“Who is there?” he called, and was irritated when he heard the slight tremor in his voice.
There was no reply, and indeed he had not expected one. If it was a local man out to scare the new boy from the town then it would spoil his fun to announce himself.
“My name is King, you can call me Chris.”
No reply, but the furtive scuttling footsteps amongst the undergrowth seemed to get more excited, as if several pairs of feet were getting busier and moving around with relish.
“Show yourself, you have nothing to be scared of. I am the new vicar, fresh today in fact. My first day. Did you want to welcome me?”
The hidden footsteps started to run, the sounds of their disturbance became louder, the crackling of dry wood and dead leaves more frantic.
The noises were getting closer, much closer, and King was sure he could see figures, definitely more than one, through the curtain of leaves and overhanging branches.
Then there was a scream, like no other that he had heard in his life.
Clutching both his bags, one in either hand, he turned and ran without embarrassment or thought beyond escape. He had no idea what he was running from, and his training had given him a stout resolve to face up to all dangers, human and spiritual, but an intense feeling of an instinct for preservation took hold of him and made him run as if the Devil himself was chasing him.
In fact, after less than half a mile, he realised no one was chasing him at all. Whoever the people were in the woods they must have achieved their cheap purpose and reaped the satisfaction of making him flee as if his life depended upon it.
Catching his breath and berating himself for being so foolish he looked ahead and found he had reached the Rectory. He placed down his bags on the grass and surveyed what he saw. It was a large building of red brick with latticed windows, dormers in the roof and some misplaced gargoyles at each of the gables. These latter objects were so out of place that they could only have been a much later addition to the house and were clearly not designed with any architectural approval in mind.
He was puzzling mildly over their origin and purpose when the front door of the house opened and an ample woman of middling years stood staring with neither rebuke nor welcome upon her features.
King lifted his bags and strode forward, a fixed facial expression of conviviality flickering and failing. He was barely two strides forwards when he noticed another figure hovering at the door. This person was rather gaunt, quite tall and although their back was towards him, King seemed to sense a grey sadness. Perhaps, he thought, it was a parishioner come round for some clerical comfort, some religious uplift at a difficult time in their life. He quickened his pace and was shortly at the door and being greeted by, “Mrs Folkes, your housekeeper, and married to Mr Folkes, your verger. Pleased to meet you.”
King shook her hand and found it to be dusted with flour. “Was the visitor for me?”
“Visitor?”
“The person I saw you speaking with as I approached. I confess I could not tell if they were male or female, although whichever calling they were they were certainly quite thin, almost to the point…”
Mrs Folkes looked at King as if he had made a most improper suggestion. “There was no one here but myself, Reverend. My husband has gone off to St Andrews, the church, some time before and I am not in the habit of entertaining during working hours.”
King was surprised both by her vehemence and her denial. “A tall, rather grey person?”
Had he been more astute or attuned to the imperfections of the human psyche than he was at that time he may have recognised the look in her eyes as they darted away from his own. More than evasion but less than deliberate deception, there was a look of resigned panic on her face that a worldlier individual than King may have noted as fear.
Difficult though it was on occasions King tried to conduct his approach to life by the traditional maxim of having the courage to change the things he could change, the serenity to accept those he could not change, and the wisdom to know the difference. On this occasion wisdom prevailed and he allowed Mrs Folkes to lead him into the house, divest him of his bags and proceed to feed him with a hearty, if early, supper, of shepherds pie, a favourite of his since childhood.
“Your husband is at the church you say?” he said as he wiped his lips and finished the glass of homemade lemonade that had been copiously poured and refilled for him.
“Checking all is well and making sure the workmen have left everything tidy.”
“Oh, there has been some building works done?”
The look from earlier, unfeigned surprise bordering on alarm, crossed the woman’s face as she struggled to comprehend what was being said. “You’ll not be knowing about the work Reverend Evans commissioned then?”
“I know very little about my predecessor save for the sad fact that I am here because of his untimely death. I know a little about the composition of the parish but I have no knowledge of the details of his work in or on the church building. I presume it is the building itself that was the subject of this commission?”
“I think you had better speak with Mr Folkes if it’s all the same to you, sir. I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot as it were. I might get my facts wrong and set you off on a wrong track.”
“You say the verger is at the church now, so I think I shall walk over and see what work has been done or not done.”
Leaving his housekeeper to tidy away and set out his belongings from his bags, King took across the short path linking rectory and church.
The church, King had investigated, was a trifle vague about its age. Two clues, however, existed that indicated there being a Parish Church at a very early date. In William the Conqueror's Domesday Book of 1086 a priest is mentioned as holding about 30 acres of land in Snettingdon, it falling that if a priest was ministering in 1086, he possibly ministered in a church. A second and even earlier clue lies in the name of a Saxon Manor in the area, Churchbury. Of any church that may have existed in Saxon or Norman times, however, nothing is apparently recorded.
The first written evidence of a Parish Church in Snettingdon dates from 1136, when St Andrew's, was endowed to the Monastery at Chippenham. In 1190, Abbot Cuthbert of Chippenham appointed the first Vicar of Snettingdon.
The earliest known parts of St Andrew's date from the years immediately following the appointment of the first Vicar. Part of the east wall of the church and the south wall of the sanctuary date from this period, including the lancet-shaped unglazed window in the south wall of the sanctuary. Originally this south wall formed the external wall of the church and there are traces in this window aperture of the sockets for the iron framework of the glass.
The 14th Century saw much restoration and major enlargements to the Church, including the construction of the north and south aisles. The church tower is also 14th Century although much restored and altered in later years. The arches in the nave date from this same period. The pitch pine pews were installed in 1853; the oak clergy and choir stalls in 1908 as a memorial to a long standing vicar from 1870 - 1904, and the painting over the Chancel arch in 1923 as a memorial to the men who died in the First World War.
As King reached the end of the path he viewed the church from what must have been the south. The lych gate was a fine example and was in good repair. Like many an example this one consisted of a roofed porch-like structure over a gate, built of wood, and with six upright wooden posts in a rectangular shape. There were beams situated on top with a number of beams holding a pitched roof covered in clay tiles. There were decorative carvings on the front and within there were recessed seats on either side of the gate itself. King knew the lych gate, lych being Saxon for corpse, was where the clergy met the corpse and the bier rested while part of the service was read before burial.
He passed through the gate, making a mental note to ensure a couple of missing tiles were replaced, and walked along the short winding path of gravel to the church. St Andrews was entered through th
e south porch which was decorated with ornamental pilaster strips and the stones ran deeply into the thickness of the wall. King pondered on whether this was a reflection of the size and availability of re-used Roman stone with which the ancient builders were dealing. He concluded it was more likely to have made sense for the builders to have included them as an integral part of the construction. In most parts of the church walling the raised stonework was plastered over and hid virtually every remaining part of stone, rubble or flint from view.
The large oak double doors were open, pinned back against the wall by two iron hooks and inside the cool porch the usual notices pronouncing forthcoming events at the church and in the village were pinned haphazardly to the notice boards. King gave them a cursory glance, his mind set on an introduction to Folkes and an understanding of the soon to be abandoned building works.
He pushed at the inner door, which was itself of good quality and suggested a robust strength, and saw for the first time the interior of the church. The door closed behind him and as it shuffled shut against the frame he thought he caught sight of the outer doors being closed. He pulled at the handle of the inner door, thinking that perhaps the verger was outside rather than in, but was rewarded by nothing more than the doors open as he had left them.
He turned back to the inside of the church and looked appreciatively down the central aisle towards the sanctuary where the chancel led up to the altar. A brass eagle lectern marked where he imagined he might stand to deliver the first of his sermons this coming Sunday and he tried unsuccessfully to subdue the frisson of excitement that grew within him at this prospect.
Either side of the central aisle sat the nave with rows of pews built from solid and well polished oak, decorated modestly enough with scenes that at first glance suggested woodland and countryside influences. The transept crossed the nave at the top of the church and above it rose the tower which King had read contained a Sanctus bell which was regularly cleaned and lubricated as well as the fixings being maintained.
A figure appeared on the single step to the altar and King moved forwards to what he assumed was Folkes. As he approached the chancel he had a moment of doubt. He had never met his new verger, and from his wife there had been no physical description, so King had no presumption about what kind of man he was seeking out. There was merely a feeling he could not easily describe that made him hesitate. He told himself later that placing himself seated on a pew and bowing his head as if in prayer was not an attempt at concealment but his inner conscience would not let that pass without indicating a lack of approval.
The figure busying itself at the altar was tall of stature, much like the figure he had seen at the door to the rectory, although Mrs Folkes had denied it all, and seemed shrouded in a grey haze as if the sunshine that poured in through the magnificent stained glass windows was evading the fellow. King was certain it was a male but could discern no features or any physical characteristics beyond the tall and gaunt and the overwhelming impression of greyness and melancholy.
Chiding himself at his temerity King stood from the pew and, standing now in the central aisle, called out, perhaps more boldly than he intended. “You there. Are you Folkes?”
The figure turned slowly to face him and the vicars’ features adopted an ashen hue that might have precipitated a visit from the doctor had it become prolonged. That it was a man that he viewed was not in doubt but it was not a face of any man he had met in his lifetime. The face, still clouded over by the greyness that was perhaps a trick of the light’s rays filtering through ancient glass and disturbing centuries of dust laden air, was all but featureless, although the eyes of burning yellow seemed apart from the rest of the aspect.
“Mr King?”
King turned at the sound of his name being called behind him. In the doorway to the church stood a short balding man of some forty years or more who wore the vestments of a verger and who clasped in his hand a pile of Bibles.
“Folkes?”
“Ah, Mr King, I thought it must be you. My apologies for not being here to greet you.”
King hardly dared look back at the chancel but look he must. When he did he was not surprised to see that there was nothing there, no figure, just God’s sun beaming down on the empty altar.
“Are you all right, sir?” Folkes fussed.
King turned to his verger and mentally reproached himself for, not the first time this day, allowing his enthusiasm for his new post to become tainted with imaginary illusions. He breathed deeply, drew himself up, and forced out a smile of introduction that was intended to meet with the man’s approval.
“Mr Folkes, my apologies. A long trip, and in this heat, not what an Englishman is used to.”
“Not at all, my very great pleasure to welcome you to St Andrews. I have just been ensuring all is well and prepared for you. I trust Mrs Folkes made you at home?”
“Indeed she did, most agreeable. And how long have you served here?”
Folkes laughed and visibly puffed out his considerable chest. “And how long is a piece of string? A long time I can tell you.”
“Before poor Reverend Evans?”
“Oh yes, sir, though only for two reverend gentlemen before. It was Reverend Evans as I served for the longest.”
King thought the man a decent sort and associated him with no manner of deviance and when he asked his next question he fully expected an open and frank response. “Tell me about the building work Evans commissioned.”
Folkes was clearly torn between his instinctive and honest reply and something else. He looked about him long and hard, as if searching the very corners and shadows before he should respond. King fancifully thought the man was seeking permission to answer.
“Come on, man,” King said. “It can’t be a difficult question. Your wife alluded to works Evans had started and which now seem to have ended upon his death. I believe you have been here this afternoon tidying after the builders have left. Is this true?”
Folkes nodded reluctantly. “That it is. Reverend Evans had it into his head to make some changes that were not well received. Now he has gone, rest in peace, I thought it best to dismiss the construction company, no more than three men in fact.”
There was about King a certain bumptiousness that perhaps the Bishop had noticed and which had gone some way to influencing the decision to move King here. Faced as the new vicar was with what he perceived in the verger as actions above his station he responded with an air of condescension that ill befitted someone of his calling. “I feel that decision is mine to take, don’t you? Let us view the works Evans found it necessary to begin and I shall make up my mind if they are required.”
Folkes was decidedly nervous now, his eyes flicking from side to side as if he were watching a hypnotists swinging watch. “Dusk is just around the corner. I wonder if the morning might be a more pertinent time of day to look at things. See it in the full light…”
“Nonsense. The afternoon is late but the sun is still high in Heaven and we can see perfectly well. Are we going outside or is it within?”
Folkes shrugged with the manner of a man who knows they are beaten. He may well have been a follower of King’s own philosophy of having the serenity to accept what he could not change. The result was that he indicated to the vicar to follow him and walked past the chancel and through a side door that led to the sacristy. The two men went past the side room were the robes and vestments were kept and through a narrow passage that King judged must have been on the north side of the church, all but opposite the main south entrance.
“Is this the extent of the work?” King asked, when finally they stopped.
They were standing in a wide opening at the end of the narrow passageway and where the signs of recent building works were evident in disturbed plaster on the wall, pieces of brick strewn about amongst chaotic brick dust, and a mason’s hammer and chisel embedded in the floor.
“It wasn’t like this when I left it less than an hour ago,” Folkes said.
> “Are you saying someone has been down here?”
“It was tidy when I finished up. Those tools weren’t there and the bricks were neatly piled together as was the brick dust, swept into a pile it was.”
“So someone has been down here?”
Folkes shook his head so vehemently King fancied he felt the draft. “Not a soul has been inside this church save you and me.”
Then they heard it. It began as a rustle, so much so, and so slight it was, that at first King merely presumed mice were responsible. Then it grew in volume until neither man could ignore it and could not pretend, even to one another, that they heard nothing.
“You hear it of course,” King said.
Folkes nodded but a look of terror was quickly turning his docile features into a mask of abhorrence.
The sound grew until it was obvious they were listening to voices whispering. Low and unintelligible, no words could be discerned, but possessing a resonance of unpleasantness that had no place in a holy house of worship.
A brick, it must previously have been loosened by the builders, suddenly fell from the wall and rolled animal-like across the uneven floor and ended at King’s feet.
“We had best be out of here,” Folkes said.
King was only just behind him as they both made a swift exit back along the passage and into the aisle.
Evidently shaken by the experience King nonetheless had the presence of mind and status to assume command. “I expect now you will be minded to furnish me with a full explanation of what has been going on.”
Folkes sighed sadly. “I thought the problems had died with poor Reverend Evans.”
“It seems you were mistaken.”
“Perhaps we might take ourselves to the rectory. I feel in need of something medicinal.”
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