“Yes.”
“So, did you choose the name, or did it appear out of nowhere?”
“I don’t remember. I suppose it just appeared; why?”
“How about the surname?”
Tamsyn shrugged.
“It just popped into my head.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“I just thought it was a variation of Morgan.”
“It is, but do you know who Morrghan was?”
“There was someone called Morrghan?”
“Morrghan was a Celtic Goddess of war.”
“No?”
“I promise; I had to look it up.”
“That is creepy.”
Gwen smiled.
“We’ve really made progress; I’m thrilled. However, I need to research Brandt. I suggest you, little Goddess, go back and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
Tamsyn finished her now cold tea and left, feeling apprehensive and yet, excited about the future.
Chapter Eight
Miriam was surprised to be met by reporters at the airport in Newark. She’d made some brief comments to a reporter in London but never expected to suddenly be faced by a barrage of cameramen and reporters as soon as she appeared through the arrivals door in the terminal.
Her eldest son, Morris was also there to meet her. The pair struggled through the crowd to the car. They had no opportunity to speak, as there was a microphone or six thrust in her face all the way out. They kept asking her how she felt or whether she had killed her husband or whether he had faked his own death to cash in on the insurance money. Eventually, two airport cops cleared the reporters away and escorted them to their car.
“What the hell is that all about?” she asked, once they were in the car and headed away from the airport.
“Hell, Mom, I don’t know. Just what happened to Dad?”
Miriam shook her head, unable to voice what had been going through her mind constantly since the English cop had given her the news.
“They said he jumped off a cliff.”
“You mean it was suicide? Dad? Never!”
“He even left a note.”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes, they showed me a photocopy. They’re keeping it, as there might be an inquest when they find the body.”
“If you mean? The chances of them finding him aren’t good from the ocean. What did the note say?”
Miriam was quiet. The emotions she had held in check came bubbling to the surface, along with all her feelings of resentment, anger and most of all - guilt. She started to cry soundlessly next to her son.
Morris felt helpless. They were not a close family, but he had been fond of his Dad. They all found their mother difficult, but decided to pull together to get her though this time. Morris had been married (now recently divorced), so was only too happy to come home, as finding somewhere reasonable to live on a restricted income was proving a challenge.
“Mom, the note?”
“He said he was sorry, but he was in a dark place and couldn’t see any other way out. He hoped that without him I’d be able to find some happiness as clearly I was miserable with every moment he was there.”
Morris had nothing to say, for he believed that his Dad had been a saint to put up with his mother’s laziness and constant whining.
“It’s not my fault, is it?” she asked.
“Mom, these things are complicated.”
“It is my fault!” she wailed, and turned on the tears with greater enthusiasm. She was exceptionally gifted in wallowing in self-pity as a strategy to exude sympathy to blur the facts of any given situation.
On arrival at the apartment, they were relieved to discover that no press were waiting for them. After unpacking the car, Morris helped her go through Allun’s desk and filing cabinet.
Allun was a precise and meticulous record keeper. The files were up to date and well ordered. Life insurance had a file of its own, so Morris was able to locate the policy documents and call the insurance company.
Needless to say, without a body or coroner’s certification as to life extinct, they took details of the claim and stated that they would need confirmation from the English authorities before any claim could be considered. Thankfully, there was no clause relating to suicide being a disqualification to a claim.
“So, how much is he worth?” Miriam asked.
Morris looked through the papers, then frowned and went through them again.
“Six hundred thousand dollars, near as dammit!”
“What?”
“It looks like if he dies, you get six hundred thousand dollars.”
She forgot to snivel or cry.
“Who do I have to call in England to get this coroner guy to get a move on?”
Matthew shut the sword away feeling increasingly frustrated. He knew that somewhere there was someone who would be able to help identify and translate the writing on the sword. That would give him an indication as to its origin. He was beginning to suspect that this sword belonged to an older group than the invading Saxons, which would make it even more valuable.
The irony was that by removing it from the dig, he would have to be very careful as to whom he showed it, for it was a priceless artefact and would not normally be in a private collector’s hands.
Vic Smith had replied to his email. He had been right, as Vic was a transgender woman who had been Victor, having transitioned four years previously. The game had been created out of the memory of visiting Falmouth and seeing the tree. With additional material gleaned from various Arthurian legends, she had no ulterior motive when she sold it to the software company, who developed it further and marketed it.
That was a dead end.
He had logged into the RPG once over the last few days, and all that did was raise his level of frustration. The girl, Tamsyn, had not logged in for many days now, so even the other players were asking where she could have got to. He tried to ascertain her origins, but the other gamers were vague. One suggested she came from the East coast of America, only by virtue of the sorts of times she would normally log in.
This reinforced his earlier guess because of her written English, but it probably meant she was simply playing a game and nothing of her curiosity related to reality. He did not normally believe in coincidences, so vowed to keep an eye out for her on the game site.
On a Saxon history blog site, he asked the question: ‘I’m researching a Saxon warrior called Brandt, recently found in an old burial site in Bedfordshire. Anyone with any information about such a character, please share any details.’
Much to his surprise, two days later an amateur historian with the initials GT added his or her question to his: ‘A Saxon called Brandt was alleged to have conquered the Celts in Cornwall. Interested to know where he died, and under what circumstances.’
He replied: ‘No circumstances known, His body was discovered in a formal burial mound at Fullburough Manor in Bedford as befitting a chief or important person. Would be interested in all details of Cornish connection.’
GT wrote back: ‘Brandt responsible for massacre of old Celtic royal family and theft of what is believed to be the Royal Sword of the local kings. Was a sword discovered bearing ancient inscription?’
He wrote back: ‘No sword discovered but many artefacts now in local museum. Please give email details for further contact.’
GT claimed to be a woman who worked at the local tourist centre in Falmouth who was interested in Cornish History and languages. He now had a possible contact that could help him decipher the writing on the sword.
It was a couple of days before she met up with Tamsyn again. The girl had been quite busy at the guest house as the summer arrivals were now coming in some numbers. The guesthouse was full, and as the new arrivals were getting sorted, it took more effort at the beginning and end of their weeks.