Midnight in Westminster Abbey

By Sean Dennis Cashman

The English kings who rise from their graves in Westminster Abbey on All Souls' Eve are in a terrible fix. They want visiting New Yorker Charlie Chancer to use his special IT skills to steal abbey funds and send them off to queens who have already come to life and escaped the abbey.

Handsome commodities trader Charlie is also in a bind. He has whisked his young son, Georgie, away to London (amid a bitter custody battle with his ex-wife) to join his teenage daughter, Ginny, who is on a student exchange.

Tudor queens show Georgie architectural wonders of the abbey. Plantagenet kings give Ginny picturesque tutorials on their colourful but devastating battles.

But what are the kings to do with these visitors who have seen their dazzling coronation ceremony and their daring TV games? Kill them or free them when they may tell what they have seen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528957663

Book preview

WESTMINSTER

About The Author

Sean Dennis Cashman worked as a historian for New York University Press, an editor for the Ford Foundation and a music and theatre journalist for the New Haven Register. He taught at the University of Manchester, New York University and Adelphi University on Long Island where he was dean of arts and sciences. His America in the Gilded Age is a classic.

In this novel, he draws from his varied life to create a vivid tapestry mixing history, fantasy and satire. Kings buried in Westminster Abbey rise on All Souls’ Eve. They entertain a New York family for a scary price.

Other books by SDC include:

America in the Gilded Age

America in the Age of the Titans: The Progressive Era and World War I

America Ascendant: From Theodore Roosevelt to FDR in the Century of American Power, 1901–1945

War in Pieces 1: Ivan the Terrible from Tulsa

War in Pieces 2: The Holly Wood Years of Ivan the Terrible

Luke Reader, blind detective

Dedication

For Kenneth McArthur

Copyright Information ©

Sean Dennis Cashman (2019 )

The right of Sean Dennis Cashman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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

ISBN 9781528904315 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528957663 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

FOREWORD

The core idea of this book—the kings laid to rest in Westminster Abbey coming alive to an American family—came to me in a flash. In May 2012, I was visiting the abbey with three friends—Susan Zucker (who lives in North Hollywood), one of her grandchildren and Spencer Pearce (then of Italian Studies at the University of Manchester).

A kindly guide explained when I asked about a grave marked ‘Oliver Cromwell’ that the Republican revolutionary leader had originally been buried there. At the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660 because Cromwell had been one of the regicides of Charles I, his body had been dug up, reviled and destroyed—apart from his head that lies in a secret place in Sydney Sussex, his old Cambridge College. As further insult, the new king, Charles II, used Cromwell’s now empty grave to deposit there his illegitimate children.

How about a novel in which the kings and queens rise on All Souls’ Eve and regale a visiting family from New York with their long past triumphs and tragedies? And how about conjuring the battlefields of Crecy and Agincourt, the Black Death and the Spanish Armada within Westminster Abbey?

Then there is a literary, radio and TV formula of whisking youngsters back in time to witness famous historical events. The result is this hybrid novel, also inspired by Lewis Carroll’s two Alice books (1865 and 1872); the first Night at the Museum film (2006) with screenplay by Robert Ben Garant and Thomas Lennon; the dazzling metaphysical journeys in Philip Pullman’s Dark Materials trilogy (1995–2000); the political conversation plays of George Bernard Shaw and the ironic French-inspired essay soliloquies by William Shakespeare in various plays.

The influence of Lewis Carroll and Alice is obvious here in scenes with talking fauna, the Lion and the Unicorn, the rose gardeners, and double-dealing twins ridiculing a heroine aside a sleeping king and the petulant queen whose costume is never straight.

The influence of Philip Pullman comes in children moving through parallel worlds against a background of competitive high-power politics. Influential poet Geoffrey Chaucer, who is buried in Westminster Abbey, appears as a character in this novel to inspire a hero to practice the tricks of his ‘The Pardoner’s Tale’ from his Canterbury Tales on royal jailers. There are variation sprinklings of the wit and wisdom of Oscar Wilde’s characters in ‘The Canterville Ghost’ first published in The Court and Society Review (1887).

****

Some of the sovereigns’ histories are familiar. But whereas we have our own individual and equally valid ideas about Elizabeth I, when we come to, say, Edward I or Edward III, we may find ourselves adrift. For these kings I needed to give readers some help. I tell their histories in various ways.

Beyond my memory of the kings and queens, I have read (and made use of) various published histories. For a child’s perspective, I referred to The Pictorial History of Britain, edited by Richard Haddon, Charles Harvey, Lionel M Munby, E S Wolf (London, circa 1955). It begins with the pattern of creation and the coming of man. For an openly Whig and romantic perspective of English history, I turned to Winston S Churchill’s deliberately noble-sounding A History of the English Speaking Peoples, volumes 1, 2 (London, 1956, 1957).

For an authoritative overview incorporating conclusions from recent scholarship, I referred to a most aptly named author, Robert Tombs, and his The English & Their History (Cambridge, 2015). Its span includes mores and the development of language as well as the achievements (or otherwise) of sovereigns in front of and behind the scenes. He brings a fresh approach to retelling English history with a considered analysis of the shifting ways in which English people interpret and reinterpret their past. Although James Shapiro is best known as a Shakespearean scholar, his two books setting Shakespeare’s mature plays within their historical contexts offer invaluable information on the interaction of high politics and culture with many insights into contemporary London life as well as court intrigues in the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I. These magnificent books are: 1599: A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare (London, 2005) and 1606: William Shakespeare and the Year of Lear (London, 2015). Lovers of Henry V and As You Like It may feel gratified by James Shapiro’s ecstatic praise of these plays. Those who rate Twelfth Night the greatest Shakespearean comedy (not because it is so funny but because it is so sad) and those who find Troilus and Cressida superb for its harsh distillation of human foibles may be disturbed and mystified by his dismissal of Troilus and Twelfth Night.

These mighty analytical books by Professors Tombs and Shapiro may go to the top of many visually impaired people’s recommendations because they are available from the RNIB in Braille and in large print.

Whereas there has been a historical consensus about the tragedy of the Black Death, research and scholarship at the turn of the twenty-first century have yielded startling different conclusions about mortality and social and economic consequences. James Belich in his article, ‘The Black Death and European Expansion’, in The Oxford Historian, Issue XII, 2014/15, pp 42–45, summarises some of these. I have drawn from his interpretation and used his statistics. It is unfortunate that aside the wealth of gorgeous illustrations, the text is in Times Roman font of miniscule size on glossy paper and thus problematic for many of us visually impaired people to read.

For ideas on how kings should manage themselves and their power in the interests of the country, and with courtesy I turned to the advice American columnist and onetime diplomat Walter Lippmann gave to his fellow Americans as World War II drew to a close. His article was intended as a complimentary premature obituary to dying President Franklin D Roosevelt. It is quoted at length and discussed in Ronald Steel’s Walter Lippmann and the American Century, (New York 1987). The summary of the changing nature of capital, energy and wealth that I put into the mouths of characters Geoffrey Chaucer and Charlie Chancer comes from Washington editor Mark Sullivan in volume VI of his Our Times: The United States 1900-1925: The Twenties (London, 1935).

There are also brief quotations from ten plays by William Shakespeare and quips from the golden age of Hollywood and after, both onscreen and off. Some inspirations are musical. Apart from compositions directly referenced in the text, for the child predators toward the close of the novel I drew from Franz Schubert’s song, ‘Erlkonig’ (The Erl King) (1815)—his setting of a poem (1782) by Goethe; for the idea of Death as succour to a mortally ill child and as a malevolent general I drew from Modest Mussorgsky’s ‘Lullaby’ and ‘Field Marshall’ from his Songs and Dances of Death (1870s)—his settings of poems by Arseny Olenishchev-Kutuzov. For the remorseless musical crescendo of a malevolent army advancing I was haunted by the first movement of Dimitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No 7 ‘Leningrad’ (1941).

To assist any readers who would like to place the kings and queens of this novel in their historical periods, I add a brief catalogue with names, nicknames, dates of birth and death and the names of spouses. Sometimes this basic information differs slightly in lists in written and Internet web sources—for example in different spellings of the name Catherine or Katherine. In such cases, I have made my own choices.

****

Besides Spencer and Susan, I thank my long-standing friend, Kenneth McArthur, whose trenchant objection to the original opening in my first draft of this novel prompted me to reconsider the whole book. I also thank Alex Holiday, editor for Austin Macauley, his production colleagues Connor Browne and Chris Lee and editors Joseph Lee, Vinh Tran and Kevin Smith for their care, diligence and courtesy in preparing the book for publication.

I would not have survived medical and professional hurdles and been able to continue writing without the support of loyal American friends: Dr Gregory Ludlow and Dr Christy Ludlow; Jerry Mastrangelo of Planet Fitness gyms in Connecticut, John Garity of Connecticut, Sallie Slate of New York and Walter McCall of New York. Not a day passes without me thinking about my dear departed friends, Donald and Basha Baerman of Connecticut, and how they sustained me for many years.

Among several supportive colleagues at Austin Macauley, I worked most closely with editor Vinh Tran. It was mainly due to his patience, courtesy and professional skill that Midnight in Westminster Abbey has come out successfully.

Sean Dennis Cashman

Manchester, 2018

1 AMERICANS EXPECT

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

New Yorker Charlie Chancer was a sharp mimic. When he said Stunning, isn’t it? with a true Brit accent, his two kids smiled generously. Together they rose in the London Eye—the giant Ferris-type wheel on the south bank of the River Thames. They ascended above the Palace of Westminster.

Earth has not anything to show more fair, prompted an elderly woman with a slight German accent, who was standing beside them. She was wearing stylish navy trousers, a white woollen coat and an indigo knitted cap. She added, That’s what romantic poet William Wordsworth said of the sights from Westminster Bridge as it was in his time—the early 1800s. High as we are, we’ve got a way better view than he had—and newer buildings.

Charlie put his arms around both his children’s shoulders as his daughter, Ginny, held up her cell phone to take a selfie of the three of them. Then she and her younger brother, Georgie, snapped shots of the famous clock tower Big Ben and the Portland stone towers of Westminster Abbey.

Ginny was a slim, self-possessed teenager with close-cropped curly hair above a pale brown face with luminous dark eyes, sculpted cheeks and a neat chin. Georgie was a golden haired boy with clean-cut all-American features. He had been impressed that, because Ginny wore a hearing aid, the security team at the London Eye thought Ginny was disabled and had moved the little family ahead in the line of sightseers.

High to the east stood proud skyscrapers of international finance with gleaming glass-curtain walls. Sitting prettily among them was the ample duck blue dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.

Ginny noticed that, from time to time, the stylish lady beside them took a note book from her pocket and jotted something down. When she saw Ginny looking at her, she said matter-of-factly, Just scribbling, dear. If something occurs to me, I jot down a brief note to remind me. Later, I may develop an idea for my poor writing.

But for Ginny, it was not St Paul’s but the Gothic revival medieval buildings of Parliament that were the prize of the great view. She loved the spindly turrets, the pointed arches of this fake medieval England. Ginny knew these buildings had been dear to her late mother. What they represented kept her mother’s memory alive to her father.

As the pod began to descend, Ginny saw her father staring at the old lady’s ample figure. He started to whisper, F— but stopped himself.

What’s that? asked Georgie.

That’s the F word, said the old lady, tempting Charlie. It’s an adult word.

And what’s that? Georgie asked.

Oh, Ginny answered straightforwardly, F for fat.

As she stepped down from the pod, the nice lady stumbled. One of the minders on the ground helped her quickly since the wheel did not stop.

Thank you, kind sir, she said agreeably. I had an umbilical hernia when my last child was born. It plays up—makes me unsteady sometimes. ‘F’ for frank, too, she added. Anyway, it finished me off—but that was later.

When was that? asked Ginny.

Let’s think. Almost two hundred years ago. Dear Louise was born safely, though. She lived to be queen of Denmark and Norway. She was my eighth child—or was she my seventh? I can’t remember. It was so long ago.

Charlie thought she was joking to stave off any more awkwardness.

The old lady handed Ginny a business card. One side read: Caroline Anspach: romance novelist. The other side read: Caroline Ansbach, medium extraordinaire.

Noting the different spellings, Ginny asked, Anspach? Ansbach?

Anspach, Ansbach. It’s like I say ‘Tom-ah-to’ and you say ‘Tom-A-to’. Besides, historians can’t agree about the spelling.

And with that, the mysterious lady was gone, limp and hobble engulfed by the teeming tourist crowd.

The Chancer family crossed Westminster Bridge. Charlie and Ginny admired the iconic statue of Queen Boadicea of the Iceni driving her chariot—London’s tribute to a formidable personality. Boadicea was remembered fondly for her forlorn stand against the Roman invasion of Britain in the first century.

Then the visiting family took a boat trip with commentary along the Thames to Tower Bridge. They were able to take in the sights close up: St Paul’s at its river elevation and the historic Tower of London on the north side of the river, and earlier, on the south side, the National Theatre, a concrete edifice built in the 1970s. Then there was the re-imagined Shakespeare’s Globe theatre with its wooden timber structure, white walls and thatched roof. At this charming sight, a little fellow in a shabby raincoat sitting in front of them stood up. Waving his arms, he said:

Like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, shall dissolve.

Then the little fellow doffed his Lenin style cap and bowed his head. Turning to the surprised passengers on the pleasure boat, he added,

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."

Did you write that? young Georgie asked.

Oh no, the little man answered kindly. These words are by another poet—a playwright too. But I tinkered with them a little.

The boat was sailing past the former Bankside power station converted to an art museum—Tate Modern—and such capitalist centres as the Gherkin and the Shard. The voice-over commentator’s deft anecdotes made Ginny feel more at home in London than she had staying with her bossy aunt in Camden.

Charlie had seen many of the sights around the Thames before but not for years. He knew that the whole day showed his kids that their father had special prizes to give them. He was bringing the old culture of bricks, stones and mortar of London to life. He told them, These buildings are part of our heritage, too—not just the heritage of Londoners.

After the Chancer family climbed the steps back up to Westminster Bridge, they ate fish and chips in a pub on the edge of Whitehall. This traditional English lunch made Ginny feel even more British. Then they walked around the Houses of Parliament. They stopped at the statue of, revolutionary parliamentary leader, Oliver Cromwell. Georgie wanted to linger. Charlie had never known a kid so fascinated by statues as Georgie. He wondered if his son had the makings of a sculptor.

Then they went into Westminster Abbey. Charlie paid the visitor fees using a debit card. He reckoned that Georgie was getting tired. He held his son’s hand as they sat at the front of the great nave before the chancel.

A skinny woman with wispy white hair peering out of a black beret set roguishly on her head sat next to them. Without any introduction, she asked directly, You’re American, aren’t you?

Yes, Ginny answered. We’re from New York. I’m here on a student exchange. I’m staying with my aunt who is British. She lives in Camden. My folks are visiting to be with me just before my first Thanksgiving away from home.

The old woman asked directly, Does your father work in downtown Manhattan?

Ginny thought this was very forward. Before she could stop him, Georgie answered simply, Yes. He’s a commodities trader on Wall Street.

Ginny noticed the old lady’s eyes widen.

The nosy neighbour did not follow Georgie’s answer with some question about what a commodities trader did. If she had, Ginny had her answer ready. But it was not necessary for young Georgie was all fired up.

Commodities markets trade primary materials rather than manufactured ones. Georgie paused. But, instead of stumbling, he dug into his memory and started again. Farmers and miners can’t simply rely on delivery next year for payment of their products. They need funds as they farm and mine this year. So we have commodities trading. Investing in what we expect of markets.

How do you know all this? asked the lady.

My dad came to school to give us a talk on his work, Georgie answered.

The old lady looked Ginny and Georgie up and down as if she were appraising them. Her next question was personal and awkward.

Are you really brother and sister? You look so different.

Indeed they did. For the old woman was comparing Ginny’s pastel brown face and limbs and Georgie’s yellow hair and pale but lustrous skin. Again, before Ginny could caution him, Georgie answered with the innocent charm of a youngster who had not yet learned not to give away too much to strangers.

We look different because we have different mothers. Our dad works in New York but he met Ginny’s mother in London when they were both in college. He had a scholarship for a year at LSE. She was from the West Indies. When she and Dad got married, she moved to New York. That’s where Ginny was born.

Ginny’s cheeks reddened. That piqued the nosy old lady’s persistent interest even more.

Where is Ginny’s mother now?

Charlie had said nothing until now, partly because with the hub of people, he had not heard all the questions. Now he did hear. He did not like his children being put upon by a stranger. Besides, he thought she looked like the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel’. He wanted to put this old woman down with some smart aleck remark but, instead, all he said was, Ginny’s mother was killed in an auto accident.

Now it was Ginny’s turn to be surprised because her father’s answer was mighty economical with the truth. But Ginny understood. Besides keeping the nosy intruder off the scent, her father was shielding her from the harsh memory of her mother’s tragic death. Her mother, Genna, had been working as a teaching assistant in a school just over the state line from New York. One dark day, a lone psycho gunman on a rampage shot dead several children and their teachers in the school yard. Genna had been one of the casualties. It had been big news and had provoked yet another heated debate in America on gun control versus the right to bear arms.

The old lady’s unwanted question made Charlie sit up sharp—psychologically speaking. It was of now-or-never importance for Charlie to bond with his two children and for them to bond with one another. He had stolen ten precious days to have both of them together with him away from New York. He knew he had damn well better use it before the police caught up with him.

The old lady sensed that father and daughter were keeping a lid on a big psychological story. She surmised that she could bend this dark back story (and how uncomfortable it made them feel) to her own interests. But she was biding her time.

Gazing steadily at Georgie’s golden hair she said, "Your brother looks like a young angel. Like the tender princes in the Tower. Nice.

My name’s Pippa, she added as a token peace offering to smooth over the difficulty in the conversation.

Changing the subject, Georgie said, The abbey is like lots of old churches but much grander. Is it a cathedral? Since it’s called Westminster Abbey, is it an abbey with monks and nuns?

It’s been all these things in its time, answered Pippa. But now it’s called a Royal Peculiar. Besides advertising tourism in England, they hold regular church services here. But Westminster Abbey is mainly known across the world as the site for coronations, royal weddings and as the hallowed resting place of kings and queens all the way from Henry III in the 1200s to George II in the 1700s.

Then Pippa went back to probing. She addressed Charlie almost like a queen to a courtier.

So, you dealt with your grief over your first wife’s tragic death with a second marriage—this time to an American blonde—and your son is by this second marriage. Your union was blest with issue.

Charlie was beside himself but he did not want to cause a scene.

Amused at Charlie’s embarrassment, old Pippa fixed her gaze to study him more intently. She saw a good-looking man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with aquiline features. His dark hair was just beginning to go grey in a most becoming way—real film star potential she thought. She also noticed that his brow was furrowed and that his eyes looked haunted.

Charlie, still annoyed, smiled encouragingly to Ginny as if to say, This irritating old bat will soon be out of our hair. What he said aloud was, Let’s concentrate on the singing.

The strains of a choir somewhere in the abbey—perhaps rehearsing—began to flood through the great nave. It was as if the music was made up of acoustic spirals. The organ supplied the bass while tenor and alto voices sang the tune and trebles sang a descant above them. The sound soared into the arches of the abbey ceiling.

COCKAIGNE—IN LONDON TOWN

Ginny had not noticed him at first—a slender young man sitting two seats over from her. When the young guy turned towards her, he smiled—and it was a dazzling smile in his olive-coloured oval face under lank dark hair. She checked herself and concentrated on his clothes—a sort of rough leather blouson jerkin and scruffy leggings—but not so baggy that, when he moved seats to sit next to her, they concealed shapely thighs.

Spontaneously, she whispered, My name is Ginny—short for Virginia—Ginny Chancer. What’s yours?

Surprisingly, the young man looked at niggling old Pippa just behind them for some assurance that he was allowed to reply. Reacting to some slight permission, he answered, Walter. I’m an orderly.

That means he looks after the casualties, interjected Pippa as a throw-away remark that Ginny did not understand.

Shimmering smile, Pippa said, reading Ginny’s romantic thoughts. But that’s enough of this dazzling monotony, she added sharply.

Excuse me, sir, can I ask you a question? Walter began almost contritely to Charlie. It’s not personal—at least not really.

And? Charlie answered curtly. Surely, the young stranger was not going to ask for a tip on the stock market.

This is my question, resumed Walter. Is it true now that improved technology—greater reliance on computers for trading—that this means that machines are taking over? That computers can buy and sell commodities without human dealers?

Charlie never failed to be surprised by some Brits—how, when you least expected it, out would pop some comment that showed they were not sleeping through the political decline of the UK.

His first wife, Genna, had first told him about this. Then he had observed it for himself. After all, it was scholarly Brit Sir Tim Berners Lee whose IT skills and foresight had led to the invention of the World Wide Web. Were Charlie’s IT skills the next target of young Walter and old lady Pippa?

All Charlie said, however, was, You mean that people like me are becoming dinosaur floor-traders?

Walter did not have time to answer. Instead, from behind, She-Who-Never-Went-Away took over with yet another question. So you have to be super-dooper on the web to do your job?

Charlie could be modesty incarnate when he saw a need for it.

Well, he began, in my work, you have to move with the times, go with the flow. It does require keeping an eye on the ball.

Walter and Pippa’s questions made Charlie reflect on his skills and his career. Back home in New York, Charlie Chancer did have particular IT skills. He could fast-read spreadsheets and excel at Excel and he was a quick study at any new software developments. He was widely liked by his co-workers because he had the upbeat manner of a New York City slicker. It helped that he had the bright open face of a TV prankster—his gleaming teeth always willing to smile. He was the office pinup. A keen gym rat, he regularly took precautions to look at least weeks younger than his early forties. But he was not deeply liked in the office. His co-workers thought he was too glib.

And you’re good at taking risks?

Old Pippa said to herself, Chancer by name and chancer by nature. He’s perfect, exactly the man we need.

Charlie’s debit card payment of abbey fees had left tell-tale information that Pippa had stored in her mind. Then she and the young man were lost in the hubbub of abbey visitors.

Charlie had already noted the informed guides in the abbey, some paid, some volunteers, who answered questions. He recalled the American term for such volunteers in American museums: docents.

An overhead chance remark by a guide made him decide he and his kids should take a risk and stay in Westminster Abbey after closing. He heard one of these docents say to a French tourist, There’s a legend that the kings and queens commemorated here come to life once a year on All Souls’ Eve. They relive their past glories and, after a secret ceremony, they become party animals.

What’s that and when is it? asked the French visitor.

As if by rote, the docent, a tall man with close-cropped grey hair and a dark, razor-sharp moustache, **answered, All Souls’ Day** commemorates the faithful departed—like our nearest and dearest relatives. We think Pope Gregory III started the All Souls’ celebration in Rome. It’s now commonly held on 2 November. But it’s associated with three days altogether: All Saints Eve or Halloween on 31 October, All Souls’ Eve on 1 November and then All Souls’ Day itself on 2 November.

Charlie had long been fascinated by the English royals. As an ultra-patriotic American, he did not want to see any form of UK constitutional monarchy in the US. But, as he saw it, conflicts between private lives and public duties among leading figures—well Charlie felt these were entertainingly exemplified by the English royals. The modern royals’ amorous scandals were better than any convoluted sex plots in TV soaps. Besides, Charlie’s superior on Wall Street was always boasting how he had once attended a summer garden party at Buckingham Palace where the queen had deigned to ask him a question before moving on. Charlie never tired of being irritated by this boast—but he was envious just the same.

The other part of Charlie’s fascination with the English royals had come from his adored first wife, Genna. She and her family may have come from the West Indies but they