Gwyneth was quiet as they went. She had scampered among all these streets and lanes as a child, as most of the villagers considered her the peculiar stuttering “witch child” of Llanfryniog. The nostalgia of the sights, sounds, and smells brought mingled pains and joys to her heart. Riding down the town’s main street, and now through its narrow lanes, the eyes that followed the three young people all knew Florilyn and Percy. Not a soul recognized the light-haired girl between them nor would have guessed that she was the very one they had feared to speak to fifteen years before. Rumors about the sudden change in her fortunes would begin soon enough, as rumors always do. As yet no whisper had reached them that the urchin who had once left forgiveness bouquets on Llanfryniog’s doors would soon wed their beloved young Scot and then, five years from now, would become the viscountess and mistress of the manor to whom they would pay their rents.
Percy and Gwyneth dismounted in front of Grannie’s door. Percy tried the latch. The door opened on creaky hinges. He poked his head inside. “There’s nobody here, Gwyneth,” he said.
Slowly Gwyneth walked inside the poor cottage that had been a second home to her.
Sensing that it was time to let her ponder the past and future quietly and alone, Percy stepped back into the street. While Gwyneth renewed her memories, Percy helped Florilyn dismount. The two led their horses as they strolled up the lane.
“Remember the day we visited that creepy lady?” said Florilyn, pointing to the strange and weirdly appointed house at the end of the street.
“I do indeed. In fact, I thought I saw her a minute ago. It looked like she was scurrying away from Grannie’s cottage.”
Slowly they wandered toward the house. It was of wood, unusual in this place where stone predominated, painted in white and purple and of an architecture more reminiscent of Germany’s Black Forest than north Wales. The roof was steep slanted, boasting atop it an occultish weathervane. Gargoyles and statues of fairies, trolls, goblins, and other strange figures sat round the small yard. The mere look of the place sent a shiver up Florilyn’s spine.
A sign above the door, ornate with Celtic symbolism, read: MADAME FLEMING, PSYCHIC—FORTUNES AND FUTURES FORETOLD.
No one knew why the enigmatic “Madame Fleming” had come to this coastal village with her fortune-telling boutique or where she had come from. On the few occasions she chanced to be seen—in dresses and scarves of reds, pinks, and purples and with gaudy jewelry dangling from ears and neck and wrists—there was no mistaking her.
When they returned back along the street a few minutes later, Grannie’s former neighbor was talking over a low fence with Gwyneth. None of them had any idea that they were being watched through one of Madame Fleming’s curtained windows. Neither could they have divined what thoughts were racing through the devilish woman’s cunning brain. Nor why, hearing rumors of a young, white-haired beauty newly arrived in the village, she had grown newly fearful of what clues to her own identity might have been left behind in Grannie’s cottage.
“… just left without a word,” Grannie’s neighbor was saying. “No one knew where she had gone.”
“She is happy and well, Mrs. Hueil,” said Gwyneth.
“She is alive! But how do you know, lassie?”
“I am Gwyneth, Mrs. Hueil.”
The woman stared back at her speechless.
“The saints preserve us!” she said in disbelief. “Gwyneth … is it really you, lassie?”
Gwyneth smiled. “My father and Grannie are in Ireland, Mrs. Hueil. It is a long story. I came back with Percy for a visit.”
Mrs. Hueil glanced toward Percy and Florilyn as they walked up the lane toward them.
“Mr. Drummond … you’re back again, I see,” she said then nodded with a timid smile toward Florilyn. She was dying to know whether any significance might be attached to Florilyn’s being with Percy on this day, for the whole town knew of their broken engagement and her subsequent engagement to Colville Burrenchobay.
But the rumor mills would have no more grist to add to their grinding wheels on this day. When the three remounted their horses and rode the rest of the way through the village and out of town, they appeared no more nor less than what they were—three friends who had known each other a long time and had been seen together numerous times.
Steven returned in midafternoon to say that Hamilton Murray would call at the manor on the following day.
By eleven thirty the next morning, Katherine was seated with the solicitor in the manor’s formal sitting room with Florilyn, Percy, Gwyneth, and Steven, whom she had asked to be present, also. She had just given Mr. Murray a brief account of the turn of events and introduced him to Gwyneth.
“Well, I must say these are unexpected developments indeed,” said Murray as he and Gwyneth and Katherine resumed their seats. “However, I must confess that I knew something of it before I came. Your son has been busy, Lady Katherine. After you left me yesterday, Mr. Muir,” he said, nodding toward Steven, “I received a telegram from one of London’s noted barristers informing me that he was filing a suit on behalf of one Courtenay Westbrooke, son of the late Viscount Lord Snowdon, in substantiation of his claim as the rightful and legal heir to his father’s title and property.”
A few comments went round the room. No one was surprised at what Courtenay had done, though having managed it so quickly took them off guard.
“Obviously I need to research the legal background of the viscountcy and its unique stipulations of inheritance,” said Murray. “I should also read the affidavit you told me about.”
“I have it here,” said Percy. He rose and handed Murray the folded papers.
Murray took them and read it in silence, nodding a few times as he did so. “Very interesting,” he said when he had completed it. “Of course, it might have been advantageous had Roderick shared this with me. But I think we all understand his reasons for handling it as he did. A document such as this, in and of itself, would have little standing in a court of law. However, as supplemental evidence, especially if its facts can be confirmed elsewhere, by parish records of the marriage and births in question, there would be a strong case to be made to substantiate Miss Barrie as the viscount’s heir—that is, of course, if her maternity and her mother’s paternity can be likewise substantiated.”
“Tell him what you found in Ireland, Percy,” said Katherine.
Percy recounted the details of his two visits to Ireland, what he had seen in the parish record books, and his talk with Mrs. Maloney, Gwyneth’s aunt, along with the details both of Morvern’s birth and Gwyneth’s.
Murray listened attentively, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. “Even with all his,” he said when Percy was through, “I fear that in the hands of a capable, and perhaps unscrupulous, barrister, the case could be troublesome in court. Without the mother—I’m sorry, Miss Barrie,” he added, turning to Gwyneth, “without your mother … or some substantiating record or testimony, we really have no absolute proof that you are Morvern Westbrooke’s … a.k.a. Morvern O’Sullivan’s daughter. And according to what you say, Mr. Drummond, about the nature of the birth and the superstitions voiced by the aunt’s husband, it is probable that the birth was never entered in the parish register. At least you never saw it, isn’t that correct?”
Percy nodded. “What do you mean by a substantiating testimony?” he asked.
“An eyewitness who could absolutely establish that Miss Barrie is in fact Lord Snowdon’s granddaughter by his daughter Morvern, known as Morvern O’Sullivan—someone other than Miss Barrie’s father or aunt.”
“There was a midwife who attended the birth,” said Percy. “They were all afraid of her, but she—” He stopped in midsentence as his eyes shot open.
Suddenly Mrs. Maloney’s words came back into his brain with forceful clarity—“She claimed to be able to see into the future … always wore purple … horrid earrings of snakes and ugly creatures … purple, purple, purple!”
The next moment h
e was out of his chair and rushing toward the door. “This may mean nothing,” he said, “but there is someone in town I must see immediately. Steven, would you mind helping me hitch up the small buggy?”
The two young men ran from the room, leaving the others staring after them in bewilderment.
74
The Fleming
On this day Percy did not care who saw him or knew whom he had come into Llanfryniog to visit. He tied the horse to the iron post on the street. Moments later he was jingling the brass bell on Madame Fleming’s front door.
Several seconds later the door opened. The face that appeared was older and more wrinkled even than Percy had expected. She did not seem surprised as she cast a brief glance behind him. “So you’re alone this time, are you, Mr. Drummond,” said Madame Fleming.
“That’s right,” said Percy abruptly. “I want to talk to you.”
“Come in, come in. How can Madame Fleming be of service to you?” said the woman, leading Percy into her lair and closing the door behind him. Several candles burned inside, casting shadows upon the shelves and chairs and statues and tapestries and paintings with which the place was furnished. The bookshelf still stood against the far wall. The air was stifling with incense mingled with unpleasant odors of a more personal nature. The woman was dressed in several layers of thin, flowing purple material, her head wrapped in an orange scarf wound several times around a head mostly of gray that fell loosely over her shoulders. From her ears dangled two silver snakes. “You’ve had some reversals in love, I understand,” she said as she waddled into the interior. “Come to see what your future holds, have you?”
“It’s not my future I’m here to talk about,” said Percy, “but yours … and your past.” He stopped and stood in the middle of the crowded, dimly lit room.
The words jolted Madame Fleming, though she did not allow her reaction to show. She continued toward the small anteroom where she conducted her fortune-telling art until she realized Percy was not following her. She stopped and turned. “Come, young Drummond—come into my den where we may sit. I will look at your hand with the aid of my crystals and—”
“I have no intention of letting you look at my hand or any other part of me,” said Percy. “I shall stay right here, and you shall answer my questions. I want to know where you came from before you arrived in Llanfryniog.”
“Madame Fleming divulges nothing of her—”
“I want to know,” interrupted Percy. “And you can stop the fake accent. You are no more Bulgarian than I am. Perhaps I should be more direct and simply ask if you came from Ireland … Mrs. Faoiltiarna?”
Even in the dim light, Percy saw the word hit her like a physical blow. Slowly she tottered on wobbly knees like a tree about to fall then staggered to a chair and sat down. “Where did you hear that name?” she said.
“It is my business where I heard it,” replied Percy. “I see that you know it. You must know, too, that if those who know what you are and have cause against you … if they were to discover where you have been hiding all these years, it might not bode well for you.”
Quickly Madame Fleming recovered herself. Her eyes flashed with anger. “It was all lies!” she spat. “What do my affairs have to do with you, young Drummond? Take care that you do not anger me, or evil may come to you when you least—”
“Don’t threaten me with your mumbo jumbo,” interrupted Percy. “You may be able to pull off your charade as a psychic with superstitious old men and women, but it will not work with me. Your threats mean nothing. I know that you practiced as a midwife in eastern Ireland before escaping with your life under threat of witchcraft. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will expose you as a deceiver and fraud. I will contact the authorities in Arklow, informing them of your whereabouts. I think you know that the religious climate in Wales would not be friendly to the knowledge that witchcraft was being practiced in its midst.”
A vile string of imprecations exploded from Madame Fleming’s mouth.
“Guard your tongue!” shouted Percy. “Threaten or curse me again, and I will walk out of here and broadcast what I know. Now calm yourself. I have questions to ask, and I want answers. If you cooperate, I will promise to keep your secrets.”
Thirty minutes later, Percy and Madame Fleming left the latter’s house together. If either had qualms about being seen with the other, they did not show it. The proprietress of Madame Fleming, Ltd. was notably subdued from the interview recently concluded. But inside her dark soul, the fires of fury still burned hot.
They climbed into the buggy where it stood on the street. The springs groaned and tipped under the bulk of Llanfryniog’s colorful seer. Percy sat down beside her, flipped the reins, and they bounded off. What those curious eyes who saw them might have thought would have been interesting to inquire.
It would have made an even more interesting inquiry to know what the erstwhile Mrs. Faoiltiarna, alias the Wolf Lady, alias Madame Fleming, thought to find herself gazing up at the stone walls of Westbrooke Manor as they rode toward it and, a few minutes later, being led toward its front door. What the manor residents and staff thought as word gradually spread concerning whom Percy had brought into their midst might have been yet more interesting to know.
Percy led her through the front doors. “Wait here,” he said when they were inside. He disappeared up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
The others were still gathered in the sitting room, having tea and waiting for him.
“Mr. Murray, I have with me,” he began as all eyes turned toward him, “a woman who can, I believe, provide you the testimony you speak of. She is waiting downstairs.”
“Who can that be?” asked Katherine.
“It is a long story, Aunt Katherine,” replied Percy. “I heard about her when I was in Ireland. All the pieces did not fit together until we were talking a short while ago. Suddenly the light dawned, and I realized that the very woman who might hold the clues to prove Gwyneth’s identity had left Ireland, changed her identity, and had been in Llanfryniog all along. She is not someone I would normally trust. However, Mr. Murray, that I know her former identity, I believe, gives us sufficient power over her that she will tell the truth. If you question her and take down her statement, along with Uncle Roderick’s affidavit and the parish records … hopefully you will have enough documentation to meet Courtenay’s challenge.”
“Then let us see what the woman has to say,” said Murray. “Lady Katherine, if you would provide me a room where I can interview the woman in private, I shall see what I can learn.”
“I want to hear everything, too!” said Florilyn.
“I promised her confidentiality,” said Percy. “She has a past she is anxious not be known. That I figured it out makes her hate me. But I promised not to tell her secrets if she would give Mr. Murray a full statement of the facts of Gwyneth’s birth. We must let her speak with him alone.”
“I will need a third party to witness to the attestation to insure its legality,” said Murray. “You are of age, Mr. Drummond, and not directly related by blood to any of the principles involved. It would seem that you are the likely candidate.”
Percy hesitated a moment. “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “But I would prefer that Steven also be present, either as the primary witness or you can use both of us if you prefer. He has nothing to gain, and it could be argued that I do.”
“A wise observation, Mr. Drummond,” nodded Murray. “Two witnesses will be better than one.”
Five minutes later, Percy showed Madame Fleming into a small office on the first floor that had several chairs and a writing table. He introduced her to Hamilton Murray then himself took a chair beside where Steven already sat across the room.
Madame Fleming sat down in one of the chairs while Murray took his place at the desk. With pen in hand, he wrote down a few preliminary remarks of time, date, place, and the names of Steven and Percy and himself as witnesses. Then he looked up at Madame Fleming.
“Please tell me your name, for the record,” he said.
The name she gave was neither of the names by which Percy knew her.
“Now tell me, please, in as much detail as possible, what you know of the parentage and birth of the young woman known as Gwyneth Barrie.”
Madame Fleming cast a brief glance of wrath in Percy’s direction, still incensed that another was capable of exerting power over her. “I was for many years a midwife in Arklow, on the eastern coast of Ireland,” she began, almost as through clenched teeth. “A time came when I was called upon by a certain lady of the name Maighdlin O’Sullivan. Her granddaughter had been raised by her and had recently married and was with child. She employed me for the birthing.”
“What was the granddaughter’s name?” asked Murray.
“Morvern … Morvern O’Sullivan. That was the name Mrs. O’Sullivan gave me.”
“Do you know the names of her parents?”
“No. They were either dead or gone, I don’t know. She was raised by Mrs. O’Sullivan.”
“And she was now married and expecting?”
“Yes.”
“What was her husband’s name?”
“Barrie … Codnor Barrie.”
“So the expectant mother’s married name was actually Morvern Barrie?”
“I suppose so.”
“And then?”
“The time for the birthing came. I delivered the baby—a girl.”
“Did they name the child immediately?”
“They did.”
“What name did they give her?”
“Gwyneth.”
“Was there anything unique or distinctive about the birth?”
“Nothing. The child was healthy, the mother was healthy. Only, the baby was born with pure white hair, not the red hair of the mother and, as I understand it, the grandmother as well. The mother’s uncle—an irrational man of violent temper—threatened me on account of it. He said that I had brought a curse on the family and the white hair proved it. After that, because of him, my life was in danger. I left Ireland and came to Wales and changed my name.”
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 34