Southend U3A

September 2023

The Locked Trunk - Malcolm Fyfe

Antique shops and boot fairs have always been a source of interest to me, probably why my house is full of junk once belonging to somebody, items with a story to tell relegated to a carboard bod box placed on a tatty tarpaulin.

Rusty tools, probably swiped from a garden shed, a suitcase, well-travelled judging from its condition with faded labels displaying past holidays take on ocean going liners: Cunard, P and O to name just two of the labels.

A leather gun case hand tooled with precise stitching. Opening it revealed its beautiful gun had long gone.

Maybe a present from a landowner to a son on his twenty first birthday. Its compartments lined with green baize, its lid showing stamped initials of its past owner. I wonder who you were, surely a young man, as ladies were not encouraged to shoot in those days.

Walking sticks and golf clubs abound, old fishing tackle standing upright in a dustbin, so much for somebodies once cared for tackle.

As I turn a corner, placed on a table were a collection of old document cases and various wooden boxes. To one side was a small brass nail studded wooden trunk about a foot long, oblong in shape.

Intrigued, I looked at it carefully, a lock or catch wasn’t immediately obvious.

With a nod to Lewis Carol: ‘curiouser and curiouser,’ said Alice. ‘It’s an odd one,’ said a voice from the other side of the table, the stallholder, remarked.

‘Give you a fiver if you can open it; I can’t.’

I picked up the box and shook it, ‘Can’t feel anything in it, or a lock to open it!’

‘Ah, you have to find it.’

Sliding my fingers around its surface I found a small panel of wood that slid back to reveal a pencil sized round hole.

‘Well done that’s as far as I’ve got,’ he said, with a laugh.

‘Is it for sale?’ I asked.

‘Make me an offer.’

‘How about a tenner?’

‘Come on, I said an offer, not an insult,’ he said with a mocking laugh. ‘Double it and a bit for luck and its yours.’

‘Right, twenty-five quid.’

‘Done,’ was the quick reply.

Pushing his badly fitting top teeth, that were trying to escape from his mouth, with grimy fingers, he offered a handshake with the same hand. Managing to avoid it, I put some money on the table.

When I got home, I studied my newly found acquisition and slid back the panel.

I examined the keyhole which was about the size of a slim pencil.

The lock remained stubborn. I like locks, I find them intriguing but this was a devil despite my best efforts. It defied my collection of keys and bent wire.

Eventually I resorted to my collection of lock picks and torsion bars, all homemade but occasionally useful to rescue elderly relatives who found themselves locked out from time to time. A few days later sitting opposite my partner at the local bridge club who was a retired detective, it occurred to me he knew a lot of people and might know a better than average locksmith.

I chatted to him after the game and he agreed to come round for the price of a pint and have a look.

As arranged, he came round and examined the box. I suspected that in his time he’d gone through a few doors legally or otherwise! Examining it he muttered, ‘It’s very unusual, only one man might get near it, is old man Gilbert, retired now but I know where he lives, let’s ask him. The Police used to use him on jobs that the usual locksmith couldn’t crack, unusual old safes, sometimes time locked. Some idiots damaged themselves from time to time by blowing them up, overdoing it with the old nitro, found them sitting amongst the wreckage, all covered in soot and burnt bits of paper – sometimes the cash they were after. That was quite funny.’ One blew the door off a steel box but couldn’t get out the room in time, didn’t do his hearing any good, just sat on the floor saying, what, what, can’t hear anything – he heard the handcuffs though.’

As promised, my phone rang one day. ‘Peter Gilbert here. I hear you’ve got a challenge for me.’

‘Yes.’ I explained the problem, but not mentioning my amateurish attempts with bits of wire.

‘Is the lock recessed?’

I didn’t know what that meant. ‘No, I can’t see it.#

‘Ok, bring it round. I suppose you’ll bring that nit wit from C I D with you, the one you hang around with.’

I held back a reply, as in my opinion a retired chief inspector could not be described as a nit wit, especially as he regularly beats me at bridge.

‘Bring it round, no promises mind you and it’ll cost you a decent bottle of scotch, a good malt will do.’

I pursed my lips at that but hey ho.

In due course Dave and I found ourselves sitting with the box on a somewhat battle-scarred table with the lock master, who, following an examination of the promised bottle of good whiskey, set about studying the box.

Eventually after a few minutes he pronounced, ‘Hasn’t been opened in a very long time but I’ll give it a go.’

‘Go and sit in the front room please, I like to work alone.’

Dave commented when we sat down, ‘I’ve seen him get into an impossible safe but rarely with witness, sometimes with his son who’s as close lipped as his dad, who’s teaching him the tricks of his trade.’

A shout echoed from the kitchen. ‘Hey up.’

‘That’s us, I guess.’

With a grim smile the master of his trade spoke. ‘Got it but it was a right you know what. I haven’t opened the lid; I don’t want to know what’s in it – that’s your business.’

‘But let me say that the mechanism is very old, probably a couple of hundred years and if you lock it more than twice it will lock on and that’s it. I’ll knock up a key but remember what I said. Drop into my sons shop in a few days. By the way, that’s another bottle – a twelve-year-old would be very nice.’

Taking the trunk home, I viewed it with some trepidation, took a deep breath and opened the lid, the hinge stiff with lack of use. In a corner was a small oil cloth package which I undid to reveal writing in a shaky hand.

Examining it with a magnify glass, I read the following: Well done, that lock has defied many so read the following carefully. Here are thee clues to obtaining man’s greatest desire. Be warned, do not start your journey without true determination.

Very similar to crossword clues were three questions which looked straight forward enough with an attached blank page for the answers.

I read the warning, thinking what could be obsessive about a silly crossword clue – I didn’t have any desires as such.

I replaced the package and closed the lid; I’d think about it. Oh, wilful temptation.

I found my thoughts turning to the clues sitting within the box. Oh, what the hell.

Opening he box, I unwrapped the package and studied the first clue – something about trees and their aged wisdom.

I thought: Kew Gardens, they’ve got experts, haven’t they, particularly on trees, so I paid them a visit and they were most helpful.

All in all, it took about three months to solve the first clue. Seemed easy when I looked at the answer.

I was driven by an obsession. Eventually I solved the second clue, I had managed by reading a book on Hindu Mysticism.

There seemed little time for family or friends; time passed and now my seventieth birthday loomed.

So, time passed, a further year the two, three or more, determined to solve the third with the mysterious promise. I visited libraries, studied at the British museum but the elusive clue remained unsolved.

My living room piled with magazine and books, written by so called experts on trees, who seemed to know less than I did.

All my friends have gone now, Dave the policeman bridge player who started this journey, the extraordinarily able locksmith Peter Gilbert, taking his secrets with him, most of my friends from the clubs I belonged to but rarely visited now.

It seems incredible but this pursuit began over twenty years ago.

Now I’m in a care home, still the box stands on my second-hand chest of drawers. I hate it as it has taken over my life, teasing me.

The key Peter Gilbert made – a curious hook shaped object – lies in the box.

I suppose that one day somebody using the key in the future, unknowingly, will try the lock, which will snap shut for ever.

Well, I was warned.