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

by Allan Frost

  He took them straight to a restricted-access storeroom filled from floor to ceiling with open racks stacked with archive boxes and plastic bags. The reconstructed bones of two skeletons (a finger on one bony hand still held a wedding ring) and an assortment of worldly goods had been laid out neatly on large metal tables in one corner of the room.

  ‘A man and a woman, apparently, between the ages of twenty-five and forty, both in good health. But no proof of identity,’ offered Inspector Young, as if reading their thoughts.

  It was like being in a mortuary. These skeletons once walked around laughing and joking. They breathed, had feelings. The essence of life had gone yet there was still something soberingly sad lying there. Thread-like wisps of hair, elongated finger nails and fragments of faded cloth somehow emphasised the sanctity of life and the spiritual cruelty in these former people not being granted a decent burial. Even though she didn’t know them, Sarah was deeply touched. Tim lent her a handkerchief to wipe moisture from her eyes.

  Inspector Young cleared his throat as if calling for attention.

  ‘We also found the remains of a truckle bed; it had collapsed beneath the bones. There was also two chairs, a small table, clumps of wax from burned-out candles and a crushed lamp. Oh, and some pieces of curved wood and iron; we think they may have been a barrel.’

  ‘I’m afraid we haven’t yet managed to open the chest,’ he continued. ‘It’s still with Forensics.’

  ‘Why don’t they prise it open?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Can’t to do that, miss. It’s very old and we don’t want to damage it. Or its contents, whatever they are. It may not be large but it weighs a ton.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the chest?’

  ‘Only that a key we found seems to unlock it and that it appears to be lined with lead. Nothing shows up under X-ray.’

  ‘Does Fiddlit know about all this?’ enquired Tim.

  ‘Yes, Sir. We had to tell him. Even though there’s no question of foul play as the skeletons are so old, if there’s treasure in the chest there’ll have to be a Treasure Trove inquest. There could be a tidy sum coming your way if there is.’

  ‘It’ll all go to the Wilton estate, won’t it?’ said Sarah.

  ‘No, Miss. The estate owns the land but anyone who finds treasure, and can prove it was buried intentionally a long time ago, is entitled to a share of the market value, or so I understand.’

  ‘I bet Fiddlit’s over the moon,’ she commented sarcastically.

  ‘Strangely enough, he wasn’t as pleased as I thought he’d be.’

  ‘Forgive me for being a wet blanket,’ said Tim. ‘But we don’t know there’ll be anything of value in the chest, do we? Sod the money, I’m more concerned to know who these people were and how and why they died. There’s no sign of burning so they can’t have perished in the explosion.’

  ‘Perhaps I was right about them killing Giles,’ said Sarah.

  Inspector Young was about to ask, ‘Who’s Giles?’ but kept his mouth shut. He understood the fun researchers must have making sense of limited evidence. He sympathised.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Tim. He couldn’t see what she was getting at.

  ‘Well, if the chamber was so secret, perhaps they hid there after they’d done away with Giles. From what we saw, there was a hidden entrance to the chamber from the main cellar of the Lodge; they could have remained there until they were safe.’ It made sense to her.

  Tim shook his head.

  ‘No, if they were suspected they wouldn’t dare show their faces again in public. There would have to be an enquiry and there isn’t any evidence that one was ever held.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a suicide pact.’

  ‘Now you’re clutching at straws. If they were Augustus and Elizabeth, do you think they’d abandon William and Jane? No, of course not.’

  ‘So there’s still nothing to prove the skeletons are those of Augustus and Elizabeth. Or that we are directly descended from them,’ said Sarah. It was a realistic statement of fact.

  Inspector Young thought it time to intervene.

  ‘Who are Augustus and Elizabeth?’

  Tim told him.

  ‘If I may offer a word of advice,’ George said. ‘I’ve been in this game for more years than I care to remember. Look at it from a detective’s point of view. Or a historian’s. Here’s a mystery. Evidence is patchy and inconclusive. There are times when we have to acknowledge there never will be an answer.’

  ‘You’re saying we should give up and forget about it?’ said Tim. ‘That we’ll never know.’

  ‘That’s about it, Sir. Look on it as a bit of an adventure. You had some excitement and now it’s all over.’ He felt quite sorry for them both. And they seem such a decent couple.

  Silence reigned while his comments sank deep.

  ‘Did you ever find out who stole the digger?’ asked Sarah, changing the subject.

  Inspector Young grinned.

  ‘Yes, as it happens. The council Chief Planning Officer Neville Strubble, would you believe! Weird sort of chap, usually quite mild and wimpish. Claims he had a mental aberration, stress of the job, usual sort of rubbish. Actually, he said "thtreth". Got a lisp. Took us a while to understand what he was saying. Finger prints plastered all around the cab. He’s been suspended from work. Broke an arm and leg; still in plaster We’ve released him on bail until the hearing. He can’t get far in that state and he doesn’t have a passport.’

  He was enjoying himself. If only all police work were as satisfying!

  ‘Will he go to prison?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Oh, no; it’s not that serious an offence. He’ll probably get off with a fine and perhaps some community service, but certainly not prison. Could lose his job as well, I suppose. That’ll come as something of a shock, I shouldn’t wonder: council workers are grossly overpaid for what they do, especially in Priorton. He’ll have to lower his standard of living, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Oh, there’s something else,’ he chuckled. ‘He even wrote off Mr Fiddlit’s car; it was parked right outside the council compound. The digger ran over it. Fiddlit wouldn’t say why he’d parked it there in the first place, just muttered something about client confidentiality. Strange thing is, he isn’t pressing charges. Says he feels sorry for the man! Most out of character! He even had a black eye when I called on him. Says he ran into a door. Don’t believe it! Can’t picture him running anywhere.’

  ‘We found an unidentified set of prints on the digger,’ he continued. ‘Strubble claims he did it on his own. Could be true. Doesn’t really matter, though. As far as we’re concerned, the matter’s closed. He’ll have a helluva bill to pay!’

  ‘That’s great, Inspector. Well, thank you very much for your help. Could you show us the way out now? And please let us know what happens with the chest.’ He stood back to let Inspector Young go first.

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  While George’s back was turned, Tim surreptitiously slipped something into his pocket.

  Outside, Sarah noticed Tim seemed preoccupied with something and couldn’t understand why he popped into the chemist to buy two cheap hair brushes (one pink, one blue; how unimaginative!). She put her arm through his as they strolled back to the car.

  ‘Looks like Augustus had the last laugh!’ said Tim ruefully.

  ‘Never mind, Tim. We’ve got each other!’

  She made a mental note: special meal tonight.

  And a special course for afters . . .

  XII

  Tim was on edge almost all the time throughout the following weeks, there was no doubt about it. Sarah knew about his nightmare; sometimes it was like going to bed with an eel, he writhed around so much.

  She often overheard him ringing Inspector Young to check on progress with opening the chest. Sometimes he prowled around like a caged tiger. At others, he seemed lethargic and deep in thought. She found it a bit hard going but realised that this was Tim. A thinker struggling with too many bits o
f information bouncing around his brain. But kind, generous and caring on those occasions he visited the real world. Rather than interfere, she recognised the need for him to be granted his own personal space.

  He was now spending about half his time at Priorton, leaving for home on Monday morning and returning on Thursday night or Friday afternoon. She appreciated he had work to do to earn a living with his research material close to hand, mainly writing articles of general interest for the British History Monthly magazine and visiting universities to deliver lectures. As the end of summer term was rapidly approaching, she knew he’d be able to spend more time with her during the holiday weeks.

  Sarah couldn’t help feeling a trifle disappointed; she had hoped he would have moved some of his stuff into her private living quarters but, in his old fashioned way, had insisted he still had his own room, even if he didn’t actually occupy it often, and rarely overnight.

  The date of the court hearing to decide the future of the late Sir Augustus Wilton’s estate was less than two months away. The closer it got, the more troubled Tim’s nightmares became. The bags under his eyes were now deep enough to hold a week’s worth of groceries.

  From Tim’s point of view, Sarah behaved impeccably. He knew he wasn’t as attentive as he should be. He didn’t deserve her. But he had so many things on his mind, so many thoughts which didn’t make sense. As well as the old perennial, he was now having new dreams.

  They weren’t so terrifying; they weren’t even scary. They were confusing, almost like the mixed up pieces from several jigsaws which didn’t want to be sorted, separated or assembled.

  And that damn juke box flung taunts at him at every opportunity! Especially when it made the Everley Brothers sing All I have to do is dream just before he went to bed!

  Events on the conspiracy front were trundling along very nicely, thank you.

  Fiddlit was far more relaxed about the whole business since Eason had been unable to prove entitlement to the Wilton estate. At times (though not very often), he felt quite sorry for the young fellow, but that’s life. Full of the highs of false promise, dashed by the lows of reality. Still, he seemed to be getting on well with the Sarah at the Priorton Arms, so at least he’d enjoy some compensation for his spurious efforts.

  Even the shambolic results of their digging expedition hadn’t bothered him, especially since he’d bribed Strubble to take all the blame with the promise of a one percent increase in his miserly share of the profits from the enterprise. However, one percent could represent quite a tidy sum, enough to compensate him if he lost his job, which was more than likely.

  Neville still hadn’t managed to get his head round Fiddlit’s explanation of how the profits would be shared out.

  ‘We’ll each get five percent shares,’ Fiddlit had assured him. ‘Five per cent to you, and an even split of the rest between Bleak and myself.’ Strubble had never really grasped percentages. Odds on a horse, yes, but not percentages. But the way Mr Fiddlit had presented things sounded very reasonable.

  Neville was granted police bail in the surety of a mere hundred pounds and suspended from his job on full pay for the time being. He found himself confined to home: it’s difficult to use crutches when one arm is in plaster as well as a leg. A no-nonsense council home help angel called twice a day to feed and wash him and put him to bed at seven o’clock precisely while he awaited his appearance in court.

  Unfortunately, because he crushed the television remote control by treading on it with his plastered foot, Neville could only watch Children’s BBC, which suited him very nicely, although broadcasts finish in the early evening. Of course, he suffered understandable withdrawal symptoms from being unable to follow horseracing, a fact which took the urgency and thrill out of placing telephone bets. However, the gap in entertainment was filled with perpetual conversations with Teddy. You know who your friends are when trouble strikes. Teddy listened attentively, didn’t shout or call him an idiot. Teddy understood.

  If he were thrown out by the council, Strubble had assured Fiddlit and Bleak that some of his colleagues could be ‘persuaded’ to pass plans for the development. The stupid idiot knew enough about their private affairs and misdemeanors. They could hardly refuse the odd bribe or two for fear of losing their own jobs or making appearances in the divorce courts. And they could prove useful if Bleak’s vague plans for the development of a shopping precinct in Priorton got off the ground.

  Strangely enough, Fiddlit didn’t miss his beloved Bentley as much as he thought he would after reviewing the damage. He now made do with a small vomit-coloured Smart car with Priorton Motors: We’ll keep you in the driving sea’ plastered across every flat surface, courtesy of the insurers. It wasn’t exactly in keeping with his respectable (in his eyes) public image but, as he had no clients at the moment, he was hardly ever seen driving it. It could be that he wouldn’t need a car at all if everything turned out as he hoped.

  As for Tom Bleak, well, he couldn’t stand the man. He was shadier than an olive grove. Not that Fiddlit had ever seen an olive grove. But he would. He’d recently taken an active interest in browsing through overseas property brochures. Not Italy, it was far too expensive. Portugal, Spain or Greece had more appeal. Probably Spain, which seemed to cater for certain types of British entrepreneurs better than most. It wouldn’t take too long to wind up the Wilton estate and shoot off to the sun with bagloads of cash.

  With Strubble out of the way, meetings between Bleak and Fiddlit now took place in daylight. Bleak acted like a man possessed. He saw himself rolling in money, semi-legitimately for a change, and was determined to cram as many properties as he could into the parkland belonging to Priorton Hall.

  The park covered well over two thousand acres; that’s a lot of land even after allowing a few tenants to continue farming and a minor contingency for waste (a relatively small area left untouched around the Hall itself to appease possible protests from the Conservation Lobby). There would be more than enough building land left to maintain a very lucrative business for the next ten years, just in time for retirement.

  Money was no object in these promising circumstances. Instead of using an ancient computer program to draw up small-scale plans for individual houses and extensions, Bleak engaged the services of a drastically over-priced firm of architects based in Birmingham.

  He had been rather taken aback at their receptionist’s incomprehensible local accent and incoherent speech, but the company itself had qualities he craved: respectability and an excellent reputation.

  Bleak was mildly concerned at having to delve further into his private funds (not a shoe box had been overlooked). He struggled to meet his loan obligations but, as his old dad had once written wisely from his cell in Shrewsbury Gaol, you have to speculate to accumulate. He had thought of defaulting on three or four loan repayments but Elias Dolphin was due at a parole hearing in the early autumn, too soon for Bleak to be able to meet promises of a worthwhile bonus for a brief deferment of interest payments.

  The project entailed more than a few excursions into the grounds of Priorton Hall to enable architects to survey the land, assess the most appropriate places for access roads and routes for drainage as well as how the Tricklebrook stream and ancient fish ponds could be accommodated to add a touch of rustic ambience to a modern housing estate.

  The architects, sensing this was no minor scheme and a promise of substantial fees, produced some wonderful, highly attractive plans showing successive phases of future development. High class expensive executive dwellings would be built first to attract the more perceptive purchaser who wanted to move away from the West Midlands conurbation but who could use the M54, a mere stone’s throw away from Priorton, or the rail network, to continue working there.

  Later phases would appeal to that vast clientele who desired to show their friends and colleagues they were up and coming in society. Bleak wasn’t too concerned about the cost. He knew he could cut corners in a variety of tried and tested ways, from cheaper mat
erials to backhanders where it counted, and was already making tentative enquiries into the costs of employing legitimate building firms to execute some of the work.

  But his pride and joy was the three dimensional model of the proposed development. It was enormous! He took great pleasure walking his fingers along the scaled-down streets between pretty model houses.

  The day of the court hearing couldn’t come soon enough.

  Tim wasn’t going to give up. He knew he hadn’t been able to produce indisputable proof that he and Sarah had a valid claim to the late Sir Augustus Wilton’s estate, but the evidence he had managed to accumulate might persuade the judge to allow a little more time to make further enquiries. It was a long shot. By all accounts, Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart regarded protracted cases as anathema and wouldn’t take too kindly to an adjournment.

  The pink and blue hair brushes had come in useful, as he strongly suspected they would. So had his dagger-cum-letter-opener and Sarah’s pendant. He sat like a man possessed, for hours at a time, thrashing away at the keys of his laptop and printing out reams of paper from the portable Canon printer.

  Sarah kept well out of his way when he acted like this, sensing his mind was either deranged or in hot pursuit of some fantastic conclusion. She hadn’t questioned why he had borrowed the pendant, nor why his trips home suddenly became more frequent.

  That stupid juke box had taken to playing, of its own accord, Cliff Richard crackling Don’t talk to him every time he sat alone in their alcove. She didn’t know it but, whenever she left the bar, the machine made Cliff sing Say you’re mine, the B side of the same single. It was uncanny the way the juke box flipped the record from one side to the other as Sarah came and went.

  As long as their evenings together were exactly that, no laptop, no wandering attention, just normal chats, walks in the evening and, er, well, you know, she was reasonably happy. The fact he kept returning to the inn week after week made her all the more confident that they were getting serious, even if Tim was too preoccupied to notice. He’d realise eventually.