by Allan Frost
The look his mother gave him was almost identical to the one his dad had given when he came home after his very first night’s drinking bout with mates at the local pub. Even now, Tim was convinced his father had moved the furniture around in the lounge ready for his return. Why else would he crash into the table and chairs and knock the radio off the sideboard?
No, Tim didn’t have much luck with either women or drink. It wasn’t for lack of trying. The spirit was definitely willing, the flesh was certainly not weak. But he’d never been able to read between lines printed bold and large. Whenever a female friend asked for help with a college assignment, Tim was more than obliging and didn’t realise that revealing, low cut blouses had been intentionally worn to arouse his interest in history-in-the-making rather than past events.
It reached the point where the deflowering of Tim Eason became a challenge. Bets were placed and, as far as we know, no one ever managed to proceed beyond the embarrassing mishap scenario. Something always went wrong, even when he managed to take his mind off history with a view to pursuing venal pleasures. Failure was guaranteed, whatever the reason: zips refused to open at crucial moments, someone returned unexpected, sweaters caught in bra hooks, he forgot not to eat Marmite or baked beans. He should write a book on his first hand experiences, if only to help youths hoping to embark on a serious relationship.
He drove slowly along High Street half expecting to see the Priorton Arms emblazoned with plastic banners, advertising two meals for the price of one, hanging from the gutters. By the time he saw the inn’s swinging sign, he recalled that Priorton seemed to live in a time capsule and the Priorton Arms, an authentic stone-walled building with mullioned windows, must date back to the late Middle Ages. He drove through a low archway leading to a small car park and former stables at the rear.
His suspicions that the town hadn’t progressed much beyond the 1960s was confirmed as soon as he entered the pub. Jim Reeves was crooning Welcome to my world with an intrusive backing of crackles and hisses from an ancient Rock-Ola juke box (as seen on Juke Box Jury with David Jacobs) with more than half of its singles missing, having perished through over-use. He approached the bar with severe doubts about being there, half expecting to see inbred yokels with two heads, and the wisest man in the town going by the name ‘Village Idiot’.
There was no one in the bar so he rang the brass bell on the counter, and jumped in alarm when a hand wearing a yellow Marigold glove appeared from nowhere. It was attached to a woman about Tim’s age.
‘Hello,’ she said in the same voice he’d spoken to yesterday. ‘Can I help you?’
He was relieved to see she didn’t have a moustache and wasn’t wearing anything tight. In fact, she looked quite normal. Not breathtakingly attractive, thank goodness, but someone who caught your eye in the nicest possible way and for the best possible reasons. He blushed crimson.
‘Y-yes,’ he began. His voice seemed rather dry. He cleared his throat. ‘I rang yesterday. B-booked a single room for a few nights. Not above the bar. I, er, need to be in a quiet room to work.’
‘No problem there, then,’ she smiled. Her eyes sparkled. Or were they glinting? ‘We don’t get many visitors this time of year. Just locals, and they won’t bother you. Most don’t have two IQs to rub together and only communicate with grunts.’ She stopped abruptly when she saw the look of horror and dropped jaw. ‘I’m only joking! What sort of work do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Research. History.’ He knew she wouldn’t be remotely interested and had probably already filed him in the ‘Stupid Intellectual’ category.
‘You’ll find plenty of history in Priorton; there’s nothing much modern here, although we did away with cess pits a few years ago and now have flushing toilets, hot water, gas, television and take credit cards. Mr Eason, isn’t it?’ She produced a credit card authorisation slip. ‘Sign here, please.’
She looked at his signature. He sensed what was coming.
‘TREason, eh? That’s a name to die for. You could be hanged for having that label! I bet you’ve had some stick over the years!’
He blushed again. Was she being sympathetic or just rude?
‘Blame my parents.’
‘You said you didn’t know how many nights you’d be here. Don’t worry, you can stay as long as you like, no one else is booked in until next month. Here’s the key to your room. Up the stairs, left at the end of the corridor; you can’t miss it. Nice view and plenty of ‘p and q.’ Was he a dimwit? ‘Peace and quiet.’
Tim grabbed the key and his bags. He couldn’t reach the sanctuary of the room quickly enough.
III
It was almost seven o’clock before Tim plucked up enough courage to go down to dinner. Was there an obvious message from Jim Reeves, now singing He’ll have to go, or was he being paranoid? What was wrong with him? The ancient machine had been set to random play and, unless something supernatural was interfering, the choice of music was pure coincidence.
He strolled into the empty dining room, wincing when he noticed a game park’s worth of deer and fox heads nailed to the wall and countless stuffed birds in domed glass containers on shelves. Some bright spark had left a baseball cap on one of the antlers and a partly burnt cigarette end stuck jauntily in a fox’s teeth-bared mouth.
Only one table had been laid, lit by a solitary candle next to an opened bottle of red Rioja and an upturned glass. The fact that all the other tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room made it very obvious where he was supposed to sit. So he did, and poured some wine. It tasted good.
He glanced around but couldn’t see a menu anywhere. Did anyone know he was here? He coughed politely and dropped his room key rather loudly on the table.
‘Coming!’ called That Voice. His heart sank. What more humiliations were in store?
She came and put a bowl of soup and a warm granary bread roll in front of him.
‘Leek and onion,’ she said quietly. ‘You did say you were a vegetarian, didn’t you? Don’t worry; it’s made with vegetable stock, not chicken. Enjoy!’ She returned briskly to the kitchen before he could thank her.
It was one of the tastiest soups he’d ever had, and the warm bread had not long been freshly baked. He only just managed to put the spoon down before she reappeared with the main course. Finally, the apple pie with cinnamon was equally as satisfying and served equally promptly. Was she trying to impress or get rid of him as soon as she could?
‘Join me in the bar for a coffee,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve been on your own too long. No offence,’ she added before taking the crockery away.
Slightly bemused, he found his way into the bar and sat on an ancient high-backed bench in one of the alcoves.
The woman, her cross-over pinny now discarded, came from behind the bar carrying a tray with a coffee pot, milk and two mugs.
‘Would you like a whisky or something? On the house.’
What was her game?
‘Er, a Strega liqueur, if that’s OK. No ice.’
‘Not many folk ask for that,’ she said a trifle smugly. ‘We only keep a bottle in case Sir Cedric or Lady Cynthia pay us a rare visit.’
Lady Cynthia. The name rang a bell.
‘Who are they?’
‘Sir Cedric and Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart. Live at Blister Grange, along the road towards the Wellingley.’
Ah! Tim did recognise her name.
She returned a few moments later and sat opposite him across the table.
‘Cheers!’ she said, lifting her liqueur.
Tim responded. He still harboured suspicions.
‘It’s not poisoned,’ she smiled. ‘Look, we got off on the wrong foot earlier. My fault. I don’t get many visitors and I’d go crackers if I couldn’t joke with the few that do manage to make it through the front door. Trouble is, I don’t always say the right things, or the right things come out the wrong way.’
She seems genuinely sorry, thought Tim. She has lovely eyes.
‘So, Jim’s not going to tell me to go after all?’ he said, nodding to the juke box. Buddy Holly began singing Learning the game. Was this intentional or another weird coincidence?
This time it was her turn to blush.
‘No, of course not. My name’s Sarah. Sarah Brewer. Yes, it really is Brewer, before you say anything.’
‘Well, it’s appropriate. There are countless surnames relating to trades.’ Rats! That was patronising. ‘Sorry. I sound like a complete prat. Do you own this place?’ Change the subject. Better still, let her do the talking, you fool.
She nodded. ‘Been in the family for hundreds of years. I inherited it from my parents a few years ago.’
Should he mention one of his own ancestors used to be landlord here? No, not the right time.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You weren’t to know. A car lost control and ploughed into a bus shelter in Shrewsbury. Christmas Eve shopping. I was left standing, holding the bags while they were tossed aside.’ Her chin quivered. ‘You don’t forget things like that.’
‘No.’
It was just one of those automatic gestures, that’s all. He put his hand on hers and squeezed it gently. The puppy-dog look in her eyes made him withdraw it, but not too quickly. Get a grip! You’re here to do some research, not play with the emotions of a lonely beer-dispensing spinster!
‘What are you researching in Priorton of all places?’ There was a hint of softness in her tone. And, possibly, interest.
‘Priorton Hall. Well, I’m putting together a thesis on the Gunpowder Plot. You know, Guy Fawkes and all that.’
‘Hasn’t the subject been exhausted already?’
‘That’s the whole point. I’ve found some new facts indicating others were involved with the conspiracy. Priorton Hall is mentioned in payments received by a man who specialised in designing and building priest holes and other hiding places. And, as it happens, one of my ancestors was an innkeeper here in the eighteenth century. And yesterday I received a letter from the Priorton Economic and Social History Society with a newspaper cutting concerning the Hall. I came because there may be something useful in the estate archives.’
Oh, God, why do I go on and on? When will I learn to quit while I’m ahead?
Sarah seemed fascinated but women can be such devious creatures. He wasn’t sure if her interest was genuine.
‘Don’t raise your hopes. The History Society has very few members. Cynthia Foot-Wart dabbles in the past just to fill the hours in the day when her husband’s out. He’s a judge, she’s bored, they’re both ancient. Sorry, but that’s the truth.’
‘Well, I have an appointment tomorrow with solicitors handling the Priorton Hall estate.’
‘That’ll be Fiddlit & Wynne. The office is straight over the road. Mr Fiddlit never crossed this threshold until a few months ago. Since then, he’s come here for lunch almost every weekday. Very odd. Hates parting with a penny. A word of advice,’ she added, glancing around in case someone had entered without her noticing. ‘Do what you have to do but don’t get involved any more than is necessary. That firm isn’t exactly . . . above board.’
‘They’re solicitors. Who on earth would trust one of them?’
Tim had disturbed dreams again that night and was not feeling too bright when he approached the door to a semi-detached late Victorian house opposite the pub. The tired screw holding the brass plaque decided now would be a good time to give up when Tim pressed hard against the ill-fitting door. The plate hit the ground with a resounding clang. He picked it up.
There was no waiting room off the dim entrance hall which sported dark brown lacquered embossed wallpaper below a dado rail and peeling ochre paint above. The elaborately patterned tiled floor somehow seemed too up-market for such a neglected building. He entered the first door he came to. Inside, Fiddlit sat at his desk, casually smoking a pipe while trying his utmost to look busy reading a brief. The effect was lost when he realised the papers were upside down.
‘Er, Mr Fiddlit or Mr Wynne?’ enquired Tim.
‘Fiddlit. We haven’t had a Wynne here for years.’ It was a statement heavy with meaning.
‘My name’s Tim Eason. I saw your notice about Sir Augustus Wilton’s estate. Oh, I’m afraid this fell off,’ he added, looking around for somewhere to put the plaque. He couldn’t see anywhere clear amid all the clutter so he laid it gently on the floor near the fireplace. He felt rather guilty when he noticed the solicitor’s dropped jaw and expression of unbridled disbelief.
‘And?’ Fiddlit could barely get the word out.
‘I’ve been researching my family tree. There’s a connection with Priorton in 1750.’
‘1750? You’ll have to do much better than that, young man. Sir Augustus died in 1605!’ God, was he relieved! For one moment he could see all his carefully made plans going up in smoke.
‘So I gather. I’m not explaining myself very well, I’m sorry. I’m a freelance researcher. One of the areas I’m interested in is the Gunpowder Plot. I was wondering if any of Priorton Hall’s records from that time still survive.
‘Oh, it’s the history you’re interested in!’
Tim nodded. ‘It was the combination of Priorton in my family’s history and the date of the Gunpowder Plot which made me come here. Coincidence, if you like.’
‘I hope you don’t put all your hope in them! There’s no such thing as coincidence! Trust me, I’m a solicitor!’ He laughed, exposing two rows of yellowing teeth. Tim forced a polite smile. ‘Just what is it you’re hoping to find?’
‘I’m not exactly sure. I’m afraid much of my research involves gathering small amounts of information from a variety of sources. Sometimes one item fits in with another and eventually make a picture.’
‘Like a jigsaw.’
‘Very much so. The way I see it is that there are private collections of papers scattered around various country houses and there’s a danger of them being destroyed, especially if properties are sold. People aren’t always interested in the past and don’t necessarily appreciate the importance of old manuscripts.’
‘Will the Priorton Hall records be worth anything?’ Fiddlit could see a potential windfall. ‘Financially, I mean.’
‘I shouldn’t think so, Mr Fiddlit. Not everyone’s interested enough to buy things like old correspondence or account books. And even if they were, they wouldn’t be worth much unless they’d been written or signed by someone of national importance.’
‘Pity. Well, Mr Eason, I think I can help, although I don’t understand why anyone should be interested in the past. What’s done is done: the future is what matters! However, all the estate records are kept at Priorton Hall. There’s no tenant there at the moment, so I can take you down any time you like.’
‘How about this afternoon? I’m only here for a few days.’
Fiddlit make a great show of shielding confidential appointments as he consulted the empty pages of his diary.
‘Yes, I seem to have a couple of hours free from one o’clock. Return then and I’ll drive you down. It’s not far. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Eason.’ He stood and shook Tim’s hand.
Tim made a mental note to wash the Brylcreem off as soon as he returned to his room.
A few minutes after setting off at the appointed time, Fiddlit’s sparkling black Bentley took them through a gateway and along a long, winding tree-lined drive slicing through acres of parkland. Eventually they reached Priorton Hall, a magnificent moated timber-framed late Tudor mansion. The car parked near a stable block a few metres away from the building.
With the solicitor’s permission, Tim paused to take a few photographs of the Hall from different angles. It was a little awkward holding the digital camera in one hand and his laptop in the other.
He crossed the narrow stone bridge over the moat to rejoin his host who had just turned a large key in the iron-studded oak front door. Above it was a stone carving of the Wilton family crest; it seemed strangely familiar but he had come
across no end of heraldic shields over the last few years. Tim was almost dumbstruck with the beauty and grandeur of the building and could only manage an almost inaudible ‘Wow!’ There was simply too much to take in all at once.
They entered the spacious hall. The wall of a long, sweeping staircase was crammed with several tapestries and a few pictures of the Wilton family, the Hall and its former Lodge. It made a stark contrast to the drab surroundings of Fiddlit’s office and had obviously been well maintained by previous tenants. Tim doubted that Fiddlit himself would want to part with even a penny of the fees he received for administering the estate.
The solicitor ferreted around beneath the wide staircase and turned off the security system. Then, with an ‘I think I can trust you. Nothing worth pinching anyway’, showed Tim how to reset the alarm.
‘This way, Mr Eason.’
Tim followed him into an oak-panelled room, obviously the library. ‘This is the library, Mr Eason. The shelves and cupboards at the far end contain everything relating to the Wilton estate. You won’t find a vast amount; that’s all there is. Just a few ledgers and notebooks and sundry other papers. All other books in here were donated by successive tenants.’
‘So the Hall has been occupied since Sir Augustus died?’
‘Disappeared, actually. His body was never found. Yes, the property was put into trust almost straight away. The terms of the original Chancery ruling were such that all we legal eagles had to do was keep the estate intact and financially viable. Not difficult; there are a number of well managed farms.’
‘How large is the estate?’
‘Well over two thousand acres. We have a farm manager, Wesley Pope, who also runs the Home Farm. It’s not far from here. Mr Pope oversees the collection of rents and makes sure the tenant farmers take good care of the land entrusted to them. Most farms are family run and have been for decades. Nothing much changes in Priorton.’