The Anagram

by Russell French

  The Anagram

  Book 1 of Goblinquest

  Russell French

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  © 2012 by Russell French (Real name John Michael Poole Russan). All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First published by AuthorHouse 12/23/2011

  ISBN: 978-1-4678-8182-1 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4678-8183-8 (ebk)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Author’s Note: Lovely though it would be to settle down in front of the fire at “The Gnome’s Head”, that will not alas be possible. All the public houses, guesthouses and private houses in this story are figments of my imagination and do not exist in reality. Similarly, all the main characters are fictional: any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

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  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  45

  For grandfathers and grandsons

  Maximus: (to Proximo) Are you in danger of becoming a good man?

  [ from Gladiator (2000)—dir Ridley Scott]

  1

  October 2007. There weren’t many people at Seth Cadwallader’s funeral. Bitterly cold Atlantic winds, which had blown across Ireland and the Irish Sea, lashed the small weather-beaten churchyard in a little coastal village just north of Aberystwyth. Out at sea, white horses toyed with the few sturdy craft brave enough to be there, tossed as they were like drunken corks at the whim of a casual giant. Horizontal bolts of rain peppered the faces of the mourners clustered round the coffin as they sought comfort under their puny umbrellas and inadequate coats, although these offered precious little protection against the might of the elements. A lone crow, safe in the haven of a large oak tree, cawed harshly and unsympathetically, providing further gloom to the already dismally melancholy atmosphere. And to add to that, Seth himself had not been the most genial of men—tall, gaunt and grumpy, he had lived as a virtual recluse in the big old house at the top of the village since time immemorial, not seeking friendship nor expecting any in return. For many years he had been a brooding presence in and around the village, where many people regarded him with a mixture of apprehension and suspicion. There was even talk of some kind of magical power; whether good or bad was not clear. He had about him an other-worldly aura that precluded casual conversation or flippant remarks and most village residents would simply nod a greeting when meeting him out and about and pass on hurriedly. Now that he was dead, people preferred to breathe a sigh of relief and leave him to his fate.

  But those who had penetrated the forbidding façade and knew the old man for what he really was were there. John Phillips, stocky, balding landlord of “The Gnome’s Head” and Seth’s closest friend, stood hatless in dignified silence with his daughter Megan, eighteen years old and on the threshold of adult beauty, her dark locks flowing uncontrolled in the hostile gusts of wind. Rhiannon Beavon, Mrs B to all who knew her, could not prevent the tears from flowing. As housekeeper to the old boy, she had looked after him and cared for him for as long as anyone could remember. She grasped the sleeve of her husband David, “Beavon Jobs” as the village now called him, an ex-miner whose gammy leg limited him in his retirement to doing odd jobs around the place, including that of gravedigger and general purveyor of village information. Next to them was John Evans, a languages teacher at a local comprehensive school, who lived in the village with his wife Sarah and their two teenage sons Ben and Dan, and who had been able to befriend Seth over the last few years. He wore a hefty raincoat, under which the dark blue tweed jacket and accompanying trademark leather patches were testament to his occupation, as was the red biro peeping out incongruously from one of the pockets. He had at least managed to find a black tie. An elderly gentleman, hunched up against the cold and leaning on a walking-stick, was in whispered conversation with a tall young man struggling to hold an umbrella over him, his grandson Darren. Although in his mid-seventies and fragile-looking, the old gentleman had a fine mop of snow-white hair and shrewd bright eyes. His stylish greatcoat and Russian hat suggested a person of substance and indeed he was, for this is Mr Noel Lyttle, senior partner in the legal firm of Lyttle, Senior and Ealham, and for many years Seth’s legal adviser. He had actually been retired for the last ten years, but still handled Seth’s affairs, at the old man’s request. More than one village tongue was wagging as to the contents of the will—how much money had he left, would the boy get it all and what about Mrs. B’s house, which was tied to the job? Would she be cast out into the street? “Miserable old bugger, probably left it all to a cats’ home!” Such unflattering comments reflected the low esteem in which old Seth was held by many in the village. What is not understood creates fear and stifles the desire for knowledge.

  The “boy” in question stood at the top of the grave, alone. Gareth Barry-John Llewellyn, son of Seth’s only child Gwyneth, was, as far as was known, Seth’s only living relative. For many years it had been thought that he had been killed in the plane crash that consumed his parents in 1979. He himself would have been barely a few weeks old at the time. Then he had mysteriously re-appeared about seven years ago and had been welcomed by Seth with open arms. Not many knew the circumstances of his return and those that did weren’t saying, but of course the rumour-mill went into overdrive. “Only here for the money” “Should have a DNA test” “Tisn’t really him, he’s been dead twenty years, like” “Just like that book by Josephine Tey in the forties or fifties, what was it called: Brat Farrar?” “No good ’ll come of it, you mark my words, see!”

  Gareth had the tall lean build of his grandfather and the same deep brown penetrating eyes. There was a silent intensity about him that some found off-putting, which might explain his current inability to maintain a relationship for any length of time with the opposite sex. He also had a fading but still clearly-visible scar running pretty straight from the corner of his left eye down to the edge of his mouth, which gave his face a rather sinister and slightly lop-sided l
ook. Twenty-eight years old, a Cambridge law graduate now making a name for himself with a legal firm in the City and with money in his pocket, he should have been at the peak of his pulling-power, but… . he wasn’t. Deep in the eyes, however, for those who got close enough to see, there was a hint of compassion. Conservative in his appearance and tastes, though certainly not his politics, Gareth was always looking for a similar spark in other people. As he rarely found it, he was very reluctant to commit to any kind of lasting relationship. He stood alone in his black suit and tie and his crisp white shirt, lovingly ironed for him by Mrs. B, and remained quiet and pensive.

  Lost as he was in his thoughts, Gareth was vaguely aware of the celebrant coming to the end of the ritual. “For as much as it has pleased Almighty God . . . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . . .” “Our father . . .” Gareth muttered the famous old words instinctively and without conviction. “And the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen”. The response was muttered with a mixture of embarrassment from people not used to praying aloud and relief that it was over, not a strong, determined acclamation of faith, but rather two grunted syllables scattered and lost forever like tiny pieces of paper in the howling gale. Nobody likes funerals, do they, particularly outside in the cold and the wet. Of course, Seth had not been a conventionally religious man but it was thought some kind of Christian burial might be appropriate, although Gareth had insisted on using the Book of Common Prayer’s version of the funeral service, much to the minister’s distaste. However, it was that or nothing, so common sense had won the day. Now it was done.

  “Would you like to do the honours, Gareth?” The young man found himself being passed a spade by the minister, a small round-headed bald man with several chins and very thick-lensed glasses. The vicious raindrops bounced mercilessly off his hairless pate.

  “Oh yes, sorry!” Gareth took the battered shovel and automatically threw the first clump of dank muddy soil on to the coffin. “Sorry I didn’t get to know you better, Grandpa” he said, half-aloud, half to himself, before passing the spade on to Dai Beavon and turning slowly away from the grave. Not much was said, condolences having already been expressed privately by those present. One or two villagers, lured by the prospect of a free drink afterwards, were hanging around by the graveside, notably Hywel Evans and Bernie Williams. It’s amazing what some people will put themselves through, if they think there’s a freebie on offer.

  “Off to the Gnome now, then, is it?” Hywel piped up cheerfully, not one to be an acute observer of circumstances.

  “I don’t remember you being invited, Hywel Evans,” said John Phillips irascibly. The pub landlord was not an approver of hangers-on, particularly when they tried to scrounge free drinks from his patrons.

  “It’s ok, John” said Gareth quietly, “they can all come.”

  “If you say so, Gareth bach”. It’s your money.”

  The biting winds continue to howl and the slashing rain buffeted the mourners as they left. Their duty had been fulfilled and Seth had been given a half-decent send-off, whatever his own personal beliefs. So the matter was now done and dusted and the general hope was that the village, and Gareth in particular, would be able to move on.

  Those making their way out of the churchyard might have observed, had they taken the trouble to do so, a small black form with a long nose looking out at them from the yew trees above the graves. He turned slowly away as the funeral party made towards the road and wiping a tear from his eye, gathered his cloak even further round himself and sloped off mournfully into the gathering gloom, taking care not to reveal his presence. Gareth, though, caught a movement in the corner of his eye and looked uncertainly towards the trees. He was sure there was somebody there, but as far as he could tell there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. “Must have been the wind” he thought and trudged on away from his grandfather’s grave, leaving behind the heavy atmosphere of death and decay to return to the brittleness and uncertainty of the living world. The crow cawed mockingly again as the mourners filed in a hunched procession through the little iron gate and down the road towards the pub.

  2

  “The Gnome’s Head” could trace its history back over 400 years but, as is often the way with these things, nobody was quite sure why the pub was so called. Some said that there had once been a gnome in residence there and ascribed various magical powers to him, inevitably embellished with the passage of time. Others would have nothing to do with such blatant nonsense, pointing out that it was probably a corruption of “The Norman’s Head” and cited as proof the plethora of Norman castles that still existed along the Welsh coast. “All Edward I’s fault”, one or two were heard to mutter down the passage of the years, although that statement alone proved absolutely nothing at all. A third group, including significantly John Phillips himself, were content to say that the original reasons for name of the pub had disappeared into the sands of time and were happy to leave it at that.

  Suffice it to say that “The Gnome’s Head” still in its original half-timbered state, although with later additions, is a small but extremely comfortable hostelry. The recently-painted black beams contrasted cheerfully with the freshly-whitewashed walls, even in this evil weather. John’s wife Bernice, left to hold the fort, had made sure that the log fire in the lounge was in full spate when the funeral party arrived. Bernice scrutinised the mourners as they staggered in, cold and bedraggled, stomping their feet and doing their best to revive themselves as swiftly as possible. Fortunately, the comfortable, warm atmosphere in the front room of the pub contrasted very favourably with the drenchingly unpleasant conditions outside and the humour of the new arrivals was soon much improved, particularly as the promised free alcohol quickly started making an appearance. Coats were quickly shed and vantage-points sought.

  “Bit posh for you in here, Hywel Evans, isn’t it?” the lady of the house barked sharply as the young layabout and his mate ambled in rather self-consciously. “Shouldn’t you be in the Public?”

  “Invited, aren’t I?” the boy smirked as he nodded in Gareth’s direction and struggled out of his grubby anorak.

  “Hmm” Bernice snorted, “too good to you, he is. You needn’t think you’re getting tanked up in here for nothing and that’s a fact!” She shared her husband’s lack of empathy with the young man.

  Gareth turned. “Let him be, Bernice. It’s a special day today. Everybody’s welcome.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be encouraging him, Master Gareth, and that’s a fact too”. Gareth was known to have given money to Hywel and his mates on occasion, much to the disapproval of the village elders.

  Bernice snorted in disgust as she handed over two foaming glasses of ale, wiped her hands on her apron and vanished huffily into the sanctuary of the kitchen. John and Megan also disappeared behind the bar and to the kitchen respectively, while the others settled into comfy armchairs around the fire. John quickly took over the dispensing duties—further pints of the local brew were handed round, although Mrs. B contented herself with a small sherry and Darren, reluctantly, had to settle for Diet Coke.

  “I’m quite sure one wouldn’t do any harm, Gramps,” he pleaded rather desperately.

  “Nonsense, my boy” said Mr Lyttle breezily. “And you studying law. You should know better than that—no drinking and driving!”

  Darren’s lugubrious features lit up when he caught a full view of Megan’s face for the first time—and why not? She was a good-looking girl, our Megan.

  “I know you,” he exclaimed. “Aren’t you at Uni in Aber?”

  “Yes I’ve just started this term. Doing music—and you?”

  “I’m in my third year doing Law. Where have I seen you before? Oh yes, I know now. Uni Choral Society—you’re a member, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at rehearsals for The Creation.”

  “Yes, I am. I thought I recognised you, too. I don’t have any lecture
s on a Friday afternoon, so I came back to pay my respects to Seth and to help Mum and Dad after.”

  “Me too. Got roped in to chauffeuring the old boy around. Means I can’t have a drink, though. Tell you what, we could go for a drink after rehearsal on Monday. That pub just down the road’s quite nice.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Megan replied, before smiling coyly and saying “I’d better go”, having been summoned from the kitchen.

  Bernice, Megan and a couple of other girls soon appeared again with plates piled high with chicken legs, various types of sandwich, sausage rolls, pork pie and sundry other delicacies—just about everything you would expect to see in a top-notch buffet.

  “Seth would not have wanted people to go hungry” said Gareth, in a mixture of pride and sadness.

  “Oh I don’t know” said Hywel, rather unwisely. “Miserable old skinflint, he was. Wouldn’t give me any money when I asked him for some.” Once again, the young lad revealed his innate ability to open his mouth and plonk his size ten boot right in it.

  “You watch your mouth, young Hywel” said John testily. “If you’re going to speak ill of the dead, you can leave now.”

  “I think it would rather depend on how you asked him”. John Evans spoke up rather surprisingly. Schoolteachers are known for voicing their thoughts loudly and aggressively over a few drinks, but John Evans was not one such, preferring to hold his peace until he had a worthwhile contribution to make. “He helped me out financially without my having to ask him.” He tugged at his black tie rather nervously as he volunteered this information.

  “Oh really. Lucky you then, teacher man. And ’ow come you’re here anyway. Bagged a day off school, is it?” Hywel looked quite pleased with his cutting remark.

  “Well, actually, end of October, it’s half-term” said John quietly. “Boys are with their Gran in Cardiff. Sarah couldn’t get anyone to swap shifts with her, or she would have been here too. The Health Service has much improved over the last ten years but senior ward sisters are still in short supply. I would have come anyway, though,” he added thoughtfully.