of a church. It’ll be worth a look. I was told that some old vicar had it locked up a few
years ago. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.’
‘Mrs O’Donovan said it was unsafe.’
‘I wonder who told her that.’ There was a hint of cynicism in Neil’s voice. ‘It looks solid enough from the outside.’ He tried
the tower door. It was locked but one of the keys on the ring Mrs O’Donovan had given them fitted the lock. ‘Let’s see what
the vicar was trying to hide, shall we.’
‘Dry rot, I should think,’ said Wesley, pouring cold water on Neil’s fiery imagination.
Neil took no notice and pushed the door until it opened stiffly with a loud creaking and scraping. The space beyond was pitch
dark and reeked of bat droppings, or at least Wesley assumed it was bat droppings. Neither he nor Neil had come prepared with
a torch, but Neil produced a box of matches from the inside pocket of his combat jacket. He struck one and the flickering
gold light lit up the small,square chamber for a few seconds, showing up a fine array of cobwebs and six dust-shrouded bell ropes. Wesley had once harboured
a fleeting fancy to try his hand at bell-ringing but he certainly wouldn’t have risked it here: if the bells were still up
there, one pull on the rope would probably bring them crashing through the rotten ceiling on top of them. He could just make
out some sort of pattern on the far wall but he assumed it was just many years’ accumulation of bird droppings: it was impossible
to see in that light.
Neil stepped farther into the tower and lit another match, illuminating three recumbent figures lying to one side of the bell
ropes. There were two men carved in alabaster, the colour of Devon fudge, their armour as battered as their features; their
noses had gone, as had their hands and toes. They wore helmets and, judging by the position of their wrists, they had been
lying in an attitude of pious prayer. The woman had fared somewhat better. Her nose too was no more, but the rest of her body,
the carved folds of her alabaster gown and wimple, had survived remarkably well.
Neil lit yet another match and shuffled his way over to the effigies. ‘They’re quite early. Fourteenth-century, I reckon from
the armour and the dress. If those poor sods in the field were plague victims then this lot could have been around at the
time. I wish we had some light in here. I think there’s some sort of inscription on this one but … shit … bloody hell.’ The
match had burned down to his fingers and he shook it frantically until the flame was out and they were left in darkness.
Undeterred, he lit another and squatted down, reading the indistinct Latin on one side of the woman’s tomb. ‘I think her name’s
Eleanor, wife of … hang on a minute … wife of Urien de Munerie. Well, well. The Munnerys had this place sewn up back then
and all.’
Wesley was hovering just inside the doorway. ‘How long are you going to be? I’ve got to get back to the office.’
But Neil wasn’t listening. In spite of a scorched finger hewas enjoying himself. ‘So this one must be Urien and this one …’
‘I’ll have to go.’
Another match was struck. ‘Hang on. This one’s Guy and it says he was the son of Urien and Eleanor de Munerie.’
Wesley took a deep breath of stale air. Neil couldn’t be hurried. He would have to leave him to carry out his historical detective
work alone.
‘I’ve nearly finished. Just hang on a minute. Hey, this is interesting. The inscription continues round the other side of
Urien’s tomb. It says “Pray for the soul of his son Robert be he alive or dead”. What do you think that means?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘Went missing in the crusades? Ran away to the bright lights of London like Dick Whittington and lost touch?
How should I know? Perhaps there might be something in the manor records if they exist.’
‘They don’t. I’ve asked.’ Neil stood up, dusting
years ago. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.’
‘Mrs O’Donovan said it was unsafe.’
‘I wonder who told her that.’ There was a hint of cynicism in Neil’s voice. ‘It looks solid enough from the outside.’ He tried
the tower door. It was locked but one of the keys on the ring Mrs O’Donovan had given them fitted the lock. ‘Let’s see what
the vicar was trying to hide, shall we.’
‘Dry rot, I should think,’ said Wesley, pouring cold water on Neil’s fiery imagination.
Neil took no notice and pushed the door until it opened stiffly with a loud creaking and scraping. The space beyond was pitch
dark and reeked of bat droppings, or at least Wesley assumed it was bat droppings. Neither he nor Neil had come prepared with
a torch, but Neil produced a box of matches from the inside pocket of his combat jacket. He struck one and the flickering
gold light lit up the small,square chamber for a few seconds, showing up a fine array of cobwebs and six dust-shrouded bell ropes. Wesley had once harboured
a fleeting fancy to try his hand at bell-ringing but he certainly wouldn’t have risked it here: if the bells were still up
there, one pull on the rope would probably bring them crashing through the rotten ceiling on top of them. He could just make
out some sort of pattern on the far wall but he assumed it was just many years’ accumulation of bird droppings: it was impossible
to see in that light.
Neil stepped farther into the tower and lit another match, illuminating three recumbent figures lying to one side of the bell
ropes. There were two men carved in alabaster, the colour of Devon fudge, their armour as battered as their features; their
noses had gone, as had their hands and toes. They wore helmets and, judging by the position of their wrists, they had been
lying in an attitude of pious prayer. The woman had fared somewhat better. Her nose too was no more, but the rest of her body,
the carved folds of her alabaster gown and wimple, had survived remarkably well.
Neil lit yet another match and shuffled his way over to the effigies. ‘They’re quite early. Fourteenth-century, I reckon from
the armour and the dress. If those poor sods in the field were plague victims then this lot could have been around at the
time. I wish we had some light in here. I think there’s some sort of inscription on this one but … shit … bloody hell.’ The
match had burned down to his fingers and he shook it frantically until the flame was out and they were left in darkness.
Undeterred, he lit another and squatted down, reading the indistinct Latin on one side of the woman’s tomb. ‘I think her name’s
Eleanor, wife of … hang on a minute … wife of Urien de Munerie. Well, well. The Munnerys had this place sewn up back then
and all.’
Wesley was hovering just inside the doorway. ‘How long are you going to be? I’ve got to get back to the office.’
But Neil wasn’t listening. In spite of a scorched finger hewas enjoying himself. ‘So this one must be Urien and this one …’
‘I’ll have to go.’
Another match was struck. ‘Hang on. This one’s Guy and it says he was the son of Urien and Eleanor de Munerie.’
Wesley took a deep breath of stale air. Neil couldn’t be hurried. He would have to leave him to carry out his historical detective
work alone.
‘I’ve nearly finished. Just hang on a minute. Hey, this is interesting. The inscription continues round the other side of
Urien’s tomb. It says “Pray for the soul of his son Robert be he alive or dead”. What do you think that means?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘Went missing in the crusades? Ran away to the bright lights of London like Dick Whittington and lost touch?
How should I know? Perhaps there might be something in the manor records if they exist.’
‘They don’t. I’ve asked.’ Neil stood up, dusting
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