“Nobody is accusing you of murder, Mr Percy. Now please, will you just calm down and…”
“We have come all the way from Abergavenny,” the young man continued, ignoring the detective, “at considerable expense to me and my family in order to testify that I was staying with my uncle in Wales from the 21st to the 26th of this month. Isn’t that right, ewythr?”
The old man nodded and mumbled a few words in an agitated, but incomprehensible manner.
“My uncle doesn’t speak any English, but I can translate for him. He agrees that I was with him on the dates which I have just mentioned!”
Suddenly Billings saw Jacobs join the clerks on the stairwell. Damn it! he thought. He didn’t want Jacobs to know that he had been continuing the investigation on his day off.
“Please, Mr Percy,” he said sternly. “You will cease this commotion at once and follow me to my office.”
“Is everything all right, Billings?” Jacobs called, looking at Billings with a heavy frown.
“Everything is fine, Mr Jacobs,” he replied then turned back to the young man and his uncle. “I shall have our boy bring us some tea and we’ll discuss the travel expenses somewhere more quiet. Jack,” he called, turning towards the boy who had been standing at the reception desk all this time. “We shall be in room three. Bring a tray of tea.” He put his hands on both of the men’s backs and gently, but forcefully, guided them towards the office.
*
“My uncle lives just outside the hamlet of Clydach,” the young man said as he took a sip from his cup. He had calmed down now and his face had resumed its normal colour. His hostility had ceased the moment Billings had offered to refund his train fare. Billings would have to pay it out of his own pocket, of course. The case had been closed and no further expenses had been authorised, but Billings was desperate to remove the man and his uncle from Jacobs’s prying eyes and he could think of no other way of doing so than by offering the young man some compensation.
“He has a small stone cottage overlooking the Brecon Beacons,” the young man continued. “It’s nothing much. Just one room with a bedstead and a shed and a goat, but it is beautifully isolated. There’s no one else around for miles and miles. My uncle doesn’t like being amongst people, isn’t that right, ewythr?”
He turned towards his uncle who was sitting next to him, trembling as he held the cup and saucer to his lips. He looked pale and tired. The journey and the commotion had clearly taken their toll on him.
“Are you all right?” Billings asked as he reached out to the old man’s aid.
“Oh, he’s just tired,” the young man replied, taking the cup and saucer away from his uncle and putting them on the table. “He isn’t used to so many people. He has been living alone in the Brecon Beacons for twenty-six years. I’m the only one who ever visits him. He has no other family. He is a true Welshman, Mr Billings. Of the old order.”
“Perhaps he should lie down for a while? We have a bed in the surgeon’s office.”
“No, no. We’re lodging around the corner from here. We’ll go back to Wales tomorrow. He’s seventy-six years old, but he’s still strong and healthy, isn’t that right, ewythr?” He slapped his uncle on the back, jolting him awake. “My uncle is a wise man, Mr Billings. He has had no education. He cannot read or write and he can only speak a few words of English, but he is the wisest man I know. And do you know why?” He looked at Billings, expecting an answer. Billings shrugged. “Because he’s Welsh, that’s why! He is a true Celt and the Celts are the carriers of the ancient wisdom. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“No,” Billings answered politely. He wasn’t really listening and was still looking with concern at the old man nodding off.
“Christianity came to the Celts when it was still pure and beautiful, see? Before it was ruined by the imperial Romans with their rigid hierarchies and their pompous grandeur. Celtic Christianity was a simple, mystical religion. We had no archbishops or cardinals or popes. We had no grand, ornamented churches or cathedrals. We just had peaceful congregations of people who had respect for each other. And we had a love of simplicity, which our saviour had imparted on us.”
“I believe you are a scholar, Mr Percy?”
“I am self-taught mostly, but yes, you could call me a scholar of religion.”
“And I believe you have plans to write a book?”
“Indeed I do, Mr Billings. It’s about this very subject I am talking about. About how Christianity has been ruined by the Romans and further vulgarised by barbarians such as the Goths and the Franks and the Saxons. My book is about how the Celts preserved the original, mystical beauty of our Saviour’s philosophy and how, in the midst of the Dark Ages, when the wisdom and sophistication of the Romans and Greeks had been completely wiped out in Western Europe, it was Celtic Ireland which had become the centre of knowledge and philosophy.”
“Why did you argue with Lord Palmer the day before he died?”
“It was all over that Brendan Lochrane who lived on his estate. That so-called hermit. Lochrane was not a hermit! He was nothing more than a wretched vagrant! A drunk! A leech! It sickened me the way Lord Palmer offered him money, as if money could ever be a motivation to a true holy man! And the way Lord Palmer displayed that poor wretch to the public like a performing monkey! It was a slap in the face to me and my uncle. My uncle is a true hermit, see? In the tradition of St Anthony and the Desert Fathers. Not like that bestial, vulgar man Lord Palmer had living on his estate. But Lord Palmer didn’t understand. He was a typical Saxon. He was arrogant, haughty, and bigoted, and like all Saxons he took the beauty and wisdom of an ancient culture and turned it into a mockery! He made it cheap and vulgar and ugly! I told him all that and, of course, he kicked me out of his house. Well, I wanted to be kicked out. I did not want to have anything to do with him and his hideous wealth!”
“You did not want his patronage?”
“Patronage? Never! Never would I sell my soul to a Saxon!”
“Lady Palmer told me that you had asked him to be your patron.”
“Well, I asked him, yes. In the beginning, when we first met. I thought he had a genuine interest in spirituality and asceticism and we struck up a friendship. But then I realised that his interest was nothing more than morbid curiosity and I walked out on him. That was on the 21st of October and I never saw him since.”
Billings turned his attention back to the old man who had now nodded off. His eyes were closed and his chin was resting on his chest. He was breathing deeply, almost snoring. “Perhaps you should spend the night here,” he offered. “We have a bed in the surgeon’s office, as I said, and we can make it quite comfortable.”
“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Billings.” The young man turned to look at his uncle and shook him awake. “Ewythr, deffro,” he said, “we must go back to the boarding house.”
The old man’s eyes sprang open and he looked around, confused.
“I’ll ask Jack to get you a cab.” Billings got off his chair and headed for the door. “Jack, get a cab for Mr Percy and his uncle, will you?”
As Billings watched the young man and his uncle accompany Jack out of the building, Jacobs suddenly crept up behind him, making him jump.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
Billings turned to face his boss who was looking at him, angry and worried.
“It was nothing, Mr Jacobs.”
“It was not nothing, Billings! I heard the man shout about the Lord Palmer case.”
Damn it! thought Billings. How was he going to get out of this one? “It’s just a false lead. A misunderstanding. It’s all been cleared up now.”
“I thought I told you to leave that case alone.”
“And I have.”
“Then why were you wandering around Oxford yesterday, questioning boarding house keepers?”
Billings looked aghast. How did he know about Oxford?
“I thought you were ill,” Jacobs continued.
&nb
sp; “I… um… I was doing a personal investigation.”
“A personal investigation?”
“I was looking for an acquaintance who disappeared from Oxford ten years ago. Sebastian Forrester. I had reason to believe that perhaps his case was connected with that of Lord Palmer, but it turned out to be a false lead. It was all a misunderstanding, Mr Jacobs, and it’s been cleared up now.”
A desk clerk suddenly approached the two men, holding a piece of paper in his hands.
“A telegram just arrived for you, Detective Sergeant,” he said. “It’s from the Wigtownshire Constabulary.”
Billings reached out for the telegram, but Jacobs snatched it from the clerk’s hands before he could get to it.
“Wigtownshire Constabulary? Why is the Wigtownshire Constabulary wiring you?”
“It was a lead which I received from Bertie Green,” Billings explained.
“Bertie Green?”
“The gardener in Sutton Courtenay.”
Jacobs opened the telegram and read it aloud. “Located Lorna Lochrane on the Isle of Whithorn. Admits to being wife of Brendan Lochrane who went missing over a year ago. Is anxious for more information about husband.”
He looked up from the paper and stared suspiciously at Billings. “You won’t need to follow this lead up either now, will you?” he said, scrunching up the telegram.
“No, sir.”
“I suggest you better wire the Wigtownshire Constabulary back and tell them that Brendan Lochrane has confessed.”
“I will, sir.”
Jacobs continued to stare at him, uncertain of whether or not to believe him. Billings wondered why Jacobs was so anxious to put this case to rest – it wasn’t like him not to investigate a case thoroughly – but he put it down to his current financial worries and simply stared back without batting an eyelid. There was a short, tense pause.
“You’re still not looking well, Billings,” Jacobs said eventually.
“Am I not, sir?”
“You’re very pale. Why don’t you take another few days off?”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, sir. I’m perfectly all right.”
“Remember the conversation we just had in my office? You take things too much to heart. It is affecting your health and I don’t want to lose you from my team. You’re too good a detective.” There was an attempt at a smile. “Take some days off and go somewhere peaceful. Away from London? Have you any relatives in the country?”
“No.”
“Well, stay at a country inn, then. I hear Cornwall is beautiful at this time of year. Take some days off, Billings. I don’t want to see you here again until next Monday.” And with that, Jacobs turned his back on Billings and headed for the staircase.
9. The Isle of Whithorn
A cruel bitter wind blew in from the Irish Sea as Billings got off the carriage on the Isle of Whithorn. The whitewashed houses which lined the street looked draughty and ramshackle. The pebbled beach was littered with old pieces of fishing nets and discarded floaters, and the boats which stood on it barely looked seaworthy. This was a cold and desolate-looking place. Billings remained standing in the deserted street looking forlornly at the coachman, who quickly made his way back up the causeway to the mainland. Why did he go on this trip? Why couldn’t he let go of this infernal case? What was this grip which Lochrane held over him? If Jacobs were ever to find out that he had disobeyed his orders again, he’d be in deep trouble.
Two black-clad women with weather-beaten faces came walking towards him carrying empty lobster traps. He approached them to ask the way, but as he came nearer, they refused to acknowledge him and fled as fast as they could, mumbling something unpleasant in their incomprehensible accent.
There was a small white church on the other side of the road and Billings suddenly saw an old white-haired vicar peeking at him through the crack of the door.
“Excuse me,” he said, hurrying towards the church. “I’m looking for the house of Lorna Lochrane.”
Another bitter gust of wind swept down the road and the vicar clung tightly to the door, doing his best to prevent it from opening further.
“She’s nae there,” he said, looking curiously at the detective through his eyeglasses. “She’s at work. Who are you?”
“My name is Detective Sergeant John Billings.”
“From Wigtown?”
“No, from London. I wish to speak to her about Brendan Lochrane.”
“Brendan Lochrane, eh? We had some officers from Wigtown here only a few days ago. You’ve located him then?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t ye come in, Sergeant.” The vicar opened the door. “It’ll be quieter inside and Lorna won’t be back till six. Come into the back room, I’ve got a fire lit in there.”
Billings followed the vicar to the room at the back of the church. A fire was roaring away and the room was glowing delightfully. A chair with a blanket draped over it had been placed in front of the fire place. A bottle of whiskey stood on a little table by the chair, next to an open book.
“I like to sit in here in-between services,” said the vicar. “Much warmer than the draughty old vicarage. Grab yourself a chair, Sergeant, and bring it by the fire.”
The vicar nestled himself under his blanket while Billings grabbed a chair and placed it by the fireplace.
“Do you know Brendan Lochrane?” he asked.
“Aye, of course I do. How couldn’t I? He’s been living amongst us for nearly ten years. Will ye share a dram of whiskey with me?”
“No, thank you.”
“Go on. It’ll warm you up.” The vicar poured a glass and handed it to Billings. He took it reluctantly. “I heard he was in London,” he said. “In jail.”
“That’s right.”
“Killed someone, I heard.”
“He’s been accused of murdering Lord Palmer.”
“Och, dear me.” The vicar shook his head and tutted. “That is a shame. But not entirely unexpected.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ll have read all about him, no doubt. About how he came to live among us.”
“No, I know nothing about him.”
“Oh, but my good man! It’s been in the local newspaper and everything. It was quite a sensation at the time.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Well, I can show ye.” The vicar got up excitedly and hurried towards the bookcase. “I should have a clipping somewhere,” he said as he searched through his books. “A young reporter from Glasgow came here a few years ago and wrote a whole article about it. Ah, here it is.” He pulled out a large album and started leafing through it. “I collect articles about the Isle. I plan to write a history at some point before I die. This place has a rich history, you know? Birth place of St Ninian. Christener of the Picts. Ah, here we go. This is it.”
He handed Billings the opened album. A newspaper article had been cut out and stuck on its pages. The title read: ’Brendan - The Mystery of a Stranger Stranded on the Galloway Coast’.
Billings looked up at the vicar, surprised.
“That’s right,” the vicar said nodding proudly. “He was washed up on our shore. Swept in by the sea.”
“Where from?”
“No one knows. He never said. No tongue, you know?” He laughed. “Ye can take it with ye, if you want.” And without waiting for a reply, he took the album, ripped out the article and handed it to the detective. “I have other papers. I can make new cuttings.”
“Thank you,” said Billings, folding the article and putting it in his pocket. “What kind of man was he?”
“What kind of man?”
“You said you weren’t surprised that he had killed someone.”
“Och, well he was a queer fellow. Not quite right in the head, if ye know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, he did some peculiar things. Had a habit of torturing himself.”
“Torturing himself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some of the villagers started reading all sorts of things into it. They saw parallels with the events described in the bible. I had to warn them in a sermon not to confuse mania and delusion with godliness. Brendan was not a sane man and he caused a lot of suffering to Lorna.”
“His wife?”
“No, they were never married. Lochrane is not his name. It’s hers. We don’t know his real surname. But he lived with her. She looked after him. No, he wasn’t a pleasant man. And I don’t just mean the putrid smell that hung about him. He was peculiar. Difficult. It all had to do with his past, I’m sure. Something very traumatic must have happened to him that has made him want to forget it all and start again. That’s what he came here for, in my opinion. To be reborn. Where are you staying? You’re not planning to go back to Whithorn tonight, are you? You won’t find anyone to take you at night.”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Why don’t you stay at the Old Anchor Inn? It’s just down the road. It’s where all the passengers for the Liverpool ferry stay. Have ye yer night clothes with ye?” he said, looking at the detective’s satchel.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Hers is the last house on the street. She should be back by seven. Would ye like another sip, Detective Sergeant?” he said, holding up the bottle.
“No, thank you.” Billings got up. “I think I’ll book myself into the inn and read that article. You have been very helpful. Thank you very much.”
*
Brendan - The Mystery of a Stranger Stranded on the Galloway Coast.
by Angus McVey
It was a cold winter in February, 1885. The Galloway coast had been battered repeatedly by severe storms for several days and there were no signs of the winds abating. I was on my way to visit my aunt in Liverpool, but no ships would set sail under these conditions and so I became stranded on the Isle. There I sat in the Old Anchor Inn, moping over a mug of ale waiting for the weather to ease, when all of a sudden a panicked crowd of men entered the inn accompanying a heavily bleeding man towards the bar.
The Ornamental Hermit Page 11
