by Allan Frost
Even after he’d been appointed Chief Planning Officer of the local council (following a few well-placed ‘incentives’ provided by his overbearing father, now deceased, to add some respectability to the family name), folk still treated him like a fool. His whole life had been spent in other people’s shadows. One day he’d show them!
‘Cheer up,’ said the cigar. ‘People will respect you when this is all over.’ Tom Bleak smiled patronisingly with an extremely self-satisfied look that made Neville cringe; it reminded him of his father.
Bleak was a Self Made Man, owner of a building firm whose sites were supervised between visits to the pub by his reliable foreman Gerry. It was unfortunate, although strangely apt, that Gerry’s surname was Bilt.
Frank Fiddlit yawned loudly. He lifted a sheaf of dog-eared papers and scrutinised them with exaggerated deliberation, just to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He ran a hand through his heavily Brylcreemed and obviously dyed black hair and transferred a small slick to his greasy moustache. He sat back in his chair and peered over the papers.
‘To summarise, gentlemen,’ he spoke pompously. ‘You, Mr Bleak, in your capacity as director of Bleak Homes Limited, have approached the Trustees to acquire land at Priorton Hall with a view to developing an exclusive executive housing estate.’
He paused to take a satisfying suck on his pipe before continuing. ‘Mr Strubble, Chief Planning Officer for the council, will ensure his department has no objection. As the leading trustee of the late Sir Augustus Wilton’s estate, I’m sure I can persuade the other trustees to accept your kind and, er, generous offer in the light of such unusual circumstances.’
He tossed the papers onto the desk and took another suck at his pipe. It had gone out. He stuffed it into the top pocket of his pin-striped suit jacket.
‘Are you absolutely sure the judge will grant a dispensation?’ asked Bleak, casually flicking cigar ash towards the hearth. It missed and fell into one of Strubble’s trouser turnups.
‘I can see no reason why not. Augustus Wilton’s Last Will and Testament has never been found, so the legal position is rather complex, which is why the estate is still intact. But, in a nutshell, the estate has to be held in trust until a rightful heir is found. That was almost four hundred years ago. I doubt very much that anyone will appear after all this time!’
‘Will the other Trustees agree?’ asked Bleak, sipping the brandy and trying not to vomit.
‘Of course. My father and uncle are co-Trustees.’
‘I thought they were dead.’
‘Not as far as the court is concerned. I sometimes get their signatures mixed up with mine but no one’s noticed so far.’
‘I don’t like it. Thomething’th bound to go wrong!’ moaned Strubble. ‘It alwayth doth.’
Fiddlit shook his head, exasperated. This fool from the council simply hadn’t a clue. How could anyone be so stupid? Pity he was essential to the plan but his gambling debts should keep him in line. He smiled; his yellow teeth did nothing to inspire confidence. ‘There’ll be no trouble, Strubble. Trust me. I’m a solicitor!’
Bleak was more in tune with the purpose of the plan and had no qualms. Money was everything to him. And the plan promised far greater profits than all of his previous ventures put together.
‘What about our . . . fees?’
‘Yeth. Are you abtholutely pothitive no one will find out? I can’t afford to looth my job!’
The solicitor smiled again. Bleak had to stop himself gagging. He hated solicitors, regarding them as parasites, but it wasn’t often he came across one as devious and unscrupulous as himself. He smiled back.
‘All taken care of. Well,’ Fiddlit sighed. ‘That seems about all, gentlemen. I’ll see you in court at ten o’clock precisely!’
He sniffed.
‘Can you smell something burning?’
His pipe had taken on a phoenix-like quality and rekindled a flame inside the pocket.
The others departed swiftly while Fiddlit reached for the nearest brandy glass to quench the fire.
II
Priorton Civic Court in Market Square occupied a few rooms inside the town’s market hall, built and paid for by the aforementioned Augustus Wilton’s father William in 1596. It was one of those impressive half-timbered buildings (complete with bell tower and weather vane) supported on stone columns so popular with Tudor merchants.
Not only did it provide ground floor cover for traders on market days, it also attracted visitors who liked to drink in the authentic Olde Worlde atmosphere while guzzling beefburgers from polystyrene containers conveniently dispensed from a mobile catering van with attention-seeking jingles.
Neville Strubble walked nervously from the council offices shortly before the appointed hour and climbed the stone staircase leading to the public waiting room. His tongue felt like it had been stripped of all sense of taste by Frank Fiddlit’s cheap brandy and he could barely keep his eyes open. Conspiratorial meetings are all very well but holding them after midnight was not the right time for someone who needed every minute of sleep in order to make his brain, or what passed for one, function as well as it could.
Tom Bleak, who had parked his brand new Mercedes nearby in the grounds of the former livestock market where there hadn’t been an auction for almost sixteen years and was, in Bleak’s eyes, ripe for development as an in-town, out of town shopping complex, shoved his smug face further into the Financial Times. It was important not to let anyone suspect an association with the Chief Planning Officer. This, however, would prove difficult. There was no one else in the waiting room and Frank Fiddlit’s case was the only one due to be heard that day, so it was obvious even to the most casual onlooker that Strubble and Bleak were somehow connected.
Muriel Higgins, the court recorder, wearing a tweed two piece and sporting black thick-rimmed glasses, peered through the doorway.
‘The judge is almost ready. Take your seats in the courtroom,’ she said primly, with the obligatory hint of a cold welcoming smile so favoured by public servants.
Neville Strubble shuffled to the rear of the cramped room and shrank into the seat until only the top of his head was visible above the back of the chair in front. Tom Bleak sat looking extremely self important in a camel coloured cashmere suit (bought a week or so earlier from the secondhand clothing stall on the market) immediately behind the desks reserved for counsel at the front. Fiddlit was already there, laying his brief neatly on the table. The courtroom was otherwise empty.
The door to one side of the Judge’s Bench opened with a long, loud creak as if reluctant to allow the proceedings to start. The usher and recorder entered with Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart close behind. While the recorder sat down, the usher took his position outside the courtroom door, ostensibly to repel all unwelcome late-comers.
Sir Cedric acknowledged Fiddlit with the briefest of nods and discreetly ignored the charred remnants of the solicitor’s top pocket, his singed eyebrows and half missing moustache. This stoop-shouldered esteemed arbiter of justice was eighty if a day and not the most spritely of men, yet his pale blue eyes seldom missed a trick.
‘Ah, Mr Fiddlit,’ Sir Cedric said. ‘I’d like to say what a pleasure it is to see you again.’ But in all honesty, I can’t, he wanted to add.
‘Thank you, m’lud. Good to see you’re in good health,’ replied Fiddlit with an over-elaborate bow. Pity. The old codger should have been pushing up daisies years ago.
Fiddlit addressed the court at length, performing in his customary deliberate and pompous manner as if to a large audience. He explained in very great detail and, at times, in completely incomprehensible legal jargon, why the estate of the Late Sir Augustus Wilton should be wound up to allow commercial proposals, most notably those proffered by Bleak Homes Limited, a long established and respected firm (the judge raised both eyebrows momentarily on hearing this description) to be presented to the trustees of the estate. It would be of great benefit to the prosperity of the town which, as the judge
well knew, had been dying on its feet ever since the livestock market closed.
Sir Cedric was quite diligent in scribbling notes when Fiddlit began his speech but, after almost two hours, was struggling not to succumb to the influence of Morpheus. His head jerked involuntarily. After gazing around the room to get his bearings, he referred to his notes before raising a hand to silence Fiddlit.
‘Mr Fiddlit, this is all very interesting,’ he murmured. ‘Just when did Sir Augustus Wilton die?
‘We cannot be sure, M’lud.’
‘What do you mean, cannot be sure? Is he dead or still alive?’
‘According to the estate papers, he was assumed to have perished when the Lodge burned down on 27th August 1605. His body was never recovered.’
‘Which lodge is that?’
‘The lodge to Priorton Hall.’
‘I’ve never noticed a lodge there and I live quite near the entrance to the estate.’
‘No, m’lud,’ said Fiddlit. Don’t lose your temper. ‘It was burned down in 1605.’
‘You just said that. Come on, Mr Fiddlit, stay awake!’
‘Yes, m’lud.’
‘So, he could still be alive?’
‘Who could?’
‘Augustus Wilton,’ said Sir Cedric, getting more and more frustrated.
‘Not after four hundred years, M’lud.’
‘What? Hm. No, I suppose not. He had no heirs?’
‘Apparently not, M’lud. That is why we are here today.’
Sir Cedric mused for a few long moments, trying to recall Bleak’s arguments. He nodded.
‘Who are these onlookers?’ he asked, indicating Bleak and Strubble. If Neville sank any lower, he’d be somewhere beneath the fabric cover of his seat.
‘This is Mr Bleak, the property developer I mentioned earlier. And Mr Strubble, where’s he gone? Oh, there he is. Mr Strubble is the council Chief Planning Officer, here to oversee progress on the case. As a disinterested party,’ he added quickly.
Sir Cedric scrutinised them both carefully. He knew of Bleak and there was something at the back of his mind about Strubble’s name but he couldn’t recall exactly what.
‘All things considered, I can see no reason why the trust should not be wound up. It seems as though, at long last, one of your briefs will be successful, Mr Fiddlit.’ He smiled insincerely.
Fiddlit and his co-conspirators could barely hide their glee.
‘However, in the interests of justice and fair play, I feel it proper to advertise the inheritance one last time. Put a notice in the papers or something. National, mind, not just the local rags. Will you see to it straight away, Mr Fiddlit? And let the court have copies.’
‘Of course, M’lud.’
‘Assuming a verifiable heir is not forthcoming, we shall reconvene on, let’s see . . . 27th August, you said? Hm. That seems most appropriate if Sir Augustus is thought to have died on that date. 27th August next it is, then. Thank you for letting me preside over this brief, Mr Fiddlit. Most unusual. Case adjourned. Oh!’ he added wickedly, fixing Fiddlit with a meaningful stare and single raised eyebrow. ‘If your next brief is likely to take this long, let me know in advance. I may need to reschedule my afternoon Bridge. Otherwise I shall bring a flask, sandwiches and camp bed. And Lady Cynthia will be very annoyed.’
‘Yes, M’lud.’ Fiddlit bowed. Sir Cedric and his officials departed.
Strubble was livid.
‘Thickth monthth! You thaid we’d have a ruling today!’
‘It’s not long. Just keep your head and don’t do anything stupid!’
‘I didn’t like the way he told you to involve the newspapers,’ said Bleak. ‘No telling what might crawl out of the woodwork.’
‘No one looks at the legal notices! Trust me . . .’
Strubble and Bleak knew this cue of old: ‘I’m a solicitor!’ they chorused.
They left the Market Hall individually to go their separate ways. If all went well, there should be no need to meet again until August. But, in Frank Fiddlit’s experience, things never went according to plan. Perhaps this case would be the long-awaited exception.
As usual, Tim was still in his dressing gown when he heard the rattle of the letter box and the sound of envelopes hitting the floor in the hall. Clutching his coffee mug awkwardly in one hand, he succeeded in spilling some of its contents on the mat while picking up the mail. He went into the study.
To describe it as untidy would be an understatement. It was full of history books and research papers filed in no particular order but, as is so often the case with men who have lived alone for too long, he knew where everything was, even down to the last paper clip.
Tim sipped his coffee while gently lifting Fawkes off the desk and placing him on the floor. The cat yawned, stretched and promptly curled up on the carpet to resume its nap. Tim sat down and slit each envelope with a short stiletto dagger decorated with a coat of arms on the hilt before systematically taking the contents out of each one and laying them on the table.
One sheet was headed PRIORTON ECONOMIC & SOCIAL HISTORY SOCIETY and had a very small newspaper cutting attached to it.
Curious, he read the letter.
Dear Mr T. R. Eason, MA, B.Ed.,
The attached notice appeared this week in our local newspaper.
The Society thought it might be of interest in view of your research into the period covering the Gunpowder Plot.
May we also take this opportunity to remind you that your subscription to the Society newsletter is now two months overdue.
Kindly forward a cheque for £2.40 if you wish to receive future issues. If not, please send a remittance of 80 pence to cover the cost of the last newsletter.
Yours sincerely,
Cynthia Foot-Wart
(Hon. Secretary)
He flipped the page to see the cutting.
LEGAL NOTICES
Anyone with an interest in the estate of the Late Sir Augustus Wilton, formerly of Priorton Hall, Priorton, assumed dead circa August 1605, should contact Fiddlit & Wynne, Solicitors, High Street, Priorton, Shropshire as soon as possible and no later than one week before 27th August 2005.
‘I should be so lucky!’ he chuckled. ‘Still, you never know.’
He put the letter on the desk and opened the lid of his laptop computer. After a few seconds and several mouse clicks, YOUR ANCESTORS appeared on the screen together with a long list of names, dates and places of birth and death. Some names featured additional references and other notes.
He scrolled through the data until he reached the oldest entry: RICHARD EASON, b. Wellingley 23 March 1750, d. Priorton 24 December 1784, Innkeeper.
Tim’s middle name was Richard, an addition intended to prolong the preferred family choice of generations, although he had often questioned his parents’ wisdom ever since he had been nicknamed ‘Traitor’ at school. His signature still raised eyebrows: ‘TREason’ was a heavy cross to bear.
He pondered for a few moments. He recalled his father advising him to take one of three professions if he wanted to have a comfortable life and guaranteed income: Beer, Bread and Burials. His argument was that everyone needed them. And, although he could list beer sellers and bakers in his ancestry, as far as he knew there had never been any undertakers. Needless to say, Tim had ignored his father’s recommendations and became an historical researcher instead. OK, so it wasn’t so lucrative but it was more of a challenge.
The letter from the historical society took his mind back to how he’d come to take out a subscription in the first place. He’d passed through Priorton on one of his travels to Wellingley a couple of years ago in search of information to put more twigs and leaves on the branches of his family tree.
He’d stayed there for a week during the summer holidays, at the Duke of Wellingley hotel in New Street and spent several days in the public library examining Census records, inquest reports and trade directories and had discovered quite a lot, including a couple of sepia photographs of family members.
He also took a short drive into Priorton, just to see if the Priorton Arms still existed and to take a photograph. He hadn’t bothered to call in simply because there wasn’t enough time before he had to return home. He’d picked up a leaflet in the library and decided to join the historical society in case they came up with something of interest in their quarterly two-page newsletter. And they hadn’t. Until now.
‘Well, it’s not 1605,’ he said, reading the information on the screen again. ‘And I doubt a humble innkeeper had anything to do with nobility. But there may be something in Wilton’s papers worth looking at; there could be a connection with the Gunpowder Plot. If there is, I’ll renew my subs to the Society.’
The cat brushed against his leg. Tim bent down to stroke it.
‘I’m going away for a few days, Fawkes. I’ll give the neighbours a key and get them to feed you.’
The woman who had taken his open-ended booking at the Priorton Arms had been very pleasant. There was something in the tone of her voice that Tim found quite appealing, more so because she didn’t sound fazed when he asked for vegetarian food. Better not raise his hopes.
He hadn’t had much success with, let alone experience of, the opposite sex and she was probably one of those harridans who flirted just to get custom. He let his imagination wander as he enjoyed the February afternoon run along country lanes in his battered 1980s Polo. By the time he reached the outskirts of Priorton, he’d convinced himself she’d be about sixty, have a moustache and lesbian tendencies but wore something tight to keep male customers guessing.
Something tight. It reminded him of the shock on his mother’s face when she’d returned earlier than expected after a shopping trip to Birmingham. Tim had brought one of his college friends home and was having an interesting time struggling to extricate the sleeve of his woollen Argyle sweater from the wire hook holding the girl’s bra in place.