It’s time to post the final instalment of the short story I’ve been sharing here.
If you need a reminder, you can read the first instalment here: https://timwordsblog.wordpress.com/2023/06/19/the-key/
and the second here: https://timwordsblog.wordpress.com/2023/07/30/the-key-ii/
[ Married couple Tom and Rachel have found an old key in their holiday cottage. In the nearby house of the cottage’s owner, Mary, they see a portrait of her ancestor, Ezekiel Catchpole, holding what looks like their key. ]
Mary takes the key out of her pocket and compares it to the object in Ezekiel’s hand.
“My word, I think you’re right. It’s the same kidney shape, the right size. It looks identical.
“And why is old Ezekiel looking so pleased with himself,” says Rachel. “Doesn’t seem very puritan to me.”
“Well, funny you should say that,” Mary continues. “The family legend is that before he married Margaret he was anything but a puritan. Bit of a rake, in fact, and a drinker. He had to give all that up to win Margaret’s hand – and get his hands on the family fortune. There’s no way she would have stood for that kind of carry-on.”
“What kind of marriage must that have been,” I wonder aloud.
“Well, they had eight children, so it couldn’t have been all bad.”
“So,” says Rachel. “If the key was Ezekiel’s, what did he want to hide? Some secret mistress in a cottage down the road? Some private stash of cash siphoned off the Armitage estate. I wouldn’t put it past him, from what you’ve said, Mary.”
“More to the point,” Mary replies, “whatever it was, where did he hide it. If it was some secret love nest in the village I think we’ve had it. Even if, by some miracle, the lock is still there, I can hardly go trying the key in my neighbours’ doors. If it was a chest or something, we might be in with a shout
“I can’t think of anywhere in the main body of the house we might look. But there is a cellar. It became the storeroom after we started letting out the cottage. We can go down there if you like – though I warn you, it’s rather dusty.”
The cellar is, as promised, full of dust and cobwebs. There are innumerable boxes, full of stuff that hasn’t seen the light of day for decades. But not for centuries – nothing here looks older than the 20th century. After twenty minutes searching, we are all rather despondent.
“I suppose it was a bit much to expect,” says Mary. If there ever was a chest in here, someone would have broken it open long ago. I’m stumped.” Then a glint comes into her eye. “Oh, there is one other place we might look. The chapel.”
“The chapel?”
“Yes – at least, that’s what it was when Margaret had it built. It’s been more of a garden shed for the last two hundred years. We Catchpoles lost our religious fervour somewhere along the way.”
The chapel – no longer recognisable as such – is even more cluttered than the cellar. We pull out several lawnmowers and make a pile of tools on the lawn. Now you can see some hint of what the place used to be.
At the far end, somewhat rotten and stained, is what presumably used to be a pulpit. But there is no chest, no lock anywhere in the room. Once more, we are defeated, crestfallen.
“Oh well, it was worth a try,” says Rachel.
I take a last lingering look around the room.
“Hang on a minute. That pulpit isn’t attached to the wall. I wonder …. Give us a hand, Rach.” We shove the pulpit sideways, inch by inch.
“My God,” exclaims Mary. “That’s it!”
Behind where the pulpit once was is a corroded brass plate. And in the plate is a key-shaped hole.
Well, Ezekiel, is this your secret at last? I think of that mischievous face, sitting incongruously on top of a body clad in solemn black and white. Were you skimming off your wife’s family business, hiding your secret stash behind this door?
I can see that Mary is thinking the same thing. With a trembling hand she puts the old key in the lock and tries to turn it. “It won’t budge.”
“Well, it’s three hundred and fifty years old,” says Rachel. “It’s hardly surprising the lock is a bit stiff.”
An idea comes to me – when we were clearing the gardening stuff out of the place, I remember seeing some steel fencing pegs. I go outside and rummage through the pile of tools until I find one: iron, about a centimetre thick and a foot long, almost as rusty as the key itself. When I return the others are still struggling with the key.
“This might help.” I thread the metal rod through the loop of the key and hold it at each end, pushing with my right hand, pulling with my left. There is a crack, then an agonised creaking sound. The key turns! A final clunk, and it will turn no more. I can feel that the door is mobile now, released from the clamp that has held it for centuries.
“Well, Mary. This is your house. Would you like to do the honours?” I can see the anticipation in her face, and realise now what this means to her. This is a family that has long since lost its wealth – why else are they renting out the cottage? Behind that door, she hopes, is salvation.
Slowly, Mary pulls the door open. We all hold our breath. But all we see behind it is a large embroidered blanket, decorated with Christian symbols and the words “Godliness, Chastity, Sobriety.”
“Look,” says Rachel. “Bottom corner. It says ‘M. Catchpole’. So perhaps it was Margaret’s key all along.”
“Maybe, but let’s see what’s behind it.”
Rachel and I carefully lift the blanket and pull it away.
“Ezekiel, you old bugger!”
Mary is laughing now. Behind the blanket is a wooden rack, filling the whole space. And in every compartment, encrusted with the dust of centuries, is a glass bottle.
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