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

by Allan Frost

  There was no way of telling how many hours ambled by so dreadfully slowly. Once or twice they thought they heard voices coming from somewhere above ground and stood to shout ‘Help’ and ‘We’re in the cellar’, all to no avail. On one occasion, Augustus bellowed up the blocked chimney, almost losing his voice in a desperate attempt to make it carry. No one responded.

  They eventually decided to make a start on moving the rubble at the far end of the tunnel. It was a fruitless exercise. The fallen masonry was compacted or far too heavy to shift. Furthermore, the flame of successive candles showed no signs of flickering, an indication that there was no draught and, therefore, no way for a good supply of fresh air to seep into the chamber.

  Elizabeth suggested trying to clear a way up the chimney. That, too, was a waste of effort. So was lighting a fire in the hearth in the hope that the smoke would be seen by someone passing by outside, but all they succeeded in doing was fill the chamber with clouds of smoke which took an age to disperse.

  Augustus went so far as to stand on the chair and chip away at the mortar between the bricks in the ceiling with his sword and dagger, hoping to dislodge enough of them to make a hole which could then be widened to gain access to the room above. He even clawed at the bricks with his fingernails. Again, with mounting resignation, he was forced to concede defeat.

  Neither wanted to mention their worst fears to the other, at least not in the beginning. The air became more foul, the supply of candles dwindled and the ale in the firkin had almost gone. They had no food. Restlessness gave way to boredom; boredom lapsed into a strong feeling of powerless inevitability.

  Several days must have passed by. No one had apparently heard their cries for help and there were no audible signs of anyone shifting rubble. Augustus began to rue the day he and Elizabeth had first taken advantage of this most secret of hiding places, and the fact that no one had resided at the Lodge in recent weeks. If they had, someone might have thought to dig through to see if anyone was trapped in the chamber.

  At first, they passed the time chatting about the good times since their courtship began and the joy they had experienced watching the first years of their children’s lives. But there is a limit to how much reminiscence a person can take before the realisation they would probably not see the children or their friends ever again hits hard. That realisation was made all the more poignant at the very moment their last candle stub spluttered and died.

  It was Elizabeth who first had the courage to mention their probable fate. She knew she was getting weaker by the hour. She accepted, judging from the last anxious look she ever saw on Augustus’s kindly face, that she did not have long to live.

  It was her stoicism that enabled Augustus to pluck up sufficient courage to mention his meeting with Giles’s ghost and the apparent importance of his pistol, not in much detail for fear of frightening Elizabeth but rather to raise the subject of which object they themselves should choose if asked. It seemed bizarre to discuss such a trifling matter yet their spirits raised one last time as they debated the merits of a battered pewter tankard over those of a broken chair.

  There was nothing to be achieved by moaning, grumbling or apportioning blame. The last thing either wanted or needed was to say or do something to damage their relationship; it would make their fate that much harder for whoever was last to die.

  Die.

  Such a small word with overpowering implications. Death happened to everyone, there was no escaping. For Elizabeth, death itself did not worry her; it was the thought of what went before that gave her concern. She prayed silently that her beloved, faithful husband would be the first to go; the thought of him being trapped in the chamber, biding the time in darkness before it was his own turn, filled her heart with sadness.

  Should they make a suicide pact? No; it went against all of Christ’s teachings and they wanted, desired even, to be together in Paradise when the time came, not separated by torments in the fires of Hell.

  Should she stab him with the sword or dagger to speed him on his way? No; that would make her a murderer and him an innocent victim. The Almighty would pronounce judgement and they would never enjoy togetherness in the Afterlife.

  The Afterlife was something she didn’t understand. To her uncultured mind, the concept of a never-ending eternity without a body or being able to touch was completely incomprehensible. However, the few years she had spent with Augustus would seem an awful waste if there was no prospect of their love continuing after death. Despite the passing of the years, she still felt that girlish breathlessness of love and knew, she just knew, it would never end.

  What was it Augustus had once read from Chaucer’s book of Canterbury Tales? Something in Latin. Oh, yes, ‘Amor vincit omnia’. Love conquers all.

  Including death and the ravages of the grave.

  She shuddered, drew a short breath and opened her eyes for a brief moment.

  Although she could see only an impenetrable blackness, Augustus’s hand gently squeezed her own frozen fingers.

  She felt reassured, comforted, warm.

  ‘I do so love you, Augustus,’ she whispered.

  Her hand went limp.

  Augustus sat motionless, Elizabeth’s lifeless hand still clenched in his, for hours, perhaps days, afterwards. Silent tears slid unnoticed down his cheeks, into the corners of his mouth and onto his lap. What else could he do?

  He did not feel bitter or cheated. The courage Elizabeth had shown during the two or more weeks they had been incarcerated in the dank chamber made him feel so proud, so privileged to have been loved by such a wonderful person, the gentle and caring mother of their two children.

  She wouldn’t need the beautiful, expensive dress he had bought in Gloucester, nor would she ever become mistress of Priorton Hall. None of that mattered now. Nor did it matter that he, too, would soon die. He felt as though Elizabeth’s strength had somehow passed itself over to him and that he would soon join her at the gates of Heaven.

  Augustus wasn’t concerned that neither of them would be able to enjoy the wealth his father had bequeathed. If nothing else, Giles wouldn’t benefit from it either. Wasn’t it strange how Life is so unpredictable? Fate could be so fickle. There seemed no rhyme nor reason to the way it affected people, irrespective of the sort of lives they had led or the way they had treated others. Giles, all things considered, deserved to die yet had been delivered quickly and without warning, albeit at his own unwitting hand.

  Elizabeth, conversely, had taken a long time to become sufficiently weak for her life-sustaining spirit to relinquish itself. She must have suffered, as Augustus himself did now, yet she hadn’t complained or made a fuss. She had simply and gracefully faded away. And she’d loved him dearly. What more could a man ask?

  He felt cold, so cold. Despite the increasingly rank smell of Elizabeth’s corpse, he decided to join her underneath the blanket. He could hardly move her body onto the filthy floor, it wouldn’t be decent. Besides, the rigidity of her flesh had now softened and felt quite warm to the touch. They would be reunited in death soon enough and it seemed logical, in an odd sort of way, for him to lie beside her, occasionally placing an affectionate arm over her beneath the warm blanket.

  Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps he became delirious after the ale ran out, he didn’t know, but he heard Elizabeth’s voice, softly reassuring him that she was waiting for him. There was no hurry, nothing to worry about, there would be no pain, just a wonderful feeling of contentment and happiness.

  Augustus lost all track of time and reality. Perhaps it was just as well.

  The blackness of the chamber somehow disappeared.

  He became weaker and weaker, felt a gradual ebbing within his soul.

  He was at peace.

  With Elizabeth.

  XX

  The mist dispersed silently, bringing the audience in the courtroom back to the present day.

  Sarah’s lower lip was trembling. Everyone else, including Strubble, who had now recovered
and resumed his seat, wiped away tears. Sir Cedric blew a foghorn into a monogrammed handkerchief. Tim gave Sarah a reassuring hug.

  Augustus sighed. He raised a hand to his eyes as if to wipe away a tear, and shrugged when he realised there were no tears to wipe. He was a ghost, after all.

  ‘Elizabeth showed great courage,’ his voice faltered with deep emotion. ‘Don’t know for how long we lasted. Didn’t know when it was day or night. She went first. Very brave. Her last words were, "I do so love you, Augustus". You don’t forget things like that. Very moving.’

  He sniffed and turned to address the judge.

  ‘And that’s the end of my tragic evidence, Sir. I trust it clarifies matters.’ He bowed.

  Sir Cedric was very obviously affected by this sorry tale; it might not be long before he, too, joined Augustus as an ephemeral spirit in the Afterlife. The ghost’s story made him consider whether his wig would be an appropriate object to link to his soul after his demise. Probably not; it was already in a sad state and wouldn’t last forever. Certainly not another 400 years.

  Putting his musings to one side, Sir Cedric returned to the matter in hand. This was a Court of Law. Evidence had been presented but his job was to weigh up that evidence. The Law must be observed.

  ‘Your story is very touching, Sir Augustus, and I’m sure we’re all moved by it. However . . .’

  All eyes turned to him.

  ‘. . . in spite of what you say, we do not have documentary evidence of your marriage or your children’s paternity. That being the case, Mr Eason and Miss Brewer’s evidence simply does not stand up.’

  He looked down at Tim. There was a long pause before he spoke. Tim was not the only one eager to hear what he had to say.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Eason, but I have no alternative but to find in favour of Mr Fiddlit.’

  The look on Tim’s face said everything.

  ‘Sir! Be not so hasty!’ exclaimed Augustus. ‘There is documentary evidence!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the chest.’

  ‘Can you open it?’ asked Sir Cedric. ‘No, of course you can’t, you’re a ghost.’

  ‘Kindly do not emphasise that point, my good sir, I beg you! You will recall I had little choice in the matter of my demise! But no, I’m afraid I do not possess the key.’

  ‘I do,’ said Inspector Young, proudly fishing it out of his pocket and handing it to Tim.

  ‘Unlock the chest!’ Augustus instructed.

  Tim did so, his hand shaking. He thrust the rusty key into the keyhole and turned it. It took some effort.

  ‘It won’t do any good,’ he said ruefully. ‘We’ve tried to open it before. The key turns but the lid won’t open. See?’

  He tugged hard. George gave him a hand, to no avail.

  Sir Cedric tutted. He was beginning to lose patience again. He noticed the look of amusement on Augustus's face.

  ‘What do you find so amusing, Sir Augustus?’

  ‘You’ll see in a moment,’ he answered. ‘Come round to the back of the chest,’ he instructed.

  Tim walked straight through Augustus and stood where he was told.

  ‘See that rivet in the centre? Press it. Firmly!’

  Tim’s thumb pushed hard on the rivet. Nothing happened.

  ‘I said firmly!’

  Tim took a deep breath and pressed the rivet with all the strength he could muster.

  He and everyone in the room heard a loud CLICK.

  ‘Now lift the lid.’

  The chest lid opened without any difficulty.

  ‘Rather a cunning deceit, don’t you think?’ grinned Augustus. ‘The blacksmith in the village made it especially. Thought it would deter thieves. Now, if you wouldn’t mind standing to one side, Sir Tim . . .’

  He no sooner finished speaking than a pale mist rose languidly from the top of the open chest, rotating gently as it did so.

  ‘Oh, not again!’ Strubble’s eyes glazed over as he executed a graceful glissando back onto the floor.

  The mist eerily took shape until the ghost of a woman hovered next to Augustus. They embraced.

  ‘It’s quite safe, dear Elizabeth. Do not be afraid.’

  Tim was too stunned at the contents of the chest to notice the apparition.

  ‘Would you look at this!’ he exclaimed, thoroughly excited, far more than he had ever been before.

  He reached into the chest and removed a pendant identical to Sarah’s. He handed it to her. She examined it and gave it to the judge.

  While she did so, Tim took out a dagger, tarnished and longer but otherwise similar to his letter opener. He passed it to Sir Cedric.

  He then carefully lifted a shrivelled leather satchel and cast his eyes eagerly over the perfectly preserved parchments inside. He put them on the table for the time being.

  ‘What else is in the chest?’ asked Sir Cedric. He, too, felt a rare sense of excitement.

  Tim gulped, trying not to show his elation.

  ‘Treasure.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Sir Cedric rose from his seat and peered over the bench.

  The chest was packed with gold and silver coins and colourful stones. His jaw dropped in amazement. He sat back in his seat, completely taken aback.

  ‘So I see!’

  ‘I hid the chest and treasure in the Lodge to stop Giles stealing it.’ explained Augustus. ‘I did mention the fact during my delivery of the circumstances surrounding our deaths, if you recall.’

  ‘You didn’t mention money or precious gems.’

  ‘Oh, the chest contains more than money and mere gems,’ said Augustus proudly. ‘There are some lovely bracelets, necklaces, chains, rings and many other trinkets. Even a gold candlestick or two and a few small silver drinking cups. Most were collected by or made especially for my father. Perhaps you can now understand what a temptation it would have been if Giles discovered where they were hidden. He’d have given them away in exchange for a good time.’

  Sir Cedric noticed the look of greed rooted in Frank Fiddlit’s and Tom Bleak’s features. He coughed again.

  ‘What’s in the leather bag?’ he asked.

  ‘I mentioned my marriage at Gloucester Cathedral . . .’

  ‘You did,’ nodded the judge.

  ‘. . . and that I visited a Man of Letters while she spent the following morning being fitted for a gown.’

  ‘Yes, the court remembers the detail of your statement.’

  ‘The satchel contains the Declaration of Marriage from the Cathedral; that should prove she was my wife at the time of my death.’

  Sir Cedric pondered for a while.

  ‘But that in itself does not prove your children, what were their names? William and Jane? William and Jane were legally your heirs.’

  ‘If you would allow me to continue, Sir, and refrain from interruption, you will have all the proof you require.’

  Sir Cedric bristled with momentary indignation.

  ‘In addition to proof of marriage,’ Augustus resumed. ‘You will see there are also parchments confirming that I formally adopted William and Jane. They were, after all, the product of my loins but the Law would not recognise them as such because they were born out of wedlock. Hence the necessity for formal adoptions.’

  The judge gave a few more moments’ thought to consider Augustus’s latest revelations.

  ‘The documents, assuming they are what you say they are, still fail to provide an acceptable link between yourself and Mr Eason or Miss Brewer. By itself, the fact that you adopted both offspring would not, and obviously did not, enable them to inherit your estate.’

  ‘That was because no one except myself and Elizabeth knew of these papers. My Last Will and Testament also resides in the satchel. You will see that I left everything to Elizabeth or, in the event of her earlier demise, my children in equal shares.’

  ‘The court will need to examine them,’ said Sir Cedric. I shall pass no comment until I know exactly what they say.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose that me
ans another adjournment while we get an expert’s opinion.’

  ‘Damn!’ thought Fiddlit and Bleak in unison. ‘More delay!’

  Sarah stood up abruptly.

  ‘My Lord, Mr Eason can read them! He’s an expert.’

  ‘I must object!’ announced Fiddlit. ‘Mr Eason is acting in his own interests!’

  ‘Would you rather reach a speedy conclusion to this matter, or wait another month or two?’ asked Sir Cedric.

  Fiddlit saw Bleak mouthing, ‘Now! For God’s sake, now!’ from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Eason could give us the benefit of his experience. Provided the ghost confirms, of course.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Sir Cedric. ‘Mr Eason, would you be so kind?’

  Tim removed the contents of the satchel, glanced at them briefly and put them in order.

  ‘This is the Declaration of Marriage, signed by the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral,’ he began. ‘After a few minutes reading the spidery writing verbatim out loud, during which Augustus nodded at every word, he picked up the adoption documents and did likewise.

  ‘And this is what the Last Will and Testament of Sir Augustus Wilton of Priorton Hall, Priorton in the County of Shropshire has to say.’

  The terms of the Will were precise and to the point. It left the court, especially Sir Cedric, in no doubt that William and Jane were sole and joint beneficiaries of the Wilton estate. Tim folded each sheet carefully when he had finished and handed the bundle to the judge.

  ‘Sir Augustus, you are quite satisfied that Mr Eason has recited the contents of each and every one of these documents accurately? He has not omitted a single word or altered the phraseology in any way, nor changed the meaning of any sentence?’

  ‘I couldn’t have done better if I’d read everything out myself, although it would have been impossible for me to turn the pages without assistance. Mr Eason has spoken with clarity and accuracy.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll take a short adjournment. I shall return to my chambers for, let’s see, half an hour. I’m sure you could all do with a comfort break, as they call it. The court will provide everyone with a cup of tea while I deliberate.’