It was not a serious deficiency. The need for either serious law enforcement or legal proceedings in such a rural oasis, where farming, fishing, and slate mining occupied most of the waking hours of its working men, was rarely felt. That they enjoyed their stout, and occasionally partook of more than their wives might have wished, belied the fact that these were good men, devoted to family, church, and the friendships that bound their community together. Nearly to a man, in spite of conflicting religious affiliation, most would have given their lives for any other. They would indisputably have bound together in common cause against any foe, no matter what the odds, whether real or imaginary.
If the Celtic blood of their ancestors had inbred a troublesome flaw into their collective nature beyond an occasional hot temper, it was an affinity for the bizarre, the paranormal, and the occult. Their religion, whether Catholic, Anglican, or Protestant, was so laced with superstition as in some respects to be scarcely distinguishable from the paganism of its ancient origins. The staid memberships of both Catholic and Church of England houses of worship, along with those of the more enthusiastically minded Methodist chapel, could all have quoted chapter and verse from the lexicons of doctrine that had been drilled into them from their infancies why the other two were false expressions of Christianity and theirs the true.
In actual fact, however, all three tended to see God as an almighty magician and shaman, rather than as the loving Creator-Father of humankind. Ritual, doctrinal legalism, and the idea of vicarious sacrifice passed down from humankind’s prehistoric ancestors remained the pivotal elements of their creed, not obedience to the commands of the Creator-Son nor the sacrifice of self-will He exampled.
This grotesque intermingling of the Christian gospel with medieval druidism presented a particularly frustrating challenge to the truth-loving ministers and priests who came among them through the years. Sadly, it also provided a singular opportunity toward manipulation and mind control for those pulpiteers of less honorable repute.
As if in visible manifestation of this occult religiosity that existed in the very air of the place, a small house constructed mostly of wood, whitewashed on its exterior, stood near the heart of the village. It had been built at the intersection of two narrow lanes—out of the way of most foot traffic and carefully avoided by those whose routes took them in proximity to it. The very architecture of the dwelling bespoke mischief if not outright devilry behind its weirdly appointed and colored exterior. A steep-slanted roof was accented by curious ornamentation at the four corners and with a spooky weather vane atop it. The purple paint on doors and window frames and an assortment of statues about the garden, including trolls, fairies, goblins, and a miscellany of bizarre figures and gargoyles, all indicated dubious if not outright evil intent.
The scrupulously avoided dwelling might easily have been a dwarf’s cottage from some fairy tale transplanted out of the depths of Germany’s Black Forest. How it came to be here, in this Welsh village where gray stone predominated, no one knew. That it predated by half a century or more its present occupant was certain. Yet almost by seeming preternatural contrivance of the gods, or of powers from more subterranean regions, the place had apparently been perfectly designed for its present mistress, even though she had been in Llanfryniog only a dozen or so years.
A small wood sign above the door, ornate with Celtic symbolism, snakes, contorted animal shapes, and leering faces, read: MADAME FLEMING, PSYCHIC—FORTUNES AND FUTURES FORETOLD.
None in the village knew why the enigmatic “Madame Fleming” had chosen this coastal village to set up her shop of doubtful wares or where she had come from. No one for a moment thought the name on the sign her real name. She was rarely seen. When she did chance to be about—with long flowing dresses of bright colors, sashes and scarves and kerchiefs of reds and pinks and oranges and purples about the head, and gaudy jewelry dangling from ears and neck and wrists—there was no mistaking her. Rumors abounded about the woman’s age. These ranged from fifty to one hundred and five.
How she supported herself was an equal mystery. About this, even more rumors were part and parcel of the undercurrent of talk that circulated among the women of the place. Ideas were as far reaching as that she possessed independent wealth, to the existence of a dead husband of means, to her being “kept” by the viscount with whom she shared a secret he could not afford to come out.
If Madame Fleming, so called, had not come of gypsy origins in Bohemia or Bulgaria, she certainly looked the part. Except that gypsies, as associated as they were with sorcery and clairvoyancy, did not generally stay so long in one place, pay their bills, and establish themselves in communities it was their intent to fleece. That the woman had been here for so long and that no charge of misconduct or failure to meet her obligations could be laid at her doorstep argued for other antecedents, perhaps halfway reputable, than of gypsy tradition.
Neither man nor woman, neither miner nor fisherman, neither lord nor lady nor commoner was ever seen coming or going from her establishment. Yet she remained a distinct presence in the midst of the town and always paid baker and butcher in cash. The whole thing was an enduring mystery.
A private door opening into a dark and narrow lane leading away from the central district of Llanfryniog afforded ample means for further gossip. That it was never locked, and its hinges kept well-oiled for reasons of silence and secrecy, added credence to the rumors, despite all appearances, that she actually had paying customers. Some of them were said to be regular, including those who sought consultation from as far away as Chester. But there were also said to be some among the local populace who walked to and from her back door unseen from their own homes less than five minutes away.
At this time of night, with summer nightfall descending, though an occasional clandestine caller might extend his or her hand in the light of a flickering candle to have its lines read by the shadowy Madame Fleming, it was Mistress Chattan’s establishment on the main street that was doing the brisker trade.
By this time, the two young riders had returned to the mansion up the hill that was their home and were concluding an uneventful dinner in the dining room of Westbrooke Manor with father and mother, Lord and Lady Snowdon, the viscount Roderick and his wife, Katherine.
EIGHT
Ale and Information
The evening wore on. Dusk deepened.
One by one the miners, having had what drink they could afford, left the inn for their wives, potatoes, tea, and, if they were fortunate, children who loved them and appreciated their hard work to put what meager provision they could on their tables each night.
A scruffy man probably in his fifties, although with features hard and difficult to assess, cast a look about the deserted street of Llanfryniog then walked into Mistress Chattan’s inn. He was not a man who even had a place to go. He had left home at fifteen and never returned. He had not seen his father nor mother again. If he regretted his prodigality, he had never admitted that fact.
It takes humility to face the regrets of life honestly, and this was a man who had not yet become acquainted with the eternal imperative of humility. When he had had enough of the seafaring life, he had betaken himself to a career in subterfuge and charlatanry—turning whatever information came his way, or that he could coerce out of others whether willing or unwilling, into profit to himself. His methods had become more ruthless through the years, as befit the atrophy of whatever conscience he once may have possessed. He was a man better avoided.
He walked inside and quietly took in the two or three men seated at one of the tables. He walked slowly across the floor and found a chair at the far end of the room. His business would keep until they were gone.
An aproned woman approached, large though her step was soft. Hair graying slightly, her face showed weariness from the long day. She was, however, always eager to oblige a new customer.
The man glanced toward her.
“It’s not a room you’ll be wanting, I’m thinking?” said the woman
.
“Just your darkest ale,” replied her visitor.
She turned away. A minute later she returned with a tankard.
The man began to sip slowly and in silence.
One by one the other men rose. With a few final words to the proprietress, they gradually wandered out.
At last the stranger and Mistress Chattan were left alone.
“Another ale, if you please, my good woman,” he said.
She brought it.
He tossed a half-crown coin on the table. It jingled in a circular motion until it fell silent.
Mistress Chattan scooped it into her fleshy palm. “I will bring you back what’s due you,” she said.
“Keep it,” said the man. “There’ll be another to add to it if you can provide me with a small piece of information.”
Mistress Chattan’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. In her business, where talk was cheap and where the liquid inventory of her stock-in-trade tended to loosen tongues, she had come by more than her share of secrets. Some were harmless; some not so. That it was in the nature of her position to occupy the occasional rôle of confidante was in truth one of the perquisites of her profession. Over the years she had, by subtle art, by attentive ear, and by skillfully placed sympathetic comment, gained much information that might be useful to possess.
Indeed, Mistress Chattan knew far more about Llanfryniog’s people than they had any idea. She possessed two or three juicy secrets concerning which she was biding her time until some profitable opportunity presented itself. At such time, she would either divulge what she knew or, if the price was right in the opposite direction, vow on a Bible, which meant nothing to her, to keep silent forever.
Giving away information, however, was another matter. She was a woman who knew how to guard her tongue. But as the man had rightly surmised, what she might or might not know could be had … for a price.
“Make it a gold sovereign,” she replied after a moment. “If it lays in my power, I will tell you what I know.”
“You are a shrewd one, if not a shrew.”
“If you think to hurl insults at an honest woman, you best keep a civil tongue in your mouth,” she spat. “One more such word and you’ll get nothing from me.”
“Tut, tut, lady, I was paying you a compliment. I shall give you your pound and one, then. It’s easy money for you. All I want to know is where to find an old man by the name of Drindod.”
“There’s Drindods and there’s Drindods,” she replied cryptically.
“Toy with me and you’ll lose your sovereign.”
“There’s at least six Drindods within a mile of my door. Another ten within five.”
“This one’s called Sean Drindod.”
Mistress Chattan took in the information without divulging her chagrin. She did not like the look in this fellow’s eye. Nor did she know where the old man could be found. She had heard the name. But she knew nothing more. And she had no doubt that this man would come back and slit her throat if she played him false.
“You can keep your sovereign,” she said reluctantly. “If you want to know where old Sean Drindod is, you’ll not hear it from my lips. But for what remains of the half crown, I will tell you of one in town who knows things. For a sovereign she will tell you what she knows.”
“How do I find her?”
The stranger to Llanfryniog left Mistress Chattan’s inn a few minutes later and sought the dark lane. Through quiet hinges no one heard, he was led into a secluded parlor. There a candle and incense burned in the gathering darkness.
The low conversation that followed between the stranger and the clairvoyant proved satisfactory to both parties of the exchange.
NINE
Drastic Measures
A Glaswegian man and his wife sat silently at a well-appointed supper table. A third place setting had been prepared. The chair before it was empty. They had waited until dark but had finally gone ahead with the meal. Every swallow, however, was made difficult by the concern visible in their eyes and by the ache eating at both their hearts.
It was not the first time the two had eaten late and alone. Yet upon every successive occasion of their son’s absence, deeper anxieties arose concerning what might be the cause.
The house in whose dining room they sat was of obvious culture and refinement. The man’s study upstairs, though lined with bookshelves, was sufficient to contain but half the volumes in his possession. Books spilled into most of the other rooms of the house, including this. On an ornate sideboard sat a handsome silver tea service. Furnishings everywhere bespoke wealth.
All such comforts, however, this man and woman of God would have traded in a heartbeat in exchange for the opening of the eyes of him for whom both now silently prayed.
Their affluence had been sought by neither. It was the mere result of the circumstances in which they found themselves.
The man’s father was an earl. Though the title would not pass down at his death, he had already split most of what remained of his fortune, after what he had given away, between his son and daughter, keeping only enough for him and his wife to continue the missionary endeavors to which they had devoted their latter years.
In truth, the earl’s son and his wife possessed a healthy fear of the balance of their account in the Clydesdale Bank. Unlike most couples of means, they took no pride in it nor based a moment’s security upon it. The unusual man and woman regarded their wealth as a holy possession, not theirs at all but rather a stewardship that had been placed in their hands. It was not theirs to spend but rather to administer by prudence, prayer, and wisdom. They were of that exceptional breed in the spiritual realm, rare but thankfully not extinct any more in their own time than such were in the Lord’s, though as infrequently found in society at large as in its churches—a humble and unpretentious man and woman of wealth.
“Where can he be, Edward?” said the woman finally. The question came from her mouth in scarcely more than a whisper. Either words or tears must at last burst from her mother’s heart. For the moment she preferred the former.
Her husband shook his head. The only possible response was a pregnant sigh born of anguish too deep to find expression.
Nothing more was said. They continued to eat sparingly.
Their silence was interrupted fifteen minutes later by a knock on the parsonage door.
At the sound, the woman’s hand unconsciously clutched at her heart.
The man rose quickly and strode from the dining room to the front door. He opened it and saw a policeman standing on the porch.
“I’m sorry tae be disturbin’ ye, reverend, sir,” said the transplanted native of Inverness who had come south years before and now wore the blue of a Glasgow bobby. “I’m afraid I found yer laddie up tae nae good again.”
Beside him, with the large highlander’s grasp firmly around the boy’s bicep like a vise, stood the young thief. The expression of profound vexation on his face could not have been less indicative of repentance.
The vicar glanced at his son. His expression betrayed nothing. But his heart ached within him.
Behind him his wife approached. It was all she could do to avoid tears. She knew they would only make her son despise her the more.
“Thank you, Constable Forbes,” said the vicar. “We are greatly indebted to you.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Drummond,” added the policeman in an apologetic tone, “this will be the last time I’ll be able tae bring the lad home tae ye this way. The next time, sir, it will be the tollbooth for him, even if he is but a lad.”
“I understand.”
“And there will be a bill comin’ for tonight’s damage.”
“I understand, constable. Thank you very much. We will take him now.” The vicar stepped forward, took his son by the arm, led him inside, and closed the door.
“Percy, why do you do these things?” said the vicar’s wife once they were inside. Her voice was soft, though urgent. At last she could hold in her emotion no lon
ger. She looked away and began to weep.
The boy struggled to free himself from his father’s grip, but the man’s quiet wrath was smoldering. He had finally had enough of his son’s foolish antics. All fathers, no matter how long-suffering, how loving, how patient, have their limits. Vicar Edward Drummond’s had finally been crossed. “Answer your mother!” he said angrily. He shoved the boy down in a chair and stood towering above him.
His son shrugged his shoulders. “I like to,” he said insolently. “I enjoy outwitting the stupid policemen. I would have gotten away tonight if I hadn’t stumbled, and if there hadn’t been two of them.”
“It’s a game to you, is that it?”
“Of course it’s a game. What else would it be?”
“How can you ask that after all we’ve taught you … all we’ve given you?” said Mrs. Drummond, bursting into sobs as she collapsed in a couch across the room.
“It is pointless to argue,” said the vicar. “I don’t know what evil spirit has overtaken you, or why. I do know this,” he added in a tone of greater finality and resolution than his son had ever heard, “we will have no more incidents like this evening’s.”
The youth glanced up briefly then away. His father’s words jolted him out of his testy nonchalance. They sounded eerily like a threat.
“I will not rescue you from your own folly again,” the vicar went on. “If you persist, you shall find yourself in jail like Constable Forbes said. If it comes to that, I will not bail you out. Is that understood?”
The sixteen-year-old son sat sulking. He realized he had pushed his father too far. He had never heard such a voice of command. His father rarely became angry. It was obvious he had aroused something more dangerous than mere anger. That was righteous indignation.
One of his father’s favorite sayings from the Bible was, “Let your yea be yea; and your nay, nay.” His father was not merely a man of his word. He made no idle promises—or threats. What he said he would do, he would do.
From Across the Ancient Waters Page 4