Chapter 1. The Box in the Attic
Some day, if Martha Morgan is to be believed, the white bones of Moses Lloyd will be found by chance, among the boulders near the summit of the bluestone mountain we call Carningli. There never was a proper grave, and it is ironic that the flesh of such a man should have rotted into the core of a mountain said to be populated by angels.
Down below, on the flank of the little mountain, and about two miles from Newport in Pembrokeshire, there is another skeleton, all that remains of a substantial dwelling house called Plas Ingli. It is set in the midst of a maze of stone walls and enclosures. Above the ruin there are a few stony fields with erratic shapes, now covered with gorse and heather, created by the earliest farmers, tended by a hundred and twenty generations over three thousand years, and extending up to the limit of the mountain’s scree slope. Below, there are larger and more modern fields, acid and waterlogged, extending down to a minor road that leads to three farms. The Plas (as it was and is called by the locals) is connected to this road by a rutted track, still just about negotiable, with wide grassy verges.
The ruin lies above the 600 foot contour, higher up than a house should be, surrounded by a broken stone wall that can no longer resist the tide of bracken, bramble and willow scrub surging in from the old fields. Within the curtilage there are the remains of other stone buildings including a barn, a cowshed, a stable, and a coach house, ranged around an elongated farmyard. Smaller structures once sheltered chickens, hounds, pigs and geese. On the northern and western flanks of the inhabited area there was once a windbreak of oak, rowan and ash trees; they are now all dead or dying, having lost the will to resist the unceasing assault of salty wind and acid rain. Only one tree remains alive in the old orchard.
The sea is only a couple of miles away, on the other side of Carningli, but it is not visible from the Plas. If you sit in the weed-covered yard when a northerly gale is roaring onto the coast, you can smell the salt spray, and you will have sheltering gulls for company. If you climb the mountain path on a May morning you can sit on the warm blue rocks of the summit and watch the quiet sea a thousand feet below. You can see the hazy outlines of the Wicklow Hills of Ireland on the western horizon, and the summits of Snowdonia to the north. You can hear the exhuberant harmonies of a choir of skylarks ranged across the arch of the blue sky. You can see buzzards and ravens riding the wind and wheatears going about their business among the boulders. You can stride out over the technicolour moorland of gorse, heather, spiky bullrush and brittle grass and stumble across Celtic enclosures and fortifications. And if you close your eyes and tune in to the history of this place, you can hear the banshee winds from the west that have scarred the souls of those who once lived here; or smell the terror induced by six-month winters; or feel the dumbing and deadening effects of little warmth and no light; or taste the famine that has more than once insinuated its way across this vulnerable land. And you may even see the ghosts of Martha Morgan Plas Ingli, Joseph Harries Werndew, and George Howell Henllys drifting through the chest-high bracken.
In this prominent position the Plas was built to be seen, rather than to see. The locals say that in its heyday it was whitewashed, and that it could be seen against its mountain backdrop from more than thirty miles away. This was a sign of considerable status. When it had eyes to see, the big house looked south-east into the deep wooded amphitheatre of Cwm Clydach. To the east, it could see Tycanol Wood and the skyline rocks of Carnedd Meibion Owen, and to the south-west the deep gash of Cwm Gwaun winding its way to the sea at Fishguard. With the eyes in the back of its head it could see the mountain -- crags and boulders to the north and open moorland to the west. It was abandoned little more than thirty years ago, but the windows have all been smashed by small boys and the roof timbers are rotting now that opportunists have started to remove their burden of prime Caernarfon slates. The buildings are made of dressed Carningli stone, so hard that it melts tungsten steel drills, and highly prized as a facing stone. So the site is now a quarry as well as a playground, and soon there will be hardly anything left of it. The local children stay clear of the place once the afternoon light begins to fade, for they have picked up the local tradition that the Plas is haunted. They say that this is where Billy Evans hanged himself, but they have got it wrong, for that happened in 1980 at Dolaeron, half a mile down the track. The ghosts that live here are very much older.
This story is not really about Plas Ingli, but this is where the key players in the drama lived and loved and died. The strange tale related by Martha Morgan in this book was lost two hundred years ago, and has only recently come to light. The process was triggered off by an incident during the rebuilding of the Plas roof in 1955. The old slates had all been stripped off. Two local workmen, perched up in the precarious remains of the attic, were levering away the rotten rafters from the wall-plate. One of them noticed something metallic glinting in the sun, tucked tight into the narrow angle between joists and rafters. It was all but buried beneath the sawdust and chaff that had been used by the early inhabitants of the house as loft insulation. It turned out to be a locked metal box. There was no trace of a key. It had the initials “MM” painted elaborately on the lid. It was larger than a cash box and smaller than a trunk, and it was inordinately heavy.
As the men pulled the box out into the daylight they were surprised to hear a woman’s voice. They could not work out where the voice was coming from, but it was close at hand, clear and rich, and it was speaking Welsh. They both heard the words “Peace is mine, but those in mortal sin must make their peace with God.” They both felt a frisson of consternation since there were no Welsh-speaking women in the neighbourhood at the time, but they felt no real fear. The moment passed, and in anticipation of some great discovery they concentrated on the box rather than on the voice.
The men let the metal box down on their pulley and then carried it to the then owner of the house, Mr Jacob Phillips, who was living during the building work with his wife Judith and small son Ben in a caravan in the yard. Naturally enough the workmen and the members of the family all assumed that the box contained some lost treasure. Now, in a state of high excitement, they forced it open only to find that it contained no jewels, family heirlooms or banknotes. But it was packed full of books and papers which had survived in remarkably good condition.
Having set aside his natural disappointment at the failure to find a treasure that would pay for the re-roofing of the house, Jacob spent several productive evenings looking through the contents of the metal box. He found that almost all of the documents were written in Welsh, by the same strong, fluent hand. But none of them was signed, and Jacob could not find a signature anywhere. There were four volumes of diaries, beautifully bound in leather and purchased -- at considerable cost, no doubt -- as blank record books from various bookbinders in Haverfordwest and Fishguard. Each one covered several months and each entry was dated. The earliest was 23rd August 1796, and the latest was just over one year later. But the sequence of recorded events was by no means continuous, and late in 1796 almost two months passed without any entries. Two pages had been torn out of the back of the last of the diaries.
There were some little sketch-books containing amateurish drawings of leaves and flowers, and rapidly-executed watercolour paintings of local scenes, some of them spoiled when the artist had been caught out in the rain. There were some sheets of musical manuscript paper with snatches of tunes written onto them, crossed out and re-written. In one bundle, tied with ribbon, there were about ten pages of neat hand-written Welsh poetry, probably laboriously copied from books. Jacob thought that two of the poems might have been hymns, for the name “Charles Wesley” was written beneath them. There were various newspaper cuttings and posters relating to the great events of the day -- the 1797 invasion at Fishguard, the adventures of Napoleon Bonaparte, corn riots in England, and the reports of speeches made by William Wilberforce. There were some pages of a pamphlet written by Thomas Paine. The collector must have been a person with liberal, if not subversive, instincts. But there was no will, and the box contained none of the items found in family papers of the day, such as invoices and receipts, account books, deeds and legal documents, or items relating to animal husbandry or the farming year. There was one bundle of letters, which Jacob at first assumed to be love letters, but he changed his mind when he discovered that they were written in a number of different hands, some of them on small scraps of paper, written by folks who were only just getting to grips with the art of hand-writing. All of them contained the name “Moses Lloyd”, and all were dated 1797. Some of them were signed or initialled by the writers, but the names could not be made out.
The most intriguing item in the box was an envelope tucked into the pages of one of the diaries. It had “Confession” written in English on the front, and it was sealed with wax. Embossed on the wax were the initials “MM”. With trembling fingers, aware that he was breaking into the most intimate part of someone’s life, Jacob broke the seal and opened the envelope. He found within a small piece of paper with a hand-written message on it. The writing was clearly that of the author of the diary, and like the diary it was in Welsh. The only words which Jacob could recognize were “Moses Lloyd Cwmgloyn”.
Jacob, with the agreement of his wife, now came to the view that the volumes and loose papers constituted some sort of personal history or testament, probably written by a woman. She had had a considerable interest in current affairs and liberal politics, and Jacob concluded from her music, poetry and artistic efforts that she must have been moderately well educated. This would be expected of any resident of Plas Ingli, since the house had for at least three hundred years been the seat of one of the minor gentry families of north Pembrokeshire. There was no clue to the date of her death, but who was this person whose initials were “MM”? Frustrated by the fact that neither he nor his wife spoke or read Welsh, Jacob made some inquiries as to the past occupants of the house, but none of the locals could remember who had lived there prior to 1900, and the building society had the deeds to the house locked away in Halifax. Jacob could have obtained copies, but he never got round to it.
Since Plas Ingli was being smashed to pieces and rebuilt in 1955, Jacob had limited time available for his literary sleuthing, and he soon tired of the task. His wife wanted the house finished, since the caravan cramped her style. He made some notes, put these on top of the books and papers in the box, and closed the battered lid. Then he forgot about the mysterious lady of the Plas, for he had other things to concern him. For a start, it blew a gale and stripped off the builders’ tarpaulins, and then it rained for three weeks and saturated every cranny of the roofless house. Work eventually resumed, but then the builders walked off the job on several occasions, complaining that the house was haunted. They said that in one particular upstairs room looking eastward towards Ty Canol Wood they had tried on several occasions to take up the old floorboards and to remove the decayed window-frame, but had been frightened out of their wits each time by a sudden chill in the air and by the sound of a woman’s voice. The two men who had found the box said it was the voice that they had heard previously, low and clear. On two occasions their electric tools had inexplicably cut out on them. Then the Council’s Building Inspector put his foot through a rotten floorboard in the same room and broke his ankle, thereby creating a very complicated insurance tangle.
After a host of problems and delays the house was brought up to a modern standard and opened by the Phillips family as a guest house. But they could not make a go of it, and word spread that the house was doomed, or haunted, or both. Most of the old estate had long since been sold off, and there was no tenancy money coming in. Jacob and Judith sold all of their remaining 230 acres of rough grazing land, and their lower fields, in an effort to clear their debts, but in 1960 they were forced by the building society and the bank to sell up, and they moved to Fishguard. After that three other families owned the house, each one driven by some fanciful money-making scheme and each one forced to retreat in disarray. The last owner failed to find a buyer, and suddenly disappeared. The gentlemen of the local “committee” (five elderly farmers who meet down on the Cilgwyn road every morning to discuss sheep prices, the weather and the state of the world) claim that they went off to darkest Spain to grow cannabis, but that story is not universally accepted.
By 1966 the Plas had been left to its fate, and in 1998 nobody had any idea who owned the ruins. Probably the deeds, for what they were worth, were held by one of the banks in Fishguard or Cardigan or by one of the building societies. The fragmentary memories of both the house and its eighteenth-century inhabitants appeared to have been scattered downwind.
Chapter 2. The Key to the Treasure
Two years ago I had a visit from Ben Phillips, the son of Jacob who had opened up the mysterious metal box in 1955. He told me that his father had recently died in Fishguard, and that he had rediscovered the box on going through his things. He had remembered the excitement of the original opening ceremony, although he had been only seven years old at the time. Now he had opened it up again and had set in train some investigations of his own. He was still inclined to his father’s view that the writer of all the documents was a woman. Could I help? He knew of my interest in local history and folk beliefs, and assumed that I might have some leads. I was intrigued by the story that he told, and agreed to help him along the detective trail. First, we checked in the County Library and the County Records Office for information on Plas Ingli, only to come away empty-handed and with the helpful advice that family papers might be found in the archives of the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth.
A trip to Aberystwyth appeared to be necessary, but before heading north into foreign territory we decided to check out the local graveyards. There were six or seven to choose from, but I reckoned that since our mysterious friend from Plas Ingli probably belonged to a family with social pretensions she was not likely to be buried in either of the graveyards belonging to Caersalem or Jabes Baptist Chapels. Rather, she might be found in one of the parish churchyards, either in Newport or Nevern. But there was another small churchyard in the parish of Cilgwyn, hidden in a copse of heavy yew trees and no doubt visible in the old days from the upstairs windows of Plas Ingli. I knew that the churchyard was a sad and neglected place, but it was worth investigating. According to the weather man an October gale was on the way in, but Ben and I agreed to meet at the churchyard next morning, wearing waterproofs and wellington boots and carrying slashers and billhooks.
It was a miserable grey day with the wind gathering speed and with spots of rain splattering the crumbling west end of the little church. The building itself is a simple Victorian structure in a poor state of repair, with cracks in the walls and holes in the roof. It is now abandoned, but until a year ago a few services were held here each year, for reasons of sentiment rather than anything else, attended by a handful of local people of all denominations. Ben and I speculated that the church would soon be in ruins, the last of a long line of sacred buildings on the site. There must have been something here as far back as 1485, for tradition has it that Henry Tudor camped nearby and worshipped in Cilgwyn Church on his way to Bosworth Field.
The grass had not been cut for years, and had now been largely displaced by brambles, thistles, docks and foxgloves. We were surprised to find one or two recent graves with marble headstones close to the entrance gate. A thickening jungle of bramble and laurel and fallen yew branches confronted us, and as we hacked our way through it we frightened a fox which had been resting in the undergrowth. We noted with satisfaction that the deeper we penetrated, the older were the headstones. Dafydd William Edwards of Trefach, died 1912, aged 24. Harold Jenkins of Penybont, 1859-1899 and his beloved wife Hettie, 1865-1903. Eliza Griffiths of Dolrannog Isaf, 1844, taken to the bosom of the Lord aged three weeks and two days. John Owen of Gelli Fawr, died 1830, aged 20. Some of those lost souls among the brambles would have been local squires or tenant farmers; others would have been teachers or merchants or lawyers; and those who belonged to the “lower orders” of society had lived short and probably miserable lives. We discovered that there had been many deaths in the 1830s and 1840s, which had been the time of the Irish Potato Famine and the Rebecca Riots. Many of the headstones were inscribed in English, which was the preferred language of the gentry after 1800, although we knew that almost all of the headstones of equivalent age in the Baptist graveyards were inscribed in Welsh.
Then, round at the back of the church and in the middle of a tangle of laurel branches, as if protected by the thigh-thick tentacles of some monstrous marine creature, we spotted the crumbling top of a stone wall some ten feet high. We slashed our way forward and were relieved to find that the brambles eventually gave way, having been starved of light by the thick evergreen foliage of the laurels. We squeezed through small gaps in the heavy horizontal branches and pushed aside layer after layer of flat smooth leaves. Then we found ourselves at the entrance of a walled enclosure measuring about fifteen feet by ten. At one time an iron gate must have served to protect the privacy of this little sanctuary, for the rusting brackets were still fixed in the stonework. The walls, made of dressed bluestone, were in a reasonable state of repair, given that they supported the branches of the collapsed laurel trees which were now, in the rising gale, grinding back and forth ominously. We entered the enclosure as the rain arrived in earnest, but we were afforded some shelter by a green leafy laurel roof. This haven of calm proved to be the family enclosure or mausoleum of the Morgan family of Plas Ingli.
They must have paid a lot for it, and since it was the only enclosure in the graveyard it spoke volumes for their status in the local community. The ground was covered with moss and leaf mould which had accumulated over many decades. Had we excavated a little we would, no doubt, have found the slate lids to a number of graves. The internal walls were hung with strings and loops of ivy, and when we pulled these away we counted that there were at least eighteen members of the Morgan family buried or commemorated here. Some were immortalized in memorial tablets fixed to the walls, and others in headstones at ground level. Most of the slabs were made of local slate inscribed with spidery and shallow-cut lettering, and the oldest ones had weathered so badly beneath a crusting of lichen that the writing was virtually indecipherable. We could at least see that all of those from the eighteenth century were written in Welsh. After scraping away moss and lichen we could make out some dates and names. Ezekiel Morgan of Plas Ingli, died December 1745, aged 59 years, and his wife Sara, died February 1753, aged 64 years. Jenkin Morgan, Gent, died 1781, aged 71 years, and his blessed wife Elizabeth Ann, died 1783, aged 76. William John Morgan, Gent, of Plas Ingli, his wife Bethan and three others, presumably his children Thomas, George and Rose, all died on 7th of April 1794. (We wondered what appalling tragedy could have overtaken all the members of this family on the same day. How and where had they died?) Griffith Morgan, lost at sea 1795, aged only 19.
After the year 1800 all the inscriptions were in English and easier for us to interpret. Another Sara Morgan, taken by the Lord 1830, aged 25. Dewi Morgan, drowned at sea 1820, aged 16. And then, to our great joy, the following words on a slate plaque near the entrance:
To the beloved memory of
David John Morgan, Gent
died 27th of February 1805
Aged 27 yrs
and his beloved wife
Mistress of Plas Ingli
released from her shackles 27th February 1855
Aged 76 yrs
having suffered long with blessed fortitude.
May they rest together in peace
in the bosom of the Lord.
We had found our author. Ben and I read the inscription in silence with increasing incredulity, as the wind battered the yew trees and as the rain filtered through the laurel canopy over our heads and reformed itself into a cascade of heavy droplets. Now we were starting to get seriously wet in spite of our waterproofs, and we retreated back to my house. In the warmth of my kitchen we were able to discuss things further.
David Morgan was only 27 years old when he died, leaving behind a young widow. She had written her diary when she was only eighteen or nineteen years old, possibly before the couple had married. Because her diary entries had stopped in 1797, we had assumed that she had died in or shortly after that year -- but it was now apparent that Martha Morgan had survived her husband by fully fifty years, had continued to live as a widow at Plas Ingli, had been accorded the rare title of “Mistress” of the estate, and had at last died at the advanced age of 76. What was her maiden name, and where had she come from? Her death was the last recorded of all the Morgan family, so when she died Plas Ingli must have gone to a family with another name. There were no children mentioned on the memorial tablet, but could Sara and Dewi have been the offspring of David and Martha? There could have been other children too, but if they had been girls who married their names would most probably be inscribed on other headstones, possibly in other churchyards miles away from Cilgwyn. And what were the tribulations that Martha suffered for so long with “blessed fortitude”? Whatever they were, those tribulations must have been widely known in the community, and her fortitude widely admired. Finally, since English was clearly the first language used by the major landowners of the area, why were Martha’s papers almost entirely written in Welsh, a language despised by most of her peers? Did she use Welsh because it was the language of her heart and soul, or did she use it in case her papers were ever discovered by others who might be shocked by their contents? And what was the relationship with Moses Lloyd of Cwmgloyn?
With so many questions still unanswered we went back to the churchyard in the afternoon when the rain had blown its way towards England. Armed this time with notebooks and pencils, we faithfully recorded all of the legible wording and the precise dates of death on all of the Morgan family memorial stones. Then we went our separate ways to undertake further research. Ben went up to Aberystwyth the following week on a fruitless expedition, and came back convinced that any of the Plas Ingli papers that still existed must have been incorporated into the documents relating to some larger estate, following either a property purchase or a marriage. However, he did find some references to Plas Ingli in some old topographical books, and discovered that in the mid-eighteenth century it had an annual income of around £800, derived mostly from the rents paid by four tenant farmers and various tenant cottagers. The estate at that time extended to some 600 acres, and qualified the Morgan family to be counted among the lesser gentry. Probably the head of the family would have been involved in local politics and administration.
I started to research the old electoral registers and the parish records of births, marriages and deaths, and found a few bits of information that carried us forward in our quest for Mrs Morgan. In the records I found the dates of birth and marriage details for several members of the family, but strangely there was no local record of the marriage of David and Martha Morgan.
I also started to ponder on the significance of Martha’s confession and of the single name contained within it. I did some research on the Lloyds of Cwmgloyn and found that they once owned a substantial estate not far from Nevern. Their family papers, in immaculate order, were stored in the County Records Office. There was a birth record for one Moses Edward Lloyd on 13th March 1774, but no record of a marriage or death. Could he have moved away from the area? More intriguingly, in view of his frequent mentions in the bundle of letters, could he have even been Martha’s lover?
Ben and I now decided that our speculations about the contents of the box were leading us in ever-decreasing circles, and it was clear that we needed a Welsh speaker in order to make further progress. I offered to organize a translation. I was convinced that the papers were interesting and possibly important, but I was already beginning to get attached to Martha and I did not want the material to be dissected by some translation agency or by some Welsh social history graduate intent upon the production of a doctorate thesis. Anyway, there were more than 500 pages of hand-written script, and cost was a consideration. Also, my instinct was that the text was written in a code or local dialect which might make it largely inaccessible even to a fluent Welsh speaker.
I took one volume of the diary and a few other papers at random, and popped in to see Tony Evans at the local bookshop. I knew that he was fluent in Welsh, but that he had learnt the language not as a child but as a young man. I was interested to see what he would make of Martha’s Welsh. For a few minutes he scanned the pages of the diary and then said “Good God! This is the strangest Welsh I have ever seen. Where on earth did you get it? The structure is not only archaic, but there are many words I have never seen before. All I can think is that this was written either by somebody from North Wales, or by somebody fluent in the old Dimetian dialect that was used in parts of North Pembrokeshire in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It’s more likely the latter, since the differences between southern and northern Welsh are mostly differences of pronunciation, not vocabulary. You wouldn’t pick up these subtleties in a written text. I can’t help you much, but you must talk to Abraham Jenkins on the Cilgwyn Road.”
“You mean Abraham Jenkins Waun Isaf? From what I can see, he spends most of his time leaning on the gate watching passing vehicles and chatting to Billy Howells, Tom Brithdir and Bob Thomas Blaenwaun. He seems quite content contemplating the passing of the seasons, reading the weather signs and complaining about the way the local area is being taken over by hippies.”
“Appearances can be deceptive, my friend, as I learnt when I lived next door to him some years back. Abraham was brought up in Cwm Gwaun before he won a scholarship to Oxford. He never took it up because of the war, but he was a brilliant poet and won the bardic chair at the Wrexham National Eisteddfod in 1938. He was a conscientious objector and spent part of the war in jail. Later on he was given the bardic name “Ingli”, which he thought a bit over the top since it translates as “angels” from old Welsh. Then he inherited the cottage and a few acres under Carningli, gave up poetry and academic pursuits, and concentrated on looking after a hundred sheep and five cows. He sold the cows when the milk quotas came in, and the sheep more or less look after themselves. You never know your luck. He might have the time and the inclination to help you. Go and see him.”
So that evening I knocked on Abraham’s door. He opened up cautiously and was clearly surprised to see me. He does not get many visitors, and my only previous contacts with him had been through the exchange of pleasantries about the weather down on the Cilgwyn Road. He invited me in and inquired as to the contents of the heavy metal box I was carrying. When I left several hours later the moon was sliding down towards Mynydd Melyn, and I had a deal. He was fascinated to hear that the box had come from the old Morgan family of Plas Ingli, for he had heard some strange things about them when he was a child. He would not elaborate. “Leave it with me,” he said. “The sheep are running with the rams at the moment, and there’s not much to do in the garden. I’ll get back in touch before Christmas.”
Christmas came and went. Eight months later he stopped me as I was driving up to town and said “Call in this evening, if you have a mind to.” I did as I was told, and Abraham presented me with the translation. It was meticulously written in English, on more than a ream of A4 paper. Without saying a word he wrapped it up in brown paper and tied it with binder twine. He looked tired. Then he said “The forgiven sins of Martha Morgan.”
“Strange things have happened on the slopes of this mountain over the centuries,” he said, “ but none stranger than the story told by this brave and troubled young woman. It is written in a sort of Dimetian dialect that has entirely died out, but which was once common around Solva and Croesgoch. Her diary confirms that she came from that area. I had the devil of a job sorting out her vocabulary and phraseology, but at last I cracked the code, and the task became easier and easier as the months went by. I tried at first to render it in naive English, using the Welsh structure of sentences where possible. She was a young woman with only a limited vocabulary but a good way with words. She was to my mind highly intelligent, and her ideas and her writing style developed during her twelve months of diary writing. Take my translation away, young man. Do with it what you will. I don’t want payment, for I have just spent the most rewarding eight months of my life in the company of the indestructible Mistress of Plas Ingli.”
There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask him, but he anticipated my impatience and said “Don’t ask me anything. The answers to all your questions are in the manuscript. Read it for yourself, if you can cope with the combination of my handwriting and Martha Morgan’s way with words.” And with that he pushed the tin box and the brown paper parcel into my arms with a twinkle in his eye. He showed me the door while I spluttered a few words of inadequate thanks.
“By the way,” he shouted after me, “I have also translated the bundle of letters and Martha’s confession. The confession was written in Dimetian Welsh, but the letters were written in the normal form of the language used in these parts. Very interesting indeed. I have tagged these items onto the end of the diary narrative. Good night!” And he closed the door.
I have spent a further twelve months sorting out the narrative, editing out superfluous material, getting the family tree and the sequence of events straight in my mind, and trying to get Martha’s diary into a form fit for publishing. When Ben Phillips and I first embarked upon the task of entering into the small world of Mrs Morgan Plas Ingli, we had not the faintest idea what manifestations of good and evil we would discover within.
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