by Brian John
“Quite so, Shemi. And I dare say you will write it all down in that Big Book of yours.”
“Correct. Information as valuable as this must not be lost. Susanna, you will be famous in centuries to come in the annals of medical science. There’s just one thing you should bear in mind. Your body has just been through the most challenging and stressful episode that anybody can imagine. I therefore expect you to fall seriously ill at some stage -- and when you do you must send for me at once. Will you promise me that?”
I swallowed hard, and nodded. Then Shemi changed direction as rapidly as a rabbit seeking to evade a pack of hounds, and asked what I proposed to do about my sisters Elen and Catrin, and my great friend Mary Jane Stokes, and my sister-in-law Nansi. I said that I had written farewell latters to various of my nearest and dearest, including my son Brynach in America, and that those letters should now be posted off, and accompanied by whatever other messages might be considered appropriate by my daughters Betsi and Daisy. I was committed to the view that there were too many dangers in revealing the truth in writing, even in sealed envelopes, and there were too many people who knew the truth already. Twenty-five, no less. For better or worse, I knew that I had to deceive everybody else. Shemi agreed, and said he would encourage Betsi to write to all of my closest friends and relatives who remained in ignorance.
Again I was close to tears with the realization that my deceit was now likely to split my family down the middle. My beloved Brynach could not be told the truth, and he would have to suffer from the agony of missing the funeral. Rose and Abel were the only two of my grandchildren who were conspirators -- the others (Daisy’s three illegitimate children Amy, John and William; Brynach’s son David; and Betsi’s other two sons Benjamin and Owain) had to be kept in the dark since there were spouses and children with big ears to take into account. William was now in business with Henry and Abel and was by some lucky chance currently in America visiting Brynach and studying the latest developments in farm machinery. Amy and John were in London, Amy living as a stylish hostess and John (married, with one child) practicing as a barrister. Benjamin, married with a little son, was farming at Brithdir, just a short distance from the Plas. Owain was away in Hereford, acting as a steward for a small estate. They would all -- apart from William and David in America -- return for the funeral, and would all be misled horribly. If they ever should discover the truth, I thought, they would never forgive me. More to the point, they would never forgive their parents and cousins who had kept a mighty secret from them and who had caused them unnecessary anguish.
When Shemi and Skiff had departed, promising to return soon with other news, I was forced back into the dark loneliness that I had created for myself -- a loneliness that was not in the least ameliorated by the fact that I had to sleep with my demons. They haunted me and taunted me, and in response I had nothing to say, for I still had no idea why I had been spared from death, or why I was involved in this cruel deceit. Was I becoming a demon myself?
On the afternoon of the next day Rose travelled over from Newport as the bearer of bad news. She said that the funeral could not occur until an Inquest had been held, and that although plans had been laid for such a hearing on this very day, it had proved impossible to appoint a new coroner following the resignation of the previous incumbent Will Daniels. So the new date had been set for Thursday 10th March, and on the assumption that the body would then be released for burial, the gwylnos had been set for Friday night 11th March and the funeral for the following day, almost two weeks after my alleged death. Letters had gone to the grandchildren who lived far away, and to all other relatives and friends, and Rose said that this delay at least gave some of them a sporting chance of getting to the Plas in time for the funeral.
That was miserable news indeed, and Rose carried with her one other item of news that terrified me. “Do you know, Grandmother,” she said with an excited gleam in her eye, “that people have been up onto the mountain in the last couple of days to examine what effects the earthquake might have had. They found that a great chasm had opened up, and within it, when they scrambled down, they found the remains of a human being, with scraps of clothes and ropes and things. They think it is the skeleton of a tall man, and he had the most terrible injuries to the back of his skull, as if he had been struck from behind with immense force. A murder victim, no less, dumped into a crevice in the mountain long ago! Close to the body, in some rotten rags, they found a half crown with the date 1795 on it, so the murder cannot have occurred before then. Just think -- a great mystery on the very doorstep of the Plas!”
I thought that I was going to faint, for I knew immediately that the bones were those of Moses Lloyd, the evil manservant who tried to ravish me and kill me on the mountain in the year 1797, shortly after my arrival at the Plas. In defending myself I had managed to kill him, and had dragged his body and dumped it into the deepest crevice I could find among the rocks. How I got out of that situation alive, I will never know. It had quite gone out of my mind, and now here was that monster again, come back to haunt me............
“Grandmother, you are very pale,” said Rose. “Are you all right?”
“I think so, Cariad. I fear that I am shocked by your news, since there was an evil manservant once, at the Plas, when I was but a slip of a girl. He did the most appalling things during his lifetime, and almost destroyed our family. Then he became a fugitive from the law, and ran off into the night, and was never seen again. Perhaps the bones are his.”
“Will you tell me all about him, Grandmother? I’m intrigued.”
“One day, Rose, but not now. I am too tired to be digging up old memories. Now then, off you go, or you will be forced to travel home in the dark. Thank you for your company and your news. Give my love to Henry and give little Levi a kiss, if you will, from an old lady.”
I held myself together until Rose had gone off down the stairs, and then I wept bitter tears, for I realized that there were still a few people left in the community who were old enough to remember Moses Lloyd, and to deduce that the bones on the mountain were his. Bessie would remember, and draw conclusions, and so would Shemi. They were both present at the Plas when I came down from the mountain, more dead than alive, on that fateful day in August 1797, and when I later refused to explain my injuries. In their eyes I would now not simply be a fugitive and an impostor, but a murder suspect as well.
I fear that my weeping was not as silent as it might have been; and I was unaware that in the street outside there were two armed men watching my window, and that on the landing outside my room there was a small boy with sharp ears, looking after me.
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The Boy Merlin
Father Time dragged his feet as the first week of my new life came to a close. I wandered about in town now and then, but the cold weather was replaced by a rainy and windy spell typical of February in West Wales, and I was forced to spend much time indoors, waiting for further news. I was cosy enough, and Mrs Ifans was very kind to me, but I did not want too much of her company since she asked too many questions for which I had inadequate answers. So I borrowed some books from her and spent many hours reading, and snoozing in front of my coal fire. Young Merlin popped into my room now and then, and I gave him some lessons in history and geography. I discovered that he had a mind like a sponge, and an extraordinary memory for small details -- just like my friend and mentor Joseph Harries of Werndew, with whom he shared a passing likeness. He had fair hair and bright blue eyes, and features which were sharper than normal for a child. He had freckles on his cheeks and a dimple on his chin. He had an endearing habit of wrinkling up his nose when he was puzzled, outraged or cynical, and I discovered that I was already quite fond of him.
He was also too observant for my peace of mind. One day he said to me quite casually: “Missis, I can’t help thinkin’ that those people who come to visit you -- Rose and Myfanwy, and the one called Wilmot, and those two fellows off the street -- seem to get on with you remarkably well, con
siderin’ that you ain’t met any of them before. Hugs and kisses and all that. A good deal of laughin’ I have heard, and weepin’ too. And lots of chattin’ just like old friends chats to each other..........”
“But I do know them quite well, Merlin,” I insisted. “I have corres-ponded with them, and they know that I am very much up and down in my temperament just now, which is what happens after the loss of a loved one. They are trying to cheer me up, and sometimes they succeed in doing that, for which I am eternally grateful. And they are such open and friendly people, unlike the people in London who are always rushing about and minding their own business. Do you understand?”
The boy rolled his eyes, wrinkled his nose and frowned, and gave me a piercing look which indicated that he knew full well that he had just been fed a packet of lies. Then the pair of us laughed together, and we moved on to consider the Battle of Agincourt.
On the first Saturday after my arrival in Cardigan, Mrs Ifans brought up my breakfast and gave me a copy of The Cambrian dated 5th March 1855. “See here, Mrs Ravenhill,” she said, pointing to something on page four. “Duw Duw, there has been a funny business in Newport, and no doubt about it. A singular occurrence, no less. An earthquake, and a dead lady on the mountain, and a murdered skeleton, and six ravens sitting in a row. Here now -- read it for yourself.”
With shaking hands I took the newspaper and read the report of my death and the events linked to it.
I almost fainted, and my landlady had to give me a glass of water which helped me to recover my equilibrium. “Dear me, Mrs Ravenhill,” said she. “You took that very badly, if I may say so. Was it such a terrible tale?”
“Maybe not, Mrs Ifans. But after the death of my own dear husband quite recently, I find it hard to cope with news of deaths and murders and such like. Perhaps, some weeks or months from now, I will find it easier. What do you think?”
“Very likely, Mrs Ravenhill. Grief is a hard thing, as I know from the loss of my own good man. But time is a healer, and you must be patient.”
“Thank you Mrs Ifans. You are very kind.”
A week after my arrival in Cardigan I began to feel distinctly unwell. It began with hot and cold flushes and a loss of appetite, and within a few hours I felt so weak that I had to go to bed. My landlady realized that I had a high temperature, and offered to call an apothecary in whom she had great faith, but I wanted nothing to do with medical men since I feared that they might investigate my past to a very unwelcome extent. So I said: “Please, Mrs Ifans -- no doctors of any sort. I have had this illness before, and it will pass so long as I keep warm and have plenty to drink.”
But it did not pass, and very soon I had a splitting headache and became violently sick. My recollections are hazy as to what happened after that, but Mrs Ifans later told me that I became delirious and drifted in and out of consciousness for two days, insisting whenever I was capable of expressing myself that I would not accept any pills or potions. Then I was aware that Shemi the Wizard and George the Physician were at my bedside, seen dimly as through a mist. Mrs Ifans and young Merlin flitted in and out of my room, looking very concerned. Waves of nausea broke over me, and I remember being forced to consume large quantities of liquid including some foul herbal potions conjured up by Shemi. He and George stayed at my bedside, turn by turn, for two days, watching me, ministering to my needs and holding my hand. True healers, both of them. But their power was as nothing compared with that of the boy Merlin, who insisted on holding my hand for a while when I was at my lowest ebb. I was hardly conscious, but suddenly I felt energy coursing through my veins as if my old grey blood had been drained away and replaced with red blood charged with warmth and vigour. My eyes had been closed, but I opened them and met his gaze for a moment. He smiled at me, and then collapsed. Shemi, who was also in the room at the time, gathered him in his arms and laid him on the other bed, and after a few minutes he recovered and went off, somewhat unsteadily, down the stairs. Shemi looked at me, said nothing, and gave the most subtle and knowing of smiles. I returned the smile, and closed my eyes again. We both knew what had happened. For me, it reminded me of the occasions when I had been close to death as a young woman following the loss of my baby and when Joseph Harries, that most wonderful of men, had given me healing derived from somewhere inside and outside of himself. On the occasions of his most intense healing, I had felt renewal, and he had come close to collapse.
Eventually, over the course of twelve hours after that mysterious intervention by Merlin, my fever subsided and my sickness ceased.
“My dear Mrs Ravenhill,” said George at last, wiping his brow, “that was a very close run thing. Never have I encountered such a high temperature. You are a very tough lady, no doubt about it.”
“It appears that my time has not yet come, Doctor,” said I, managing a feeble smile. “The Grim Reaper must be getting very frustrated with these close encounters.”
“ It appears that your name is not on his list, Madam.”
Then somebody stirred on a bed in the corner of the room, and Shemi got to his feet, rubbing his eyes. “Good evening, Susanna,” he said. “You have given us a great fright -- not to mention a great medical challenge -- just as Mistress Martha used to do in the good old days. Now you will recover, and I hope that your recuperation will not take too long. Another day in bed, I think, and then you can be up and about again. Would you agree, George?”
“Yes, Shemi. It’s just a pity that this lady is so far from home, and having to depend upon the goodwill of her landlady and young Merlin. She could do with a servant or two to see her back to health.”
“What day is it, George?”
“Wednesday. I will stay with you for another twenty-four hours, just in case there should be a setback, but Shemi needs to return to Newport now, I think, before it is too dark. He has a certain urgent matter to attend to tomorrow.........”
“May I ask what that might be?”
Shemi spoke for himself. “An important inquest,” he said, “relating to the death of a dear friend of mine. I want to be there, just in case there are complications. George wants to be well away from it, for obvious reasons. This particular medical emergency in Cardigan came, from his point of view, at a most convenient time. Correct, George?”
“Yes indeed. I will return home late tomorrow, when the inquest is over and done with. I have a gwylnos and a funeral to attend, and they will both require great delicacy and diplomacy on my part, not to mention considerable acting skill. I hope that I -- and certain other individuals -- are up to it. Will you be all right here by yourself, Susanna?”
“I think so, Doctor. I will allow myself to be looked after by Mrs Ifans and her nephew, and will try not to dwell on events elsewhere.”
So Shemi collected his horse from the stable round the corner, and went back to Newport as dusk was falling. George gave me his faithful and loving attention till next day, and then off he went too, having done his professional and filial duty. He hoped, as I did, that the inquest had gone off smoothly, and that the family could now proceed with the final arrangements for the funeral and the interment of the coffin full of stones. As Friday afternoon turned into Friday evening, I could think of nothing other than the scene at the Plas, where I knew that there would be a house full of relatives and friends, some of them having travelled a great distance to be there. There would be tears and embraces, and endless talk about Mistress Martha. They would be laughing about her eccentricities, mulling over her virtues and her vices, and recounting episodes from the past sixty years or so, during which time she had been innocent bride, friend, parent and grandparent, employer, lover, estate manager, matriarch, campaigner in just causes, errant old lady, and a lot else besides. Episodes from those years flashed in and out of my mind, and I gave faces to those whom I had met along the way, and put words into their mouths. Six of the clock. How many would be sitting down to supper tonight, in the dining room and in the kitchen? Would they be subdued or ebullient? Would they be sad, a
nd concerned about the morrow? Would my group of twenty-five conspirators be steadfast in their refusal to give anything away, even through the merest hint that I was not inside that coffin on the table in the parlour? Would there be enough food in the pantry to feed all those mouths tonight, and then tomorrow after the funeral, when there might be two hundred people or more calling in after the visit to the churchyard, as a final mark of respect for my memory? Seven of the clock. Who would be washing all those dishes? Bessie and Myfanwy and Blodwen for sure, but who else? Where would all the guests be staying? Who would be taking the final spells of duty as watchmen in the parlour? Will and Gerallt maybe? Would they really be able to stay awake, after the passage of almost two weeks and an interminable succession of spells of duty in the room with the coffin? How many pints of ale would the watchmen have consumed? Was Rose all right, or was she filled with apprehension as the burial drew ever closer? She was too sensitive for her own wellbeing, I thought, and how I loved her and missed her! How I loved all of them! How would I survive without them, stuck here in this spartan little room in Cardigan, with a March gale screaming down the street outside?
“Tears again, Missis?” said a little voice beside me. “I did knock, but I didn’t get no response. Forgive me, but I thought I’d better come in anyway, to see if you are all right. Your dinner, if you’re ready for it.”
“Thank you Merlin. Please put the tray on the table. I’m sorry for my lack of attentiveness, but I was miles away, reminiscing as old people do. And when old people think of people and places from the past, they sometimes weep. Have you had your supper?”
“Thirty minutes ago, Missis. Nice it was, too.”
“Will you sit with me while I eat mine? I could do with company.”