The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  Isaac didn’t hear the last part of the message at that stage, probably because Penmaric had lowered the volume or switched off, but he was intrigued enough to note what he heard on some notepaper from his ever-present bag. The tramp was further bemused when, a short while later, he saw Tennant in the room with Penmaric. He moved nearer the window again and was taken aback to hear the message - very quietly – once more. “I'd got it all down by then,” he grinned, his watery eyes twinkling through a mass of whiskers.

  “And did you hear the message yet again?” asked Greg, “From Hud and Ten?”

  “I over'eard talk is all I'll say!” conceded the tramp stubbornly. He was clearly enjoying the chance to brag about his escapade by that stage, but hadn't dropped his guard altogether.

  “Fair enough." Greg just nodded, reluctant to press further. "I reckon you took more interest in the conversation than you'd normally have done,” queried Greg, “having prior knowledge of Ten’s involvement?” Isaac nodded in confirmation.

  "They'd 'a chose their words more wisely for someone other 'n me," he added with a wink. "An' that Ten were always a rum 'un!"

  “I take your point.” Greg smiled at Isaac's guile. “What was the message, Isaac?”

  “Can’t Say! 'T'were meant for young Nigel”

  “Then why didn’t you tell him?”

  “I did!”

  “You did - and what did he say?

  “Nothin’. Told me it were nonsense - mind me own business.”

  Greg sighed on realisation that Nigel had known far more than he'd admitted, though what significance he'd drawn was another question. He then asked Isaac if he’d understood the message himself.

  “Some subterfuge activity - contraband’s my guess,” replied the old man surreptitiously. “I shoul'n’t speak 'cos I took payment never to mention goin's on. Made m'sel' as bad as them for tekin’ it.”

  “What goings on were these, Isaac?” Greg sipped politely at Wyndham’s weak tea (politely in that he was tempted to pour it down the drain) as the tramp went on to tell of an unmanned inflatable dinghy he’d, "seen in bay at night. Several times over t' years; trawler an' all I spotted couple o' times,” he continued. “Never have knowed it were there but for smell o' petrol smoke." He paused again as if for drama. "An' chuggin’ noises at dead o' night.”

  “Oh yes." Greg feigned only passing interest. "When did you last see the craft?”

  “Early hours of day Penmaric died,” Isaac replied. “Couldn't see much – night afore circle was cast. Been goin’ on for 'ears, mind, so I kep' my nose out. Always knew of contraband spirits. 'S what Penmaric tol' me – an' I've no cause to doubt 'im.” Greg was tempted to ask what he meant by, “circle was cast,” but decided not to interrupt.

  He went on to explain that after Penmaric’s death he'd remained in Cornwall until his sister’s annual letter arrived, then made his annual pilgrimage to Bromyard for the rest of winter.

  “Put message out o' mind,” added the tramp. "Got fed up o' checkin' an' checkin' it for nothin'. Put it away an' thought no more till I was tol' someone from Cornwall wanted me. Knew straight off as you was customs, so I made m'self scarce,”

  “Yes,” said Greg with a nod, “I'm sure Wyndham put the cap on it when he approached you. Now, just tell me the gist of the message, Isaac, and I’ll forget your involvement completely.”

  “Never puzzled it out,” replied the tramp, “an' if had... pain o' death I wun't say! Message were for young Nigel, and wastrel as 'e is, I did my duty an’ give it 'im. 'Is business if he chooses to ignore it.”

  “But you must have it noted down somewhere…?”

  “No! No more! Burned it this mornin'." He pointed to the glowing fire Wyndham has lit on rising. "Best forgotten, whatever it was.”

  Greg breathed an ambiguous sigh and made no further comment.

  Satisfied he could learn no more from Isaac, but determined, whatever the consequences, to question Nigel, Greg was longing to satisfy a genuine interest.

  "Why did you take to the road, Isaac?"

  “We 'ad business. Boatbuildin',” Isaac began, “in family for generations.” He went on to tell how the business had been dissolved in the seventies following his father's death. His sister had left for Canada, and Isaac took to the road, always having been shunned by his two older brothers. The brothers had since died, though Isaac maintained regular contact with his sister - who was under the impression he lived in as an employee at Penmaric House. The ageing tramp became emotional at that stage.

  “Al'ays wanted to see her again 'fore it’s too late,” he said with a sigh, “but I'd never afford journey.” Greg cursed his suspicious nature for wondering if that was what had brought Isaac to Edwyn Ralph: whether it had been the tramp’s notion he might somehow stumble on buried treasure.

  “Has your sister ever been back to England?” asked Greg.

  “I lives in dread on it,” confessed Isaac, “her comin' to Trevelly and findin' me out as a vagabond.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that, Isaac, if I was in a position to help I would,” consoled Greg, adding forlornly: “Not much chance of that though.” Greg's sympathetic smile gave way to a frown, and he clenched his fists with frustration that he'd come so close to his goal - yet remained so far away.

  After finishing his second cup of tea, Isaac stood abruptly, the canvas bag clamped tightly beneath his arm.

  “Thanks kin'ly for your 'ospitality,” he said with conviction, “ must be on me way.”

  Isaac’s astonished hosts tried all ways to dissuade him, particularly with regard to his health, but he would hear none of it - insisting that the pair must never try to track him down again. Although Wyndham was sorely disappointed to be losing his new friend - never having been responsible for anyone before - both he and Greg agreed to honour Isaac’s request. The tramp's lust for independence did, however, allow him enough licence to accept a gift of money from Greg, plus a bag of food and a half-bottle of sherry from Wyndham.

  "Time I was making a move, too," said Greg, "I’ve got deliveries to catch up on."

  *

  Whilst out on his rounds, Greg crossed into Shropshire for a delivery near Ludlow - and noticed a sign for Bridgnorth. There was nothing remarkable in that: he knew the historic market town well, but recalled Nigel mentioning that the motor museum there had once exhibited an Ulster.

  “I'm sure it was shut down, Red, but we'll take a look while we're so close,” he muttered. “We're not pushed for time just now.”

  An unscheduled detour satisfied Greg that the museum had indeed gone and, no more than mildly disappointed, he reversed into an adjacent side road to turn around, then waited for a gap in traffic. Suddenly he froze.

  "Jesus!" Greg gasped as a black BMW passed by. His heart rate doubled as he clocked the occupants.

  "Those bastards! The debt collectors!" The men didn't see Greg as they drove past towards the town. Swiftly he grabbed a felt marker pen from the console. "Got you," he sighed as he scribbled the registration on the back of his hand. "It is indeed an ill wind."

  Greg copied the index onto a blank despatch note before continuing to the delivery address in Ludlow - where he discovered from a worker that the museum hadn't, as he'd hoped, been re-located close by.

  "Similar museum over Coventry way wi' all sorts on show, mind. Saw an ad in free paper t'other day… 'ang on." The man ambled slowly over to a cast iron stove on the back wall of the storage room. "Good job stove ain't been needed."

  "Thanks…thanks very much." said Greg as he put the crumpled paper in the door pocket alongside the BMW registration. "I'll take a look later."

  *

  Greg had one more delivery to make on his way back to Bromyard, after which he decided to drop Red off before calling at The Malthouse. “Wyndham might fancy a ride over Warwickshire way, Red,” he said as they drove back to the farm.

  After exercising Red, Greg drove to the pub and sat in a corner as he ate and waited for Wyndham to arrive. The
bar was deserted - without even Fagash's nuisance to annoy him - so Greg used the opportunity to ponder over the situation as he now saw it. He was confident Penmaric’s property had been used for drug smuggling, and equally certain Nigel shared some guilt, if only by association. Whatever the dangers, he felt it imperative that he returned to Cornwall to question Nigel and Sarah again - and to look over the Ulster for himself.

  “Fancy a ride Coventry way?” he asked as Wyndham arrived, “to look at some old cars.”

  “Yes!” Wyndham grinned widely. Apart from menial jobs, the giant had never had much to fill his days, and he greeted the news with the enthusiasm of a child going on a school outing. “I’ll just have quick pint first.”

  ***

  Greg found the exhibition, an impressive tribute to Britain's motor industry, between Coventry and Banbury. Sure enough, there was a pristine example of a four seat Ulster amongst the exhibits, on loan from an Aston-Martin owners' club. Greg was surprised by its pristine condition.

  "Even puts Penmaric’s car in the shade, Wyndham. Never been subjected to the neglect Nigel’s recently paid it."

  The pair looked the veteran over for some time, though for different reasons, Greg silently wondering where information could be so well-concealed as to escape the searches the car had undergone. He pondered again over Penmaric’s message, the words Location needs Esso before Lucy Strip constantly recurring in his mind.

  Wyndham meanwhile was wandering around the other specimens on display, so Greg decided to join him, having drawn no conclusions from his inspection. Some twenty minutes passed before the pair returned briefly to the Ulster, though Wyndham was drawn to an adjacent car as they made for the exit: a huge silver Vauxhall, built in the nineteen thirties for The Maharajah of Kashmir. Although Greg hadn't the same fascination for the vehicle, he too was forced to pause and wonder at its majesty; it dwarfed the relatively compact Ulster beside it.

  The pair wandered in awe around it, and as they were about to leave again, Greg spotted a metal label on the instrument panel which rendered him breathless. His eyes widened and his skin tingled as he read the simple every-day word.

  “Trip!” he spluttered as he registered the significance. “Of course - why didn’t I think of it before? The trip meter on the Ulster’s not working because Penmaric made sure it didn’t. Isaac wrote down Lucy Strip because that's how he heard it, but I'm sure now he meant Lucy's Trip! It must have significance - a reference number, or a code of sorts.”

  Wyndham stood open-mouthed at the outburst, and the elderly lady on the reception desk – hand hovering precariously over the panic button - eyed the pair suspiciously.

  “Come on, Wyndham,” said Greg with some jubilance. “I’ll buy you a quick pint to make up for dragging you out of The Malthouse.”

  The pair stopped at the first pub they saw, and Greg took his note-pad from his pocket as they stood at the bar. “Location needs Esso before Lucy's trip,” puzzled Greg. “What can ‘Esso’ refer to besides petrol?”

  “Depends on what it stands for,” said Wyndham scratching his head, “could stand for anythin'.”

  “What on earth do you mean by that, Wyndham?” asked Greg with bewilderment. “...Stands for?”

  “Well...you know...stands for.” Wyndham always had difficulty illustrating his meaning, his efforts usually ending in frustration. Nevertheless he tried. “Like S stands for snake,” he said slowly - “and ‘O’ stands for...” He paused as though his brain was hurting, then his face lit up, “...‘Otel.”

  Greg laughed out loud, largely at Wyndham’s spelling, but more at the significance of what he’d said.

  "Of course! I’d only seen the word as Isaac had heard it. He might well have construed S.O. as Esso. Greg slapped his companion's back. “Wyndham,” he beamed, with more than a trace of exaggeration, “you’re a bloody genius! All we need now is a Snake ‘Otel to put us on easy street.”

  The remark obviously worried Wyndham. “Di'n’t mean it legitimately.”

  “Come on!" Greg laughed as he finished his drink and urged the giant to hurry his down. “I need to collect some stuff from the caravan.”

  *

  “Are you going back to Cornwall for 'oliday,” asked Wyndham glumly as the pair drove back. "Or for good?”

  “I’ll only be gone for a couple of days maybe, but if I can sort things out I might be able to return to the cabin."

  “Forever?” Wyndham's face fell further.

  “I hope so, Wyndham. I’ve enjoyed being here and I’m glad I met you: I’ve always loved this area, but Trevelly’s my home now, and I want to get the cafe under way.” Greg saw Wyndham’s dejected frown “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to visit us. As I said, we might need help during summer months."

  “I’d like to 'elp,” replied Wyndham, his smile slowly returning.

  Having thrown some essentials into the van, Greg patted Red gently on the head.

  "You won’t let him out of your sight, now?” he asked with concern, though he knew the dog was in safe hands. “If I’m delayed, you’ll look after him, won’t you?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A rosy twilight descended as Greg headed southward, though he lacked the composure to savour the frail beauty of late winter in the countryside. Few signs were yet evident of one of the warmest spring-summer seasons ever recorded. As he left Hereford, Greg glanced towards the edge of the Welsh Black Mountains, softly illuminated in the fading light. The snow-kissed blue hills stood in soft contrast to the watery sky; graded nuances of pastels, one undulating contour painted ever darker over another in gentle progression to the foreground.

  “Strange to think Nigel's trekked most of these hills,” he muttered absently, "he doesn’t come across as an outdoor type, yet he reckoned he could draw a map of the whole..."

  Greg stopped mid-sentence and drew breath. “A map!” he gasped aloud, as he thumped his fist hard on the centre of the steering wheel. “A map reference: I bet that’s what it is!"

  Greg didn’t have a decent map with him - the only one he owned was somewhere in the caravan - but he was familiar with the universal number-letter grid system. He was delighted when, a mile or so on, he saw a gift station - Greg’s nickname for a service stop that sold everything but essential motoring aids. I doubt if they'd bother selling fuel if enough people pulled in to buy all the other crap. Bound to have maps, though: between the cuddly toys and a bewildering array of throat sweets. He took a large-scale Collins atlas from the rack, paid the money over and almost skipped back through the door – much to the amusement of the sleepy-eyed cashier, who'd put the value of the map above that of Greg’s van. He pulled off the forecourt into a parking space and thumbed feverishly through the book, delighted to find support for his theory: The ‘SO’ grid on the index covered the Worcester-Hereford area.

  “Can't wait to try the trip reading,” he muttered.

  The journey seemed forever, though Greg was glad it was dark and quite late when he arrived back in Trevelly: he'd be far less likely to be spotted at night.

  He drove to the cabin first. It was good to see it again, even in darkness.

  “Who is it?” called Jan in response to his gentle knock. She opened the door timidly when he answered - almost in disbelief. “It is you!” she cried as she threw her arms around Greg and squeezed him tightly. “I thought you’d never come back.” A finger to her lips, she led her visitor quietly into the living room, in darkness but for a small table-lamp. Jan still looked tense as they seated themselves.

  "I've been worried sick about you - and the future of the cabin here. We really need to get organised if we're to stay on track - you're back for good, I hope?”

  “Not yet but, with luck I should soon be,” replied Greg, and he went on to recount all that had happened as Jan sat open-mouthed, dismayed that he'd given himself such a rough time.

  “You're stupid!” she exclaimed when he'd finished. “I’ve been having nightmares about you never coming back: we start
repaying a loan on this place shortly, remember.”

  “Don’t upset yourself,” assured Greg. “I’m hoping to get things resolved within a few days. Have the police been asking about me?”

  “No, not at all - I’m sure they haven’t even linked you with drugs… and from what I hear, it was a false alarm anyway. Whole business seems to have blown over."

  "I'm not at all sure of that." Greg frowned deeply.

  "Strange really. We haven’t heard a murmur since Nigel was questioned. You were probably wasting your time racing up there in the first place.”

  Greg sighed. “I wish I had your confidence, Jan.” The pair discussed the cabin for a while, until Jan could contain herself no longer. She switched on the main lights and gazed proudly around the room.

  “Wow… fantastic!” said Greg as he surveyed the extra decoration she’d done, and at her request he followed her into the café.

  “Bloody hell, you’ve a lot more flair that I gave you credit for.” Greg marvelled at how much she'd achieved in his absence. “It’s great! I love the local scenes, and it all looks so professional.”

  Having scoured charity shops and so on, Jan had decorated the walls with inexpensive though appropriate pictures and nautical charts, together with enough features to make the room interesting but uncluttered.

  “Marvellous!” bubbled Greg, as he hugged her and planted an unexpected kiss on her cheek. “I can’t wait to get going.” Greg then told Jan he'd to visit Sarah… and could have sworn he saw her face drop. “I want to see Nigel as well," he added reassuringly. "There are things I'd like to ask him.”

  “He isn’t living at Penmaric any more,” said Jan, “he’s moved to a flat in Plymouth. Go and see Sarah then have some supper here before you leave.”

  “Thanks - see you in half an hour or so.”

  Sarah was delighted to see Greg; but although concerned for his safety, she was more realistic than Jan, and not of the opinion that the matter had blown over.