The professor gives us a minute to observe the picture then he explains. “The legend of Rhys and Meinir is one of the most famous in Wales. Like most ancient legends, there are many versions of it. The basic story is about a wedding tradition. The bride hides and the groom or his friends go looking for her and bring her to the church to be married. On the day of Meinir’s wedding to her childhood sweetheart, she dressed in her finery and went to hide. Rhys waited with the guests at the church for his friends to bring his bride to him. Hours went by and they were still waiting. At the end of the day, his friends returned empty-handed; they’d looked everywhere and never found her.”
The professor pauses for a minute to give Alex time to change the image. It’s still the same mural but zoomed in on the rider in the corner. Now we can see both he and the horse look tired, as if they’ve travelled a long way. The grey colour of the horse is mostly dust.
“The legend says that Rhys looked for her for a long, long time. He travelled far and wide but never found her. He pined for Meinir all his life and never married. One day, Rhys, an old man by now, was caught in a rainstorm and hid under a largeoak. Lightning struck the tree, splitting it in half, and there inside it in a large hollow was a skeleton dressed in a wedding gown.”
He pauses, letting us imagine this before continuing. “It seems Meinir had climbed into the hollow tree to hide but no one found her. And she was stuck and couldn’t climb back out.”
This time the hush in the ballroom is so complete, you could have heard a pin drop. Everyone twists around to look at the mural in the alcove, even in the dim light.
“That alone is interesting, but no mystery there. The plot thickens with the discovery of the poem.” He reads it out then says. “Note the line ‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways. Beside the darling springs’. It’s altered from the original line which reads, ‘Beside the springs of Dove.’ This we believe must point to a well or spring somewhere in Darling Wood, here. Kendric House has a few of these fragments of poems that seem to be clues to features in the house or gardens. So if what you’re about to hear rings a bell with anyone, please talk to us. For now, let me hand you all over to Alexander McLaverty, our mosaic and antiques expert.”
The professor steps back from the projector and sits in a chair that’s obviously been placed there for him. Alex steps forward. The two of them have a well-choreographed presentation; I’ll need to buck up my ideas when it’s my turn.
Heck, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about. I glance to Osian in time to see him getting up from the table and walking out of the ballroom.
Something about his walk, the way he almost collides with a chair on his way out, makes me think he’s upset or angry.
I wait for him to come back while Alex talks. There’s a fragment of a poem set at the base of the mural. I listen with half an ear, turning around every few minutes to look for Osian, but he doesn’t come back.
After the presentation, Alex comes to find me. “Would you keep an eye out for any water features that might fit the line in the poem?”
“Yes,” the professor agrees. “We think you’re our best bet because this is a very similar mystery to your blue wall. You know, the ‘five colours of hope’, which is a departure from the original poem.”
They don’t know I’ve solved that riddle. Actually, Osian and I solved it together – the fans and the echo of the stained glass above my door. Maybe this is something to keep for my own presentation in two weeks. And maybe I can do a double act with Osian like Alex and the professor did tonight.
“You see,” Alex says. “The original poem was by Wordsworth, just like yours on the blue wall is from Yates.”
“Keats,” I correct him, looking around again, hoping Osian has come back. He can’t have gone to bed already; it’s not even 8:30 yet.
The discussion goes on for another hour or two before I say good night. Not that I’m remotely sleepy – it’s barely 10pm – but I’m tired and more than a little deflated.
So I make myself a cup of peppermint tea and go out on the balcony. Next door is dark and silent. Could he be fast asleep? At least this time I’m not obsessing about him getting off with Nora since she and Llewellyn have broken up and she left some time ago.
A noise drifts up from below. At first I think it’s just a branch or something moving in the breeze, but then I remember all the bushes have been ploughed up and removed. Could it be a dog or a fox?
A little later the sound comes again – the scuff of boots on slate. I put my mug on the floor and go to the balustrade to look down. It’s too dark, but the sound came from almost directly beneath me, so I lean far out to peer down.
Most of Kendric House has a paved slate path that goes around each wing. It hugs the walls, slightly wider than a footpath but not wide enough for benches or planters. I can just make out Osian because of his white shirt; he’s standing on the path, gazing out over the empty garden, a bottle in his hand.
“Hey,” I call softly.
He looks up and after a moment waves me down.
It would have made more sense for him to come upstairs but I go down anyway, out through the terrace and down the steps until I find the path.
“Aren’t you a bit cold in short sleeves?” I ask by way of greeting.
He waves the bottle to show me. Red wine, half empty.
“You know alcohol only gives the illusion of warmth. It actually allows your core heat to escape.”
He shrugs, staring out into the dark like it’s a film he doesn’t want to miss.
Why has he invited me to join him if he’s not going to talk? Unfortunately, I cannot play the silent, withdrawn game. So I ask another question.
“Where did you go? I thought you wanted to hear Alex’s presentation?”
At this he turns. “What did I miss? More about that legend?”
