But further sleep was out of the question. The din was becoming louder and more agitated. They were talking, I gathered, in Welsh: I couldn’t understand a single word.
I got up, got more or less dressed, and went out into the corridor. There I met my acquaintance from the previous night, John Griffith, with two more giants in fancy dress and two housemaids, in very little dress at all. But the scene was no cheerfully amoral idyll. John Griffith was no longer a figure to strike fear. His Shakespearean doublet was unbuttoned, revealing his nightshirt. His colleague had a halberd in his hand, but was holding it upside down, like a broom.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
They stared at me, without reply. There was more jabbering in Welsh. Then they all ran off down the corridor.
I ran after them. By now I too was thoroughly agitated.
We stopped in a vast, barely furnished room, and listened. From some distance away, strange noises could be heard — as if someone were praying, in a sort of chant.
“Sir, just now he was speaking English, but now I’ve no idea what it means.”
I listened closer, and understood.
“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra … ”
It was the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, intoned as for Mass.
“Who could be saying Mass here?” I asked.
“Mass? Oh my God!” one of the girls exclaimed, and promptly began to sob. For the Methodist Welsh, Roman Catholicism is still the work of Satan.
“It’s been going on all night,” said Griffith. “Praying and wailing, and speaking in tongues. Earlier on, it started humming, like this:”
And he hummed the Marseillaise.
“But who is it?”
“We can’t find him. We’ve searched everywhere. We just can’t find him.”
Suddenly we heard footsteps approaching. The girls fled, shrieking, into a far corner. The man with the halberd levelled his weapon at the door.
The door opened.
In stepped Cynthia, clad in some sort of riding costume, with a revolver in her hand. She was obviously enjoying the role of intrepid Amazon.
“Hands up!” she shouted at us.
We raised our hands. She recognised us, and we lowered them. She blushed, and apologised.
“So you heard it too? What is it?”
But the noise had gone quiet. Griffith told Cynthia what he knew, while she stared uncomprehendingly.
“Singing the Marseillaise, and intoning Mass? These motifs are unprecedented in the history of the house. In fact, quite alien to the folklore of these parts. We really must note them down.”
Again footsteps could be heard, more rapid this time, and another footman burst in.
“He’s in the library. Definitely the library.”
We hurried off towards the library. At the great oak door Griffith and his companions stopped and stood, awe-struck. There is something thoroughly daunting about a closed door.
By now the voice was clearly audible.
“And when the Lamb shall break open the seal, the angel shall sound his trumpet, and the Horsemen will appear … The First Horseman shall ride a white horse, a bow in his hand, and a crown on his head … ”
The visitation spoke in a sonorous, if somewhat nasal voice, with a distinct Welsh accent. It was rather like the way Swabians speak Hungarian, saying ‘b’ for ‘p’, and ‘d’ for ‘t’. And it was having trouble with the ‘s’ as well, lisping, as Welsh peasants often do.
“Why, it’s Pierce Gwyn Mawr,” exclaimed Griffith.
And indeed it was. It was repeating what the prophet had said earlier, word for word.
“Impossible,” said the man with the halberd. “Every entrance is locked. There’s no way he could have got in.”
“Oh my God,” cried one of the girls. “Ghosts can pass through keyholes.”
“How could it be the ghost of old Pierce?” said another. “He’s still alive.”
“It could be his double. It happened to my uncle. It went and got completely drunk down at the Elephant, and the next day he had to pay the whole bill.”
“Let’s just go in,” I suggested. It had dawned on me what all this was about.
But only Cynthia and I dared enter. We switched the light on, and the voice immediately stopped. Cynthia’s face was extremely solemn, and a little fearful.
“The moment has arrived,” I said. “You may be present at the birth of a new family legend.”
We searched the library high and low. We looked behind every curtain. One by one the others came and joined in. But in vain. Half an hour went by, but the voice remained silent. Then I had an idea.
“Let’s move on,” I said. “He isn’t here, he’s in the room above. The sound is coming down the chimney breast, through the open fireplace. That’s why it seems to be coming from here.”
Griffith and his entourage rushed out of the room. I manoeuvred the situation so that Cynthia and I lingered behind. By the time we reached the door the others were well down the corridor. I pulled Cynthia back into the library, gestured for her to keep silent, and turned the light off.
The moment darkness returned, the apparition resumed its chanting. It continued reciting the Book of the Apocalypse from exactly where it had left off.
Cynthia gripped my arm in fear. It made me feel like a strong, protective male, and I put my arm around her. Then I stroked her hair, to give her courage. She did not protest.
I blessed the worthy domestic ghost for providing me with that one moment of closeness, which was to lead to far greater intimacy and tenderness. Now we were linked together: we had a shared memory, and a shared secret.
I took her by the hand and led her on tiptoe to the fireplace. There was no longer any doubt that this was where the sound was coming from.
I bent down and pointed my torch upwards. It was just as I had thought. Squatting in the chimney, in the foetal position, was Osborne. From the gramophone on his lap the voice of Pierce Gwyn Mawr continued to declaim the Book of the Apocalypse.
“Hide and seek, Osborne?” I said. “We’ve found you. Down you come, little boy.”
He climbed down, showering soot everywhere and looking very pleased with himself. “Pretty good, hey, Doctor? I’m particularly chuffed with the old man’s solo. I recorded it this afternoon. If you can keep mum, it’ll be the start of a new legend. Tomorrow the Reverend and his sister will reveal their metapsychic explanation of how the prophet managed to say his piece at Llanvygan House, and a hundred years from now the Cynthia of the day will pronounce it yet another fascinating bit of lore, to be collected and posted off to The Brython. Now come on up to my room and let’s drink a Hennessy to the terrors of the night.”
We followed him up. It was the first time I had seen his room. It was fantastic. I think the intention was to recreate a tropical bungalow. There was no bed, just a hammock. Every bit of furniture was made of bamboo, and suspended from the walls. At their foot, a little ditch ran right round the room, filled with water.
“To keep snakes out,” he explained. “Cynthia, you must drink to sibling love. Properly speaking, we are co-workers. I create the legend, you record it. Doctor, you are perhaps not aware what an eminent folklorist my sister is. She has published two articles.”
“Oh, shush!” Cynthia exclaimed.
He took down a journal from the wall. It was entitled The Brython. He opened it at a short item of twenty lines on ‘Christmas country dances of Merioneth’. It was signed: ‘Hon Cynthia Pendragon, Llanvygan.’