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

drawer. The atmosphere was stiff with tension, but she managed a tight smile as they sat at the table. She wore a different yoga outfit today, in deep greens, and another felt hat in the same style, in a paisley pattern. When Swift asked if it was okay to stay on for a while, she said of course, although her tone was cool. She and Peter had bowls of porridge topped with bananas in front of them. The porridge was congealing and the same colour as Peter’s cardigan. A cafetière stood in the centre of the table, but Swift wasn’t offered any coffee.

‘We ask for a contribution of ten pounds per day, if that seems fair,’ Jasmine said.

‘More than fair. I’ll stay at Afan’s for now, if that’s okay, rather than in the Bivium, as there’s a bigger bed.’

Peter Merchant ate fussily, stabbing the lumpy porridge with his spoon. He had an anaemic pallor but perhaps it was his colourless eyes that made him seem insipid. ‘I suppose you’re hoping that Afan will be back soon.’

Swift saw a flash of gold filling in his mouth. ‘That’s the idea. If I hang on, I’ll get to catch up with him as intended.’

Jasmine gave him a narrow stare. ‘How long are you planning to be with us?’

‘A couple of days at least. Then I’ll take stock, based on what’s happening with Afan. I hope he’ll be in touch soon.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you needn’t be at a loss for things to occupy you. We can always make use of an extra pair of hands in the community. Every season is busy here. I can draw up a little plan for you.’

I bet you can. He didn’t mind helping out, but he wasn’t proposing to spend his time being bossed around by Jasmine. ‘That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll pitch in when I’m ready but first, I want to visit Holybridge and get my bearings.’

‘As you wish,’ she said, stirring her porridge.

The kitchen was cluttered and homely, decorated in a rustic style with low ceiling beams, open shelving, a cream Aga, piles of magazines and newspapers and a worn farmhouse table. There were vases of dried blossoms and wildflowers dotted around. Swift admired a sturdy willow armchair sitting at an angle to the fire, and an elegant white willow chaise longue with scalloped edges resting below a window.

He said, ‘This is a lovely house.’

‘Thank you,’ Jasmine said more graciously. ‘We’re privileged to call it home.’

Swift saw her husband’s mouth twist as if he was in pain. He asked, ‘Did you make the willow furniture?’

‘All my own work,’ Peter replied.

‘It’s handsome.’

‘Thanks. I take great pleasure in it.’

It was a magnificent house, sturdy and imposing, with sloping, timbered ceilings and deep windows. There was an open fire burning in the kitchen hearth, with pots and pans hanging from a rack overhead. The deep, wide fireplace reminded Swift of those he’d seen in the kitchens at Hampton Court. He pictured a pig roasting on a spit while a sweating kitchen boy turned it. The Merchants might cosily refer to themselves and all the smallholders as ‘stewards’, but they had ultimate control over this community, and the house stamped them as the landowners.

Swift addressed Peter. ‘What made you decide to move here from London?’

The man’s face brightened a little. ‘I’d done my time in banking. We wanted a simpler life. I’ve spent many happy years with my wine and willow. Yes, good years, well spent. I read my poetry. Every morning I wake up and I’m grateful to be here in this little corner of heaven.’

There was a strange silence. Peter slumped a little in his chair while Jasmine chewed.

‘I understand that a young man, Morgan Callender, went missing a couple of months ago,’ Swift said.

Jasmine snapped, ‘Who told you that?’

‘Bruno.’

‘I see. You never need to tune into the news here, there’s always someone broadcasting. Yes, Morgan vanished from his home in Holybridge. He didn’t live here. He was an occasional volunteer and not a particularly reliable one.’

‘You must have been worried, all the same.’

‘We were concerned, of course,’ Peter replied, ‘and sorry for his family, but we heard that he left a message saying that he’d decided to leave home.’

Jasmine pulled a face. ‘He was a dissatisfied young man and when he did bother to turn up, he never finished a job properly. The police reckoned he’d taken off to London, or some other city. They see a lot of that. There’s not much around here for youngsters. We have one other volunteer — one who hasn’t taken off to the bright lights — who comes a couple of days each week. Her name’s Caris Murray and unlike Morgan she’s reliable, although she was friendly with him. I’ll ask her to cast an eye over Afan’s garden while she’s here. Just to tidy it and pick any ripe produce for the kitchen. So if you see her, you’ll not be concerned.’

‘By the way, there’s a natural spring at the back of the house,’ Peter told him. ‘We’ve seen maps that show it’s been in use for more than two centuries. The water has a high calcium content, so it’s good for teeth and bones. You can bring a bucket if you want any water from there for cold drinks. We generally use harvested rainwater for cooking, etcetera — it’s fine as long as you boil it. Every home has rain barrels and of course we have a central reservoir.’

‘Presumably, you’ll be eating in the refec while you’re here,’ Jasmine said. ‘You need to put your name down for supper by ten in the morning. The book’s by the fridge in there. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve a lot to be getting on with.’

He went back to the refec and put his name in the book for supper.