The Anagram

by Russell French

  “Oh come on, Beth. We haven’t got all day,” said Gareth testily. “We need to get down to London.”

  “We have got all day, as it happens,” was the cheerful reply. “We don’t need to meet with Theeth ’till tomorrow. Don’t be so grumpy!”

  That was another thing, she mused. She was naturally easy-going with a sunny temperament. She always had an optimistic outlook on life. He was instinctively bad—tempered and his glass was usually half-empty. Still, opposites are supposed to attract, she concluded. Maybe there was hope yet.

  After breakfast, they followed the agreed plan, stocking up with fresh clothes and provisions along the way.

  They got onto the train, found their seats and settled down for another, longer, journey. This time, there were no disgruntled oldies to distract them, but mainly business people in smart suits and sober ties and with plug-in lap-tops. For most train passengers, the mobile phone is everything. Mercifully, this was a quiet carriage and e-mails ruled supreme.

  When embarking on a train journey of any length, there is a certain code of conduct to be observed. For a start, you have to feel as though you are setting out on an adventure: You are a spy, a secret agent and all the other passengers are potential enemies. Think The Lady Vanishes or From Russia With Love.

  You have to buy something from the trolley or the buffet no matter how ludicrously expensive it might be. Actually, train food has improved significantly over the years, but it’s still not the cheapest. The coffee is surprisingly good, even though they continue to serve it in those horribly tasteless polystyrene mugs.

  You have to take a keen interest in the gardens and windows of dwellings you pass. Who knows what secrets they may hide? Don’t be frightened to have a good nosey as you trundle along.

  If you are in an ordinary carriage and your mobile goes, you must give the passengers at large time to enjoy your startlingly original ring-tone, probably Mission Impossible or Hawaii Five-0. You must also take care to ensure that the topic of conversation is obvious to all, no matter how personal or embarrassing. The state of an overdraft and intimate details of a father’s health are certainly two topics I have enjoyed (!) listening to. But what does it matter? You’re on a train—all reality is suspended!

  And there are one or two rules that apply. When you are on a train and passing a football or cricket match, NOTHING EXCITING WILL BE HAPPENING—EVER! The ball will be out of play or about to be thrown back in—at best, there’s some dilly-dallying in midfield. The game will be between overs or a new batsman will just be coming out to bat, or they’ve all stopped for a drink. You will never see a great diving header, a superb save, a brilliant cover drive or a magnificent catch.

  If you have been told to look out for a particular landmark on your travels—not something big and obvious like Wembley Stadium or the Stade de France—but something more locally iconic, the crooked spire in Chesterfield, say, there is a pretty fair chance that another train or some other obstruction will get in the way at the crucial moment and you will miss your target.

  Who said travelling by train was boring?

  Beth and Gareth were lost in their separate but surprisingly similar thoughts for a while. What would Theeth have to say to them? When and where would the meeting with Pierre Poivre take place? How were they going to do their enemy down when they had absolutely no recourse to his one weakness? Why am I so bad-tempered? Why is he so bad—tempered? Poor old Gwyneth, she was only showing interest. Poor old Gwyneth, she was only…

  “Would you like a drink, love?” Gareth smiled at his companion as he stood up from his seat.

  “Oh, yes please. A cup of coffee… . and some plain biscuits, perhaps?”

  Left to her own devices, Beth fished out her copy of the Guardian, which she had bought at the station, and started reading through the news. After a while, Gareth returned, having had to queue quite a while to obtain their refreshments, and they busied themselves with their drinks. Beth then returned to her newspaper. Gareth, not familiar with this particular train journey, contented himself with gazing through the window, although he found it difficult to pick out the names of the various stations as they whizzed past. He did manage to catch Rugby as it flashed across his vision. He grinned as he remembered his exploits on the cricket ground at the famous school there, where William Webb Ellis, allegedly, “first picked up a ball and ran.” Apparently, his grave was left neglected for many years and it was left to the French to take it upon themselves to restore it to some kind of dignity.

  It’s funny, isn’t it, how you take ownership of a place once you have been there. A documentary on somewhere like Rome, for example, or Vienna, takes on a much more interesting aspect if you can say to yourself, “Yep, been there, done that.” Gareth had no knowledge of Rugby itself at all, having only been to the school, but he still felt a sense of belonging.

  After a while, Beth turned to the Cryptic crossword. She loved cryptic crosswords, particularly the Guardian’s, as the clues were always designed in such a way as to give you a chance of solving them, even if the answer was a word you had not previously known. Araucaria was her favourite setter. Monday’s setter, Rufus, tended to be a bit easier. She decided to get Gareth involved.

  “Here, you must be good at crosswords. You like anagrams,” she said encouragingly.

  “Yes, I do but I’ve never been one for crosswords much, I must admit.”

  “Well, try some of these. Let’s see how we get on.” She folded the paper over and read out: “One down: Scan corneas badly in French town. (11) That suggests it’s an anagram. Eleven—letter French town anagram of Scan corneas. Any ideas?”

  “How do you know it’s an anagram?”

  “The word badly is a crafty way of saying the letters are jumbled up. The answer you’re looking for will always be at the beginning or the end of the clue, never in the middle.”

  “So Scan corneas has nothing to do with the answer.”

  “Only in that it gives you the letters you need for the answer. Each clue is divided into bits. There’s the definition of the answer, which, as I said, is never in the middle of the clue. There are the words, or letters, which help you to find out what the answer is. And usually, but not always, there are trigger-words, which tell you if it’s an anagram or a word backwards or hidden among other words. The whole thing has to make sense as a sentence or phrase. Does that help?”

  “Yes, think so. So it’s an anagram. Carcassonne springs to mind straight away. Any good?”

  “Mm. Two s’s and two n’s? Yes, that fits perfectly. I’ve been there, funnily enough—lovely old walled city. Well done. Two down: First Auntie delivers very exciting new toy before Christmas. (6)”

  “What are we looking for here?”

  “Something to do with Christmas or before Christmas, I imagine. I don’t think it’s an anagram this time.

  What happens before Christmas?”

  “Advent, I suppose. Funny. I was thinking about Advent calendars when I was driving up to Machynlleth. Brian would never let me have a chocolate Advent calendar like all the other kids. Said they weren’t Christian—not the done thing, old son. Dear old Brian, he was like that.”

  “Advent would certainly fit. Why, though? Hang on, got it. Before Christmas is the definition of the answer. First is the first letter of each of the other words: auntie delivers very exciting new toy. A-D-V-E-N-T. Yes, that’s it. We’re on a roll here! 3 down is only four letters: Summits put back in place. Short and sweet.”

  “Any cunning words to help us this time?

  “Put back” could mean a word or letters backwards, perhaps. What’s a four-letter word for summits?”

  “I don’t know… acmes, no, that’s five. Peaks? No, that’s five as well. Tops?”

  “Yes, yes, spot-on again, if you’ll forgive the pun. Tops backwards is spot. A spot is a place. Nice one!
”

  Gareth was rather pleased with himself. There was nothing to this crossword business—easy as pie! He felt confident enough to point at a clue. “What’s that one across there, with all those letters in it?”

  “8 across? Let’s see… Hop, leap, die, crazy pervert! (10).”

  “What have we got in it?”

  “Let’s have a look… . second letter a from Carcassonne, fourth letter d from Advent and sixth is p from Spot. So that gives us—a—d—p—-——What do you think?”

  “What are we looking for… . another word for pervert?”

  “Yes, I think it could well be. I would say it’s another anagram. Crazy usually means the letters are mixed up. So an anagram of Hop, leap, die gives us… .”

  “Paedophile!” Gareth shouted triumphantly. Other passengers looked over nervously and started fidgeting. The English love their eccentrics, of course, but not sitting opposite them on a train—that’s a bit too close for comfort.

  “Yes, of course it is, Well done, Gareth! Gareth?”

  Her young man sat perfectly still with his mouth wide open, looking for all the world like a dead trout on a fishmonger’s slab, eyes staring spookily at nothing in particular. Gradually, slowly, his face was transformed by a huge smile. Suddenly, he clenched his fist, shouted “Yes! Yes!” almost orgasmically and then seized poor Beth in a bear-like hug.

  “You darling! You angel!” he roared. “That’s it!”

  By now, their fellow-travellers were getting distinctly uncomfortable. Remember Meg Ryan in the cafe in “When Harry Met Sally”? That’s how they felt. No sign of the sour-faced old dear, though.

  Beth disentangled herself. “Gareth! Behave yourself, for Heaven’s sake. Whatever’s the matter?” she said, flustered and half-smiling in embarrassment at the people around them.

  “Don’t you see? Crazy means an anagram. That’s the answer to Seth’s message. Crazy P, name the ghost within. It’s an anagram!”

  “Do you think so?” Beth stopped in mid-thought. Then: “Yes, yes, why not? It must be. So we want an anagram of P name the ghost within.”

  Gareth nodded with enthusiasm. “Looks like it.” He paused for a few seconds to pick up his train of thought. “Do you think it’s all an anagram or are there trigger-words or definitions?”

  “Hard to say. Guardian crossword this ain’t. I think the whole thing”, she counted out loud, “Nineteen letters, probably provides the answer. No clue as to what that answer is, though.”

  “Have you got a pen and paper on you?”

  “My dear sir, am I or am I not a reporter. Course I have. Bit bedraggled after their unexpected encounter with the Welsh mud, mind.” Beth ferreted in her capacious handbag and produced a notebook and biro. It was one of those bags designed to cater for all emergencies short of kitchen-sink drama, the sort the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting carry round with them.

  “Good grief, woman, what have you got in there?” Gareth had only just noticed the size of the bag and the quantity of its contents, even though it and they had been cast to the elements in a Welsh wood.

  “Oh the usual. Purse, lipstick, other make-up, mirror, mace spray, pack of Polos.” She waved the half-finished packet of mints kindly given to her by Stan. “Hankies, keys, hairbrush, girlie things, diary, phone, you know, all the stuff no modern female would want to be without.”

  “Mace spray? You ever had to use it?”

  “No, no, just a precaution. I did have a rather violent boyfriend at Uni in Warwick. Soon got shut of him, of course.”

  “What was his name?”

  “He was known as Barnesey. Barnes… . Good heavens. I’ve just realised something!”

  “What’s that?”

  “His first name! His first name was… . Ethan! Coincidence or what?”

  “I’m getting more and more like you. I’m starting not to believe in coincidences. The more you think about it, the more you can’t help getting the idea that these things are meant to happen. All this stuff in your bag!” he went on, a propos of nothing. “You make me feel quite naked. All I’ve got on me is my wallet, my phone and my keys. Still, they’ve served me well enough so far. Let’s have a look at this damned anagram. See if we can make any sense of it.”

  Beth wrote in big capitals at the top of a clean page: PNAMETHEGHOSTWITHIN. “Trouble is,” she said, “We don’t know if it’s one word, a name or a phrase. I would guess it’s more than one or two words. Let’s assume a phrase for now.”

  “Hmm.” Gareth grunted dubiously. “Let’s try one of the words being THE. Bit obvious, I know, but it’s a start.”

  Beth wrote THE in the middle of the page and crossed the relevant letters out.

  PNAMETHEGHOST WITHIN

  They puzzled over the letters for a while, without finding inspiration. They became aware that the train was coming to a halt. The signs on the platform said MILTON KEYNES. A number of be-suited passengers gathered up their belongings and made their way off the train. The middle-aged businessman sitting opposite our heroes also vacated his seat but did not get off. Instead, he moved a couple of seats up the carriage, sat down heavily with his back to them and started reading his copy of the Daily Mail, uttering a deep sigh as he did so.

  “You’ve obviously upset him, you crazy Welshman!” Beth giggled.

  “Some people have no sense of humour,” grumbled Gareth. “No need to be so bad-tempered.”

  “Oh. The words pot, kettle and black spring to mind!”

  “What do you mean? I’m pretty easy to get along with… . aren’t I?” Gareth asked, more in hope than anticipation.

  “Let’s say you have your moments. You chewed Gwyn’s head off something rotten this morning.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I? Sorry about that. I’ll try to be a bit less moody from now on. Now, let’s have another look at this anagram again.”

  After a few minutes, Beth said: “We’ve got I-N-G in there. We’ll take those out and see what we’ve got left.” She wrote assiduously in her notebook:

  PNAMEHOSTWITH

  THE… . ING… .

  “I’m not sure if that helps at all. What could go before… . ING? T? S?”

  “How about POSTING? POSTING WITH THE NAME?” Gareth sounded quite pleased with himself.

  “Mmm. POSTING sounds good… . but that doesn’t seem to mean much. And it’s a bit too much like the original. You know, WITH THE NAME. I think it’ll be a bit more subtle than that. You’ve also got a spare H.” Beth could not keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “Ok. Let’s try again.”

  They worked on, scribbling down various combinations of letters. Beth finally said:

  “We’ve got another THE in there. Could even be THEETH. After all, that’s his title, not his name.”

  “Ok. What does that give us?”

  Beth wrote down:

  PNAMHOSTWI

  THEETH… . ING

  “Well, at least that cuts down the options,” said Gareth. “Wait a minute. P… . A… . I. Yes, PAINTING’s in there!”

  “Nice one. That could well be right. Let’s see what we’re left with now.

  MHOSW

  THEETH PAINTING

  Who? Who’s? Whom?”

  “WHO’S THEETH PAINTING? But that still leaves an M.” Gareth was unconvinced by his own workings.

  Beth came back with: “THEETH’S PAINTING WHOM? Takes care of the M.”

  “That certainly uses up all the letters,” said Gareth observantly. “But it doesn’t mean a lot. Surely Theeth can’t have painted PP—he’d have told us about it. Remember he said he’d spent most of his life looking for a likeness of him and never found anything. He even suggested there probably wasn’t one in existence. Anyway, there’s no question mark in the original.”

&n
bsp; “That doesn’t matter,” said Beth. “You ignore punctuation in anagrams—at least, you do in The Guardian and that’s good enough for me! And you’re right about Theeth and the painting, of course. We’re stuck with this at the moment, faute de mieux. We’ll have to have another look at it when we get to the hotel. I think PAINTING is involved, though. Look, we’re coming into Euston. We’ll leave this be for now. I hope we are on the right track and not barking up the wrong tree with this. It could just be a red herring!” It was Beth’s turn to get her fish metaphors in a tangle.

  They put all their paraphernalia away, sorted out their luggage and made their way thoughtfully onto the platform. There was still a lot of work to be done. The solving of the anagram could well be the key to the whole situation. But for now, they concentrated on getting up the slope from the platform among the crowds who were aiming for the main body of the station.

  27

  As they made their way across the crowded concourse at Euston, a boy burdened with a large rucksack almost as big as he was rushed into them. The impact made him fall over and he struggled to right himself again. Gareth helped him up. The lad, no more than about twelve, did his best to blurt out an embarrassed apology.

  “It’s ok, matey,” Gareth reassured him. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Got to… . go and stay with my Gran in Chester… family crisis at home…” the boy huffed. “But this place is so big, can’t find my way around. Have to catch the… . 13.51 to Chester. Can’t seem to find it…”

  “Don’t worry,” said Gareth. He looked up at the big clock. “It’s twenty-five to now. You’ve still got a good fifteen minutes.” He gazed enquiringly at the large information panels in front of the platforms. “There you are. 13.51 to Milton Keynes, Rugby, Crewe and Chester. Platform 11, which is… . over there.” He pointed towards the platform in question. “Have you got everything you need?”

  “I’ve got a bottle of water and some crisps, and my ticket, of course.” The young chap was gradually regaining his composure.