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

by Allan Frost

  ‘As much as that? That’s longer than any of mine lasted. Lucky if they stretched beyond two days.’

  They sat quietly. Sarah noticed his expression change.

  ‘Why so glum?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be going home tomorrow.’

  She was taken aback. She knew the moment would come sooner or later, and had hoped it would be later.

  ‘Do you have to?’ Her voice was soft. She held his hand and squeezed it gently.

  This simple action caught Tim completely by surprise, made him feel embarrassed and caused a slight flutter in his heart. He wasn’t altogether sure of his feelings towards her, or hers towards him.

  She continued, avoiding his eyes. ‘I was hoping you’d stay. Get to know you better.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. Sorry.’ Oh, God, what’s happening?

  ‘You have been rather engrossed in your work!’

  ‘It’s so fascinating. You must think me terribly antisocial.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s good to be keen on something. Will you be coming back?’ She hardly dared ask.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve a few things to check before I write everything up. It could take several weeks.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase the question. Will you come back to see me? I won’t charge for your room!’

  So, she was interested in him!

  ‘I’d love to. But I have to say I’m not very good with girls, if you know what I mean. Haven’t had much practice since I was a student. You must have noticed.’

  ‘You’re not, er, gay, are you?’ Not that she thought he was, but she had to ask. The last thing she wanted was to look a fool.

  ‘Certainly not!’

  Do it! Now!

  Sarah leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  ‘We’ll have to do something about your inexperience with girls!’

  Tim looked into her eyes. No more words. We’ve passed the talking stage.

  They kissed tenderly. Tim’s elbow somehow found its way into the mug and dunked itself in warm coffee. He didn’t care.

  The spy in the next alcove heaved a massive sigh of relief. Neville, in the absence of anything better to do, had volunteered for surveillance duty that night.

  ‘And good riddanth!’ he lisped, downing his drink. He got up and almost bounced through the door.

  ‘Money, money, money! It’th tho funny, In a rich man’th world.’

  It was surprising, although not totally unexpected, how much Sarah missed Tim’s company so soon after he’d returned home. She knew she couldn’t lock him in his room or refuse to let him leave; he was, after all, just another paying guest and had to make a living by writing articles and giving lectures. She wouldn’t have thought it possible to earn money just by doing a bit of research, writing short features and talking in public. She was more of a hands-on worker, providing a valuable service to the public.

  At first, she hadn’t put him high on her list of ‘People-I-should-get-to-know-better’. However, the way his initial shyness and reticence to speak transformed into an outgoing, lively talker was really quite attractive, especially since he sustained eye contact when in her company. It made her feel as though she were someone special and no one else mattered. It was as if they were completely on their own, even in a crowded room filled with regulars who wondered why this scruffily-dressed bloke, who used long words in ordinary conversation, had such a hold over her. Some of them (those with only one head but still very little in the way of a brain) had tried to form more than a ‘usual pint?’ relationship with her for years, without any glimmer of success.

  She hadn’t told Tim everything about her past, of course. She’d enjoyed a happy childhood. Her parents had given her a lot of their time, a fact she didn’t appreciate until they’d died and she was left alone, very alone, to manage the business all by herself. It had been, and still was, a full time job with very little time for gadding about.

  She’d learned the hard way. Young, single women with their own businesses inevitably attract the wrong sort of suitors. All they ever seemed interested in were the prospects of free booze and daily darts in the bar where they could play the magnanimous host without actually doing any work themselves.

  And it wasn’t just the ability to serve drinks, chat to customers, cook meals and keep the bedrooms and other public rooms clean and tidy. Technical matters regarding the storing of beer and keeping up to date with increasingly long lengths of red tape to satisfy the legal requirements of Health and Safety, H.M. Revenue and Customs, various departments at the local council, you name it, all had to be learned. Work didn’t stop when the last customer crawled out of the door at night, nor did it begin when they walked in next morning.

  Sarah was so grateful to have a small team of helpers to stand in when trade was particularly busy. OK, it was costing more than usual because she had recently spent so much time with Tim in their alcove but it had been well worth every penny, even if she had nothing to show for it . . . except a few pleasant feelings.

  And, oh boy! What feelings they were! She’d never had so many sleepless nights, tossing and turning, wondering if she should act the seductress and entice him into her bedroom. The intense dark and stillness of long nights play havoc with normal patterns of thought; Sarah found herself fantasising as she’d never done before, except when, as an early teenager, she’d fallen into and out of love on a daily basis.

  Tim wasn’t the most physically attractive man she’d ever seen, not by any stretch of the imagination. He had virtually no dress sense, nor did he seem to possess even something so rudimentary as a comb, yet the very thought of him made her short of breath and her heart flutter.

  He must be the reason for her dressing a little more fashionably than normal, although her efforts seemed to go largely unnoticed. Did it matter, or was she simply following a primeval instinct to attract the attention of a prospective mate?

  Was she in love with him, that was the real question.

  Was it worth trying to analyse why?

  No.

  Would he ever return to Priorton?

  Only time would tell.

  Was she wasting her time anguishing over vain hopes?

  As one week without his company drifted inexorably into another, Sarah’s frustrations increased. It reached the point where answering the telephone became almost unbearable; why didn’t he ring?

  Or would his precious work always be more important?

  VIII

  Tim was, as usual, sitting at home in the study. His desk was littered with photographs of documents and plans from and pictures of Priorton Hall as well as countless shots of the exploratory excavation at the former Lodge. The Heroes Symphony by Philip Glass provided welcome background music while he typed into his laptop; it was undoubtedly more in his musical line than the warblings of the Sixties belting out from that infernal juke box.

  There were three articles he’d been commissioned to write celebrating the 400th anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot as well as two lectures he was obliged to deliver at universities during the coming fortnight; these were priority jobs and, much as he’d rather spend time on his Priorton findings, had to be completed if only to earn the money to keep his financial head above water.

  Fortunately, all outstanding work and the lectures were soon out of the way and hadn’t taken too much preparation because he knew the subject inside out, so it wasn’t too long before he was able to immerse himself in the complex and confusing discoveries made during his last stay at Priorton.

  Images of Sarah constantly interrupted his thoughts; they unsettled him, made him feel as though he was out of breath. He’d taken to sighing loudly for no apparent reason, huffing and puffing all the time, every hour of every day. She really had crawled under his skin in such a way it was like an itch requiring constant attention.

  The only way to solve the problem was to return to Sarah’s arms, smell her hair and enjoy the thrill of her smiling eyes and infectious laugh. Should he give h
er a call? No, he was scared in case she had a few harsh words to say about him not keeping in touch, especially as they had crossed the landlady-customer boundary. And the situation got worse with every passing day.

  But first he had to finish the notes on everything he had discovered at the Hall and Lodge. It wasn’t just a case of cataloguing the information or sorting it into relevant topics; he had to think around the subject, try to see a bigger picture. That was the only way he could arrive at carefully deduced conclusions. Diligence and attention to detail was extremely time consuming, and it didn’t help with ever-present memories of Sarah clouding the issue. No, get the work out of the way first, then you can enjoy yourself.

  The unmistakable sound of an envelope being pushed through the letter box broke his train of thought. He left the study for a few moments and returned with a brown envelope. He slit it with the dagger letter-opener. He read the contents with some apprehension.

  HISTORICAL & FORENSIC SERVICES

  Dear Mr T Reason,

  The results of our tests are now complete. We can advise that the remains you submitted for analysis are of a small cask manufactured from Spanish oak bound with a hoop of Toledo iron. The cask contained low grade gunpowder which exploded circa 1600 AD (+/- 50 years). Your samples will be returned under separate cover.

  We trust this information is of use.

  This was the letter he’d been waiting for! It proved several things, not least that the Wiltons had been involved in a venture requiring gunpowder. It had to be the Plot itself; why else would William Wilton have agreed to pick up a consignment of gunpowder for Robert Catesby? And the fact that the keg had been produced in Spain showed England’s arch-enemy was quite happy to supply the necessary materials to destroy Parliament and bring down the government in the hope that Roman Catholicism would be restored as the official religion.

  Time to return to Priorton. He picked up the phone, wondering how Sarah would react after several weeks’ silence.

  It was a beautiful day. The sky had the appearance of a Mediterranean summer, the birds were twittering merrily in the trees and the scent of freshly-mown grass assailed the nostrils. All was well with the world. And it was good to get away from the juke box.

  Tim and Sarah wandered, hand in hand, along the drive from the Hall. His return to Priorton had taken longer than anticipated and they were anxious, although not too headstrong, to make up for lost time. They were both mature enough not to spoil whatever the future had to offer by being too impetuous.

  They paused beneath the canopy of an ancient elm, held each other closely and took their time over a lingering kiss. Not passionate, but enough to hint at the promise of more to come. Sarah’s mother had once offered valuable advice: don’t display all your wares on the stall at once. Keep something back for another visit.

  ‘Oh, Tim! I’m so glad you came back!’

  ‘Couldn’t resist it! There’s something about this place!’

  ‘What? You prefer this place to me?’ exclaimed Sarah, with feigned indignation.

  Tim laughed. ‘Don’t be silly!’

  ‘Please don’t leave me in the lurch again,’ she said imploringly. ‘The days were unbearably long waiting for calls that never came.’

  ‘I’ll try, but you know I get wrapped up with unravelling detail and trying to make connections. And I’ve told you I haven’t had much practice at wooing.’

  ‘Wooing! What a quaint way of putting it,’ she laughed. ‘Really, Tim, you must bring yourself up to date with modern words. Wooing, I ask you!’

  They resumed their stroll along the drive.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing. I had a hunch when I first came here. Can’t explain it.’

  ‘Hunch?’

  ‘1605.’

  ‘What? Five past four?’ She pretended not to understand to see his reaction.

  ‘No, the year.’

  He could be so literal at times!

  ‘Is the link with the Gunpowder Plot so important?’

  ‘Yes! Oh, yes! It shows there was even more to the Plot than we thought. Whether he knew it or not, Augustus was involved.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When he met Catesby at Bristol, it must have been to collect kegs of gunpowder.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have been a coincidence?’

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t always believe in coincidences. Fate, yes. But not coincidences.’

  Tim lapsed into thought while Sarah was content to hold his hand and relish the moment. She hadn’t felt so happy and carefree for years. They reached Tim’s Polo, parked by the Lodge excavations, too soon for her liking.

  She smiled. The car looked so sad and neglected. It crossed her mind that, one day, she’d buy him something a little more modern and comfortable. Perhaps a family car . . .

  ‘If Augustus put the gunpowder in the cellar, could it have been exploded by Giles, his brother?’ she asked.

  ‘What? To get revenge?’ He stopped abruptly. ‘That’s a thought. Catesby and the others wouldn’t have been very pleased to lose an expensive load of gunpowder.’

  ‘So Augustus killed Giles and ran away to escape the consequences!’

  ‘Taking Elizabeth with him? No, he’d have been hunted down.’

  ‘By whom? I thought Catesby and the other conspirators were dead not long afterwards. There were no police then, so who would bother? Well, I think there’s something very suspicious about Giles’s death, especially as Augustus must have returned beforehand to stash the gunpowder.’

  She had a point. Tim fell silent, thinking hard. His mind was filled with conflicting ideas and emotions. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. She was interested in his work after all! He needed to check his notes again. But that would mean leaving so soon after his return. Only one thing for it. He braced himself.

  ‘Sarah. Would you like to come back to my place? Just for the weekend? Can you get someone to look after the inn?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask!’

  But just how many of her wares should she offer?

  Sarah strolled into Tim’s study on Saturday morning, wearing his dressing gown and sipping a mug of Twinings Earl Grey tea. She bent down to stroke Fawkes, who liked the feel of her gentle touch. It was more than a good substitute for that of his master, with whom he was greatly miffed for leaving him alone yet again.

  Sarah’s eyes fell on a framed photograph of her displayed prominently on the desk, surrounded by the usual untidy array of papers and books. A tingle slithered down her spine, causing her to take a sharp breath. She smiled and looked around to see if anything else of interest caught her eye.

  Tim’s antique dagger lay near the photograph. She picked it up and playfully warded off an invisible assailant. Tim walked in, saw what she was doing and almost dropped his own mug.

  ‘Careful with that! You’ll cut yourself!’

  ‘No, I won’t, silly!’ She held the point at his throat. ‘Take one more step and you’re cat’s meat, you varlet!’ she growled.

  She was just about to replace it on the desk when her jaw dropped.

  ‘Look at this!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The crest.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It’s the same as on my pendant!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  He couldn’t believe his ears. She must be mistaken. But Sarah was adamant.

  ‘It’s the same crest as on my pendant! Look!’

  She pulled on a silver chain and fished out a pendant from beneath the dressing gown. Tim bent to examine it closely but his eyes were distracted by her cleavage.

  ‘You’re supposed to be looking at the pendant!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well?’

  Frantically, he rummaged through the desk, grabbed a photograph of Priorton Hall and scrutinised it through a magnifying glass. The stone-carved Wilton family crest above the doorway was exactly the same as the arms engraved on the pendant. There was no mistake.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Where did you get the pendant?’

  ‘From my dad. It’s an heirloom. What about the dagger?’

  ‘The same.’

  They stood staring at each other, mouths agape, trying to make sense of the discovery and considering the implications.

  ‘We must have the same ancestors!’

  ‘Possibly. But how do we prove it?’

  ‘Simple. Compare our family trees.’

  ‘Do you have one? Mine goes back to 1750.’

  ‘Then bring it back to Priorton.’

  She slowly and deliberately slid her arms under his and gently pulled him close. She kissed him tenderly.

  ‘I knew you were someone special! Upstairs?’

  ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet!’

  ‘Don’t be so unromantic! You admitted you were out of practice! Breakfast can wait. And lunch if need be! C’mon.’

  He needed no second bidding.

  After a brief but rather illuminating weekend at his home, Tim and Sarah resumed their places in the sanctuary of the alcove at the Priorton Arms on Monday afternoon. They pored over the front pages of an enormous family Bible, retrieved with some effort from the inn’s dust-laden, cobweb-ridden attic. Adam Faith’s My kinda girl reflected what Tim had been thinking throughout the last couple of days.

  The pages revealed a long list of names and comments, dating from the 1530s. Tim’s laptop displayed the YOUR ANCESTORS screen.

  ‘Anyone born around 1750?’ asked Tim.

  Sarah checked the Bible.

  ‘No. Yes! Richard Eason. Married Judith Hoy. He died 24th December 1784.’

  ‘That’s our connection! The Priorton Arms must have been his! What’s the earliest entry?’

  ‘It’s very difficult to read.’

  ‘Let me look. I’ve had a lot of practice with old writing.’

  She watched his finger trace the loops and swirls written by their ancestors and couldn’t help heaving a deep sigh of pleasure. His enthusiasm was quite infectious and he really did have hidden talents. She blushed when the ones she had discovered over the weekend flashed through her mind’s eye.