Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death!

by Allan Frost

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘Don’t have much call for that, Mr Sturbs. My husband’s a vegetarian and I tend not to eat much meat myself these days.’

  Waste of bloody time, bein’ a veggie. Unnatural, thought Mick. ‘Well, the offer’s there,’ he said, greatly disappointed.

  ‘Actually, we may need something in a couple of months,’ said Sarah, remembering the dinner party she’d promised. ‘I’ll let you know nearer the time.’

  ‘Right you are, ma’am. Might have one or two pheasant by then. They’ll be young and tasty but’ll still need hangin’ for a week or two. Make sure you let me know in plenty of time. Demand’s quite high in August, barbecues and the like, so book early to avoid disappointment, as they say.’

  The next weeks were busy ones for both Tim and Sarah. Having seen the ruins of the former Priory, Tim threw himself into discovering as much as he could from its origins right through to its final days.

  It wasn’t easy. As the grounds of Priorton Hall had been largely neglected since Augustus Wilton’s disappearance, only the mansion itself and the drive leading up to it had been maintained. The rest had been allowed to run wild with the exception of land set aside for farming since medieval times.

  Admittedly, there were papers at the Hall but they only dated back to when Sir William Wilton first took possession and they didn’t reveal many clues to what had happened beforehand.

  Following his instincts (he’d had well over ten years of practical experience both as a student as well as a professional historical researcher), Tim found a private pilot at Shawbury aerodrome who was willing to fly him over the parkland to take photographs. It had been quite a dry summer so far, so there was a good chance important features could be seen, at least to the trained eye.

  It was a pleasant evening at the beginning of July. Wilbur Hareworthy (‘Hareworthy by name, airworthy by nature’) had cranked the propeller of his ancient Cessna and set off, bouncing along the grassy strip next to the main runway at Shawbury.

  Tim had hitherto flown only in jumbo jets, so the noise from the lawnmower-type engine came as a bit of a shock. So did the unsteady motion of the plane, which seemed to drop five metres or more whenever it hit an air pocket. Wilbur twiddling his handlebar moustaches all the time while peering mole-like through dusty goggles didn’t inspire confidence, nor did the Red Baron scarf sticking out on a piece of wire behind his neck, but he didn’t seem the suicidal type.

  By the time they approached Priorton, Tim was feeling quite queasy; Wilbur constantly offering him a sick bag didn’t help but he was determined not to give in to the churning sensation in his stomach. Strangely, all discomfort dispersed as soon as Priorton Hall came into view and he was able to concentrate on making the most of the flight.

  Wilbur was more than obliging and flew backwards and forwards over the whole area, even extending to Blister Grange in the north and Hemlock to the east. There were times when the engine spluttered and conked out because Wilbur tried to help by slowing the Cessna down a little too enthusiastically; despite a few moments of terror during brief periods of free-fall, he managed to revive the engine again, much to their mutual relief.

  Tim had to replace the memory card in his digital camera several times. Apart from the odd feature, he didn’t want to waste time looking around; his mission was to take as many photographs as he could; closer examination could wait until he had downloaded everything onto the computer.

  As a bonus after Tim had taken the last shot, Wilbur took him on a slight detour so that they could fly over The Wrekin Hill, Shropshire’s most prominent landmark just south of Wellingley. Back at Shawbury, Tim’s legs felt like jelly when he fell, rather than jumped, out of the plane. He had no choice but to sit down for a few minutes to recover. Sarah had warned him this would happen and she’d been right.

  As usual.

  The photographs were absolutely stunning. Evening sunlight had cast shadows across the mounds and bumps on the ground, and areas where ancient stonework lay just beneath the grass clearly showed the outlines of former buildings.

  Tim made painstaking notes while checking each one of the hundreds of pictures, even going so far as to draw a rough plan of the partly obvious layout of the Priory. Several other features caught his eye, such as the two small pools which had served as medieval fish ponds, created to supply the canons with alternative food supplies over winter months. There were other regular formations which could hide something of medieval or even earlier origin. They’d have to wait; investigation of the Priory took priority.

  Augustus had been a great help in interpreting some of the information, so much so that he expressed interest in going around the Park himself.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible,’ said Tim regretfully. ‘You know you can’t wander far from your oak chest, or cross the Tricklebrook in the moat unassisted.’

  Augustus had to agree but it didn’t stop the yearning.

  ‘Not that I’m objecting to your hospitality,’ he insisted. ‘But you can’t imagine how difficult it is for Elizabeth and myself having to live, day in, day out, within the confines of these four walls.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought, Augustus, but I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘I understand, Tim. Now I know what it’s like for a dog to see a juicy bone but can’t reach it. I feel that way whenever I look through the windows.’

  But Tim was too engrossed in his discoveries to give the matter even half a thought.

  During the following weeks, he spent many hours delving into Shropshire Archives at Shrewsbury. He was rather surprised to find there was quite a lot of information on the Priory, even down to the names of successive priors from its beginnings right through to its sale to William Wilton.

  He formed the opinion that the Priory had been quite successful at various times, attracting visits from King Henry II who enjoyed deer hunting in this area which was then part of the ancient Wrekin Forest, and made a sizable donation to the canons at the Priory in appreciation of their hospitality.

  There were, as expected, several periods when its inhabitants drifted away from their expected disciplined lifestyle to venture into the usual array of human weaknesses.

  At one time during the mid 1300s, shortly after nuns were invited to share the premises, gross immorality had been rewarded with a devastating visit by the Black Plague.

  At other times, the Priory seemed more interested in accumulating vast sums of money from pilgrims anxious to take home a splinter from the True Cross (which must have been the size of a ship, judging from the receipts) or buy other dubious souvenirs and religious relics.

  Brief periods of devout behaviour, as originally exercised by canons from Arrouaise in northern France who arrived in the vicinity during the 1140s, inevitably succumbed to a more pleasurable lifestyle during which paupers and tenants suffered and alms were redirected, or misappropriated, for the Priory’s own benefit.

  The canons had come at the invitation of Roger de Belmeis, a particularly vicious and ruthless earl desperate to accumulate brownie points in readiness for his eventual demise. It’s doubtful whether he sponsored enough churches and religious houses during his lifetime to avoid his destiny with the flickering flames of Hell.

  Unfortunately, Tim was unable to find any original plans of the Priory although one or two itinerant artists had drawn illustrations showing what the ruins appeared like during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

  A visit to the Diocesan Archives at Lichfield proved fruitless but two days spent in the Reading Room at the British Museum had been quite illuminating.

  That was the trouble with Tim. Once he had his mind well and truly focussed on a project, nothing else mattered. He wouldn’t rest until he’d found out as much as he could.

  From Sarah’s point of view, this was fine most of the time. She enjoyed having the opportunity to look around and shop in other towns while Tim pored over dusty, indecipherable parchments. It was a pleasure
she’d had little chance to experience while running the Priorton Arms. She owed it to herself to make up for lost time.

  They were having breakfast one morning a few days after the London trip. Augustus and Elizabeth were, as usual, in the lounge watching a children’s programme. They were engrossed in learning how they might have been able to make a space ship from a toilet roll and sticky-back plastic if they hadn’t been dead.

  ‘I’d better arrange the dinner party,’ announced Sarah. Should we invite anyone besides the Foot-Warts and Youngs?’

  I don’t think so,’ Tim replied with a sigh. ‘They’ll be more than enough.’

  A sheaf of letters dropped through the front door. Sarah picked them up and saw one was a plain brown envelope marked ‘SAFE’. She slit it open with the butter knife.

  ‘Tim,’ said Sarah. ‘We’ve had another invitation from Lady Cynthia.’

  ‘Not another lunch?’

  ‘No. We’ve been invited to the private launch of the new Lady Cynthia Collection.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Where’s it at?’

  ‘The Methuselah Retirement Resort, would you believe.’

  Silence reigned while their imaginations went into overdrive.

  ‘You don’t really think we should go, do you?’ asked Tim, barely able to speak.

  ‘I think we should. Might be fun.’

  Fun?

  A load of old coffin dodgers parading around with their bare essentials barely concealed?

  Hardly.

  Unless it degenerated into a similar fiasco as the lunch party.

  Now that would be fun!

  But would that be too much to hope for?

  X

  Sarah managed to coax Tim away from his work one afternoon to discuss arrangements for the dinner party.

  ‘I think we should push the boat out,’ she said. ‘Do something really special, something we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘There’ll only be six of us,’ Tim pointed out. ‘Not everyone in Priorton.’

  ‘But it’s the anniversary of us inheriting this place!’ she protested. ‘Oh, go on, Tim,’ she persisted. ‘It’s not as if we do much entertaining. Well, not yet, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean, ‘not yet’?’ It sounded as if she had more plans up her sleeve and this was just the first step.

  ‘Folk will expect us to be more, well, outgoing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re the richest couple in Priorton, that’s why.’

  ‘Are we?’ He hadn’t really given it much thought. ‘Yes, I suppose we are. So?’

  ‘We shouldn’t become recluses. What’s the point of having all this if we don’t get some joy out of it? You need to take a break from your research. It’ll do you good.’

  Socialising didn’t come easy to Tim, not like Sarah who’d had years of experience dishing out pints and small talk from behind the bar. He felt more comfortable delving into archives and occasionally speaking to other historians. But she was right. That’s what he liked about her; she’d had far more practical experience of life than him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘There is more to life than all this. Never realised until our honeymoon. Do you remember . . .’

  ‘Don’t change the subject! My mind’s made up and I need your help. I don’t want to do it all myself.’

  ‘Why not? You’re a much better organiser than I’ll ever be.’

  ‘You’re not wriggling out of it! It’s a joint effort. That way we can both take the blame if it all goes pear-shaped. But believe me, it won’t! Honest!’

  ‘OK. Fine. Promise I’ll do my share.’

  ‘Good. Now, I thought we should hold the party in the Priory ruins.’

  She paused to gauge his reaction.

  ‘Right . . .’ he agreed, uncertainly.

  ‘We could hire a gazebo or small marquee.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘And get Bert Nibbull to do the catering.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘And have someone playing music.’

  ‘Who’s Bert Nibble?’

  ‘Nibbull. Oh, never mind. You didn’t agree to music.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Stop agreeing with me!’

  ‘What am I supposed to say?’

  Women! You can’t do right for doing wrong!

  ‘I’d like a little more input, if you don’t mind!’

  What is it with men? Ask a simple question and they behave like simpletons!

  ‘Let’s start again. You want a tent,’ said Tim.

  ‘Not a tent, a gazebo or marquee!’

  ‘You want a tasteful shelter in case it rains.’

  ‘Or turns a little cool, yes.’

  ‘You get this chap Nibbull to do the catering.’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Someone to play music.’

  Yes.’

  ‘In the Priory.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorted! Anything else?’

  She reached for a bread knife, changed her mind and gently placed her hands around his neck before throttling him.

  ‘You really are the most—!’

  ‘No, seriously,’ he croaked. ‘What bits should I organise?’

  She relaxed her grip.

  ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘I’m offering! Anything for a quiet life! Let go or I’ll haunt you like Augustus!’

  That did the trick. Two ghosts were bad enough, but a third . . .

  ‘I could take care of the music,’ Tim offered. ‘How’d you fancy medieval or Tudor?’

  ‘I had thought of a string quartet.’

  ‘It’s just that I know of a group which performs at English Heritage events. They’re very good. And it would be in keeping with the surroundings,’ he added persuasively.

  ‘OK then. You see to the music. I suppose I’ll have to arrange everything else.’

  ‘It’s what you do best,’ he said with a disarming smile.

  ‘Swine!’ she said, giving him a kiss.

  ‘Don’t forget portaloos. Vital for outdoor events.’

  ‘Double swine!’

  It took Tim one telephone call lasting less than twenty minutes to arrange his contribution to the dinner party. Feeling slightly guilty, he spent some time in the study doodling with draft plans of the Priory, trying to decide where best to put the tent (good job she couldn’t hear his thoughts!), catering van and portable toilets.

  Something else crossed his mind; the narrow lane to the ruins was in a bad state. He reached for the telephone again.

  ‘Mr Sturbs? Tim Eason here. I’m fine, thanks. And you? Good. Little job for you, probably take a few days. Do you think you’d be able to do something with the lane leading to the Priory ruins? Get rid of the overhanging branches, clean up the verges, that sort of thing? Good. Yes, wide enough to accommodate vehicles. Tarmac or gravel? Er, I think gravel for the moment. Yes, just level the lane but don’t take too much trouble over it. Sometime before the middle of August. Fine. Thanks. Get back to me if there’s a problem. `bye.’

  He felt rather proud of himself, doing a little more than he’d promised. Mick Sturbs was a bit of an odd character but seemed quite capable, provided he kept a close eye on the dubious Gerry Bilt.

  Sarah would be even more pleased with him when he told her he’d ordered a minibus from Ackney Cabs to collect the Youngs and Foot-Warts from their respective homes, bring them to Priorton Hall and later take the whole party to the Priory. The return journey was also booked for later that night, the arrangement being that Tim would call on his mobile phone for a vehicle to take everyone back when they were ready.

  He strolled into the kitchen, having primed himself to boast modestly about his achievements. Sarah had just dialled someone. The voice at the other end of the line was so loud it would have been cheaper to open the windows and shout; they didn’t need a telephone. Tim heard every word.

&nb
sp; ‘Hello? Nibbull’s Nosh Kwality Katerin’. Bert Nibbull himself here. How may I help you?’

  ‘Hello, Bert. It’s Sarah Eason of Priorton Hall.’

  ‘As was Sarah Brewer of the Priorton Arms?’

  ‘Yes, Bert. I’d like to know if you’re free on the night of Sunday 27th August?’

  ‘You’re in luck, Sarah. Just had a partial cancellation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I’d been booked for a wedding reception but the bride got cold feet.’

  ‘How do you mean, partial?’

  ‘Turns out the bride is in love with one of her bridesmaids. They’ve decided to have a comin’ out party instead. It’s a partial cancellation ’cos only about half the original folk have been invited.’

  ‘So, will you be able to cater for an outside party of six people? We want to hold a dinner in the old Priory ruins.’

  ‘Ah! Now I can certainly do the deliverin’ and caterin’ but I won’t have any staff to do the servin’. Could you find anyone to do that? If you can, there’s no problem.’

  ‘I’ll have a think about it, Bert. I may be able to get someone from the Priorton Arms to help.’

  ‘I doubt that, Sarah. The off-duty staff will be working for me that night.’

  ‘Ah. Well, not to worry, Bert. I’ll think of something. In the meantime, would you put me in your diary? I’ll get back to you to discuss the menu as soon as I’ve sorted the staffing problem.’

  ‘Very well, Sarah. Glad to be of help.’

  She switched the phone off. Tim looked very smug.

  ‘What have you done now?’

  He told her.

  ‘Well, things are looking up!’ she said, slightly sarcastically. ‘Surprising what you can do when you put your mind to it. No, I’ll rephrase that: surprising what you can do when your mind’s not on other things.’ She smiled.

  ‘I am capable of being human sometimes,’ he protested mildly, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Anyway, must get on. I’ll be in the Library.’

  Sarah thought for a few seconds before making another call.