by Allan Frost
The offer to supply refreshments caught court recorder Muriel Higgins completely by surprise. Mind you, so did the nature of the hearing itself. While she boiled the kettle and poured cups of tea in a cubby hole (the term ‘kitchen’ was hardly appropriate for such a cramped space), she wondered how the records of the day’s events could be doctored to remove all mention of Sir Augustus Wilton, deceased, and his extended evidence.
The official notes on the proceedings could hardly refer to a ghost; who’d believe them? Everyone not present (and Priorton was not a very large township) would think she’d gone crazy. And what if the newspapers got to hear about it? How could she ever look her husband, let alone the neighbours, in the face again? Would she get the sack or be pressured into leaving ‘for health reasons’?
Perhaps Sir Cedric would give her a hand. Old he may be, but he wasn’t stupid. His own reputation was on the line. He’d been under constant pressure to resign for years; a word in the wrong place could so easily see the end of a long, distinguished and at times very amusing career. It would be a shame to see him leave under such degrading circumstances.
Sir Cedric Foot-Wart would find a way round the problem. No one present in the courtroom today would dare risk public derision, so it was fairly safe to assume they’d all keep their big mouths shut. Especially Frank Fiddlit.
There was something about him that always gave her the creeps. It wasn’t just the greasy, swept-back hair or yellow teeth, or the fact that he was a seedy individual. To be so obnoxious must have taken years to perfect. And there was more, much more to this case than met the eye. Fiddlit’s appearances in court invariably meant his client had done something wrong, without a doubt. But this case didn’t seem that way. However, taking that cowboy builder Bleak and Neville Strubble’s attendance into account, there must be something untoward on the cards. Perhaps Sir Cedric felt the same way about this very odd combination of characters.
Timothy Eason, however, was a different person altogether. Muriel could quite fancy him and his dishevelled looks; if only she were a good twenty years younger, she’d give Sarah Brewer a run for her money! But Sarah was such a nice person, well liked by everyone who met her. You always knew you’d get good service and tasty food whenever you dined at the Priorton Arms. She’d worked hard to keep that place going; can’t have been easy when her parents died so tragically.
It had been a truly callous act when Frank had tried to defend the drunk driver when that particular manslaughter case came to court. Muriel, in spite of all her experience, failed to understand how solicitors had the gall to represent such irresponsible, ignorant and selfish people.
Yes. Mr Eason and Sarah deserved to win their case, not just to put Fiddlit’s nose out of joint but because no one would begrudge their good fortune if they did succeed in inheriting the Priorton Hall estate. Lovely old building, Priorton Hall. Muriel experienced a warm feeling revived by nostalgic memories; she’d often gone for walks around the grounds with different boyfriends three decades or more ago. It always seemed so tranquil there, so pretty and, an essential requirement for couples, romantically secluded and private. Rumour had it that Mr Eason and Sarah had been seen holding hands in the park. If it were true, then good luck to them!
Working at the court meant Muriel normally saw only the less savoury aspects of life. You expected to find hardened criminals in the dock but she always felt dismayed to see overweight greedy men in suits and insincere smiles, ostensibly respectable professionals, bringing the most tenuous cases for their own personal financial gain.
Sir Cedric saw through them. He’d had enough experience of human selfishness to know when a brief was genuine as opposed to callously contrived. That was one reason why the ‘powers that be’, namely public officers receiving backhanders for supporting one side as opposed to the other, wanted him out of the way. Yes, the court recorder held Judge Sir Cedric Foot-Wart in the highest possible regard.
Like everyone present, Muriel heard exactly the same evidence but, unlike them, knew that any decision made by the judge didn’t necessarily agree with common sense. The Law was not always as just as might be believed; it was constantly under development and had been for many centuries, so much so that a ruling in favour of one side as opposed to the other was by no means guaranteed.
Muriel just had time to collect the cups and saucers and place them in the faded yellow plastic washing up bowl in the sink when Sir Cedric appeared.
‘Ready to resume?’ he asked. His face seemed rather serious. Too serious for her liking, but that was his way. Keep everyone guessing for as long as possible.
Muriel nodded.
‘Then lead the way, Mrs Higgins. I’m afraid we’ll see one or two disappointed faces again. Still, can’t be helped. The Law, like God, moves in a mysterious way.’
They entered the courtroom. Cedric was passingly amused to see Tim and Sarah engaged in a friendly conversation with Augustus and Elizabeth. They had the appearance of old friends meeting for the first time in ages. He also noticed Fiddlit, Bleak and Strubble showing obvious signs of studiously avoiding eye contact with one another, thus proving they were anxious to keep some secret agreement concerning this case away from the court’s knowledge.
‘I think I’ve seen and heard enough to reach a verdict, ladies and gentlemen,’ announced the judge, sitting back in his seat. He paused before continuing, savouring the tension on everyone’s face. ‘But before I continue, is there anything else you, Mr Fiddlit, or you, Mr Eason, wish to add? This is your last chance.’
Tim and Frank Fiddlit exchanged querying glances.
‘No, my Lord,’ they both answered.
‘Then I am pleased to confirm that Mr Eason and Miss Brewer are the rightful heirs to the estate of Sir Augustus Wilton, deceased. And, in view of these rather unusual circumstances, consider the treasure to be theirs by right of inheritance and not subject to the laws concerning Treasure Trove.’
Tim and Sarah leapt to their feet with excitement and hugged each other. So did Augustus and Elizabeth.
‘Hoorah!’ shouted Muriel, unable to control herself. ‘Well done!’
‘That’s enough, Mrs Higgins. I’m not sure everyone shares your enthusiasm.’
He turned to address the solicitor.
‘There were moments when I thought this would result in being a landmark case for you, Mr Fiddlit. Your first successful brief during any of my sittings. You have my heartfelt sympathy,’ he added, suppressing an urge to smile. ‘However, I am not altogether happy with the way you have conducted this case. I am convinced you had more to gain than a fee for acting on behalf of the trustees to the Wilton estate. Unfortunately, I have no proof to substantiate that belief.’
Frank Fiddlit made a great show, as if to register dismay at receiving such an affront to his good character.
‘The court requires you to transfer all funds and matters relating to this estate to Mr Eason and Miss Brewer before the end of next month. And to hand over the keys to the property immediately. Do you understand!?’
‘Yes, M’lud,’ muttered the solicitor. The plastic armchair of his dreams sank to the bottom of the imaginary pool, leaving a trail of bubbles behind.
‘Then this hearing is concluded!’ Sir Cedric banged his gavel. He needed a stiff drink, something stronger and more satisfying than tea! First this astonishing case, then Cynthia apprehended like a common criminal! Beats Bridge any day. Well perhaps not. Bridge is much more enjoyable and less unpredictable. Must remember to take the wig next time.
An image of Lady Cynthia languishing in a police cell flitted across his mind. Dammit! The drink would have to wait until he’d seen to her release.
Everyone stood as he rose to leave the room. Fiddlit, Bleak and a rather disorientated Strubble rushed towards the door to make a hasty getaway.
Inspector George Young apprehended them with enthusiastic assistance from his burly constables.
‘There are a few questions I’d like to put to you and your f
riends, Mr Fiddlit,’ said George in a firm, yet somehow cheerful, manner. ‘Now, if you don’t mind!’
‘And where are we to go?’ asked Sir Augustus anxiously. ‘Elizabeth and I must remain with the chest. We can hardly be expected to float around here indefinitely.’
‘You can come with us,’ beamed Tim.
EPILOGUE
The following weeks witnessed several remarkable yet not entirely unforeseen changes in circumstances.
Although his broken limbs eventually healed, Neville Strubble was severely traumatised by the amount of compensation imposed by the court to pay for all the damage caused by his reckless rampage in the JCB (sorry, tracked excavator).
Childlike anxiety brought on by the loss of his job and an inability to cope led to an inevitable mental breakdown. However, every cloud has a silver lining. He now leads a happy life in sheltered accommodation (provided by the council, so it is still paying him one way or the other) and has found many new friends at a Care in the Community project (also run by the council). Naturally, he’s one of their clients, not an employee.
Tom Bleak was declared bankrupt and barred from running another business for the twenty years. He had to empty every shoe box and sell his executive dwelling, as well as all its contents, in a vain attempt to pay off his creditors, including the Birmingham architects and loan shark Elias Dolphin, who found himself inexplicably released on parole in October; Bleak didn’t relish having his legs broken. All things considered, he got off quite lightly.
He was last seen selling empty shoe boxes and model houses at the weekly car boot sale held in a muddy field near Wellingley. Although his fingerprints were very similar to the unidentified ones found by the police on the JCB, they failed to match sufficiently to warrant an arrest.
Frank Fiddlit was kicked unceremoniously out of the Law Society and found guilty of embezzlement, fraud and misappropriation of client funds. He is currently serving five years at an open prison in Staffordshire, has exchanged his pipe for cocaine (which is much easier to obtain in prison than tobacco) and seems quite settled in his new lodgings. Sadly, his unworn Bermuda shorts are stored, neatly folded, in a personal belongings box in the security room.
Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart managed to avoid prosecution for shoplifting by making a substantial investment which gave her a majority interest in the adult entertainment store (Sex And Fantasy Emporium) at Wellingley. George Young was a great help in negotiating a settlement agreeable to both sides.
Cynthia busies herself, always on Thursdays and occasionally at other times, at the sex shop, devising new ways to improve the services offered to its clientele. She has ambitious, if alarming, plans for next year. Cedric has no idea what she gets up to and his social acquaintances are too embarrassed to tell him. They all have their own sordid secrets.
Cynthia disbanded the Priorton Economic & Social History Society (which entailed posting four letters to members, including Tim, and refunds of subscriptions amounting to three pounds twenty pence). She spends some of her time at Blister Grange wondering how to rekindle a spark of excitement in her fifty-two year marriage to Cedric. It is to her everlasting regret that she was unable to provide him with an heir to the estate in her younger days.
Sir Cedric Foot-Wart continues to keep his cards close to his chest and currently attends ‘Bridge’ just once a week on Thursdays (while his wife is safely out of the way), to ‘keep his hand in’. Every visit takes its toll on the state of his wig.
Sir Cedric, chairman of various public bodies including the Police Board, values discretion. As a result of the way he handled ‘Cynthia’s little problem’, George Young found himself unexpectedly promoted to Chief Inspector, much to the surprise and glee of his wife Hilda. She relished the prospect of boasting discreetly about his advancement to associates (she could hardly call them friends) at the Women’s Institute.
Muriel Higgins and Sir Cedric spent several lengthy days in the court offices, carefully editing the record of the hearing to remove all mention of Sir Augustus Wilton’s evidence. Muriel was in her element and, by the time they had finished, her admiration for the aging judge was on the verge of transforming itself into untamed animal passion. Fortunately, the birth of her first grandchild diverted her attention and enabled her to put things into proper perspective. If nothing else, Muriel was proper, but it had been a close call.
Gentlemen (for want of a better word) of the Press sensed something unusual had taken place in the courtroom that eventful day. They had made the unforgivable mistake of believing it would turn out to be just one more of those Fiddlit/Foot-Wart episodes where the outcome was always the same, so hadn’t bothered to send a reporter.
Suspicions were aroused by the immediate detention of cowboy Bleak, the former council Chief Planning Officer and Fiddlit himself, who was later charged. Those suspicions were increased by the length of time it had taken to obtain a transcript of the hearing. Despite the reporters’ best efforts, no one seemed willing to shed any light on the proceedings, not even Miss Brewer or Mr Eason, both of whom had benefited enormously, nor even their usual crop of ‘bean-spillers’ in the police force.
The Rock-Ola juke box in the Priorton Arms aptly gave up the ghost halfway through playing Silence is golden by The Tremeloes. The electrical engineer summoned to operate on this revered contraption couldn’t understand how the unpredictable and independent-minded machine had managed to play for so long with most of its circuits burnt out. Perhaps it had been operated by an unseen hand.
It still stands, silent but imposing, in the same place it has occupied for the last forty years. The few remaining singles, some of which had played an important part in cultivating Tim and Sarah’s relationship, were sold for a substantial sum because of their rarity at a Collector’s auction held at Shrewsbury. Sarah has appointed a manager (one of her capable barmaids from the council estate) to see to the day-to-day running of that long established and highly regarded establishment which is the Priorton Arms.
Lady Elizabeth Wilton realised her dream by taking up residence at Priorton Hall; it had only taken four hundred years. She and Augustus make the most of their regained freedom by floating around the Hall to their hearts’ content. Their oak chest is safely tucked away beneath a table in a downstairs corridor; the radius of its Afterlife-imposed force field appears, fortunately, to be sufficiently wide to allow access to every room, which can be a little disconcerting at times for Tim and Sarah.
Elizabeth’s and Augustus’s mortal remains were buried together, not far away from Augustus’s parents, beneath the floor of a side chapel inside All Saints parish church, during a private committal service attended by the Foot-Warts and Youngs. The ghosts did not attend; Tim thought it wise to leave their chest at the Hall to avoid unwanted drama. Apparently Hilda Young is terrified at the very thought of apparitions.
Discussions with various official bodies are taking place for the grounds of Priorton Hall to be opened next year to the public, Sundays only, from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon during June, just to see how things go.
The Hall itself now has a part time housekeeper who takes good care of Fawkes the cat, although Sarah insists on doing most of the domestic cooking, much to Tim’s delight. She is finding it a little difficult adjusting to her new life and having so much spare time, and is considering restoring the Tudor walled knot garden at the rear of the Hall; it has been sadly neglected for decades (if not longer). She has approached local garden centre owner and part time poacher Mick Sturbs for ideas.
Tim has begun collecting more information with the intention of writing guide books for visitors and academics and wants to excavate the Lodge ruins at the earliest opportunity, this time with help from professionals. He’s also checking the possibility of enlisting the help of students from the local college to clear the site of the old Priory with a view to excavating it as well at some future date.
Sarah and a nightmare-free Tim were married in the once- hidden private chapel at the
Hall; she wears Elizabeth’s simple wedding ring, identified by its former owner from the items found by the police wrapped around a bone in the secret chamber; it was Elizabeth’s wish that Sarah should wear it. The newly marrieds enjoyed a three week honeymoon in Rome. Sympathetic renovations inside the Hall were completed just in time for their return.
Tim had driven his wife-cum-cousin (two hundred times removed, so it was all quite legal) from Birmingham Airport back to the Hall in a brand new Vauxhall Astra; overpriced posh cars weren’t for him. He carried Sarah over the narrow stone bridge above the moat and into the hallway.
He put her down gently.
‘I can’t believe all this is ours!’ she said. It took some getting used to. ‘Bet you can’t catch me!’ she shrieked, racing up the stairs.
Tim pursued her to the main bedroom, where Fawkes was fast asleep on the massive four-poster bed. The cat just managed to get out of the way as Sarah landed on the bed. Tim, equally eager, threw himself next to her.
He gazed dreamily into her eyes.
‘I do so love you.’
‘I know you do. Those were Elizabeth’s last words to Augustus,’ she added wistfully.
‘And I’ll say it loads more times before we’re finished,’ he said softly and sincerely.
They embraced and kissed passionately.
‘Tut, tut, Sarah! Show some resistance!’ came an eerily hollow voice from nowhere.
Fawkes let out a terrified miaow! and disappeared under the bed.
Elizabeth’s semi-transparent head emerged from the oak panelling. Augustus’s face slid out beside it a split second later.