Tales From The Hanged Man

By Peter Wallace

There is an old coaching inn that stands alone on the edge of the village of Wynding, say some that it is but a ruin and only a memory of lichen scarred stone and rotted timbers, but others... well that is a different story. And this volume is a collection of four of them that may give cause to wonder if...

The Hanged Man is more than an Inn and has not only withstood the ravages of time but has become part of the very fabric of it. Pause your weary journey through the hum-drum of life and rest a spell here and meet a few of the regulars, for here is many a tale told when the old sign creaks and a solitary owl calls in the night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Foye
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301084258

Peter Wallace

I began my writing career with thoughts of the 'Tales From The Hanged Man' while driving along the M5 heading south to my adopted home in Cornwall. We live there now part of the year and absolutely love everything about it. I write mainly for my own pleasure but if it gives a small measure of distraction to a reader then I am doubly happy.

Book preview

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Tales From The Hanged Man

by

Peter Wallace

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Tales From The Hanged Man

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Peter Wallace

Copyright © 2013 by the author:

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet via any other means without permission of the author is illegal.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published by Peter Wallace at Smashwords

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Smashwords Edition License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may notbe resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you arereading this book and didnot purchase it and it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard workof the author.

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Tales From The Hanged Man

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Author's Dedication:

For our children

Jo, Simon, Daniel and Kevin

and our grandchildren

Ollie, Harry, Ilya and Alfie,

and all who have enjoyed reading these stories.

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Table of Contents

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The Wynding Road

Gallowsman

Purgatory

Wolfshead

About The Author

Also Published

The Winding Road

It began one night on a lonely deserted road; a road in the grip of winter’s thrall. For Tom Penryth, a travelling man, who had driven too long without rest or sleep, it had been a journey of need. He needed the trip to get out of the office, away from the boss, away from the desk, that big horrible metallic slab on legs, festooned with sheets of computer generated paper, covered in ‘cyberbabble’ business speak.

To get away, to get out, that was his aim. He remembered the office, looking at his unused, glass ash tray resting on the side of the desk being used as a paper weight, looking at his silent phone then as he stared at his computer screen flickering, catching his attention, but it was only the ‘screen saver’. It was because he was bored-to-death that his mind was re-running events like an old movie, trying to find a way through the intricate plot.

The wife, the wife, must phone the wife. No, she’s not there, she’s out, gone to a meeting ___ what meeting? Where? His mind now drifting, not concentrating, the car suddenly lost traction, sliding, skidding.

Oh my God, shit!

The thought came fast, the steering wheel was a live thing, slipping, twisting, squirming in his grasp. Now staring in panic through the Volvo’s windscreen he saw the snow, swirling and flailing in chaotic clouds of bright white flakes. Not pretty little Christmas card crystals but huge doily sized lacy things, overlapping and sticking to the glass.

I can’t see, can’t see, were the words he screamed at the curving screen and then the carousel ride ended abruptly, the car lurching one last time, with an ominous thump, as the front end pitched sickenly downwards and all forward motion ceased.

But Tom’s did not. The dynamics of the event induced Tom’s body to leave the well upholstered, contoured seat, only to be smoothly restrained as the safety system re-acted on cue, with the pre-tensioned belt snapping him back into position. For several seconds he hung in the straps, his head dazed with the speed of the crash and a throbbing sensation in his right temple.

My God, oh shit! his voice gurgled in his parched throat, his hand going to his bruised head, rubbing hard at the greying hair-line just forward of his right ear.

It felt as though, some giant flat, fingered hand was gripping his heaving chest and preventing his lungs from drawing in more air. Another shower of huge blustery flakes hit the windscreen like strange alien moths landing simultaneously. Tom stared without understanding that the powers of reason had been delayed by shock. At last he began to take stock of the situation. The car had obviously hit a patch of snow and had skidded from the road onto the verge and finishing nose down into this drainage ditch.

The halogen headlights burned as bright as twin suns, giving Tom a surreal view of life in a snow-filled ditch. Reaching across, he switched them off, now realising that the engine had stalled and there was no point in restarting yet. Wriggling in the belts made it possible for Tom to squirm around and press the release with his left hand.

Ah, relief! he thought, now free and calmer, allowing his thoughts to gently flow once more. Heart rate returning to normal and impact shock wearing off, his mind drifted to earlier events of the day.

Tom! Tom Penryth! it was his boss, ‘Big Brian’, ‘My-door-is-always-open-Brian’. A heavily built, over-weight and over-bearing man, with a wolf-like grin. Here was ‘Essex Man’, the ‘I’ve-been-there-done –it-all" man, and everybody’s genial friend. That is on the surface. I was wary of him for good reason.

Come into the office, got a little job you might like, sounding like some great favour was about to be dispensed.

Hurriedly rising from behind his computer screen, spilling coffee ringed sheets onto the floor, Tom had hastily dodged around the desk and swivel office chairs to follow Brian into what was known to the office generally as the ‘Inner Sanctum’. As the door closed the office life continued with workers heads bent down and hands feverishly beating at keyboards or grabbing at silent phones. This industrious activity had only just started a few seconds before the boss’ appearance, as if in response to an unspoken warning but it was in fact the click of his office door catch that triggered it all.

The job was to deliver a consignment of reams of high-grade photo print paper, collected from the main store warehouse in Milton Keynes and to be taken to one of our long term major clients in the West Country on the Somerset, North Devon border. The Rep who should have taken it yesterday had dashed off to The General Maternity Hospital, where his wife was giving birth to their third child. In all the excitement this order had been overlooked and all other Reps had already gone their separate ways to other far-flung parts of the Kingdom.

With the mission brief over and sent on his way with a sweating pudgy hand swatting at his shoulder, Tom was out of the office at a pace. Grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and made his way to Dispatch to collect the keys to the office car, a silver-grey Volvo Estate, bottom of the range, but it was a new-ish Volvo.

Brrrr… he shivered, his mind sharply returning to his present predicament. Must be the shock wearing off, at least the car is still warm. I’ll get out and survey the situation in a minute, he promised himself then holding that last thought he felt more comfortable about things.

On the way down the stairs, he never took the small, cramped and smelly lift; he didn’t trust them, he remembered to phone Roxanne. Yes, that was really her name and it was one that fitted her well. She was always smartly dressed, even for the weekly trip to Tesco’s, her hair done, or at least the roots were, manicure and defoliation, once a month or before any special occasion. Roxanne enjoyed a tight circle of friends, some from her office and others from her school days. At social events they attended Tom had noted the odd glances she attracted from various males on the fringes of the group, but never directly greeted or introduced. When mentioned afterwards she invariably said she hadn’t noticed. Now-a-days, Tom had taken to notice more often her visits out, the odd times and the sometimes too vague information she offered about where she had been. Little kernels of niggling doubt were beginning to demand attention and Tom was starting to feel uncomfortable at the thought that Roxanne could be having an affair.

Aaah, his shoulder hurt, it was sore where the seat belt had cut in to restrain his motion.

He massaged it carefully, inducing the blood to flow into the bruised area and give relief. Leaning forward Tom pulled the door release handle and the door swung out with a suddenness that almost pulled him out with it. Sliding his leg across and through the door aperture, he lowered it gingerly onto the tangled undergrowth, which covered the verge and ditch. A fresh cold flurry of icy snow assaulted Tom’s face, causing his cheeks to flinch at the stinging sharpness of the sensation. Placing his feet together he pushed against the seat behind him and with his hand gripping the body pillar, eased himself upright next to the stricken vehicle.

Christ, he thought, what a mess, and looking down, realised he was standing in a mass of calf-deep grass, nettles and brambles, half buried in two or three inches of clinging wet snow.

Without warning his left leg started giving way as his foot slipped towards the ditch. Tom clutched wildly at the front door pillar and held on like a mountain climber with only one good hold. Regaining his balance, he steadied himself in an upright position, digging in his heels. Surveying the wintery scene around, he could see that he had managed to avoid all the hard obstacles along the road edge, including the old elm, standing like an over sized, undernourished Christmas tree, about ten yards away. The Volvo appeared to be relatively undamaged but from the angle of the bonnet and the depth of the snow-filled ditch, he knew that it was a situation that he would not be able to rectify without help.

Already there was a creeping coldness invading his body making him certain there was really very little he could do on his own. Pulling himself back into the welcome shelter of the car, the comforting sensation of familiar smells and warmer air around him, his thoughts began to focus on his immediate problem of survival.

Oh, for God’s sake Penryth, wake up! he actually said out loud, startling himself with the sound of panic in his voice. The mobile phone, that was it, now where is it?

In the dim light afforded by the car’s electrical system, Tom searched the contents of the centre console bin. There were the usual discarded empty cigarette packets, the smell of which disgusted Tom, him being a non-smoker now this past year after many previous failed attempts, a bag of smokey-bacon flavoured crisps, some scraps of paper from a Post-It pad and a few old parking tickets, but no phone.

It must be here somewhere, he thought.

To give himself more room, he bent forward at the waist to reach down for the seat operating handle and combined with a thrust backward, he was able to ease the driver’s seat back and away from the steering wheel. This manoeuvre allowed him more space to lean forward and down and grope under the passenger seat and in the dark footwell. Soon his questing fingers found the familiar rounded shape of the hard plastic case of his Nokia mobile phone. A quick stab at the buttons caused the display to illuminate and yes, there was plenty of battery life in it but no, not a trace of a signal.

Damn and more Damn! he said with feeling.

There was not going to be a call to a nice friendly rescue man, like it shows on those TV ads, at least not from here, he thought. Now what? What to do? Cold, I’m getting cold, with that he picked his jacket from the front seat and put it on. Once into it, he felt assured once more and retrieving it had revealed a book of road maps that had been beneath it. He reached across thinking, well, let’s find out where we are. Opening the book to a page showing the West Country, Tom could easily see the dark blue line, which represented the M5 Motorway. The Motorway had been stiff with fast moving traffic heading for Cardiff docks and Bristol but with the weather closing in it was starting to slow.

He was at last passed Bristol and with the southbound traffic easing everyone was trying to make-up time but then the Fates were unkind and the inevitable happened, somewhere up ahead an accident had occurred and the traffic had bottlenecked. Brake lights and hazard warning lights lit up everywhere and rippled back away from the crash. It did not take long before all vehicles were reduced to stopping and starting, with no sign of it clearing. Tom had hoped to get to Cerney Tracy by six o’clock and off load the goods before they closed their receiving stores for the night. As soon as the junction came up, he followed a stream of cars down the slip road and away from the clogged mass of vehicles, with their frustrated drivers, stuck solid on the M5. Once below the level of the Motorway, a round-a-bout distributed the vehicles, mainly cars and vans, in several directions and before he realised it Tom, had chosen an exit road on instinct, because there was no time to consult a map. He reasoned that it was a road that would take him in the general direction that he wanted to go.

Now, which was the junction I turned off on? he said opening the map.

He found that he couldn’t really decide which one it had been, in fact he couldn’t even remember the last sign post. After leaving the Motorway he had taken many turns, with the roads progressively getting narrower and with less traffic. The last five miles was more like an RAC rally stage, with the snow storm becoming more violent. The truth was that now Tom was realising that he did not know where he was exactly. He took a deep breath and resolved that the situation demanded positive action.

Reaching out he deftly removed the ignition key and with a little more caution this time, opened the door and heaved himself out. The snow was already forming a drift against the stricken Volvo. The sharp sting of icy flakes on Tom’s cheeks causing him to turn his back to the prevailing wind, and it was then he noticed an overcoat left draped over the back seat of the car. After a considerable struggle against the blustery gusts and drifting snow, he was able to wrench open the rear door, lean in and grab the coat, without a thought as to who it’s previous owner might have been. To his way of thinking, he had need of it now if he was to walk any distance in this unexpected weather.

He shrugged the coat on and discovered it was an old fashioned full length style, no longer popular these days, with large buttons and a simple belt. Feeling in the deep side pockets Tom found no clue as to its previous owner. Both of the deep side-pockets were empty.

Must find a phone or somewhere to get a signal, at least tell Roxanne what’s happened. Will she care? Christ it’s bloody cold!

It didn’t take long for Tom to get his bearings and find himself back on the road. Looking back, the large naked elm was strangely foreboding, as it swayed in the chill wind with a half-moon seemingly trapped in its ghostly clutching, skeletal branches. With his back to the driving snow, he pulled up the collar of the heavy coat, wishing he also had one of those garish ski hats that adorn the heads of shop-window dummies, to jam on his head and protect his ears. Thrusting his numbed hands deep into his pockets, he looked right and left, hoping to catch sight of the lights of a farmhouse or cottage, but the winter landscape was cloaked in the unbroken darkness of night. Snowflakes skittered across an icy road that showed little recent traffic use, as Tom decided which way to go. He was convinced that a brisk walk of thirty minutes or so, would surely bring him to civilisation. With a hopeful heart and head down he started out bravely into the night with but a single glance back to the office car, now abandoned like a sinking ship about to plunge beneath a white frozen sea.

I’ll need a good story to explain this, was the thought he took with him. After walking keeping to the road for five minutes, the doubts were beginning to creep in.

How far have I walked? How long have I been walking? snatching his hand out of his pocket he twisted it over, looking down.

Damn! No watch.

He had forgotten it was only yesterday that he asked Roxanne to take it in to the local jewellers for a good clean and a new face. Now of course he wanted to look at it frequently. At least the blizzard was abating and only a few desultory flakes were falling onto Tom’s head and shoulders. Cresting a snowy hill he stopped, his breathing laboured after the exertion of trudging along the highway, bending at the waist he coughed a couple of times clearing his lungs of the frigid night air. At last he straightened and prepared to resume his search for humanity in this frozen landscape. Peering down the tree-lined road in the direction of travel, he fancied he could make out the regular shape of a house or barn, in the waning light of the pale moon. From here he guessed the distance would be about a quarter mile and about as far as his fatigued legs would carry him, without another rest.

As he closed the distance, he congratulated himself that he was keeping up a steady pace and could see the thin moonlight reflecting off a slate roof, which would indicate a sizeable building. He suddenly felt invigorated and prepared to make a strong effort to get there as fast as he could and still remain on his feet. At last, journey’s end and Tom had made it without mishap.

Yes, now he could see it was indeed a house, in fact even better, a Public House, although, this particular one looked more like a Tavern, in every sense of the word. He soon found himself standing under the Inn sign, now swaying gently in a breeze that Tom could not feel from where he was at ground level. The sign sprinkled him with a shower of fine snow crystals like a dusting of icing sugar. Craning his head back and shielding his eyes with his hand at his brow, he could just see the unlit painted sign in the moonlight.

Oh, no, that’s inspiring; The Hanged Man, said Tom aloud, surveying the image of an unfortunate man hanging from a gibbet upside down, rather like a Tarot Card he had seen once. At least there were some signs of life coming from the inside of the tavern, despite the car park at the front being devoid of cars.

Must be all local trade from a nearby village, mused Tom and then wondered if it wasn’t so ‘nearby’.

At the entrance to the pub, he was faced by a solid oak door; one with large iron hinges. Pushing at it, it opened surprisingly easily without the expected creaking normally heard in old black-and-white films. Stepping inside there was a slight drop to floor level, which caused Tom to falter and look down at his feet. He could see that he was pooling water from his city brogues and dripping coat, onto an uneven flagstone floor, which looked very authentic and well worn.

The interior was totally in keeping with the outside impression of the tavern, but was lit entirely by oil lamps and candles, some of the lamps being suspended from the beams crossing the ceiling. The larger oak central beam had probably once been part of a seventeenth century sailing ship and looked the hundreds of years old. Hanging from the underside were several dull, battered pewter tankards and serving jugs of varying sizes, most of which were trailing strands of cobwebs. Tom had to adjust his eyes to the odd flickering yellowish light, as he wondered if this was some kind of ‘theme’ pub, the sort that was becoming all the rage in places like Milton Keynes and through-out the Midlands. But he had to admit, he had never been in one quite like this. There were several men at the bar and a small group sitting to one side around a simple wooden trestle table with an oil lamp at his centre. A set of wooden stairs rose alongside the bar to a darkened void that presumably led to the upper private rooms.

The general hub-hub of conversation died a little as if to catch what he was about to discuss at the bar. As Tom reached it, the patrons there parted to each side muttering some welcome greeting that was difficult to hear clearly. A portly man with a florid beaming face and a rotund girth stood opposite him, across the rough surface of the bar counter. He leant forward slightly, arms straight out with his hands flat on the heavily beer stained counter.

Evening Sir, he said in a thick West Country accent that made Sir sound like ‘Surr’, his manner suggesting that this new customer was about to order a pint of ale and was reaching beneath the counter to find a mug. Tis not a good night to be abroad, you look chilled to the ‘marrer’, have a pint of ale and a warm by the fire there, indicating a log fire that was reaching its final stages in the iron dog grate at the end room. For some reason Tom thrust his hand into his right hand coat pocket and felt his fingers touch some coins in the corner folds.

A pint of your good ale please Sir, he heard himself saying and wondering about his own strange turn of phrase.

He watched fascinated when the publican turned and filled a pewter pot from a wooden barrel. There were no hand pumps or fancy top pressure taps visible, nor were there any glass doored, and garishly lit refrigerators, displaying luridly coloured alco-pops and special bottled brews.

Opening his hand, Tom was surprised to see some coins he did not immediately recognise, spill onto the bar top. A thick fingered hand swooped across and quickly scooped them up and with the other hand the barman held a pot of ale, which he put down in front of Tom. Froth bubbled and foamed on the top of the pot, some over-spilling and sliding down its dull metallic sides to puddle around the base.

Thanks, was about all Tom had time to say before the barman moved away to the other end of the bar and began using a grubby towel to polish some thick looking glassware.

Moving across the atmospherically dim room, avoiding the lower beams by ducking his head, he saw some empty, heavy rustic chairs to one side of the fireplace. As he approached he became aware it was the sort of fireplace usually described as Inglenook, but these days more commonly housed a steel box-type wood burning stove. The mantelpiece was formed by a hefty piece of oak beam, which was hung with various pieces of dust-encrusted ironwork that once were probably forged in a village smithy some ages past.

Removing his sodden coat and not seeing any hanging pegs, he simply allowed it to fall onto the flagged floor. The log fire, although no longer blazing and had collapsed into glowing embers, was still able to warm him sufficiently to make him feel more comfortable. At last he had time to take stock of his situation, obviously it did not look as though rescue was going to be a short-term solution. Anyway, it now appeared that he had left his mobile in the car because it certainly was not in his pocket.

"Night, ‘Jarge’,’ somebody called across the smokey, lamp lit room, as a local opened the outer door and prepared to exit into the night.

See you on the morrow, the big man serving at the bar called out, without turning away from the two heavily wrapped characters conversing at the bar.

Their talk was too muffled for Tom to eavesdrop on but he could hear two customers on the next table, their accents fascinating him. They were in animated conversation about the local church, St. Just’s. Apparently, the village had a new vicar appointed recently and he was causing a bit of a fuss with the new energy he was putting into the parish. He would have liked to have introduced himself to find out more about the village but before he could do so they both got up, taking their tankards to the bar and left; the opening door causing a short blast of frigid air to sweep the pub.

Christ, he suddenly thought, I’d better find somewhere to sleep tonight.

Ullo Surr.

Tom looked up, startled from musing about his plight. Before him was a friendly-faced young woman, with very dark long hair, tumbling in ringlets down to her naked shoulders. Her eyes sparkled in the flickering firelight and her flushed, apple cheeks glowed in country health. She was dressed in a simple blood red skirt and a white, un-pressed, loose fitting blouse, short puff-sleeved, off the shoulder style, looking for all-the-world that she had just arrived from Central Casting.

Oh, hi, Tom greeted, already warming to her friendly smile. I’m Tom, and you are…..?

"Why Surr, my name is Rose, Rose Anne really, but folks here-abouts just call me Rose."

Ah, tell me Rose, is there any where that I can stay for the night, perhaps here even?

"It may be so Surr, I’ll go and ask Mr. Bill Bombur there, ‘tis he that is the Landlord and be the owner of The Hanged Man and has been these last ten years gone."

Thank you kindly Rose, I’d be obliged. Then he thought, there I go again talking like a film-extra.

The barmaid turned to make her way toward the dark recess at the rear of the bar, at which it had only two customers left at the far end. It was too gloomy for Tom to make out their features or hear anything they were saying but the fact there was the occasional desultory nod in his direction would indicate that he was the subject of interest. Mr. Bombur had moved to the far end of the bar to consult with Rose and after a glance over his shoulder he gave her a nod with his large round head, which resembled a reddish-brown sphere with a skirt of thinning grey hair that circled it at the back from ear to ear. Tom couldn’t help thinking that he was a character out of some half-remembered Dickens novel.

Mr. Bumble? No, Mr. McCawber?….

Rose was now making her way back towards him, carrying a pot of ale, her face beaming with delight at whatever had passed between them. I was more hopeful that I had a room for the night and the problem of the office car could wait till a better tomorrow.

Here you are a fresh pot of ale, compliments of the Landlord and yes, you can have a room for tonight. Said you can settle with him in the morning, she says with a look back at the bar.

Tom gratefully took the pot and eyed Mr. Bombur standing watching them, with his well-muscled forearms folded across his ample girth. He smiled tight-lipped towards them and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement in their direction.

Can you sit awhile? Tom asked of Rose, hoping for some company to listen to his tale of woe. Perhaps, she could suggest some help in the village tommorow…

"Well, just for a few minutes Surr, ‘cos I must get busy and clear away these pots and such."

She sat down nervously, almost balancing on the edge of the plain wooden bench opposite, gathering her full skirt together and pushing her legs beneath the table. After a quick glance at the bar behind her, she leant forward, arms crossed on the table top to hear what Tom had to say. Before starting his story, he took a long sip at his tepid beer, which he thought unusual for these days because most pubs now used chilled pipes. He wondered whether the barrels he saw behind the bar were not just fancy props after all. While drinking he allowed himself a few seconds to admire the exposed flesh of Rose’s neck and the full roundness of the upper surfaces of her breasts, that showed above the tight line of her blouse. His next thought nearly caused him to cough as he realised that the firmness of her figure appeared to owe nothing to any artificial constraints. Rose did not seem to notice his fixation on any particular part of her body and simply waited for him to begin.

He started with a slight splutter, the urge to break into a cough not completely quelled, but despite all he managed to continue.

Thank you, thank you, very much for your help. My car has skidded off the road back up there a way and finished up part in a ditch. I fear I can’t get it out on my own and I was hoping to get some assistance. Too late now, I guess, hence my request for a room. I shall still have to get some help tomorrow though.

"Ah, you’re not from these parts, are you Surr?"

Tom, my name’s Tom Penryth, he tried again.

"You say your cart ‘tis broken, Tom? I’m sure a couple o’ the lads from Wynding will come up t’morrow to help you. They’re big and strong, they are, most work on the farms here-abouts. Not much else round here these days. You come from ‘Brizzal’ then?"

Bristol? No, from Milton Keynes, I’m a rep, he said noticing her puzzled expression.

"Milt? Milt Keys? Can’t say I’ve heard of that town, but then I’m a village girl, ‘ave been all my life. Been to Brizzal once though," she said, a dreamy look coming into those gorgeous eyes.

Suddenly, with a worried look over her shoulder, she collects a couple of empty pots that Tom had not noticed by the fireplace and gets up to leave with the words, Mr. Bombur will show you to your room when you are ready. Then with a last smile, she was gone.

The last few embers spluttered in the grate and collapsed into a pile of glowing ash, showering sparks onto the floor slabs. There seemed a certain finality about it, as if to announce the end of this particular evening, at The Hanged Man. It prompted Tom to think that it was probably best to enquire now about his bed for the night. One last hearty swig of his ale virtually drained his pot, leaving him well satisfied with his evenings drinking, all that was left was to find a comfortable bed for his weary body. He could feel the events of the day catching up on him and his energy beginning to wane. Pushing up from the chair, he took his bearings and made his way toward the far end of the bar.

At the bar counter, Tom put his empty pot on it and looked around, fearing he was the last one left when Bill Bombur detached himself from the dark recess at the foot of the stairs and stood squarely in front him. After giving Tom a brief inspection he thrust out a meaty hand for a shake, his broad clean shaven face now splitting in a grin.

Bill Bonbur, Landlord, at your service, he said in a gruff but jovial tone.

Tom leant towards him and took his hand in a firm grip as he could manage, but Bill still almost pulled him off his balance.

Tom Penryth, commercial traveller for… he never finished.

Come this way then, I’ll show you up to your room.

The stairs looked even more authentic at close quarters, all wood without any carpet to deaden the sound of booted feet. On the landing above Tom could see an alcove with a spluttering oil lamp, giving the stairwell an eerie yellow glow. Bombur continued past the landing, up the next flight to an upper landing with a similar lighting arrangement. Following this ambling, bear of a man up this narrow staircase meant that Tom could not see very far ahead and in the lamplight he could only guess where other dark corners might lead to. There certainly did not appear to be many guest rooms on this side of the Inn and he could only wonder why the stairs and corridors, if that was what they were, were so badly lit. Perhaps there were some switches that he simply had not noticed.

On this level the walls were pine clad, giving a strange ambience and ‘A House of Hammer’ feel to the whole area. Bill had brought his massive frame to a stop and with a sweep of his brawny arm, he opened a door made of three planks of oak. Ducking his head he entered the room beyond and half turning motioned Tom to follow, which he duly did. The room was surprisingly well lit by a decorative lamp stood on a large pine dresser. The main feature of the room was a comfortable looking early ‘Victorian ?’ bed, at least, that was Tom’s guess and he couldn’t wait to throw himself on it. The room was sparsely furnished, the only other items of note being a wash stand, a straight backed all wood chair and a small table. On the table was a book, which Tom was to discover was a King James Bible, a very old copy but in so good a condition he wondered what it was worth. At the far end, opposite the door, was a heavily curtained window.

Thank you, Mr. Bombur, I’m sure I’ll be comfortable here.

Right then, I’ll bid you Goodnight, and on leaving he closed the door behind him.

Throwing his coat over the chair, Tom sank down onto the bed and removed his shoes, now beginning to dry out. He felt a great wave of tiredness threatening to overwhelm him so he simply swung his legs up onto the bed whilst dropping back onto the big feather-filled pillow. No synthetic foam-filled here, he was pleased. He was so tired, he wriggled out of his clothes while still laid on the bed, which probably took more effort than if he had simply stood back up and did it. His eyelids had become so heavy that it was difficult to keep them open, so he didn’t and sleep followed swiftly.

That is until a church clock somewhere struck one. Tom opened his eyes, but it wasn’t the church chiming the hour that had his attention, it was the creak of his slowly opening bedroom door. He held his breath, fascinated, as a figure crept silently to his bedside. Before he could utter a word in protest, a warm soft hand pressed firmly against his opening mouth and a fulsome female body slipped alongside him under the sheets.

Shush! a soft voice whispered in his ear, I have but a short time to lie with you.

But Ro…

"No, say nothing Surr, ‘tis best"

To his amazement, Tom found that despite his tiredness, his body became aroused with the sensuous closeness and touch of this unexpected night visitor. His arm slid easily around her obviously naked body, inhaling her natural heavy female musk. For him it was strange to be in bed with another woman, especially one that was nothing like petite, blonde Roxanne. He was intoxicated with Rose and his senses swam amid a sea of exhaustion, but the feel of her erect nipples brushing his hairless chest caused a ripple of desire to course through him, awaking within fires of passion he had long forgotten. Among these swirling intangible sensations, time had somehow become an irrelevance, leaving Tom feeling that he had become suspended between the worlds of reality and fantasy. It was while he was in this state that oblivion crept upon him and swallowed his conscious being.

He awoke with a start, a sonorous bell was intoning the hour. ‘Was it seven or perhaps eight?’ Tom could not wake his mind fast enough to get an accurate count. Best get up, he thought and swiftly found his hastily discarded clothes from the night before. What had happened? he tried desperately to recall all the events that had befallen him. There was the car… He remembered the car, the uncontrolled slide into the snowy ditch, finding the tavern and, of course, Rose. The memories were sluggish in their return but he had a hold on them now.

Ah, Rose, did she…? Was it her that…?

By now he was almost dressed, pants and trousers on, shirt on but still un-buttoned and open to the waist. He poured some water, ice cold, from the large enamelled jug, into a china basin, picked up some soap and quickly washed the sleep from his eyes and face. The coldness of the water shocked the drowsiness from his head still musing on the warm feeling Rose had left him with. Reaching out, he plucked the towel from the side of the bowl, where it had been neatly folded and dabbed at his face while holding it in both hands. The towel was a rougher cotton than he was used to but perfectly serviceable.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, now looking as though it had entertained a troop of excitable monkeys, with the blankets and piled in confusion, Tom noticed the overcoat on the floor. Is it mine? he wondered, then became alarmed as his befuddled brain could find no ready answer. He continued to eye it suspiciously. It was then, he recalled, that he had worn it with silent thanks, on his walk from the Volvo to the Inn. After putting on his shoes, now dry, he stood up and stooped to retrieve the coat then spotting his jacket still on the back of the chair, he placed the coat on the bed and retrieved it.

Once his jacket was back on he felt a little warmer and then realised there had not been much heat in the room. Strange, he had not noticed that before and now come to think of it he would have to relieve himself. The cold air always did that to him, especially away from home and in a strange bed. And it didn’t come any more ‘stranger’ than here, he thought. Trying to recall when Bombur showed him the room he could not remember a door to an en-suite so he guessed the bathroom would be along the hall. It was probably like that in a lot of these old inns, because there would simply be no room to include one in such small rooms.

Opening his door he peered around the edge, looking first left then right. To the left he could see the stairs leading downward to the bar and to the right he could just see a door. Picking up courage he decided to investigate, convincing himself that it was definitely the bathroom or at least, a WC.

It was only a few strides and he was at the door with his hand at the latch. He opened it fast without knocking, saying a silent prayer as his basic need had become acute. Immediately, he could see it was a small room, panelled in pine, not much more than a few feet square. There was no toilet bowl or cistern, nothing at all except the smell. That was instantly recognisable, as he was a habitual user of city pubs on a Friday night and of their toilet arrangements when used by inebriated customers. At last, looking downward, he saw the source of the odour, a bucket stood in the corner. Assuming some catastrophic plumbing failure, necessitating the removal of the WC, he quickly relieved himself and made a fast exit. Having collected his coat he started for the stairs.

The voices came from down below somewhere, one male and loud, full of authority, the other female, much quieter and subservient. Two other younger male voices with broad Somerset accents could also be heard discussing some event of importance. Tom, deciding to be bold, descended the stairwell his shoes clattering on the plain oak tread boards. Entering the bar area, it was still fairly dark and gloomy, leaving Tom unsure why. Two tall male figures were stood with their broad backs toward him, while they looked out of the multi-paned window.

Morning, Tom bade them, alerting them to his presence.

"Morning Surr," they both replied with timing and turning like a vaudeville double-act. Which in a way they were, named Jubal and Jabus by staunchly religious, god-fearing parents, they were twins and were known and respected throughout the village of Wynding. Even in the grey morning light, filtering through the grimed and cobwebbed glass, Tom could see at his distance, that they looked uncannily similar and when he got closer, the likeness was stranger still.

At first he could not see what had alarmed him and then it struck. They were not exactly identical twins, although they were of very similar stature, to the inch even, they were, in fact, mirror images of each other. One’s hair laid naturally in one direction and the other’s the opposite and he could now see that one’s lip curled down at the corner and the other, the opposite. Even their steel-grey eyes that resembled ball-bearings one twin had an eye with a squint that was mirrored exactly with his brother’s. to sharply focus. It was the Landlord of ‘The Hanged Man’

Morning, Mister Penryth, a voice boomed from the back of the room, causing Tom’s mind to sharply focus. It was the landlord of ‘The Hanged Man’.

I see you have already met Jubal and Jabus, and bright strong lads they are. There’s time yet to sup before you are to be off. Have some bread and cold ham with a good wedge of our local cheese. We’re so proud of that round here and I’ll get you a hot drink. Stretching out a hard-muscled arm he pointed in the general direction of an area to the right of the door.

Tom folded himself on a bench and slid his legs beneath a table, draping his overcoat alongside him on the bench. The table had been laid up with a large pewter plate, knife, three pronged fork and a chunk of home baked bread, like a small cottage loaf resting on a piece of board.

No traditional full English fry-up here then, Tom thought and proceeded to break off a piece of bread. Bill Bombur returned carrying a breadboard with several generous thick cut slices of cured ham and a good-sized wedge of cheese. His other hand held a mug of steaming liquid.

Thank you, Tom muttered, now realising he was quite hungry and had started to tuck in.

It was a plain meal of simple fayre but was certainly filling. He was on his last few mouthfuls when the outer door opened and the tendrils of a cold damp fog spilled in over the flag stoned floor, smartly followed by a tall man of athletic build, dressed in all black.

His head sat proud on firm shoulders, with piercing watery blue eyes beneath thick dark brows. His nose, aristocratic, straight almost aquiline, one might say and complimenting his prominent well defined cheek bones. Being clean-shaven, his sharp chin seemed to cut through the air like the prow of a majestic Tea Clipper. The coat he wore was jet black and dripping moisture droplets like a scattering of silent pearls. The tall collar at his pale neck was turned-up, as if to protect the