The Dylan Thomas Murders Page 4

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “There aren’t any children in Llareggub.”

  “Polly Garter’s?”

  “That’s my point. There’s only her babies, and Lily Smalls, the teenager. There’s nothing in between. True, there are children in the school playground, but never with their families. It has something to do with the way Dylan was excluded by his own father. Do you and Rachel have any children?”

  “No.”

  “Never wanted any?”

  This was not something I wished to discuss, and it was taking me away from the interview.

  “What happened to Waldo?”

  “You could try asking him yourself.”

  “He lives here?”

  “No, at Fern Hill.”

  * * *

  We paused for lunch. I walked around outside, whilst Rosalind prepared the food, and I wondered how such a person could be the mother of someone who eats spiders, and makes presents of puppy tails. I was rather absent-mindedly admiring the cottage, when I noticed a note under the windscreen wiper of my car. I was in no doubt who’d left it there. I went out of the wicker gate onto the road, and pulled the paper from under the wiper. It simply said

  Rat’s hair, dogskin, owlheart,

  Pigs’ eyes, womanchop.

  Stir well and stew the lot.

  I went back inside. There were curried turkey sandwiches, and a herb and rabbit pâté which, Rosalind said with pride, Waldo had prepared. I took the sandwiches. We drank from a pitcher of wine that Rosalind had made herself from vine leaves and sage. It was slightly medicinal, like a weak Campari, but it cut cleanly through the rich tastes of the sandwiches. I wanted to know more about Eliot, and asked her to tell me what happened after Dylan’s death.

  “Eliot took a lot more interest, but that caused quite a few problems. He wanted to take Waldo out of the secondary modern and pay for him to go to public school. That started a major row. He also objected to Waldo’s not going to church. But on the plus side, he set up a trust fund for him in New York.”

  “Eliot was taking his responsibilities seriously?”

  “Partly, but he was also buying his way in, and that was fine by me. I wanted Waldo provided for.”

  “What did Eliot want in exchange?”

  “His Princess Volupine.”

  “Did he get her?”

  “Yes, he got his princess, his Jewish princess.”

  “The typist in ‘The Waste Land’.”

  “There was no other way, Martin. I was past the haymaking age, and was no good at sewing farmers’ fly buttons back on, or raising their turn-ups.”

  “Did you ever tell Waldo he was Jewish?”

  “He found out quite by accident. We were clearing out the house, just after my father had died. There was an old trunk in the small bedroom. We opened it together, Waldo had to lever the lid off with a crow bar. And what did we find sitting on top? A skull cap! And a menorah. I was so angry with them. All that pretence to hide from the Germans...”

  I hesitated for a minute, and then plunged straight in. “You know he’s sending me funny letters?” I passed the latest note across for her to read.

  “He’s only doing what he’s been told.”

  “By you?”

  She looked up angrily. “Of course not.” After a moment’s silence, she said: “Waldo’s not well, you know.”

  That I did know.

  “I’m sorry, I should have explained sooner.” She was twisting the ring on her finger so violently that I could see a small bruise appearing. “He hears voices.”

  “Any old voices?” I asked, sounding more flippant than I’d intended.

  “Voices from his father’s pen.”

  “Which father?”

  “Dylan.”

  “The voices from Milk Wood?” I asked, this time sounding incredulous.

  “Usually Beynon the butcher.”

  Beynon the hunter of wild giblets. Sneaking up on corgis with his cleaver, swaggering down Coronation Street with a finger in his mouth, not his own, purveyor of the finest shrew and budgie rissoles...

  “Waldo’s always been fascinated by Mr Beynon.”

  Fox pâté, cats’ liver, mole surprise and otter pie...

  “I hope Waldo’s letters haven’t upset Rachel.”

  Heart of owl, eye of mouse, tail of puppy-dog...

  “Waldo’s quite harmless really.”

  Slice of buttock, cut of thigh, womanchop...

  I rushed from the cottage and drove recklessly fast through the narrow lanes. I found our back door open and no sign of Rachel. I searched the outbuildings, the garden and the hut where she sometimes wrote her poetry. Then I remembered that she often went with Mably at this time of day to walk by the river. I ran down the hill, crossed the old bridge and crashed wildly through the trees to the river bank. I followed the path past the walled garden, and as I rounded the corner near the otter pool, I saw Rachel leaning against the wall with Mably lying on the ground beside her. I hugged her until it hurt and she squealed in protest.

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine but the dog isn’t. He won’t move.”

  Mably looked panic stricken, the look he always had at the vet’s. “What scared him?”

  “We came around the corner and saw a man standing by the hide. Mably rushed up to him barking like he always does. The man touched him on the head and Mably fell to the ground. By the time I got there, the man had disappeared.”

  We pulled, shoved and cajoled Mably but eventually we had to pick him up and carry him home. He lay in his basket for the rest of the afternoon, and not even food would entice him out. The vet came and pronounced him fit and well. We had supper, watched television and went to bed. I came down in the morning to make tea, and Mably was dead in his basket.

  * * *

  It was not easy going back to Rosalind Hilton’s, but it was helped by knowing that Rachel would be safe, out all day at Welsh classes. We had buried Mably by the poetry hut, near a spot we knew would be covered in daffodils in the spring. We had stood silently whilst the Aeron rushed past, and then trudged tearfully back to the house. I left Rachel at the bus stop, and drove to Rosalind’s, pondering on how recent events had affected our relationship – it seemed that her son had killed our dog, and perhaps our own well-being was at stake. I felt responsible for what had happened, but I also wanted to see things through to a settled outcome. It wasn’t in my nature to let matters hang in the air, incomplete. And, to be honest, I felt excited at the prospect of unravelling the mystery that was being spun in front of me. I’d been engaged to find a missing shed that was linked to both Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot, but it was giving me the opportunity to investigate, through Rosalind’s story, their lives and works. Sleuth and sociologist were coming together in one project, and that was very satisfying.

  Besides, where was the proof that the man Rachel had encountered was Waldo Hilton? I resolved to say nothing at the moment, and I arrived just as Rosalind was making coffee. We sat as usual next to the fire, and I switched the tape to record.

  “There was the most awful row one year. I think it was early 1944, and Waldo was just coming up to his second birthday. Eliot was lecturing in Swansea and when he’d finished he came to stay for a few days. I was still quite fond of him then. He used to spend the morning writing, and then after lunch we would catch the bus to New Quay and walk along the beach. We had just returned from one of those walks when I heard a car pull up. I looked out and it was Dylan, jumping out of a taxi.

  “I opened the door and went down the path to meet him. I thought it was better that Eliot saw as little as possible of Dylan’s greeting, because he was usually exceptionally affectionate, and often a little lewd. I was carrying Waldo and, thank goodness, that helped to cramp Dylan’s style a little. As we entered the house, Dylan stopped and sniffed the air. ‘Cats,’ he said, ‘the bloody place stinks of cats.’ It wasn’t that he didn’t like cats, they just close
d his chest up, as if he were asthmatic. Then he saw Eliot and said: ‘Dr Crippen, I presume?’

  “Eliot nodded his head and said: ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Thomas.’

  “Dylan hated that kind of affected politeness, and, sure enough, he farted. Loudly. Then he held Waldo up in the air, the way most men seem to want to do with babies, and said: ‘And how’s my little flannel-bottom.’

  ‘Yours, Mr Thomas?’ said Eliot, reaching out to take Waldo from Dylan.

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘Fine words from a man who pretends to be a poet.’

  ‘Pretends, Mr Eliot, pretends?’

  ‘Such coarseness sits uneasily with responsible fatherhood, Mr Thomas.’

  ‘You know as much about fatherhood, Mr Eliot, as I know about banking,’ replied Dylan, which was true in a way because Eliot had had no children in his own marriage. By this time, I had prised Waldo away from Dylan and put him down in his cot. It was just as well. Eliot crossed the room, and shoved Dylan out through the door. He tried to close it but Dylan managed to wedge it open with his foot. They were both shouting at each other, the baby had started to cry and I was in tears. I grabbed Eliot and dragged him away from the door. Dylan burst through, and threw a punch that skidded off Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot didn’t respond but stood there smiling down rather condescendingly at Dylan. I managed to get between them and Dylan backed off. Eliot continued to sneer and Dylan said: ‘Don’t play the church warden with me, you trussed-up prig.’

  “Now I swear Dylan knew nothing about Eliot’s truss. How could he? I certainly hadn’t told him, any more than I had told Eliot that Dylan rarely wore underpants. It was just a chance remark. Eliot went incandescent, I knew how sensitive he was about the truss, and how wounded he must have felt.

  “Eliot left the room and came back carrying his suitcase. ‘You’re welcome to stay, Mr. Thomas, but remember, I shall do everything in my power to keep the boy. Everything.’

  “Dylan turned to me: ‘Let the old fart go. It’s time you had a young man singing in your sheets.’

  “The rest of the year was fairly uneventful. Eliot sent me a series of letters asking me to make him Waldo’s legal guardian but I refused. He suggested we came to live in London. It was not difficult to say ‘no’ to that. There were more letters from his solicitors but I ignored them, too. And, fair play, he always sent presents down to Waldo, including, of course, lots of practical jokes which were of no use at all to a baby. Still, at least he was thinking about Waldo, and that meant something to me.

  “In September, Dylan moved into Majoda bungalow, just outside New Quay. He was happy living there, always boasting about the wonderful views he had of the bay, with a pub just down the road for the evenings.”

  “What was Majoda like to live in?”

  “The rooms were tiny and the walls were thin. There was nowhere quiet for Dylan to write. So I arranged for Eliot’s shed from Tyglyn Aeron to be taken down and put on the cliff next to the bungalow. That made Dylan very happy though I didn’t dare tell him that Eliot had used it for writing.

  “October started badly. Vernon Watkins and Gwen were getting married, and Dylan was to be the best man. He was very excited about it, and asked me to come up to London, and Waldo, of course. The worst of the blitz was over, I’d been away for almost ten years and the thought of going back was too much to resist. We travelled up in a train crowded with troops, but I was never without a seat. The plan was that Dylan would attend the wedding, whilst Waldo and I would go down to Stepney, and maybe find some of our old neighbours there.

  “We were on our way to drop me off, with plenty of time to spare for Dylan to get to the church, when Waldo had a seizure. This was the very first sign of something seriously wrong with him. It was the most frightening moment of my life, but thank God we were in London where there were plenty of hospitals. Dylan ordered the driver to take us to St. Mary’s which he thought the nearest, though he was wrong about that. Directions weren’t his strength, and he ignored the driver who said there was one much closer. Anyway, we were at St. Mary’s all afternoon. Waldo settled down, but they wanted to keep him in for observation. I was distraught and Dylan refused to leave me. He had missed the wedding but he could still have gone to the reception. ‘Vernon will understand,’ he said, and we both stayed near the hospital overnight.

  “Vernon was devastated, Gwen was furious and all Dylan’s biographers have been beastly about it since. Of course, he was never able to tell Vernon what had really happened because no-one, not even Vernon, knew about me and Waldo, and nor would they ever.

  “After Waldo’s seizure, Dylan spend a fortune on doctors. He wanted the best, and remember there wasn’t much of a health service then. When he went to Prague, they told him about a special clinic for children like Waldo. Dylan paid for us to go there for three months. It must have cost a fortune, though it didn’t help very much.

  “You can see now why Dylan was always on the cadge. Even after the war, when he was earning quite well, he was always borrowing from his friends. Caitlin could never understand why he had so little money to spare.

  “Christmas came and went, Dylan arrived on New Year’s Day looking the worse for wear, and he spent most of the time in the rocker near the Aga, drinking milk and feeding himself and Waldo with the leftover plum pudding. In the evening, we sat in the parlour in front of a roaring fire. I was reading a book and Dylan was bouncing Waldo up and down on his knees. I remember Dylan saying: ‘What’s Christmas without an uncle?’ when a huge piece of coal fell out of the grate and rolled across the hearth onto some newspapers that we’d foolishly left on the carpet. They caught fire instantly. Dylan put Waldo in the cot, and rushed to the kitchen to fetch water. But the pipes were frozen. I started to stamp on the papers as best I could but without making much of an impression. Next thing, Dylan was racing back and forth with armfuls of snow and dumping them on the flames, looking for all the world like someone carrying a baby in swaddling clothes. I believe it was that piece of coal that started Dylan off on A Child’s Christmas.

  “Things began to go sour in the New Year, particularly with the shooting. You know the story?”

  I nodded. It had been the most sensational event of Dylan’s life. He’d escaped death by inches. There’d been a quarrel in the Black Lion in New Quay with a war-weary special forces commando called William Killick. After a brief exchange of blows, Killick had been thrown out of the pub by Alastair Graham, an old friend of Dylan’s. Graham was extremely well connected, with friends in government and the royal family. He had come to live in New Quay after resigning from the diplomatic service. His bacchanalian house parties were a gay assortment of London friends, so much so that his mansion became known locally as Bugger Hall.

  “Graham drove Dylan home to Majoda. We were playing some silly games when the shooting began. Then Killick burst in, and threatened to blow us all up.”

  “But no-one was hurt?”

  “No. Dylan was on his knees licking Caitlin’s legs pretending to be her spaniel, and the rest of us were on the floor drinking beer out of cereal bowls – it was Dylan’s favourite party game. The bullets went right overhead, thank God.

  “Dylan was marvellous. He was the bravest of the lot, and took the gun away from Killick. And then he worked out the cover story for everybody. That’s how Dylan became involved with British intelligence. Alastair was very impressed and arranged for Dylan to meet Ian Fleming.”

  “As in James Bond?”

  “Yes, though he hadn’t written anything at that point. He was high up in naval intelligence, I believe. Anyway, Dylan played along, it was great fun for him, but he was flattered, too, and he needed the money. He went to lunch at All Souls, with Rouse I think, and that’s where the deal was done, in the rose garden, early 1946.”

  “I just can’t see Dylan as a spy.”

  “Intelligence was full of writers in those days – it was excellent cover.”

  “What did they ask him to do?”

>   “They used him in the BBC at first, keeping an eye on the lefties. They were worried about a communist ring there. They sent him to Italy in 1947, and then to Prague, just sniffing around the intellectuals, and reporting back, pockets of resistance, underground press, civil liberties, that sort of thing.

  “No, he wasn’t strictly on the payroll, just cash in hand for each job and a small retainer. They used Margaret Taylor to channel the money to him. And it was MI6 who paid for the Boat House.”

  “And the trip to Iran for the oil company?”

  “Now that was rather interesting. One of MI6’s agents in Iran had sent a message claiming he had a list of Soviet spies who had infiltrated British intelligence and the Foreign Office. His difficulty was, of course, that he didn’t know who to trust with this information, so he insisted that they sent out someone known to him, and he suggested Dylan. MI6 knew that the oil company had plans to make a film, so it was just a question of making sure that Dylan was given the job of scriptwriter.”

  “But why Dylan?”

  “The agent in Iran was Araf Lloyd-Morgan. His father was an engineer from Laugharne, and his mother a local girl working in the accounts department. The company put him through school, he was very bright, and they saw quickly what an asset he would be to them. Araf went to the university in Tehran and then the company sent him to Oxford for a year, and that’s where he met Dylan, and became good friends. But MI6 had spotted Araf’s potential, too, and they recruited him.”

  “So Dylan agreed to go and collect Araf’s list?”

  “Not at first. He simply refused. His marriage was in tatters, because Caitlin had learnt of his affairs in America. And he didn’t relish the prospect of six weeks in the desert with nobody but oil men for company. But MI6 leaned on him, blackmail really. They had John Davenport intercept the love letters that had been sent to Dylan at his club.”

  “I thought Margaret Taylor had done that.”