Chapter 4: A Coffee in Tydfil (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

Dafydd Pryce no longer worked out of his Rhondda constituency offices in Merthyr Tydfil for the Labour party.  Instead, his offices were in the crisply restored Arts Council brick townhouse adjacent to the old town hall in the centre of the town, now in full swing of an immense restoration project for a new theatre and arts complex serving Merthyr College. 

Pryce was the government employee in charge of overseeing a massive cultural project that would be yet another mark of integrity for the Rhondda district of South Wales.  The signs above his cosy brick office entrances were hand-carved bilingual works of art in burnished oak relief, swinging slightly on scrollworked black iron in the cobblestone sunshine. 

Next door, the smell of espresso steam wafted into the footpath, as a posh coffee shop was in full swing serving outdoor customers at reclaimed secondhand tables with daisy vases and mismatched chairs.  On the other side was a shop blooming with every colour of hand-dyed scarf and handbag imaginable.  And in the old town hall, now arts centre across the cobbled road, the din of pressure hammers in the cement replacing a faulty electric supply wire, the whacking of hammers putting up drywall in the new art gallery and the circular saws pealing through the summer breeze, currently ruined any attempt at posh pretense by any business in the district.  Everyone grit their teeth and waited desperately for it to finally be finished in a month.

John was looking inquisitively at Sherlock in the summer sunshine over his cappuccino cup while Sherlock gazed across the road and up the laneway. 

“There’s no point being out this early if we’re not going to see Pryce today.” said John crossly.  “This is a bit of a holiday for me, and I never get in till midnight, so one day coming out past eleven wouldn’t go amiss.  I like a good lie in.”

“Which is ironic, seeing as you’re meant to be the oh-so-motivated professional,” teased Sherlock, breaking his gaze up the road for a sidelong glance. “Now let me watch the road.  Pryce isn’t in yet.  We’ll see how last night’s altercation panned out.”

“Why, how do you think it will pan out?” asked John.

“People who believe in magic wars and lightning bolts, witch doctors and favour of the gods.  They believe in it so it affects them.  If he’s in a state, we can work that to our advantage.  Get more information off him.”

“That’s like walking into a church and acting the holy roller to get information off people.” said John, wearing his ‘I can’t believe you would do such a thing’ face.

“It works.” said Sherlock lazily.

“I suppose you’ve done it then.”

“Pentecostals are the easiest.  You have no dogma, just jump up and down a bit and wave your hands in the air.  They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“I can’t believe your nerve.” John was laughing by now.  “You’re bloody unbelievable.”

“I don’t mind them.  They make very bad liars.  Most of the nutjob churches have fairly decent blokes in them.  Watch out for the old women, though.  They’re vicious.  They can smell you a mile off.”  Sherlock raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in mock fear, then sipped his tea. “Catholics are another story, though.  They’re required to believe in dogma and that adds even more nonsense on top of resurrection and world deluges.  They make astonishingly good liars.”

John put his head in his hands.  “God, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gazed down the road.  “Precisely.  Now all we need to know, is which invisible god is doing the psychological smiting.”

John looked wistfully at his watch, wanting the day to be over already at 9.30 AM.  Adventure was certainly his cup of tea, but today the sunshine was beckoning a nice country walk and picnic.  “Can’t we just go do some research down at the museum?  Breege invited us down.  Or take a walk over in that wood by Pritchard’s cabin.”  He breathed in a bit wistfully.  “I wouldn’t mind a walk in the woods.  Since we’re out of London.  No rabid hounds to contend with, just mad tree worshippers.”

“We’ll be going soon.” said Sherlock. “I just want to see how this war is panning out.”

As soon as he mentioned it, Dafydd Pryce parked his silver Audi TT across the road, and in it was a great massive dent on the drivers side.  He got out and was wearing a blue cast on his arm.  Grimly he walked into his office, accompanied by his frail-looking and worried wife. 

Sherlock grimaced and raised his eyebrows again, and looked sidelong over at John.  John, however, looked concerned, more so than usual.  And then he looked at Sherlock.

“Well, someone’s voodoo certainly seems to have worked.” said Sherlock. 

“I need to find out more.  I don’t like this.” John started to get up from the table, coffee only half finished.

“No, John, let’s keep watching.  Don’t be too eager to blast off finding the truth when you haven’t triangulated the lies.”  Sherlock stayed in his chair and beckoned John to sit.  “A few more persons are going to arrive shortly.”

“Triangulated the lies.  What does that even bloody mean?!” asked John, exuding more than false exasperation on an otherwise lovely morning.

“I triangulate the truth by listening to the way that peoples’ lies echo, like a game of Chinese whispers reverberating and checking itself within an organic field of self-organising chaos.” said Sherlock tersely.

“Yeah, English please.” John sipped his coffee.

“Deduction.”

“Sounds like the selfsame voodoo rubbish you so eagerly love to rubbish.” teased John. 

Sherlock was gazing up the road.  “SHH.” he nearly barked. John frowned and then shot a quick glance next door.  Two men in shabby brown suitcoats and jeans quickly made their way into Pryce’s door without buzzing in.  They were wearing small green glass baubles on silver chains under their shirts, and country caps.  “The troops are arriving.”  He nonchalantly downed his tea mug and stood up. 

John stood up as well and put a pound coin on the table.  “Well, are we having a chat with him?”

“Not now.  Let him have his meeting.  I fancy a brisk country walk.” said Sherlock.

“That’s better, something to look forward to, right?”

“No. I hate nature, John.  You know that.  Be sure to bring the forensics kit and your lockbox.” They left for the Tydfil forest.