Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  I knew what was coming next, and thought that I had had enough emotional upheavals for one afternoon. I felt myself shivering, although in truth it was a warm enough afternoon, with daffodils nodding and gleaming in the sunshine. Rose, who was stronger now, took up the tale again. According to her information, she said, the Coroner then asked for evidence relating to the human remains.

  “And who gave that evidence?” I asked weakly. “Not your Uncle George, I hope?”

  “No, Mrs Ravenhill,” she said, giving great emphasis to the name. “He was asked and refused, so Billy Blood gave evidence instead.”

  “Billy Blood? What on earth could a common butcher say on such matters?”

  “It’s not so absurd as you might think, madam. Butchers know about bones, and killing and such things. And remember that he is also a part-time surgeon, who has performed amputations in the past, with a modest survival rate.”

  I moaned. “Oh my God! So what did he say?”

  “By all accounts he was very competent. He said that the bones were those of a tall man, probably scattered about as the body decomposed by the depradations of rats and foxes. Many of the bones had the signs of being gnawed by animals, and there were signs of gnawing on the leather bucket as well.”

  “So the body was consumed by vermin?”

  “That is what he suggested.”

  “A perfectly fitting end for such a monster,” I said bitterly, losing my self-control for a moment and causing Myfanwy to catch her breath.

  Rose, who knew of my interest in the matter, continued. “Then he came to the skull. He said that the back of the skull had been smashed by a blow of very great force from behind, and that that was probably the cause of death. The other interesting thing about the skull of the deceased was that the two front teeth were missing; that, thought Billy Blood, might give a clue to his identity. The evidence being thus concluded, the Coroner asked whether any person present might have any idea as to the name of the deceased -- a tall gentleman with his front teeth missing, who might have lived rough on the mountain some time after 1795, that being the date of the most recent coin found with the remains.”

  “Should Rose continue, Mrs Ravenhill?” asked Myfanwy. I nodded.

  “For some time, so I hear, there was silence in the room, but then a very old man got to his feet. It turned out to be Benjamin Mathias, who used to be a cobbler in town and who once did duty as a petty constable, before the turn of the century. Now he was well into his eighties. ‘I have something to say, Johnny,’ he blurted out. ‘Now then, Benny,’ said the Coroner. ‘This is a formal inquest. Kindly refer to me as “sir” or “Mr Huws”. Pray continue.’ ‘Very well, Sir Johnny. I think them bits and pieces of bones belonged to a fellow called Moses Lloyd, son of old Squire Lloyd of Cwmgloyn. Everybody knew that he was cut out of his father’s will and was penniless. A right bastard he was, if you will forgive the expression, your Honour. He caused mayhem locally, thieving and whoring, and once he smashed up the bar room of the Black Lion in a drunken rage. I was the constable at the time, and I remember it well, so I do. I had him in the lock-up. In the French invasion he ran away when others fought, so he was as yellow as a field of mustard. In the end I recall a warrant out for his arrest, for insulting a magistrate and for some more thieving. He worked for a while for the Morganses of Plas Ingli, he did, but God only knows how they had the patience to put up with him. The lazy bugger never did a decent day’s work in his life. He lost his two front teeth when he was beat up by some lads from the Parrog. There must have been fifty people in town who had every reason to murder him, Sir Johnny, for he had debts everywhere, and I know for a fact that there were four wives seduced and money stolen from Arthur Lord and Billy.........’”

  At that point, said Rose, the Coroner pulled him up short and thanked him. “Then he said something like this: ‘We are not here to speculate about motives or possible culprits, and this is not a court of law. All we have to do is establish a cause of death and facilitate the burial of the remains. I must draw these proceedings to a close. I give this guidance to the jury. We have some evidence suggesting that the deceased met his death a long time ago, and that he was the subject of a violent attack. You must decide whether murder was committed. You also have some evidence that this person might have been one Moses Lloyd of Cwmgloyn. I also ask you to determine whether this deceased person should have a Christian burial in sanctified ground, or whether he should be consigned to a pauper’s grave. Kindly retire and reach your verdict.’”

  So, said Rose, the jury left the room and returned after half an hour of deliberations. The foreman announced the decision that the deceased person, possibly one Moses Lloyd of Cwmgloyn, was unlawfully killed by a person or persons unknown some time around the year 1798. It was their decision that interment in a pauper’s grave would be appropriate in this case, unless anybody came forward with an offer to meet the costs of a burial in hallowed ground. The Coroner thanked the jurors and dismissed them, and Rector Llewelyn Thomas said that he would seek to arrange an appropriate burial. The bones were then replaced in the wooden box which had been used for carrying them around.

  “So there we are, Mrs Ravenhill,” said Rose, with her equilibrium now restored. “Those present said that they had seldom had a more interesting afternoon’s entertainment, and all were impressed with the new coroner’s common-sense approach, in contrast to the corrupt and scandalous behaviour of his predecessor. Afterwards, there was much talk in town about Mistress Martha and about the villainous Moses Lloyd.”

  She looked at me, and I knew that she wanted to know more. So we found a bench by the river, and we sat there in the sunshine. I told the two young ladies that I had vowed long ago that the truth about what happened on the mountain in August 1798 would never, never pass the lips of Mistress Martha Morgan. But now that she was dead, Mrs Susanna Ravenhill might, in her stead, describe those terrible events.

  So over the next hour or so I told them all about Moses Lloyd and myself, about how he had taken me captive in a cave on the mountain and had attempted to ravish me, and about how I had somehow saved myself and brought about his sudden death. Then I told them how I had cleansed the cave, disposed of the body and all his possessions, and finally staggered and crawled back to the Plas, more dead than alive. I also told them about my written confession, without saying where it was. “So you see, Rose and Myfanwy, Mistress Morgan of Plas Ingli was the one who committed the murder, and she had to live with that terrible knowledge until the day that she went to her grave.”

  The two girls saw through my veil that there were tears rolling down my cheeks, and I saw that they were weeping too. They both embraced me, and then Myfanwy said: “But Mrs Ravenhill, if a death occurs in the course of self-defence, that is surely not murder? No court in the land would have convicted Mistress Martha, had they been given the evidence.”

  “But don’t you see, Myfanwy?” I sobbed. “I have analysed my motives endlessly over the years, and have concluded that at the critical moment I wanted to kill Moses Lloyd. I hid all the evidence of his death, and said nothing.........”

  “Careful, Mrs Ravenhill,” whispered Rose, with a twinkle in her eye. “What was it we discussed ten minutes ago? Passers-by have ears. No more first person, if you please. Don’t you mean she hid all the evidence?”

  “I’m sorry -- you are right. I am very emotional just now. Give me a moment, if you will.”

  I breathed deeply, dabbed my eyes and blew my nose. Then I continued. “Mistress Morgan wanted to cleanse her cave, since that was her secret and sacred place. She managed to do that, although she was at the very edge of her endurance. But the attempts to dispose of the body and all other traces of the man and the crime might well have been taken by a jury as a sign of guilt, and it is quite possible that Mistress Martha would have been sent to the gallows as a result.”

  “Never!” exclaimed Rose. “Extenuating circumstances!”

  “You forget, Rose, that the application of t
he law was a very corrupt business when we old ladies were young. The magistrates were all gentry, and some of them were cronies of Moses Lloyd. There is absolutely no guarantee that the lady involved would have had a fair trial. But let’s cheer ourselves up. It was all a long time ago, and everything is resolved. One day, when I have gone to my maker, you might like to tell this morbid story to your children.......”

  We laughed, and mopped our cheeks, and continued on our promenade along the river. We still had much to talk about, and I wanted to know all about the gwylnos and the funeral; but all three of us wanted to chat about the weather, and the daffodils, and the cheerful spring birdsong for a while, after the heavy and emotional matters recently discussed. We walked in silence, and had not gone very far when Merlin popped out from behind a large tree trunk. He looked quite absurd, with the defeated spy’s French hat upon his head. “Afternoon, Missis! Afternoon, ladies!” he grinned. “Nice day for it!”

  “Very pleasant indeed, Merlin. And you look very silly with that hat on your head.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive, Missis. News for you. You know that fellow who sort of gave me the hat? Well, he’s still in town, stayin’ in lodgins near the Mwldan. He calls hisself a businessman, and he’s from London. He speaks French fluently, and he sends letters written in French to somebody in London, and written in English to somebody in Fishguard. I’ll soon have their names for you. He don’t seem to have any friends, and he keeps to hisself. He drinks in the Rose and Crown every evenin’. He’s pretty miserable most of the time, and looks as if he would rather be somewhere else. So he has a job to do -- watchin’ you, Missis, if I’m not mistook. And his name is Iago Woodward.”

  “Where is he now, Merlin?”

  “Behind that tree by the green boat, at the edge of the water. He would be listenin’ to you now, if he could get close enough.”

  And off the lad skipped, down towards the green boat at the edge of the water. “The little devil!” I said to Rose and Myfanwy. “Look at him! He’s intent on provoking my enemy by flaunting that hat a few yards from where he’s hiding!” True enough, and as we watched Iago sprang from behind the tree and made a grab for the hat. But Merlin was too quick for him, and was off like a flash along the muddy river bank, leaping from stone to stone and avoiding all the mud. Iago was not so clever, and he had his eyes on the hat, so that he soon lost his footing on some mud and went straight into the water, with legs and arms flailing. It was not very deep, but it was deep enough and smelly enough to do severe damage to his dignity, and the miserable fellow dragged himself back to the footpath soaked to the skin and covered in thick slime from head to toe. In a state of high dudgeon he trudged back towards town, glaring at all the passers-by who were out for their afternoon strolls in the sun.

  That cheered us up enormously, and when we had recovered our composure we returned to the lodgings. I knew that I could not stay in Cardigan any longer, since Iago Woodward -- be he clown or hired assassin -- would catch up with me eventually. So I pleaded with Rose and Myfanwy to arrange for me to be moved somewhere else, preferably on the morrow. They appreciated my concerns, but said that if proper plans were to be laid, at least two clear days would be needed. They said that they would arrange for me to be collected around 8 pm on the following Thursday, when Iago would be off duty, downing a few jars of ale in the Rose and Crown. Rose suggested that I should not announce my departure in advance to my landlady or anybody else. I had, after all, now stayed with Mrs Ifans for two weeks already, and that was all I had committed to.

  Then the two girls were off, on the afternoon stagecoach to Newport. I ambled gently back towards my lodgings, and was surprised to find that the front door was open. I entered the front passageway, and shouted for Mrs Ifans, but there was no reply -- nor did I really expect one, for it was one of her afternoons in the Lamb and Flag. I knew that something had happened, and that somebody had been into the house with evil intent.

  With my heart beating wildly, I climbed the stairs, and saw that the door to my room, which had been locked, was swinging loosely on its hinges. Somehow it had been opened, apparently without any damage being done, by somebody who knew all about breaking and entering. Maybe he had picked the lock, or maybe taken Mrs Ifans’s master key from the kitchen? I was afraid that somebody was waiting for me inside the room, out of sight, and I froze, too terrified to enter. At last, with no sound coming from within, I did step inside, hardly daring to breathe. There was nobody there, but the room was in chaos. The blankets had been pulled off the bed, clothes were scattered everywhere, and the chest in which I kept my personal things had been tipped over. My most intimate garments had been trampled on the floor. I had very little in the way of necklaces and earrings, but those few small things which had been in my little jewellery box had been tipped out onto the bed. Nothing, as far as I could see at first, had been stolen, and I thanked my lucky stars that I had not left in my room any personal papers or letters that might have been incriminating. Now I felt not only scared out of my wits, but also defiled. Whose grubby hands had rummaged through my clothes and my most personal possessions, and stripped away my privacy? Emotion drove away rational thought, and I was not even capable of speculating on who might have been responsible for this ourrage.

  At first I was so shocked that I simply collapsed onto my couch in the middle of the chaos and did nothing. But I realized that if Mrs Ifans should get to know of this invasion of her lodging house, she would certainly call the constables, and that was the last thing I wanted. So I first of all descended the stairs and closed the front door, in case she should turn up and think there was something amiss. Having puffed back upstairs again as fast as my acheing joints would permit, I frantically started to tidy up the mess. I made up the bed again, put all my clothes back in their correct places, and got the place back to more or less its original condition. When I was just about to relax and to congratulate myself on a job well done, I noticed something dangling in the window, hanging from the curtain rail on a piece of string. It was my little bottle of brown hair dye. On its label were the words “Huws Bros, High Class Pharmacists, Newport Pembs.” Now my mood changed from shock to despair, with the realization that while Iago Woodward had been trailing us along the river bank, an accomplice had planned and executed this assault upon my lodgings. Furthermore, these shadowy operators now knew me to be an impostor with dyed hair, and knew that I had a link with Newport.

  Mrs Ifans was back before long, and I do not think she suspected that there had been anything amiss in her lodging house. She certainly said nothing to me. But I knew that things had taken a very serious turn, and I spent the whole evening contemplating my future. I had two options -- to flee in terror, or to show these men (however many of them there might have been) that I would not be intimidated. I really had no choice but to breathe deeply, reinforce my nerves with iron, and choose the latter course.

  I had two days to endure, during which time I had to stay clear of the chief spy and his accomplices and avoid getting into trouble. The first day passed pleasantly enough in the company of young Merlin. I gave him a lesson on the Civil War in the morning, and as payment he gave me a guided tour of the town in the afternoon, taking in the prison, the castle (very ruinous) and assorted dignified buildings. As expected, Woodward shadowed us but could never get very close, and Merlin made sure that we never went anywhere that was thinly populated, shadowy or dangerous. The agent of darkness never got half a chance to attack us or even to overhear our conversation -- and even if he had, he would have learned far more about the town than about me. But in the evening, when I was alone in my room, I did become very preoccupied with the spy, and on mulling things over I came to the view that he had to be a sort of special constable who had been alerted -- possibly by a traitor in my Group of Twenty-five fellow conspirators, or possibly by a slip of the tongue or something overheard -- to the fact that I had falsified my own death. He was waiting for me to make a false move, so that his suspicions might
be confirmed, or he was looking for an opportunity to interrogate me prior to making an arrest. I knew that if I was questioned at length by an expert I would not be able to maintain my play-acting for very long, and that he would very quickly find huge holes in my fabricated life history. I tried to convince myself that his links with France were unimportant -- after all, many educated people spoke French, and many had visited Paris and bought fine clothes and hats while they were there. But if he were reporting to the authorities in London, it might be convenient to communicate in French, so as to avoid the possibility of letters being intercepted or read by uneducated persons without authority. Even with good seals, we all knew that letters sent in the post were never entirely safe.