“I will just take Miggs a cup,” she said. “I will see that you are not disturbed again, Howard.”
The Canon smiled graciously.
“Thank you, my dear.”
He waited until his wife had quitted the room, drumming nervously with slim fingers upon his desk.
“Your experience was certainly a strange one, Canon,” observed Solar Pons, tenting his thin fingers before him. “And something one would not expect to find within the precincts of a great Cathedral.”
“There is more to come, Mr Pons,” observed the Canon sombrely.
“I had hoped to hear something further but unfortunately there was a loud noise in the distance, probably caused by one of the volunteer cleaners, which startled the couple. I heard the scraping of heavy boots and moments later saw the dark shadows of two large men, making off down the aisle.”
“You did not observe them clearly?”
“Well, Mr Pons, I waited until they had got to a more brightly lit portion of the interior, slipping from pillar to pillar so that they should not see me. All I could make out was that they were dark, tall and wore rough clothing.”
“I see. Pray continue.”
“About an hour later I was called by Mr Miggs, who was rather agitated and upset. He has a great sense of propriety and is one of the most zealous guardians of the Cathedral and its fabric.”
“He struck me as being exceedingly conscientious, Canon,” I put in.
Canon Stacey nodded and then went on, as though a flood of thoughts were waiting to be liberated.
“Miggs took me to the spot near the pillar where the two men had been lying. We found the lid of a tobacco tin which had been used as an ash-tray. The floor was littered with cigarette ends and packages of food had been opened and sandwiches eaten. The mess was disgusting! Smoking and eating in the Lord’s house, Mr Pons! It was my firm opinion that the men were waiting until after dark, when the Cathedral would be locked, and intended to commit some mischief.”
“But were apparently disturbed and fearing detection made off?”
“Something like that, Mr Pons.”
My companion nodded slowly.
“It is one possibility,” he said. “There is more to come, I take it?”
“A good deal more,” said the Canon grimly. “There are priceless treasures within the Cathedral. The plate alone. ”
“We will take that for granted, Canon,” Solar Pons interjected. “Facts, if you please.”
“I am sorry, Mr Pons. My nerves have been ruffled, I must confess.”
Canon Stacey cracked his knuckles several times in succession in an irritating manner as though to prove the point and I noticed that his action seemed to be having the same effect upon Pons. Then Stacey took up the threads of his story once again.
“A few days later, Miggs again came to me in great agitation to say that one of the side-chapels was in considerable disorder. I went there immediately and I must say I was extremely shocked. Chairs had been thrown down, some of the carvings disfigured, all the altar ornaments had been removed and ornamental candlesticks unscrewed. I had never seen such a mess!”
The Canon’s anger and distress was patent but it appeared to me that Pons was having some difficulty in keeping a straight face as our host’s tale proceeded. But he sat upright in his chair, his face alert and intent, his eyes shining.
“What you have just told me is extremely interesting,” he said.
“Such hooliganism, Mr Pons!”
Solar Pons shook his head.
“I think not, Canon. These are the marks of something deeper than that.”
“What do you mean, Mr Pons?”
“I would prefer not to speculate at this stage, Canon. You say you did not call the police?”
Our host hesitated, drumming his fingers again.
“No, Mr Pons. There was a very good reason. Any publicity might have frightened these men off. I wanted, if possible, to catch them red-handed and we could not do that if newspaper reports of this sacrilege were to appear in the local press.”
“I see.”
“The next thing that happened, Mr Pons, was shocking and inexplicable. There has been a great deal of re-building and maintenance work going on at the Cathedral over the past three or four years. This has obviously necessitated parts of the building being closed and some inconvenience occasioned to both the staff of the Cathedral and the worshippers. Not to mention the general public who merely regard the building as a tourist attraction.”
The Canon poured himself another cup of tea and stared at Pons as though expecting him to agree that tourists were an unmitigated nuisance. Pons waited politely until the churchman had taken two or three sips, though it was obvious to me that he was intensely interested in the Canon’s story.
“I had gone down into the crypt. I think to verify an inscription on one of the tombs for a learned paper I am at present writing concerning the history of this noble edifice. It was late afternoon and there was no-one but myself there. I was up in a far corner, translating the Latin inscription, and could not have been visible to anyone coming into the crypt. I had been engaged so for some five or ten minutes when my attention was arrested by a slight noise. Work on the foundations in the crypt has necessitated the re-positioning of some of the tombs.”
“Naturally, being scholars and historians as well as churchmen, we have tried to do as little violence to the original scheme of things as possible, but the Cathedral architect had insisted that the tomb of Bishop Lascelles would have to be moved to one side to allow underpinning and draining of the foundations. The tomb itself is of no great historical value; the good Bishop died in 1812 and so far as I know there are no members of his family extant so we did not have to apply for permission.”
“The Bishop’s tomb is where in the crypt, Canon?”
“I can take you there, Mr Pons.”
“We have already been, Canon Stacey, though I should like you to refresh my memory.”
“It is the third memorial down, on the right-hand side as you get to the bottom of the crypt stairs, Pons,” I said. “I noticed it particularly, as it has somewhat hideous cherubs on the sarcophagus and wooden beams and scaffolding around it.”
“Correct, Dr Parker,” said Canon Stacey, beaming.
“Excellent, Parker,” said Pons drily. “You are constantly improving.”
“Well, gentlemen,” continued the Canon. “That is the place, right enough. You can imagine my horror when I heard a low groan and the creak of wood. As I started from my corner I was appalled to see that the temporary wooden cover on the tomb — we have removed the inner shell containing the remains of the Bishop pending his re-interment — was beginning to move upward. I could see that there was a lean, dirty arm and hand inside, pushing the lid up toward the ceiling. I am afraid that I gave a terrified cry, the lid collapsed with a loud crash and in the shock of the moment I beat an undignified retreat up the stairs.”
“I am not surprised, Canon,” said Solar Pons, conscious of the apologetic expression in the churchman’s eyes. “You did wisely.”
“Ah, then, you believe in the supernatural, Mr Pons?”
Solar Pons shook his head slowly, producing his pipe from his pocket. He lit it at Canon Stacey’s extended permission and puffed thoughtfully, sending fragrant blue plumes of smoke up toward the gracious plaster-work of the ceiling.
“On the contrary, Canon, I am inclined to believe the problem is more tangible than that.”
Puzzled, Canon Stacey turned to me as though for an explanation. After a moment he continued, albeit more hesitantly than before.