MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective by GRETTA MULROONEY (ebook reader for laptop txt) 📕

‘Are you sure? You’re a bit on the slim side for such a tall man. You could do with a proper breakfast to set you up. It’s no trouble at all and you are our guest. I’m sure Afan would do the same for you if he was here. Isn’t it odd, that he’s gone off so suddenly without telling anyone? I suppose it must have been something very urgent. I do hope everything will be okay for him.’ She started to get up, Frankie fussing in her arms.

He said firmly, ‘Please don’t bother. I can manage fine.’

He helped himself to porridge from a slow cooker, coffee, toast and marmalade. The kitchen was well stocked, with pots and pans hanging from brass hooks and a walk-in cupboard, its shelves lined with cooking aids: a bread maker, electric mixer, pasta machine, pressure cooker, raclette and fondue sets, a toasted sandwich maker, spaghetti pot and several utensils that Swift didn’t recognise. The cupboards were full of jars of herbs and home-made cordials, preserves and pickles.

Elinor called out to him as he found what he needed. ‘There’s jam, honey and marmalade in the right-hand cupboard and butter and various other spreads in the fridge. Just shout if you need anything.’

He wished she’d stop fussing. He collected his food, put it on a tray and brought it to the table. Elinor was feeding Frankie shreds of scrambled egg.

‘You’re the self-sufficient type, I see,’ she said. ‘Do you live on your own?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘How come you’re single, a handsome man like you?’

He smiled at her, his eyes saying back off. ‘It’s a long story and it’s also by choice.’

The dog glanced back and forth between them as they talked, his nose twitching. Elinor chucked him under the chin, and he wriggled in ecstasy. She wore a long silver and agate pendant decorated with an ivy garland. It rose and fell on her round, squashy bosom when she moved.

‘Ooh, that sounds interesting, doesn’t it, Fwankie? You’ll have to tell me some time. I couldn’t imagine living on my own, with no one to chat to and share things with. If Guy, my hubby, goes out for more than a couple of hours, I get anxious. He cycles, takes off most days for a spin. I tell him not to be gone for more than two hours or I’ll be climbing the walls. He says I’m a fusspot, but it’s just the way I’m made. It’s the only time I wish we had a phone signal here, so that Guy could call me. He’s out cycling at the moment, that’s why I decided to have breakfast in here. I was hoping I’d have some company and hey presto, in you walked!’

Swift smiled. If he was Guy, he’d probably be gone for most of the day.

‘I do hope Afan is okay,’ she carried on. ‘We’re worried about him, aren’t we, Fwankie?’ She had protuberant blue eyes and a tremulous voice, as if all her speech was a question.

‘Yes, I hope so too. Which house do you live in?’

‘Cuddfan, just by the polytunnels.’

The house that resembled a Viking dwelling. ‘Oh yes, I saw it. You have a handsome roof garden. Does that take a lot of maintenance?’

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s well designed so to be honest, it’s not hard work. We were keen to help biodiversity and create a natural habitat for flora and fauna. And of course, it’s another way of reducing our carbon footprint.’

‘It fits well into this landscape.’

The dog tried to climb onto the table, its tiny paws scrabbling. ‘Now, now, Fwankie, don’t be naughty. Aunty Jasmine doesn’t allow doggies on the table.’ Elinor rubbed noses with her pet and fed him a sliver of toast. She winked at Swift. ‘Jasmine doesn’t like me feeding him at the table, but she’s not here and I’m sure you won’t tell tales.’

He asked, ‘Does Jasmine lay down the rules?’

‘Well . . . I wouldn’t quite say that. But it’s her place — hers and Peter’s, so you have to observe tenancy conditions. Not that there are that many.’

‘You’re tenants? I assumed you owned your homes here.’

‘No, we’re tenants. We moved here last year. The Merchants own all of this.’ She pointed vaguely and Frankie whined. ‘It’s their baby, their dream, their development, their risk. They bought the farmhouse — it’s seventeenth-century and gorgeous — and the land. Then they decided to set the farm up as smallholdings.’

‘How long are your tenancies for?’

She scratched the dog’s head. ‘Ooh, Fwankie, he’s a nosy one, isn’t he?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’ Although it helped explain Jasmine’s lady-of-the-manor style.

‘Oh no, that’s okay. Five-year tenancies, renewable. We pay a reasonable rent, you see, enough to cover our utilities and something for the communal pot. Really, it’s all about the cooperative. And there aren’t that many rules and regs. Guy and I adore it here. We’re jewellers, we have our studio near the house. It’s a dream come true for us, being in this paradise, living off the land. And we hope our other dream is going to come true too, don’t we, Fwankie?’

Things were becoming clearer for him. The picture painted by the website was somewhat misleading. He buttered more toast, watched closely by Frankie, whose nose quivered. Having accused him of nosiness, Elinor turned out to be one of those garrulous people who spill out their personal information to strangers. She started to explain that she and her husband were applying to become adoptive parents.

‘I’ve got a useless womb, you see. It was hard to accept at first, because all the women in my family are amazingly fertile and pop out bambinos as if they’re shelling peas, but I’ve come to terms with it now. Guy and I believe that we should offer the chance of this amazing life here to