Gunpowder, TREason and Plot, or How we dug up the Ancestors

by Allan Frost

  ‘No, I noticed that in the Priorton Arms. Seems to be stuck in a time warp. I’m staying there.’

  ‘Not a bad pub, all things considered. Proper little gold mine, if you ask me. Best in town. Miss Brewer took over when her parents died a few years ago. Very sad. Can’t understand why she didn’t come to me to sort out the Probate; I’m only just over the road.’

  Tim could hardly say it was because she didn’t trust him.

  ‘How long have you been acting for the estate?’

  ‘My great-great-great grandfather Ebenezer Fiddlit was appointed a junior trustee in 1853. My great-great grandfather Noah succeeded him in 1898; my grandfather Jonas took over in 1936 and my father in 1956.’

  ‘Why didn’t your great grandfather become a trustee?’ asked Tim, spotting the omission.

  ‘Nathaniel was killed in the Great War.’ Fiddlit didn’t mention the fact that he was shot for misappropriation of cash intended for partisan resistance groups to sabotage the enemy’s transport network.

  ‘It’s almost a family business, then.’ Tim shouldn’t have said that.

  Fiddlit bristled. ‘I hope you don’t mean we are solely concerned with making money, Mr Eason. It is a civic duty. I am a so-li-ci-tor!’

  ‘The thought never entered my head,’ said Tim quickly. ‘I’m simply fascinated by families who continue the same line of business from one generation to the next. Is the estate worth much?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that. Client confidentiality.’

  ‘And what’s going to happen to it? You said there isn’t a tenant at the moment. Will you be advertising for another?’

  ‘The future of the Wilton estate is in some doubt,’ replied Fiddlit stiffly. ‘Until several matters are resolved, I’m afraid we shall not be seeking another tenant. It’s possible the estate will have to be sold off.’

  ‘That’ll be a shame,’ said Tim. ‘Pity to break it up after so long.’

  ‘That’s reality, Mr Eason. Priorton needs to drag itself into the present century before it decays and dies. The parkland is more than large enough to accommodate a few dwellings without impinging on the unique aspect of the Hall itself. The economy will begin to develop when newcomers arrive. They’ll need services, shops, schools, that sort of thing. Plenty of incentives for people to move into the area and the park is ripe for development.’

  What was it about this young man? He was so easy to talk to but you could easily say more than you should. Better go before I let too many cats out of the bag.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to set the alarm and lock up when you leave. Just post the key through the office door unless you want to come back again before you leave. Just don’t take it home by mistake. The alarm code is engraved on the key shank, but don’t tell anyone. Well, goodbye, Mr Eason.’

  ‘Er, Aren’t you staying? I mean, how do I get back to the Priorton Arms? It was quite a long drive.’

  ‘Oh, just head for the stable block and you’ll see a small bridge over the Tricklebrook on the right. Cross it and follow the path round. It’ll bring you out in High Street, next to the Priorton Arms. Won’t take you more than five minutes.’

  So, the sly old devil had taken the long way round just to show off his car and the impressive grounds to the estate.

  A few moments later, he heard Frank Fiddlit’s car starting up and drive away. With the solicitor gone, Tim thought he’d spend a few minutes exploring the property before he delved into the sheaves of old papers.

  It was almost like he’d imagined the mansion to be. Of course, he’d spent many happy holidays visiting National Trust and English Heritage buildings over the years but he’d never come across anything so impressive as Priorton Hall. It displayed a unique amalgam of features he’d seen at, among other places, Baddesley Clinton and Little Moreton Hall, yet appeared considerably more attractive.

  More to the point, it didn’t have the empty, museum-like feel of so many houses open to the public. Priorton Hall, because or in spite of the unique circumstances under which it had been held in trust for some 400 years, retained that ‘lived in’ atmosphere. There had been many changes over the years to add those comforts expected as new technologies and expectations developed, like modern electric and gas appliances, but each and every alteration had been done in sympathy with the manor’s late Tudor origins.

  The only blemish, as far as Tim could see from the secondary glazed diamond-leaded window panes on the top floor, was the overgrown walled garden on the south side of the Hall. It had a stone bridge, similar but smaller to that at the main entrance, and an arched oak door set into the wall at the far end, presumably to give access to the parkland beyond. It was a shame to see such neglect in an otherwise idyllic property.

  Tim couldn’t wait any longer and returned to the library.

  He switched on his laptop and carefully dumped a bundle of dusty papers onto one of the larger tables.

  Surely there must be something worth finding in them?

  IV

  Frank Fiddlit made a telephone call as soon as he returned to the office.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bleak. It’s only a young historian doing research. At the Priorton Arms . . . No, there’s absolutely nothing to find there that will affect our plans . . . Well, if you want to go and listen in on private conversations, that’s up to you, but you’ll be wasting your time. Trust me, I’m—’

  The line went dead.

  All had been going so well until Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart had thrown a spanner in the works by insisting on a deferral of the case. The newspaper adverts hadn’t helped much, either. Eason would never have appeared on the scene if it hadn’t been for them.

  Fiddlit hadn’t been too concerned with the young historian’s appearance once the initial shock had subsided, nor was he bothered about what might be discovered. 400 years is a long time and, given the social importance of the Wilton family, Augustus’s mysterious disappearance and his brother Giles’s apparent murder, Fiddlit was, quite rightly, convinced that all that could be done to discover the circumstances would have been fully investigated at the time.

  That being the case, the solicitor was more than happy to let Tim examine the old estate papers in as much detail as he saw fit. There couldn’t possibly be anything in them to derail the plot he had so cunningly devised.

  There was no way, of course, he would ever allow Tim to examine any of the estate administration documents, particularly those relating to the period from when Noah Fiddlit took over as main trustee in January 1898 right up to the present. Fortunately, all previous papers had been destroyed in an opportune fire caused when Noah’s father Ebenezer fell asleep at his candle-lit desk on Christmas Day a few days earlier, setting first his hair, then his clothes and finally the whole office alight. He had, apparently, been unable to reconcile the business accounts and refused to join his family for the traditional seasonal dinner that evening until he’d succeeded.

  The catastrophe was recorded with typical late Victorian relish in the Wellingley News. As the business premises were insured by Salopian Life and Property and displayed their cast iron policy plaque on the wall outside, a civic-minded passer-by alerted the Priorton Fire Brigade. Unfortunately, the gentleman in question was a little the worse for drink and unable to convey the full import of his message for several long minutes. Realising the necessity for a fast response, the fire superintendent sprang into action and lit the coal inside the boiler of the steam fire engine. It had been a remarkable achievement to stoke up enough pressure to set off in less than half an hour. It was equally impressive to witness the engine, complete with the superintendent and two less-inebriated assistants on board, charging along the road at a racy three miles an hour.

  They arrived at the scene in a little less than an hour and three-quarters after the initial alert, having travelled almost half a mile through the streets of Priorton. It was an astounding feat witnessed by crowds of onlookers, none of whom felt remotely guilty at
not lifting a finger to help, thus giving the lie to the Fiddlit family’s self-assessed popularity in the town. Regrettably, Ebenezer’s charred corpse was the only identifiable item recovered from the burned out shell of the building, and that was only possible from close examination of numerous pawnbrokers’ etchings inside his pocket watch.

  None of the business papers survived which, in many respects, was most fortuitous. Admittedly, a few clients never received invoices for work done and those that had already received one feigned ignorance, knowing full well they were unlikely to receive another, so the business’s income was somewhat depleted until it could re-establish itself and acquire new premises in High Street, opposite the Priorton Arms.

  A major bonus, however, revealed itself when the Chancery Office in London requested trustee accounts in connection with the Wilton estate and was forced to concede they had been destroyed, thus saving Noah Fiddlit from, at best, financial ruin and, at worst, a long prison sentence for embezzlement. Incidentally, full accounts for the last 100 years have also yet to be submitted, but the Chancery Office is renowned for its snail-like pursuit of outstanding matters. Long may such diligence continue; the last thing Frank Fiddlit needed was to experience an enquiry into ten decades’ worth of misappropriation.

  Having said that, the Wilton estate was worth a massive fortune. Its interests didn’t just involve income from farming and letting out property, including the Hall itself, but also an impressive portfolio of stocks and shares, many of which dated back to colonisations of parts of America in the seventeenth century.

  Early trustees saw it as their duty to increase the value of the estate and, apart from a few failed speculative ventures (of which the infamous South Sea Bubble was the most notable), the majority had proved highly successful, particularly those connected with land purchases in former marshy ground now occupied by skyscrapers in the business districts of New York.

  Successive Fiddlits, on the other hand, took advantage of the estate’s ability to make money without actually doing much. In fact, they have, without exception, been most diligent in ensuring that Priorton Hall itself is well maintained, just in case the opportunity should arise to sell the property. Even though all the profits would be destined for government coffers if an undisputed heir failed to appear, the prospect of substantial fees based on the value of the estate was more than enough to keep Frank Fiddlit happy.

  To say accounts have not been prepared from one year to the next is not strictly true. Certainly, no attempt has been made to maintain full and accurate records. But, in order to take advantage of tax laws and reclaim much of the tax deducted from dividends, Fiddlit offers work experience to one of the pupils at the local comprehensive school during the summer holidays, just in time for the annual trust tax return to be submitted before the end of September deadline. While giving the appearance of employing students as an act of philanthropy, it ensures the job is completed in the shortest possible time and at minimal cost.

  Wading through wads of receipts for legitimate expenditure and typing them into a spreadsheet (on a computer supplied by the pupil, naturally) is not a thrilling job, but the object of the exercise is to give Fiddlit an idea of how the estate’s actual as opposed to declared income should be adjusted before the return is submitted. Fortunately, H.M. Revenue and Customs officials are not as diligent in checking returns as they used to be.

  But Frank Fiddlit is greedy, as are his co-conspirators. Winding up the estate would enable them to purchase the land at a knock-down price from the trustees, thus providing greater profits when each stage of development by Bleak’s dubious Quality Homes came on the market. Frank Fiddlit’s carefully devised plot was nothing short of a stroke of genius.

  The solicitor has other schemes lurking in the background, ready to implement when the initial plan reaches fruition. He hasn’t told a soul about them but they have something to do with shopping precincts and leisure facilities. When prosperous newcomers flock to the new housing estates, they’ll need all the trappings of civilisation, an aspect of Priorton’s backward commercial concerns which are currently lacking.

  But even the best laid plans need the right calibre of people in appropriate positions to ensure success. That was where Neville Strubble came in. Fiddlit could and never would understand how such an incompetent buffoon managed to find himself in one of the best paid and influential positions on the council. But the ‘how’ didn’t matter; the fact that the Chief Planning Officer had the final say whenever a decision had to be made did. And Strubble’s obsession with gambling made him an easy target.

  They’d met, quite by chance, in the waiting room of the County Court. Strubble, then Head of Council Lettings, was waiting to give evidence against a female council tenant whose rent had fallen into arrears while enjoying a brief rest in Holloway Prison. Fiddlit had acted for the defendant and, owing to the private company contracted to bring prisoners to court somehow mislaying their charge at a motorway service station, the hearing was delayed.

  He and Strubble had been kept waiting for well over an hour and, rather than spend the time in silence, had begun a conversation. Neville, naive nitwit that he was, had let slip his love of horse racing and playing cards. Fiddlit, highly experienced in spotting a victim, discovered the inveterate and incompetent gambler had serious debt problems, which made his appearance in such a case all the more intriguing.

  As a result, and in consideration of ‘professional services’, Frank Fiddlit occasionally made use of Strubble to help clients obtain planning permission for improvements to homes or changes of use to business premises. Neville was paid a backhander shortly after his seal of approval had been delivered to Fiddlit’s office. These sums were quite small to begin with but increased over a long period so that Strubble didn’t realise he was being groomed for a much larger project.

  Tom Bleak, on the other hand, was a greedy man who had been drawn into the conspiracy without much effort on Fiddlit’s part and hadn’t questioned the solicitor’s request for ‘money up front’ for greasing the palms of ‘essential experts’, the only ones capable of guaranteeing the success of such an ambitious plan.

  Yes, that had been a clever ploy. Fiddlit knew Bleak would, quite naturally, assume these experts were professional people who helped the solicitor from time to time and preferred untraceable cash payments, a means of trade quite normal and generally preferred by Bleak himself. In fact, the whole scheme was one of Frank’s own ideas, cultivated over a period of years, just waiting for the right combination of gullibles to nibble the bait. Who needs experts when a genius is at the helm and in full control of the situation?

  Yes, Frank liked money, although he seldom relished the prospect of spending it. Not just yet, anyway. He had enjoyed buying the brand new Bentley; it gave him a thrill such as he’d never experienced before. Even the cash handed over to the dealer, which seemed to be stuck to his hands with glue, belonged to the Wilton estate (described in the ‘accounts’ as a Landrover, ostensibly to visit tenant farmers), but no one would ever know.

  It hadn’t always been like this. Frank’s father was, to put it bluntly, a miserable old skinflint who only married and had a child purely for tax relief purposes. He had thanked his lucky stars that tax allowances for married men and children, and the family allowance, hadn’t been withdrawn until after Frank had left university.

  Frank had proved a model student. He had seen how easily his father made a good living from soliciting and was determined to follow as closely as he could in the Fiddlit footsteps. Whether it was because of his looks (Brylcreemed hair was terribly yesteryear by the late 1960s) or halitosis, he couldn’t say but the lack of attention paid by women at the university (or anywhere else for that matter) helped focus his mind on reading law.

  He wasn’t, however, the most gifted student but managed to pass every examination (the final, resulting in a basic pass, had been guaranteed by his father’s small donation to supplement university library funds). Frank then spent a fe
w years articled to a firm of family solicitors in Wellingley whose clients comprised several of the town’s worst offenders. It made him realise there were regular fees to be earned with minimal effort by handling such cases rather than mundane matters like house conveyancing and business contracts.

  He joined Fiddlit and Wynne, Solicitors of Priorton, in his late twenties and couldn’t wait for his father to retire or die, but not necessarily in that order; retirement was not high on the list of preferences, purely because old Mr Fiddlit would expect to receive annual bonuses from the business.

  Frank had once asked who Wynne was and had been told he’d been a client (a rag-and-bone merchant and hessian sack dealer) who’d helped Noah re-establish the business after the fire in 1897. A sleeping partner with no influence on the running of the business, Zebedee Wynne perished during the Great Influenza Epidemic shortly after the First World War and, according to the terms of his last Will and Testament (meticulously drawn up by Noah), left everything to his trusted solicitor. Zebedee’s wife and eight children hadn’t taken too kindly to being left destitute.

  Noah showed uncharacteristic generosity and offered to pay the boat fare for them to start a new life in Canada (on steerage tickets, it goes without saying). Much to his relief, they agreed. From his point of view, he felt safer with them stuck in a shanty town in Alberta rather than begging on the streets of Priorton. Image is everything.

  Frank threw himself into developing his own specialisms while his father continued to handle the more basic services offered by the firm. In spite of a series of angry letters from the firm to which he’d been articled, Frank managed to avoid the unpleasantness associated with being hauled before the Law Society for breach of etiquette; pinching established clients from a former employer was a serious matter, resolved amicably when two of his former employers (including the senior partner) suffered personal injuries inflicted by unknown assailants.