Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death! Read online

  PRIOR ENGAGEMENT

  or

  Plagued to Death!

  Allan Frost

  The right of Allan Frost to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © Allan Frost 2012.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-872989-14-3

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Published by Wrekin Books

  1 Buttermere Drive, Priorslee, Telford,

  Shropshire, TF2 9RE, England.

  Article in Wellingley Weekly:

  EASON’S PLOT

  Readers of our columns will recall the amazing events surrounding the inheritance of late Tudor Priorton Hall by historian Mr Tim Eason and Miss Sarah Brewer of the Priorton Arms public house.

  Mr Eason came to the town some months ago to see if there was a connection between the Wilton family, who built the Hall in the 1500s, and conspirators involved in the infamous Gunpowder Plot of 1605. He met Miss Brewer while staying at the inn, fell in love with her and ‘the rest is history’.

  As well as discovering an important historical connection, Mr Eason also found long-lost legal documents which enabled him and Miss Brewer to submit a successful claim to the Priorton Hall Estate.

  Mr Frank Fiddlit, of Fiddlit & Wynne, solicitors, of High Street, Priorton, was subsequently arrested and found guilty of embezzlement and fraud. He was sentenced to prison and is now serving time in Stafford Gaol.

  Fiddlit had, it transpired, siphoned off considerable sums of money from the Estate, for which his firm acted as Trustees, over a period covering more than 100 years.

  Mr Eason and Miss Brewer were married at All Saints parish church last Saturday.

  The groom spoke to our reporter shortly before leaving for a three week honeymoon in Rome, where Mr Eason has promised to spend more time with his bride than investigating ancient remains.

  He said, ‘For a few months after our return, I intend devoting much of my time excavating the ruins of the Old Lodge with the Shropshire Archaeological Unit. It will take a few months.’

  He continued: ‘Next year, with help from students of the local college, I hope to prepare the site for excavating the former 12th century Priory, from which the town gets its name.’

  Our reporter, having read Mr Eason’s article for the British Historical Society on his recent discoveries, is convinced some of his findings could only have been made with supernatural help.

  When pressed on whether he believed in ghosts, Mr Eason would make no comment other than, ‘The only spirits I’m interested in at the moment are those being served at our Reception.’

  Among the distinguished guests at the Reception, held at the Priorton Arms which has been in Mrs Eason’s family since the 16th century, were Sir Cedric and Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart of Blister Grange.

  I

  Elizabeth’s head emerged through the oak panelled wall in the library. She wore an apologetic expression.

  ‘Augustus would be indebted if you could change the picture in the telly,’ she said.

  Tim Eason glanced at her translucent face and nodded.

  ‘I’ll be through in a moment.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a little urgent . . . Tom and Jerry is about to begin,’ she apologised, ‘and you know he can’t use that wand thing.’ She meant the remote control.

  Tim sighed. This was the price you paid for having your dead ancestors occupying the same house. Still, if it weren’t for them, he wouldn’t have inherited Priorton Hall 400 years after Sir Augustus and Lady Elizabeth Wilton had died when in their early thirties.

  He saved the file on his computer and strolled through the open door into the lounge. Why couldn’t she have floated in the doorway rather than appear through the panelling? Because she was a ghost, that’s why. No need for a detour.

  Augustus had almost mastered the other-worldly art of hovering just above the cushions on the sofa so that it looked as though he was actually sitting down. Almost, but not quite. His upper torso seemed to be perched on a cushion and his legs, crossed nonchalantly to give a relaxed impression, stuck out from the front of the sofa while his feet were firmly planted in the floor. Not on it; in it. Tim couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘Tom and Jerry? Which channel?’ asked Tim, picking up the remote.

  ‘Two,’ replied Augustus. ‘Oh, look! Tom’s shoved Jerry down the barrel of a gun! And shot him out! Oooooh! That must have hurt!’

  Elizabeth gave Tim a thankful nod and gracefully lowered herself into a sitting position next to her husband.

  Tim went back into the library and continued typing. It had been a busy year for the humble historian. Not only had he and his wife Sarah, both in their early thirties, inherited the Hall but they had opened its grounds to the public for a few days to see how things went. The estate was not only extensive but also crammed with interesting features which had never been fully investigated.

  Tim was determined to discover as much as he could and to that end had paid for a full excavation, supervised by the Shropshire Archaeology Unit, of the Old Lodge ruins. It was there that the skeletons of Augustus and Elizabeth had been found buried beneath the rubble.

  He had also enlisted the help of students from Wellingley College of Further Education to clear away shrubs, trees, weeds and creepers in the visible remains of the Priory from which the small town of Priorton got its name. The Priory had been sold by King Henry VIII to Augustus’s father who had lived there until the moated timber-framed Tudor manor of Priorton Hall was built. The Priory ruins had since been allowed to decay. Four centuries of neglect and stone-robbing had left comparatively little to be seen above ground besides the peripheral walls of the main church.

  One of the benefits of living with his long deceased ancestors was that they could help him with eye-witness accounts of life in Queen Elizabeth I’s time. But, however much he tried, Augustus would not, or could not, explain why Priorton Hall had been built in the first place when the Priory would have been much more impressive and in keeping with a baronet’s position in society. The only clue Augustus had ever given was that his father once said that living there was ‘weird’.

  ‘I bet living there was less weird than living here!’ Tim mused.

  Sarah came in from the hallway.

  ‘Lunch in twenty minutes,’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Pretty well finished,’ he replied, still typing and finding his wife’s interruption more than a little distracting. ‘Now that the Old Lodge report is almost out of the way, how’d you fancy a walk around the Priory this afternoon?’

  ‘Fine. Where’s —?’

  ‘In there. Tom and Jerry,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t be like that. It must be very confusing for them. The television helps them understand how much things ha
ve changed since they died.’

  ‘But Tom and Jerry . . .!’

  ‘You can’t help feeling sorry for them,’ observed Sarah, a hint of sadness in her voice.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, how would you like to be a ghost confined to the house, nowhere to go and without knowing whether it’s for eternity. Nothing to look forward to.’

  ‘They’ve got us. There can’t be many people around who still have their phantom forebears living with them.’

  ‘It’s not really living, is it? They can’t go out and visit friends, meet strangers, go shopping . . .’

  ‘They talk to us. And it’s not my fault if they can’t leave the four walls in which their chest is hidden, nor cross moving water.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ His eyes were still glued to the computer screen.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  Really! His mind is so full of bits and pieces to do with his precious research that he forgets to tell me anything!

  ‘Augustus and I were chatting a few weeks ago.’

  He carried on typing. Tim loved Sarah dearly but she would insist on breaking his train of thought.

  Sarah’s eyes rolled skyward.

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘Apparently, whoever’s in charge of the Afterlife imposes certain restrictions on the souls of those who have met untimely deaths.’

  Sarah frowned. This could have terrible implications.

  ‘Define untimely.’

  Tim exhaled loudly. He’d almost finished the report and here she was, doing her utmost to delay him.

  ‘Well, he was a little vague . . .’

  ‘Aren’t all men?’

  Tim ignored her. ‘. . . but it seems the spirit, soul, life essence or whatever of folk who pop off unexpectedly is consigned to some sort of limbo.’

  ‘So they become ghosts?’

  ‘Not all do, but neither Augustus nor Elizabeth knows why. The really odd thing is that they have to choose something, an object or place, and their soul is not allowed to drift too far away from it. Most people choose the home in which they died, but it could be anything.’

  ‘So, because our two chose the old oak chest in the crypt, they have to stay near it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s running water got to do with it?’

  ‘Just another restriction on movement. Elizabeth suspects it’s because the boss of the Afterlife doesn’t want them straying and knows where to find them if he needs to make contact. They can’t leave Priorton Hall because the moat is fed by Tricklebrook. Now hush! I’ve almost finished.’

  Sarah fell silent for a moment.

  ‘It’s unfair. If they can’t leave home, how can they meet other people?’

  ‘They could if they died here,’ Tim replied, his mind struggling with the last paragraph.

  ‘We must think of something. If we leave things as they are, either they or we will go mad.’ She knew his mind was trapped inside the computer. ‘Perhaps we should invite someone here and kill them. That would constitute untimely.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He switched the computer off. ‘Did you say lunch is ready?’

  Tim and Sarah were about to leave shortly before one o’clock when they heard a loud rap at the back door.

  ‘Must be the gardeners,’ said Tim.

  They both went to answer it. Mick Sturbs was waiting on the step. Mick was in his late twenties, unshaven and scruffily dressed.

  ‘Do you mind if we finish for the day, sir, ma’am? I know it’s a bit early, but we have to get back to see how the plants are coming on.’ It was a lame excuse but would have to do.

  ‘Can we have a look?’ She didn’t wait for an answer.

  The door led to a narrow balustraded stone bridge over the moat into a garden encompassed by a high brick wall. Using one of the parchment plans devised for Augustus’s father together with added information from Elizabeth and Augustus, Tim and Sarah had been able to discover exactly how the original Tudor garden had looked, even down to the varieties of plants. It had been a sorry, overgrown sight when they moved in last year; the transformation was a joy to see.

  Mick, who ran a smallholding and garden centre at nearby Hemlock, had done wonders over the last few weeks. Rambling vegetation had been removed to reveal the layout of a formal knot garden. Brickwork borders had been recovered, removed, cleaned and re-laid. Rotten, woodlice-ridden posts for a pergola had been replaced with new ones to form skeletal ‘rib cage’ arched avenues along the sides. Even the narrow channel through which the Tricklebrook stream ran its burbling course had been cleared of weeds and restored, so flooding would no longer be a problem.

  Sarah was particularly pleased to see the brook in full flow; it originated somewhere to the north of Priorton, ran in an exposed gully along the High Street, fed the moat around the Hall, then burbled through the garden and across parkland to two medieval fish ponds before wending its gentle way westward, eventually feeding the River Severn.

  ‘Is that Gerry?’ asked Tim, nodding towards a grubby figure tipping a wheelbarrow of compost at the far end of the garden.

  ‘It is, sir,’ replied Mick.

  ‘Good worker?’

  ‘Now he’s sorted himself out, yes.’

  Tim remembered Gerry Bilt. The surly and devious man, somewhere in his forties, had previously been employed as site foreman by Bleak Homes Limited whose owner was one of the conspirators who tried to acquire Priorton Hall and turn the parkland into a massive housing estate. Tom Bleak had narrowly escaped a prison sentence and Gerry had found it difficult to get another job; no one wanted to associate themselves with a failed criminal enterprise or its former crooked employees.

  Mick Sturbs, whose own activities frequently ventured on the legally dubious (he was a renowned poacher who had so far managed to avoid gaol, despite Police Constable Blossom’s best efforts), was not so morally fussy.

  Now that Gerry had come to terms with the inevitable, he reverted to what he did best: hard labour which was, ironically, something he would have avoided had he spent a period in Stafford Gaol, currently home to Frank Fiddlit, one of Tom Bleak’s co-conspirators.

  ‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ said Sarah. ‘All it needs are the plants and everything will be finished.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But I did say I couldn’t plant everythin’ all at once. Some of the shrubs will have to wait a few more weeks before they’re ready for transplantin’. Oh, I won’t be able to come tomorrow and maybe not for some time; have other things to see to. Well, have to be goin’. C’mon, Gerry!’

  The men ambled through the arched oak gate at the southern end of the garden into the parkland. Sarah and Tim heard Mick’s ex-army Landrover’s doors slam shut beyond the wall, its engine groan into life and chunter away towards the drive.

  The weather was a little on the grey side later that afternoon when Tim and Sarah crossed the stone bridge at the front of Priorton Hall and strode over to the former stable block where their car was garaged.

  They had decided to drive to the Priory in case it rained. The ruins lay in open parkland to the south of the Hall but there was no direct path or road leading to them. Instead, they had to motor along a winding, tree-lined avenue to where the Old Lodge had previously guarded access to the estate. A bus-stop-like see-through Perspex structure now protected the excavations from the elements. The public road beyond led towards Priorton on the right and into the countryside on the left. They turned left.

  After a few moments they arrived at a crossroads. A turning to the left, next to an ancient gnarled and twisted lightning-blasted tree known as the Watch Oak for reasons long forgotten, led to Home Farm, tenanted by Wesley Pope, their estate manager. Wesley, being from a staunch Primitive Methodist family of several generations standing, had a major chip on his shoulder about the injustice of having to bear such a Catholic surname.

  The lane to the right led to Hemlock, a small village almost wiped out during an
epidemic in the 1680s when the local witch-cum-midwife got her carefully concocted potions mixed up with her poisons. Divine justice prevailed when she became one of the victims but it wasn’t until she was lying prone on her own deathbed that she realised the mistake and managed to convey the error to the vicar of the parish church at Priorton before expiring. All remaining supplies of her remedies were destroyed and the few villagers still breathing somehow survived. Rumour had it that she spread the epidemic herself to make a bit of money . . .

  Tim noticed a man on a bicycle heading towards them from that direction. He put his foot down and sped straight on past the signpost erected within a green grass triangle in the middle of the road.

  ‘’What’s the hurry?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Constable Blossom.’ He didn’t need to say any more.

  ‘Oh.’

  They passed the entrance to a meadow a few hundred metres further on. Someone had left the gate open (again), so Sarah, aware of the Countryside Code, shut it firmly before they continued towards Corpses Copse. The car slowed down as it approached a very narrow lane with a cattle grid across its entrance. Tim turned the wheel sharply. The car shuddered over the grid and continued on its journey, scraping against hedgerow branches drooping almost to ground level and sloshing through inches of wet mud where Tricklebrook had recently burst its shallow banks following heavy thunderstorms.

  They entered a clearing a few hundred metres further on. It was pock marked with charred circles left by countless bonfires. Beyond the clearing was, in a futile attempt at religious majesticity, the tall east wall of the Priory chapel. It had a large gaping hole once graced with ornate tracery windows. Remnants of other walls, some supported by simple buttresses, emerged from the ground while an impressive archway stood largely intact at the western end. A few lengths of masonry still contained carved limestone window frames but most were less than two metres high.

  ‘The students have done a superb job,’ said Sarah. ‘Hardly any vegetation left. You can make out the foundation outlines of the buildings pretty well. And Wesley seems to have burned all the rubbish.’