think how easily our roles could have
reversed. It could have been me, there in Grantchester churchyard. Maybe it
will be yet.
PART TWO
The Blessed Damozel
Two
THE REVEREND HOLMES WAS A SMALL, THIN,
RATHER insignificant-looking man, the lovely stained-glass window of the nave
behind him bleeding all colour from his oddly childish features; but the pale
eyes behind the magnifying lenses of wire-framed glasses were shrewd and bright
with humour. His eyebrows were thick and very dark, giving him an earnest,
rather faraway look, and at the moment they were drawn together in a frown
which managed only to convey bewilderment. His voice was that of a much older man,
or a man who is so much involved in his own little circle of events that the
comings and goings of the world simply pass him by, and he spoke slowly, with
much hesitation, his voice the cultured, gentle, slightly bleating voice of the
country priest.
‘Ahh … Well,’ he said,
shaking his head, ‘I can’t really say any more about it than, ahh, you know.
Just a prank, albeit a nasty one, just one of those student tricks. Though I
fail to see any humour at all in the, ahh, digging up of graves and the
vandalizing of a church. I’d rather see it as a prank, my dear.’
‘But what happened?’
insisted Alice, trying to curb her impatience.
‘No one knows,’ said the
Reverend. ‘Just another of those incidents …rather nasty, though, and
a bit of a shock for me, actually.’
He lowered his voice and
turned to her conspiratorially. ‘I think it’s … ahh … a personal dig against
me ahh … no pun intended, you know,’ he said.
Alice looked suitably
interested, though privately she was beginning to think that she must have been
crazy to look up this man in the first place. What she thought she remembered
had never happened; what she had seen in the paper had been a coincidence,
nothing more.
Martin Holmes beckoned
her closer.
‘One of the graves which
was tampered with, I knew. It was my uncle’s.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We’re
an old family, miss, er?’
‘Alice Farrell.’
‘Ahh … yes. An old
family, as I was saying; Cambridgeshire born and bred, though I have not
actually lived here very long myself. It could be that, ahh, rancour still
exists, old grudges, you know the kind of thing.’
Alice glanced at her
watch. The Reverend Holmes did not notice, but continued his halting, gentle
narrative with the air of a man who has found a captive audience.
‘I … ahh … can’t say
I was a, ahh, a popular choice as vicar of this parish. There were, let
us say, ahh, factions, who found me unsuitable. There was a bit of an upset in
the family long ago, ahh, insanity, you know, that sort of thing. I suppose
they remembered it still. Long memories, Cambridgeshire folk. Maybe some of the
young ones thought it was funny to dig up the grave of my poor Uncle Dan to
tease me with it.’
Alice looked
sympathetic.
‘Mad as a hatter, poor
chap,’ said Martin Holmes with a shake of his head. ‘Died in some kind of a
home … hanged himself, so I’ve been told. Not that I knew him at all … ahh …
can’t remember him too well. Uncle Dan kept himself to himself. Remember seeing
him once, with my father, when I was a boy … he tried to give me a shilling,
but Father wouldn’t let him. Father told me afterwards that he talked endless
nonsense about devils … and monsters. Monsters!’ he repeated, and
laughed.
Alice looked at her
watch.
‘Well …’ she said, ‘If
there’s nothing else … ’
‘Nothing else?’ said the
Reverend. ‘No … except that they were fooled, of course. Poor old Uncle Dan.’
‘Fooled?’
‘Well, he’s not there,
of course,’ said the Reverend Holmes simply. ‘Whoever dug him up didn’t find a
thing. There’s nothing in that coffin except a box and a few oddments.’
Catching sight of Alice’s
astonished face (she now had no desire to go away),
reversed. It could have been me, there in Grantchester churchyard. Maybe it
will be yet.
PART TWO
The Blessed Damozel
Two
THE REVEREND HOLMES WAS A SMALL, THIN,
RATHER insignificant-looking man, the lovely stained-glass window of the nave
behind him bleeding all colour from his oddly childish features; but the pale
eyes behind the magnifying lenses of wire-framed glasses were shrewd and bright
with humour. His eyebrows were thick and very dark, giving him an earnest,
rather faraway look, and at the moment they were drawn together in a frown
which managed only to convey bewilderment. His voice was that of a much older man,
or a man who is so much involved in his own little circle of events that the
comings and goings of the world simply pass him by, and he spoke slowly, with
much hesitation, his voice the cultured, gentle, slightly bleating voice of the
country priest.
‘Ahh … Well,’ he said,
shaking his head, ‘I can’t really say any more about it than, ahh, you know.
Just a prank, albeit a nasty one, just one of those student tricks. Though I
fail to see any humour at all in the, ahh, digging up of graves and the
vandalizing of a church. I’d rather see it as a prank, my dear.’
‘But what happened?’
insisted Alice, trying to curb her impatience.
‘No one knows,’ said the
Reverend. ‘Just another of those incidents …rather nasty, though, and
a bit of a shock for me, actually.’
He lowered his voice and
turned to her conspiratorially. ‘I think it’s … ahh … a personal dig against
me ahh … no pun intended, you know,’ he said.
Alice looked suitably
interested, though privately she was beginning to think that she must have been
crazy to look up this man in the first place. What she thought she remembered
had never happened; what she had seen in the paper had been a coincidence,
nothing more.
Martin Holmes beckoned
her closer.
‘One of the graves which
was tampered with, I knew. It was my uncle’s.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We’re
an old family, miss, er?’
‘Alice Farrell.’
‘Ahh … yes. An old
family, as I was saying; Cambridgeshire born and bred, though I have not
actually lived here very long myself. It could be that, ahh, rancour still
exists, old grudges, you know the kind of thing.’
Alice glanced at her
watch. The Reverend Holmes did not notice, but continued his halting, gentle
narrative with the air of a man who has found a captive audience.
‘I … ahh … can’t say
I was a, ahh, a popular choice as vicar of this parish. There were, let
us say, ahh, factions, who found me unsuitable. There was a bit of an upset in
the family long ago, ahh, insanity, you know, that sort of thing. I suppose
they remembered it still. Long memories, Cambridgeshire folk. Maybe some of the
young ones thought it was funny to dig up the grave of my poor Uncle Dan to
tease me with it.’
Alice looked
sympathetic.
‘Mad as a hatter, poor
chap,’ said Martin Holmes with a shake of his head. ‘Died in some kind of a
home … hanged himself, so I’ve been told. Not that I knew him at all … ahh …
can’t remember him too well. Uncle Dan kept himself to himself. Remember seeing
him once, with my father, when I was a boy … he tried to give me a shilling,
but Father wouldn’t let him. Father told me afterwards that he talked endless
nonsense about devils … and monsters. Monsters!’ he repeated, and
laughed.
Alice looked at her
watch.
‘Well …’ she said, ‘If
there’s nothing else … ’
‘Nothing else?’ said the
Reverend. ‘No … except that they were fooled, of course. Poor old Uncle Dan.’
‘Fooled?’
‘Well, he’s not there,
of course,’ said the Reverend Holmes simply. ‘Whoever dug him up didn’t find a
thing. There’s nothing in that coffin except a box and a few oddments.’
Catching sight of Alice’s
astonished face (she now had no desire to go away),
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