the wall opposite, next to the window. In the corner of the room was a washstand, with mandatory porcelain pitcher and bowl, their glaze yellowed and cracked with age. The floor was of dark-stained oak boards, with a small, thin rug placed at one side of the bed. On the same side a large, dusty oil lamp sat on a low bedside cabinet.
With supreme effort, Mrs Parry slid the huge window open, winding the sash cord around a hook to secure its position. The gloom lifted immediately. Particles of dust danced in the soft shaft of light that had been allowed to pass through.
‘Phew! I’ll give it a good clean and make up the bed for you after lunch. It’s not as comfy as the bedroom in Tyddyn Bach, I know. But it’ll only be for a couple of nights. And it’s much cooler in here, to be honest. Better for this time of year, eh.’
I nodded in agreement. It had certainly been unbearably stuffy in the bedroom last night.
Peering through the window once more, I gazed at the old well across the field. I reflected on Mr Parry’s story – and wondered about the wretched girl who had drowned herself. What agonies she must have suffered, God only knows. If it was indeed her causing all the disruption, I could understand why she would feel aggrieved. But why was she targeting me? Was it because I too was pregnant?