Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘Look,’ Tony said.’ In my car I’ve got a drill. Only needs a little hole.’

‘I can’t permit…’

‘Body there, put it back. Something else, well…’

Using the vestry’s side door, Crib fetched his electric drill and made a small hole just below the lid of the coffin. Then he inserted the serpentine length of fibre-optic cable attached to a small screen. ‘Bloody hell!’

‘What do you see?’

‘Wonderful things! Cups, plates… candlesticks…’

‘Chalices?’

‘Come again? Yeah, them too.’

‘Let me see.’ Lucas peered at the screen. ‘This is something for the police, I think.’

‘Well, don’t let’s be hasty about that, Vicar.’

‘Those pieces look familiar. Remember the theft at the Minster? Are there gold chalices, by any chance?’

‘Could be. Look for yourself.’

‘My God, there are.’ Lucas was becoming distraught. ‘What are we to do?’

‘For sure we can’t bury them.’

‘Assuredly not.’

‘So here’s how I see it. We take them out. You got space in your chest, Vicar?’

‘Well, yes, as it happens, since…’

‘Then we weight the coffin with something heavy, seal it up, get the bearers in and away we go. Bob’s your uncle.’ Crib suddenly became serious. ‘After all, no-one’s going to enquire into stolen goods, are they? At least not yet. Then you sleep on it, and tomorrow you’ll come up with a solution.’

As they transferred the silver to the chest Tony examined the two golden chalices. Ignorant of such matters he failed to notice that each was of an unusual design and featured a glass bottom.

Their work done, they manhandled the now slightly lighter coffin back into the nave, just in time before the bearers came looking for it.

That night, back in the vicarage, sleep was even harder for Lucas to achieve than deciding on a course of action. He couldn’t get out of his head that the coffin – which he believed was now six feet under the earth – contained half an oak beam from the belfry, a coil of rope and two bags of bat droppings strategically placed to limit possible movement inside when they carried it back. Then there was Aunt Ada’s barely concealed satisfaction as the earth closed over the coffin. And he had never seen Tony Crib looking so… well… innocent as when he tossed in the last handful of earth.

The key from the chest seemed to grow under his pillow. Yet wasn’t there some kind of logic here, some ordering of events that smacked of a controlling hand besides his own, or even that of the felons – whoever they were – who had used the undertakers for their nefarious work, if indeed it had not been the undertakers themselves. When he’d… well… found a home for the plate from his own church, was this not so that repairs to the roof – so necessary to keep out the dripping water that week by week had reduced his congregation – could be effected? No worse, surely, than selling indulgences in medieval times. And the resignations of the two churchwardens just before it happened, so that no-one thought to compile the annual inventory – was that not more than just fortuitous? And now here was his chest replenished, as it were. Ignoring for a moment the one or two clearly identifiable pieces, the contents of the collection looked much the same as they had done before. In short, no-one would be the wiser. Only then, with that resolved, did he think to wonder what might have happened to poor Harvey Crib’s body. Hopefully it had found its way to the crematorium – but that was someone else’s concern.

After breakfast Lucas thought he would take a stroll in the churchyard, if only to stifle a little niggle that all might not be as he remembered it. He headed for the grave, now a raised mound of earth, still waiting to be set off by the headstone that he knew would never come. But he failed to notice that the flowers from yesterday were not quite in their original positions, nor the little spoils of earth trampled by heavy feet around the mound’s edge when yesterday the grass had been raked clean. It was then that he saw Tony watching him from the other side of the graveyard hedge. Lucas walked over to him.

‘A very good morning to you, Anthony. The golden sun shines upon us, I believe.’

‘You could say that, Vicar. And so quiet here this fine morning – after yesterday. One might almost say that silence is golden, if you take my meaning.’

‘I’m not quite with you, Anthony.’

‘Only that discretion sometimes merits reward.’

‘Ah. I see. By golden you mean…’

Tony beamed. ‘Got there in one.’

They walked together to the church door. Lucas took out his keys and turned the lock. All was as it had been; enhanced, even, by the flowers that the good ladies had placed there the previous afternoon. He glanced up at the figure of Christ, half-expecting a turn of the head and a reproving look; but none came. Tony was already in the vestry, contemplating the chest, fidgeting in anticipation. When the great doors swung open, there was the silver plate, exactly as it had been. Tony reached in, removed the two golden chalices and clutched them to his chest. ‘Episode closed?’ Lucas said.

‘Indeed. But has it not occurred to you, Vicar, to wonder where Harvey actually is?’

‘The undertakers must surely have…’

‘Found alternative accommodation? Maybe. But I should tell you, Vicar, that I believe what we buried yesterday was replaced during the night. I watched from the other side of the hedge. Very discreet they were about it.’

‘Palin there?’

‘I believe I saw him, yes. With two others.’

‘So you think he’s under there after all, your uncle Harvey?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then doesn’t that deserve a prayer, Anthony, by the graveside?’

‘A short one then, Vicar. And this evening perhaps a little refreshment at the vicarage?’ He patted his pockets where the two golden chalices were concealed.

‘You’ll be most welcome.’

Lucas felt that a burden had been lifter from his shoulders. He spent the rest of the day in the vicarage garden, tending the roses. In the afternoon, in an unprecedented act of cordiality, he invited Mrs Webley to take tea with him. They mused upon many things: the incompetence of the new churchwardens, the cost of flowers to beautify the church – and then the unexplained thefts from the minster church, at which point he sent her home. As evening approached he fetched two bottles of his finest claret from the extensive cellars under the building and in the dying light opened them to allow the wine to breathe. Tony appeared just as he was setting glasses upon the table on the veranda.

‘I think we can dispense with those, don’t you, Vicar?’ Tony said, producing from his pockets the two golden chalices.

Lucas poured wine into each chalice. The light was fading now and he switched on the veranda lamp that, coincidently, was across from where he was sitting. They toasted each other’s good fortune. But as Lucas raised the near-drained chalice to his lips the translucent disc at its bottom caught the light. And there, etched in the glass, was an image of Harvey’s grinning face.

Every morning the clatter of the postman’s bicycle as it sped up the drive to Partridge Farm was Gabriel Broadacre’s cue to stand behind the ancient oak door and wait for the letters to fall. But today he was disappointed: there were no new subsidy payments for land left fallow, no fat cheques from the sugar beet factory; instead, just a simple envelope in the palest shade of mauve, addressed to his daughter Claire. Without even having to stoop he was able to make out the florid imprint that read Dreamtime Model Agency and knew what that portended. He picked up the envelope and flapped it noisily against the fingers of his other hand while he watched the ducks on the pond outside and sensed a threat to a way of life that had been sustained for generations. For one brief moment he grasped the envelope roughly in his two hands as if to tear it apart, then relented in the realisation that this might just be the first in a flood which he would be powerless to stem. Hearing a sound in the hall, he turned to see Claire standing behind him, her eyes sparkling within a pale oval face framed by long golden hair. Meekly he handed her the letter. ‘I think it’s what you’ve been waiting for, love,’ he said, and turned away so that she could not see his apprehension.