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

by Allan Frost

  She couldn’t wait for the day after the court hearing. Then they could put this investigation behind them and make real decisions about their future.

  Neville Strubble attended his court hearing at the beginning of August. Fiddlit & Wynne could not represent him in view of the fact that Fiddlit himself was, on the face of it, one of the victims.

  In fact, Frank had shown uncharacteristic kindness by visiting Neville on the day after the incident (before the police had had an opportunity to interview him) to explain his position. Inspector George Young had his doubts but, as with so many cases, no proof.

  The hearing took far longer than was really necessary but British justice had to be seen to be done, and duty solicitors needed to earn as much as they could when the opportunity presented itself.

  Strubble, still with his arm and leg plastered, sat dejectedly in the dock. He hadn’t left home since his return from hospital A&E and whether his pallor was due to that or worry over his present position wasn’t obvious. He pleaded guilty to all charges.

  Inspector Young gave evidence on behalf of the police. Various statements made by council officials and numerous private victims were read out one by one and took a total of four hours to recount. There were no witnesses to the actual sequence of events.

  The duty solicitor began speaking after a break for lunch. From the judge’s experienced point of view, the excuses made on behalf of the defendant followed a similar pattern to those frequently offered by the notorious Frank Fiddlit himself but, on the face of it, Fiddlit had no hand in the affair, although it did seem odd that the old rogue had, for the first time in years, let someone else take on a case he would normally have been anxious to accept.

  Neville’s defence centred around several psychiatric reports, including eight sessions sponsored by Priorton Town Council. Each report detailed the manner in which Strubble’s life had been affected by an overbearing and domineering father who had gone to his grave some years earlier, leaving this poor young man without a mentor or role model, however cruel he may have been during his lifetime.

  Furthermore, Strubble’s mother had died within minutes of his birth; her last words had been, ‘Take it away! I can’t bear to look at it!’, a fact often retold by the surviving parent with great gusto at dinner parties and other social gatherings. By the time of his father’s demise, the damage to the defendant’s character and a strong belief in his own shortcomings was well and truly ingrained in his psyche. To make matters worse, the lack of a loving parent and the tender care of a mother had made it impossible for Mr Strubble to form normal relationships with members of the opposite sex.

  In fact, Neville wasn’t absolutely certain of the differences between the two sexes. He was, therefore, confused with the role society expected him to play and, on account of limited intelligence, was unable to examine the reasons without outside assistance.

  The defendant was a prime example of how society at large had failed in its duty of care to one of its less fortunate members. It wasn’t Neville’s fault that he had problems separating fact from fiction, or understanding the difference between acceptable behaviour and impetuous criminality, or knowing what was right from what was wrong. Neville was a victim of society’s failings.

  Mr Strubble was also a victim of unscrupulous bookmakers and other gamblers, who saw him as an easy, gullible target. Even colleagues at the council took advantage of his simple, uncomplicated nature and fleeced him during regular card-playing sessions held, it has to be said, in the council’s own staff common room of all places, a fact which should be taken up with council leaders.

  He had never raised his voice or shown violent tendencies, despite the cruel hand dealt to him by Fate. He would not be the first to suffer depression because of the way he had been systematically abused by his father, school friends, teachers and colleagues. You only had to read the newspapers to see how easy it was to snap under the strain of neglect and ridicule.

  Mr Strubble had difficulty associating with other people, was weak willed and easily led. He had no friends, an undeniable fact which must have played on his mind for years.

  And were the notes from well-wishers, scribbled all over the plaster of Paris casts on his arm and leg, a subconscious cry for help? Each and every one had been scribbled with the same thick frog-green felt-tipped pen and in the same awkward handwriting. Could it be that the writer, normally right-handed, was suddenly capable only of writing with his left hand? Even the names, when they could be deciphered, seemed universally familiar, like M Mouse, B Bunny and Wallace & Grommit. And who was Teddy?

  Surely the absence of well-wishers and supporters at this, his first court appearance, was an indication of how alone and neglected he was? How would any normal person feel to have no friendly visitors during weeks of confinement at home after the accident? How could any self-respecting person of his age come to terms with the indignities of having a female stranger attend to very personal needs, twice a day, day in, day out? Surely the defendant had suffered enough for one moment of recklessness brought on by society’s shortcomings?

  It was his first offence. He had never been in trouble with the police before, nor even received a caution. He was not a hardened criminal, habitual drunkard or a danger to society.

  The clincher from the defence solicitor was that the documentary film Joyriders from Hell had been shown on one of the less responsible independent television channels minutes before Mr Strubble embarked on his tour of destruction. Was this simply a remarkable coincidence? Of course not.

  Mr Strubble had since taken medication and was now fully cured, apart from obvious personal injury and mental scars which would remain with him for the rest of his life. The defendant deeply regretted the incident and its consequences and prayed the court would treat him leniently.

  The judge was unimpressed with the defence lawyer’s arguments yet appeared slightly sympathetic after reading the psychiatric reports in detail. His initial thought was to have the offender committed indefinitely to a secure hospital but decided in favour of the most lenient sentence available.

  Neville Strubble was fined five thousand pounds with two hundred hours community service, to be served as soon as his plasters had been removed, ‘not so much to punish but more an attempt to help this poor man meet normal people and fit in with society’. A further amount, currently undergoing assessment by insurance actuaries, would be added for compensation payable to the council and sundry car and property owners. A supplementary hearing would be arranged with court officials when precise figures had been determined.

  Strubble would struggle to pay for the trouble he had caused. However, something strange and completely unexpected occurred when he visited his bank’s cash dispenser on pay days (with begrudging help from the council welfare officer) before he was finally fired for having a criminal record. Fear of recognition and prosecution resulted in him no longer being pestered every month by the goons who previously stood behind him in an orderly queue awaiting payment.

  An added bonus was that he saved money by not playing cards at lunch time.

  Every cloud has a silver lining.

  XIII

  Frank Fiddlit telephoned Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart on the evening before the court was due to reconvene, promising that the hearing should only take a few minutes as no one had contacted Fiddlit & Wynne with a valid claim on the estate. Consequently, there was no need for the judge to cancel his Bridge session. What Fiddlit (and Sir Cedric’s wife Lady Cynthia) didn’t know was that ‘Bridge sessions’ was a euphemism for regular visits to a rather glamourous professional hostess in Wellingley . . . and he’d be extremely annoyed if he failed to keep an appointment.

  The hearing began promptly at ten o’clock on 27th August 2005. It was a Saturday; the court didn’t usually meet on Saturdays. However, Sir Cedric was a stickler for keeping his word. He’d decreed the anniversary of Sir Augustus Wilton’s disappearance, so Saturday it would be.

  Furthermore, Lady Cynthia
had gone shopping in Wellingley and would be safely back home before he took a taxi (emblazoned with Ackney Cabs: We know every spot in town) to his second afternoon Bridge session that week. He must remember to take his wig this time, she seemed to like it.

  His heart sank as he shuffled into the courtroom. He had expected to see it empty apart from Fiddlit and the court officials. He took his seat, wondering who the additional people were and why they were here.

  Fiddlit sat at one solicitor’s desk with his brief neatly laid out in front of him.

  A young man and Miss Brewer from the Priorton Arms occupied the other advocate’s desk. They, too, had piles of paper and a few other items, including what appeared to be an old Bible, spread out on the desk.

  Then there was that sly cove Bleak. He’d often seen him before the Bench, always the defendant in breach of contract cases concerning his property business. Had his fingers burned, if I recall, and lost his wife in the process. Dispensing justice had its occasional pleasures!

  And who was that man dressed like a partly wrapped mummy at the back?

  Oh, yes, it was Neville Strubble. Lost his job after the JCB incident. Serves him right. Well, we have to be charitable, that’s what the Lord Chief Justice recommended. Keep them out of prison whenever possible, it makes the government happy and reduces public costs.

  Cedric’s mind wandered to the prospects on offer later that day. Must remember the wig, must remember the wig.

  Sarah held Tim’s hand. He was very nervous but she couldn’t understand why he kept glancing at the door. Who was he expecting? And why had he been so secretive over the last few weeks? What was in all those letters he’d written and received?

  ‘Are you OK?’ she whispered, squeezing his fingers affectionately.

  ‘Yes, fine. I’m fine.’

  He wasn’t.

  His stomach seemed to have turned into a breeding ground for butterflies and he dreaded having to address the judge. He’d given loads of talks and lectures before, of course, but this was different. There was so much riding on what he had to say. It felt nothing like delivering a lecture where he was in full control of the facts and had a receptive audience. And where was—?

  ‘Are you ready to commence, Mr Fiddlit?’ asked the judge, interrupting Tim’s thoughts.

  Fiddlit stood up momentarily and gave the briefest of bows.

  ‘Yes, M’lud.’ He sat down.

  Sir Cedric looked at Tim and Sarah.

  ‘And you, Sir, Madam. What is your business here today?’

  Tim stood, clearing his throat as he did so. There was something raspingly dry stuck in it.

  ‘My name’s Timothy Richard Eason, My Lord, and this . . .’

  Sarah stood up and nodded briefly towards the bench.

  ‘. . . is Miss Sarah Brewer. We believe we have a valid claim to the estate of the late Sir Augustus Wilton.’

  Oh, no! Sir Cedric sensed there’d be no need for the wig after all. It was going to be one of those days. Still, keep your temper; they weren’t to know.

  ‘And do you have evidence to support your claim?’

  Of course they had. That was obvious from the pile on the desk.

  ‘We believe so, My Lord.’

  ‘Did you know about this, Mr Fiddlit?’ he asked. There was a hint of accusation in his tone.

  ‘I was aware of it, M’Lud, but I thought I had convinced Mr Eason and Miss Brewer that their case is simply not strong enough to impress the court.’

  ‘Mr Eason,’ Sir Cedric began; this time his voice was quite sympathetic. ‘Whereas I can quite believe your reticence in accepting Mr Fiddlit’s advice, why do you believe your case is worth arguing?’

  ‘Because more information has come to light.’

  Fiddlit leaped up like a startled rabbit.

  ‘M’Lud, I really must object!’

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Fiddlit. I’m sure Mr Eason and Miss Brewer wouldn’t wish to waste the court’s time without good reason. Perhaps what they have to say will be relevant.’

  He pondered for a few moments, during which he looked first at Tim and Sarah and then back at Fiddlit.

  ‘Mr Fiddlit. May I take it you have nothing more to add from your lengthy deliberations, convincingly propounded at the earlier hearing? Apart from the fact that you do not think this couple are true heirs to the estate?’

  ‘That is correct, M’Lud. Nothing else has transpired to change my arguments.’

  Good. That should save some time at least.

  ‘Then it would appear that the ball passes over to you, Mr Eason. Will you be acting as spokesperson for both yourself and Miss Brewer?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  Even better.

  ‘Then you’d better make a start. Am I to presume you have never given evidence or attended court before today?’

  ‘Except for attending a coroner’s enquiry, no, My Lord.’

  ‘Oh? What were the circumstances?’

  ‘My parents were killed by a drunk driver.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it, Mr Eason. Miss Brewer,’ he said, turning his attention to her. ‘I take it you have never attended a court of any description?’

  Sarah stood briefly and replied, ‘Only the magistrates court to renew my licensed victualler's certificate.’

  ‘That would be for the Priorton Arms.’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘Best food in town,’ declared the judge. ‘Or so I’ve heard. My wife Cynthia takes her friends there occasionally. Never heard her complain.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Cedric. I do my best.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Miss Brewer. Praise where it’s due. Oh, while we’re in session, just call me My Lord. Formalities, you know.’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  Fiddlit didn’t like the way Sir Cedric sounded increasingly sympathetic towards The Scheme’s opponents. However, he wasn’t unduly worried. Their case was less than weak.

  ‘Very good, Miss Brewer. Well, if you’re ready, Mr Eason, you may begin. Take your time. And don’t be upset if I interrupt. I may have one or two questions, just to seek clarification, you understand.’

  This was said, not so much out of kindness and consideration but more because he knew his afternoon capers would have to be postponed until another day. He didn’t particularly relish the prospect of being tightly bound in pink ribbons and lightly tickled with a feather duster as punishment when he paid his next visit. Mustn’t forget the wig!

  Tim stood, bowed and began reading from the first page of his bundle.

  Tim related his findings to the judge. He gradually gained confidence, convinced that his arguments and reasoning were being heard by discerning and intelligent ears. For once, Sir Cedric stayed wide awake, partly because he found it all quite interesting and partly because, should the evidence prove irrefutable, it would be yet another one in the eye for Fiddlit. He made copious notes.

  No one else in the room had any idea that finding an heir to a long-established estate was something very close to Sir Cedric’s heart, due solely to the fact he didn’t have an heir to inherit his own Blister Grange or to continue the family name. He wasn’t getting any younger and the last thing he wanted to see was the Grange’s land being sold piecemeal, a fate which, unless Eason came up with the goods, awaited Priorton Hall.

  Throughout the whole dissertation, Tim kept glancing anxiously at the door. The judge thought he must have some sort of nervous affliction but decided against mentioning it in case it caused embarrassment.

  Little by little and following perfect logic, Tim sensed he had Sir Cedric eating out of his hand. He was interrupted only when the judge required more information on a specific point or when Fiddlit raised objections, most of which were waved away dismissively. All three conspirators were dismayed to see Eason’s prattling allowed to continue and prayed to the god Mammon that the final ruling wouldn’t go against them. They had too much, far too much, to lose.

  After a short delay while Tim fiddled wit
h the projector linked to his laptop to get a decent picture flashed onto the magnolia-painted wall, he showed documents, photographs, his dagger, Sarah’s pendant and her family Bible and handed paper copies over to a court official as evidence.

  He left his most important pieces of evidence until last. Not to make a dramatic statement but rather because they summed up his arguments in the best possible way. He produced four sealed plastic bags.

  ‘Samples of my own and Miss Brewer’s hair, together with a selection of bones taken from the skeletons found in the chamber, were sent off for analysis. I have recently received this letter from the country’s most highly regarded forensics company. They assist police with their enquiries all the time.’ He glanced yet again at the door.

  Poor man! thought Sir Cedric. He’s got it bad, whatever it is. What an affliction!

  So that’s why he bought the brushes! thought Sarah. And he must have pocketed the bones while we were at the police station. How clever!

  Tim handed copies of the letter to the judge and Fiddlit. The former read it with interest, the latter snatched his copy and frowned.

  ‘Read it out loud for the court recorder and the benefit of our audience,’ instructed the judge.

  Tim cleared his throat again. He didn’t really need to this time but thought it added weight to the letter’s contents.

  HISTORICAL & FORENSIC SERVICES

  Dear Mr Treason,

  The results of our tests are now complete.

  We can advise that the dagger you submitted for analysis was manufactured c.1600 (+/- 50 years) as was the silver pendant, which is of particular interest because it was cast from rare silver mined in the Stiperstones area of Shropshire at about the same time.