Chapter Thirty-nine
Our seats are almost at the back. By unspoken agreement, the front seats are always given to the older residents. They are all here – twelve of them looking up eagerly at the lit screen.
Alex comes forward, speaking into a headset mic similar to the one I was given for my presentation a month ago. “Professor William Jones and I are thrilled to share with you the discovery of an important part of this magnificent house.”
Osian whispers in my ear: “A hundred pounds says this is a religious scandal – a Welsh Methodist having it off with someone’s wife.”
“Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips, suppressing a giggle. We’re sitting very close, like two teenagers at school. Or even like two teenagers in the back row of the cinema.
“All these”—Alex points to a picture on the screen showing several photographs: a stack of letters tied with a ribbon, a couple of portraits and a stained-glass window—“are of the same man. Photography was a relatively new art and to have three photos, not to mention portraits, means you were rich and famous.” He presses a few buttons to make the slide flip.
“So not a vicar,” Osian whispers again, leaning close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body. “Welsh clergy were poorer than church mice.”
The next slide is a close up of the main photo showing a youngish man typical of nineteenth-century gentlemen: tall hat, curly hair and a handsome moustache. “But who was he? For a long time we called him ‘man in top hat’.” He pauses, giving us time to guess.
“My money is on a Russian prince,” I whisper back.
Osian lifts his eyebrows. “Russian prince? You’ve read too much Tolstoy.”
“I haven’t read any Tolstoy. Or Chekhov, or even… Was Stravinsky Russian?”
“Don’t know. But I think he might have been a composer,” Osian whispers. “We’re very ignorant, you and I.”
He and I really should not be playing this game, not if I know what’s good for me. But it’s hard to resist this suddenly carefree Osian.
“The letters gave us a better clue.” Professor Jones joins Alex in front of the projector. “Written by a woman, all of them addressed to this man, identified only by his first initial: E. The mystery was finally solved when we found this.”
The image on the screen shows a round miniature with a small inscription at the bottom.
Osian and I lean forward, trying to make it out. Elias Gruffudd.
Osian pretends to smack his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Who’d have thunk it. A bloody Welshman.”
I have to stifle a giggle at this stray Americanism.
“His name isn’t in the family tree, so not a member of the Kendrics.
So why was he here, and why are there so many images of him, a stained-glass panel, a portrait in the gallery?
The story when we pieced it together was as poignant as it was surprising.
” Professor Jones pauses just as we’re all anxious to hear more.
“The clue was in the letters.” Alex picks up the story. “They were signed simply ‘BK’, and it was only as we read through them that we found this.” He clicks to move to the next slide.
Osian puts a hand over my eyes. “Guess.”
I’ve never really seen this playful side to Osian. Yes, I have – long ago. This is the old Osian who used to laugh and joke all the time. Joke and flirt.
“Queen Victoria,” I guess.
“You’re not even trying.”
No, I’m not. It’s all I can do not to lean forward until my forehead is in his hand. Who cares about ‘man with top hat’ or the Kendric family tree?
Osian removes his hand. The slide shows a section of letter with one line highlighted. You think of me as good old Beryl. How mistaken you are.
“Queen Vic, aka Beryl to her close friends.” I elbow him lightly in the side.
Just then Evan, who’s sitting a couple of rows in front of us, gets up, a phone to his ear, He heads for the back of the hall and waves to Osian.
“Keep my seat warm and my beer cold,” Osian whispers, getting up.
I follow him with my eyes. Evan is just by the doors. They confer for a couple of minutes. Osian glances at me, then back at Evan and finally comes over. But he doesn’t sit down.
“I have to… see someone.” He speaks quietly. Again, a tiny hesitation before he says, “Let me know the rest of the story.”
He starts to turn away, but I place a quick hand on his arm to stop him. “What is it? You were about to ask me something. Then I saw the decision change in your eyes.”
When he still hesitates, I urge him gently. “Tell me.”
“Are you still upset you haven’t had the chance to help any of the partners?”
Instantly all thoughts of top hat man and Beryl fade. “What do you need me to do?”
“Come with me,” he says, almost without sound.
He takes my hand and we tiptoe out of the ballroom and out the double doors into the back of the house.
“It’s all that online stuff,” he says as we walk. “It’s attracted the attention of someone in Saint Anselm, a mental health charity. A couple of their reps just turned up and asked to speak to the person in charge of the Perllan Centre for Wellbeing.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
He frowns. “They’ve been on my radar to contact when we’re a bit more established. Saint Anselm is the leading organisation when it comes to treatment and rehabilitation programmes. If they give me the thumbs up, a lot of other charities will follow.”
He says all this as if there’s a hidden problem.
I search his face as we pause just behind the doors to the café. “So what’s worrying you?”
“I don’t have results to show them; this is our first group. No follow-up research, no documented outcomes. They’ll need more than my word, and I don’t want the Perllans interviewed. Nothing worse than someone grilling you about your depression.”
Ah! It now makes sense. “You want me to talk to them?”
“You’ve seen the group when they started and how they’ve taken to the hard work. And you’re good at talking without hesitation or repeating yourself and all that.”
He still has hold of my hand; it’s a clue to how worried he must be. I pull free as we push the door open and enter the café. If I’m going to be a reliable third party, I can’t look like his girlfriend.