Betrayal of the Trinity Knot

By Brian Crane

Set in 1938 and very much in the spirit of John Buchan and Arthur Conan Doyle, Betrayal of the Trinity Knot is a story that not only gives a unique insight into the threats of conspiracy and subterfuge by foreign agents in the final year before the outbreak of the Second World War, it is also a story of the naivety and blindness of a nation not willing to accept that the unthinkable could happen again. And intertwined within this trail of intrigue is the inner scrutiny by the unlikely heroof his doubts and uncertainties about the determined path he had been drawn into following.

So what began as a relaxing break from his business in Bristol, England, merely to visit his friend, the local vicar of a peaceful parish on Exmoor, ended up for our hero being warned. In no uncertain terms that his story must never be told, that it is not in the national interest.

Irrevocably linked within these events is the betrayal of the sacred meaning behind a mysterious, ancient Celtic symbol.

But now, after more than seventy years, the previously undisclosed truth about this small piece of hidden history has been unearthed in a manuscript concealed away in an old wooden chest. Even so, it is more than certain that the official records will still be gathering dust in some secret government vault.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543490299

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Brian Crane.

ISBN:                  Softcover                        978-1-5434-9030-5

                            eBook                             978-1-5434-9029-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/04/2018

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CONTENTS

Laughing Children

Dedication

BETRAYAL OF THE TRINITY KNOT

i …………… The Ghost Train

ii ………….. The Man With The Gladstone Bag

iii …………. The Suspicious Mr O’keefe

iv …………. The Familiar Aroma Of Gun Oil

v …………… The Incident Of The Ill-Mannered Cyclists

vi …………. The Trinity Knot

vii ………… The Boy And The Binoculars

viii ……….. The Redoubtable Constable Morgan

ix …………. The Calm Before The Storm

x ………….. The Ambush By Moon Light

xi …………. The Return Of The Hero

xii ………… The Truth About The Panama Hat

xiii ……….. The Reverend Millican And The Book Of Psalms

Epilogue

LAUGHING CHILDREN

                    Laughing children join hands

                    And unite their infancy together.

                    An adults jaundiced eye

                    Views all that it sees with contempt.

                    Now the pale glimmer of summer

                    Gives way to the chill of winter.

                    And the children forget to laugh

                    Their hands become wrinkled and bent.

                                                                                1938

DEDICATION

For my wife Sue, for her continued support, encouragement and patience. Again my thanks for just being there.

BETRAYAL OF THE TRINITY KNOT

It is necessary for me to provide a short introduction to the narrative that follows, it being a true account of an incident that had happened to my grandfather in the late summer of 1938.

As described in a previous publication, the story is one of many written by my grandfather, which his son, my father kept in a small wooden chest, along with other treasured memories from his own life.

However, after my father’s death a few years ago, I was privileged to be able to open this well guarded chest and subsequently to read the unpublished stories by my grandfather. Since then I have taken it upon myself to see them into print. The first to be published was ‘The Ballad Of Jessie Gray’ which is an account of an incident that had also happened to my grandfather in his early life, as is the story that follows.

Once again it is my only wish that the reader finds the same kind of enjoyment, as I and my family have done within my grandfather’s words.

CHAPTER I

THE GHOST TRAIN

Wednesday 21st September 1938

I am writing this while all the details are still crystal clear in my mind. And if you were to have hinted at the events I will be referring to prior to my leaving for Exmoor less than two weeks ago, I would have laughed in your face and said you were making fun of me. But even though I have no intention of anyone seeing these words it is essential for me to clear the images and disturbing impressions from my head.

For there are some instances in life that can be attributed to coincidence or even fate if you are inclined to believe in that kind of thing. However, I had survived two years in the trenches from 1916 to 1918 with only shrapnel wounds in my right thigh and calf to think that luck, more than anything else had seen me through.

But what I am about to relate to you has got to be registered at the very least in terms of merely being in the right place at the right time. And if that justifies it as being either coincidence, or fate then that is how it must be seen.

And so, once again I found myself in my usual seat of the Snug bar of the White Horse Inn just outside Barbrook, near Lynmouth, Exmoor. The bowl that had so recently contained a mountainous portion of beef stew now sat empty and mopped clean by the doorstep of homemade bread that had accompanied it. By its side was a tankard of local brew, frothing invitingly and just waiting to be savoured. The room had such a familiar air to it, with half a dozen small tables, bench seats and chairs, horse brasses, a flickering log fire and a homeliness that made you want to linger.

I smiled inwardly with that sheer sense of contentment I always felt when I was able to sit back and muse on my good fortune in finding this quiet, hospitable retreat, it being a favourite haunt of not only myself, but also my late wife Jessie before she had sadly passed away following a short illness in 1932. Since then I had continued to revisit the beautiful moors, often in the company of our two children Catherine and Steven.

But this time it was just me, on my own and enjoying the splendours of Exmoor in the truly amiable care of mine hosts, George and Aggie of the White Horse Inn. A couple I held in the highest regard who always offered me the kind of affable welcome that is usually reserved for members of a close family. And I suppose we could easily fall into that category considering the regularity of my visits to this area.

I sipped pensively at my ale, with my smouldering pipe balancing on the ashtray as I began to reflect on the last twenty four hours.

It had been a spur of the moment decision on my part to escape the trials of my printing business in Bristol and head to the wild wilderness of the moors. So on a Friday evening in early September, after leaving a few last instructions for John Dyer my business manager and in a heavy drizzling rain, I had followed the coastal road out of the thriving city. Finally I had arrived at Minehead and booked into The Ship and Sail Inn for the night, one of a number of welcome hostelries that Jessie and I had discovered over the many forays that we had made onto Exmoor over the years.

Next morning had seen me again motoring doggedly on with my wipers working overtime, whilst continuing westerly along the coast and down through Porlock, before attacking the tortuous hill beyond. From there onward through the desolation of Countisbury Common and finally down towards Lynmouth, before turning inland and on to the White Horse Inn.

Then after I had indulged myself in a generous sized cold plate of Aggies crusty bread, cheddar cheese, home cured ham, apple chutney and ale it had been my intention to carry on a mile or so to St Michaels Church. This was to surprise my good friend the Reverend Thomas Millican, who I had first met some eighteen months previous. Since then I had made several excursions onto the moors and each time I had managed at least a visit and a meal with an evening’s convivial conversation. On one occasion, it had been to introduce Thomas to my fifteen year old daughter Catherine and my thirteen year old son Steven.

This particular foray onto Exmoor however, was to have been an extended stay and although the intention was to surprise Thomas it seemed my best laid plan was to be thwarted. For as I was taking my bags to my usual double room that held so many fond memories for me of the times there with my Jessie, I had happened to notice a rough handbill above the small reception desk.

It read….

GROCOTT AMATEUR DRAMTIC SOCIETY

presents

THE GHOST TRAIN

by Arnold Ridley.

at Grocott Village Hall

Friday 9th September 7.30pm

Saturday 10th September 2.30pm and 7.30pm

Adults 1s 6p        Children 9p

Instantly I had recalled a letter I had received from Thomas a month earlier, whereby he had mentioned he was directing a play for the ‘GADS’. Unfortunately this fact had not occurred to me, even on my drive down. To say I was disappointed would be something of an understatement but almost immediately another scheme had seeped through into my devious mind.

And so later in the afternoon, I had found myself in the back row of the Grocott Village Hall, having furtively sneaked in at the beginning of the third act. As it was I was soon wishing that I had been somewhere else entirely, for the enthusiasm of the players was more than in evidence, even though it had not been enough to cover up their extreme ‘Amateur’ status.

I had read somewhere that the play had enjoyed a long run in London’s West End as a comedy thriller, with a few chills thrown in for good measure and I had even remembered listening to it on the wireless.

However the thrills and chills were completely usurped by the ridiculous antics of the actors in the name of comedy. The more the audience had laughed and responded to their friends and neighbours, the more those on the stage had played up to it. This resulted in a performance that closely resembled a slapstick scene from a Laurel and Hardy film.

Then again I should not criticise, for they certainly had more courage than I possessed. Any vague acting aspirations I may have contemplated in my youth had been quenched completely in the overly ambitious and horrendous school productions that I had been conscripted to appear in. The memories of which still make me quiver with embarrassment when I think of those blighted halcyon days.

Also the required railway train effects that the production demanded had sounded more like an out of control steam roller, for not only had the wooden walls of the village hall shook and the floor boards vibrated, many times the dialogue had been virtually inaudible. Even the station waiting room scenery had shook and shuddered so much, that at one point one of the actors had found it necessary to catch and then to hold up the sets delinquent door and as a consequence he had been forced to receive a succession of loud prompts.

All through that last act I had writhed and squirmed in embarrassment for my friend Thomas. And when he had finally made an appearance on stage as the Station Master in the plot, my heart and sympathy had gone out to him. I had intended to wait to the end and surprise my friend, but instead I felt it more prudent to creep sheepishly out unseen before the final curtain fell.

Without turning to look back I had reached my car and with the rain finally abated and leaving the sky clear, I had driven sombrely back to the White Horse. And sitting in my car for a few minutes before crossing the road to the welcome warmth of the hostelry, I had reluctantly decided there and then that as far as Thomas was concerned I had unfortunately not been able to arrive until it was too late in