The Anagram

by Russell French

  “All right. Agreed. We’ll take it. Pay, the man, Mr Llewellyn.”

  Isn’t it funny how when a man and a woman are out together, it’s always the man who ends up having to plunge into the depths of his note-carrier? In time-honoured fashion, he produced the purple note and waved it temptingly towards the picture’s greedy creator, who grasped it triumphantly with his scraggy gloved talons and secreted it somewhere in his filthy smock.

  “Joanie, Joanie, get your teeth in. I’ve made a sale!” he cackled exultantly through the back door.

  A tiny, very ugly female creature with violently—dyed bright red hair shuffled reluctantly into the room. “What you blatherin’ on about, you old fool. I’ve told you, the day you make a sale, I’ll give you oral sex! What? Who are you? You ’aven’t gone and bought… . Have yer?”

  Beth’s lovely features were wrinkled in total disgust at the appearance of this harridan-featured old hag and even Gareth could hardly keep the loathing out of his eyes.

  “Yes, well we’ll leave you now. Come on, Beth.”

  Clutching their new purchase, they made as speedy and dignified an exit as they could through the ramshackle door and put yards between themselves and the revolting old pair of gargoyles as quickly as possible. They both dusted themselves down, in a vain attempt to remove both the physical and mental filth of what they had just experienced.

  “Where is it? Chuck it away, for Heaven’s sake,” Gareth squawked.

  “No, I’ve told you. It might be important.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think so. What are you going to do with it, then?

  “I know. I’ll roll it up and put it in… . here.” She grabbed Gareth’s walking-stick, unscrewed the top and slid the paper into the vacant compartment. “There,” she said proudly. Now you really are a Custodian—of the century’s first great masterpiece. Guard it with your life, Sir Knight!”

  “Ridiculous. What a waste of twenty quid.” Gareth was still chunnering away discontentedly.

  “Huh! You didn’t mind splashing the cash this morning. I suppose it’s different when I want something.”

  “Don’t be like that, Beth. You know that’s not true. It’s just that I feel I’ve been done, that’s all. At least this morning’s money will be well spent.”

  “For all you know, this twenty pounds may turn out to be the best investment you’ve ever made.”

  “Somehow, I doubt it. We’ll see. What does Wolenger think about it all?”

  The little owl was back to his pristine glow. The coast was clear, at least for the immediate future.

  “I’m feeling peckish.” Gareth’s thoughts were never a long way from food. He had the sort of metabolism that made it very difficult for him to put on weight. “Let’s go and warm ourselves in a local hostelry and find out if they can offer us a bite to eat. Then we can push on this afternoon and see if we can locate this quaintly—named inn this evening. What is it, Le Chat de Vin? Stan said it was a decent place.”

  “Yes, I think that’s right,” said Beth. “I can’t see an immediate connection between cats and wine, I must admit. I suppose, yet again, we must wait for all to be revealed.” They shouldered their packs again and with some relief and in some haste made tracks for the nearest pub.

  19

  It was very cold when they set out again that afternoon, refreshed and replenished. Flurries of wet snow were being blown hither and thither in the gusting wind, whose icy blasts made ferocious and not unsuccessful attempts to penetrate their outer layers of clothing. They stumped along the slippery road, huddled close to each other in an effort to give themselves as much protection as they could from this unwelcome attack. Consequently their progress was slow. Darkness was soon upon them, which added an extra eerie presence to their unfamiliar surroundings. They missed the turning to their destination in the gloom and had to retrace their steps for about half a mile once they realised their mistake, much to their increasing frustration and annoyance. Both of them had been deep in thought during this latter stage of their journey. It looked as though Gilbert Dark’s painting was a dead end and they were no wiser as to the meaning of Seth’s message.

  It was nearly seven o’clock when, tired and miserable, Beth caught site of a large building looming up from the blackness, its welcoming exterior lights gleaming cheerfully through the snow. By no means modern, the hostelry nevertheless was well-maintained on the outside, with inviting whitewashed walls and newly-painted doors and window. A plethora of twinkling Christmas tree lights strung out in trees in front of the inn provided further encouragement to the weary travellers. A large sign hung over the door; it bore a portrait of the eponymous feline, beaming Cheshire-like and eying a copious glass of tempting red liquid.

  “What’s all this about, I wonder. Another myth?” Gareth queried irritably as they both gazed inquisitively at the sign. “A wine-drinking cat—there’s a novelty!”

  “I don’t suppose there’s really an alcoholic moggy inside. Obviously a name from the olden days, you know, like your gnome back at home.”

  “Hmm. I’m beginning to think he might have been real, after all.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose this one is. Come on!” Beth headed enthusiastically for the front entrance.

  They pushed the door open and were glad to feel the warmth of the building as they entered. The one room inside was already crowded as they made their way further in, not helped by an enormous Christmas tree in one corner, whose lights winked mysteriously at them. Gareth remembered that it was a Saturday but would not have expected the place to be so full at such a comparatively early hour. They learnt later that it was the tradition for just about everyone in the surrounding area to meet in this way on Saturdays, there being precious little else to do in such an isolated spot.

  The television on a side wall was blaring away and the local news was on. They were stopped in their tracks by the item being featured.

  “And finally, a heart-warming story of pre-Christmas good cheer. A punter walked into a Wrexham bookie’s this afternoon and placed £50 on a complete no-hoper. The filly, “Lucky Lass”, was a 100-1 outsider in a field of six in the 2.30 at Ludlow. Two horses fell during the race, leaving four to take on the final fence. Three of them jumped the fence together, with “Lucky Lass” some way back in fourth. The leader fell, dragging the other two down as well, allowing the remaining runner to negotiate the fence alone and gallop home in Foinavon fashion to claim the most unlikely of victories. The lucky punter returned to claim his £5000 winnings, giving no details except to say that his name was Llewellyn and that he was looking forward to giving his family a good Christmas.

  “And now, some not so good news, the weather… .”

  Gareth and Beth were gob-smacked. “Well I’ll be damned. She did it. She bloody did it!”

  “You were pretty confident,” Beth pointed out. “You can’t be totally surprised. You’d have been disappointed if she hadn’t won, surely.”

  “Yes, but… . At least our friend Mr Lamprey will be happy. Damned cheek, though, using my name.”

  “Perhaps the double L at the beginning proved irresistible.”

  “He’s got plenty of Ls of his own. No need to pinch mine as well!”

  They started making their way towards the bar, having of necessity to manoeuvre their cumbersome rucksacks through the ranks of customers. Needless to say, their arrival had not gone unnoticed, with a number of people putting their glasses down to stare and to nudge one another as the young couple elbowed their way carefully through the throng of drinkers. “That’s them. They look so young!” “Nice, though, especially her!” “Eyes off, Jimmy, you old pervert!”

  As they reached the bar, Gareth and Beth were aware that a corner of the counter was sectioned off from the public. They gazed in amazement. On that part of it, there sat a cat, a large black one, sipping red wine thro
ugh a straw from a tall glass full of the fermented liquid. The animal looked imperiously at them then motioned haughtily with its head towards the barman. They were too astonished to say anything but did as requested and pushed their way forward.

  The inn-keeper was the largest dwarf either of them had ever seen. A contradiction in terms? No, not really. He was the height you would expect a dwarf to be but was at least as wide as he was tall, with upper arms to rival Schwarzenegger’s and muscles everywhere else to match. Together with his completely shaven head and a body covered in elaborate tattoos, this gave him a distinctly intimidating look. Standing on a box the other side of the bar, he had no trouble looking the new arrivals in the eye.

  “You can see him, can’t you?” he said in a whisper, having honoured them with a gap-toothed grin. “Shh, don’t say anything. Not many can. It proves that you are who we think you are. Greetings. My name is George. We’ve been expecting you. You are very welcome.” He held out his hand in friendly acknowledgement and gripped theirs in a powerful handshake. “Don’t worry. You’re amongst friends here.”

  Beth instinctively drew Wolenger from his hiding-place. He was glowing as brightly as she had ever seen him. She remembered what Theeth had said about there being people around to help them. “See. Told you. Useful little fellow, isn’t he?” said George. “Never let you down, our wise little friend. You can always rely on him. Now, if you’d like to put your bags down and go and freshen up, there’ll be food and drink ready for you when you get back.”

  The dwarf motioned to a small table with “Reserved” on it and pointed towards a sign saying “Toilets.” With some relief the two travellers deposited their rucksacks by the chairs and made their way through the appropriate door. They were glad of the opportunity to get rid of their winter clothes and give themselves a hot wash and brush-up. It was also a great comfort to know that they were in safe surroundings. Neither would admit it to the other, but they had both felt uneasy ever since leaving that dreadful excuse for a shop.

  When they returned refreshed to the main bar, a young girl stood by their table, notebook in hand. “I could murder a pint of lager,” said Gareth appreciatively. Beth opted for an orange juice.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” she said. “Sorry to be awkward. What can you offer me?” There was, it turned out, quite a choice and she opted for vegetable lasagne.

  I always think vegetarians are in a difficult position, not so much those who don’t eat meat because they don’t like it—more, those who have taken a conscious decision to treat all life as equal and sacred and therefore will not sanction the killing of any living thing and thus endanger its soul. E.M. Forster, in his wonderful novel A Passage to India, has a brilliant passage on this dilemma, which he puts in the mouth of a minor character, young Mr. Sorley, who is a missionary in India:” . . . . but young Mr. Sorley, who was advanced, said Yes; he saw no reasons why monkeys should not have their collateral share of bliss, and he had sympathetic discussions about them with his Hindu friends. And the jackals? Jackals were indeed less to Mr. Sorley’s mind, but he admitted that the mercy of God, being infinite, may well embrace all mammals. And the wasps? He became uneasy during the descent to wasps, and was apt to change the conversation. And oranges, cactuses, crystals, and mud? And the bacteria inside Mr. Sorley? No, no, this is going too far. We must exclude someone from our gathering, or we shall be left with nothing.” Difficult, isn’t it?

  Gareth, on the other hand, never too adventurous with his food, chose steak with all the trimmings. The food and drink both appeared almost immediately and they were able to tuck heartily into the fare provided and demolish it in a matter of minutes.

  When they had finished, George came and sat at their table. “As I said, we knew you were coming. Theeth was particularly anxious for a good turn-out this evening, so I spread the word that I had some friends visiting. People don’t know all the facts, of course, but I just let it be known that I had some old pals coming over who might need some help. I think Theeth wanted to prove the point that you have many people rooting for you in these parts, but I also suspect that he might be expecting trouble this evening.”

  “Trouble? What sort of trouble?” Beth looked anxiously towards Gareth, who had adopted his trademark frown.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing we can’t handle,” the dwarf replied. “We think the other lot might pay us a call this evening but they’ll get short shrift here. All the local rugby team’s here for a start.”

  “Why bother, then, if they’re going to get a kicking?” Gareth asked, not unreasonably.

  “We think they want to spy out the lie of the land, you know, to see who’s here and assess our strength.”

  “Why? You’re not expecting a full-scale war, are you?”

  “No, no, but I suppose from their point of view it doesn’t do any harm to know what you’re fighting against.”

  “Do they know we’re here?” Beth worried away at the potential problem.

  “No, I don’t think so. They won’t see you, anyway, this end of the room. They won’t get this far. Just relax. Everything’s taken care of.”

  “Hmm.” Gareth grunted unconvincingly and ordered another pint of the amber liquid. All attempts to pay for their refreshments were quietly but firmly rebuffed. Somewhat mollified, Gareth pulled a face at Beth and settled down to enjoy his drink and the rest of the evening.

  20

  “They’ve been spotted!” Pierre Poivre’s two companions had never seen him so animated. He produced a map of Wales and stabbed at a small point in the middle of nowhere with the stem of his pipe.

  “Are you sure? How can you be so certain? What are they doing out there, in some God-forsaken hole?” As ever, Patterson was the practical one. It was not the time of year to be zooming off in search of a mare’s nest.

  “A contact has been in touch, an artist friend of mine. He was gibbering a lot and I had to calm him down—appears he had actually made a sale. But it’s definitely them. They were foolish enough to use each other’s names and they match the descriptions. I wonder why they bought something, though. The stuff old Gilbert produces is absolute trash.”

  “Could that be important?” Patterson tried to keep the old goblin to the relevant details.

  “I have no reason to think so. It might not be a bad idea to relieve them of it, though.”

  “Yah, look forward to that, bit of grievous bodily, what?” Etheridge was his usual languidly unpleasant self.

  “Nothing too drastic,” Poivre cautioned. I need them to be with Theeth when we finish them off. A little softening up will not go amiss, however.”

  “OK, but do we know where they’re heading? And what the Hell are they doing out in the wilds?” Patterson was quick to steer his partner in crime away from the thought of prolonged violence and back to the practicalities of the situation. He liked to think of inflicting bodily pain as his speciality.

  “As far as we can tell, they are, er, walking.” Pierre could not disguise the surprise in his voice, reluctant though he was to admit he had been, temporarily at least, outwitted. “No wonder we couldn’t find them.”

  “Walking? In this weather? They must be keen!”

  “It does seem to have worked so far, Peter, you must admit. However, I am pretty confident I know where they will be this evening. As it happens, I have already arranged for some people to visit their hideaway this very night.” Pierre went on to explain about the Chat de Vin and the gathering of locals likely to be there.

  “I merely want Pugh and the others to see what forces they have available, just in case. Now I will be able to ask them to get a sighting, in order to confirm their presence.”

  “What do you want us to do, Pierre?”

  “Drive to Wales this evening. I will give you an address where you can stay. They are almost certainly heading back towards Aberystwyth. We will work out th
eir route and you can waylay them tomorrow. Nothing too drastic, remember. Just relieve them of their purchase and frighten them. They need to know that we are tracking them and watching their every move.”

  “D’ya think they’ve got some chaps on our tail, Pierre? Soon shake ’em off if they have,” said Oliver. “Bloody Bentley will put miles between us. Zoom up the motorway like Stirling Moss, what?”

  “I doubt it, Oliver. Their spying network is not as efficient as ours. I took great care when choosing this location and London’s general aura makes us very difficult to spot, anyway, even though there are three of us together. No, I think we are quite safe. I urge you to show some restraint, when driving, my young friend. Speed is of the essence but you are no good to me dead. I will give you the name of a contact in the area who will supply you with some local assistance and anything else you might need.”

  “Don’t bother. We can handle it,” Patterson growled menacingly.

  “I insist. There is always safety in numbers. There will be females involved. Any intimate searching by the wrong person might provoke a violent reaction beyond normality.”

  “Pity. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on her. Good-looking girl, by all accounts. I’d give her one, if I got the chance.”

  “No, no, Peter. There may be time for that later. You must not do anything to jeopardise our chances. Besides, I stress again I do not want to give the local Police an opportunity to get involved. I think our opponents would not respond in that way to a mild incident. Like us, they would prefer not to be known by the wider public for what they are. Violence might create a situation where they feel they have no choice but to report the matter. That situation is to be avoided. So, I wish you Bonne Chance and await tidings from you.”

  The two young men put together an array of equipment thought necessary for their expedition—some of it merely practical, other elements distinctly sinister. They bade their leader farewell and made their way out into the frosty London night. Left alone, Pierre smiled a sinister smile. The people he was looking for would not be out of his clutches for long.