by Allan Frost
The crest on both items was granted to the Wilton estate in 1539 by King Henry VIII as a direct consequence of a large sum deposited in the Treasury for the purchase of the dissolved Priory near Priorton.
The bones and hair samples were also of special interest. The hairs belonging to yourself and Miss Brewer have produced DNA profiles which indicate, beyond any doubt whatsoever, that you are jointly and separately descended from both of the persons to whom the skeletal remains belonged.
Your samples will be returned under separate cover. We trust this information is of use and look forward to being of service again.
After a further glance at the door, Tim sighed. He felt slightly deflated.
‘Is that the end of your brief?’ asked Sir Cedric.
‘I had hoped to produce more evidence, My Lord, but this appears impossible at the present time. However, the court will see that the last letter proves that Miss Brewer and myself are, without question, direct descendants of the two skeletons discovered in the secret chamber at the former Lodge.’
‘I think we should adjourn for lunch,’ said the judge, looking at the clock and pre-empting any comment from Fiddlit. ‘I’ll consider the evidence and give my verdict at one o’clock. Thank you.’
The hour passed very slowly before everyone returned and sat quietly in the courtroom. Tim and Sarah were holding hands again, blissfully unaware of venom-ridden glares from the plot-hatchers.
‘Won’t be long now,’ said Sarah. ‘Soon be over.’
She’d been bowled over by Tim’s style of talking. His enthusiasm was utterly infectious. She quite fancied the prospect of becoming Mrs Eason, wife of the famous historian and orator. Whether or not the case went in their favour was irrelevant. She just wanted to be with Tim, forever. Like the skeletons.
Tim, on the other hand, felt his reputation as a researcher was on the line. He knew his arguments had been well formulated; failure to win could, he felt (perhaps a trifle harshly), damage his reputation. He shot another glance at the door.
Fiddlit had spent a frustrating hour trying to convince Bleak and Strubble of their impending victory. Neither was totally convinced, despite repeated exhortations to ‘Trust me, I’m a solicitor.’
Tim could see himself commuting from home to the Priorton Arms every week to be with Sarah until such time as, fingers crossed, they were married. But would she forsake the inn in favour of wedded bliss elsewhere?
Sarah pictured herself living at Priorton Hall with Tim, perhaps with one or two little Easons running around her feet and interrupting his work. It would be interesting to see how he’d cope.
Bleak had visions of his development model catching fire, destroyed before his very eyes.
Strubble imagined life in a debtors’ prison, chained to the walls and living on a diet of stale bread and rancid water with only a passing rat for company.
Fiddlit, on the other hand, was already dressed in Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt and sitting on a floating plastic armchair in the private pool of his traditional Spanish villa on the Costa del Crooks, drinking Sangria by the bucket load served by several raven-haired lovelies.
Whose, if any, of these five separate opinions, each of which had heard the very same evidence, would be right?
Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart and his officials returned to their seats shortly after one o’clock.
The courtroom fell silent. Mixed emotions, some of unbridled excitement, others of morbid trepidation, made five heartbeats flutter as they awaited the judge’s decision.
Sir Cedric deliberately and dramatically consulted his notes.
This was the part he enjoyed more than any other. Everyone who knew him recognised punctuality was a by-word with him, so to enter the courtroom a few minutes late was a sure sign that he’d given proper weight to the arguments presented to him.
Keeping them waiting just that little bit longer, during which time his eyes flashed from one person to another so that he could better assess their reaction to his imminent words, was another of his ploys. It gave him enormous satisfaction.
He had always regarded himself as a fair judge. One whom even the most hardened criminal would respect. But this case had, without a doubt, caused him no little grief during the recess.
He didn’t much relish the prospect of Frank Fiddlit winning his first case after all these years but, perhaps, such a success was long overdue. On the other hand, pleasant though Mr Eason and Miss Brewer were, failure to pronounce in their favour would not be the end of their world. They appeared to have a lot more going for them than most couples. And, as far as winding up the Priorton Hall estate was concerned, these things happen, however damaging to national heritage it might be.
‘I have one or two observations to make, Mr Eason.’
Tim didn’t like the way he said it; it was heavy with sympathy.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Eason, but, fascinating as your evidence is, there is absolutely nothing in your submission which proves your hereditary descendance from Sir Augustus Wilton, his marriage to Elizabeth or his parenting of William and Jane.’
Fiddlit, Bleak and Strubble clenched their hands in unison. Yes! they thought, extremely loudly.
‘And, by your own admission, you do not know for certain who the skeletons were. Are.’
Yes! Yes!
‘I fear I am unable to grant a further adjournment for you to gather more information so, unless you are able to offer acceptable proof here and now, I must reluctantly concur with Mr Fiddlit.’
Fiddlit, Bleak and Strubble exchanged looks of unbridled glee, each giving the others an elated thumbs up.
Tim and Sarah exchanged sad looks of resignation. They squeezed hands in an act of mutual consolation.
Tim was about to stand and concede to Sir Cedric’s considered opinion when he heard a racket outside the door.
‘No, Sir, the court’s in session!’ he heard someone say.
‘Listen to me, you obnoxious, pompous little jobsworth! Either you let me in or you’ll have a nasty accident! Open the door! Now!’
The door burst open.
Inspector George Young, red faced and panting as if he’d just run a marathon, shoved the court usher unceremoniously out of the way and staggered towards the Bench.
XIV
Sir Cedric barely raised an eyebrow. These interruptions happened occasionally but, at his age and with his experience, there was little point in getting worked up. Better to retain one’s dignity.
‘And what, might I ask, is the meaning of this intrusion?’
The court usher was about to apologise when two constables followed the Inspector’s example and shoved him to one side. Also sporting scarlet cheeks, they dragged a trolley to the front of the court. The ancient bloody chest on the trolley might be fairly small but it was heavy and they’d have to carry it all the way back down the sodding stairs afterwards, they just knew it.
The usher retreated to nurse his wounds and injured pride. Everyone treated him like a nobody. Perhaps he should complain to the Chief Constable.
‘You’re Inspector Young, aren’t you?’ said Sir Cedric. ‘I think you’d better explain yourself.’
Between gasps, George Young did his best.
‘Mr Eason telephoned early this morning and said it was imperative we deliver this chest immediately. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the message until a few minutes ago. Been to Wellingley on another case, hence the delay, My Lord.’
‘M’Lud, I object!’ exclaimed Fiddlit, leaping to his feet.
‘Please be quiet, Mr Fiddlit! Control yourself! I’m sure Inspector Young wouldn’t act in such a deplorable manner if he didn’t have a sound reason.’
’Er, may I approach the Bench in confidence?’ asked George.
The judge nodded, bending an ear and cupping it with his hand.
‘I hate to tell you this, My Lord,’ said Inspector Young in a loud whisper. ‘It’s a very delicate matter. Your wife has been arrested for shoplifting in, er, an adult ente
rtainment establishment. Apparently caught nicking rather, er, unbecoming equipment. Something requiring batteries, if you get my drift. And rather racy underwear. There’s no doubt: security cameras recorded everything and the manager insists on pressing charges.’
He backed away, half expecting the judge to erupt. While his comments sank in, he took the opportunity to advise Tim: ‘I’m sorry, Sir, we still haven’t been able to open it.’
Sir Cedric’s recovery was remarkable yet totally in keeping with his social standing; after all, he had a stiff upper lip’ and more than a trickle of blue blood ran in his veins.
‘Is this true, Mr Eason? Did you ask for the chest to be brought here at no little inconvenience to the police service?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Why is it here and what’s in it?
‘It’s the chest recovered from the ruins of the Lodge, My Lord. I’m afraid I don’t know what’s in it.’
‘Then why have you had it brought into my court?’
Tim felt the blood rise to his cheeks.
‘I believe it has some bearing on the case.’
‘M’Lud, I must object in the strongest possible terms,’ blurted Fiddlit. His face had turned rather red.
‘Mr Fiddlit, kindly control your outbursts!’
‘But you were about to pronounce judgement! Surely any further evidence is inadmissible.’
‘I hadn’t actually passed judgement, therefore evidence may still be heard! If you recall, I had just invited Mr Eason to comment before this interruption. Sit down before I have you removed!’
Sir Cedric waited until Fiddlit begrudgingly resumed his seat.
‘You were saying, Mr Eason.’
Tim, feeling extremely nervous after the way the judge had reacted to Fiddlit, found his voice shook as he began to speak. Sarah wasn’t much of a comfort; astonished, she sat with her eyes and mouth wide open.
‘I had a dream last night, My Lord, one that my father and grandfather also frequently experienced. I didn’t mention it earlier in case it made me look stupid. In fact, the dream has been developing each time I’ve had it, ever since the chest was found. A voice kept telling me to bring it here today. Last night’s episode took the dream a little further.’
Sir Cedric began to lose his cool. First Cynthia behaving like a common thief with perverted tendencies and now this personable young man had the affrontery to disturb the peaceful execution of court business.
‘We are here to deal with facts, not fantasies, Mr Eason! So far you have not produced a single shred of acceptable evidence! And here we have a sealed box which hasn’t been opened. I fail to see how this has any bearing on today’s hearing!’
Fiddlit was beside himself; he’d never experienced such ecstasy, nor seen the judge so rattled. Well, not with anyone else at any rate.
Sarah, feeling Tim’s humiliation as much as he did, stood up.
‘Can’t you postpone judgement until we’ve found a way to open the chest?’
‘And how long will that take? Another few hundred years? There may be nothing in it!’
‘It’s very heavy, My Lord. It must contain something,’ said Inspector Young.
‘Don’t be smart, Inspector! You know full well what I mean!’
A muffled voice admonished them.
‘Will you stop shouting!’
‘Who said that?’ Sir Cedric’s blood reached boiling point.
The courtroom fell deathly quiet. Everyone looked questioningly at each other, waiting to see who had spoken so disrespectfully. In front of a judge, of all people!
‘I did!’ replied the voice.
Inspector Young stepped back in alarm as wisps of grey mist began to ooze spookily out of the chest’s keyhole.
Everyone watched in stunned silence and recoiled in horror as the swirling mist slowly took shape until what was, without a shadow of a doubt, a ghost floated in mid air. Not one of those indeterminate types clad in a gossamer sheet but a real one dressed in that elaborate style so favoured by the well-heeled of the Elizabethan Golden Age. It even had a rather threatening sword hanging from a belt around its waist.
Neville Strubble passed out, sliding gracefully from his seat onto the floor. This was a pity. Not everyone has the experience of seeing a spectre, let alone in a courtroom full of witnesses all able to corroborate each other’s version of events. However, some folk are more sensitive than others.
Mesmerised onlookers watched with a mixture of fear and excitement. The apparition was definitely a man. He had the appearance of a quite handsome (in a transparent sort of way) thirty year old. He stretched his arms and yawned deeply, emitting a low, hollow sound. Thoroughly refreshed, he played with his pointed beard while peering through almost translucent blue eyes to take in the surroundings. He registered a brief smile, flattered to see such a captive, although disappointingly small, audience.
Sir Cedric had seen some sights in his time but this one took the biscuit. At first he thought it must be some sort of dramatic illusion, conjured up by Eason and his computer to add credence to his otherwise weak case. It was the unearthly sound of the yawn which made him think again.
‘And who might you be?’ he asked in a voice that could barely be heard.
The spectre made an elaborate, if a trifle stiff, flourish and bowed deeply at the judge.
‘Augustus Wilton, Baronet . . . deceased, apparently,’ he replied with tomb-like gravity.
He smiled proudly at everyone in the courtroom. Everyone, that is, except Strubble who remained quietly unconscious on the floor, mouth agape and unfocussed eyes wide open.
Augustus, slightly miffed that no one rushed to shake his hand, turned to address Sir Cedric.
‘This has all the appearance of a Court of Law. Am I correct in this assumption? And you sit in judgement?’
‘It is, you are, and I do.’
‘May I enquire, good Sir, if such an impertinence can be forgiven, as to the nature of the hearing?’
I don’t believe it! I’m actually conducting a proper discussion with a damn ghost! Sir Cedric thought. ‘It’s all very complicated,’ he answered.
‘I should be most obliged if someone would explain why I have been brought here. At no little discomfort, I might add.’
It suddenly struck Tim he might never, ever, get another chance in his whole life to talk to someone who had witnessed at least some of the events of that period in English history in which he was most interested. Recovering his composure, he leapt to his feet, driven by an irresistible urge to address the late Sir Augustus Wilton. He spoke quickly, determined to get immediate answers to all his questions, questions that had troubled him for so long.
‘My Lord Sir Cedric, may I speak to the . . . apparition?’ he asked in a tone that demanded a positive answer.
Someone better had. ‘Yes, you may, Mr Eason.’
‘Sir Augustus. What the court wants to know is, what were the circumstances of your death, did you murder your brother Giles, whether or not you were married to Elizabeth, were you the father of William and Jane, is there any proof—’
The startled spectre raised a hand.
‘Slowly, slowly, young Sir!’
He turned, as if on a rotating pedestal, to face Sir Cedric.
‘With your permission, I feel it incumbent upon me to address the court.’
By now, Fiddlit, too, had recovered his wits. He jumped out of his seat.
‘M’lud! I really must object! This is a ghost, for God’s sake!’
‘Do not blaspheme, Sir! Sit down and hold your tongue!’ commanded Augustus, severely offended.
The judge, still not sure what was happening and certainly not trained to restore order in the presence of a ghost who appeared to have usurped his position, coughed discreetly. As far as he knew, there was nothing in the Statute Books advising on the admissibility of statements made during a court hearing by witnesses from another dimension. On the other hand, it could set a legal precedent and his name would
be preserved in the Statute Books for ever.
‘You may address the court, Sir Augustus.’
Augustus bowed deeply, acknowledging Sir Cedric’s kindness.
‘I should like to be introduced to you formally, dear Sir. I do not think we have met hitherto.’
Tim stepped forward to oblige. Someone had to do it and he was impatient to hear what his possible ancestor had to say.
‘Sir Augustus, this is Sir Cedric Foot-Wart.’
‘Foot-Wart? Of Blister Grange?’
Sir Cedric nodded. How on earth (or elsewhere) did he know where he lived?
‘I am very familiar with the Foot-Warts,’ Augustus exclaimed, barely maintaining decorum. ‘Backed the wrong horse during Bloody Mary’s short but terrible reign, I recall. My father hated them for being of Protestant persuasion, especially as it was by their patience and understanding that I, too, embraced that interpretation of the Faith. Let me shake your hand, Sir. I am deeply moved.’
He stepped forward just as quickly as the judge backed away. It made no difference. The ghostly hand merely passed through Sir Cedric’s own fingers, leaving a cold, tingling sensation behind.
‘Oh, dear,’ reflected Sir Augustus. ‘I seem to have lost the ability to touch! I do apologise for this unexpected shortcoming.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Sir Cedric. ‘It’s not your fault you’re not altogether here.’
‘Might I enquire into Sir Barnabas Foot-Wart’s health?’
‘He died shortly after you disappeared.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear such sad tidings,’ said the ghost. He’d be a goodly age when he perished.’
‘About ninety, I believe.’
‘I enjoyed talking to him in my younger days,’ continued Augustus. ‘Had some unusual habits, if I recall. One of the first lords to smoke a pipe. Took it up after Walter Raleigh paid him a visit.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, indeed. However, it wasn’t an auspicious beginning.’
‘Oh? why not?’