Phil Rickman - The Fabric of Sin

‘So …’ He sat down, leaning back, composed. ‘You wanted to ask me about the Master House.’

Behind his head was a large framed print: an engraving of a robed man with a forked beard, sitting in a Gothic canopied throne, holding a sceptre.

No prizes.

‘You do realize,’ Sycharth Gwilym said, ‘that the house hasn’t been in my family for over a century?’

‘I do know that. But it does seem to have been occupied by Gwilyms for several centuries before that.’

‘I’m not entirely sure about Gwilyms, as such , but various of my ancestors, yes.’

Start off with the routine stuff. Merrily brought out a pad and a pencil.

‘Do you know exactly how long the family was there?’

‘I do not know when the family was not there. Although records – such as they are – go back no further than the fifteenth century.’

‘That would be the time of the Owain Glyndwr rebellion.’

‘Indeed. Mrs Watkins, may I … inquire the purpose of this? The stories I hear about the nature of your mission to Garway are probably far more lurid than the truth.’

Merrily told him why the late Felix Barlow had refused to work in the Master House, what had happened to Felix and Fuchsia, and he lifted his jaw.

‘Oh. Not more lurid then.’

He didn’t smile. There was always a point, during every inquiry of this kind, where you felt fairly foolish, where you thought, What am I doing here ?

‘Mr Gwilym, look, I’m well aware that we live in a secular age and most people consider me some kind of anachronism and the basis of my job barely rational, but …’

He didn’t say anything. Why should he? Let her squirm.

‘… All I can say is that sometimes I’ve been able to help people feel more comfortable about their situations or a particular place.’

Sycharth Gwilym crossed his legs.

‘And who would you be helping in this particular instance, Mrs Watkins? The Prince of Wales?’

‘Well, I don’t imagine anyone knows, at this stage, who’ll eventually be occupying the Master House. We’d just like them not to be bothered by whatever remains of whoever was there before them. Or whatever they did.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘If you like.’

‘By which you mean the spirits of the dead?’

‘Or aspects of memory. Lingering guilt.’

Sycharth Gwilym nodded patiently.

‘I appreciate, Mrs Watkins, that you are doing your best to tread carefully, and I shall try to assist you however I can.’

‘Thank you.’

He extended a hand, offering her the floor.

It seemed a wide and exposed area.

SHE SAT IN the grey swivel chair, trying not to think of cigarettes.

‘Do you remember the last time you were in the Master House, Mr Gwilym?’

He didn’t hesitate, nodding in a resigned way.

‘Yes, I am rather afraid that I do.’

‘When would that have been?’

‘Oh … more than thirty years ago, certainly. I was a young man. I’d been invited, along with other local youngsters, to a party – the kind of party I would not attend today, but I expect that in your own, clearly more recent, youth, you also …?’

Gwilym said that the Master House had been leased by the Newtons to a group of people who had money to spare, took drugs and behaved with … a certain lack of inhibition. He supposed that, as country kids, they’d been fascinated and flattered to be invited to join in, half-expecting celebrities to be there.

Merrily said, ‘So that would’ve been you and …?’

‘Mainly young women – perhaps another reason I was keen to go.’

‘Do you remember their names, by any chance?’

Do you remember the black girl?

A minimal shake of the head. Pointless asking that at this stage.

‘And what happened at the party?’

‘I was offered cannabis, which I felt obliged to take. And which must have had an effect because I recall very little of what happened afterwards.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Although I do remember, towards midnight, someone suggesting that – given the age of the house and its atmosphere by candlelight – we should hold a sort of seance. With the intention of making contact with the dead.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘I doubt whether there’s a logical answer to that.’

‘A sort of seance?’

‘I do remember some of the people there being excited to discover that many generations of my family had lived in the house. Someone suggested that it would be interesting for me to be put in touch with my ancestors.’

‘How did you feel about that?’

‘Hardly in a position – or, I would guess, in any state – to say no.’

‘And how did they go about it?’

‘All a blur, I’m afraid, Mrs Watkins.’

‘Ouija board?’

‘You mean letters and an upturned glass? Not that I recall .’

‘Do you remember which of your ancestors they were trying to reach?’

‘I imagine any one of them would have been more than welcome. Why? Do you think we might somehow have conjured up something that is still, ah, walking the place?’

‘It’s just that … your first name, the names of several of your forebears and your son seem to correspond to a particular pattern. One called Owain. Then there was Gruffydd. And Fychan?’

‘My father. And my great-grandfather.’

Merrily looked up at the engraving of the fork-bearded man with the sceptre.

‘The last man to try to bring about an independent Wales by force, in the fifteenth century – having himself declared Prince of Wales – was Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan.’

Was that an actual movement in Sycharth’s sleepy eyes?

‘Widely known as Owain Glyndwyr. And his father’s name …’ Merrily consulted the pad ‘… was, I believe, Gruffydd Fychan ap Madog .’

‘You have a better knowledge of Welsh history than most of your countrymen, Mrs Watkins.’

‘Welsh friends. Now. Owain’s father, I think, was baron of somewhere called … Cynllaith Owain ?’

No reaction.

‘And Glyndwr’s own mansion in north-east Wales was, of course, called … Sycharth .’

‘Well done indeed, Mrs Watkins.’

‘So the Gwilyms have a family tradition of male children being given names connected with Owain Glyndwr. Who is said to have stayed at the Master House while on the run from the English, after his campaign collapsed.’

‘I believe that is the story, yes.’

‘One your family is evidently very proud of.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose we are. Especially now, in a time when Owain’s vision is becoming reality. How gratified he would be to see the formation of the Welsh Assembly … as a start. Not yet enough, but a start.’

‘And all done without anyone being killed,’ Merrily said. ‘Or a single castle being burned to the ground.’

‘Yes, quite a number of castles in this area were destroyed. And people killed. Still, many landowning families in the vicinity of Garway supported his campaign. The whole area – even as far as Hereford itself – had been part of the old Wales, and allegiances remain to this day.’

‘And here he is on your wall, here in England. The Mab Darogan – Son of Prophecy? Who, according to legend, never died, just faded into the landscape of his beloved Wales, until such time as Wales has need of him again.’

‘I am a fan,’ Mr Gwilym said.

‘But if his daughter was at Kentchurch Court, just down the valley, why would he need to spend time at the Master House?’

‘To his enemies, Kentchurch would have been a rather obvious place to go. Not that he didn’t, but …’