by Allan Frost
Frank now became the champion for brethren of the criminal fraternity. He also became a well known figure at police stations in the district. Being the dominant recipient of the one phone call permitted when a suspect was apprehended seemed to have an interesting effect on investigations. If Frank Fiddlit was called for, the suspect must be guilty and the investigating officer redoubled his efforts to find evidence.
This inevitably resulted in rather short appearances in court. Fiddlit could boast a long list of clients but kept strangely quiet about the number of acquittals achieved. After almost thirty years at Fiddlit & Wynne (Frank was now in his late fifties), he’d never once enjoyed a successful defence.
The fact that none of his doomed clients blamed him for their misfortune emphasised a high degree of inbred stupidity typical of those incapable of living an honest life. Their fate was always put down to police corruption (‘How else did my fingerprints find their way onto the weapon?’) rather than an acceptance of criminal responsibility.
Equally oddly, given the circumstances, not one of his incarcerated clients failed to pay the extortionate fees charged for their defence. There seems to be a gentleman crook’s agreement whereby paying debts to your solicitor is acceptable whereas the debt owed to society is not. And, all things considered, there’s a high probability that the services of a reliable solicitor will be needed again shortly after release from prison. It is a strange fact that some of Fiddlit’s clients have their own reserved cells, complete with monogrammed towels, at Shrewsbury Gaol, purely because they are bound to return after a few days of freedom.
Frank gets on so well with his clientele that wives and daughters are only too willing to help. They type letters on an ancient Remington and don’t expect payment (although the going rate for a secretary’s services are hidden in the overall fee) but draw the line at cleaning the office; they don’t do it at home, so why should they do it here? If only his father could see him now! During their married lives, his mother had acted as secretary and been paid for doing so, although her housekeeping allowance was reduced accordingly. Yes, his father would be proud to see Frank avoiding the cost of a permanent typist by getting clients’ family members to work free of charge.
It was through the office that Frank first met Tom Bleak. They never really liked each other. Frank turned his nose up at Self Made Men who flashed symbols of apparent success around in public. By a similar token, Tom hated solicitors, regarding them as parasites protected by government legislation to charge ridiculous amounts for poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted. Needed, perhaps, but definitely not wanted. How was a builder supposed to make a living in a cut throat business?
By cheating his customers, that’s how. But not every customer is wise to the delights of deception perpetuated by the building trade, nor suitably qualified to question why certain things are done at a greater cost than first indicated.
Which was why Bleak found himself in desperate need of a solicitor, preferably one who understood the pressures and shortcuts required by modern enterprise. Some bright spark had kept a diary of everything Bleak had promised when he submitted a quote for a house extension. If that wasn’t bad enough, the client had taken video film and photographs of the men at work and tape recordings of all conversations. And bombarded him with letters reminding him of his promises. And checked the quality of the materials and workmanship. Bleak had never come across anything like it in all his years in the trade.
The client threatened to sue him, despite the promise of broken limbs, also captured in full colour on film. Rather than run the risk of police involvement, Fiddlit had been recommended by a mutual acquaintance serving time for armed robbery.
Fiddlit, smelling a good fee, advised Bleak to defend himself, although Bleak’s wife Barbara refused point blank to type his notes or send letters. And, despite Fiddlit’s best efforts to make excuses for his client’s behaviour (it would have helped if he’d taken the trouble to examine the devastating evidence presented to the court), Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart pronounced judgement in favour of the complainant. No change there, then.
Consequently, as an added bonus, Fiddlit represented Bleak again in the matter of a divorce settlement with Barbara who, judging from the correspondence Bleak was obliged to type on his own behalf, sought to penalise her husband for unreasonable behaviour, despite protestations of his fidelity. Sir Cedric’s observations that the good woman must have completely lost her marbles to marry such a rogue in the first place struck Bleak as somewhat unfair and totally unwarranted, considering the human race survived by taking advantage of others.
Thus it was that Frank realised his dreams. Bleak was just the man to front the housing development scheme on the Wilton estate. Strubble would ensure all public protest was stifled and the plans approved. And Frank Fiddlit, having exclusive rights to the property sales, would rekindle an interest in the more boring practice of conveyancing. He might even take on an office junior to handle all that for him.
It would be a good way to maximise profits and consider early retirement. There must come a time when the desire to make money gives way to actually spending it. He shuddered at the thought. He’d have to think carefully about that.
In the meantime, as a tentative toe in the water, Frank had begun to have a bar lunch in the Priorton Arms opposite. Opening his wallet was still abhorrent but, little by little, he was making progress.
All right, so that Eason fellow had made him feel a trifle alarmed when he first came on the scene clutching the newspaper advert, but he was absolutely certain nothing would be discovered to jeopardise the plan.
V
Tim rapidly became immersed in his research at Priorton Hall. He’d had a lot of experience deciphering the minuscule spider-like scribblings of sixteenth century landowners and soon became familiar with those of successive Wiltons.
In no time at all, there were piles of dusty, ribbon-wrapped parchments and notebooks spread out in front of him. One or two bundles found their own resting place on the floor. Every now and then Tim typed something into an Excel spreadsheet on the computer. Little by little, he began to get a feel for the economic, political and social life of this now-defunct family.
He picked up another old leather-bound notebook. It was a diary of sorts, written with a narrow-nibbed, deliberately small hand, as if to make good use of the paper which, at that time, would have been an expensive commodity.
He ran a grubby finger up columns of entries, starting at the last page. It was a technique he’d picked up from the professor at his university whose logic was, ‘If a later note catches your eye, it must be interesting and will help you find the information leading up to it that much easier.’ Wise and useful advice.
‘Now that’s fascinating!’ Tim murmured under his breath. ‘18th August 1605. Noon. Robert Catesby, Bristol docks. Collect consignment. Take Elizabeth.’
He flicked through earlier pages in the book.
‘Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth . . . Again. And again! Who on earth’s Elizabeth?’
It was approaching nine o’clock that night when Tim went into the public bar after dinner. He took the same seat in the alcove as before and opened the laptop to type a few notes on thoughts he’d had since leaving the library at Priorton Hall.
He didn’t notice Tom Bleak sipping a very large measure of Bells while he sat, wedged out of sight, in a corner of the adjacent alcove. Bleak had cultivated a habit of sneaking into the inn and helping himself from an optic behind the bar when no one was in sight; at this time of the year there were very few customers during mid-week evenings, so following this practice was generally successful. He only offered to pay if he was discovered before he could finish the drink and slink out of the bar unnoticed. No point throwing money away. The downside was that he dare not light a cigar in case someone followed the scent and caught him in the act, and he did enjoy a cigar with a single malt. It made him feel important.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Sarah asked Tim
pleasantly. ‘Dinner OK?’
‘Great! Really tasty. You’ve got a brilliant chef.’
She blushed.
‘Well, I do my best,’ she said modestly. ‘Vegetarian dishes make a change from the usual stuff.’
‘You do all the cooking as well as run the inn?’ Tim was incredulous. She must have hidden talents.
‘I do have others to help when I need them, especially during the summer. As I told you yesterday, it’s always quiet over the winter months. Once Easter comes it’s a different story.’
‘What about when you’re on holiday? Or have days off?’
She laughed. ‘Holidays? Days off? You must be joking!’
He didn’t like to ask. But he did.
‘Is there a Mister Brewer?’
The corners of her mouth curled up in a coquettish sort of way.
‘No.’
Where did he go from here?
‘None of the locals has any appeal,’ she continued, sensing his awkwardness. ‘There was someone once, but he was under his dad’s thumb. It wouldn’t have worked. And after a while you start to think you’ll never get married and, as more time goes by, you get picky. So you end up living for your work.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ Tim nodded. ‘I always seem to choose the wrong type. None of them can be bothered to understand the thrill I get from poring over old manuscripts. Perhaps I’m too serious. At least you get to meet living people; most of the ones I research have been under ground for centuries.’
He looked searchingly into Sarah’s eyes. They didn’t seem bored. Did he detect a slight spark, or had he been away from women for too long? No, she was just being polite. Stranger in town needing company. Nothing more.
‘How do you manage with the heavy stuff? Barrels aren’t easy things to move around. I should know; I spent one summer working in the cellar of a brewery. I swore I’d never drink beer again.’
‘The draymen deliver straight into the cellar,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s not like it was when I was younger; casks had to be raised and laid belly-up on racks. Everything’s done with compressed air now; all I have to do is screw valves into place. Anyway, why don’t you like beer? You don’t give a landlady much hope of boosting sales, do you?’
‘One of the jobs I had to do on a Monday morning was scoop dead rats out of the vats. The whole place was infested with them; they seemed unable to resist free booze over the weekend.’
‘Sounds like my regulars!’
‘It wasn’t just the rats. It was the stuff they poured into the barrels just before they went out for delivery. Finings. I used to call it fish extract. Smelled horrible.’
‘Is that why you’re a vegetarian?’
Tim shook his head.
‘Oh, no. That happened much earlier. I was about seven or eight at the time. One of my school friends took me on a detour on the way home, to see his father ‘working with pigs’; that’s how he described it. How was I to know we’d turn up at the Smithfield slaughterhouse to find his dad knee deep in blood and pig bodies hanging from hooks with blood dripping everywhere? Yuk!’
‘Don’t you eat any meat at all?’
‘Only the occasional boiled egg. I know it doesn’t make sense but I’ve always felt revolted at the thought of eating anything with a face. Eggs don’t have faces.’
‘They do at Easter.’
‘What? When kids paint them? Very funny. That’s hardly the same. No, I’ve never liked the smell of meat, whether it’s beef, bird or fish, especially fish, cooking. I mentioned working in the brewery. Well, I was lucky to get that job. There were only two others available during the college holidays that year: slitting the throats of chickens hanging from their feet on a conveyor belt; the other was picking strawberries. Backbreaking.’
‘So, you’re not afraid of hard work as long as it’s not too strenuous,’ she said with a grin.
‘Don’t you believe it!’ he answered indignantly. ‘I’ve delivered post, worked in a steel rolling mill—.’
‘What was that like? The rolling mill.’
‘Awful. Everyone on the permanent workforce seemed to have a criminal record and spoke like Victorians. You know, “thee” and “thou”; that sort of thing. And the machinery had only recently been converted to run on electricity instead of steam.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘No, I’m not. It was a real eye-opener, I can tell you. And the language was foul, almost as bad as the pay. It helped me make up my mind to work harder at university so that I could get a decent job at the end. And I did, although I’d probably be better off in a factory on piecework. You don’t get rich being an historian.’
‘Nor being a landlady, believe it or not. Actually, the Priorton Arms isn’t a bad little business. Unfortunately, running it takes a lot of time and effort.’
‘And you don’t trust anyone enough to look after things if you’re away, which is why you don’t take holidays.’
‘It’s not that. No, it’s not much fun going away without someone. To share the experience, talk about what you see. Being on your own can make you feel very lonely.’
Oh, God, don’t let him think I’m fishing. Change the subject!
‘Did you find anything useful at the Hall?’
‘Did I! Are you sure you want to listen?’ he added cautiously.
‘Trust me, I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. If I want mind-numbing monosyllabic grunts, I can stand behind the bar. Go on, tell me: is there a Priorton connection to the Gunpowder Plot?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, but Augustus Wilton certainly had an appointment to meet Robert Catesby, the main conspirator, less than three months before the Houses of Parliament were to be blown up! Catesby lived at Holbeche House near Kingswinford, not more than forty miles away.’
‘Who’s Augustus Wilton?’
‘He owned Priorton Hall at the time. And that’s not all. He had a younger brother, Giles, who was found dead while Augustus was away. And . . . Augustus seems to have had a mistress. Elizabeth.’
Bleak was on the verge of boredom with their conversation but this comment made his ears prick up. He took a sip and leaned heavily against the back of the bench separating the two alcoves, straining to hear every word. Unable to hear clearly, he downed the whisky and pressed the upturned tumbler against the panel and put his ear to it.
‘Was he married?’ asked Sarah.
‘That’s the whole point. Augustus’s parents were staunchly Catholic. She was a Protestant.’
‘So?’
‘In those days, Catholics were treated like criminals and automatically suspected of treason. Augustus’s father would disinherit Augustus if he married Elizabeth.’
Sarah felt her hackles rise. ‘So he used her instead! Filthy beast!’
‘No, I don’t think so. The affair went on for years.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, Augustus’s father William died in July 1605. His mother had died some years before. They’re both buried in All Saints parish church here in Priorton. In the church itself, not in the graveyard. They were rich and paid for the Market Hall to be built.’
‘And?’
‘It means Augustus was free to marry Elizabeth! And Giles would probably have to leave the family home and find another source of income! What better reason to kill Augustus?’
Bleak’s attention was decidedly undivided.
‘I thought you said Giles was murdered while Augustus was away?’
‘I found a letter dated June 1605 from Catesby thanking William for his support and arranging to meet him at Bristol docks on 18th August. With his father dead, Augustus was obliged to keep the appointment and collect a consignment of goods.’
‘What sort of goods?’
‘The diary doesn’t say. Could be anything. Goods from overseas. Weapons for the conspiracy. Who knows? Guy Fawkes was a mercenary for the Spanish and could easily get weapons. They could be shipped into England via any port, a
nd Bristol is nearer here than London, and considerably safer. King James’s ministers had spies everywhere.’
‘The Wiltons were merchants,’ he continued. ‘Mainly dealing in fleeces. That’s how they made their money and bought the estate in 1539, not long after Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. They built Priorton Hall some years later and sold a lot of the building stone of the original twelfth century priory.’
He paused for a moment or two, deep in thought. Sarah waited for him to resume.
‘I can’t understand why William Wilton would want to build a new hall or leave the remnants of the Priory to go to rack and ruin; it would have been a much grander home and more in keeping with his position in society than a much smaller mansion, even if it does have a moat. Anyway, collecting goods from a port wouldn’t raise an eyebrow; he’d have had plenty of contact with other merchants and ships’ captains because of the wool trade with other European countries.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I don’t know. That’s pretty well as far as I got.’
‘And Elizabeth?’
‘I suppose Giles might have murdered Augustus and Elizabeth, or Elizabeth could have run away with Augustus.’
He fell silent again for several long seconds.
‘In which case, there could be an heir to the estate after all. They might have changed their names. Anything could have happened. Especially if Augustus had murdered Giles; he could have fled the country to get away.’
‘Tracking their descendants down won’t be easy,’ said Sarah. ‘They may not even know who their ancestors were that far back.’
‘True,’ agreed Tim. ‘I’d say it’s nigh on impossible. But you never know. I’ve been surprised how things fall into place when you least expect it. Loads of times, in fact.’
Bleak’s eyes widened in horror. He’d heard more than enough to give him a sleepless night. Curse that arrogant fool Fiddlit! He was even more alarmed when the juke box randomly selected Adam Faith to sing Poor me.