Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  Shortly after six o’clock I knocked on the door of Number 26 Bow Street. The door was opened by Sally, who turned out to be a sweet child with blue eyes and a mop of golden curls on her head. “Are you the man from Wales?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied. “It’s very nice to meet you, Sally. Is your dad home from work yet?”

  “Oh yes -- he was home early today. Come in, please.”

  So I spent a delightful evening with the Jebson family, talking about ravens (that could not be avoided), about my obsession with the diaries of Mistress Martha Morgan, and about the strange and tortuous trail which had led me to London and to their delightful home in search of something or other. Andrew and Helen invited me to join them for supper, and I gladly accepted. As we talked they became more and more intrigued themselves by the puzzle of The Ghost of Inglestone and the mysterious Mrs Susanna Ravenhill. Immediately after supper, while Sally enjoyed the special privilege of a short video before bed-time, we three adults set about the task of finding the lost manuscript; I was absolutely certain that the ravens had led me to it, and that it would be somewhere in the house. Andrew and Helen were more sceptical, but entered into the spirit of the hunt with gusto in any case.

  It did not take us long. In Andrew’s study there was one tall cupboard, beautifully made and with Regency styling. We opened it up, and found that there were six shelves inside, all heavily laden with bundles of papers. Some of them were tied with red ribbon. “Aha!” said I. “James Jebson liked red ribbon. He must have bought a giant roll of it once, maybe from a street vendor on Piccadilly.” On one shelf were about twenty manuscripts of unpublished -- and probably unpublishable -- novels. One was called The Virgin’s Revenge. Another was called The Monster of Kilimanjaro. A third had the enticing title The Master Gunner and the Bluestocking. And then, in a bundle somewhat smaller than the others, wrapped in brown paper and tied with crossing red ribbons and a flattened bow, there was a manuscript called The Ghost of Inglestone. There was also a label stuck on with glue, with these hand-written words: Author: Mrs Susanna Ravenhill (pseudonym). NB subtitle removed by agreement. JJ.

  “Hooray! I’ve found it!” I shouted, as excited as a small child on Christmas morning. “I knew it would be here somewhere! And it was just outside this window that Sally saw the eight ravens perching on the branch, if I remember rightly. Best piece of guidance I’ve ever had.”

  With shaking fingers I untied the ribbon and removed the brown paper. I thumbed through some of the pages, and saw at once that the text was written in a hand which I did not recognize. It was not in the form of a diary, and neither was it written in Dimetian Welsh. It was a conventional first-person narrative, written in English. After reading just a few pages I became convinced that the tale was an extraordinary one, some of it set in Cardiff, Merthyr Tydfil and even Paris. But some of it was set in the landscape of Cilgwyn, Carningli and Newport, which was familiar to all the readers of the journals of Martha Morgan. But the names were all changed. Cilgwyn was called “Whitebank”, Carningli was (of course) “Inglestone Mountain” and Newport was “Tidrath”. Many personal names were falsified, but there were familiar ones too -- including Wilmot, Bessie, Will and other friends who had survived Martha, and younger members of the Morgan family including grand-daughter Rose. Whoever the author was, I knew that there would be readers who would want to read the narrative. Fact or fiction? Was the writing really Daisy’s, as I suspected? More to the point, was she “Mrs Ravenhill”, or was she simply the medium for something written by somebody else?

  I asked Andrew for his permission to take the manuscript away so that I could read it at my leisure and decide whether it should be published. “By all means,” he said. “Although it was found on my premises I’ve no idea who really owns it -- maybe it’s actually owned by the descendants of the writer, wherever they may be. But if the text does become a book, could I ask for twenty copies on publication? We’re a large family, and many of us have heard tales of Old Uncle James.”

  “Done! You have a deal. When I get home, and have a chance to go through the text, I’ll decide what to do, and give you a call.”

  I thanked them for their hospitality and cooperation, took my leave, and set off for Tom’s apartment for my last night in London. I reached it without being mugged, and since Tom was out with some friends I could not resist settling down and getting stuck in. It was an incredible tale indeed, well written and easy to follow once I had got used to the precise and tidy handwriting. It was very different from Martha’s hand-writing, which was strong, fluid and heavily slanted. At 2 am Tom came in, somewhat the worse for wear, and went to bed. At breakfast time I had almost finished the tale, and when Tom went off to work I had just two chapters to go. I finished reading by mid-morning, and knew immediately that The Ghost of Inglestone had to be published. Then I collapsed into bed and fell asleep. When I woke up it was late afternoon. I rang my wife to tell her the hot news, and promised to tell her everything else when I got home tomorrow. Then I rang Carol, who was still in the Gabriel Lane office.

  She was thoroughly delighted. I told her that I wanted to edit the manuscript and publish it, probably for a limited readership, and wondered whether Hyde Park Publishers might have inherited the publishing rights to the manuscript. Carol said that she had already checked all her records, and confirmed that no contracts had ever been signed between Mrs Ravenhill (or her representative) and Pickersniff and Jebson. Therefore it was reasonable to assume that the manuscript had been rejected or abandoned through force of circumstances. There were no inherited rights, and the publisher had no claim to ownership. In any case, the manuscript had not been found in the office, but in a private home. She said that I probably had far more of a claim to ownership since I had already published Martha’s diaries without any legal issues being raised, and since there was probably some sort of family link between those diaries and this new text. I confirmed that there was indeed a link.

  “Take it away back to Wales,” she said. “If you don’t publish it nobody will -- there’s not much taste for Victorian melodramas these days, and our current priorities are the publication of autobiographies of twenty-year-old football players who have their brains in their feet, failed politicians who think that their mediocre careers are of interest to the world, and others who are famous for being famous. By the time they’ve all had their six-figure advances, there’s not much left for titles featuring Victorian ghosts. And even if I do pull it into our system and recommend it for publication, I’ve got to convince my editorial and marketing colleagues, and they have to convince the book trade. In the best possible scenario, the book wouldn’t see the light of day for years.”

  “But what if it becomes a massive best-seller? And what if your MD finds out that the manuscript came from the Pickersniff and Jebson stable? Won’t he put you on the carpet and wipe his feet on you?”

  She laughed. “God, no. This wouldn’t be the first or the last book to get away. If anybody asks me, I’ll simply say that I didn’t think the memoir would sell. Publishing is a very imperfect science indeed. We make misjudgments, and lose auctions, all the time.............”

  So next day I took the manuscript home with me on the train to Wales, and started work on it. I had to do much research in order to decipher some of the place names and the names of leading characters who are well known to history. As I read through it for the second time, this time in a state of greater wakefulness, I became more and more amazed by the extraordinary tale related. Fact or fantasy? Affectation or profound insight into the human condition? A fairy tale for adults? I leave the reader to judge. Here, with some long descriptive passages edited out, is the fantastical memoir of the mysterious Mrs Susanna Ravenhill, written down in the year 1857.

  rrr

  THE MANUSCRIPT

  A Crime Against the Truth

  Dying was, as I recall, a very easy thing, peaceful and painless. It was the sort of thing that everybody should experience. But what ca
me afterwards was, in my case, very bothersome indeed. If I had been given some premonition of what would transpire, I should certainly not have bothered to die in the first place.

  But I write in riddles, and I had better explain. When I opened my eyes and managed to focus them, with difficulty, on my surroundings, I found that I was in a room full of people. I recognized the place immediately as my own kitchen, and observed that I was lying on my back on the great oak table that had stood there, as sacred as an altar, for well nigh sixty years. How many corpses had been laid out upon it? How many surgical operations had been conducted upon its scrubbed and spotless surface? How many feasts had it supported, and how many breakfasts and dinners and suppers? How many times had it been anointed with wine, and ale, and even blood? How many legal documents had been signed upon it? How many hands had been shaken across it? How many midwinter ploughs had been stored beneath it? My mind was wandering about, befuddled with a dull sort of pain, as I drifted in and out of consciousness.............

  I felt cold, cold, as cold as death. My teeth chattered, and I was aware that I was shivering uncontrollably.

  I looked around me for a few seconds, and saw that the table was surrounded by my nearest and dearest. They all had tears on their cheeks, and several of the women were sobbing, one of them uncontrollably and inconsolably. On one side stood Will Owen, my head man at Plas Ingli for many years, and his son Gerallt. On the other side I recognized the Irishman Brendan O’Connell and Henry Evans, the husband of my sweet grand-daughter Rose. There were two other men present -- Gomer Jenkins, once my servant and now the tenant farmer of Penrhiw, and my grandson Abel Rhys. They all wore heavy coats and scarves, and showed every appearance of having just come in from the cold. There were five or six women -- I was in no fit state to count. I recall that Blodwen Bebb, my tough milkmaid, who never cried, was wailing as if the end of the world had come, and that Will’s daughter Myfanwy had her arms around her in some attempt to bring her comfort, even though she was sobbing herself. My beloved housekeeper Bessie stood motionless to my right, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose on a kerchief. My dear daughters Betsi and Daisy were also there, locked in a silent embrace, rocking gently back and forth and no doubt seeking to hold their emotions under control. Somebody was moaning. The fire was sparkling and crackling. A sheepdog was howling outside the kitchen door. That much I recall, from the first moments of my new life.

  “Good God. It’s a miracle!” said somebody. “The Mistress is breathing and moving!”

  Then I said: “I am very cold. Will you please stop weeping and move me nearer to the fire?”

  The weeping and wailing stopped in an instant, and was replaced by an eerie silence as shock replaced grief. “Diawch, it’s true!” said Will. “Blessed is his name,” said Brendan, who was a good Catholic. “A miracle indeed,” said Myfanwy. Then there was pandemonium, with laughter and more tears, and everybody talking at once. I was lifted off the table as if I was a small baby, and placed in the settle at the side of the everlasting fire in the simnai fawr, where Grandpa Isaac had seen out the last years of his life, half a lifetime ago. Shawls were wrapped around my shoulders; Myfanwy massaged my hands while Blodwen dealt with my feet; and Bessie poured some steaming hot milk and honey down my throat. The men looked on, lost for words and not knowing what to do next.

  Time stood still. Those around me appeared to be part of a tableaux. Were they real people, or phantoms conjured up in death, for my comfort? Was I alive or dead? Recollections drifted into my mind, of a long, slow walk up onto the mountain as a rosy dusk turned to night, and then of a velvet sky glittering with diamonds, and of settling down on my back on the cool green grass near the summit, and of drifting off to sleep.............

  Then Abel said: “Grandmother, the whole world will be knocking on the door within the next half hour. News travels very fast in these parts, as we all know. Shall I invite people in, or tell them of the miracle and invite them to leave us in peace for the present?”

  With those words, my dream-like state suddenly disappeared, and I experienced a most powerful and terrifying premonition. I had been led by many others between childhood and old age, but never anything as strongly as this. I could not understand it, but neither could I resist it. So my puzzlement on being alive was replaced in an instant by a strange (and as it happened, fateful) determination to embark upon a hazardous and utterly preposterous adventure. I knew with absolute certainty that I had to stay alive, but pretend to be dead. “No, Abel!” I said. “If people call, and know that my body has been found, and wish to pay their respects, I beg you not to disabuse them. Confirm that I am dead. Do not let anybody else into the house. Lock the kitchen door from the inside, if you please, and station yourself at the front door, as is appropriate in the circumstances. Blodwen and Myfanwy, will you please close the shutters on all of the windows?”

  Nobody moved. They all stood with their eyes wide and their mouths agape. Not a word was uttered, but then Abel blurted out: “Grandmother, did you really say that? We cannot hide the truth of the matter from the neighbourhood. For a few hours, maybe, but after that, it will be impossible!”

  “Please, Abel, I beg of you. I know that this is what we have to do...”

  Suddenly Betsi found her tongue. “Mother, you are confused and unwell, and although we love you dearly we cannot possibly act on any instructions you may give so soon after your terrifying experience on the mountain. Please allow us to make a judgement as to what may be the best course of action. We have seen a miracle; we must let the world know!”

  “Betsi, my experience on the mountain was not at all terrifying. It was beautiful, and as serene as may be. And I am perfectly in control of my senses, so please do not patronise me.”

  There was another silence, which probably lasted for no more than a few seconds but which felt like a lifetime. Time was short, and we all knew it. Time for one last throw of the dice. “My dear friends,” I pleaded. “You know that I have special powers, which may lie dormant for years or decades and which may suddenly reappear. Through the use of these powers I have saved this house of angels, and this family, on many occasions in the past. Well, I will be truthful with you, and I beg of you to believe me. Some minutes since I had a most powerful vision which I cannot resist -- I saw that I must live, but be dead to the world, and that I have been spared because there is one great thing that must be done before I truly go to my grave. I can only do it if the rest of the world, and my enemies in particular, think me dead. Do not ask me what that task may be -- I only know that it is my destiny to see it through. No doubt it will be revealed to me in due course. It may well be that the destinies of all of you, and your families for generations to come, are also dependent upon my acceptance of this high duty. Please, please -- I beg you, all of you, to help me........” I think that I was close to tears, and truly I did not have the strength to argue more. Only the ticking kitchen clock broke the silence.

  I was saved, not for the first time, by my angels. To this day I still cannot explain the reactions of my nearest and dearest when confronted by what must have appeared to them as madness. First, my good friend and housekeeper Bessie stood before the fire and demonstrated both her loyalty and her willingness to take risks. “I will support Mistress Martha in this business, though a part of me feels that it is surely madness,” she declared. “We have trusted her before, and we must do so again. We must share an oath that we will not betray her or let slip a single word that might lead others to the truth.”

  “I agree with Bessie,” said Daisy, after a pause. “I venture to suggest that she knows Mother better than any of the family. If she sees something of deep importance behind what may appear to be a whim, or a moment of insanity, that is good enough for me. Anyway, this sounds like a considerable adventure for all of us. I admit to being quite excited! We will all have to lie through our teeth, over and again, to keep this secret, but if we lie in a good cause, God will surely forgive us. He has, I trust, already fo
rgiven us for far worse sins.”

  Then Will stepped forward and broke his silence. “I will support you too, Mistress,” he said, with his blue eyes glittering. “You have led us into many adventures over the years as it is, so we can all surely cope with another one. It will keep us all young. If we conspire with you we will not be breaking any of the laws of the land, I think. For you it will be a serious matter indeed, but for the rest of us it will be like a game of charades!”

  Then there was a heavy knocking on the kitchen door, and we all froze with horror. Abel seized the moment and motioned for the others to surround me lest I should be seen from the door when it was opened. He opened the door very slightly, and I heard him say “Ah, Mr Harries! Kind of you to call.”

  I heard the voice of Billy Harries, one of the Newport carters. “I was passing by along the Cilgwyn Road a while back,” he said, “and I saw a little group of men coming down off the mountain and heading for the Plas, carrying a short ladder with a burden upon it. Dammo, that looks like a bad business, I thought to meself. And straight after that fearsome earthquake which shook the mountain to its foundations. Would it be impertinent of me to ask, young fellow, whether there has been a sad accident up among the rocks, and to enquire further of you whether commiserations might be in order?”