by Maynard Sims
His grandfather clock chimed midnight before he closed the last book, having found that the tower had been the subject of much planned restoration work in the past, but none had ever been carried out. Neither were there any explanations given for the cancellations of the projects. All he could find of any interest were occasional references to burials within the walls of the church. It was common practice long ago for families of noble birth to have themselves buried in the floor of the church, but these references in the records seemed to suggest burials of certain individuals had taken place in the walls themselves, including the walls of the tower. He sat back in his chair and closed his tired eyes. Pictures formed in his mind. He saw rectors from the past eagerly poring over plans and building schedules as he had done, then he saw them standing before the church resigned to the fact that the work would never be finished. When finally he went to bed, sleep overcame him immediately.
The next morning when he arrived at the church the foreman was standing waiting for him, his men sat idly around. The Rector's first thought was that they had a further complaint. For their sakes he hoped they had not experienced a scare similar to his own in the tower. However it was not a complaint the foreman greeted him with, but news of a discovery. He would say no more until the Rector had seen it for himself. So the two men went up the wooden staircase to the bell chamber, where several of the workmen were waiting. The men had begun to remove a section of the stone, and by doing so they had revealed a small cavity set inside the wall. It was from here that the stench was coming.
"I see the reason for the men stopping work," Dean said.
The foreman shook his head. "That's not all, sir; take a look inside the hole if you can bear the stink."
The Rector leaned his head as near to the opening as his sense of smell would allow. Inside was a pile of bones, human, with the preserved skin remaining in places, the legs drawn up to the chest.
"What do you make of it, Reverend?" one of the men asked.
But Dean was deep in thought. The foreman, a sensitive man, motioned to the fellow to be quiet.
"Looks like he's been buried proper, if you ask me," the man said, before he noticed his foreman's command.
"Tell your men outside to stop work," Dean said. "They can put everything away. Have one man stay up here with the necessary tools to repair the damage to the wall. I shall be back in a little while."
The Rector went to his house where he took the mediaeval burial chain from his desk. He placed it in the cavity in the tower wall, draping it around the neck of the skeleton figure, and told the workman to re-seal the opening. It took the builders a day to dismantle all the scaffolding, collect all their tools, and to load the stone ready to be moved. Dean arranged for them to be paid for the work they had done, and to be compensated handsomely for the loss of contract.
A tranquil calm returned to Fernbury, but the next entry in the parish records is in a different hand.
A GRUESOME
Until I was thirty an interest of mine was brass rubbing, a pastime that is no longer as fashionable as it was. When I remember the hours spent kneeling uncomfortably in draughty churches working at a piece of rag paper with black wax, I can well realise why. Nevertheless I was enthusiastic about it, and compiled a sizeable collection that I eventually disposed of through a society catering for those with similar tastes. My time was pretty much my own in those days, and during the summer I often had as much as two to three months free for my own devices. A friend of mine at college had been whetting my appetite before the end of term about a brass that was, to his knowledge, unlisted. He was a reliable source, although he did not share my interest in the subject, so I was almost certain that the information was correct. It was just a matter of getting the fellow to reveal the location. A few days before we broke for the summer, I was taking drinks with him in his rooms.
"Only a few more days to go now, Peters," I said. "How will you be spending the holiday?"
"Oh, lazing about, I expect, drinking too much and breaking a few hearts along the way more than likely. And what about you, breaking your back in some cold church I dare say?"
"If someone comes up with a likely place for me to visit I shall."
"Yes, about that brass I mentioned. I'm not so sure that it's a good idea after all, you know - don't look at me like that; I didn't promise I would tell you - after all, there are plenty of others, what's so special about one you have never even heard of before?"
"That is the whole point, an unlisted brass. I can't expect you to understand the excitement that fact causes. Perhaps if you imagine that first glimpse of a girl you have not seen before, think how your mind starts to react, that is a little of what a new brass can mean to a collector."
"All right, Reardon, no need to make a meal of it, I'm not a total philistine you know; I can appreciate some of the finer feelings without having them translated into what you consider to be the only thing that occupies my thoughts."
"What about that brass then?"
After a little more coaxing he told me the name of the church, and the village where it was situated. I decided to waste no time. Instead of going through the courteous rigmarole of consulting Crockfords, and then writing to the rector of the church asking permission to come and take a rubbing, I would chance my luck and arrive unannounced, in the hope that he would grant my request without formality.
The village was slightly off the main branch line, but I could travel near enough by train to be able to make the last ten miles or so by taxi. Term ended on Wednesday, and after sorting one or two things out, I was able to begin my journey the following Monday. The weather was glorious in the morning, the carriage window stayed open the whole time, but by the early afternoon the sky had begun to cloud over. It remained stormy for the rest of the trip. By the time the train pulled into the quiet little station, the sun had all but disappeared and the sky was irresolutely grey. A suspicious stationmaster told me the direction of the church, and confirmed my need of transport to it. It seemed that visitors to the village, especially ones who made a point of asking the whereabouts of the church, were a rarity. A taxi was chased up for me and I was soon standing at the tree lined boundary wall of the church.
The village itself consisted of several terraced cottages lined along the main street, together with a post office, pub, and community hall. The buildings were stone-based, but modernisation had destroyed a lot of the original character. On such an overcast day the place was not cheering. My interest kindled however when I saw the church. To begin with there was a lych-gate, always one of my favourite features. The gravestones were in neat rows, probably having been replanted at some stage. The trees and bushes were tidily clipped, the grass and gravel path short and clean respectively. The tower was Perpendicular with stair turret, and the windows also conformed to the Perpendicular, their shape being Y-Tracery. A north and south aisle complemented the narrow nave, and a small sanctuary led from the chancel at the west end of the church.
I had learned from the taxi-driver that the parish was a rectorship, served by a man named Barnes. The rectory was stationed behind the church, past a row of beech trees and an iron gate set in the arch of a tall stone wall. The house was nearly as large as the church, with windows placed at irregular intervals in the grey brick and stone. The gardens were a little overgrown, which was not surprising if one man was responsible for the upkeep of such a large place.
I found Barnes to be a strikingly good-looking Welshman, a few years older than myself, who had been incumbent at the church for a little over twelve months. He had a rather bluff manner about him, and from his attitude I gathered that he belonged to the school of the clergy, which leans towards Methodism. He described the brass as, `that old thing', and expressed genuine surprise that I might be interested in it. It would be no trouble to him if I wanted to take a rubbing.
It was by now mid-afternoon, and there appeared to be little hope of the sun re-emerging from behind the dull layer of cloud. Although it
would not be dark for some six or so hours, the light was already poor. I mentioned this thought to Barnes and he offered me the use of a lamp if I required it. Without further ado he led me into the church, and to the chancel, where he pushed aside a heavy rush mat to reveal the brass.
"There she is," he said. "Only the second time I've seen her myself. Pretty beauty, isn't she?"
Not only was it a brass unlisted in both Macklin's and Mill Stephenson's, but it was also the most perfect example of a gruesome brass that I had ever encountered. It was of the shroud type, about six feet long and easily two feet wide. The design depicted a decaying corpse wrapped in its shroud, and while this in itself is not particularly unusual, the engraving went on to show the body being devoured by worms. The worms were etched onto the brass so skilfully that I could easily imagine their wriggling and twisting movements as they chewed on the dead flesh.
"He did a good job whoever fashioned her. Not to my taste, of course."
"It's a beautiful specimen. I can't wait to get started."
"I'll leave you to your pleasure then. If you need anything I shall be in the house."
He left me with the serenity of the church for company as I began work. The size of the brass made it impossible to get all the details onto one sheet of rag paper, and so I was forced to use two pieces taped together. I set to work on one corner, rubbing carefully with my heelball, a truly mammoth task ahead of me. The sun filtered through the clouds, occasionally causing flickering shadows to dance about the aisle, which distracted my attention. Apart from this annoyance, the church seemed to be totally lacking in fresh air; this airlessness making me drowsy. Working with such minute detail requires great care and attention, and it was as much as I could do to keep my eyes open.
I was less than a quarter of the way into the brass when I decided I could do no more, my eyes were now aching, my back was stiff, and my legs numb from the enforced crouching position. I pulled myself upright, wincing at the pain this movement caused. Dusk had already fallen in the confines of the church, although I was sure it was not so dark outside. Any hint of summer was however an illusion. There was silence in the church. I sat on the floor, leaning against the front benches, and basked in the peace. Occasionally a board creaked, or a scratching noise disturbed the quiet for a second or two, but I was in no mood to be bothered by mice.
The solitude was a welcome change to the nuisance I had put up with all afternoon. Almost immediately I began the brass I was troubled by a draught. I could not discover where it came from, but as the time wore on I found it more than distracting. No matter which way I turned it played on me constantly. At first I welcomed it as the only breath of air in the place, but I am sure it contributed to my stiff back. It rustled my paper, making it billow in the centre, so that I had to weight it down with my satchel, and it slapped against the back of my neck, giving me the uncomfortable feeling that someone was standing close at my shoulder watching every move I made. It was mainly this constant distraction that prevented me making much headway with my rubbing.
All too soon dusk drew in, rendering the church too dark for work. The only option I had open to me was to return the next morning in order to complete the work. I packed my things together and took a last look at the rubbing, ensuring that it was securely taped at the edges and held in the centre. I was disappointed to find that the impression on the rag paper was not at all clear. The figure and its wrappings were blurred to a degree that made them almost unrecognisable. Only the worms were in any way distinct. They seemed quite lifelike.
I sought out Barnes to ask his permission for my return the next day. I was not prepared for his reply, although it was obviously in keeping with his generous character.
"You must stay here for the night," he announced in his deep Cambrian tones. "I can't think of a more pointless exercise than your traipsing back to the village in the dark, and then all the way back again tomorrow. There's plenty of room here. I promise I won't practise next week's sermon on you if that's what's worrying you."
"I can't possibly encroach any more on your hospitality. It will be too much trouble for you to make up a bed for me."
"Rubbish." That was that. "I shall enjoy the company for a change. You’re not an atheist by any chance, are you? No? Pity, I would enjoy the argument after dinner."
I tried to help in the preparation of dinner but it was obvious Barnes was an accomplished cook, and my efforts were merely annoyances rather than aids. After a while he sent me off to lay the table, a massive oak thing, which looked as if it had once been the door to a church. No tablecloth had ever been made that would cover it, and so I set the places on the bare wood. The meal we ate was a marvellous cure for my unsuccessful day. The food was a simple stew, but there was plenty of it, spiced with some herb or other that left a tang in the mouth. With it we drank a red wine, which Barnes joked, was not in any way holy.
I told him the story of my grandmother who went to Mass one Christmas. When the people lined up to take communion with the bread and wine she joined them, not really knowing what was happening as she had never been confirmed. She sipped the wine but put the small communion wafer into her coat pocket. When asked later why she had not eaten the wafer, she replied that she thought it was a ticket to come back next year.
Barnes roared with affectionate laughter, and told me some stories of his own. Despite the rough quality his Welsh upbringing had installed in him, he was a charming host, quite open about matters relating to the church, and he spoke with a frankness I was unaccustomed to finding in members of the clergy. I asked him why he thought the brass had remained unlisted for so long. His answer was a severe condemnation of his predecessors. To most of them religion was a form of self-satisfaction rather than an aid to their parishioners.
The man he had taken over from was a typical example, a man named Hodgson whom Barnes described as, `a miserable old cuss'. Hodgson, it seemed, kept the church locked during the week only opening it for the Sunday services. "The House of the Lord shall always be open," Barnes said. To the best of his knowledge I was the only person even to have heard of the brass in recent times, let alone be allowed to take a rubbing from it. It was little wonder that the brass had never appeared on any of the lists.
After we had eaten we relaxed in his large study, where we discussed further the subject of religion and he told me of his work in the parish. By nine the tiredness of the day overtook me and Barnes showed me to my room. It was small compared with the others in the rectory, but quite adequate for me. Also it was at the top of the house, and by peering through the trees I could see the church.
The moon was full that night, but the wind was fierce, sending clouds scudding across its face, occasionally plunging the room into total darkness. As I lay in the bed, this constant play of light dark light lulled me to sleep. Before I slept I cursed my aching back and the pleasure that had caused it. I would be annoyed if after such effort the results were worthless. There would be reward in merit for adding a new brass to the lists, but this would be marred if I could not get a decent reproduction of it. Perhaps with better light in the morning I might stand more chance of success. Even if it meant beginning again it would be worth it.
I was woken some hours later by a loud crashing noise. I sat up in bed waiting for the sound to be repeated and it was, every few seconds or so. It was raining heavily, the view from the window obscured by trickles of water running down the glass. Hard torrents beat upon the slate roof of the church, bouncing off and running into blocked gutters overflowing with now soaking leaves and moss. The door of the church was open, swinging wildly on its hinges, careering back and forth as the wind took it hurling it into its frame, then caught it on the rebound, slamming it against the brickwork of the porch. I knew my brass rubbing was safe enough at the far end of the church, but for some reason I told myself I should go and check. At least I should shut the door. With the noise it was making no one would be able to sleep. I put my jacket over the pyjamas Barnes had len
t me and my boots over my bare feet.
The storm was in full voice as I muddled my way from the rectory to the church. The rain was so hard that I was soaked in a matter of seconds, the water running down my neck making my clothes heavy and uncomfortable. Trees bent like thin reeds in the wind, flicking from side to side like the tail of an excited dog. Eventually, after a collision with the smooth barked trunk of one of the trees, I reached the path to the church and, after splashing through the puddles that had already collected on the gravel, I ran into the porch.
It was pointless to try and shake the rain from my clothes; they were saturated. I secured the door, and, with it shut, the roar of the storm was muffled to such a degree that it was almost inaudible. At the same time the silence inside the church intensified. Whereas the afternoon had let me think of the stillness of the church as peaceful, the awareness of the night prompted unease. The church was quiet as it had been before, but the faint draught I had felt was now strong enough to pull my rain-soaked jacket from my shoulders. Shivering from the cold, I went further along the aisle until I could see into the chancel.
There, hanging in shreds in the air, was the brass rubbing. Caught in the unnatural draught, it hung suspended, while pieces of it blew insanely around the church. My satchel and its contents were scattered about, the wax trodden into the stone floor, paper and tape torn. I moved nearer so that I could see the brass itself. The light of the moon shone through the stained glass above the sanctuary, filling the chancel with a sharpness and clarity, which accentuated the rainbow of illumination, caused by the coloured glass. The pattern of colours and light fell onto the brass. It was lifting and heaving, rocking up and down, as if some force was being applied to it. As I watched, the movement increased, and the worms, which were so skilfully etched onto the surface of the metal, were disengaging themselves from the brass, and dropping onto the floor, each one landing with noiseless weight. Once on the floor they squirmed in a slow crawling procession towards me.
