Treasure of the Celtic Triangle

by Michael Phillips

  “I have it here,” said Percy. He rose and handed Murray the folded papers.

  Murray took them and read it in silence, nodding a few times as he did so. “Very interesting,” he said when he had completed it. “Of course, it might have been advantageous had Roderick shared this with me. But I think we all understand his reasons for handling it as he did. A document such as this, in and of itself, would have little standing in a court of law. However, as supplemental evidence, especially if its facts can be confirmed elsewhere, by parish records of the marriage and births in question, there would be a strong case to be made to substantiate Miss Barrie as the viscount’s heir—that is, of course, if her maternity and her mother’s paternity can be likewise substantiated.”

  “Tell him what you found in Ireland, Percy,” said Katherine.

  Percy recounted the details of his two visits to Ireland, what he had seen in the parish record books, and his talk with Mrs. Maloney, Gwyneth’s aunt, along with the details both of Morvern’s birth and Gwyneth’s.

  Murray listened attentively, taking notes and occasionally asking questions. “Even with all his,” he said when Percy was through, “I fear that in the hands of a capable, and perhaps unscrupulous, barrister, the case could be troublesome in court. Without the mother—I’m sorry, Miss Barrie,” he added, turning to Gwyneth, “without your mother … or some substantiating record or testimony, we really have no absolute proof that you are Morvern Westbrooke’s … a.k.a. Morvern O’Sullivan’s daughter. And according to what you say, Mr. Drummond, about the nature of the birth and the superstitions voiced by the aunt’s husband, it is probable that the birth was never entered in the parish register. At least you never saw it, isn’t that correct?”

  Percy nodded. “What do you mean by a substantiating testimony?” he asked.

  “An eyewitness who could absolutely establish that Miss Barrie is in fact Lord Snowdon’s granddaughter by his daughter Morvern, known as Morvern O’Sullivan—someone other than Miss Barrie’s father or aunt.”

  “There was a midwife who attended the birth,” said Percy. “They were all afraid of her, but she—” He stopped in midsentence as his eyes shot open.

  Suddenly Mrs. Maloney’s words came back into his brain with forceful clarity—“She claimed to be able to see into the future … always wore purple … horrid earrings of snakes and ugly creatures … purple, purple, purple!”

  The next moment he was out of his chair and rushing toward the door. “This may mean nothing,” he said, “but there is someone in town I must see immediately. Steven, would you mind helping me hitch up the small buggy?”

  The two young men ran from the room, leaving the others staring after them in bewilderment.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  The Fleming

  On this day Percy did not care who saw him or knew whom he had come into Llanfryniog to visit. He tied the horse to the iron post on the street. Moments later he was jingling the brass bell on Madame Fleming’s front door.

  Several seconds later the door opened. The face that appeared was older and more wrinkled even than Percy had expected. She did not seem surprised as she cast a brief glance behind him. “So you’re alone this time, are you, Mr. Drummond,” said Madame Fleming.

  “That’s right,” said Percy abruptly. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Come in, come in. How can Madame Fleming be of service to you?” said the woman, leading Percy into her lair and closing the door behind him. Several candles burned inside, casting shadows upon the shelves and chairs and statues and tapestries and paintings with which the place was furnished. The bookshelf still stood against the far wall. The air was stifling with incense mingled with unpleasant odors of a more personal nature. The woman was dressed in several layers of thin, flowing purple material, her head wrapped in an orange scarf wound several times around a head mostly of gray that fell loosely over her shoulders. From her ears dangled two silver snakes. “You’ve had some reversals in love, I understand,” she said as she waddled into the interior. “Come to see what your future holds, have you?”

  “It’s not my future I’m here to talk about,” said Percy, “but yours … and your past.” He stopped and stood in the middle of the crowded, dimly lit room.

  The words jolted Madame Fleming, though she did not allow her reaction to show. She continued toward the small anteroom where she conducted her fortune-telling art until she realized Percy was not following her. She stopped and turned. “Come, young Drummond—come into my den where we may sit. I will look at your hand with the aid of my crystals and—”

  “I have no intention of letting you look at my hand or any other part of me,” said Percy. “I shall stay right here, and you shall answer my questions. I want to know where you came from before you arrived in Llanfryniog.”

  “Madame Fleming divulges nothing of her—”

  “I want to know,” interrupted Percy. “And you can stop the fake accent. You are no more Bulgarian than I am. Perhaps I should be more direct and simply ask if you came from Ireland … Mrs. Faoiltiarna?”

  Even in the dim light, Percy saw the word hit her like a physical blow. Slowly she tottered on wobbly knees like a tree about to fall then staggered to a chair and sat down. “Where did you hear that name?” she said.

  “It is my business where I heard it,” replied Percy. “I see that you know it. You must know, too, that if those who know what you are and have cause against you … if they were to discover where you have been hiding all these years, it might not bode well for you.”

  Quickly Madame Fleming recovered herself. Her eyes flashed with anger. “It was all lies!” she spat. “What do my affairs have to do with you, young Drummond? Take care that you do not anger me, or evil may come to you when you least—”

  “Don’t threaten me with your mumbo jumbo,” interrupted Percy. “You may be able to pull off your charade as a psychic with superstitious old men and women, but it will not work with me. Your threats mean nothing. I know that you practiced as a midwife in eastern Ireland before escaping with your life under threat of witchcraft. Unless you tell me what I want to know, I will expose you as a deceiver and fraud. I will contact the authorities in Arklow, informing them of your whereabouts. I think you know that the religious climate in Wales would not be friendly to the knowledge that witchcraft was being practiced in its midst.”

  A vile string of imprecations exploded from Madame Fleming’s mouth.

  “Guard your tongue!” shouted Percy. “Threaten or curse me again, and I will walk out of here and broadcast what I know. Now calm yourself. I have questions to ask, and I want answers. If you cooperate, I will promise to keep your secrets.”

  Thirty minutes later, Percy and Madame Fleming left the latter’s house together. If either had qualms about being seen with the other, they did not show it. The proprietress of Madame Fleming, Ltd. was notably subdued from the interview recently concluded. But inside her dark soul, the fires of fury still burned hot.

  They climbed into the buggy where it stood on the street. The springs groaned and tipped under the bulk of Llanfryniog’s colorful seer. Percy sat down beside her, flipped the reins, and they bounded off. What those curious eyes who saw them might have thought would have been interesting to inquire.

  It would have made an even more interesting inquiry to know what the erstwhile Mrs. Faoiltiarna, alias the Wolf Lady, alias Madame Fleming, thought to find herself gazing up at the stone walls of Westbrooke Manor as they rode toward it and, a few minutes later, being led toward its front door. What the manor residents and staff thought as word gradually spread concerning whom Percy had brought into their midst might have been yet more interesting to know.

  Percy led her through the front doors. “Wait here,” he said when they were inside. He disappeared up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

  The others were still gathered in the sitting room, having tea and waiting for him.

  “Mr. Murray, I have with me,” he began as al
l eyes turned toward him, “a woman who can, I believe, provide you the testimony you speak of. She is waiting downstairs.”

  “Who can that be?” asked Katherine.

  “It is a long story, Aunt Katherine,” replied Percy. “I heard about her when I was in Ireland. All the pieces did not fit together until we were talking a short while ago. Suddenly the light dawned, and I realized that the very woman who might hold the clues to prove Gwyneth’s identity had left Ireland, changed her identity, and had been in Llanfryniog all along. She is not someone I would normally trust. However, Mr. Murray, that I know her former identity, I believe, gives us sufficient power over her that she will tell the truth. If you question her and take down her statement, along with Uncle Roderick’s affidavit and the parish records … hopefully you will have enough documentation to meet Courtenay’s challenge.”

  “Then let us see what the woman has to say,” said Murray. “Lady Katherine, if you would provide me a room where I can interview the woman in private, I shall see what I can learn.”

  “I want to hear everything, too!” said Florilyn.

  “I promised her confidentiality,” said Percy. “She has a past she is anxious not be known. That I figured it out makes her hate me. But I promised not to tell her secrets if she would give Mr. Murray a full statement of the facts of Gwyneth’s birth. We must let her speak with him alone.”

  “I will need a third party to witness to the attestation to insure its legality,” said Murray. “You are of age, Mr. Drummond, and not directly related by blood to any of the principles involved. It would seem that you are the likely candidate.”

  Percy hesitated a moment. “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “But I would prefer that Steven also be present, either as the primary witness or you can use both of us if you prefer. He has nothing to gain, and it could be argued that I do.”

  “A wise observation, Mr. Drummond,” nodded Murray. “Two witnesses will be better than one.”

  Five minutes later, Percy showed Madame Fleming into a small office on the first floor that had several chairs and a writing table. He introduced her to Hamilton Murray then himself took a chair beside where Steven already sat across the room.

  Madame Fleming sat down in one of the chairs while Murray took his place at the desk. With pen in hand, he wrote down a few preliminary remarks of time, date, place, and the names of Steven and Percy and himself as witnesses. Then he looked up at Madame Fleming. “Please tell me your name, for the record,” he said.

  The name she gave was neither of the names by which Percy knew her.

  “Now tell me, please, in as much detail as possible, what you know of the parentage and birth of the young woman known as Gwyneth Barrie.”

  Madame Fleming cast a brief glance of wrath in Percy’s direction, still incensed that another was capable of exerting power over her. “I was for many years a midwife in Arklow, on the eastern coast of Ireland,” she began, almost as through clenched teeth. “A time came when I was called upon by a certain lady of the name Maighdlin O’Sullivan. Her granddaughter had been raised by her and had recently married and was with child. She employed me for the birthing.”

  “What was the granddaughter’s name?” asked Murray.

  “Morvern … Morvern O’Sullivan. That was the name Mrs. O’Sullivan gave me.”

  “Do you know the names of her parents?”

  “No. They were either dead or gone, I don’t know. She was raised by Mrs. O’Sullivan.”

  “And she was now married and expecting?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her husband’s name?”

  “Barrie … Codnor Barrie.”

  “So the expectant mother’s married name was actually Morvern Barrie?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And then?”

  “The time for the birthing came. I delivered the baby—a girl.”

  “Did they name the child immediately?”

  “They did.”

  “What name did they give her?”

  “Gwyneth.”

  “Was there anything unique or distinctive about the birth?”

  “Nothing. The child was healthy, the mother was healthy. Only, the baby was born with pure white hair, not the red hair of the mother and, as I understand it, the grandmother as well. The mother’s uncle—an irrational man of violent temper—threatened me on account of it. He said that I had brought a curse on the family and the white hair proved it. After that, because of him, my life was in danger. I left Ireland and came to Wales and changed my name.”

  Murray nodded and looked over his transcription of the conversation.

  “Did you ever see any of them again?” he asked.

  “The man Barrie and his daughter, of course,” replied Madame Fleming. “It wasn’t long after I arrived in Llanfryniog that he came here himself. I had had no idea that he was Welsh. One day I saw him in the village, and I knew in an instant who he was. I had my own reasons for not wanting him to recognize me. But I soon learned that he had come to Wales with the child. When I saw her for myself, even though it was from a distance when Mrs. Myfanawy was caring for her, I recognized her in an instant. There was no mistaking that hair. What the man and his girl were doing in Llanfryniog, I hadn’t an idea. I later heard that the mother, the girl called Morvern, had died and that he was a widower alone with his baby. But there’s no mistake that the child called Gwyneth Barrie was the same baby I delivered in Arklow.”

  Again Murray paused and looked over the transcript. “All right then,” he said, rising from the desk. “I believe that is all I need for now. If I should need to question you further, Mr. Drummond, I believe, knows how to contact you.”

  Again Madame Fleming shot Percy a hateful glance then lifted her ponderous bulk from the chair.

  “If you would just sign here,” said Murray, handing her the pen.

  She did so, with obvious displeasure.

  “And you as well, Mr. Muir … and Mr. Drummond.”

  Steven walked across the room, still stunned by the amazing turn of events, and also signed the paper, as did Percy.

  Finally Murray added his own signature. “With the parish records you located,” he said to Percy, “along with the viscount’s affidavit, and now this … I believe Miss Barrie’s claim to be virtually unassailable. No court will overturn it.”

  Percy escorted Madame Fleming, whose curiosity was heightened by Murray’s final words, out of the office and to the front door. They again climbed into the buggy, and he returned her to her home.

  Not a word was spoken between them.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  The Grandparents

  Courtenay’s twenty-fifth birthday came and went without fanfare. He had not been seen since Percy’s and Gwyneth’s arrival.

  It was a great relief, for the present at least, for Katherine to know that she would not be forced to depart for Glasgow in the immediate future. Several letters were dispatched to Percy’s parents, informing them of developments.

  Percy and Gwyneth planned to leave Llanfryniog for Scotland as soon as they were certain that Katherine and Florilyn would find no unexpected notices of eviction slid under their doors during the night. In thoroughly reviewing the legalities of the case, Hamilton Murray assured them that Courtenay could make no move against them. In the extremely unlikely event that he should prevail in court, if the matter went that far, it would be months, if not years, before any change would be enforced. Gradually Katherine began to breathe more easily.

  Two days after Courtenay’s birthday, Palmer Sutcliffe appeared at the manor requesting an interview with Katherine. He presented her with a legal demand for a return of £5,400 that had been paid to Courtenay, in two payments, the most recent £1,000 only two weeks previously, by Lord Litchfield as down payment for sale of one thousand acres of Westbrooke land. Katherine confessed herself completely unaware of the transaction. Be that as it may, rejoined Sutcliffe coolly, papers had been signed on behalf of the estate and a large
amount of money had changed hands. If that amount was not returned within a week, said Sutcliffe, interest at 4 percent would commence, to be added to the balance monthly, along with legal proceedings against the Westbrooke estate for fraud. Stunned by the charge, Katherine did her best to preserve her outward calm. She said that she was very sorry Lord Litchfield had not been more careful and had entered into a transaction with her son when he had no legal power to act on behalf of the estate. However, she hardly saw what she was able to do about it. She suggested he speak with the manor’s solicitor. Another consultation between Katherine and Hamilton Murray followed almost immediately.

  With their old friendship rekindled, drawn together on deeper spiritual levels by the blossoming maturity of their mutual womanhood, as well as by the fact that both had suffered at the hands of the same man, Florilyn and Rhawn saw one another nearly every day. The reciprocity of their friendship now sought more meaningful levels of communication and exchange than was possible when they were self-centered teens, for they now desired to become women of dignity and character. Gwyneth’s presence at the manor, too, drew the best out of Florilyn. Their former friendship resumed, and Rhawn could not but be drawn into it. It was not long before the three young women were the best of friends. In spite of the fact that Gwyneth was several years younger than both, the two older girls sensed her calm, soft-spoken, and mystical union with God, made all the more profound as she now entered the fullness of her womanhood. It was only natural that Florilyn and Rhawn looked to Gwyneth as the unspoken spiritual head of their threefold cord of friendship. She had been attuning herself to the subtleties of the inner voice all her life. She had learned much that still lay years in the future for them. When they prayed together, however, Gwyneth remained curiously silent. Most of her prayers were prayers of listening. What she had to say to God, she said in her heart.

  One day when Rhawn appeared at the manor to visit her friends, she wore a strange look on her face. “I have a favor to ask,” she said.

  Gwyneth and Florilyn waited.