MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective by GRETTA MULROONEY (free reads .txt) 📗

the floor, ranged against the back, he saw a couple of Kat’s clunky bird woodcarvings. They were as far as it was possible to imagine from the beautifully crafted antiques that Afan had owned in Lyon. Poor Afan, unwilling to exhibit them but too kind or embarrassed to get rid of them. In front of them were one pair of elegant brown leather shoes and a pair of hiking boots. Swift picked up a shoe and saw the label, Chaussures comme des Gants. Shoes like gloves. He recalled when Afan had had them handmade in Lyon, from calf leather. One evening, when they’d met for a walk by the river, he’d just come from a measuring session in the shop along the quays. Afan’s feet had been narrow and he’d had difficulty finding shoes that fitted. As they’d crossed the Pont Bonaparte, he’d said that he liked to spend his money on comfort. Swift was glad now that he had, but wondered at the life change that had led him to give up his luxury for the austerity of Tir Melys. Perhaps, in the words of the song Bryn had sung, he’d been seeking a happy heart.

The wardrobe had a set of three drawers down the left-hand side. The top held underwear and socks, the middle one contained folded wool scarves and in the bottom one were odds and ends: a tape measure, a small torch, a hammer, assorted hooks and nails, superglue, a couple of padded envelopes, folded carrier bags, a large pair of scissors and underneath all of these a plastic box containing seven sets of keys. Each set had a large mortice and a smaller Yale. They had tags, numbered one to six, and one labelled ‘FD’. Swift was surprised that the police hadn’t taken them. DS Spencer had been in charge of searching the cottage — he must have a sluggish brain as well as sleepy eyes.

Swift had hoped that he might find a password for Afan’s email account but from what he knew of his friend, he’d have recorded it securely online. There were no personal or financial papers and no copy of a will. Swift was sure that careful, methodical Afan would have made one, and it would reveal if there was a next of kin. He presumed that any such personal documents were in DI Weber’s possession now.

He sat on the bed and rummaged through the bookcase. He found mainly novels, local history and biographies of famous Welsh figures: Owen Glendower, Dylan Thomas, Aneurin Bevan, Henry VII and Katheryn of Berain, who he’d never heard of. He read on the blurb that she was called the mother of Wales, because of her many notable descendants. The cover photo showed a serious, pale woman wearing a Tudor ruff. The first three biographies were dog-eared, second-hand paperbacks from Holybooks Preloved. The Berain was a newly minted hardback and when he read the flyleaf, he saw Kat’s handwriting. From one Kat about another Kat! Hope you enjoy xx. She was persistent in her wooing, and the book looked unread. On the bottom shelf, there were a couple more books on learning Welsh and a pamphlet printed by Holybridge Beekeepers Club. Swift flicked through it and read the introductory paragraph.

The hum of bees is music in our gardens.

Honeybees have existed on our planet for far longer than human beings. From the very earliest human records, there is evidence that people have sought their honey. There are several primitive Stone Age cave paintings apparently showing people robbing bees’ nests. Some people say they can even see in some of the pictures that a man is carrying a smoking torch — evidence that even at this early date smoke was being used to pacify the bees.

We call ourselves beekeepers but in reality, we work with the bees and we depend on their industry and skill.

He saw a couple of notes in the margins in what he assumed was Afan’s writing. Only work with locally sourced bees. Best to have a hive tool that’s a bright colour.

It was gone eleven and he should really have been getting to bed, but he fancied a nightcap first. He’d seen an opened bottle of blackberry mead in the dresser. He poured some to taste. It was rich and fruity. He was about to sit by the stove with it when there was a knock on the door. Suki stood outside with the rain whipping at her back and her sari flapping.

‘It’s late, but do you mind if I come in for a minute?’

‘Of course.’

She hung her coat on a hook. ‘I won’t stay long. Afan was on my mind. I was twitchy and I saw that your light was on.’

‘That’s okay. Murder makes people anxious. I was just having a glass of mead. Would you like one?’

‘Please.’

He gave her a glass and pulled two chairs to the stove. They sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking. He felt the warmth of the drink and the companionship ease the tensions of the day.

‘I never liked mead before I tasted Afan’s,’ Suki said. ‘He was modest about his talents but whatever he set his mind to, he did it well.’

It was an epitaph that his friend would have appreciated, and he told her so.

Suki sat with her toes tucked behind the bar below the chair. She was wearing a tasselled cream poncho over her sari and drew it around her like a blanket. ‘I was worrying about what Bryn said.’

‘About the Merchants selling up?’

‘Mmh. Thing is, Bryn can be a bit of a troublemaker. He likes to stir things up. But he’s also quite good at sniffing out gossip. He comes from Holybridge and he knows everyone and all the family histories, going back generations. He drinks at one of the pubs and chats to all and sundry.’

‘Why don’t you ask him directly what he’s