Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  At four o’clock in the afternoon the Rector arrived. He greeted Stephen quietly, looking at him closely, then away, as though he scarcely ventured to assess the effect of these years of absence. He asked no questions, but silently led the way into the library, where, before a wood fire, Caroline had ready the tea and toasted muffins.

  ‘How good to have a fire these wintry days.’ The Rector held his hands to the blaze which brought out lines of sadness, hitherto undisclosed, upon his face. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey down.’

  ‘Very. I walked over from Gillinghurst.’

  ‘Indeed.’ After a pause: ‘We are perhaps not so well equipped as of old, but we will do our best to make you comfortable.’

  His conversation, unnaturally stiff, disclosed the strain under which the Rector laboured. The meeting, indeed, was terrible for him. Torn between paternal yearning and the fear of fresh misfortune, he longed to take Stephen to his heart, yet warned by past experience, he dared not. Even his son’s appearance, the beard and clothes, and that set expression, like a mask over the face, aroused his apprehensions. Hope continually frustrated had left only a dull anticipation of some new and unforeseen development which would bring further discredit upon them all.

  Yet he was resolved to be calm and natural. When the tea-tray was removed he swept his fingers along the mantelpiece, emptied the blue vase that stood there.

  ‘We haven’t had much chance to excavate lately but these came to light the other day.’

  Stephen examined the coins handed to him.

  ‘They look very early.’

  ‘The Harrington farthing isn’t worth much but the other two are quite good.’

  ‘One’s a long-cross penny?’ Stephen suggested recollecting something of his youthful instruction. ‘Thirteenth-century?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Pleased, the Rector leaned forward. ‘Henry the Third … around 1250. You see how they extended the arms of the cross to the edge to prevent clipping. And this’ – he handed another coin – ‘ is my latest find. Rather a good one … from the North Barrow. Can you place it?’

  Stephen studied the paper-thin disc, hoping to be right.

  ‘Might it be a rose noble?’

  ‘Very near to it. An angel. It came shortly after the noble. You can just make out the ship on reverse, and the angel is St Michael. This was the piece given to those touched for the king’s evil. It was struck for this purpose down to the reign of Charles the First.’

  Stephen with a display of interest, returned the coins. Then, recollecting, he plunged his hand in the deep pocket of his jacket and produced the two wrapped packages which, impelled by something inexplicable within him, he had brought from London. He gave one to his father and the other to Caroline.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Nothing much, Father. But I hope you’ll like it. Yours too, Carrie. It’s so long since I’ve seen you both I wanted to bring back something.… propitiation of the Saxon gods.’

  Bertram, with suppressed misgiving, glanced at Stephen, then at the packet, which seemed to scorch his palm. Carrie was already opening hers and, with an exclamation of pleasure and surprise, drew out from its bed of cotton wool a brooch of aquamarines and antique gold.

  ‘Oh, Stephen, how lovely. I haven’t had such a nice thing for ages.’

  The Rector’s gaze was glued to the brooch which Caroline was pinning to her dress. Slowly, as though dreading what he might discover, he unwrapped his gift. It was an illuminated Book of Hours, genuinely of the tenth century, almost certainly a work of the Winchester School, the most original and attractive in the whole range of mediaeval art, a prize he had coveted all his life.

  ‘It’s … it’s Carolingean …’ Bertram stammered, then, speechless, gazed at his son.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Father.’ Stephen’s smile, tinged with irony, was almost bitter. ‘I assure you it’s come by honestly.’

  ‘You … you purchased it?’

  ‘Naturally. I found it at Dobson’s.’

  ‘But … how?’

  ‘I’d been lucky enough to sell two pictures at the exhibition.’

  ‘My dear boy … someone has actually bought your paintings?’ A wave of colour, pitiable in its intensity, flooded the Rector’s face. His eyes filled, glistened. This unthought-of success, even in that field of art which had always invoked his disapproval, salvaged the battered remnants of his pride, gratified him beyond words. Several times, to himself, he repeated: ‘ You have sold your pictures.’ Then, gazing at the gift, he added, in a voice that shook: ‘I am deeply … deeply touched by your thoughtfulness.’

  He would have said more but did not – he could see that Stephen wished the subject dropped. Yet many times that evening, after the brief supper, he took up the little book, turned its vellum pages with a fondling, meditative touch. Could it be that things might still come all right in the end? No doubt Stephen had strayed far from the decent ways of his upbringing. These dreadful stories of his dissipation, brought back by Hubert, his past perversities and deplorable behaviour during the war – all made it hard to place reliance upon him. But there must, there must be good in him. He had always been open-hearted and generous and he was older now, surely at last he must think of ‘settling down’.

  Hopefully, almost, the Rector studied the prodigal, now just concluding a game of chess with Caroline. How good that he should think of playing with his sister and not, as had been feared, seek distractions in the taverns of Charminster or Brighton. The clock showed ten o’clock. Quietly, Bertram rose and locked up – the back, side, front doors – returned to the library.

  ‘You must be tired after your journey.’

  ‘Yes, I am rather. I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Father. Night, Carrie.’

  ‘Good night, my boy.’

  Upstairs, Stephen stood in his own room, so lit by moonlight he needed no other illumination. Motionless under the sloped ceiling, he glanced round – at the shelves above the desk, still holding his first books, in the far corner the battered botanical cabinet, his early water-colours, and the map he had made of Stillwater Parish upon the walls – conscious even of the same musky odour, springing from a source always undetected, which had greeted him like a friend on his return from school. Slowly, he picked up a photograph, a snap-shot taken by Caroline, of David, playing stump-cricket on the lawn. He looked at it steadily, enduring the solemn eyes, the nervous tensity of the boyish stance, more slowly put it down, then, turning with a set face, threw wide open his window, braced to the shock of the frosted air.

  Bathed in moonshine, an angelic peace lay upon the Downs. Through the leafless beeches the fluted spire of the church was visible, rising from the dark yews whose shadows stretched still as death on the cropped turf, like fallen bowmen. A deep longing, unformed yet unsupportable, overcame him. This downland was his home, his inheritance, yet he had thrown it wilfully away. For what? He thought of the past eight years, the pinching and poverty, subterfuges, makeshifts, disappointments, the work and more work, the wild elations, the ghastly stretches of sterility … what a life, what a hell he had chosen. Abruptly he swung away, began to undress, throwing his clothes upon a chair. In bed he closed his eyes, as against pain, shutting out the moonlight and the still, sweet night. No matter how he thought or felt, he was in the power of forces that moved, predestined, to inscrutable and irrevocable ends.

  Chapter Four

  During the days which followed, Stephen spent most of his time working in the Rectory garden. He had always enjoyed manual labour, and with so much to be done, was able to indulge his passion for order. He pruned the orchard, removed the fallen tree – it was, alas, not an apple but the greengage that in his youth had born such luscious purple-yellow fruit – and split it for firewood. He raked the leaves and made tremendous bonfires from which the blue smoke spiralled upwards, as from signal beacons. He painted the barn. With Joe, the boy who came out of school hours, he mended Caroline’s poultry run, which had fallen int
o disrepair and was periodically raided by a fox from the Broughton coverts.

  On the few occasions when he went to the village he became conscious of some queer looks directed at him. He was used to being stared at in the streets – his bare head, hollow cheeks, cropped beard, and long striding steps, to say nothing of his careless dress, his moleskin trousers and knotted scarf, made him a conspicuous figure – and he treated such scrutiny with complete indifference. But these local attentions were more marked. Several times abusive remarks were shouted after him by the gang of youths who habitually stood at the corner outside the cinema. And one afternoon, as he was leaving the yard of Singleton the carpenter, where he had gone to purchase nails and boarding, a lump of mud from an unknown source flew past his head, accompanied by the taunt ‘War hero!’ He judged therefore, with tightening of his lips, that word of his return had gone the rounds and that his standing in popular favour was not high.

  This was a strange fallow period for him. He had no wish to obtrude his painting on the household and his only brushwork had been upon the barn’s stout oak beams. But occasionally, after lunch, when the weather was fine, he took the long walk upon the Downs as far as Chillingham Lake, where, partly sheltered from the keen wind by the sedges which fringed the lake, he sat upon a stump and filled his sketch-book with studies of ruffled water and stark, wintry trees.

  Late one afternoon, returning from such an excursion, he came out upon the country road at the old turnpike known as Foxcross Corner which occasionally served as a gathering place for the hounds, indeed, since it lay midway between the Rectory and Broughton Court, it had often been used in his youth as a starting point for picnics and expeditions involving both houses. Now, as he approached, he became aware through the gathering twilight of a woman, bareheaded, wearing a loose coat, coming towards him. It was Claire.

  ‘I thought I might meet you here!’ If her greeting held a trace of self-consciousness, it was more than offset by an animation, a flow of spirits, altogether unusual in one so habitually reserved. She smiled. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Caroline told me you were at Chillingham. I walked over on the chance.’

  They fell into step along the road. A soft mist was rising, an exhalation of earth and fallen leaves, faintly mingled with the tang of distant wood smoke, subtle, intoxicating, the very breath of the Sussex Weald.

  ‘Hasn’t this been a perfect afternoon?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he agreed. ‘But the light gave out very early.’

  ‘You’ve been working?’

  ‘Yes … can’t keep away from it, you see.’

  ‘You’ve made it your career,’ she said warmly. ‘ One can hardly blame you for putting your heart into it.’

  As he was silent she continued, in that same impulsive manner.

  ‘We had so little time to talk the other day. But now we are neighbours. Are you happy to be home?’

  He nodded. ‘One can’t come back after years abroad without falling in love with England all over again.’

  She glanced at him quickly, but his face was expressionless. There was a short pause.

  ‘And you can paint here?’

  ‘I could anywhere. Perhaps in England best of all. It’s a youthful delusion to think one must go abroad to paint. The best of the Impressionists painted in the suburbs from their own back yards.’

  ‘This is your back yard, Stephen.’

  He smiled at her sombrely. ‘I’m not exactly persona grata in the neighbourhood. Haven’t you heard lots of gossip … interesting tittle-tattle?’

  ‘I haven’t listened. Seriously, the Rectory would be such a … such a haven for you.’

  ‘How could I ever go back to the shelter of the fold?’ His voice, though restrained, was hard. ‘I’ve broken too far away from the beliefs and – thank God – the prejudices of my class. I wasn’t made to hold the three percents and be a pillar of society. I’m too odd a bird ever to roost here again.’

  The look in his eyes as he glanced at her, sideways, pained her, made her hold determinedly to her point.

  ‘I think you’re mistaken, Stephen. You might find it difficult at first. But if you stay on, something may turn up to convince you …’

  She broke off, sharply, awkwardly, leaving her words unexplained and a long silence fell between them.

  In the train, on the day when she had met him at the exhibition, the inspiration of the Memorial Institute had come to her. For years past, in nearby Charminster, the chapter of the cathedral had been collecting for a hall which would meet the needs of the many church societies and ecclesiastical committees in the diocese and, at the same time, serve as a reference library and reading-room for the people of the district. The war had inevitably delayed such plans and subsequently the scheme had taken on a more grandiose significance. With commemorative shrines springing up all over the country, it was decided to make the new institute a war memorial which, while fulfilling its original practical purpose, would be also a monument dedicated to peace. New specifications were drawn up for a handsome stone edifice in the Gothic style. Within twelve months the structure was completed, and at a recent meeting of the committee suggestions for the decoration of the interior were discussed. Since the Dean had ruled out the use of mosaic and stained glass in favour of a more spirited treatment, murals were at first considered. But the architect of the building had advised against these on the grounds that the interior lath and plaster were unsuited to the reception of permanent frescoes. The vote therefore had fallen unanimously upon a series of panels, appropriate in theme, richly done in oils on canvas, and framed in Sussex oak, which would hang upon the five main walls of the building. The names of various painters had been tentatively suggested, but since local knowledge of the subject was limited, so far nothing definite had been decided.

  All this Claire knew, and not only because her mother, a close friend of the Dean, had contributed largely to the original fund, but also from her own friendship with two members of the subcommittee, she felt herself, with a sanguine thrill, in a position to influence the choice of artist. Her eagerness for this self-imposed task brought her up for an instant, caused her a temporary qualm, but she shook it off sharply, shut her ears to the faint note of caution that discretion sounded. Was she not a sedate wife and mother, securely settled, in fact quite an old married woman? Her interest in the matter was purely disinterested, her feeling for Stephen no more than sisterly regard. And so, fortified and reassured by these reflections, on the very next day she had motored to Charminster.

  The Dean was aged, a bent and desiccated figure, a tremendous Sanscrit scholar, but one upon whom growing deafness and a chronic arthritic infirmity had pressed an increasing withdrawal from all but his most essential duties – there had lately been rumours, uncontradicted, of his early retirement. But Claire’s name was, even during this period of afternoon repose, an unfailing passport. He received her with affection, listened with cupped ear to the case which she diplomatically presented. Perhaps the half-heard sound of Stephen’s name struck a mixed chord of recollection, evoked a faintly dubious echo, but it was quickly lost in the Dean’s benign senescence and the desire to resume his nap. The young man may have erred, but he was clearly talented, a recent exhibitor in London, and one in whom ecclesiastical tendencies must still predominate. The Reverend Bertram was, like himself, graduate of Trinity, an excellent archaeologist, a worthy worker in the vineyard too, and recently, in a material sense, not overly fortunate. And besides, who had more claim to suggest a candidate than the daughter of Lady Broughton? The Dean, patting her hand, promised to discuss the matter with the chairman of the committee.

  From the Deanery it was, indeed, the chairman whom Claire immediately approached, for she drove directly to Crows’ Nest, a large red-tiled villa on the outskirts of the city, residence of Rear-Admiral Reginald Tryng, R.N. retired. Reggie was at home and delighted to see her, his blue eyes twinkled in his ruddy face, his bald head glistened, his short stocky figure seemed to radiate a brin
ey welcome as he bustled her to the library fire, insisted on giving her tea.

  No one in the county was heartier, more jovially public-spirited than Reggie Tryng. Member of half a dozen committees, he was unfailingly at the disposal of a good cause, a loyal servant of church, state, and the local cricket club. For a man of sixty he had inexhaustible energy. Needless to say, he was a thorough sportsman, played golf and tennis, danced, shot, fished, skated in season, and although to his sorrow his limited means – he had no more than his pension – did not permit him to hunt, he followed the hounds energetically on foot, up hill and down dale in all weathers for miles around.

  While one so genial could not properly be called a snob, he prized above all those gilt-edged cards which bade him occasionally to the great houses of the county, enabling him to remark casually next day, in the smoke-room of the Mid-Sussex Clubhouse: ‘Last night … at Ditchley Castle.…’ Not only did he like and admire Claire as a woman, as a hostess her invitations were extremely flattering to his self-esteem. When, after some introductory small-talk, she mentioned the decoration of the Memorial, her interest puzzled him, as did her plea that he treat the matter in confidence. But he was the last person in the world to seek out hidden motives and, after a moment of perplexity, he thought: ‘That Desmonde fellow … Geoffrey’s cousin … rather a dead weight upon the family … doing her best to give him a lift.’ Further reassured by the mention of her visit to the Deanery, he promised to confer upon the matter with his colleagues, refilled her cup and pressed her to Bath Oliver biscuits.

  Surely she had done enough. Yet on her way home Claire made one last call – at the Cathedral and Southern Counties Bank, a staid and reputable institution which had handled the Broughton account for over a hundred years. Mark Sutton, the manager, who sat with Tryng upon the sub-committee, was easier to canvass. A slight, anaemic, clerkly little man in starched collar and stiff cuffs, unfailing model of respectful deference, he grasped immediately at the chance to oblige so distinguished a lady and so valuable a client. He was not ‘promised’ in any way, he would be more than happy to support her nominee.