The Oxford Set
The casket had been in the living room of Hughbert Andrews, 9th Duke of Westmynstre, for about three hundred years, handed down through the generations. His sister wanted it for herself and thought it would do nicely in the Great Hall of her husband’s ancestral seat,
Waering Castle. But Hughbert won out, and the casket is still in Eaton Hall’s living room.
The casket was the only thing in the room, apart from a Ming Vase in front of the large French windows overlooking the Hall’s sweeping Capability Brown parkland and the lost Da Vinci painting he bought on holiday in Saudi Arabia.
Hughbert, however, never bothered to open the casket, nor did his ancestors before him. He thought an ancient wooden box would complement the Salvador Mundi quite nicely.
Today, however, he was bored.
It was raining, and Hughbert was alone following his wife’s decision to run off with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, a man more than half her age.
He had cleaned the whole place; now he had nothing to do.
Hughbert stood in the cavernous room for a moment, scanning its minimal contents as he listened to the rain pit-patting outside.
He espied an ancient envelope on the white marble mantlepiece to his left.
It had been there almost as long as the casket and had also never been opened.
Now, he felt, it was time to open it.
Hughbert stepped over to the fireplace, picked up the letter and ripped it open.
He perused the missive, which appeared to relate to the strange chest in the room.
The chest is for display only. Do not open it, whatever you do. Doing so will only make your life a living hell.
Hughbert squished his eyebrows as he brushed a hand through his hair.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the room, causing Hughbert to jump.
He spun around, his eyes darting all over the place.
”Who goes there?” Hughbert said, reaching for his letter opener and unsheathing it just to be safe.
He stepped into the centre of the room and stumbled around, pointing the opener in the air.
The atmosphere was still; all he could hear was the rain pit patting on the windows.
Hugbert relaxed. As he was well aware, he was the only one in Eaton Hall.
He put the letter opener down and examined the correspondence.
If your curiosity gets the better of you, the chest’s contents may overjoy you, but you will soon live to regret it.
A smile built up on his face as he scanned the letter.
A rattling noise caught his attention.
He spun round and came face to face with the ancient box.
Hughbert returned the letter to the mantelpiece and took a few steps towards the casket.
He examined the twisted knots in the wood that made the chest.
“Should I open it?” He thought to himself, bending down to get a closer view.
He almost thought he saw the casket wobble as if something was inside, trying to get out, but he brushed it off.
After staring at the box for a while, contemplating the warning in the letter, he finally thought, “sod it”, and opened the casket.
Just as the letter predicted, Hughbert was overjoyed by the chest’s contents.
Inside were treasure: gold, coins, silverware, and King John’s Original Crown Jewels.
A large, toothy, almost malicious grin appeared on the Duke’s face.
“And I thought he lost it in the local laundrette in Burne,” he said.
As he observed the treasure, what briefly felt like a gust of wind emanated from the chest, and a bellowing groan filled the room.
Hughbert observed his surroundings, wondering what on earth he’d just heard.
Passing it off as the sound of traffic outside, he returned his focus to the more interesting matter of the treasure in his possession.
Hughbert was sure that the chest’s contents were enough to pay off HMRC for the rest of his life.
He bounced on his feet as he experienced a giggling fit but then composed himself upon remembering he didn’t need to pay off HMRC as the government had scrapped the Inheritance Tax.
He paced up and down the room, trying to figure out what he could do with his newly discovered treasure.
Hughbert’s eyes brightened when he got an incredible idea: to pay it into his bank account.
So he lugged the chest out of Eaton Hall and took it to Londinium to add it to his already voluminous investment.
During the journey, Hughbert was sure a shadowy figure was pursuing him that he could only see in his peripheral vision, but he shrugged it off as being in his imagination.
He did notice the occasional glance from passersby when he dragged the chest through the streets of Londinium, but the Duke marched on, pretending he didn’t.
Sometimes, people asked him what the box was, and he told them that he was taking his inheritance to a safe place because he thought answering their questions would better uphold his reputation than ignoring them.
Eventually, Hughbert arrived at Coutts, the bank he had an account with.
Outside, there was a long queue of high-profile people waiting to use the bank’s services.
Hughbert gladly joined the back of it and waited for his turn.
He sensed someone behind him, someone he wished wasn’t there.
Hughbert’s stomach spun around inside him, and his heartbeat dropped.
He tentatively turned around so he could see who this figure was, only to discover that there was no one there.
Hughbert was at the back of the queue.
He gasped, stumbling back, almost bumping into the person before him.
”Do you mind?” the person in front of him said, scowling at the Duke.
“My apologies, sir,” Hughbert said, brushing himself off. “I just thought there was someone behind me, that’s all.”
He glanced behind him just to be sure no one was there, then focused on the queue in front as it edged towards the back.
Further up the queue, the Archbishop of Cantwarebugh decided to use the time to converse with the people around him.
“I‘ve been reading the latest Rowan Becket novel,” the Archbishop said, “and was alarmed by the lack of God in it.”
Hughbert tilted his head and pursed his lips, squinting at the Archbishop.
He had read the book the Archbishop was discussing, as had many other people who wanted to know what all the fuss was about but didn’t see anything particularly wrong with it.
“I thought it was an interesting read,” Hughbert said, poking his head round the person in front of him so the Archbishop could see him.
The Archbishop turned round, crossing his arms and glaring at the Duke.
“That’s beside the point; the novel was godless. Sure, there was a Priest in it, but I could see the absence of God in his eyes.”
Hugbert flinched his head back slightly, observing the Archbishop over the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t realise the novel had pictures,” Hughbert said. “Perhaps I didn’t inspect it enough.”
The Archbishop crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
“It was a figure of speech, Hughbert,” the Archbishop said, who was a friend of the Duke. “I sensed an absence of God when I read how Rowan described him and his dialogue.”
Hughbert disappeared behind the person in front of him.
“Suit yourself,” Hughbert said.
It was another three hours before Hughbert reached the bank’s foyer.
He sensed that a shadowy figure had followed him into the bank, but he could only see it in his peripheral vision.
For all the hassle that had come before, paying his newfound treasure into the bank took only minutes.
The bank staff did not question how Hughbert came to own such vast treasures or happened to casually own the original Crown Jewels. They simply did as their client wanted and bid him a good day.
As Hughbert vacated the building, he stooped over, hugging himself tightly and rubbing his arms as if he were cold. He glanced left and right, making sure his persuer wasn’t nearby.
Because he didn’t feel safe strolling through the streets of Londinium overground, Hughbert decided to take the Tube.
Even so, he rushed quickly through the barriers and scurried through the tunnel towards the platform, just in case his pursuer had caught track of his location.
Most commuters thought he was just someone eager to return home. Others who knew the Duke and the way he treated the ordinary residents of the properties in his portfolio were disgusted by how quickly he wanted to get past the common folk around him.
At the platform, he bobbed up and down whilst rubbing his arms.
An older man took a few steps towards him. “Are you cold there, son?”
Hughbert met the older man’s gaze and stiffened his body, holding his head high and mighty.
“No, I’m eagerly awaiting the next train,” Hughbert said.
The older man chuckled. “As are we all.”
His eyes lit up as an unseen object clipper clapped and whistled down the tunnel.
”We may be in luck,” the older man said.
Sure enough, the train arrived at the station, and Hughbert was among the first to cram themselves into the packed carriage.
Fortunately, there was a seat available, and he sat down.
He sat straight, placed his hands on his lap, and smiled at the other commuters as the train left the station and whooshed through the tunnel.
The discovery that the Archbishop of Cantwarebugh had decided to take the same train on the way back to Lamhytha and, upon seeing that the Duke was sitting adjacent to him, had decided that now was the perfect time to continue the conversation they’d had in the queue outside Coutt’s, shattered his peace.
“Whenever I read a novel, I check to see if Jesus is present,” the Archbishop of Cantwarebugh said, “and there is only one book where he is present on every page, and that is the Bible.”
Hughbert frowned at the Archbishop, crossed all his limbs, and glared at him, his head resting on the window behind him.
“Sounds interesting, Bob,” Hughbert said, who was on first-name terms with the archbishop. “But I’m sure the book of Esther does not mention God in any way. But perhaps that doesn’t count if you don’t believe in the Trinity.”
The Archbishop leant back onto the cold glass wall behind him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Once ready, he exhaled and leant towards Hughbert, clasping his hands together.
“That is true, I suppose,” The Archbishop said, “but the point still stands. Jesus is present on most pages in the Bible.”
Hughbert sneered at the Archbishop as the train stopped at Falkesbrall station.
”Ah, this is where I disembark,” the Archbishop said, prising himself off his seat and stepping over to the exit.
”Nice talking to you, old boy,” the Archbishop said to Hughbert. “Hopefully, we can do it again sometime.”
”I’ll make a note of it in my diary,” Hughbert said, grimacing so the Archbishop didn’t notice.
The train disappeared into the dark tunnel.
Hughbert slumped back into his seat and pressed his palms against his eyes.
When he removed them, he gasped and widened his eyes.
Reflected in the window adjacent to him was a sinister figure sitting directly to his left.
Hughbert sat up in his seat, swallowed some saliva, and turned his head slowly round to see the figure.
But there was no one there; whoever he saw in the window seemed to only exist in the reflection.
Hughbert sank into his seat and let out a huge breath as he examined the train’s roof.
He stared at the darkness in front of him, but then he saw a flash of what appeared to be someone in a blue shirt strapped to an electric chair.
Hughbert jumped at the sight and tightly hugged himself until the train journey ended.
Eventually, the train arrived at his station, and on wobbly legs, Hughbert disembarked and ran all the way home.
Once he was safely ensconced in Eaton Hall, Hughbert stood in his spacious living room, staring at the casket.
The lid was closed, but somehow, the Duke could sense the emptiness inside.
Deep, echoing footsteps filled the room, and Hughbert spun round.
His eyes zoomed around the room, searching for the source of the footsteps.
But Hughbert was alone, and eventually, his eyes locked on the letter on the mantlepiece.
He stared at the letter for a moment, then began to sweat and hyperventilate.
His heart pounded as someone knocked loudly on the door.
Hughbert crept over and opened it.
Standing in the doorway was his sister, Margaret Perceville, and her husband, Ambrose, the 9th Earl and Countess of Wearing. He’d forgotten he’d invited them over for a cup of tea.
Hughbert’s knees buckled, and he laughed shakily as he greeted his sister and brother-in-law and ushered them into the house.
He didn’t let on that he’d forgotten they were coming, nor what had previously happened.
Inside the spacious living room, Margaret examined the empty wooden casket she had converted for many years.
“I still think that chest would look good in the Great Hall,” Margaret said.
Ambrose took a few steps towards his wife, a porcelain cup of Earl Grey in his hand.
“Yes, it would complement the Chinewrde Buffet quite nicely,” Ambrose said.
“Perhaps. But do you have an original Da Vinci?” Hughbert said, gesturing at Salvador Mundi behind him.
Ambrose turned round and observed the painting.
A smile reached his eyes as he gazed at the artwork.
“No, I don’t. How much do you want for it?” Ambrose said.
Hughbert gave a slight cackle, sneering at his brother-in-law. “I’m afraid it’s not for sale. I’m sure Prince Khalid has another knocking about somewhere if you want one. Or maybe the Louvre has gotten bored with having the Mona Lisa.”
Ambrose grinned and nodded slightly, leaning towards the painting.
“I’ll consider it the next time I’m in the Middle East,” Ambrose said.
Margaret stepped closer to the casket, touching it with her legs, and gently caressed the calloused lid.
“Have you ever wondered what’s in this thing?” Margaret said.
Hughbert turned towards his sister and traipsed over to her. Ambrose followed suit.
“I have, and it’s empty,” Hughbert said.
Hughbert creaked open the casket, and Margaret and Ambrose gawped at the empty expanse.
“Oh, well, that’s disappointing,” Margaret said, frowning at the underwhelming sight. “I was hoping there may have been some money in there, or a corpse, at least.”
Hughbert tentatively closed the chest shut.
“So did I. But alas, it’s just an empty chest,” Hughbert said. “But no matter, we have plenty of money already.”
He pivoted and sauntered across the room.
“But there’s no harm in having a little more, is there?” Ambrose said.
Hughbert revolved back in the direction of his brother-in-law and stared at him.
The three aristos cackled like a coven of witches, but a loud moan and a gust of wind filled the room and shut them up.
They stared at each other for a moment, catching their breath.
Hughbert smiled and clapped his hands together, rubbing them.
“How about we walk around the grounds?” Hughbert said.
Margaret relaxed her muscles and gave a curt nod.
“Yes. I suppose that would be quite nice,” Margaret said.
Ambrose loosened his collar as he scanned the room.
“I could do with some fresh air,” Ambrose said.
And so Hughbert lead his guests out into the Hall’s sweeping parkland.
A brisk country walk did nothing to ease Hughbert’s nerves.
He could not escape the feeling that someone in the distance was watching him, someone too far away to see.
Hughbert felt an icy chill, followed by an urge to check his bank balance.
He logged onto the Coutts app. His eyes widened, and his mouth slackened as he examined his phone.
Somehow, the Duke had £0.00 in his account.
Margaret and Ambrose scanned the sweeping fields around them, oblivious to their host’s distress.
“The view here is rather magnificent, don’t you think, dear?” Margaret said as she pointed at the horizon.
“It is, yes. But I don’t see an original Medieval Trebuchet here, do you?” Ambrose said, squinting in the direction of Margaret’s arm.
Ambrose and Margaret cackled.
Hughbert remained transfixed by his phone; his face was now clammy and pale.
He poked his head up at his guests. He stooped his body and wrinkled his brow.
“Sorry, I need to return to the house,” Hughbert said.
Without elaborating, he marched off towards Eaton Hall.
Ambrose watched his brother-in-law, his eyebrows squished together.
He glanced at his wife, and the two followed Hughbert towards Eaton Hall.
Inside the living room, Hughbert and his guests were glued to the Duke’s ultra HD flatscreen TV as a live news report unfolded.
“This is why I bank at H. Perceville & Co,” Ambrose said, jutting his chin out and smirking at the screen.
It seemed that in the last three hours, a hacker had accessed all the accounts held at Coutts and stolen the money from all their customers.
Margaret turned towards her dear brother, who was gazing at the screen with watery eyes.
“So I suppose you’re penniless, then?” Margaret said.
The Duke brushed a jerky hand through his hair.
“For now, yes. But I’ll have enough money from the Hanover Estate soon enough. Besides, I’m hoping they will return my money to me,” Hughbert said.
Ambrose sat up in his seat and crossed his arms.
“Well, we’re not going to bail you out if not, that’s for sure,” Ambrose said.
Following the news of the fracas at Coutt’s, another news item was reported: King John’s Original Crown Jewels had been discovered in the account of the Duke of Westmynstre and given to the Tower of Londinium.
Margaret glared at her brother with narrowed eyes.
“How did you have possession of King John’s Crown Jewels?” Margaret said.
A flush crept across the Duke’s cheeks. He slanted his body away from his guests.
A booming, mocking laugh echoed through the room, making Hughbert duck his head under his hands.
Margaret tilted her head and grimaced at her brother.
Hughbert sighed before turning back towards his sister.
“I didn’t tell you the entire truth about the casket,” Hughbert said.
Margaret stared at her brother, mouth agape.
Hughbert turned off the TV.
“Allow me to explain the truth to you over another cup of tea,” Hughbert said.
Margaret and Ambrose made themselves comfortable as Hughbert poured them a steaming cup of Earl Grey.
Remember, dear reader, the next time you come into the possession of an unexpected sum of money, make sure a hacker isn’t planning a major bank heist at your local before paying it in.
Or, perhaps you receive a letter warning you about opening a wooden box in your possession; make sure you heed it.
You never know what could happen.
The Robinsonverse 