From Aberystwyth with Love by Malcolm Pryce Read Free Book Online

stirring a heavy metal receptacle that my heightened sensitivity and general knowledge of the vicinity led me to imagine was a cauldron. A girl’s voice sang a soft melody on the scented breeze of the summer night.
     
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips  . . .
     
    I was taken into a cottage or barn, a low lintel at the entrance was kindly pointed out. I walked down a corridor of stone flags, under another low doorway, and was ushered on to a wooden chair with a wide back. A man spoke to me.
    ‘This is the last time we will ever talk so listen carefully. Firstly I apologise for the theatrics necessary to bring you here but, as a dealer in our hidden world, you will no doubt understand. All further communication between us will take place via Mr Mooncalf who will deny at all times that the merchandise of which we talk even exists. He will tell you that you are bonkers but you must not be dismayed by this essential security measure. In a minute your blindfold will be removed and you will be left alone for ten minutes to examine the stamps. We have a First Day cover celebrating the formation of the SAVAK, the Iranian secret police, circa 1957; a letter addressed to 39 Hilldrop Crescent, Holloway, London, the house where the notorious Dr Crippen murdered his wife, although the letter post-dates this incident; a letter from a soldier at Maindiff Court Military Hospital in Abergavenny, written at the same time that Rudolf Hess was an inmate there. We also have a ransom note from the kidnappers of a German businessman in Kinshasa in 1978. And the envelope and tape that was sent to Mrs Walters. You have ten minutes, no more. After your ten minutes you will be taken back to the main road at Tre’r-ddôl, after which you may make an offer through the office of Mr Mooncalf if you so wish.’
    The blindfold was pulled off, the door slammed, I was alone at a kitchen table with some old letters spread out in front of me. Next to them was a cigar box in which they had been stored. The room was small with a low ceiling in which wooden beams could be seen. A cold empty fireplace yawned in one wall, and next to it was a traditional oak dresser. It was set with plates and cups and some tins of paint and glue stood on it with brushes soaking in turpentine, giving off a strong odour. Next to that was a spinning wheel. At the time it was just a wheel, but a week later and I could have told you it was a Semi-Saxon horizontal, sheathed bobbin, slip-backed flyer with five-speed twin treadle array – basically a souped-up ‘Cinderella’; you could cover a lot of yarn on a job like that. The owner of the house was a pro. I turned my attention to the letters.
    The envelope was postmarked Aberaeron and contained a small spool of tape and a typewritten letter from a spiritualist who explained that she was familiar with the story from the newspapers and had made the recording at a recent sitting. There was no name and no signature. On impulse, I held the letter up to my nose. Despite the passage of time it still held a scent, that was the remarkable thing about paper, you can leave it lying in the back of the cupboard drawer for years and when you take it out it retains a trace of scent, sometimes enough to ambush the heart with the memory of a long-lost love. I sniffed again and my heart quivered, my head filled with a dizzy sensation of long ago. What it was I didn’t know, but I knew that I had smelled it before. The sound of footsteps outside made me realise time was short. It was too risky to steal the tape now, I needed to come back, and to do that I needed to know where I was. There were more footsteps outside, voices, whispered conversation. I looked at the spinning wheel and wondered. Tomorrow morning I had been booked for a day on the road with the spinning-wheel salesman. Maybe if I just . . . more footsteps. I walked across to the spinning wheel,