A Very, Very, Very Old Mystery

Nana and I discussed it yesterday – the deal breaker of a name! Nana became Countess Poppycock when Papa’s father died. That was when Papa inherited the Title, and became the Earl Poppycock. But since Papa almost never used it, I had not paid much attention to his title. But now I saw it written in brass, no less. I completely understood why Papa rarely used the name – Poppycock. What an unfortunate name!. When I first heard the title used in relation to Papa I had confused it with a man’s given first name. Earl can be a man’s first name, at least in America. “I wonder what’s inside” I put my hand on the key and started to turn the lock. “Don’t be intrusive!” The voice was female, lightly pitched, very articulate, with a bell like quality that was easily understood. I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked around. I saw no one. “Who’s there?” There was no reply. I wrapped my fingers about the key and started to turn the lock again. “I said, don’t be intrusive.” I released the key as if it were a firebrand. “Who said that?” “I did.” The voice seemed to echo around me. I turned again but saw no one. I could hear a gentle rain outside with spatters against the windows. But I seemed alone. “Who are you and where are you?” “I am Leila Wadsworth, Countess Poppycock. Earl Mortimer Poppycock is my husband. Lord Poppycock as he was known.” “Someone is playing a trick on me. Leila Wadsworth has a plaque in the church in the village. I saw it yesterday, on Sunday. The plaque has the same dates as the brass inscription on this chest. And she was married to Mortimer Wadsworth, so it’s the same person. She died in 1752.” “That’s right dear.” “Then she’s not talking to me now.” “Yes I am.” “No, you are not. You can’t talk to me. You have been dead for a few hundred years.” I did the math. “265 years, to be precise.” “Well, I agree, death is a bit of an obstacle to a conversation! But I am talking to you. I shall prove who I am to you. “But before I prove anything, who are you?” What to do? This was too weird! I thought and then I decided to answer. “My name is Jeremiah Morris. My Mom is the daughter of John Wadsworth. He is my grandfather, Papa, the Earl Poppycock.” It was the first time I had ever said my Papa’s title. It sounded very silly. “Very well. I will prove that I am the person I say I am.” I was afraid to ask, but screwed up my courage and blurted, ”How will you prove it to me?" “Promise not to run away?” "From what?" "From me." “Why would I run? Are you awful to look at? Are you going to hurt me?” “Hurt you. Oh child. I am your nine greats grandmother. Great said nine times. I would never hurt you. I am hoping, we all are hoping, that you can help me…er, us. “I am about to appear if you promise not to run away. You see, I reside in this trunk, but I seep out to investigate the world and to keep up. I have a lengthy seep about once a week. It takes energy to seep out, and the more I materialize, the more fatigued I become. It’s hard work being visible, so if you don’t mind, I shall only give you an outline!” By this point poor me was so confused I might have agreed to almost anything. “Okay.” My eyes became bigger and bigger as I watched. It started slowly as a slight vapor arising from the trunk. Then little pops and crackles as the seams in the wood let out vapor. The vapor began to take shape until the transparent image of a fully dressed lady appeared to me, standing a few inches above the top of the chest, suspended on… nothing. She had the deep blue eyes of Papa, with long lashes, a very agreeable face, and a wiry frame. She was moderately tall, and with her odd heels on her old fashioned shoes, she loomed even taller. The fact that she was floating above the trunk added to my confusion about her height. Her dress was from the first third of the eighteenth century. There were layers of fabric, a snug upper half of the dress, which I later learned was a bodice. The fabric was slightly shiny with beautiful embroidery on the top half and on the sleeves, which ended in delicate lace just past the elbows. Her hair was piled high on her head, artificially high, I thought. I could she right through her, clothing and all. Not to her insides, but just through her image. I rubbed my eyes with my hands. I opened my eyes again. She was still there. “I’m not dreaming?” “No dear. I’m your ninth great grandmother. I reside in my trunk with my husband, Lord Poppycock. He was here for two years before I died and joined him.” I remembered from the brass plaque that Mortimer Wadsworth had died in 1750 and Leila in 1752. “But when someone dies, don’t they go to Heaven or to Hell?” “Usually, but not always.” “Not always? What makes the difference? I mean, why? “Our son, Edgar, was accused of murdering someone. It is a terrible thing to hurt and kill someone. It takes a certain type of personality, if you ask me. Edgar was not that personality. He was far too mild. He was very sincere. Couldn’t hurt a fly. But he was hanged, very unfair. Left a wife and daughter, very unfair, very wrong. So we all agreed to stay.” “To stay?” “To stay.” “As what?” ‘In residence.” “In residence where?” “In our trunk.” “In your trunk?” “Well, yes, dear. Didn’t you read the brass plaque, dear?” I looked at the brass plaque on the trunk. The bottom line did say both in residence. I shook my head, in disbelief, hoping to clear away what must be hallucinations. “So you see what we are doing.” “What are you doing?” “We are waiting.” “Waiting for what?” “Resolution.” “What do you mean? “We are waiting for someone to solve the murder, apprehend the guilty, and once that is done, we can all go to our final destination.” “How can you solve a murder mystery a few hundred years old?” She looked at me very keenly. “By learning the facts, a bit of memory travel, and communication.” I didn’t know what I was talking to but whatever she was, she was crazy! “I don’t understand you.” “Well, let me explain. “When my husband died, he refused Heaven. He wanted to stay with our son.” She paused seeing my confusion. “Saint Peter couldn’t accept Edgar into Heaven after his hanging in 1745 until the legal charges were modified or dropped. Saint Peter said it was such a miscarriage of justice, that fixing it should not be much to do. “He had no intention of punishing Edgar in the other place. So Edgar stayed in a trunk, here, in the attic. And we who joined him have all eternity to find the truth and modify the charges against him.” I still looked confused. “Saint Peter, bless his soul, was having his own problems at the time. He said it would be a big help if we could solve this one, instead of requiring his intervention. Seemed a reasonable thing to request, so Mortimer agreed, as had our son Edgar, five years before. “But really, Saint Peter could have fixed it quick as a wink! I think he wanted Edgar to show spirit and prove he was innocent. That’s what I think!” She looked at me expecting me to agree. I just stared wide-eyed. “When I died, I agreed with Mortimer, my husband, Lord Poppycock. So I took up residence with him in the trunk. We sleep a lot, getting ready for visitors, looking for the one.” “The one what?” I asked. “The one who will solve the murder mystery,” she said impatiently but sweetly. “Oh.” I was still confused. I could not believe my eyes and ears.