by Brian John
“They might take me at gun-point into custody for interrogation? I have thought of that myself.”
“That’s a possibility. But I was about to say that they may be criminals who specialize in blackmail. If they know -- or even suspect -- your true identity they may use violence, kidnap you, hold you prisoner somewhere and then seek to blackmail all of us who are part of the conspiracy.”
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Oh my God!” I said. “That would be a truly appalling scenario, Betsi. And I am sensible enough to know that the blackmailing would not affect the likes of Bessie, Shemi and even Brendan, since they have no money. The ones who would be assailed with demands for money would be you and Ioan, Daisy and her husband George Havard, Skiff Abraham and especially Wilmot and Delilah, since you are the ones who have resources and reputations.”
“True, Mother. But now we are all into this pit too deeply to climb out smelling of roses. God knows that I have wanted to be out of it several times, when I have been awake in the dark hours of the night, staring at the black ceiling. But in the light of day Daisy, whose resolve is as solid as the mountain, has pulled me back in each time. So now we will just have to keep you two steps ahead of the people who are trying to find you, and preferably far away from the Plas and Carningli. Rest assured that we will all do what we can.”
Next morning, the blizzard had passed through and we woke to find a dazzling snow-covered landscape with a cloudless sky and a blazing sun. Such is the way with March blizzards. By the time we had finished breakfast, the snow had turned to slush, and the roads were becoming passable again. In the company of Wilmot (who had organized matters in advance) I walked to one of the back streets and settled into the lodging house of Mrs Lizzie Elkins. She had only one room, and it was reserved for me, Mrs Susanna Ravenhill, a lady from London intent on doing some local studies into the family origins of herself and her late husband. Then Wilmot and the others were gone in their carriage, splashing along on the rutted road to Boncath and Newport, and leaving me on my own once more.
Two days later Mrs Elkins brought me a copy of the last Carmarthen Times with my breakfast. It contained an obituary and a report of my own funeral. There were full details of the chief mourners and other notable persons who had turned out, and a report of the eulogy from the Rector. The remarkable constraint shown by certain members of the family was remarked upon -- with obvious admiration. Then I turned over a few pages, idly scanning the news of events great and small, and came across a report which reminded me that even if Martha Morgan was dead, the consequences of her actions in the last weeks of her life were still making the news. The report said that the Spring Assizes had started in Haverfordwest , with Squire Dafydd Laugharne and Squire Thomas Watkins charged with the murders of Master Elijah Collins and Rev Amos Jones. The report continued: The trial is expected to last two days. This is a most exceptional case which is attracting interest throughout the land. First, it is most unusual for a single member of the gentry, let alone two, to face the hangman’s noose. Second, it is believed that Master Collins died almost ten years since, and that the crime which caused his untimely death was discovered only after painstaking work by the authorities, using the most modern scientific methods. And third, it is a most appalling thing, and indeed a mark of these lawless times, that the other victim should have been a respected minister of religion, strung up by the neck and left to die in a dark and lonely wood in the vicinity of Newport. It is believed that the accused squires were active in the Society of Sea Serjeants, which was reputed to have wielded great influence in the town of Newport some years since; and it is further believed by our very reliable sources in that district that the two victims were vehemently opposed to the activities of that shadowy and evil organization. The brutality of the men responsible for the two murders is hardly to be credited, especially since the accused are both magistrates and substantial landowners. They are therefore supposedly gentlemen, brought up to behave with sensibility and due respect for the law, for the Church, and for their fellow men. If these men are guilty of the heinous crimes with which they are charged (and far be it from us to suggest that they are, until justice is done) what chance is there that those less fortunate in their circumstances, and lacking in education, finance and manners, will henceforth respect the law and live according to the precepts of our Lord?
I was almost petrified when I read these words, and I knew that Wilmot, Shemi, Henry and many others would have to give evidence at the trial, which would probably leave them all exhausted. There was but one compensation -- the trial would certainly be the big talking point across West Wales for days and maybe weeks to come, therefore making it less likely that my own conspiracy would be uncovered.
Over the course of the day I could think of nothing but the trial of Watkins and Laugharne, and I relived the horrors of the days surrounding the death of my dear and virtuous friend Amos. As I walked the streets of the town and tried to enjoy the sunshine as it reasserted its control after the spring blizzard, an image of Amos and his torturers was fixed stubbornly in my head. He had truly been too good a man to die -- but he had also been too good, from the viewpoint of those who were evil, to be allowed to live. So he had been slaughtered without mercy, having diverted attention onto himself in order to save me. I started to think again about the Society of Sea Serjeants -- an organization built upon extortion, brutality and intimidation which had members in Ireland and Wales and which had, at one time, virtually ruled Newport. I had thought that all the members had been accounted for; but perhaps some of them were still out there, in the merchant houses and on the estates of the district, skulking in the shadows, intent upon continuing their activities and obtaining revenge upon the Morgans of Plas Ingli, who had brought them to their knees? I knew that they had spies and sympathizers everywhere -- had they somehow obtained information about my survival, and might they be behind some plan to blackmail Wilmot, George, Skiff and others? That would be a much more vicious and carefully planned campaign, I knew, than one organized by one or two opportunists.
One name kept on coming back into my head -- Jonas Harry. He might be in London, and he might be controlling the likes of Iago Woodward and Silas Reynolds, but surely -- inevitably -- he had to be related to Jacob Harry of Newport who had been a key member of the Society of Sea Serjeants and who had been lynched in Ireland last year? Might this new Harry be carrying on an ancient family feud, or seeking revenge for the death of his relative? If so, he could be a dangerous man indeed.
Later in the week, when my mood had lightened somewhat and when I had become familiar with the streets of my new home town, Rose arrived on the mail coach, intent upon staying for two days. Mrs Elkins put an extra bed for her into my room. I was delighted to see the sweet girl, and we spent many hours out on the streets and in the lodgings in animated conversation. She carried with her much news and gossip, which I was delighted to hear. I felt somewhat more relaxed than hitherto, having seen no sign of spies and having observed no undue interest from the good people of the town in my credentials or my history.
Rose told me that Wilkins Legal had called at the Plas a couple of days earlier and had summoned all of the family to attend -- for the reading of my will. I recalled that it was a very small and simple document, since Plas Ingli and the old estate, and several of its farms, were now in the possession of my friend Wilmot Gwynne, having passed out of the family a decade or so earlier. I had remained -- in name only -- as Mistress of the Plas Ingli estate only because of the generosity of Wilmot, who saw it as a capital asset and who was not minded to manage it himself. My worldly assets consisted of a small sum of money in the Black Ox bank, another small sum in a box under the bed, and some clothes and items within the house. According to Rose, Master Wilkins had quietly and efficiently arranged for the disbursement of £250 each to Betsi, Brynach and Daisy and £50 to my grandchildren according to my wishes, and also for the distribution of my personal effects -- furniture, jewellery, silver cutl
ery, china, clothes and hats, again as specified. I should not have been surprised by the news of the reading of the will, but I found it a profoundly depressing experience, probably because it marked the severance of the last link between my old life and the one which I had now chosen for myself. My clothes, given away, and now being worn by servants or poor people in the town........ my beautiful German china set, handed down by my paternal grandfather to my father, and given to me and David as a wedding present, and now in Betsi’s home instead.... my writing desk, used for the writing of my diaries and my letters over a period of more than 50 years, now removed to the house of George and Daisy in town..... my library of books, greatly loved, now scattered to the four corners of the earth.......
“More tears, Susanna?” said Rose, with her arms around me.
“Are you surprised, Rose? The last slender thread between me and the Plas has just been cut by a blunt instrument.”
Then, with my head upon Rose’s shoulder, I saw through my tears that she was wearing my favourite pearl necklace, which I had bequeathed to her in my will. Rose had been waiting for me to react, and she smiled as only an angel can smile. She said: “I wondered how long it would take you to notice!” and without another word, in a touching and beautiful gesture, she took it off and fastened it round my neck. That caused me to break down and hang onto my grand-daughter like a small child in distress. She made light of it, but when I was on my own, a little later in the day, I experienced a cold terror as I realized how much weeping I had done since the day of my reported death. I felt that I had lost not just my identity and my history, but also my family and possessions, and my fighting spirit. I felt that I was a nobody, destined to drift through what might remain of my life with no clear purpose, no opportunities for pleasure, and no freedom to express myself as I might wish, either through my clothes or my conversation or my activities. Money was not a problem, since Wilmot and Betsi and the family had promised that I would want for nothing, but where could I go, and what could I do, if I was being hunted down by men who wanted to bring down some sort of retribution for my sins upon my head and upon the heads of my nearest and dearest?
I resolved to make the most of the rest of Rose’s stay, and she was very protective and very understanding of my precarious state of mind. We walked arm in arm round the streets and along the river beneath the ramparts of the castle, reinforcing our strong and mysterious bond which had existed between us ever since she had been a little girl without a mother. Although I was still dressed in mourning clothes and kept my wretched crepe veil over my face, we contrived to laugh a good deal. That was something which I needed. Then, on the very morning of her departure, she told me very quietly over breakfast that she had had a powerful premonition of a threat greater than anything previously to have been encountered in the neighbourhood of Newport and Cilgwyn. I pressed her -- who or what was threatened? Family or friends? Rose said that in her vision she only saw the mountain -- so she assumed that everybody and everything in the neighbourhood was under threat.
“Disease? Famine? Some great natural disaster for which God will get the blame? And will all be well, Rose?”
“It will,” she nodded. “At great cost -- but I saw no loss of life.”
That gave me some reassurance, since news came through in the afternoon, after Rose’s departure, that in the Spring Assizes Laugharne and Watkins had been found guilty of two murders and had been sentenced to death. I knew that was inevitable, and that their crimes and the punishment to come were a consequence of their own wickedness. I knew that they would not get the Queen’s Mercy. But I still felt responsible in some measure for sending another two men to the gallows, to add to an already long list, and that did nothing to improve my spirits. With Rose gone, I was alone again, and desperately lonely.
I was confined to my lodgings by another spell of bad weather as the month came to a close, but then the sun came out again, and I ventured out. I spent the next few days giving cock and bull stories about the life history of Mrs Susanna Ravenhill to the people whom I met, and I started to feel more comfortable with my new identity. I indulged in some experiments relating to a change in my personality as well -- pretending on one day to be absent-minded and vague, and on another to be short-tempered and thoroughly unpleasant. But I found that very difficult, and decided that I would be better off, in establishing new relationships, by behaving more or less as I had always behaved to others. Play acting can only be taken so far. Surreptitiously, when Mrs Elkins was out for a whole day, I renewed the brown dye on my hair, since I had noticed that the old dye was wearing thin. I visited churchyards, claiming that I was hunting for the graves of my relatives. That was a very fascinating occupation, for graveyards are full of poignant information about livelihoods and diseases, not to mention poetic epitaphs. The people whom I met while I was out and about were almost too kind, and kept on interfering. I was mildly irritated, since they all wanted to help me to recover from the loss of my dear husband Jack and to trace my long-lost relatives. One old gentleman, who thought of himself as an expert on all the local family histories, even interrogated me at great length, in order to help me the better. That kept me on my toes, and kept me alert, but I had to cover my confusion on occasion with the excuse that my memory was failing..
Then came a bombshell. Somebody (possibly the old gentleman) put a notice in The Cambrian on 26th March, to the effect that “A warm welcome is extended to Mrs Susanna Ravenhill from London, who has come to the district for a short visit in spite of the inclement winter weather with a view to discovering more about the antecedents of her late husband Jack. She will no doubt be delighted to receive news at her lodgings, 15 Porth-y-Castell, from any person who may be able to help her in her researches.” The notice was shown to me by Mrs Elkins, who commented on the kindness and sensitivity of local people, and their instinct for helping others. I swallowed hard and nodded “Yes indeed, Mrs Elkins. I am touched by such concern for my welfare.” But in reality I was horrified and furious, and I became convinced that I would now receive visits from constables, busybodies and probably my enemies too.
On the very next day, on a quiet Sunday morning, I peeped from behind my lace curtains, as I had become accustomed to doing, and saw a tall man in a well-cut three-quarter length coat across the street. My eyes were not as sharp as they had been in my prime, but I did not think I recognized him. I was quite sure that the man was not Iago Woodward or Silas Reynolds. But I was very scared. I spent the day indoors, in a state of very deep gloom and introspection, and I knew that even if I was not arrested or abducted I could not continue to live like this, fearing every shadow and every unusual sound, looking over my shoulder every time I went out, and peeping obsessively from behind my curtains every half hour to see if I was being spied upon. I thought that I was being given a new life when I woke up on the kitchen table of the Plas after my night on the mountain. In my more miserable moments thereafter I had thought that I might have to put up with a sort of purgatory for a while, but this was far, far worse than the purgatory imagined by the Catholics. I was now living in a black hell, and I cared not whether it was created by paranoia or by a real and imminent threat. I was terrified that I might spiral down into a state of despair as deep and long-lasting as that which I experienced as a young woman after the loss of my first baby. So, gripped by a cold fear, I sat down and penned the following letter, three times:
15 Porth-y-Castell, Newcastle Emlyn, 27th day of March 1855
Mrs Ravenhill, late of London, will be grateful if Master and Mistress Rhys of Brithdir, Doctor and Mrs Havard of Newport, and Master and Mistress Gwynne of Plas Llanychaer will attend at the Emlyn Arms in Newcastle Emlyn on Friday 1st April at 12 noon for a conference to discuss MOST URGENT matters.
With kindest regards. Susanna Ravenhill (Mrs)
Mrs Elkins posted it off next morning to the three addresses, and I resigned myself to being a prisoner in my lodgings for four days until my dear friends arrived. I did not even da
re to think that they would not come, or that my letters might go astray. On the next day I fear that my melancholy mood was perfectly obvious to Mrs Elkins, who encouraged me to “talk things through, and not keep them all bottled up.” That was the last thing I wanted to do, and I kept the lid on the bottle. Not for the first time, I started to think of the means by which I might end my life.
On the 29th day of March there was a knock on the outside door, and Mrs Elkins came up to my room. “There is a gentleman here to see you, Ma’am,” she said. “He has a uniform on, and says he is here on official business. He refuses to go away, and he has a warrant. Shall I let him in?”
rrr
A Tightening Net
Mrs Elkins stood silently, waiting for my reply. I was terrified, but in truth I had no option but to allow the man to come up to my room. He turned out to be a short red-faced man dressed in a police uniform made for somebody several sizes smaller.
“Mistress Ravenhill? Yes?”
I stood and gave a little curtsey. Then I did my best to look as tall and elegant as a Dowager Duchess, and my terror was alleviated somewhat when I noticed that the constable looked very nervous indeed. I could have reduced his nervousness by inviting him to speak in Welsh, but I chose not to, since a conversation in English would allow me to retain a degree of superiority.