by Mac Fletcher
The light of realisation dawned in Greg’s eyes at last. “I’ve been looking for a bloke named Edwin Ralph,” he said as he handed the newcomer his beer. "Did you speak to him, Wyndham - the tramp?”
The giant savoured the moment before answering with a wide grin. “No, course not; you was angry when I told him 'bout Cornwall, so Wyndham kept out o' way. I been looking for him for days - make up for losin' him last time. Nearly gave up the goat a few times, mind.”
"Ghost." Greg suppressed a smile, cursing himself for the anguish he’d caused. The man had obviously been scouring the countryside from dawn to dusk to correct what he perceived as a serious error. Now he sat like a doting dog, awaiting praise for his efforts.
“I 'spec you’ll be glad to buy 'im a pint now,” he said eventually.
“I'll be even more glad to buy you another one Wyndham." Greg signalled to Len. "I never expected you to scour the countryside in these conditions, and whatever the outcome is, I’m more than grateful... I hate to be a pain but when you've had time to warm through, would you show me where the tramp is? Then if you like you can come back and share a stew with Red and me.”
Wyndham looked happier than if he’d been offered a thousand pounds, and after impatiently gulping down his second beer, clambered eagerly into the van and directed Greg to Edwyn Ralph.
“I knew I’d seen the name before,” said Greg as they passed a signpost to the village, “I wonder what the connection is.”
“Connection?” shrugged Wyndham.
“It seems certain there is one now.” Greg registered the look of bewilderment on his companion’s face: “It’s alright mate, I'm just daydreaming.”
“Daydreamin'?”
Greg grinned and turned his attention to the scenery, still visible through budding hedgerows. The last traces of snow had been washed away by recent rain, as if in preparation for spring. “If it had coastline, Wyndham, the Worcester-Hereford area would be as popular as Cornwall.”
Wyndham just nodded: it had been something of a novelty to encompass the twenty mile radius his deliveries had demanded. Unfortunately, he’d held a licence for only two years - though it would remain forever an enigma as to how he’d gained one in the first place. The sleepy one-street town of Bromyard was still a major centre in Wyndham’s eyes. It boasted several cultural and musical events, of which the folk weekend in September was deemed to be the finest on the Welsh Borders…or the country even. Most important to Wyndham throughout his earlier years though, was that the event had meant pubs opened all day… legally. Long before modern licensing laws.
Greg suddenly realised they'd entered the hamlet of Edwyn Ralph, whereupon Wyndham directed him to "turn left after ol' church."
About half a mile on from there, Wyndham told Greg to pull the van onto a bare stretch of verge, their destination accessible on foot only from that point. Although it was still some time before sunset, the vivid flush of spring light was already fading as they made across the field towards a clump of pines backing onto dense woodland.
“How did you find him all the way out here?” asked Greg in amazement, though his companion imparted only a self-satisfied smile. As he looked across the dipping, rolling fields, Greg found it easy to imagine a battalion concealing itself in the folds and nooks provided by the terrain. What he still couldn’t fathom was how someone in advanced years could survive such conditions – even in the relative warmth of an oast-house.
“That’s where he is,” said Wyndham as they neared the edge of the copse, pointing to the vague outline of a deserted outbuilding, barely visible through trees.
“That's not an oast-house, and it doesn’t look like brilliant shelter either,” commented Greg, “just an abandoned animal refuge or the like.”
From that point Wyndham left Greg to finish the journey alone, probably afraid the tramp had fled again. Greg made his way down a slope towards the building, where he saw the grey curl of damp wood-smoke, thick and heavy in the brief stillness of twilight. If the old man had spotted Greg, he was clearly in no hurry to escape. He sat outside the building, coughing over an open fire, altogether uncharacteristic of a man able to survive such uncompromising conditions.
*“Elena esowgh,” he spluttered, his wild eyes glaring through heavy whiskers. *"Prisonya evy a sy hwans!” (*There you are - lock me up if you will.) From the few words spoken, Greg saw Bart's point when he'd likened the tramp's dialogue to that of Worzel Gummidge. It was middle-English or Cornish, guessed Greg, and though Isaac was clearly terrified, he seemed unprepared to communicate. All Greg clearly comprehended was that the tramp, now standing with his wrists together, was expecting to be cuffed.
What was visible of the man’s complexion was sallow and grimy – he was clearly unwell – and judging from his wild-eyed look he was also half scared to death. It was also apparent that he wasn't as old as Greg had suspected. Late fifties to early sixties at most.
“Look, I’m not a policeman,” protested Greg, “I haven’t come to arrest you,” but it was clear the nomad wasn’t to be convinced; so Greg decided to use the situation to his advantage - for a while at least. He led the passive man back to the van, where he flopped into the passenger seat, somehow relieved, it seemed, at his arrest.
Until Wyndham arrived.
Suddenly Isaac cowered in terror, his arms crossed in front of his face as if to protect himself from some demon. So great was his fear he grasped Greg’s upper arm with almost numbing ferocity until he instructed Wyndham to stay back.
“No wonder we’ve had a job finding him, Wyndham,” said Greg through the window, “it's my guess he's not keen on you for some reason.”
Greg crammed Wyndham into the back of the van among the following day’s deliveries, while Isaac was persuaded to remain in the front, somewhat placated by the fact that the sacks formed a barrier between him and the giant. Greg made a brief stop at an isolated convenience store for a loaf and a few cans of bitter, then drove the spluttering van to the farm with his bizarre cargo.
“Talk about Noah’s ark,” he grunted as he ushered the eccentric crew into the caravan. The stew smelt delicious as Greg set out the flap table for his guests, glad he'd observed his grandfather's maxim.
"Always make enough stew for two or three days, lad," he'd advised. "Then eat it all in one."
He set aside a dish to cool for Red, then placed the piping vessel in the centre before signalling the old man to eat. The beggar didn’t need much encouragement: he set about the whole pot, shovelling the steaming contents down as if it was going out of fashion.
"Must have an asbestos gullet,” remarked Greg as he wrested the pot from the nomad and divided it equally. Greg then watched the old man’s eyes widen as he poured two glasses of beer and placed them in front of his guests, all the while praying Cropper wouldn’t show up to witness the Mad Hatter’s party.
Even Red was intrigued, his head cocked curiously to one side as he observed the motley crew. Greg finished his stew and poured coffee for himself, then surveyed the scene from a bench seat at the far end of the caravan - wishing he'd a decent camera. In the dying light, the bizarre gathering, along with the table laden with crocks and mugs, reminded him of a Capo-de-Monte creation. Greg couldn’t help noticing how relaxed the tramp now looked, though hoped he wasn’t going to become too comfortable.
After another mug of bitter, the vagrant’s tongue was loosened. He even began talking to Wyndham, the problem being that neither the giant or Greg could understand one full sentence. It was almost completely dark by then, so Greg lit the lamp and observed the old man’s face, transformed from its clay-like pallor to a rosy glow in the warm caravan. He was further amused, and Wyndham roared, when the recluse got up and went into a song and dance routine in the tiny area in front of the gas fire.
“He sometimes does that in Malthouse for a pint,” guffawed Wyndham, and though Greg smiled, he was saddened that the tramp should feel obliged to sing for his supper thus.
“OK Mr Bo J
angles,” said Greg, not wishing to demean him further, “that was great; you can sit down now and talk to us.”
Isaac did just that, and he talked and talked and talked… but in such unintelligible babble that Wyndham was prompted to scratch his head in confusion.
“Am you sure as Cornwall ain’t abroad?” he was forced to ask. "Don't look like 'e can hold his ale too well."
Greg just laughed: the gathering was very different to the board meetings he’d attended months earlier.
“Right, Isaac,” said Greg assuming an air of authority, “tell me what you know of Lawson Penmaric.”
Isaac fell silent, his reticence serving only to emphasise that he knew more than he was letting on. Although Greg was loath to pressure him, he felt it best to persist whilst Isaac was in the amicable mood induced by a full belly.
“You can stay in the warm if you’ll tell me what I need to know,” said Greg, though he'd little doubt Isaac had in the past enjoyed police accommodation for non-co-operation. “You can have more food,” continued Greg, “and a warm bed for the night, if you’ll tell me what you heard in The Holly Tree.”
“That’s kind of you,” interrupted Wyndham, much to Greg’s annoyance, “offering 'im bed.”
“He’ll be staying at your house,” replied Greg, half frowning, half smiling, though immediately realising his mistake: Isaac instantly drew in his horns and nothing could persuade him to talk.
Greg decided it was time for a quick U turn.
“Alright,” he conceded. “I won’t send you to Wyndham's if you’ll talk,” and again Isaac launched into his repertoire of unintelligible jargon. Greg sat wondering how a professional investigator would question such an unlikely subject. He was certain the tramp could communicate when necessary, and that the gobbledegook was a contrived barrier. Suddenly Greg remembered something, and decided to surprise Isaac.
“What does this mean?” Greg had taken the scrap of paper from the cupboard and placed it on the table. Isaac’s eyes widened, and though he remained silent, Greg was confident Isaac had seen it before.Written it, even. His most significant action was to grasp his ever-present bag and clutch it tightly, as though it contained something of relevance to the paper. At that point Greg decided to let the matter rest for a while. Without force, which was never an option, he was never going to access the dilapidated bag… not whilst the old man was awake anyway.
Isaac did go to sleep eventually; he laid his bag on the table, flopped forward onto it, and dozed off, snoring loudly. Greg saw that access to his belongings was still likely to be impossible, so he decided to bide his time. He and Wyndham snoozed for two or more hours, upon which Greg prodded the giant and asked how he felt about putting the tramp up for a night or two.
“Just till he feels stronger: I'm sure he'll be more agreeable once he sees your cottage.”
“Course he can stay,” replied Wyndham, always eager for company. “Just as 'e don’t seem keen somehow.”
Poor Wyndham, considered Greg. Hard to believe Isaac would endure any conditions before sharing a roof with you.
Although confident that Isaac understood every word he uttered, Greg relayed the proposed arrangements before driving his companions to Wyndham’s cottage. The tramp's enthusiasm was indeed boosted by the snug interior of the cottage, and he was suddenly much more amenable to the situation. Greg felt sure, however, that had the tramp been younger and in better health, his lust for seclusion would have prevented him from sharing a roof with anyone - least of all Wyndham.
Greg made a fire and helped put up a makeshift bed in the living room before leaving for Bromyard. After another feast - this time of fish and chips washed down with budget wine Greg had collected - Isaac began rambling again, though Greg remained silent, happy that the tramp was becoming drowsier by the minute. It wasn’t long before he had to be helped to his makeshift bed, though he insisted on remaining fully clothed, in God knows how many layers of unsavoury jumble - the bag clasped firmly beneath his arm.
It was way after midnight when Greg managed to tease the bag from Isaac's grasp without waking him. Although he felt guilt employing such tactics, Greg reasoned that any form of coercion would only force the tramp further into his shell. He checked that both men were still fast off before emptying the contents of the bag gently onto the dining table - carefully noting the order in which they’d been ‘filed’. The bag contained a sizeable bundle of letters and papers, neatly folded, and bound together with faded ribbon. The rest of the contents comprised a bible, a selection of pencils, and a rather ancient - though dangerously sharp - penknife.
“So the old beggar is literate,” Greg gasped beneath his breath as he untied the ribbon, noting the even bow for later duplication. The contents were mainly letters, some accompanied by photos ranging from the late seventies to almost present date. All were addressed in the same neat hand to Mr I Bowman, care of Mr L Penmaric, Penmaric House, Trevelly, UK; and all had been airmailed from Montreal. Without delving too deeply into the contents, Greg established that Isaac’s sister had emigrated to Canada during the seventies. The most recent of the letters - the only odd one out - was dated February of that year. The remainder were franked around mid to late November at yearly intervals.
Obviously intended for arrival before Christmas.
Greg took the liberty of opening the most recent letter to determine the reason for its late arrival, reading only enough to learn that the sender's husband had died before Christmas, and his sister's annual missive delayed by the subsequent upheaval and distress.
“That's why he was late leaving Trevelly this year,” breathed Greg.
He retied the bundle, put it back and thumbed quickly through the rest of the contents. "Not much there," he muttered - until he flicked with almost automatic response through the pages of the tiny bible. His skin tingled as a grimy, well-handled note fell to the table. The folded edges were worn almost completely through - obviously from repeated examinations - and the note had to be handled as delicately as a butterfly’s wings to avoid disintegration. One of the fragments was missing, so Greg took the scrap he'd stored and completed the jigsaw before copying it down:
Nigel. Edwyn Ralph will place the pictures. Location requires esso before Lucy Strip. Rose Hodesh will supply the date.
“Clear as shit,” whispered Greg. “God knows what any of it means. Lucy I get, but who's Rose Hodesh?
It was clear that, even with the note, he was no nearer solving the mystery, or for that matter, the reason Isaac had been prompted to note it down. On closer examination, several other things intrigued Greg: worn as it was, it was clear from varying thicknesses and shades that the message had been copied in more than one stage. It was also reasonably well written and punctuated, despite the shaky hand, though it was hard to see how the tramp could have assumed punctuation from a snatched conversation in a pub.
Has he copied it?
Greg repacked the contents neatly, and placed the bag gingerly back in place amid a reassuring range of dissonant snores from his companions. He then decided it was time to get back to the caravan; Red would be eager for exercise, and Greg, despite his marathon lie-in, was feeling very tired.
Chapter Thirteen
The following morning was pleasant again, and Greg woke early – and without a hangover. Although his past drinking had been moderate to that of late, it had been years since he’d been without a nightcap of sorts. Suddenly he realised how pleasant it was to start the day without a headache.
He took Red for a long walk, then had breakfast before driving, with Red, to Wyndham’s cottage. Isaac was busy wolfing a doorstep sandwich, so Greg joined him at the table while their host made tea.
“Look, Isaac,” Greg stared the tramp directly in the eyes as he sat. “I know you understand what I’m saying, and I also know you have information about Penmaric. You overheard a conversation in the Holly Tree between Hud and Ten concerning Penmaric’s legacy. I’m asking you to tell me all you know, for the sake of
his widow and all those who depend on Penmaric Estate for homes and livelihoods. Aside from all that, I’m sure the place is being used for drug smuggling. Tell me all you know Isaac - please!”
“I thought it were on’y spirits they wuz smugglin’,” said Isaac to Greg’s astonishment, and he began recounting all he knew. His accent was as broad and rural as ever, though most of the unfamiliar dialogue had disappeared and Greg was able to follow all he said.
Isaac, it transpired, had been tidying up in the grounds of Penmaric House on the day Penmaric had died. "I'd known ol’ squire for 'ears, let me sleep in outbuildin's come summer an' autumn. All I did was a foo little jobs. Penmaric were kind to me.” He then went on to tell how Lawson had supplied food and received mail for him, and even given him lifts up to Bromyard on occasions. Isaac also explained that, owing to the late arrival of his annual letter, he'd remained in Cornwall until much later than usual.
“What happened the day Penmaric died?” urged Greg, afraid to lean too heavily: to lose him at that stage he felt would be something akin to pressing ‘delete’ on a PC keyboard.
“As I said, I wuz clearin' up rubbish outside Penmaric’s office, back of House,” Isaac explained, “and I 'eard 'is voice - clear as your'n - inside room. Lovely day for time of year: windows were open even, an' I thought 'e was callin' me - but when I looked inside, room were empty.” Though he said nothing, Greg guessed that Isaac must have overheard Penmaric’s answering machine.
Almost certainly when Penmaric phoned to leave the message for Nigel.
“Then ‘bout hour or so later,” Isaac continued, “I 'eard voice again, but Penmaric were in room by then. Lookin' like death.” The tramp scratched at matted the grey clumps of hair covering each ear. “Listenin’ to one o' they recorders, I reckoned.”