Alex’s expression remains thoughtful, and perhaps he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
“I agree,” the man Alex waved over says, pulling over a chair to sit beside me. “To my mind, this is only one question in a larger mystery. It’s like a chain of clues that snakes around the entire house. Or at least I thought it was the house, but seeing your wall makes me think it includes the gardens too. Someone did this; there’s a method to it.”
“And you think…?” The question comes from one of the old men who has also joined us.
“Who knows?” the professor says. “Might be a family secret.”
Alex rises to give the older man his seat and finds another for himself.
The professor asks me, “What doyouthink?”
All eyes turn to me, which is far more intimidating than cameras and production crew. These people really care what I think. Trying not to blush, I say, “My own suspicion is the blue wall is just like a treasure hunt. I’d say some of these mosaics lead you to a feature in the house or the garden. Unless it’s a…”How can I explain?“The thing about gardens is that things were designed for a practical reason. But here there are features I can’t understand.”
“Such as?” Evan prompts.
“Nowadays we have this modern symbolism. The kind of thing you see a lot at the Chelsea Flower Show. Statements about modern life, an homage to books or films or even a famous person. But a hundred years ago, gardens were just gardens. They were created to be beautiful or useful. So…” I pull back from talking too much theory. “So last week, I found these slate borders, the kind that normally edge a flowerbed. Except that there are too many of them and too close together. If they’re flowerbeds, why are they too narrow? They’re in groups of seven. They all begin from a curve and radiate out as if the flowerbeds start narrow and widen slightly.”
“Like the wheel of a bicycle?” Haneen asks. She must have drifted over unobserved. Evan’s partner is a very gentle, unobtrusive creature.
“Sort of,” I answer. “But only a quarter of a wheel. Like I said – only seven lines. And a little distance away there are more but they’re pointing in another direction. I can’t see why, but it feels like they were drawing a shape.”
Osian should join this discussion. I turn to find him but he’s engrossed talking to Nora still. Or at least she’s talking to him. She smiles and twinkles as if sure of his admiration.
A chair somewhere scrapes on the tiled floor.
Llewellyn gets up from the table, lips pressed into a thin line, and stalks upstairs. Osian notices but then Nora lays a hand on his arm and whispers something that draws his attention back to her.
I turn back to my group, a million thoughts in my head. It takes a huge effort to focus on Alex and the others around me.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Alex says, on the edge of his seat. “If I’m not wrong, they make a shape for a reason.” He moves his hands around each other as if trying to make a shape. “Look at this, we just uncovered it yesterday.” He glances up towards the mural nearest us. A painting of a woman in a bridal gown standing in the hollow of a large tree with thick leafy branches like a crown. “We thought it was just a forest until we cleaned up all the residue and saw the bride. And see in the background, there’s a man on a horse. Don’t you think he looks sad?”
There’s a silence, eventually broken by the professor. “Rhys and Meinir,” he whispers, eyes going wide.
We all look at him.
“None of you are Welsh, are you?” he says. “Rhys and Meinir is an old and very sad legend.” He turns to Alex. “But you were saying?”
Haneen holds a hand up to stop Alex talking. “You’re not going to leave us hanging. What sad legend?”
“I will tell you in a minute but we don’t want Alex to lose his train of thought.”
Alex gets up and walks to the alcove.
I start to get up. I’m going to bring Osian over. This is starting to get more interesting and he should hear it.
He seems engrossed by Nora in her skimpy top; she still has her hand on his arm and is talking eagerly. He is sitting straight but has one ankle on the opposite knee and both hands on his shin. I’ve seen this move before on other men.
I know it, and I know what it’s meant to hide.
Just then he looks up. Our eyes meet, and his face colours.
I turn away quickly.
“You see,” Alex is saying. “Beneath the mural there’s a ledge with a decorative pattern in mosaics. Two shades of green, dark and pale. And it, too is a line of something.” He waits to make sure we’re all listening, then reads aloud. “She dwelt among the untrodden ways. Beside the darling springs.”
It means little to me and by the blank looks on the faces of the others, even less to them.
“It sounds like poetry. I’ll have to look it up.” He nods to the professor. “And I think we both have to compare notes with that legend you mentioned.”
