by Basil Copper
But first, out of idle curiosity, he turned aside and retraced his steps of Friday through the older part of the graveyard to where the tomb of Jedediah Briggs stood. The first thing he noticed was that the bunch of flowers had gone. It was no great matter really; presumably some passer-by had made off with them. The second thing, however, was rather more puzzling for Grant now saw that what he had originally taken for a gravestone, appeared to be a sort of portico. A shallow flight of steps descended, presumably to a vault beneath, but they were now completely obscured by a tangle of weeds and ivy, with only the worn top tread showing.
Then he saw the friendly figure of the rector advancing towards him along the path.
“Had a good weekend?”
Grant nodded.
“Great.”
Brough looked at him shrewdly.
“Worried about something? Nothing to do with your fiancée, I hope?”
Grant laughed.
“Nothing like that, thank goodness. I was thinking how curious this tomb was.”
The rector bent towards the inscription on the worn stone.
“Old Jedediah Briggs? He was something of a local legend. A sort of 18th-century tearaway.”
He chuckled.
“Only without the motorcycle, of course. But apparently he was quite well off at one time, and during those years he used to gallop about the parish in a phaeton lashing out with his whip at anyone who crossed his path.”
“Nice fellow,” Grant said.
“You may well say so. Then he fell on hard times and became bitter and even more vindictive. He hanged himself from a branch of one of the churchyard trees in the end.”
“That’s strange,” Grant observed.
“Why so?”
“I thought suicides weren’t allowed to be buried in consecrated ground in the old days. Yet here we have this elaborate tomb.”
The rector shrugged.
“I believe this thing was put up in the late 19th century at the request of his descendants, who had him re-interred. Yes, you’re right, it’s a strange story. We have something about it in the old church records if you’d care to follow it up.”
“Perhaps,” Grant said. “But I wonder why it’s become so overgrown when the rest of the churchyard is so immaculately kept.”
The rector gave the other a strange smile.
“You’d better ask the sexton about that. Old Martin’s a bit superstitious and says there’s something odd about it. He’s a silly old fool in some ways but a good church servant, so I don’t press the point. Once or twice a year our team of local volunteers clear the graveyard.”
The two men had turned away towards the church entrance by this time.
“Anyway, somebody must think well of him because someone left a posy of wild flowers there on Friday,” Grant said.
The rector had his face averted and said nothing so Grant did not pursue the matter.
***
When Grant ascended to the little muniments room above the church porch, where St. Ulric’s records were kept, the sun was low in the sky, throwing long shadows across the well kept turf surrounding the church, and the graveyard beyond. Through the tiny lancet windows the dark silhouettes of birds were flying back to the woods beyond, presumably to seek their nests, he thought as he turned away. The records were kept in a large oak aumbry secured to the stone wall with massive bolts, and Grant opened the door with a keen sense of anticipation, though he could not have said why.
He went through the shelves with quickening interest and took several of the huge volumes down. But to his disappointment the records for the latter part of the 18th century seemed to be missing, though the church history and its relevant documentation was extraordinarily complete otherwise. Just then he was somewhat startled by an odd creaking noise, and the door to the little chamber opened rather furtively, Grant thought; if a door could be furtive, he felt, with an inward smile as the white hair of old Martin, the sexton, was thrust into the gap.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Grant, sir. Was there anything further you’ll be wanting as I’ll be away home in a few minutes. The rector said I should keep myself available in case you require my help.”
Grant was smiling now, half due to the old man’s grave and formal way of speaking, though nothing of this showed on his face.
“I don’t think so, thank you. Oh, just a moment, though. There is something. Could you let me know what happened to the church records for the last half of the 18th century? Or were they perhaps destroyed in a fire or lost?”
A darkness seemed to descend on Martin’s features, though his face, illuminated by the rays of the dying sun, was clearly delineated against the blackness of the passage behind him. He bit his lip before replying.
“As far as I recollect, Mr. Grant, they were taken to the County Record Office some years ago.”
Grant wrinkled his brow.
“Why so? That seems rather odd, doesn’t it, as it leaves a gap in these valuable records here.”
The sexton looked discomfited.
“I don’t rightly know, sir. I believe it had something to do with certain valuable information contained there. Mr. Brough would be able to help you.”
For some reason Grant felt he had to persist in the questioning, despite the sexton’s somewhat evasive manner.
“Forgive me for asking, but are you sure you don’t know the reason this material was removed? As I have said it leaves a gap in the archives. And the County Records Office is a long way off.”
Martin shook his head. There was a stubborn set to his features now.
“I know nothing, sir. But I’m sure Mr. Brough would be able to explain. And you can, of course, consult the records yourself. The offices are only an hour’s drive away.”
Grant nodded.
“Well, thank you, anyway. And don’t let me detain you further.”
With obvious relief Martin backed out the door with a mumbled good night, and a few moments later the architect heard his heavy boots clattering down the wooden stairs. On a sudden impulse Grant crossed to the narrow windows set in the opposite wall, fully expecting to see the sexton hurrying down the path. But there was no sign of him. What he saw instead was a thin figure dressed in shabby black clothes tied with cord, who seemed to glide between the gravestones.
As Grant stood transfixed at the casement, the man turned his face towards the lancet windows, as though he knew there was a watcher there. Grant was left with the impression of red-rimmed eyes that were shrouded in cavernous sockets surmounted by eyebrows that looked like whitened seaweed. The man gave him a twisted smile as though in recognition. Before he had passed the end of the building out of Grant’s sight, the latter took the stairs two at a time to gain the church porch. But quick as he was, there was no one to be seen in all the long expanse of paving that stretched to the lych-gate. He gave up his researches for that day, and after tidying the muniments room and locking both it and the main church door, he made his way thoughtfully back to The Bull to prepare his notes for the parish council meeting.
***
It was a long evening and discussion, as always at parish level, went on interminably. Strictly speaking the church renovation was a Diocesan matter and had nothing to do with the parish council’s jurisdiction, but there was an added complication because the rector and the church council wished to install toilets and other modern facilities within the church proper.
This would entail extensive drainage works involving the closure of the public right of way through the churchyard, inconveniencing people who lived in the small suburb beyond, and would mean them having to walk more than a mile ’round in order to reach their homes. However, Grant had come up with a plan to erect a raised plank walkway across the graveyard while the drainage work was in progress, which met with the meeting’s approval.
It was half past ten before the gathering closed and finally Grant and Brough walked across to the rectory where the former had been invited to a late supper. He spent
a pleasant time with the rector and his wife, and it was past midnight when Grant got back to the inn. He slept badly and had a frightful dream, no doubt arising from the previous night’s debate, when some members of the parish council had raised objections to the drainage work, which would involve, as they put it, desecrating the graves of the dead, in particular the vault in which the remains of Jedediah Briggs were interred. They did not say that in as many words, but their remarks had obviously implanted a seed in the architect’s mind.
The dream began, as so many do, in a very inconsequential way, with Grant saying goodbye to his fiancée at Charing Cross Station. Then, as always, he was immediately transposed to the village and the graveyard in particular. But instead of it being night, as one might have supposed, it was broad daylight, though the village was silent and deserted; absolutely devoid of human beings. Then there appeared a dark figure, gliding effortlessly between the gravestones. Grant turned to run but was able to make only a few steps, as though in slow motion, like some macabre sequence in a film. But a hand was on his shoulder and the owner of the tattered black overcoat, whom he had previously seen in reality, gave him a crooked smile and beckoned him to follow.
The pair went down dank steps towards the Briggs vault and there was a charnel stench in the dreamer’s nostrils. He tried to run but fell headlong towards the vault door, which gave with a crash. He woke drenched with perspiration, thankful to see early daylight leeching through the curtains of his room. He remembered the words of one parish council member, in reference to the digging up of the graveyard: “If it goes ahead, I warn this meeting, no good can come of it.” He eventually fell into a refreshing sleep.
For the next few days Grant was involved in a heavy workload, finishing his drawings and specifications. Nightly he was posting his rough drawings and specifications to his London office, where his staff of draughtsmen would prepare the final plans. During his tours of the church building and its surroundings, Grant was surprised to find that the area round the vault of Jedediah Briggs had been cleared of ivy and foliage, just as it had been in his vivid dream. But the explanation was simple: the rector remarked that the church working party had been along on their half-yearly task of clearing up the churchyard.
Brough was abruptly called back to the rectory, following a message relayed by his wife, to the effect that the bishop had rung regarding the work on the church and would be ringing back in half an hour. Left to himself, Grant circled the massive vault building, which was in remarkably good condition, considering its age. It was a bright, cloudless day, with the pleasant aroma carried from a distant bonfire and the sound of passing cars was more often than not drowned by the reassuring chorus of birdsong.
The time passed very quickly and Grant was kneeling on the grass making notations in the jotting pad he always carried, when he became aware that a deep silence had fallen and even traffic noises had faded. At almost the same moment a dark shadow fell across the nearest tombstone. Grant looked up with a welcoming smile, thinking that the rector had returned, but it was not Brough. A black-coated figure, that was becoming all too familiar, passed swiftly by with averted face towards the mausoleum. As Grant got to his feet, energy flooding back into his frame, he started forward with a hoarse cry. He ran quickly across the turf but when he arrived at the back of the tomb there was no one to be seen. Nothing in the wide expanse of the churchyard either.
He leaned against the lichen-encrusted wall, perspiration pouring down into his eyes. Considerably shaken, it was some time before he again became aware of familiar sounds; passing cars, no longer muted; the cries of birds; and the distant shouts of children from a nearby school. His nerves at last calmed, he made a careful examination of the exterior of the tomb. Was he suffering from hallucinations? he wondered. It was true he had been working extremely hard and Sally had often urged him to ease up. But it was nothing like that. The person he had seen was tangible enough, though it was true that no one else had apparently seen him.
Nothing unusual about that either, because Grant had been alone, as he was on this occasion. He went down the ancient stone steps with beating heart and tried the great oak door, which had weathered extremely well considering it had been in situ for over 220 years. There was something carved into the woodwork, which time and weather had blurred, so that he could not make it out. It was probably in Latin anyway, and his memory in that department was rather rusty. There was an enormous circular iron handle. He tried it gingerly but to his relief it was securely locked. His relief was mingled with embarrassment because he was not normally of a superstitious or nervous nature. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, put the notebook in his pocket, and went back up towards the churchyard entrance. It was time for lunch and the reality of everyday things.
***
Grant had much to do in the next few days, and as time passed the events of recent weeks began to seem fanciful. But one night there was a sudden and quite unexpected thunderstorm of enormous power and ferocity, with torrential rain which continued all night. The storm had eased by early morning, and when Grant left his breakfast table at The Bull the rain had ceased and a cheerful sun was drying off the earth, though there were visible traces of the night’s havoc with torn branches strewn across the roads and a few ancient trees down in the countryside beyond.
When he hurried downstairs with his briefcase and equipment he was met by the hotel manager who said there was an urgent telephone call for him. He was worried that it might be bad news about Sally as he crossed to the reception desk, but it was Brough, who informed him that the churchyard had sustained considerable storm damage. A few minutes later he was able to see for himself. Two oaks had been uprooted, smashing some of the tombs and standing monuments, while lightning had apparently struck the Briggs mausoleum. The top of the heavy stonework had been cracked and there was a gaping hole in the sidewall near the bottom of the steps.
Brough had a worried face.
“The workmen are due to start on some of the church underpinning in a week or two. Do you think this will make any difference?”
Grant shook his head.
“Not unless there is similar damage to the church foundations. But I’ll make a thorough inspection and let you have a verbal report before lunch.”
Brough had relief on his face.
“That’s good.”
As Grant went back up the path to the church porch the small knot of curious spectators, which included the sexton and one of the churchwardens, was slowly dispersing. In the afternoon Grant spent more than two hours in the little muniments room, working on his notes and rough sketches. He felt there might be some difficulty in moving a number of the monuments in the south aisle of St. Ulric’s, and he was concerned in case their considerable weight might cause a collapse when the builders started excavating the church foundations on that side in order to commence the underpinning.
He wrestled with ideas for more than another hour, but eventually felt there was nothing for it but to program the removal of the massive tombs before work on the underpinning began. Things would not be entirely satisfactory; they never were in his experience of church renovation, but the itinerary he had planned was the best he could think of for the moment. When he finally left the church, the afternoon was waning and an early dusk was setting in, due to the low cloud mass which hovered over the village. There was no one about in the churchyard or in the street beyond, and the sexton, Martin, had left an hour before. As he neared the section where the tomb of Jedediah Briggs lay, some impulse again made him turn aside to survey the damage the storm had caused.
As he came closer, he could now see that the great oak door, which had seemed so secure, now hung awry on its hinges, no doubt due to the damage to the gaping hole in the wall beyond. There were dark shadows on the stone treads and he was horrified to see that the jostling shapes were composed of dozens of rats, which were emerging from the broken doorway. Grant shrank back, but the seething mass darted aside and at the same moment so
meone came up behind him. Grant turned, expecting to see the rector but it was the black-clad figure of the old man he had several times glimpsed hovering about the churchyard.
The architect was nauseated by the malodorous charnel stench that emanated from the creature’s clothing. He thrust a withered face into Grant’s own, and at the same time a claw-like hand seized his arm in a crushing grip, incredible in one so old. He had a welcoming smile on his face as he said in a high, sweet voice, “Come with me, my son. Welcome to Paradise!”
As though in a dream, Grant was led inexorably towards the steps leading to the shattered doorway of the tomb. They were halfway down and Grant could not shake off the paralysis which had overcome him, when a huge brass altar cross was suddenly thrust into the old man’s face. He gave a hideous cry of fear and fell downward through the door, which Grant had remembered as being solid, but nevertheless disintegrated in a cloud of dust, as the architect fell fainting into the rector’s arms.
***
Brandy was being forced down Grant’s throat. He coughed and the swimming vision finally settled into the reassuring faces of Brough and one of his churchwardens. The architect was back in the church, lying on one of the pew benches with a cushion beneath his head.
“What was it?” he gasped, when the fit of shuddering had passed. “What was it?”
The rector shook his head.
“We will leave that for the moment,” he said gently. “You have been unconscious for nearly an hour but the police doctor told us there was nothing to worry about. All is being taken care of.”
Grant struggled up.
“I owe you so much, rector.”
The other gave him a wry smile.
“Let us say we were fortunate. I had occasion to come back to the church to collect some notes for a lecture. I saw you being dragged across the churchyard by a strange old man in black clothes and I assumed it was the person of whom you had previously spoken. Then I also noticed that you were walking like a drunken man with a desperate expression on your face. There was something so sinister in the sight that I was momentarily paralyzed and you were almost at the vault steps before I recovered myself.”