Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth (32 page)

He paused and blinked back tears. ‘When the cards stopped coming, my brother Absalom and I went our separate ways across the face of this earth in search of him. We did not meet again for many years. Then earlier this month Absalom sent me a letter from Cannes where he had seen a trailer for the movie
Bark of the Covenant
. Quite by chance, in the audience he met a Welshman who kindly invited my brother to his home; he put before him a dish comprising lamb and cheese. He called it
cawl
. My brother was astonished. This was the very same dish that Eichmann had spoken of in his interrogation, the dish he claimed the spy in the library had used in the honey-trap. The Welshman told him it was very popular in his homeland. Truly Absalom was amazed.
All these years we assumed that Eichmann had invented this aspect of the case. It seemed not possible that people could make a stew of lamb and cheese; and yet here was a Welshman claiming it was true. It meant that the entire supposition about Etta Place had been wrong. We all thought she had gone back to Kansas, and that was where we conducted our searches. But it appeared she must have travelled to Wales, that her daughter and granddaughter would have been Welsh. The revelation was shocking. My brother set forth for Aberystwyth at once, because he knew that here finally he might find the bones of dear Ham.’

‘The lamb and cheese helped you find your Ham?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And so here he came. And here he died, leaving that message in his blood, knowing I would follow. But why he would hide a picture of Butch Cassidy in the alley I do not know. The Butch and Sundance angle has been understood since the movie came out in 1969. That is a puzzling aspect of the story.’

I took out the photos Mrs Dinorwic-Jones had given to me and slid them across the desk.

‘He hid these, too. This is a simpleton who lives in a house belonging to a girl called Tadpole. I don’t know its significance. This headstone is from the grave of Sundance’s daughter, Laura. She married a man called Llantrisant. It means that the granddaughter will bear the surname Llantrisant. It is a very rare surname and only one person has it round here: Gertrude Llantrisant, a woman who used to swab my step. She was the woman in the reading room of Buenos Aires library, the one who stole the coat.’

Elijah picked up the pictures and examined them. He put down the picture of the grave and held the other one, the picture of the simpleton at Tadpole’s house. He stared sadly at the image and said, more to himself than to me, ‘I have met this Tadpole yesterday. She tried to sell me a ticket to see Hoffmann at the Pier.’

‘I wonder how Tadpole knew about Hoffmann?’

Elijah tapped the photo with his finger. ‘This man, the simpleton who chops wood and hauls coal, a man who dresses like a little boy because he does not have the wits of a man any more, . . . he told her long ago who Hoffmann was. He knew because this man is my brother Ham. Or at least he used to be. What is he now, I do not know. A man who wears the outward appearance of Ham, but from whom everything inside, all the sweetness and grace, has been sucked out, leaving . . . leaving behind just an oaf. A man who mined the ore of the horizontal-crease motif in the caverns of folk mythology, who sought a troll but acquired only the wits of one. And so the quest devours itself. This I now see is the revenge of Hoffmann. This is the bell-jingling cap of motely that Fate places on the heads of those who pursue him. What could have robbed my brother of his wits like this? It is my belief that it was fear, the nameless terror that gripped his heart one day when he looked into the mirror and beheld that familiar mocking smile upon his own face.

TINKER, TAILOR, teacher, preacher, doily salesman, war veteran, misery-guts, rocking-chair maker . . . and the people from my client’s chair. They had all come to the Pier to see Hoffmann. Two fat middle-aged men with short necks stood at the entrance and marshalled them, wearing evening dress and looking like tough penguins. People say it’s a profession now, nightclub bouncer, with a fancy new name like Door Supervisor or Ingress Manager; just as the guy on the train who checks your ticket is now a Train Manager. They study psychology and adopt police techniques of diplomacy and violence de-escalation. It’s not like it used to be. They don’t break heads any more. That’s the theory. But the reforms haven’t reached Aberystwyth. ‘De-escalation’ isn’t a word the police bandy around much, either, even at Christmas.

Tinker, gaoler, soldier for Jesus, librarian, whelk catcher . . .

To my surprise, Tadpole had put me on the guest list and after a cursory frisking I was admitted. Traditionally the main hall is used for dancing, or fighting; but tonight the people filing in were a noticeably different crowd, older and slightly unsure of themselves, as if it was many years since they had been to such a place. The dance floor had been taken over, with tables set for a banquet. Waiters and waitresses stood at the side, awaiting the beginning of proceedings. On stage, framed by red velvet curtains, there was a live tableau of the biblical stable: school children dressed as Mary and Joseph; a bright pink doll in a manger of real straw. Abishag stood placidly in attendance, because that is the great art of being a donkey and probably why she got
invited to the first Christmas. Eeyore stood behind her, running a soothing hand on her mane; he was dressed as a shepherd, in that mixture of dressing gown and towel on the head which traditionally represents the Biblical shepherd.

Tinker, tailor, mason, Rotarian, hotelier, hotdog seller, shepherd from Palestine . . .

The tables filled quickly, and soon the hall was throbbing with an intense air of anticipation that even I was not impervious to. I pushed through the crowds, who were searching for their seats, and went towards the back. People began to stamp their feet and shout, ‘Hoffmann!’ This venue had, in its time, borne witness to all the manifold manifestations of the human condition: fights, and the unrestrained outpourings of lust; deaths; even children had been born in the middle of a ring of handbags. So many acts that cried to the stars for the redemptive balm of a saviour; but it had never seen a town gathered on the strength of such a promise as tonight. ‘Hoffmann! Hoffmann!’ they cried.

Tadpole took the stage. She was wearing a party frock, made of checked cotton with what looked like a doily at the neck. It reminded me the things people wear to go square dancing. She raised her hand to silence the rabble. Her cheeks shone like a well-polished saddle and her hair was plastered down and gleamed like a fish in the light thrown by the twirling disco balls, the tinsel and the single star behind her, above the stable.

‘I guess you are all impatient to be redeemed,’ she began. ‘God knows you need it!’

There were hoots and jeers.

‘You’ve been swimming in the swill of iniquity for long enough.’

More jeers and shouts of ‘You can talk!’

‘Yes. It’s about time someone did.’

‘Get ’em off!’

‘I’ve seen you: coupling and rutting like dogs on heat; drinking liquor at all hours of the day—’

The crowd shouted ‘Woooh!’ in mock horror. It began to dawn on me. They weren’t here to be redeemed at all. They were here for the entertainment.

‘Sharing the bed with your own kith and kin!’

‘Look who’s talking!’

‘Or with farmyard animals!’

Laughter.

‘Oh, yes, if anyone needs to be saved, it’s you lot, you bunch of slimy moral toads! But the funny thing is, you don’t know the worst bit yet.’ There were more catcalls and jeers, whistles and hoots. They were drunk and happy.

‘Well, tonight you’re going to find out the truth. You’re going to find out about the terrible sin on the conscience of this town. The reason why the good Lord saw fit to blight us; why He sent a big flood five years ago. The reason why everything in this town is wrong; why the ewe miscarries, why the bread is stale and the hearts are cold. Tonight I’m going to tell you.’

‘Get on with it!’

‘All right, I will, but you’ve all got to shut up first.’ She paused. The laughter subsided amid snorts of suppressed mirth.

‘It’s because we are party to a terrible deed, a secret shame that those horrible soldiers did in Patagonia.’

There were gasps of mock horror.

‘We all know about the terrible war in Patagonia. How the Lord saw fit, even though we did not deserve it, to send us one of His angels on the eve of battle. We’ve all seen the pictures of brave Clip and the beautiful angel who came to see us. You’d think those soldiers would be grateful, wouldn’t you? You’d think after seeing something as nice as that they would go and fight like men. But no! it wasn’t enough that they made us lose the great colony of Patagonia.’

The words ‘great colony’ produced ironic laughter.

‘When the angel went back to see them again, you know what they did? They were rude to her.’

There was an uproar of laughter and a barrage of bread rolls rained down on the stage.

Someone grabbed me by the sleeve; it was Calamity. She pulled me away and towards the door at the back marked ‘Private’. We walked through into the kitchen.

‘I have to tell you something.’

‘Can’t it wait? We’re going to miss the unveiling of Hoffmann.’

There were more roars from the main hall and Tadpole’s words floated over.

‘. . . put your hands together . . .’

‘I know who it is,’ said Calamity. ‘I know who Hoffmann is.’

‘. . . come all the way to be with us here tonight . . .’

‘I know who it is, too. It’s Herod Jenkins.’

‘. . . to expiate the grievous sins . . .’

‘How did you know?’

‘Caleb Penpegws told me.’

‘Pretty measly sort of redeemer, huh?’

‘The crowd won’t like it. How did you find out?’

‘Absalom said he saw him in the cinema queue, right? We all thought he must have met him, but there’s a poster of Herod and the circus there, too. Maybe that’s what he saw. I just sort of thought—’

‘That’s very good. Don’t you want to go in and see the big moment?’

Calamity looked wistful.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Everything’s turned out wrong, hasn’t it?’

‘Has it?’

‘I’ve been a dope. And now Myfanwy—’

I flinched slightly.

Calamity saw something in my eyes and retreated.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I know she’s going; she’s leaving after the concert. What’s wrong?’

‘But . . .’

‘What?’

‘She isn’t coming. She’s left already . . . on the bus to Shrewsbury.’

‘Oh.’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘She’s supposed to be singing.’

‘She can’t sing.’

‘She got her voice back.’

‘No, she didn’t, she was lying. She told me to tell you not to stop her.’

‘She said that?’

‘She insisted I tell you before seven thirty this evening. That’s when the bus leaves. She said, “You must promise to tell him not to come after me, and make sure you tell him before seven thirty.”’ She looked at her watch. It was seven forty-five. ‘As I said, I’ve been a dope.’

‘No, you haven’t.’

‘Yes, I have, a prize dope. None of that Pinkerton manual stuff worked out; the new office is a dumb idea. The Pinkertons never answered my fax. The only reason I didn’t come back was I am too ashamed. And I was scared you wouldn’t want me.’

‘You don’t know how wrong you are.’

‘Everything I did was a failure.’

‘What about that phoney leg routine? That was a piece of detective genius. It cracked the case wide open. Because of that we found out about the Butch Cassidy angle, and about Elijah and the people from Mossad. And now we’ve found the key to the whole thing because of your ballistics thing with the knitting needle. Remember Jack Ruby?’

‘It didn’t work.’ She blinked in surprise. ‘Did it?’

‘Llunos had a complaint from Dinorwic-Jones about your torch beam. We went round to see her and she sang like a canary.’

Calamity’s eyes sparkled. ‘Wow! I thought I was a hopeless bungler.’

‘You’ve still got plenty to learn.’

She smiled. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

From inside came the climax of Tadpole’s introduction. ‘Your redeemer and mine. Please give a big hand . . .’

The band struck up, the crowd roared.

‘The saviour of saviours, the most sacred, most blessed truly holiest of holies. Hoffmann!’

More roars. And then, from the hall came the sound of five hundred drunken revellers booing. We walked to the door. Herod Jenkins, wearing his circus strongman’s leotard, was on stage, glowering at the mob. Someone threw a bread roll and it hit Herod on the chest. ‘Who threw that?’ he thundered. He cast an accusing eye at the front row; they cowered. ‘Was it you?’ he pointed indiscriminately. ‘If I catch anyone throwing anything again you won’t get redeemed.’

‘What a shame!’ someone cried.

‘Who said that?’ The years had evaporated, he was back haranguing the school assembly. ‘Come on, own up, or I’ll keep you all behind after this concert.’