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

by Allan Frost

Some folk never learn. In a repeat performance of their outward journey, the three stooges were soon retracing the tortuous route on hands and knees. They were incredibly relieved to reach the foreman’s office door. Until they realised it was padlocked . . . and Strubble didn’t have the key.

  ‘Shove it! instructed Fiddlit.

  ‘What?’ said Bleak, affronted.

  ‘Put your shoulder to it.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you were being aggressive.’

  He took a short run at the door. His shoulder thumped against it. He bounced back.

  ‘Strubble. Help him.’

  They did as they were told. The door crashed open. They fell through the doorway and promptly slid the full length of the office floor before thudding into the far wall.

  Long shelves above them, stacked with dozens of hard hats, crashed down. Fiddlit walked inside, holding a flickering match up high to shed some light on the scene.

  ‘Hard hats. Good thinking,’ he was impressed. ‘Now, where are the keys?’ he asked, placing an orange hard hat firmly on his head.

  Strubble and Bleak extricated themselves from the tangle of straps and staggered to their feet. They, too, put hats on; if nothing else, they’d soften the impact of raindrops on their heads.

  ‘Try behind the door.’ Strubble remembered seeing a key rack there on a previous visit.

  Fiddlit shut the door. The match went out.

  ‘Can’t see a damn thing!’

  Strubble edged his way in the darkness towards the door and felt for the light switch. He switched it on.

  An ear-piercing klaxon alarm punctured their eardrums. Lights flashed brightly through the wire-covered window. In an uncharacteristic burst of energy and presence of mind, Strubble grabbed the key labelled DIGGER and flung the door open.

  ‘Let’th get outa here!’

  They ran through the doorway. All at the same time. They ended up on the filthy ground outside with the door frame draped around their shoulders.

  Panic can be an enormous help in times of trouble and it only took a few minutes for the digger, with its headlights, floodlights blazing and top yellow lamp flashing, to kangaroo its way towards the compound gate.

  It should have been blatantly obvious to any casual observer that Strubble had never driven a JCB (sorry, tracked excavator) before, although he soon found that different types of levers in the cab did wonderful things. Some controlled the bucket arm and the bucket itself, others turned the whole cab around. Pulling willy-nilly on levers and pressing the foot pedals in no particular order created exciting combinations of mindless motion and mayhem.

  Making its uncoordinated way towards the foreman’s office, the vehicle crashed into several vehicles and smashed through the roofs of others as the clawed bucket fell and swung indiscriminately. Some burst into flames and exploded, more fortunate ones escaped with memorial dents.

  The JCB lurched towards the foreman’s office, scraping noisily along one wall. The cabin collapsed in a shower of electrical sparks. It was an impressive sight but there was little time to admire the display. Strubble yanked on levers this way and that, and stamped his feet, trying to get the hang of this damned machine with a mind of its own.

  It headed erratically for the gateway, missed it entirely and ripped up a length of fencing which crumpled beneath the caterpillar tracks before being spewed out of the way, seconds before Fiddlit’s immaculate Bentley found itself unceremoniously shoved along the road for several metres until it reared dramatically and tipped upside down onto its roof.

  Fiddlit was too preoccupied to notice. Both he and Bleak were clinging desperately to the safety pole and trying to keep at least one foot on the floor inside the cab well away from the caterpillar track while the digger lurched, bounced, jolted and roared its merry way along the road.

  Strubble, eyes blazing with excitement and mouth slavering with gleeful anticipation in the style of all maniacs let loose to do their own thing, was having the time of his life.

  The storm was much worse by the time the JCB turned into the drive of Priorton Hall. Lightning flashes and thunder booms were now supplemented with howling gales. Strubble was barely able to see through the rain-spattered windscreen.

  ‘Thith ith great!’ he shrieked with delight. ‘Told you it wath eathy!’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ agreed Fiddlit. ‘You’ve had more crashes than a demolition derby! Over there!’ He nodded towards the area of excavation. Strubble pressed hard on a pedal.

  Bleak, still holding on for dear life on the side of the cab, saw the gaping hole looming ever closer.

  ‘Mind the . . .!’

  He was too late. Strubble may have almost mastered the art of steering but hadn’t had time to discover how to stop this gargantuan contraption.

  One of the digger’s caterpillar tracks rolled too close to the edge of the hole. The ground there was muddy and fell away. With an over-revved screech from the engine, the JCB lurched over.

  Bleak discovered what it was like to fly and landed face down in the mud. His hard hat flew off in a different direction, rolled along the ground until it came to a graceful, spinning halt near the edge of the hole.

  Fiddlit was not so lucky. Determined not to become separated from the safety of this unpredictable monster, he maintained his greasy hold. The digger toppled into the abyss. Strubble was tossed around the cab like a ping-pong ball. Fiddlit ended up somewhere underneath the upturned machine, which registered its disapproval at such inconsiderate treatment by issuing the most horrendous death rattle before its motor gave up the ghost. Its lamps continued to shine forth heavenwards like wartime searchlights.

  Strubble groaned and crawled out of the cab. Bleak grabbed hold of his hand to pull him out but the oil and water on his fingers rendered the effort useless. Strubble slid unceremoniously deeper into the hole, greatly assisted by the slick covering his clothes, until he came to rest on something soft. He stood on it, trampling with his feet to find a safer, harder, spot.

  ‘Where’th Fiddlit?’ he called up to Bleak.

  A faint moan came from somewhere beneath his feet.

  ‘Fiddlit? Is that you? Are you dead?’

  ‘I might as well be! Stop jumping up and down on me and get me out of this bloody mess!’

  Bleak moved closer to the edge of the hole to offer assistance. His foot found his hard hat and obligingly slipped inside it. He slid, slowly but very surely, along the muddy ground. Alarmed by an inevitable realisation that something dreadful was about to happen, Bleak did his utmost not to do the splits, all to no avail.

  He gently toppled over, performed an uncontrolled yet graceful pirouette into the hole and came to rest on top of his partners in crime.

  XI

  By the time early morning arrived, the storm had passed leaving a beautifully clear sky in its wake. Wisps of steam drifted lazily from the saturated ground, evidence that the warm sun was doing its best to remove all traces of the previous night’s onslaught.

  Two cars with flashing blue lights were parked near the Lodge excavations. Their police occupants were passingly intrigued to see such an unusual crime scene. The capsized digger still had its lights blazing, as if in competition with the sun to see which could shed the brightest light.

  It had been far too inclement and dark to do anything constructive when they responded to the intruder alarm at the council depot, so a decision was made to check things out first thing in the morning. It hadn’t taken them long to follow the trail of destruction. Inspector George Young had never seen anything like it in all his twenty uninspiring years in the force. Nothing ever happened in Priorton, which was why its police station was served overnight by a free (but vandalised) telephone service to the larger West Mercia Police station at Wellingley, some five miles away.

  Three constables, wisely wearing Wellington boots, were already busy at the cordoned-off scene. One climbed over an upturned caterpillar track, held onto the side of the cab and reached inside. His hand slipped on a slick of oil; he
fell headlong into the cab, his legs floundering wildly in the air. The digger lights went out a few moments later. After considerable effort on his part, he managed to extricate himself. He was covered in oil.

  ‘Ah! I’d recognise a slippery customer anywhere!’ chuckled Inspector Young. The constable confined his response to a withering look.

  Seconds later, Tim’s car entered the drive and stopped abruptly.

  ‘Oh! What’s happened?’ said Sarah, putting her hand to her mouth.

  She and Tim hurried towards the man who was probably in charge because his uniform and boots were clean. Inspector Young blocked their way, his arms outstretched.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir, Madam. I’m afraid there’s been an incident.’

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Not that we can see.’

  ‘May we have a closer look?’ enquired Tim.

  Seeing the expression on the Inspector’s face, Sarah promised: ‘We won’t touch anything!’

  Inspector Young eyed them up and down as only a policeman experienced in spotting criminals can.

  ‘Might I ask what business you have here?’

  Tim and Sarah exchanged glances. It’s funny how you always feel uneasy when you’re anywhere near a copper.

  ‘I’ve been doing research at the Hall.’

  He felt unnerved by the look of suspicion on the Inspector’s face and half expected a comment like, ‘Casing the joint, were we, Sir?’

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Sarah. ‘He’s been here several times over the last few months.’

  ‘Why? Casing the joint?’ Some people are so predictable.

  ‘It’s OK. Mr Fiddlit, you know, the solicitor, has given me permission. He’s in charge of the estate.’

  ‘Fiddlit, eh? I’ve crossed . . . come across Mr Fiddlit many times. And just what sort of research have you been doing?’

  ‘The Gunpowder Plot. You know, Guy Fawkes and all that.’

  ‘I’m well aware of those investigations, Sir! Criminal history is a hobby of mine.’

  Sarah sensed the Inspector’s attitude relaxing.

  ‘Tim has found a link between Priorton Hall and . . .’ She looked at Tim for help.

  ‘Robert Catesby.’

  ‘Catesby? The leader of the Plot?’

  She nodded. Inspector Young considered the situation, still eyeing them closely. He wasn’t quite sure about them. But then, the crime scene was only a hole in the ground and he wouldn’t have thought hijacking a JCB was in their line. However, you never could tell.

  ‘Very well. You can look around. I’ll accompany you. I’m Inspector George Young, by the way.’

  ‘Sarah Brewer and Tim Eason,’ replied Tim. ‘Sarah owns the Priorton Arms inn and I’m a researcher.’

  Sarah led the way gingerly over churned up mud to the excavations.

  ‘Beats me! Probably joyriders, I shouldn’t wonder. Who else would be stupid enough to ditch a digger in a hole like that? It’ll take some shifting.’

  ‘I’m not so sure it was joyriders,’ said Tim thoughtfully.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Inspector Young.

  ‘If I were going to ditch the digger, I’d drive it straight into the hole. Not let it tip in on its side. Too dangerous.’

  ‘Hm. That’s a thought. But why else would they steal a digger in the first place and drive it all the way here?’

  ‘To dig another hole, of course! Where the chimney is!’ exclaimed Sarah, rather pleased to contribute to the discussion.

  Tim gave her a filthy look and frowned, shaking his head. She frowned back at him, not sure what he meant.

  ‘What chimney?’ said Inspector Young, surveying the ruins.

  ‘Over here.’

  She led the way, Tim still shaking his head, to the far end of the excavations and stopped, pointing at the chimney hole. Overnight rain had cleaned the sides remarkably well. Inspector Young peered into the dark recess.

  ‘I see what you mean. Any idea what’s down there?’

  ‘No,’ said Tim glumly. This was supposed to be his and Sarah’s discovery, not some nosy plod’s.

  ‘When did you discover it?’

  ‘I found it yesterday, early evening.’

  Tim shook his head again and made a sign as if slitting his throat. Sarah still didn’t understand and pulled another puzzled expression.

  ‘And you came back to go down there?’

  ‘Yes. We came prepared. Torches, rope and stuff.’

  Inspector Young’s suspicions returned.

  ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Are you sure you didn’t steal the digger?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ said Tim indignantly. ‘I’m a historian, not a thief!’

  ‘And we were at the Priorton Arms all last night,’ proffered Sarah.

  ‘Can anyone vouch for your movements at eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Yes. My staff. We were in the bar until well after midnight. Clearing up.’

  ‘Why eleven o’clock?’ enquired Tim.

  ‘That’s when the alarm went off at the council depot. The digger belongs to the council. Who else knew about this chimney? Have you told anyone?’

  ‘No! It was our secret.’

  ‘Someone in the bar could have heard us talking about it,’ offered Tim.

  Inspector Young considered their statements. He seemed satisfied. They didn’t look like criminals: no low-slung ears, eyes too close together or knuckles that could scrape along the ground without them bending forward.

  ‘Very well.’

  He turned round to address his minions.

  ‘You! Clean yourself up and get over to the council offices. See what you can find out. And you, fetch someone from Forensics to examine the digger. And you, my lad,’ he said, rubbing his slightly officious hands together, ‘are going to get your hands dirty!’

  Tim refused to be left out and spent the next hour or so taking it in turns with the remaining constable to enter the chimney and clear its passage, little by little, with a bucket on the end of a rope. Rubble was thrown away to one side. Sarah and Inspector Young stood at the top of the deepening hole, shining their torches to shed some light on the proceedings.

  Eventually, Tim’s muffled voice drifted upward.

  ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘What’s down there?’ called Sarah.

  ‘A chamber!’

  ‘I’m coming down,’ shouted Inspector Young.

  ‘So’m I!’ said Sarah.

  ‘I don’t think that’s very sensible, Madam. It may be unsafe.’

  ‘Who cares? I wouldn’t miss this for the world!’

  It was almost pitch black inside the chamber where a faint shaft of light lit up the base of the chimney. The end of a dangling rope in the fireplace gave some reassurance that the policeman outside would help them return to daylight when the time came.

  Tim, Sarah and Inspector Young shone their torches around, the beams picking out small heaps of rubble, pieces of broken furniture and a withered small oak door against one wall. It barely hung from its hinges and the lock was held in place by a single screw in much the same way as the brass plaque outside Fiddlit’s office had been before The Hand of Eason made it fall off.

  Tim and the Inspector struggled with the door, kicking rubble out of the way, until it creaked open.

  ‘It’s a passage!’ said Inspector Young, a little excited. He flashed his torch inside. ‘The roof seems sound enough.’

  He entered. Sarah and Tim were close behind.

  The stone-walled tunnel was only about one and a half metres high by one metre wide. There were ancient cobwebs everywhere, wafting gently like gossamer threads. Inspector Young stopped abruptly. A pile of impenetrable rubble blocked the way.

  There was no way out.

  ‘Look there!’ said Tim. He’d spotted the corner and rusted hinge of a broken door projecting a few centimetres from beneath the fallen stonework. He shone his torch at the rubble and back along the full length of
the tunnel.

  ‘The passage is about the same length as from the main cellar to the chamber behind us. That’s how they must have gained access!’

  If Tim was right, the pile of rubble continued into the partially excavated hole now occupied by the JCB. There was nothing more to be done here so they returned to the chamber to examine it more closely.

  ‘Hello! What do we have here?’

  Inspector Young had found an oak chest covered with dust and debris. He tried to open it, without success.

  ‘The key’s a little stiff, but it turns.’

  ‘Perhaps the mechanism’s seized up.’

  Sarah gasped in horror.

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Light from her torch light hovered over a grinning skull with matted hair. She was standing on a dirt- and dust-covered skeleton. Something cracked beneath her feet. She jumped back in alarm. ‘Oh, Tim! It’s horrible!’ She put her arms around him for reassurance.

  Inspector Young’s eyes, however, lit up with relish.

  ‘This is more in my line! Well, it’s not actually. I’ve never discovered a skeleton before.’

  He stooped and scraped some of the dirt away. It didn’t take many moments to expose another skull and part of a second skeleton. They seemed to be embracing one another. Fragile remnants of colourful, rotted cloth partially covered the bones. He stood up.

  ‘Leave everything as it is. Forensics had better sort this out before we do any more damage.’

  Inspector George Young had insisted they keep away from the crime scene while professionals carried out a full investigation inside the chamber, as well as the circumstances surrounding the abandonment of the JCB.

  He telephoned Frank Fiddlit to let him know, out of procedural courtesy, that West Mercia Police were conducting investigations at the Lodge site but, at Tim’s request, promised not to mention the discovery of the chamber to the solicitor unless developments obliged him to do so.

  Inspector Young warned Tim that it would probably take several weeks before the results of the investigation were known but he’d give him a call as soon as he had something tangible to report. He was true to his word; he invited them to call on him at Wellingley Police Station.