It was cool and shadowy inside after the brilliance of the exterior and it took some minutes before my eyes had adjusted to the diffused lighting; the sun’s rays being broken by the rich reds, greens and ambers of the medieval stained glass in the rich windows and scattering like powdered gold across the delicate tracery of stonework and timber in that magnificent interior.
Evidently some sort of service had just concluded because people were dispersing down the long aisles and the wooden chairs were thickly occupied by seated worshippers. The unseen organist continued with his recital as the vast building emptied, though visitors were constantly stepping through the great doors from the street behind us.
I paused to examine some carving in a side chapel while Pons wandered on, his keen eyes shooting glances up to the vaulted ceiling high above and then at some detail of the ancient stonework nearer at hand. It was an agreeable occupation and we had spent some half an hour in such gentle perambulations before we were brought up in front of a massive archway, half hidden by the vast stone pillaring. Steps led downward into the gloom.
“This would appear to be the crypt, Pons.”
“Would it not, Parker,” said my companion, little flecks of amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Shall we go down?”
“By all means, my dear fellow. A great cathedral is nothing without its crypt, which is as necessary as cloisters and Norwich is nothing if not a great cathedral.”
I followed my companion as he led the way down the sunken stone steps into the shadowy realms below. Naked electric bulbs illuminated the honey-coloured stonework and our steps echoed loudly on the flagstones beneath the vaulted ceiling. There was evidently some work going on, for scaffolding surrounded some of the tombs and great beams barred off portions of the crypt. I had noticed evidence of the same activity in the church above.
“Interesting, is it not, Pons?”
“Indeed, my dear fellow. No doubt it appeals to your romantic instincts.”
“Perhaps, Pons,” I replied cautiously. “But at any event it would not take much imagination to picture strange things happening in such a setting.”
Pons chuckled quietly, looking about him.
“You are certainly correct in that supposition, Parker.”
It was indeed a formidable and strange realm in which we now found ourselves. Great stone pillars going up into the massive vaulted ceiling; flagstones beneath our feet; shadowy corners and turnings inadequately illuminated by the electric light bulbs suspended at intervals; some curious tombs and statuary, with here and there the massive beams and timbers of the renovation work. All overlaid by the echoing footsteps of the few visitors down here and their sibilant whispering which seemed to reverberate curiously about the catacombs.
The hush was abruptly broken by the sound of hurrying footsteps and round a pillar came a curiously assorted couple. A girl of about twenty-eight, her fair hair flying, her expression furious. Behind her a tall, sullen, bearded man in his forties, rage and anger flaring on his face. Oblivious of their surroundings, they hurried on toward the entrance steps, the girl shaking off the man’s restraining arm.
“Pray control yourself, Elise,” said the man in low, urgent tones, glancing about him.
“It was promised!” she said in furious tones. “You said it would be today!”
The muttering continued as the odd pair half-ran from the crypt and we could hear their agitated progress up the worn stone steps until the sound died away in the distance. Pons looked at me thoughtfully.
“Curious, Parker,” he murmured.
I smiled.
“A lover’s quarrel, Pons?”
“Perhaps,” he said shortly, an expression on his lean, feral features I had come to know well.
I led him forward to where a Norman noble’s effigy rested on the cover of an ancient tomb. In the far corner an imperious statue raised its arm aloft.
“I hope you are not seeking mysteries here, Pons. We are on holiday.”
“I have not forgotten, Parker,” said Solar Pons placatingly, though I noticed his keen eyes were darting about the crypt, resting first on one detail and then another.
“Hullo! Someone has dropped something.”
He darted forward round the edge of the tomb and picked up a small object resting on the flagstones.
“What do you make of this, Parker?”
I glanced at the thing in the palm of his hand curiously. “It looks like a cotton-reel, Pons.”
“Does it not? However, I think there is a little more to it than that.”
He held up the little wooden cylinder, holding it toward the illumination provided by the nearest bulb. There was no-one else near us in this secluded corner, where we were screened by the massive groyning of the crypt. He twisted it gently, giving a grunt of satisfaction as it came apart.
Within the hollow interior was a slip of paper. Pons unfolded it and smoothed it out with his fingers. I looked over his shoulder. Printed on it in ink was a meaningless jumble of symbols, composed of random groups of letters.
“It is of no value, Pons, that is evident.”
“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” my companion returned mysteriously, thrusting the slip and its container into his pocket.
“I think we have seen enough for one afternoon. Let us adjourn to the open air.”
We were ascending the steps to the Cathedral now.
“Should we not report the finding of this article to the church authorities, Pons?”
“All in good time, Parker.”
Solar Pons’ face was tense and abstracted and I looked at him curiously. A moment later I saw what had attracted his attention. The bearded man we had seen in the crypt was coming back down the nave, a worried expression on his features. He passed without noticing us and darted into the entrance which led to the crypt.
To my astonishment Pons led me into the shadow of a great pillar and seating himself on one of the wooden chairs which faced the altar motioned me down beside him. He put his fingers to his lips to enjoin caution.
We waited perhaps ten minutes and then footsteps were heard ascending. A moment later the man with the beard, looking more worried than ever, appeared. Pons was already on his feet and strolled casually after him. I followed, considerably perplexed and not a little irritated.
We gained the Cathedral entrance and watched the tall figure of the bearded man striding away into the heart of the city. Pons followed and I had difficulty in keeping up with him. After a short while, however, my companion slackened his pace. He was smiling.
“Ah, Parker, we are in luck. The gentleman is evidently staying at The Royal George or taking tea there.”
“Indeed, Pons.
I followed his gaze and saw that the bearded man was ascending the entrance steps of our own hostelry. As we crossed the road, pausing to allow a bus to pass in front of us, I caught Pons’ arm.
“Is it not possible that the thing you have just picked up belonged to that gentleman, and that he has been back to the crypt to find it?”
“It is entirely possible, Parker. Come, I have a notion to see what our friend will do next.”
And he led the way into the lobby of the hotel.
2
I sat down in a corner of the tea-lounge, the three-piece orchestra playing a dreamy melody from Strauss. The girl who had been in the cathedral was sitting three tables away, looking tense and irritated. Pons had asked me to keep an eye on her while he went on some mysterious errand of his own. I must confess I was put out at the turn things had taken; after all, we had come here for a much-needed holiday and such little mysteries as the one we had just witnessed were an unwarrantable intrusion.