“Bloody skiving teachers, always on bloody holiday!” Hywel, it is fair to say, had not shone at school, in spite of the efforts of his namesake John and a number of others to help him. He was not the sharpest pencil in the box and not the most energetic either. His exam results had therefore, unsurprisingly, been at best mediocre. He was still at the stage where that had been everybody’s fault but his; perhaps time and adult wisdom would allow him to see otherwise. Currently, he and his friend Bernie spent most of their time lounging idly round the village, unable and perhaps a little unwilling to find any gainful paid employment.
“You’ve never done a day’s work in your life, Hywel, man!” John Phillips joined in from behind the bar. “That’s why Seth wouldn’t give you any money. He knew he’d never have sight nor sound of it again. What about you, John? How come Seth ended up helping you? Do you mind telling us about it?”
“No, not at all,” the teacher replied. “We were talking one day in the village and he said he’d noticed that I had a couple of private pupils for extra lessons. He thought that must be very tiring on top of the job I already did. I explained that we’d made a mess of our finances when the kids were younger and I needed the money. So he said ‘Let me help you out. I’ll assist you with your debts in return for some French coaching. I may have to go to Paris soon and my francais is a little rusty.’ I was staggered, as you can imagine, but we came to an arrangement and I started giving him a few lessons.”
“What was he like to teach then, John?” asked Gareth.
“Well, let’s see, the ideal pupil, I suppose. He really wanted to learn, in spite of his advancing years. He had some basic knowledge of course but he was intellectually so inquisitive. ‘Yes, yes, but why?’ he’d say. Well, French isn’t like Latin, where there’s a logical explanation for everything. I mean, how do you explain to a sharp brain like Seth’s that the French for 99 is four-twenty-ten-nine? He’d get quite exasperated at times!”
“99? I thought that was an ice-cream” said Hywel unwisely, then yelped as John Phillips reached over the bar and whacked him round the ear. Very un-PC, but very effective.
“I’m not going to tell you again. You actually went to Paris with him, didn’t you, John?”
“Yes. He paid for us all to go. We had a brilliant time. Saw all the sights. The lads loved it. Couldn’t get him up the Eiffel Tower, mind. He was very keen to track some old book down, which we managed to do eventually. Funny thing happened on the last night, as I recall. We had just finished eating our evening meal in a rather nice restaurant, near Bastille, as it happens. Seth was paying the bill when this funny little chap in a bow-tie, dinner jacket and black gloves came over to our table, bowed and said to Seth: “My card, monsieur.” Then he scuttled out through the door as fast as his little legs could carry him. Seth took one look at the card and an expression of, I don’t know, horror, terror almost, crossed his face. “We must leave here immediately”, he said dramatically. He flung down some money, grasped Sarah by the hand and ran out. The boys and I trailed rather forlornly in his wake.”
“Did he offer any explanation?” asked Gareth.
“No, not really. Muttered something about an old acquaintance he hadn’t expected to see. As I said, he was paying for everything, so I wasn’t really in a position to push it, was I?”
“No. I s’pose not”
“Can I ask you something, Mr Evans?” The still-firm tones of Noel Lyttle rose crystal-clear from the ingle nook.
“John, please”.
“All right then, John. Did you happen to see what was on the card? Do you have any idea what might have disturbed Seth Cadwallader so much? He was not a man to be easily disconcerted.”
“Funny you should ask that. In spite of the sudden urgency, I did have the presence of mind to grab the card as it fell from Seth’s hand. I still have it in my wallet, somewhere.”
“You do? I don’t suppose… .”
“Yes. I’ve got it here.” John delved into his wallet and produced a slightly dog-eared calling card. “There’s a picture of a rather satanic-looking creature draped around the initials PP and a name: Pierre Poivre”
“Good God! Let me see that”. Mr Lyttle’s legal composure left him for a moment and he seemed almost flustered. “Good grief! They’re not supposed to meet!” The old lawyer examined the calling-card briefly and threw a startled look towards the pub landlord, who looked equally perplexed. “And how long ago exactly was this, may I ask?” He had quickly regained his poise and slipped back into client mode, as he handed the card back to the schoolteacher.
“Well, it was this summer, beginning of the school holidays, so I suppose about three months ago. Why, is it important?”
“It might be, it might be,” the old man muttered. “Are you able to recall the exact date of the encounter?”
“I imagine so. Let me think now. We broke up on the 20th July, a Friday. Went to Paris on the following Wednesday, so 25th, had the meal on the Sunday night, so that would have been the… 29th July”
“Yes, that tallies. The old dear in Liverpool died on the 1st.”
“Do you think there’s a connection, Noel? After all, she was pretty batty, anyway, wasn’t it?” said John Phillips anxiously.
“Yes, I’m sure there is. It was about that time too that Seth’s health started taking a turn for the worse. Do you recall? You must remember it, Mrs. B, you had to look after him.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right”. Rhiannon joined in. “We thought nothing of it at the time. Well, you don’t, when an eighty-five year old says he feels poorly.”
“Don’t worry Mrs B, I’m not casting aspersions.” Noel smiled kindly and patted her hand. “Should have occurred to me… to us. We knew something was going on. We all felt it. Funny he didn’t mention it himself. I suppose he didn’t want to alarm us.”
Beavon Jobs came in at that moment, having only just completed the burial formalities. He shook off his huge dripping wet overcoat and disappeared briefly to wash his hands. He returned to the lounge, grabbing a large plate of food en route, took the jar of ale proffered by John P and made his way over to the fire to warm himself up.
Rhiannon had waited for her husband before continuing. “You remember when Mr Seth was taken ill in August, don’t you Beavon?”
“Yes, course I do. Just one of those things at the time, him just coming back from Paris and all. We did wonder if it would be too much for him.”
Noel and John P had exchanged sharp, almost anxious glances on several occasions. “No wonder, no wonder,” Noel kept muttering to himself.
“Would someone like to tell me what all this is about?” Gareth asked almost peevishly.
“You’ll find out all too soon,” said John ominously, “Although you might wish you hadn’t. It’s a long story, mind.”
“Yes. I know Seth has left some notes for you to read, Gareth. Talking of which, this might be a good time to mention the will,” said Noel. “I realise this is somewhat unconventional but all the parties involved are present here and it will save time and inconvenience for all concerned. Could we have a little privacy, do you think, John?” The old lawyer nodded in the direction of the hangers-on. The landlord of the “Gnome” cleared the lounge bar with a mumbled “Sorry people—private function and all that.” Hywel, Bernie and one or two others who had sneaked in were perfunctorily ushered out. There were a few grumbles but they had had free beer and food, so couldn’t really complain. And anyway, all the leftovers would be passed round the Public Bar in due course. John Evans also got up to leave.
“No, no, not you, John. I’d like you to stay, please.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Lyttle? I don’t want to…”
“Yes, I’m sure. Allow me a minute or two to retrieve the relevant documents.” Noel produced a smart leather briefcase from which he extracted some folders, one of whi
ch he placed on the table and opened. “This is the last will and testament etc. etc.” he intoned. “Yes, I can confirm that this is indeed the will of Seth Cadwallader and was made about three months ago, just about the time of his last illness. Not much has changed from the previous versions, although there are one or two additions. There are a few minor bequests which I will not trouble you with at this time. These are the main beneficiaries:
“To my good friend and fellow-traveller John Evans I leave the sum of £20,000 and discharge him of any monies he may owe me.”
“What? £20,000? I don’t understand. I still owe him te… .”
“No longer. Mr Cadwallader expresses the hope that your financial burden will now be eased considerably and that you will be able to take your family on a well-earned holiday, without, as he puts it, a bad-tempered old man in tow.”
“Eased? Bad-tempered? I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve such generosity!”
“He thought you did, and that’s what counts. Seth Cadwallader was a man who placed the highest value on the virtue of friendship, further proof of which we are about to witness.
“To my oldest friend John Rees Phillips, I leave the sum of £50,000. Without his loyal support over the last forty years, I could not have conducted my life in the way in which I have. Bless you, John, my old friend.”
Noel looked over his recently-donned pince-nez and smiled at the publican. “Worth every penny, I would say.”
“Good grief! Fifty thousand, is it? I knew he was going to leave me a few bob, like, but fifty thousand… . ?”
Gareth squeezed his arm with genuine affection. “I’m not quite sure what this is all about yet, but he said to me more than once, ‘Couldn’t have done it without John and the others.’”
“Yes, but, fifty thou… ? There’ll be nothing left for you, Gareth bach.”
“You need have no concern on that score,” Noel re-assured the publican. “Let us continue:
“To my dear, dear friend and housekeeper Rhiannon Elspeth Beavon and her trusty husband David I leave Dove Cottage, the sum of £50,000 and an annual pension of £10,000 to be paid from my estate until both are deceased.”
Rhiannon sighed loudly, sobbed copiously into a large white handkerchief purloined from her spouse’s pocket and was too overcome with emotion to utter anything more coherent than a few more hefty sighs. Dai, ever the pragmatist, remarked: “We’re made for life, what with my miner’s pension an’ all. Duw, Duw, I knew he was a decent old boy and that, but… .”
Noel, eyes were twinkling at the delight of all concerned and he went on:
“I leave the bulk of my estate to my grandson Gareth Barry-John Llewellyn, in the sure and certain knowledge that he will carry on the good work. Use the money wisely, my boy, I am convinced you will need it.”
Noel took off his pince—nez and looked up at Gareth. “I will not read out the approximate sum here as it is for Gareth’s ears only, but you may take it from me that it is considerable. He also instructed me, Gareth,”—at this point the lawyer paused and ferreted in his jacket pocket—“to give you this.” He handed Seth’s grandson a large old-fashioned brass key. “This is the key to Seth’s desk. I am sure you have noticed that it is locked with no apparent means of obtaining access.” Gareth nodded dumbly. “This will provide much of the information you seek to help you clarify the situation. Make sure you are on your own when you open the desk and take good time to absorb the facts divulged thoroughly before deciding on an appropriate course of action.
“There. That is the gist of the will divulged. May I dare to presume that everyone involved is content?”
Noel took the nods and watery smiles of the beneficiaries as a sign of general assent.
The official business over, Mr Lyttle leant hard on his walking-stick and rose gingerly to his feet. “The local beverage improves yet again with age, landlord, my good man!” he grinned impishly at the licensee of the Gnome’s Head. “Gareth, a word in private”. He ushered the young man to a secluded corner of the room. “I am the executor of the will, of course. You will need to come into the office to observe one or two legal niceties but I do not foresee any problems. Once the will is settled, I shall be bowing out gracefully and passing your family affairs on to my son Robin. I hope this will not inconvenience you. He is fully au fait with the circumstances of the will. You may converse with him as you would with me.”
“No, no, Mr Lyttle. I’m only too grateful…”
Noel brushed aside Gareth’s thanks with a gentle gesture of the arm. He proceeded to extract from an inner pocket in his jacket an expensive fountain pen and a leather-bound notebook. “Let me give you an indication of the sum of money involved, so that you may begin to plan ahead accordingly.” He wrote a seven-figure sum on a piece of paper, tore it from the notebook and handed it over to his bemused companion.
Gareth glanced at the figure and paled. “Strewth!” he exclaimed, “Two and a half million… . ! I had no idea!”
“Nor were you meant to, my boy. But you may take it from me that Seth meant what he said about your using it wisely. You will need it for what lies ahead.”
“Tell me more, Mr Lyttle, please. Why all this secrecy? What does lie ahead?”
“I know that you are aware of the circumstances of your father’s life and the sort of work with which he was involved but that there are still many matters you would like clarified. Go home and in your own time, when you are good and ready, read the documents Seth has provided for you. They will explain the events and answer some, but by no means all, of your questions. Good luck!”
The old lawyer extended his hand, which Gareth grasped and shook firmly. “Darren! When you have finished your flirtations, I should like to leave please”. He addressed the general company: “My firm will of course be in touch on a more formal basis. In the meantime, let us remember Seth Cadwallader for what he truly was: a great man, who fought the good fight and has now gone to the eternal rest he so richly deserves. Good night, all.”
“Hear, hear!” “Amen to that!” and general approving noises circulated round the lounge bar.
“Darren! I am ready!” The old lawyer stumped his way towards the door of the lounge bar. Darren Lyttle withdrew his eyes reluctantly from the gaze of the lovely Megan. “See you Monday!” he whispered and came over to take his grandfather’s arm. “Right then, Gramps. Home is it?” he said affectionately. “Bye, everyone,” he called out cheerfully, with one last lingering look.
“That young man is quite smitten, if you ask me,” Bernice said to her husband.
“Mutual, too isn’t it?” he replied, with a worried frown. After all, Darren Lyttle was a very personable young man. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get in the way of her work.”
“Duw, duw, she’s far too sensible for that, is our Megan. And anyway, she’s young. Even you were young once, John Phillips, you old misery!”
3
At the end of the evening, Gareth refused all offers of transportation back to the old House. “It’s not far,” he said, “And it’ll give me a chance to clear my head. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do!” Rhiannon, however, walked back with him and they trotted along in amiable conversation, while trying to take cover from the still-lashing rain under a dilapidated muti-coloured golf umbrella.
“You’ll be selling the old place soon, then,” she said rather ruefully. “Rickety, run-down old barn, it is, too. Never could get Mr. Seth to spend any money on it. Perhaps it’s just as well, really. Let somebody else have the worry of it now.”
“Not at all,” Gareth replied, surprised at the very idea. “No, no. It needs some money spending on it, I grant you, but I’m quite happy to do that. And, erm, I’d like you to stay on and look after it for me, if you don’t mind. I don’t suppose I shall be there all that much in the immediate future, anyway. It would be a pity to drag the ancient p
ile kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and then let it fall back into rack and ruin again. I’ll see you all right financially, of course.”
“Don’t be silly, Master Gareth. Your grandfather has been more than generous to us already. I’ll gladly stay on and look after it for you. I’m quite relieved, actually, isn’t it? Wouldn’t quite know what to do with myself, and there’s a fact. Don’t get to see the grandchildren as much as I’d like.” As one son lived in Australia and the other in Yorkshire, that was hardly surprising. Rhiannon would be only too happy to keep cleaning and polishing the old place and generally keeping it in order. It also meant that her tacitly acknowledged position of unofficial First Lady of the village would not be under threat.
“Well, that’s sorted then.” Gareth paused to open the front gate of the house and allowed Mrs B through. “I shall have to have a good sort-out. There may be a few things we can pass on to the Oxfam shop in town.”
The road out of the village meandered uphill, which meant that the Cadwallader residence looked down on the rest of the houses from a position of dominance. The old building was about two hundred years old now and had always been in the possession of the Cadwallader family. Successive generations had not cared much for improvement and renovation internal or external; consequently the house had a derelict and forbidding aspect to it, which discouraged and repealed potential callers. It had no name but was known by all, imaginatively, as the House at the Top of the Hill—a place to be avoided unless you actually had to go there. Gareth was all too conscious that both Seth and himself had done nothing to dispel the gloom and sinister reputation associated with his ancestral home but now he was in a position to do something about it and he fully intended to do so, even though the work required would not come cheap.
The Anagram Page 2
