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

by Allan Frost

  ‘Hm. John Hoy. Born 1531. His son Richard was born in 1552. Richard had two children. Henry, born and died 1574.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad!’

  ‘Quiet, woman! I’m working!’

  He continued: ‘The other one was Elizabeth, born 1576.’

  ‘Did she have any children?’

  ‘Yes, William in 1594 and Jane in 1598.’

  ‘Who did she marry?’

  ‘It doesn’t say.’

  Tim let this information sink in for a few seconds.

  ‘That’s it! I saw a William and Jane mentioned in Augustus’s papers! I’ll have to ask Fiddlit if I can visit the Hall again.’

  He couldn’t resist kissing her. It didn’t matter she was an unknown long lost relative.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ he said, fending off another kiss. ‘Hold that thought and keep your lips warm!’

  He ran over the road to the solicitor’s office.

  ‘Just what are you looking for now, Mr Eason? I thought you’d finished your research here.’ Fiddlit had been highly suspicious as soon as he saw Tim enter.

  ‘I’d like to tie up a few loose ends. You know how much historians like detail.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Kindly return the key when you’ve finished.’

  Sarah accompanied Tim to the Hall and watched in silence while he racked his memory to rediscover odd snippets of information which might make up a complete story. She had never really seen this side of him before and began to appreciate the mental discipline and experience needed to glean important detail from, to her, indecipherable scribblings. Her admiration was growing by the minute.

  It took longer than they’d expected so, rather than breathe down his neck, Sarah went for an amble around the Hall. It was, undoubtedly, a beautiful building which felt more like a home than a lifeless museum or impersonal tourist attraction. She could almost imagine herself living there. Nothing wrong in having a dream.

  Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by Tim calling her to come back to the library. He was typing very quickly into the laptop.

  Satisfied there was nothing more to discover, he explained his conclusions. Excited, they rushed back to the inn, picked up a few things and crossed the road to the office of Fiddlit & Wynne.

  Frank Fiddlit greeted them with a mixture of annoyance when they entered his room and relief when Tim handed him the key to the Hall.

  ‘Am I to assume we shall not be seeing you again, Mr Eason?’ It sounded more like a statement than a question.

  ‘I have a feeling you may be seeing more of me from now on,’ Tim replied, smiling. ‘I believe we’ve found an heir . . .’ he shot a quick glance at Sarah. ‘. . . or heiress to the Wilton Estate.’

  Fiddlit looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He sank deeper into the cushion of his leather chair. White-knuckled fingers gripped its arms tightly.

  ‘And what brings you to that conclusion?’ he croaked.

  Tim, with additional information supplied by Sarah, recounted his discoveries and discussed the matter in some depth. Although he couldn’t put his finger on precisely why, Tim reached the conclusion that the solicitor was being evasive and obstructive. On the other hand, many of Fiddlit’s observations were valid.

  After more than an hour, they were getting nowhere, a fact much in evidence when a relaxed Fiddlit leaned back in his chair, a sure sign that the meeting was about to end. He took time to light his pipe before speaking.

  ‘It’s all very interesting, I’m sure,’ he said with uncharacteristic sympathy. ‘But I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing here to prove you are descended from Sir Augustus Wilton.’

  ‘But his notebook—’ began Sarah, pointing to a printout of Tim’s notes. She read, ‘Two daggers, long for self and short for William’s tenth birthday, March 1604.’

  She looked up. ‘Elizabeth’s son was also called William and was ten at the same time!’ She read again, ‘Two pendants for Elizabeth and daughter Jane Hoy to celebrate birth, May 1598.’

  She looked frustratedly at Fiddlit again. ‘And there are numerous entries proving Augustus had an affair with Elizabeth! He must have been the father!’

  ‘Unfortunately, entries in a family Bible are insufficient evidence. And the notes could relate to the children of friends.’

  The full import of Fiddlit’s observations hit Tim between the eyes. How could he have been so stupidly carried away by the excitement of the moment? It defied everything he’d been taught to do as an historian. Gathering the evidence and drawing conclusions was one thing. Proving them to be conclusively correct was another matter entirely.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s right, Sarah. All this is purely circumstantial. There really is no legal proof that Augustus was William’s and Jane’s father. Especially since the Bible wasn’t published until several years after Augustus’s death.’

  ‘Then who made the earliest entries?’

  ‘Probably William or Jane when they were older and started the tree off with information they already had. The earlier entries are all in the same handwriting.’

  For once, Frank Fiddlit was pleased he had someone with intelligence in his office. It had been a close thing but, fortunately, his knowledge of legal matters had risen to the occasion. This pair might be entitled to the Wilton estate but, in all honesty and without him having to resort to underhand tactics, there genuinely wasn’t any legally acceptable proof. The Plan was safe!

  ‘It would have helped if Augustus had mentioned his children in a Will but, even if he had, the law concerning ba—, er, illegitimate offspring would have precluded them as beneficiaries unless he formally adopted them. I’m very sorry, Miss Brewer, Mr Eason. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  IX

  In keeping with a long-standing strict policy of being perfectly frank with clients at all times, Fiddlit resolved to convene an extraordinary meeting of his partners in property development.

  His intention was solely to minimise panic if either Bleak or Strubble overheard Mr Eason and Miss Brewer discussing the Wilton estate in their evenings together at the Priorton Arms. He shook his head while waiting for them to arrive shortly after midnight.

  The notion of taking it in turns to spy on the couple had turned out to be a minor misjudgment on his part; it caused more grief than the effort warranted. Still, if it kept them happy and their minds off the pre-planning advance fees he continued to collect from them, there was little point in curtailing their forays into the shady world of espionage.

  The bell of the church clock tolled ominously.

  Tom Bleak and Neville Strubble emerged from the shadows and attempted to make a secretive entry into the office. Dampness in the night air had expanded the wood; they had to push hard with their shoulders to open the front door. Unfortunately, it sprang open unexpectedly and thudded against the hat stand, sending it crashing across the hall floor. Strubble tripped over Fiddlit’s floored overcoat and fell onto the hat stand.

  At that precise moment, the sellotape holding the plaque in place obligingly became unstuck; the sound of brass clanked brazenly as it capered after the hat stand.

  ‘Shh! Keep quiet!’

  ‘It’th not my fault! It wath you, puthing too hard. I told you I could manage on my own!’

  The door to Fiddlit’s room opened and shed a dim forty watt light on the scene.

  ‘Shut up, you two! Close the door and get in here!’

  Anxious to minimise noise, Bleak applied restrained pressure to wedge the front door into its frame before following Strubble into the office.

  Neville nursed an injured arm with excessive care and attention. If he expected sympathy, he’d be greatly disappointed.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Bleak bluntly.

  ‘Nothing to concern yourselves with.’

  ‘Then why are we here?’

  ‘So’s you don’t get the wrong end of the stick and have a paddy.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have told uth over the phon
e?’ asked Strubble, for once showing signs of aggravated intelligence.

  ‘Some things are better told face to face,’ answered the solicitor. He thought it best not to mention the bills he’d present for out-of-hours meetings.

  ‘What thingth?’

  ‘I’ve had another visit from Eason and Sarah Brewer.’

  Neville’s heart fluttered at the mention of her name. What was wrong with a pair of mittens, anyway?

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ve come up with the notion that they have a claim to the estate.’

  He waited, expecting them to erupt. It wasn’t the reaction he expected.

  ‘It’th all over, then,’ muttered Strubble. How on earth was he going to repay his gambling debts, let alone Fiddlit’s bills? Bleak was having similar thoughts, wondering whether he should leave the country to avoid Elias Dolphin’s heavies. It gave him another idea.

  ‘I told you I could arrange an accident,’ he hopefully reminded Fiddlit. ‘Don’t like the idea of hurting Miss Brewer, though.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for such drastic action,’ insisted the solicitor. ‘I’ve told you countless times, I’m a solicitor. Trust me. When have I ever let you down?’

  Bleak thought twice about mentioning two disastrous court cases.

  ‘They must be serious, else why did they bother to tell you?’

  ‘Because I’m the one who advertised in the newspaper.’

  ‘What did they say, exactly?’

  Fiddlit filled them in on what Tim and Sarah had said and outlined the meagre and unsupported evidence they’d presented. Strubble lost interest before he finished, fed up with hearing so many long words in so few sentences.

  ‘It all sounds feasible to me,’ said Bleak.

  ‘Feasible, perhaps, but not conclusive. Eason knows that now. So does Sarah.’

  Neville hated Fiddlit mentioning her name; it soiled happy memories and the child-like infatuation he still nourished.

  ‘You’re convinced he hasn’t a leg to stand on?’

  ‘Certain. There is, of course, a high probability they are descended from Augustus Wilton but they’ve admitted there’s no legal proof. Our scheme’s not at risk, believe me,’ said Fiddlit, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘Let’s face it, if an accomplished historian can’t prove a connection, no one can. The estate’s practically ours!’

  ‘You said that months ago. And we’re still waiting.’

  ‘Better to wait in the knowledge we’ll soon be rich rather than have your hopes dashed like the two of them. A bird in the bush is worth two in the hand.’

  He had a point, although it flew over their heads. They weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.

  ‘So, business as normal,’ confirmed Bleak. ‘Sit and do nothing.’

  ‘Absolutely. D’you hear that, Strubble? Just carry on as before. Oh, I don’t think you need bother about spying in the pub again. I get the feeling Mr Eason and Miss Brewer find investigating each other holds better prospects and greater attractions than pursuing a lost fortune!’

  Neither Tom nor Neville felt so sure. Bleak relished the thrill of helping himself to free drinks while Strubble simply enjoyed being anywhere within ten metres of Sarah. Thwarted passions, however innocently nurtured, can affect a man’s actions.

  ‘Meeting over. Any other business?’

  It took Neville almost the same time to walk the mile or so to his flat as it did for Bleak to drive the five miles back to his cold, unwelcoming house at Wellingley. Fiddlit passed Strubble on his own way home but didn’t bother to offer him a lift in the Bentley. It was still important for their association to remain secret, otherwise people might start to ask questions. Not that anyone was likely to see them at that time of the night.

  Tired to the point of exhaustion, Neville cleaned his teeth and had a dog’s-lick wash while the kettle boiled to make a plastic Bugs Bunny mug of Horlicks. Strange how it never tasted the same after his father stopped making it, nor did it seem to send him to sleep as quickly as it used to. He snuggled up to Teddy and pretended to let him sip the warm liquid while he watched highlights from the Newmarket races. But his mind wasn’t on the galloping gee-gees at all; his thoughts drifted to his own life as a successful public servant.

  Neville Strubble’s position as Chief Planning Officer was extremely well paid, all things considered. By rights, he should be able to afford an impressive home as, indeed, had previous holders of that position. Unfortunately, his net monthly pay seldom left much in his pocket after gambling debts had been mercilessly collected by several creditors whose ugly enforcers met him outside the council offices without fail at lunchtime on the last working day of each month. Despite concentrating his IQ-deficient mind on the problem, he’d never been able to understand why, after religiously paying his monthly dues, he still seemed to owe the same amounts as the month before.

  It wasn’t as if Neville was an inveterate gambler. Admittedly, he enjoyed attending horse races at Ludlow and Wolverhampton. He’d done so for many years, ever since his father took him as a teenager. The bookies liked him; they knew a horse was unlikely to finish a race, certainly not win it, once weighed down by Neville’s stake.

  Over the years, regular racegoers followed him around like rats behind the Pied Piper, except they had different, more altruistic motives. As soon as word spread and everyone on the course knew which horses had been blessed with Neville’s vote, bets were placed on anything with four legs, irrespective of previous form, provided they weren’t the same as Neville’s. It reached the stage where Neville’s own bets carried a surcharge to help reduce the losses bookies were bound to suffer.

  As a result of such astounding and uncanny powers, Neville receives generous discreet gratuities from representatives of William Hill in recognition of the invaluable contribution he makes by letting this illustrious betting company have details of his favoured horses days before they are due to race. Yet still, even after receiving such benefits, Neville’s overall debts remain the same.

  He also enjoys a game of cards at lunch times with his colleagues except on pay day when he spends the hour dishing out wads of notes to the queue of thugs standing behind him at his bank’s ATM in High Street.

  His preferred game is Happy Families (a constant reminder of a sad childhood where the cheerful faces of the Baker family distracted his simple mind from the harsh treatment meted out by a domineering father); he’s allowed to play just one game before a rapid three-card brag session begins.

  Poor Neville rarely wins a hand, it goes without saying, but the other players are always very helpful and encouraging and seem to get no pleasure whatsoever raking in successive piles of five and ten pence pieces supplied by an ever helpful Petty Cash tin which, being within Mr Strubble’s remit, repeatedly requires replenishment.

  The staff in Strubble’s department think very highly of him. They’ve never had such an understanding boss. He’s always sympathetic to their problems, especially when site visits take such an inordinate amount of time to complete. The fact that most, unknown to him, end up in a pub is beside the point; he appreciates their dedication to the job and, provided they meet legal deadlines and issue the correct notices to applicants, both he and the council Finance Officer are more than happy to sit at their desks in blissful ignorance.

  It had been the same when Neville was promoted to Chief Lettings Officer eight or nine years ago. His was a rapid rise through the ranks, hitherto unheard of for such a young, intellectually challenged, unambitious public servant. His father, sick to the back teeth with him moping around at home playing patience and bagatelle in his bedroom at the far end of the family home, had bribed the Head of Personnel to take him on. In fact, Mr Strubble senior generously paid the lad’s wages for the first twelve months; ten pounds a week had been several hundred pounds short of the normal pay for council rent collectors but at least it got him out of the way for the same price as Neville’s pocket money allowance.

  Rent collecting hadn
’t been easy for such a sensitive youth. He felt sorry for habitual bad payers on the former gasworks estate, where cables ran from street lamps into homes and floorboards and other wooden fixtures were systematically ripped out and axed to sell as firewood to owners of property on Priorton’s private estates (apart from front and back doors: privacy was just as important to council tenants as anyone else). So sorry was Neville that he felt obliged to pay their arrears out of his own pocket rather than see parents taken to court and their loudmouthed, abusive yet endearing urchins taken into care.

  Problems began for the other rent collectors when Neville asked his boss a question during a staff meeting. Why was it that all his colleagues seemed to spend such a long time at home watching television when they should have been out collecting rents? The balloon went up. Neville was ostracised; they said he’d be sent to Coventry if he didn’t keep his big mouth shut. At first, he thought this would take the form of a promotional relocation.

  An enquiry followed. His boss was obliged to take early retirement. Neville suddenly found himself appointed Chief Lettings Officer, not so much because of whistle-blowing or ability, but rather because no one else in his department wanted to apply for the job unless Neville was moved to another section. By this time, his reputation had spread throughout the council offices and no one had any desire to employ such an unpredictable loose cannon. Furthermore, he couldn’t be dismissed for incompetence because he had been in the job for well beyond the probationary period and the union feared repercussions if they supported management’s suggestion to dismiss him.

  Consequently, there was only one person suitable for the job: Neville Strubble. If other employees refused to work with him, they could work for him after various limitations were imposed to restrict the damage he might cause. It was only a matter of time before council leaders needed to move him somewhere else, preferably in an office on his own, where contact with other employees and the public could be kept to a minimum or, preferably, non-existent. Thus it was that an astounded Neville became Chief Planning Officer. Priorton was such an economic backwater that the only matters submitted to his department were extensions to existing buildings and occasional changes of use for commercial properties. In short, the Planning Office had very little to do.