The Anagram

by Russell French

  “Not very nice out there,” he commented, rather unnecessarily. “Still, at least it’s not sticking. You should be ok tomorrow.”

  He sat in a chair opposite them. He had changed into a jacket and an old regimental tie and they both immediately noticed the badge on his lapel.

  “Stan! You’re a Fox! That’s why Theeth wanted us to stay here!”

  “Oh yes. Been a Fox for many a year, I have, ever since I was in the Army. Always glad to help out when I can. I knew your Granddad, see.” He smiled at Gareth. “He was a good man. You’re in the same mould, I can tell. As for you, young lady, your great-aunt used to stay here on walking holidays. You’re a lot better-looking, mind.”

  Beth took this in good part. “Get away with you. You’re worse than Mr. Lamprey.”

  “Don’t say that. “Stan adopted a look of mock pain. “Here, have a mint.” He produced a pack of Polos from his jacket pocket. They accepted. “Keep them,” he said. “Plenty more where they came from. You never know when you might fancy a mint.”

  Beth put the pack in her bag, then said:” That won’t fool her, you know, Stan. Won’t she give you Hell when she sees you’ve been drinking?”

  “She’ll pretend not to notice. It’s only once a week and she can’t do much about it anyway.”

  “She gave us the impression she’d cast you down into the darkest depths of Hades if she caught you drinking.”

  “No chance. ’Tisn’t actually her business, see, it’s mine.”

  “Oh. We thought when we saw ‘Proprietor S. Flounders that…”

  “Yes, a lot of people think that but I actually bought it with my discharge pay from the Army. I own it. She does her best but her heart’s not really in it. She still thinks she married beneath her. There was love there once, I suppose but… . You know what it’s like.”

  His melancholy reduced them to silence, then Gareth said: “What’s the Crazy Horse like, then? Your good lady made it sound like a real den of iniquity.”

  “It’s not bad as local pubs go. We actually call it the Pig. A hog escaped from market and ran in one day. Caused havoc, it did, before they managed to catch it. It’s also supposed to be haunted. Got its own ghost, the Dark Lady. No-one’s ever seen it, mind, but you know how these things spread.”

  “Yes. My local at home’s a bit like that. Supposed to have been a gnome living there once, but I don’t think there ever was.”

  “Mmm. Who knows? You might change your mind on that, one day, knowing what you do now. You’ve met Theeth, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, we have, but Gareth’s still a bit sceptical. He can’t quite get his head round this business of goblins and gnomes. It goes against all his hard-headed lawyer’s instincts.”

  “Don’t be, boyo! We need you. There are bad times ahead.” Stan’s look of comic despair brought a smile to Gareth’s face.

  “So everyone keeps telling me. I must admit, one or two things you’ve said this evening have given me food for thought.”

  “What might those be, then?” Stan asked.

  In reply, Gareth produced his grandfather’s piece of paper. “Crazy P name the ghost within” he read out.

  “Perhaps P isn’t Pierre Poivre at all. It could be a pub. It could be Crazy Pig. After all, it does have its own ghost. ‘Name the ghost within.’ Is that the Dark Lady? Could she have something to do with it?”

  “Sounds a bit tenuous, if you ask me, “said Beth. “Where does ‘Dark Lady’ take us?”

  “You’re right, but it’s all we’ve got at the moment. Perhaps we’d better sleep on it. It might seem clearer in the morning.”

  They took their leave of Stan and made their way, separately, to their luxurious chambers. Neither of them was surprised to see the tent-shaped form of Sue Flounders hovering on the landing in a voluminous dressing-gown of dubious vintage.

  “Good night. Sleep well, good people,” she bade them with a knowing look, as she saw them safely off to their respective abodes, though Gareth doubted very much that he would.

  To-morrow was going to be a difficult day and they both needed all the rest they could get, but with the uncomfortable surroundings and his mind churning, he knew it would be some time before he was welcomed into the comforting arms of Morpheus.

  17

  The next morning dawned crisp, clear and very cold. As Gareth feared, he had spent an uncomfortable night, his brain racing but unable to pull together any coherent thoughts. Beth had fared equally badly. Maybe, in the circumstances, it wasn’t just lack of comfort that had kept them both awake.

  Breakfast followed the same pattern as the previous night—superb fare accompanied by lukewarm water which had allegedly been shown a coffee spoon in the recent past. Beth’s scrambled eggs were done just the way she liked them and Gareth made short work of the full English. Lewis Lamprey bade them a cheery good morning. He had obviously been out and was poring over that day’s edition of the Racing Post. “Thought I might ’ave a flutter, seeing as ’ow my luck’s in,” he said by way of explanation.

  “That’s a mug’s game, Mr. Lamprey,” Beth said discouragingly. “What about your children’s Christmas presents?”

  “If I win I can get my boy that Playstation thingy ’e wants.”

  “If…” Beth was disappointed that her caution had fallen on deaf ears.

  Gareth said:” Would you mind if I have a look?” Beth looked puzzled. To the best of her admittedly limited knowledge, her partner knew absolutely nothing about horse racing! Nevertheless, he took the proffered paper and perused it for a while, then: “Yes. Thought so.” He jabbed at the relevant page.

  “Mr. Lamprey, don’t take it amiss, but if I give you some money, will you place a bet for me? You keep the winnings, of course, but it must be all the money on the one particular horse. Is that ok?”

  “What did y’ave in mind?”

  “I thought “Lucky Lass” in the 2.30 at Ludlow.”

  Mr. Lamprey studied the form briefly. “You’re ’avin a larf! It’s run six times and never finished! Look, FFPUFU. An’ it’s ridden by an apprentice what’s never won nuffink! Still, it’s your bleedin’ money.”

  Beth grinned as his excitement and indignation got the better of his attempt at middle-classery.

  “That’s where I want the bet to go. Here,” Gareth reached for his wallet. “One other condition—you’re to spend the winnings on Christmas presents and a holiday for the family.”

  “You’re pretty confident, ain’t ya? What’s this, fifty nicker? At 100-1, that’s… er… five thousand notes! Bloody Hell!”

  “Yes, well, use it wisely. If it doesn’t win, at least you haven’t lost anything. And remember, no changing your mind or splitting bets or anything like that, otherwise it won’t win. It has to all go on that one horse.”

  “Ok, ok, anyfink you say, guv.” Mr. Lamprey took his paper and his leave. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too,” he called cheerily and in as posh a voice as he could muster as he left. “Too much dosh for yer own good, that’s your trouble,” he could be heard muttering as he made his way to his room. “Still… .”

  “That was a nice thing to do. What makes you so certain that it’s going to win? Seems unlikely, from what Mr. Lamprey was saying.” Beth smiled at him as she moved her breakfast crockery to one side.

  “I felt sorry for him and his poor wife. And those wretched kids, what kind of Christmas are they going to have? I only hope he sticks to our agreement. He works so hard, he deserves a bit of good fortune.”

  “Why not just give him some money and tell him to spend it on his children, then?

  “No, you can’t do that. That kind of man has a certain dignity, he wouldn’t accept charity. This way it looks as though he’s had something to do with it. I’m not sure what his wife will say, though, when he tells her he’s won £50
00 on the gee-gees.” Gareth scratched his head as though anticipating the good lady’s unforeseen dilemma.

  “I imagine she’ll be too pleased to care,” said Beth. “You are sure it’s going to win? It could be a terrible let-down.”

  “It’s funny. I’ve just got this gut feeling. Something will happen in the race that will allow this three-legged outsider to romp away with it.”

  “Gareth Llewellyn, I think you’re in danger of becoming a kind person. You want to watch it. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  She leant over and kissed him. They might have stayed that way for a while had there not been a loud ‘ahem’ as Mrs. Flounders emerged from the kitchen, eyes like saucers, bosom heaving with righteous indignation.

  “You’ll be wanting to get off straight away, I expect”, she said with an air of finality which firmly indicated no tolerance of that kind of nonsense in her dining-room. “You can leave your keys at reception when you’ve settled the bill, if you’d be so kind.”

  “We must say good-bye to Stan,” said Beth and they headed for the kitchen. They exchanged mobile numbers with their host. “Any time,” he said. “You can rely on me to get a message to Theeth, if need be.”

  “Thank you, Stan. You’re a good friend. Next time, we’ll come ghost-hunting with you at the Crazy Pig.”

  They fetch their packs and coats from upstairs and readied themselves for the next stage of their journey. Beth checked on Wolenger, whose was basking in his usual green glory.

  “I wonder if we might need him today,” she mused. “You’re not the only one who has gut feelings.”

  “I do so hope you’re wrong”, Gareth replied. “I must admit though, that if this beautifully-carved little fellow does change from green to red, then even I might start thinking there is something in this whole crazy caboodle.”

  “Gareth, you’ve got to believe. Nothing will work out if you’re not fully into it. And look at this morning, and your firm instinct about that bet. Do you think that’s just coincidence?” Beth was desperate for Gareth to show a little more confidence.

  “It hasn’t won yet. If it does, then yes, it could go a long way to changing my mind. And no, I don’t believe in coincidences. Who knows, in spite of everything, I might get to enjoy being a Custodian, or should that be a discount, or…”

  “Gareth, stop it! Let’s just wait and see what the day brings.”

  They left Paradise View without any regrets, although pleased that they had recruited a new ally. As Stan had predicted, the snow had quickly disappeared, leaving the road clear but slippery underfoot. Beth was conscious that she probably did not look at her best, what with her backpack, walking-stick and rather conspicuous pink woolly hat. “More like an overgrown Womble”, she smiled to herself as she strode along. “What wouldn’t I give for a makeover and trip to the hairdresser’s, not to mention a long hot soak in a proper bath!”

  Gareth too was preoccupied with his thoughts. “Dark Lady! What’s a dark Lady got to do with it? Maybe Beth’s right and it’s a red herring, not a horse at all.” He went on haphazardly mixing his metaphors until they came to the outskirts of the next village. By the side of the road an unexpected building caught their eye, one that stopped them dead in their tracks.

  18

  The building in question was graced, if that’s the right word, by a very dirty glass front, so badly specked and besmirched with mud, bird pooh and myriad other sorts of grime that it was almost impossible to see inside to the dimly-lit display. Beth thought she could make out a raggedy pile of picture frames against one wall and this was borne out by the barely-legible sign above the door, which read in what had originally attempted to be a rather grandiose black script: GILET D’ARC ORIGINAL PAINTINGS—Gilbert Dark prop. This was what had caught their attention.

  “Look, Beth. Darc and Dark, that can’t be a coincidence—Dark Lady and all that. We’re obviously meant to go in. Perhaps the Dark Lady does have something to do with it, after all. I wonder what that name means? Your French is better than mine, I imagine. What’s a gilet?”

  “Some kind of clothing—a… waistcoat, I think.”

  “Arc—is that Joan of Arc? Joan of Arc’s waistcoat. What’s that all about? She was burnt at the stake, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she was. Hard to think of any of her clothing surviving that! Well, we’d better go in and have a look anyway.”

  As they approached the door, they were aware of a strange humming sound emanating from the front pocket of Beth’s rucksack. She dived in and drew out Wolenger, whose customary serene verdant hue had taken on an unaccustomed pinkish colour.

  “Strange. Not exactly red, is it?” Gareth’s querying tone suggested a total vindication of all his doubts.

  “Yes, but it has changed colour. He’s obviously trying to tell us something. Perhaps the person inside is a hybrid.”

  “Well, whatever he is, let’s make sure we don’t give anything away. If the bloke inside starts firing questions at us, we’ll know he’s not to be trusted. Let’s go in.”

  The scruffy door opened creakily and not without protest as they pushed it and half-fell into the room inside. They found themselves in small, poorly-lit surroundings. A battered dirty counter was at one end, and some dilapidated pictures were stacked apparently haphazardly against one of the walls. There was no other furniture. No effort appeared to have been attempted to make the shop in any way inviting or customer—friendly. A door at the back of the room creaked open and the owner staggered in. He was small (the right size, they both thought) and had made the usual sartorial attempts to disguise his true identity. He was wearing a badly-stained blue painting smock, of the kind beloved by Hollywood biopics. A filthy French-style beret covered his head but failed to conceal jug-handle ears. His few teeth were nicotine-stained, a fact explained by the rolled-up fag-end stuck to his bottom lip. He was rolling another cigarette even as he spoke to them. This act required some dexterity, as his hands were hidden under a pair of tell-tale gloves.

  “What you want?” he guttered uninvitingly as he looked at them. The dark eyes looked inimical as he stared. “You come to buy or gawp?”

  “Er, well, we were just passing when we saw the sign and…” Beth’s angelic smile and striking good looks had no obvious effect. The black eyes showed no emotion except greed mixed with contempt.

  “Nobody just passes. You buying or not?”

  Gareth took over. “Well, what have you got to offer? We haven’t actually seen anything yet.”

  “All mine. Painted over many years. Masterpieces, every one of them!” The creature waved a begloved scrawny claw in the direction of the pile of dusty canvases, while at the same time kicking away a raggedy mongrel of a mutt which had appeared as if by magic from under the counter. It withdrew yowling miserably with its tail between its legs.

  They started picking their way carefully through the paintings, trying to get as little dust on their clothes as they could manage and, for a moment, they both thought they might have stumbled upon a hidden genius, some village Hampden, some mute, inglorious Milton, but any hopes to that end were very quickly and emphatically dashed. As they browsed through the canvases, it was soon quite obvious that all the works so proudly recommended by their creator were complete rubbish, barely better than the efforts of a two-year-old. Artistic genius he was not.

  “This is all absolute crap,” Gareth couldn’t stop himself saying. “You’re not going to tell me you actually sell any of this garbage!”

  “No need to be so bloody rude,” the creature countered unpleasantly. “Not my fault you ain’t got the brains to appreciate talent when you see it, is it?”

  “If this is talent, I’m my Aunt Fanny. How can you have the gall, the nerve, the effrontery to put this stuff on sale?”

  “Lot of big words there. The only one I understood was Fanny. Sounds a
bout right for you.”

  “Well, I’m not buying any of this gunk. It’s not worth the paper it’s daubed on.”

  “Bugger off then.” Gilbert paused to use his disgusting fag-end to light up his next offering to the great god of Smoke, blowing the noxious fumes towards his would-be customers. He coughed raucously for several seconds and then wheezed “Go on. Fuck off, the pair of you!”

  “Come on, Beth, let’s get out of this hell-hole.” Gareth was striding purposefully to the door when Beth intervened. “Wait a minute, Gareth. Perhaps we could buy something. Just to show willing,” she added in a lower voice. “You never know, it could be important.”

  “Oh well, you choose something then. There’s nothing in this lot that looks worth having to me.”

  Beth looked among the paintings. They were all much of a muchness, just dollops of blue or green oils on a murky background. Her eyes were drawn to a lighter one, three brown blobs against a whitish colour.

  “We’ll have this one,” she said. “Give the man some money, Gareth!”

  “That one’s a hundred and fifty quid.” Dark’s ugly expression had turned malevolent as he smelled the hint of a potential sale. These fools obviously had money to throw around and he wanted his share.

  “And the rest. It’s not worth a hundred and fifty pence. A fiver, take it or leave it.”

  “What! How can you possibly insult such a great artist in that cheapskate way? You wouldn’t say that to Van Gogh, would you?”

  “You, my nasty, smelly little friend, are no Van Gogh. And anyway, he only sold one painting throughout his whole lifetime. I bet his accountant gave him an earful!”

  “Gareth! Stop it! You’re doing it again!”

  “Doing what?”

  “You know, bad puns. We’d like to offer you £10, Mr Dark.” The effect of her smile seemed to be making some headway this time.

  “Call it £20 and it’s a deal. Just the picture, mind. You can’t have the bloody frame as well.”