The Plantagenet Mystery

by Victoria Prescott

  This was the modern part of the house, or at least modern in comparison to the original. This paper, parchment, whatever, was not likely to be here. Nevertheless, mild curiosity, and a wish to have something to report to Rob, led Chris to explore one day. They were working on the upper floors of the house. He ventured up a further flight and found himself in the attics; small rooms with sloping ceilings opening off a long, narrow passage, peeling wallpaper and grime everywhere. Clearly no-one had been up here for years. The place seemed to have been used as a dumping ground for all kinds of rubbish ever since that part of the house had been built. Picking his way through the lumber, Chris thought most of it was only fit to be chucked in a skip; there was nothing worth taking to the Antiques Roadshow. And chucking it all in a skip was probably what he and the others would end up doing, he supposed.

  At the very end of the passage, propped against the end wall of the house, were some panels of walnut which, on closer inspection, Chris decided must once have been a wardrobe, taken apart to get it up the narrow stairs. Half hidden behind the wardrobe were other panels in a darker, heavier wood. Chris looked more closely. Doors, and, by the look of them, much older than this part of the house. They must come from the old part. Someone was calling him; they were waiting for him so that they could get on with the job. Abandoning his exploration, Chris returned to work.

  On another day, when everyone was at lunch, he ventured through to the older part of the house, just so he could tell Rob he had had a look. He was impressed, in spite of himself, by the great hall. Two storeys high, open to the roof, with tall windows casting stripes of sunlight obliquely across the floor. There was timber everywhere. Oak, hardened and darkened with age. Great beams supported the roof. Panelling covered the walls to shoulder height. Looking closely, Chris could see the marks of the original craftsmen who, more than four hundred and fifty years ago, had planed the boards smooth. Nothing he had made or built would still be around for someone to see in four hundred years’ time. Remembering his own suggestion that the document might be hidden under the floor, Chris looked down. The floor was covered with old brown linoleum, cracked in places.

  A man came through the door at the far end of the hall. Chris recognised him as the one in charge of the restoration work.

  ‘I was just having a look round,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said the man – Chris had heard people call him Frank.

  ‘Are you interested in this kind of work?’ Frank asked him.

  Since he could not confess his real reasons for snooping around, Chris cautiously admitted to an interest in old buildings.

  ‘I’ve got a mate who knows about this sort of stuff. He told me this is where all the posh parties would have been,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. And when the hotel opens, it’ll be a banqueting hall. Pretty much the same thing.’

  ‘Wedding receptions, like?’

  ‘Probably. But you can see we've got a job to do, restoring this to what it should be.’

  He seemed pleased to have an audience. Chris thought he was like Rob, someone who knew a lot of stuff and liked to talk about it.

  ‘It’s not listed,’ Frank went on. ‘So we’ve got more of a free hand than we might have had. But we’re talking to the county council’s planning officers and English Heritage and SPAB – the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings – and taking their advice, and we’re going carefully. Getting the wiring in, for the lighting and sound system, that’s going to be a nightmare. Anything we do has got to be reversible, and we mustn’t alter anything that’s already here – this panelling, for example. We’re trying to use original materials where we can. See that patch of brickwork over there?’

  Frank indicated an area where the panelling had been removed at some time in the past, leaving the brickwork exposed. The original brickwork must have been damaged; it had been replaced by bricks of a quite different size and colour.

  ‘Those are nineteenth century,’ Frank went on. ‘We’re going to have them out, and replace them with some from the right period. We’ve got some from an old outbuilding here on the site. And we have to use lime mortar, not cement.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s what they used then. It breathes better, lets the building move. Doesn’t matter so much for this one as it’s all brick and stone, but it was important for timber framed buildings. And we’re going to take up all this flooring – there’s cheap board under this lino. We’re hoping the original floor is still underneath.’

  ‘Why would they cover it up?’ Chris asked.

  Frank shrugged.

  ‘The place was used in the war. By the RAF, I think. They did a lot of things like that – to save damage to the original, maybe, who knows. And no-one ever restored the place afterwards. Never had the money, I suppose. They took off all the original doors, too, and hung these instead.’ He indicated the cheap, badly fitting doors.

  ‘I s’pose once they’d changed the floor level, the old doors didn’t fit any more. What would the originals have been like?’

  ‘Oak, probably, like the rest of the wood. Maybe with a design carved on them.’

  ‘You know, I think I might have seen them,’ said Chris.

  ‘You have?’ Frank said eagerly. ‘Where? We thought we’d have to get reproductions made. Cost an arm and a leg, and they’re never as good as the real thing.’

  Chris began to tell him, but he soon interrupted.

  ‘Show me! Show me!’

  Chris led him back to the other part of the house and up to the attics. Between the two of them they pulled aside the walnut wardrobe panels. There was no mistaking what the doors were. Oak, darkened with age, carved. Frank, as Chris described it to Rob later, was soon drooling with delight.

  ‘You’d have thought he was looking at his favourite Page Three girl, not a lot of old wood. But as for finding any document, it’s hopeless,’ Chris went on.

  ‘I’d have thought, with the house being turned out and taken apart like you say, there’s a better chance than at any time since it was hidden,’ Rob said.

  Chris shook his head.

  ‘Even in the old part of the house, there’s so many places it could be. If it’s behind the panelling, or up among those roof timbers, it’s not going to be found unless the place is pulled down.’

  On Saturday, Chris claimed the hours Rob had promised in return for their trip to Ashleigh. He set him to stripping wallpaper in the front room of the house.

  ‘I could hire one of them steam strippers, but you’re cheaper,’ he said with a grin. Chris himself was using a crowbar to rip out the 1970s fireplace, creating a lot of noise and dust in the process. Rob had a bucket of water and a large brush, soaking the paper to lift it away from the wall. He was enjoying making great sweeps across the wall with the wet brush, not needing to worry if the water splashed and spattered on the bare floorboards.

  Claire arrived part way through the afternoon.

  ‘I’ve got the info on Lord Somerden,’ she said, holding up a manila folder.

  ‘We’ll carry on while you tell us,’ said Rob. ‘Or – do you want coffee? You could go next door and make some for all of us. Here’s the key.’ He took it from his back pocket and held it out to her.

  ‘What, I get to make the coffee because I’m the girl?’ said Claire.

  ‘Well, all right, you carry on stripping wallpaper, and I’ll go and make the coffee,’ Rob said. Claire looked at the dust and rubble from the fireplace, the heaps of grimy wallpaper, the floorboards wet with the water Rob had splashed around, and down at her designer jeans and pale blue sweater. She gave a snort of disgust, grabbed the key from Rob, and stalked out. Rob and Chris looked at each other when she had gone. They had not discussed whether they should tell her about Wayne. Now Chris said,

  ‘You’re not going to tell about – ’

  ‘No,’ said Rob.

  ‘You need a decent coffeemaker,’ Claire said to Rob when she returned a few minutes later with
three mugs of coffee. When she had taken a few sips, she put her mug on the window ledge and opened her folder.

  ‘Douglas Somerden – ’ She rattled off his date of birth and schools attended. ‘Didn’t go to university. Joined a firm of merchant bankers – you don’t want to know all the companies he worked for, do you?’ She flipped to the next page of her notes. ‘Had a successful career, in London and New York. He’s regarded as a man with an eye for a good investment. Apparently very few people knew about the Ashleigh connection. People were surprised when he came into the title. He’d more or less retired by then, anyway. But because of his reputation, he had no trouble getting the financing for the Ashleigh renovations. He’s sharp. If you were thinking of going to him with some made-up story, I’d think again.’

  ‘I’ll tell the truth – up to a point,’ Rob said. ‘I’m a local historian researching some of the families associated with Ashleigh. You can get away with asking all kinds of questions if you say it’s for research.’

  ‘Are you both going to see him?’ Claire asked, looking from Rob to Chris.

  ‘Not me,’ said Chris. ‘I’ve got better things to do than go bowing and scraping to some lord who thinks he’s better than the rest of us.’

  ‘Who’s bowing and scraping?’ said Rob. ‘And who says he thinks he’s better than us?’

  ‘You’re a snob,’ said Claire to Chris.

  ‘What? How can I be a snob?’

  ‘A snob is someone who attaches excessive importance to social position. That’s you. I’ll go with you to see Lord Somerden,’ she said to Rob. ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘On the train. We have to change at – ’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll borrow Mum’s car. She left me the keys in case I wanted to use it while she’s in Spain.’

  Claire provided a home address and telephone number for Lord Somerden. Rob made the call and fixed an appointment for a time when Claire would be able to go with him.

  Chris was not required to give evidence at the inquest into Wayne Simpson’s death. He was glad about that. He did not want to be asked questions which might lead to him giving away more than he wanted to about Wayne’s activities. For the same reason he had been avoiding Wayne’s family, taking a different route when walking through the estate so as not to go past their block.

  Chris saw the family on the day of the inquest, evidently just returning from the hearing. Wayne’s mum, aunt and nan were all dressed up in black and his cousin, Ryan, was wearing a tie. They were accompanied by people with cameras and a man in a suit who seemed to have a lot to say about something. Some political type getting some free publicity, Chris thought. Wayne might have been a waste of space, but even he did not deserve to have his death used for some kind of stunt.

  Chris had lingered too long, watching. Ryan had spotted him and was crossing the road towards him.

  ‘Wayne’s mum wants to see you,’ Ryan said, when he came up to Chris.

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘She wants to hear about how you found him.’

  ‘Believe me, she doesn’t,’ Chris said. ‘I’m trying to forget it myself.’

  ‘That’s what I told her. But I said I’d tell you, if I saw you.’

  ‘You been to the inquest?’ Chris thought it would seem odd if he did not ask.

  ‘Yeah. Adjourned while the police carry out more enquiries. I don’t think they’ve got a prayer, myself. You know Wayne – any number of people he might’ve pissed off, and they all know enough not to get caught.’

  ‘Anything in particular he was up to lately?’

  ‘He always had some scheme on, but I don’t know anything special he had on recently. The cops asked if we knew why he might’ve been at that lockup. ’Course, we don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say he was maybe keeping a stash of dodgy gear there.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  Ryan shrugged.

  ‘Could be. Or knocked off tellys, dvd players, computers, that sort of thing. Like I said, we don’t know what he was up to lately.’

  ‘His mum didn’t know where he was, then?’

  ‘No, the last she saw of him was when he came home for his tea one day, then he went out saying he had to see someone. She didn’t think much of it when he didn’t come home, not the first time he’s stayed away and not let her know.’

  ‘When was that?’ Chris asked.

  ‘It was a Thursday. She remembers because EastEnders was on, she says. So, what’ll I tell her? Will you come round and see her?’

  ‘Thursday was when the old lady’s house was done, wasn’t it? So it looks as if Jason was the last person to see him before he went off to try to get his money from whoever put them up to it,’ Chris said to Rob later. ‘Ryan said the police are looking for anyone who saw him after his mum did, but they’re not getting anywhere.’

  ‘Jason hasn’t come forward then?’

  ‘Not him. And just as well, too. We don’t wanting him telling the police we was looking for Wayne. It’d look well dodgy, with me having been the one to find him.’

  ‘Is it worth us talking to Jason again?’ Rob said.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think he knew anything more than what he told us. And if we scare him too much, he might tell the police we was looking for Wayne, just to get us off his back.’

  Claire picked Rob up from his house for the drive to Lord Somerden’s house. Her driving was fast and competent. She had evidently worked out the route in advance, preferring the main roads to country lanes. Lord Somerden lived in a modern detached house on the outskirts of Lymstone, a town on the coast. Rob knew from the information Claire had given them that he was in his early seventies. He was a stout man with thick white hair combed back and reaching his collar. His manner was genial as he ushered Rob and Claire into the sitting room.

  ‘I’m probably the last person you should be asking about Ashleigh,’ he said. ‘I know very little about the house or its history. I didn’t grow up there, you know. I was barely toddling when it was requisitioned for the Air Force, and we didn’t go back there after the war. My mother didn’t like the house, and my parents couldn’t afford to run it properly. Neither could my brother, for that matter.’

  ‘You must have some feeling for the place, otherwise you’d just have sold it,’ Claire suggested.

  ‘It’s a business venture,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in being sentimental about the place, even if I was so inclined. I have no children to pass it on to, and the title will die with me.’

  ‘Your brother could have left it to his children or grandchildren, couldn’t he?’ said Rob. ‘It’s not entailed, is it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But I think he felt it should go with the title. In any case, his daughters didn’t want it. They wouldn’t begin to know what to do with it.’

  ‘So you don’t know any stories or legends about the house or any of the families?’ Rob said.

  ‘No, none at all. Or not that I remember, anyway.’

  ‘What about this?’ Rob handed Lord Somerden his typed transcript of the story of Richard Plantagenet, minus Catherine Finch’s additional notes. Lord Somerden skimmed it.

  ‘An intriguing story. But no, I’ve never heard it before.’

  ‘Are there any old family papers that might have information on the history of the place?’ Rob asked.

  ‘There are some papers, but they’re in such a mess I couldn't tell you what’s there. I found a lot of stuff in the attics at Ashleigh when I inherited. I think they were dumped there during the war and hardly touched since. My great nephew started going through them, but he didn’t get very far. It needs someone who knows what they’re doing, I think. I had them transferred to safe storage until I can deal with them.’

  ‘The county record office would be glad to have them – on permanent loan, if you want to retain ownership,’ Rob said. ‘We – they – could catalogue and store them properly.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Lord Somerden said. ‘But if I find the collection is worth
anything – although I don't imagine it would be – I shall probably sell it.’

  ‘To some American University? Wouldn’t it be a pity to let the collection go out of the country?’

  ‘If an American University is willing to pay good money, then yes, I’d be prepared to see the papers go out of the country. Have you seen what we’re doing at Ashleigh? The place would have been beyond saving if it had been left much longer. It wasn’t easy to raise the money, and it’s going to have to show a return pretty quickly. Save the papers or save the house – which should it be?’

  ‘So what did we learn there?’ said Claire, as they drove away.

  ‘There are some family papers, but no-one knows what’s in them. He didn’t know about the Richard Plantagenet story. He didn’t react at all when I showed him the transcript.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you need a good poker face to be as successful as he’s been. But I think you’re right. He didn’t know, and he wasn’t very interested. Why didn’t you tell him the rest – about the writing in the book, and the hidden document, I mean?’

  ‘There didn’t seem to be any point. He’s not going to tear the house apart looking for it. And if it’s among the family papers, no-one knows about it, and we’ll never see it.’

  ‘You could have asked to see the papers.’

  ‘I would like to see them, just to see what’s there, never mind this document,’ Rob said. ‘But from the sound of it, looking through them would be a big job – not something you could do in a day or two. And I thought it would be pushing it a bit to ask. I’m surprised he told us as much as he did.’