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

by Allan Frost

  It wouldn’t be easy, he knew. His father had told him many times that only fools follow the rules. They’re the ones who paid income and council tax and put their rubbish bins, as instructed, on the edge of the courtilage at the front of the house ready for collection. They paid bills on time and never received a colourful final demand. What sort of life was that, giving in to authority? Certainly not one for free-thinkers and entrepreneurs.

  The world of business and government is full of thieves and liars. Members of Parliament are supposed to reflect the opinions and ways of life of the Great British Public. Judging from daily reports of deception and scandal, they did. With gusto. And was it right and just for the government to impose high taxes and masses of red tape on a gullible population? Obviously, yes. Equally obvious is the fact that the full impact of legislation falls on the law abiding citizen rather than those with fewer scruples. Wasn’t the European Parliament just the same? When had it ever finalised a set of annual accounts? According to Private Eye, that impartial observer of all things, never.

  So, why should Tom, a small and insignificant cog in a many-wheeled machine, bother to change his ways? Life for most people must be very boring, not like his. On the other hand, he couldn’t really describe himself as happy or, if push came to shove, prosperous.

  Had he left it too late to change his ways? For some unfathomable reason, his mind shot back to the Presbyterian church service his grandmother had forced him to attend over thirty years ago. The minister was one of those itinerant Hell and Damnation scaremongerers with a reputation for long and repetitious sermons, which accounted for the congregation consisting of just Tom and his God-fearing grandmother.

  ‘Repent before the flames of Hell lick your nether regions! Repent, you son of Satan! Repent before it is too late!’

  When questioned afterwards, grandma assured him it was never too late to repent, but success in leading a good life depended on your true and honest desire to change yourself and the way you treated others. It was a belief held throughout her life, although she did leave it until she lay moaning on her deathbed before she asked for the nearest vicar to call. Not everyone dares to deny salvation when so close to the wire.

  But how could he effect such a dramatic change? It would mean finding a different, more reliable group of tradesmen who’d had proper training, pride in their workmanship and, dare he mention it, honesty. Inevitably, that would entail severing all ties with the crooks he’d come to know so well. They wouldn’t like it, not one bit. Tantamount to treason, letting your mates down.

  Tom frowned. Eugene Slinger (known affectionately as ‘Gin’ to his friends) had gone berserk when one of his circle decided to go legal. Eugene ran a skip hire service (strictly cash only) and had purposely knocked the poor chap down and deposited a seldom-used half size purple skip on top of his body to teach him a lesson. The corpse still hasn’t been discovered, or the skip used since.

  Leaving the fold to clean up his business might be more trouble than it was worth. There was no way he could expect them to slap him on the back and wish him well, nor were the the police likely to offer protection. And he could hardly spill the beans on their illegal activities; he had no proof.

  Tom tried to justify by detailing the pros and cons. Going legit would undoubtedly ease many of his worries. It might even open up a new world of opportunity, including finding a decent woman to move in with him, keep the house tidy and cook good, old fashioned food. People might actually begin to treat him with respect rather than cross the road to avoid him.

  Would he miss the camaraderie of criminal colleagues? Was there anyone else he could call on to break the odd limb or daub the occasional front UPVC door? Would there be any need to resort to such drastic measures if everything he did was above board?

  Frank Fiddlit seemed to have everything worked out quite well. He sailed close to the wind but had, as far as Tom knew, no criminal record nor any enemies. OK, so most, if not all, his clients came from colourful and interesting backgrounds, but he was respected by each and every one. He wasn’t married, though. That counted against him. It meant no one could threaten to harm his loved ones, a fact which put him out of reach of customary coercion. On the other hand, why would anyone want to hurt him? He had a reputation for supporting the underdog, whatever the cost.

  Neville Strubble, all things considered, was another asset, in spite of being a pillock of the first order. How Fiddlit came to have such a hold over him, nobody knew. Tom had done his best to find out, without success. Strubble was, to all intents and purposes, a typical council officer. He had an irritating way of talking which, judging from the way his tongue appeared unable to move normally, implied it was due to a physical abnormality rather than abject stupidity.

  On reflection, Tom Bleak had far too much to lose by breaking all ties with his intrepid band of criminal artisans, at least at the present. Who knows, if Fiddlit’s courageous scheme succeeded, Tom might, with a bit of good fortune, find a way to legitimise his business.

  But first, Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart had to pronounce in favour of winding up the Wilton estate. Once that was achieved, Tom would need all the help he could get; the housing development would be an enormous project and, given the number of subcontractors required, could make him a very popular man.

  Despite initial doubts about whether or not the solicitor could manage to persuade the court, coupled with the running sore of that Eason chap and his damned research, Tom was so certain everything would turn out well that he’d arranged an appointment with a firm of professional architects to get his part of the scheme under way. It would cost, of course, and add to his ever-present financial concerns, but it would be worth all the hassle and save time in the long run.

  But Eason might still, despite Fiddlit’s assurances, unwittingly throw a spanner in the works.

  In which case, Plan B would would have be implemented. Tom Bleak wasn’t sure what Plan B entailed, but it had something vaguely to do with broken legs . . . or worse.

  VII

  Tim spent most of the next day continuing research at Priorton Hall. While Tom Bleak had been reflecting over several glasses, the family dream had disturbed Tim again: during waking moments he pondered on the previous day’s findings while drinking copious quantities of coffee bubbling in the ancient but still functioning Teasmade on a low shelf next to the bed.

  However much he tried, his mind kept returning to Sarah Brewer. She wasn’t so bad, after all, and had a lot going for her. It was a pity she lived in such a dead hole as Priorton; she could do much better. But perhaps she was happy here. Oh, well, she’ll find someone one day. It certainly wouldn’t be him. Life with a historian didn’t present much opportunity for excitement.

  As he sat in the library at Priorton Hall, something he’d seen on a parchment plan of the front elevation of the former Lodge was niggling him. He wasn’t sure what it was. Puzzled, he took the plan with him from the library into the entrance hall and compared it to a contemporary sketch in one of the frames hanging on the wall.

  The Lodge appeared to be a single-storey timber-framed Tudor building. A small plaque below the sketch read PRIORTON LODGE, 1602. He checked the plan: it was dated 1594.

  Still puzzled, he ran a finger along the central chimney on the plan and compared it to the central chimney in the sketch. They matched. He then compared each window on the plan to each window in the drawing. They matched as well.

  His finger moved from the central chimney on the sketch to another chimney on the left, then to the plan. There wasn’t a chimney there; the plan showed only the central chimney. Another chimney seemed to have been added between the two dates but didn’t appear to have any new rooms associated with it.

  So why was it there?

  Fascinating!

  He went back into the library to find one of the ledgers. He’d read something in it which might shed some light on this little mystery. A name, that was it. A name associated with Catholics and specialised building
work.

  When Fiddlit arrived at his office the following morning, he was slightly unnerved to see that interfering Eason chap waiting on the doorstep. Worse still, the young man was holding one of those portable computer things; presumably he wanted to show something.

  Keep calm! Nothing to worry about, he thought, greeting Tim with one of his best sickliest smiles. ‘Good morning, Mr Eason. Come on in,’ he said, leading the way. The brass plaque had been stuck back on the door with sellotape and was already threatening to fall off again.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fiddlit.’

  ‘Do I take it you have come to show me the results of your findings? I must warn you, I’m not particularly interested.’

  Tim switched on the laptop and almost forced Frank Fiddlit to look closely at several photographs taken the day before. Tim explained, with some excitement, what they meant and revealed the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I really don’t know whether it’s worth the effort and expense, Mr Eason. I’m sure an excavation will be a waste of time.’

  ‘It’s just a hunch, Mr Fiddlit. An extension of some sort was added to the Lodge a few years before Augustus disappeared. I want to know why. It could have something to do with Augustus’s disappearance.’

  Why is Fiddlit being so negative? Try again. Say something which will appeal to his worst nature.

  ‘If we can discover more about the Lodge, I’m sure it would add to the value of the estate. It could make it considerably more attractive to prospective buyers if the property is ever put up for sale.’

  This struck a resounding chord. Fiddlit sighed as if he wasn’t really interested; he was an old hand at this game.

  ‘Oh, very well, Mr Eason. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have a word with the other trustees and let you know their opinion. But I shall expect you to supervise the dig and pay for it yourself. If something worthwhile does turn up, the trustees may consider some reimbursement for your trouble. Don’t raise your hopes, though; it would only be a token amount.’

  ‘When will you have a decision?’

  Fiddlit sighed again, just to emphasise the fact that he was a very busy man.

  ‘I’ll leave a message at the Priorton Arms later this morning. Am I to assume you’ve now completed your enquiries at the Hall?’

  ‘Not yet, no. I’d like to keep the key for the moment.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Good. Digging a hole would keep the pest away from the Hall. And he could be right about increasing interest when the time came to sell, in which case Fiddlit’s share of the proceeds would be that much larger.

  Should he tell the others? Yes, he better had; they were bound to find out sooner or later. Pity.

  Perhaps he and his business partners should introduce a rota for listening in on Eason’s conversations at the pub . . .

  Friday night at the Priorton Arms was invariably the busiest time of the week. ‘Local yokels’ pay day’ was how Sarah described it. Normally she employed just one of the girls from the council estate to help behind the bar but the last few nights talking to Tim had given her more than a little pleasure . . . and a lot to think about.

  As Tim was likely to return to his home at any time, she decided to hang the expense and get another barmaid to help out. She joined Tim in their usual alcove as soon as he’d finished his dinner, at the very moment when Elvis burst into a scratchy rendition of Can’t help falling in love.

  ‘The Lodge must have been altered some years after being built,’ said Tim enthusiastically in response to her question on what sort of a day he’d had. ‘The estate records show a payment of £10, a lot of money in those days, to Nicholas Owen, for ‘designs’. Owen was a Jesuit skilled in making priest holes,’ he explained.

  ‘Priest holes?’

  ‘Secret hiding places in houses. I think an additional chimney was added to the Lodge to act as a hiding place for Catholics visiting the Hall.’

  ‘I don’t want to seem picky, but the Lodge isn’t there any more.’

  ‘I know,’ Tim said, inclining his head and giving her one of those I’m-not-stupid looks. ‘It’s a long shot, but I may be able to discover something. Fiddlit’s given me permission to have a dig. I’m this close to proving a link between Priorton Hall and the Gunpowder Plot. I’m positive Augustus’s father was involved!’

  ‘Surely you can’t excavate the site all by yourself?’

  ‘I’m making a small start in the morning, to see how things go. I’ll get help from somewhere if I have to.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll be staying a few more days?’

  The Ivy League was halfway through Tossing and turning when he retired to his room. The nightmare had become more frequent than ever and, somehow, the juke box seemed to know.

  By ten o’clock next morning, Tim was standing on the southern side of the entrance to the long drive leading to Priorton Hall, supervising the surly overweight driver of a chugging canary yellow JCB digger, or ‘tracked excavator’ as the nitpicking workman preferred to call it (having seen a JCB catalogue) on account of the contraption’s caterpillar tracks.

  The young historian wasn’t absolutely certain upon which side of the drive the former Lodge had been; if he turned out to be wrong, he’d just have to try again on the opposite verge. One thing he felt quite certain about was that the ruins were situated very close to the end of the drive; such buildings invariably were.

  The object of the exercise was to rip out as much of the overgrown vegetation as possible and shovel the underlying topsoil away until obvious signs of the former Lodge became visible. Qualified archaeologists would die if they witnessed such a barbaric method, but Tim wasn’t rich and time was of the essence.

  Periodically, he checked progress and gave directions to dig a little deeper here, scrape away a bit more there. Shouting instructions was a waste of time; it wasn’t so much the incredible racket made by the machine but more the fact that the driver had become almost totally deaf from years of devoted service in the cab manipulating the control levers.

  Tim had been very surprised when Fiddlit somehow got wind of his intention to begin the dig straight away and had turned up at the pub before eight o’clock that morning just to make sure. Sarah had given Tim the name of one of her regulars who hired out a JCB digger and he’d promised to lend a hand as a personal favour (and a night’s worth of free drinks).

  Tim didn’t know it but the man also did a lot of work for Tom Bleak and telephoned the crooked builder to let him know he wouldn’t be on site in the morning; Bleak had then passed the information on to Fiddlit.

  Tim knew the wily weasel wasn’t telling the truth when the solicitor said he’d always been interested in the old Lodge and wanted to watch, but couldn’t come up with a reason for Fiddlit not to accompany him to see the results of the dig.

  After an hour or so, Tim signalled the driver to cut the engine. The hole was now quite deep; it appeared that most of the foundation stones had been robbed for use elsewhere not long after the Lodge fell into disuse, but he couldn’t be certain. However, he was pleased to see the sides of what had once been a large cellar. Tim pointed out the boundary stones to a yawning Fiddlit who muttered something like ‘Very interesting, I’m sure,’ without any hint of enthusiasm.

  Tim stepped back, trying to imagine where the entrance to the cellar had been. He noticed a slab of stone worn along one edge and instructed the driver to remove some of the surrounding debris.

  ‘What’s there?’ asked a genuinely intrigued Fiddlit.

  ‘Looks like a step. It could lead into the cellar.’

  He carefully jumped into the hole and rummaged around, tossing old bricks and dirt out of the way. He extracted a short fragment of corroded iron hoop with a fragile piece of charred, rotten wood still attached.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This, if I’m not mistaken, is part of a small barrel. Or a keg. Do you mind if I take it away for examination?’

 
‘Help yourself.’ The young fool wouldn’t find anything here to endanger his plans. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, very good! Must be going. Clients, you understand.’

  The last words he heard as he drove off were Tim’s.

  ‘Keep scraping! Over here! Very carefully!’

  ‘You can dig down as far as Australia for all I care,’ Fiddlit said to himself. ‘Loser!’

  Tim busied himself the following day by photographing documents in the archives at Priorton Hall and prodding about the ruins of the Lodge before returning to the inn and typing up his findings.

  The bar was fairly noisy with young farm workers enjoying the last night of the weekend. Tim sat quietly in the alcove sipping a Benedictine (no ice) and percolated coffee while he waited for Sarah to join him.

  ‘Don’t say anything out loud,’ she whispered confidentially. ‘But one of my ex’s is in the next alcove.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘God, I hope not! Neville Strubble, an absolute prat and mother’s boy. Well, he would have been if he had a mother. One of the biggest mistakes I ever made was going to the cinema with him. The locals pulled my leg for months!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’cos he had nothing going for him. D’you know, he bought me a pair of mittens for my birthday. And they still had the Oxfam price tag on them! Twenty pence!’

  ‘How old were you?’

  Twenty-two. The last thing I expected from a boyfriend was a pair of gloves. They didn’t fit anyway.’

  ‘I take it the torrid affair didn’t last very long?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him, partly because of the jibes he suffered for his lisp, it wasn’t his fault. The two weeks I went out with him seemed interminable, I’m ashamed to say.’