Sir Lucas believed that our next useful inquiry would take us to the constabulary to visit the constable, a man named Baen Burnell. His constabulary was an orderly building, as fitted an officer of the peace. The old tan stone was lovingly maintained and the windows were all recently-washed. Instead, too, everything seemed to have its proper place with chairs tucked up tightly against tables, papers properly stored, and so on. It was a welcome change of setting from Doctor Yeoman’s dilapidated offices from the prior day. The constabulary even had a nice smell with crisp clean air and a hint of burning wood from the fireplace.
Mr. Burnell himself was a cherubic and jovial man, fairly tall with a large frame and an ample mat of black hair that he swept up and back. As best as I could tell, he was perhaps about forty years old, maybe a year or two younger. He received us in his office at the rear of the constabulary. His dawdling old assistant, Marcus, showed us in and offered us tea with a splash of honey.
“So, you fine gentlemen just got into Ruthin yesterday,” he said with a cheery lilt in a slightly high pitched voice. “Whaddya think so far?”
“I have no complaints, Mr Burnell,” I replied respectfully.
“Please, you can call me Baen.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, though I thought it poor practice for an officer of the law to be so familiar with those he had just met. It was of little consequence to me, however. It was not as though I intended to long remain in Ruthin.
“We do have some questions for you, on behalf of His Majesty’s government,” I said. “Would that be permissible with you?”
“Oh, I suppose now.”
“Good,” I smiled. “You submitted reports that found there way to London and even on the Prime Minister’s desk. They were reports of strange happenings, including—”
He motioned for us to quiet ourselves.
“And ya think it’s a good idea to come ‘ere and just start blabbin’ around about it all like that?” he shrieked.
I smiled at that reaction as it was confirmation of everything important that he, or an underling of his, had written. Two murders, one of which had been highly ritualistic based on the mutilations on the man’s body. Several disappearances in the farms around Ruthin, leading Mr. Burnell to report them as presumed kidnappings. Reports of strange chanting. Rumors of a restless spirit seen lurking atop Moel Famau. On and one it had gone and Mr. Burnell’s reports were hardly the only ones from the Vale of Clwyd.
“We intend to be very discreet, Mr. Burn—I mean, Baen,” I assured him, looking behind me to indicate to my boys that it would be wise for one of them to close the door. John did so after some delay at my unspoken order. “It’s not our intention to parade around Ruthin as though we are some manner of brass band. We come here for a specific reason that reason alone.”
“So, what’s that?” Burnell inquired, his head extended forward and his eyes bulging.
“His Majesty has been afflicted by what appears to be some supernatural manipulation,” I said before pausing to gauge the constable’s reaction. His lack of surprise struck me as promising. “We have reason to believe that Ruthin and the Vale of Clwyd more broadly are central to the problem. I won’t trouble you with all of the details, but—”
“An’ I don’t want to ‘ear ‘em,” Burnell said, reverting to what I imagine was his original Scottish accent. He had given indications of his origins a few times in how he spoke, but under stress he gave up more. The constable looked surprised that his speech had slipped. “Sorry. Old habit.”
“Are you from Scotland, sir?” I asked as a brief change of topic.
“Originally. Migrated down this way via promotions and the like and now I find myself policing the ‘Jewel of Clwyd’ as some fool called it to me,” Burnell said mockingly. He then got very sad. Following a deep breath, he took a sip of tea. “Well, that’s for another time. But you want to get to the bottom of this, right?”
“That would be correct.”
“Well, there was somethin’ recently. One of those men gone missin’, he’s a very good friend of mine. Jack. Jack Walker. Has a good business fixin’ farm tools and the like,” Burnell said, motioning his hands like he was a tinkerer. “Also makes lil’ trinkets for people. He gives me the nicest jewels and such for my birthday.”
Burnell paused and his face glowed momentarily as he stared off. I exchanged a quizzical look with Sir Lucas during the brief interlude.
“Anyway,” Burnell resumed, “he says to me that he’s found somethin’ in the castle, Ruthin Castle. It’d take some diggin’ in the old grounds, but he thought it was some kind of buried treasure. Maybe somethin’ someone was trying to ‘ide from Cromwell way back when. He went stompin’ ‘round there one night and suddenly, poof. Gone without a trace.”
“And you’ve searched the castle grounds?” John, standing over my shoulder, asked.
“Well, no. That place scares me ‘alf to death!” Burnell protested, recoiling in his chair. “Once you’ve seen some of the strange shit ‘round ‘ere, you’re not likely to go pokin’ ‘round in the dark! Good way to end up missin’ yerself!”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Given an experience I had with a banshee near Kew, I can’t say—”
“A banshee?” Burnell exclaimed.
“To be more precise, a Welsh version the, um… It starts with a—”
“Cyhyraeth,” Robert mumbled disinterestedly from my left.
“Yes, thank you,” I acknowledged his help.
“Ohhhh. Those are bad,” Burnell frowned. “One ‘round here. Well, there were two I had heard, but one ‘pparently went off somewhere. Some of the strange folk ‘round here would talk about these two sisters, the cyhyraeths. One ghostly white and the other red as blood itself.”
I could feel my stomach clench so tightly I thought it would never feel right again. The thought of having to confront yet another of those foul creatures was far too much. I tried even imagining what this blood-hued banshee would look like. Each time part of my mind tried to conjure an image, the rest of my mind thought better of it and prevented it.
“That would seem to fit the facts, yes, yes,” Sir Lucas said in my stead while I recovered from my shock at what Burnell suggested. “I think we should have a look at the castle grounds. Does that seem like where this banshee, or cyhyraeth, might be?”
“No idea,” Burnell said. “That isn’t somethin’ I know precise kinds of details about. It could be somethin’ entirely different there. It’s not like we only ‘ave one problem ‘round here.”
“Understood,” I sighed. “Do you have anyone we can talk to who might be able to furnish us with some more information?”
Burnell took in a deep breath and motioned with his right hand’s thumb toward the southeast.
“For the really strange things ‘round here, I always start with Adam Jones. You’ll find ‘im almost every damn moment at the Boar’s Tusk. Man has always had a lot to drink, but it’s gotten worse lately.”
“Much obliged,” I said, rising from my chair. “I think, come nightfall, we will have a good look at the castle grounds and do so in force. You are welcome to join.”
“Probably a good idea,” Burnell awkwardly chuckled.
Once we concluded with the honourable constable, we made for the Boar’s Tusk directly across the market square. The snow fell heavily that day and I did not observe that anyone was stalking our party or otherwise watching us. Indeed, the town seemed subdued on account of the poor weather.
Part of that appeared to be explained by the heavy attendance in the Boar’s Tusk, where nearly every seat and table was occupied by men and women drearily sipping at their ales. A fiddler played in the far left corner, providing a constant morose melody to make the place truly dismal. It was an orderly enough place for a tavern, though it had the ever-present smells of sweaty unwashed bodies, remnants of food, and impolite gases provided by the patrons.
I instructed my sons Robert and Thomas to go back to the inn as we did not wish to make too disruptive of a presence. Instead I was accompanied only by John and Sir Lucas. We walked up to the counter where the tavernkeeper, a short and fat bald man with a wild beard, stood waiting for us to order.
“’ello, pals,” he said. “What can I do ya for?”
“We are looking for a man named Jones,” I said.
He laughed.
“Gonna ‘ave to do better than that. One in five men in this town’re named Jones,” he snickered. “This is Clwyd. Joneses are e’rywhere.”
“Adam Jones,” I said politely.
“Ah. He’s always ‘ere,” the man said. “Back right against the window. Tall man, red beard. Can’t miss ‘im.”
“Much obliged,” I mumbled.
We saw Mr. Jones right where the tavernkeeper said he would be, tucked him in the corner with three empty pints of ale in front of him. He also made steady progress on the fourth. Sure enough, he had a bright red beard with a few flecks of grey growing in and must have stood well over six feet, though I only observed that later when he stood up. Discerning his age was difficult as he looked to be fairly well along in his life, but then again a steady diet of gin and beer ravages a man’s body. I wagered from the stench wafting off of him that he was still inebriated on gin from the night before.
“Mr. Jones?” John rumbled as he stood over the table.
“Yeah? Who’s askin’?” Jones replied in a slur, his eyes only partially open.
“My name is John Willis and I—”
“Alright, Johnnie, I wasn’t actually interested,” Jones guffawed. “Just sit yerselves down. I won’t ‘member yer names in an hour anyway.”
After we were seated, I decided to ask a simple probing question to test the seriousness of this man.
"Mr. Jones, do you even know what day it is?" I asked sternly.
"Ehhh... at least the 10th."
"The 19th."
"Heh,” he chuckled. “Shit. Well, I wasn’t wrong."
Sir Lucas, sitting to my right, was not so much perturbed by Mr. Jones’ extraordinary level of intoxication as he was fascinated. With his deep and probing stares, I wondered if Sir Lucas realized that Mr. Jones was not yet a corpse. He seemed to show no signs of concern over the propriety of gawking in such a way. For his part, Mr. Jones paid it no mind.
“Mr. Burnell said that you might help us with a line of inquiry regarding happenings in Clwyd,” I stated with a biting tone, only barely masking my abject contempt for this man.
“Baen said that? Hm,” he grunted. “Lots of things ‘appen in Clwyd. We’re ‘appening in Clwyd right now!”
“Strange things, specifically,” I clarified.
“Depends what ya mean by strange.”
“I think you know full well what I mean.”
“Gonna ‘ave to be clearer than that.”
I sighed and rose from the table.
“I’ll have to return to Mr. Burnell and tell him that you are far too drunk to be of any use to me,” I lashed out.
“It’s ‘cause of all those strange things ya speak of that I’ve been drinkin’ so much,” Jones said, chuckling and motioning for me to sit back down.
“And how is it exactly that drinking yourself into the abyss helps anything?” I scolded him.
“Ah. Lots of folks ‘round ‘ere ‘ave been losing their minds lately. Seems that whatever’s doin’ it doesn’t work as well when yer drunk off yer ass.”
“You can’t be serious,” John said.
“Aye. God’s honest truth,” Jones gruffly replied, a hearty belch escaping his mouth. “It’s either be drunk or crazy and dammit I’ve made my choice.”
Without any method for determining whether Mr. Jones was telling us the truth, I was left to take him at his word. Somehow, by his telling, heroic levels of inebriation were indeed a method of forestalling the corruption of the mind by these sinister forces.
“Also, we should take this somewhere else,” Jones said. “I don’t wanna be talking ‘bout such things right ‘ere.”
We followed Mr. Jones to the rim of the town. His rundown home was on the outer edge pointing toward Moel Famau. Every step we took toward that mountain left me with a greater sense of foreboding than the one before. I could not help but feel that it was from that precipice that our foe awaited us.