Chapter Four

The Resurrectionists

 

Though I do not myself profess to be a religious man, I am a strong advocate of religion in others. It generates in them agreeable and softening conventions, it accustoms them to a dignified form of music and introduces them to an almost extinct variety of speech known as the English Language; it has even been said to influence their morals; and it does undoubtedly cause them to erect certain admirable buildings and to furnish them with organs, choirs, and other desirable, æsthetic adjuncts.

Thus reflecting, I opened the lychgate of Bouldersby Churchyard and entered. I have a strong liking for churchyards. They are quiet and restful places where one can meditate with satisfaction on the superior advantages of being alive. But I had a more particular object in this visit. I wanted to have a look at old Simon Glynn’s monument in the church; and, especially, I wanted to escape from the incessant “shadowing” of Detective-Sergeant Burbler.

That officer haunted me like a familiar – a much too familiar – spirit. I couldn’t get a moment to myself. And it was not affection that made him cling to me. Not at all. It was a mere, sordid desire to spy on my actions. Even now, I had only given the beggar the slip by popping behind a haystack, and he might run me to earth at any moment. I strolled up the path in the shadow of the bordering limes. The birds sang above, and from the church came, faint and muffled, the voice of a solitary chorister rehearsing a solo. I couldn’t make out either the tune or the words, but I accepted the sound as an appropriate touch of local colour, like the houseleeks on the porch or the lichen on the tombstones. The south door of the church was open and, as I reached it, the sound swelled suddenly into a familiar melody and I distinguished the words:

“It stopped – short – never to go again

When the – old – man – died.”

I was profoundly shocked. “Decently and in order,” says the church service, and I agree most emphatically. Secular songs should not be bawled in a place of worship. Of course the singer was referring to “My Grandfather’s Clock”. I knew the song well, and had no patience with the mawkish, sentimental doggerel – for, after all, a drop of oil applied with a feather to the rusty bearings would have set the old rattletrap ticking again, grandfather or no grandfather. So I strode into the church frowning my disapproval.

But the frown was thrown away. The singer was but a journeyman painter, engaged in disfiguring the woodwork and carolling from mere habit. He meant no harm and was as unconscious of any impropriety as if he had been painting the outside of the bathroom window frame, while the ablutionist within hustled behind a towel. His innocence disarmed my indignation; and, besides, at the moment of my entry I got a most effectual counter-irritant; for the first object that met my eye was that fellow Burbler, staring like an idiot at a wall tablet. I was fairly taken aback. Could he have guessed that I was coming here? or had he come to grind a little private axe of his own? I should soon know, if I kept my eye on him.

“How do, Mr Cobb?” he said genially. “Having a look round? Fine old place. I was just examining this very interesting tablet.”

I looked at the tablet over his shoulder. It was of no interest whatever. It merely located the carcase of a certain Major General Mulliger-Torney, HEIC, late of Elham Manor, and told a number of palpable untruths about him. “A gallant officer, and an exemplary Christian, he served with distinction in the Great Mutiny, slaying upwards of two hundred mutineers with his own hand. ‘Blessed are the Peacemakers.’ ”

“What about it?” I asked.

“Don’t you see? He lived at Elham Manor.”

This was too thin. Obviously the sergeant was trying to distract my attention from something else. I glanced round and saw that something else on a wall hard by, a fine canopied monument with painted stone effigies and a tablet beneath, on which I could make out the name “Simon Glynn”. I strolled over to examine it and stood awhile gazing at it in silence. There is something impressive in the naïve dignity of the mural monuments of this period; a simplicity of intention which is in no wise impaired by the elaborate and sumptuous workmanship. For some time the mere beauty and antiquarian interest of this quaintly splendid memorial engrossed my attention. Then, suddenly, I started. Now I understood why the sergeant had tried to divert my attention, and why he was now watching me like a cat. There was something more in this monument than met the eye at the first glance. Even the inscription contained arresting matter where it referred to “Margery ye onely daughter of Andreas Ozanne of ye Iland of Gurnseye Esquire”; for surely Mistress Margery Ozanne of Guernsey might fairly be described as a “Maid from the Sea”.

But much more startling were the ornamental accessories of this curious monument. On either side of the surmounting finial reclined a winged figure, of which the one on the right held a harp, while the other grasped a great cross-hilted sword. Between the figures was a shield quartered with what were presumably the arms of Glynn and his wife: the one device bearing three anchors or on a field gules and the other a scallop-shell argent on a field azure, while below the shield was the motto: “God with us.”

It was certainly what Dick Swiveller would have called a “staggerer”. I repeated to myself the quaint doggerel that I had copied from Simon Glynn’s mirror.

Well, there were all the mystic signs; the harp and the cross and the “ankores three”; and as for the “Maid from the Sea” there was Mistress Margery herself. There was only one difficulty. The “ankores three” were not at the foot of a tree, unless the great yew outside could be considered as fulfilling the condition. In all other respects the agreement was complete.

Was it possible that Glynn could have buried his treasure in the vault where his wife lay? It seemed incredible. And yet a man who could bequeath his fortune to any chance stranger who might have the wit to find it, might be capable of any eccentricity. But at this point, my reflections – and the painter’s lyrical outpourings – were interrupted by a raucous voice.

“Now young man; don’t you know no better than to make that there noise in a sacred hedifice?”

“Why, there ain’t no harm in a-singin’, is there?” protested the caroller.

“No ’arm!” exclaimed the other, whom I judged – correctly – to be the sexton. “No ’arm in a-bellerin’ rye-bald songs in a place of worship? Where might you ’ave been brought up?”

“Git out,” said the painter. And the hopeless irrelevancy of the rejoinder left the sexton speechless – until he perceived us; when he advanced sedately as one who scents a possible sixpence.

“Re-markable old figgers, them, sir,” he said, addressing himself to me as the obvious social superior. “Wunnerful old, too: seven or eight hundred year old, so I’ve heerd say.”

“In deed,” said Burbler, looking daggers at me for being there – but I wasn’t sensitive just then. “Most interesting. And I suppose that in those days they used to bury people in the church; under the very pavement that we’re standing on?”

“No doubt they did, sir,” replied the sexton; “but not them two. They are buried in the undercroft, they are. Would you like to see the place?”

It was useless to deny that we should, so we followed the sexton out of the church and round the exterior until we came to a small doorway which had once been closed by an iron gate, but was now unguarded. Entering after our guide, we descended a flight of moss-grown steps and finally reached a small crypt under the chancel. There wasn’t much to see. A simple groined roof carried on four dwarf pillars; walls of unadorned masonry and a plain flagged floor. That was all; excepting that, against one wall, a square stone set in the pavement exhibited the inscription:

Margery Glynn 1662

Simon Glynn 1692

Burbler struck a wax match – for the only light that entered the crypt was that which came down the stairway – and looked long and thoughtfully at the stone. I guessed what he was thinking by the direction of my own thoughts. He was considering the difficulties of raising that stone and the tools necessary for the job: and he was wondering what there was beneath the slab. By its shape it appeared to be the cover of the entrance to a vault, and, if this were so, the difficulties would not be great. If, on the other hand, it covered a grave, there would be trouble. Digging up a grave was a rather bigger undertaking – if you will pardon the unintentional double-entendre – than either of us reckoned on.

The sergeant dropped the match and looked at his watch – in the dark.

“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “I mustn’t stay loitering here, fascinating as these antiquities are. I shall lose my train.”

“Your train!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. I’ve got to run up to Chatham. Nuisance, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t so sure of that, but, of course, I agreed that it was; and when we had each contributed a practically unearned increment to the sexton’s income, we ascended the steps and made our way out through the churchyard.

“Awful nuisance,” repeated Burbler. “I shall probably be detained in Chatham for two or three days. Most annoying! Just as I was enjoying me holiday, too!”

“I thought you were down here on business.”

“So I was. But my business is finished. Another officer has taken over the case” – and no wonder, thought I – “so I am having a little rest; taking a week or two’s leave. They might have left me in peace.”

Now here I was seized by an absurd and reprehensible impulse to say what was not strictly true. The sergeant was going away. While unavoidably absent he might be uneasy in his mind. He might even return prematurely. It would be only humane to reassure him.

“I can sympathize with you,” I prevaricated, “for I’m in the same boat myself.”

The pleasure that shone from Burbler’s face seemed almost to justify me.

“Not going away?” he said brightly.

“Yes. Got to go to – er – Tunbridge Wells for my firm. They may keep me there a week or so. Nuisance for me, isn’t it?”

“Horrid,” said Burbler. “Do you start today?”

Of course, I had to say “yes”, and the detective immediately pounced on me.

“What time is your train?”

Now there he had me, for I had neglected to ask the time of his. In my confusion I said “four o’clock”, and he chimed in gleefully:

“I know. Four-eight. Change at Tonbridge. Mine is the four-fifty from the other station. I may as well walk down with you and see you off.”

Thus was I hoist with my own petard. For I had meant to see him off and then prepare at my leisure for a nocturnal exploration of the crypt. But there was no escape. I was led like a sacrificial lamb to the station and compelled, under the sergeant’s scrutiny, to waste my substance on a ticket for Tunbridge Wells. Indeed, fate, in the form of Sergeant Burbler, pursued me to the very door of the compartment in which I didn’t want to travel.

“Look out!” he exclaimed. “The train’s off!” And whisking open a door, he gave me a persuasive hoist that deposited me on the lap of a fierce-looking, middle-aged woman.

“How dare you, sir?” demanded the lady, assisting me to rise with the aid of an extraordinarily sharp elbow. “What do you mean by this conduct?”

“I beg your pardon, Madam,” I gasped, retreating to the farthest corner. “It was purely an accident, I assure you. It was indeed!”

“I don’t know what you mean by an accident,” she rejoined bitterly; “bursting into a compartment that is plainly labelled ‘Ladies only’. It is an unwarrantable intrusion!”

I glanced at the window and saw that it was even as she had said. However, it didn’t matter. I was going to pop out at the next station, Chartham, in any case, and make my way back to Canterbury. I mentioned the fact in extenuation.

“Chartham indeed!” she replied scornfully. “Permit me to remark that this train does not stop until it reaches Tonbridge.”

I was aghast. Here was a pretty kettle of fish! I should have to buy another useless ticket and put off my exploration until tomorrow; for the shops would all be shut when I got back to Canterbury, and I couldn’t lift that stone with my fingernails. Of course I could carry out my little plan just as well tomorrow night – unless Burbler should return prematurely. And here I broke out into a cold sweat; for nothing was more likely. He had located the treasure and he knew that I had, too. He was certain to strain every nerve to get back and forestall me. It was a horrible predicament.

What made it worse was that my efforts to think out some escape from the situation were completely frustrated by my fellow passenger; who continued to pour out an unceasing stream of reproaches for my “unwarrantable intrusion”. How she did talk, to be sure! If some of those perpetual motion chappies could have examined that good woman’s lower jaw, they might have got a valuable tip or two. The usual metaphor of the donkey’s hind leg was inadequate; she would have talked the fifty hind legs off a centipede.

The train whizzed joyfully through station after station. It roared through Ashford and left Pluckley behind, trundled along the straight stretch towards Paddock Wood and Tonbridge. But presently it began to slow down and at length came definitely to a stop at the little wayside halt of Helgerden.

“Now, sir,” said my companion, “I’ll trouble you to change into another compartment.”

I hesitated; for the train was only waiting for the signal to drop and might move on at any moment. But eventually I was goaded into opening the door and stepping out.

“Hi, sir! you can’t get out here!” exclaimed the stationmaster, regardless of the fact that I had actually done so. And at this moment the train began to move. I made a dash for the nearest door, but the stationmaster seized me by the arm.

“You can’t enter the train when in motion,” he said obscurely; and before I could wriggle myself free, the guard had hopped in and the train had rumbled out of the station.

“What time is the next train to Canterbury?” I asked.

“Ten-forty,” he replied, and added: “I must ask you, sir, not to use such language before my porter.”

I apologized and pleaded extreme provocation, explaining that I had got into the wrong train and wished to get back quickly.

“Well, sir,” he said, “there’s a very good train from Ashford in about an hour’s time.”

“And how long will it take me to walk into Ashford?”

“If you step out, sir,” he replied, “you ought to do it in an hour and three-quarters.”

I turned away hastily – appropriate remarks being forbidden – and, striding wrathfully out of the station, walked through the village until I encountered a finger-post which bore the inscription: “Ashford 7½ miles.” Along this road I set forth at a brisk pace: but before I had gone two hundred yards I found myself face to face with a most terrible temptation. Leaning against a barn was an abandoned bicycle; a tradesman’s machine apparently, for on the top bar was painted the name “Robert Miker”. Now, with that bicycle I could easily catch the desirable train from Ashford. Without it I must walk and my operations in the crypt would have to be postponed – perhaps for ever. The catching or losing of that train might spell the difference between gaining and losing a fortune.

I say nothing in extenuation of my conduct. Property should not be borrowed without the consent of the owner. But – there was no one about from whom to ask permission. I flung my leg over the saddle and away I went.

I have said that when I mounted there was not a soul to be seen. But before I had fairly got the wheels revolving, the entire population of the place seemed to converge on the spot to speed my departure with valedictory hoots. A shrill voice commanded me to “come off that bike” and a deeper voice hailed me to stop. Looking back, I saw (among others) a weedy youth shaking his fist in my direction and a globular-bodied rural constable coming after me at a speed that was really amazing when one considered his proportions. I had heard of the agility of the rhinoceros but I had never believed in it until I saw that rural constable. Still, he was no match for a cyclist.

When I next looked round, a light carrier’s cart had appeared. It soon became less light, for the constable got in; and then the driver plied his whip and the cart came along in my wake, clattering like the horses and chariots in Pharaoh’s pursuing army. I pedalled for all I was worth. It was too late to change my mind now. And though that cart hung on doggedly, it grew smaller and smaller in the increasing distance. The last that I saw of it was at a crossroad, down which it turned, leaving the constable a tiny, threatening spot on the white highway.

A little way past the milestone that recorded “three miles to Ashford”, I came to a small inn which bore on its signboard the words “White Cow”. I had now plenty of time in which to walk the rest of the way, and it seemed a wise thing to disencumber myself of my borrowed steed. Entering, I ordered a glass of beer, and, having hastily consumed it, I asked the landlord to take charge of the bicycle.

“It belongs to Mr Miker,” I explained. “I expect he will call for it by and by. Will you give it to him and tell him that I am much obliged for the loan of it?”

The landlord promised to give the message, and I then got on the road once more, stepping out at a good round pace and congratulating myself on having made a skilful escape from a compromising situation. Soon after leaving the inn I came to a rather steep hill, at the top of which the road ran along the level for some considerable distance before again descending. I had proceeded along the level tract and was close to the brow of the hill when I became aware of the hum of a bicycle, approaching rapidly from behind. I looked quickly over my shoulder, and my heart sank. Ye Gods and little fishes! It was that confounded rural constable!

I gave one despairing glance at the town of Ashford, spread out before my yearning gaze. Another couple of miles and I had been safe. It was a pitiful thing to be shipwrecked within sight of port, but shipwrecked I apparently was. For the constable swept alongside, and dismounting lightly, laid a colossal paw on my shoulder.

“Got yer!” said he.

I turned sharply, and casting on him a disdainful glance, demanded haughtily:

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he replied. “I charge you with stealing this bicycle.”

I laughed scornfully; though I didn’t feel much like laughing, I can assure you.

“My good man,” said I, “how on earth can I have stolen the bicycle when you have got it in your possession?”

“Now don’t argue with me,” he retorted. “I’ve caught you in flagranto delictum. Saw yer prig it with my own eyes. You just come along back with me.”

It was a desperate situation and called for desperate efforts. I thought frantically for a few seconds and then burst into a hollow laugh, pointing at the bicycle.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “that’s the machine that I left at the ‘White Cow’!”

“Quite right,” said the constable.

“Ha! ha!” I shouted. “You are actually charging me with stealing my own bicycle on which my name is legibly painted for all the world to see. Look here!” and I pointed to the inscription.

The constable began to look puzzled. “Your name ain’t Robert Miker,” said he. “This here bike belongs to young Bob Miker, the wheelwright.”

“Oh, I see,” said I. “You are confusing me with some other Robert Miker. How very amusing! Most ridiculous comedy of errors! But I’ll soon prove to you that this is my bicycle. You noticed that peculiar tilt of the right pedal?”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied.

“Didn’t you really?” said I, cocking up my right great toe. “I’m surprised at that. I had the pedal specially built to fit this slight deformity of my right foot.”

The constable stared at the pedal and then at my foot, which certainly had a rather quaint appearance with the toe cocking up inside the boot.

“I don’t see nothing peculiar about the pedal,” said he.

“Let me show you,” said I. “You’ll see at once if I place my foot on the pedal. It twists up on the inside. You’ll see it better if you stoop a little. Now.”

I placed my foot on the pedal and he crouched down in the attitude of a frog preparing to spring, his mouth open and his eyes protruding with intelligent curiosity.

“Don’t you see?” I asked.

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

I gave his shoulder a sharp push: and, as he toppled over backwards like an overturned china mandarin, making a frantic snatch at me as he fell, I stood up on the pedal and flung my left leg over the saddle. The bicycle started forward and I urged it with all my strength. But it was a near thing. The constable picked himself up in a moment and came bouncing along the road like a gigantic football. Indeed, if it had not been for the sharp descent he would have caught me before the machine had time to get up speed. As it was, I went over the brow of the hill and picked up speed in two or three revolutions. And then, of course, the constable was nowhere. In a few seconds I was flying down the hill at twenty or thirty miles an hour, and even when I reached the level at the bottom, I kept up the pace so far as I was able until I ran into the station approach at Ashford.

I had just time to take my ticket and book the bicycle (in the name of Miker) before the train rumbled into the station. Selecting an empty carriage, I took a corner seat by the door and, flinging my hat into the rack, wiped my brow. For the moment, I was safe. I had run the two miles in about seven minutes and the constable couldn’t do it in much under half an hour. But he would get to the station before I should reach Canterbury, and he would probably telegraph my description. That was awkward. And the train did not stop at any intermediate station. It was very awkward.

The bell rang; a smartly-dressed Hebrew gentleman in a new straw hat bustled into my compartment, and the train started. I resumed my disquieting reflections. Could a telegraphed description lead to identification? I doubted it. I wore a common tweed suit and so did most of the other men in the train. I was dark, with aquiline features; but so were plenty of other men. The only distinctive feature in my get-up was my hat – a green soft felt. That hat was the weak spot in my armour. I hadn’t noticed another like it on the platform. If I had been alone I would have dropped it out of the window and risked going through the barrier hatless; but there was the Hebrew chappie opposite. He would see me drop it and might give information.

I had not solved the problem when the train ran into Canterbury. My fellow passenger stood up and thrust his head and shoulders out of the window. I stood up, too – and – quite automatically, as it seemed – reached the Hebrew gentleman’s straw hat down from the rack and clapped it on my head. It was a loosish fit, but that didn’t matter. Then my companion popped his head in and asked me:

“Do I change here for Margate?”

Now the fact is that he should have changed, but – well, necessity knows no law.

“No,” I replied. “Stay where you are,” and with this I hopped out and walked quickly through the barrier. By the side of the ticket collector I noticed a tall, burly man who seemed to eye the passengers curiously, but he was no concern of mine. I hurried through and made for the exit. But just as I was passing out, I heard a loud commotion from the neighbourhood of the barrier. I cast an instantaneous glance back and saw that tall, burly man struggling with a Hebrew gentleman in a green felt hat. And I waited to see no more.

The shops were still open when I emerged from the station and dived down the first by-street. I zigzagged through quiet lanes and courts to the farther side of the town – dropping the cloakroom ticket into a convenient letter box on my way – and, having bought a cloth cap and deposited the straw hat (which was marked inside “I Cohen”) in a deep doorway in an unfrequented by-street, I began to consider the outfit necessary for my proposed raid on Simon Glynn’s vault. A crowbar, a pick and a shovel were what was really needed; but this equipment would be just a trifle conspicuous. Besides, I really did not contemplate operations on that scale. If there was actual digging to be done, I should have to compound with Burbler and share the proceeds. The outfit that I eventually purchased at the tool shop consisted of a large case-opener – practically a small crowbar – a half-dozen window wedges (to prevent the stone from dropping back when I had prised it up), one or two candles, and a botanist’s trowel; a feeble set of appliances, but sufficient if it was only a question of lifting a covering stone and exploring a vault.

“The shades of night were falling fast” when I approached the village of Bouldersby by a solitary footpath. I had not hurried; for time was no object. And I was not hurrying now. On the contrary, I found my footsteps lagging more and more as the distance lessened and the old church loomed up more distinctly in the gathering gloom. It was not mere caution that made me linger, though I went mighty warily and kept a bright lookout. The fact is, that as I drew nearer to the church, I began to develop a most uncommon distaste for the job. It is all very well to sneer at vulgar superstition, but there is something very revolting in the idea of breaking into the resting place of the dead in the mere, sordid search for money. Moreover, it was only now that I began fully to realize the extreme vagueness of my quest. Supposing I got the vault open? What then? The treasure could not be exposed to view, or the people who buried Simon, himself, would have seen it. And if it was hidden in the vault, what clue had I to the hiding place?

It was quite dark when, in a chastened, and even depressed, frame of mind, I sneaked in through the lychgate and crept stealthily across the churchyard. Through the open and lighted windows of the adjoining rectory there stole out into the summer night sounds of revelry and mirth, including a mid-Victorian solo by a brassy-voiced gentleman who (according to his own statement) bore the unusual name of “Champagne Charley”. The light and life, the laughter and the gay, if unmelodious song, seemed by contrast to accentuate the sordid gruesomeness of my ghoulish quest. Tremulously and guiltily I sought the little doorway and groped my way down the mossy steps, not daring to strike a light for fear of being seen from the rectory windows.

The crypt was as dark as a vault. I had to back down the last few steps on all fours, and, when I reached the bottom, I felt my way along the wall to the farthest corner. And here I thought it safe to strike a match and light one of my candles.

But I was loath to begin. I unpacked my parcel of tools and laid them on the stone floor, speculating once more on what I should do when I got down into the vault. Then I examined the joints of the stone that I was to raise and was almost disappointed to find them amply wide enough to admit the chisel-edge of the case-opener. At last, violently screwing up my courage to the sticking point, I seized the case-opener and one or two wedges and prepared to make the first, repulsive effort. And at that moment my ear caught distinctly a sound of movement from somewhere above with an audible metallic clink.

Instantly, I blew out my candle, and, standing stock-still, listened. The sounds were repeated – nearer, this time: and then I heard a fumbling footstep on the stone stairs and again the clink of metal. I shrank back into the uttermost corner; a useless proceeding, for there was not cover enough to conceal an earwig. The intruder reached the floor, and, having laid on it some metallic objects, struck a match, by the light of which I saw a large man with his back towards me. He was lighting a sort of Guy Fawkes lantern such as carters use, and, when he had got the wick alight, he turned towards me, staring into the lantern as he regulated the flame, so that the light shone full on his face. Need I say that the face was that of Sergeant Burbler?

Having adjusted the wick, the detective threw the light of the lantern round the crypt and, naturally, its rays fell upon me; whereupon the sergeant opened his eyes and mouth unnecessarily widely and let fall one or two unconsidered remarks which I need not report verbatim.

“I thought you were at Tunbridge Wells, Mr Cobb!” he concluded.

“I thought you were at Chatham!” I retorted.

“Well, I came back unexpectedly,” said he.

“So did I,” was my rejoinder.

An embarrassing silence followed during which we eyed one another with hostile stares. Finally the sergeant’s face relaxed into a sour grin.

“Well, here we are,” said he, stating an incontestable truth. “It’s no good gaping at one another like a couple of fools. I suppose it will have to be a partnership job. That suit you?”

“Perfectly,” I replied. “We go halves, of course?”

“That’s it. And, look here, Mr Cobb: we keep our mouths shut about this little affair. This is a matter of treasure trove, and I suppose you know how the law stands, being, I understand, a sort of half-baked lawyer.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir!” I exclaimed indignantly. “I am an articled clerk and I shall be a fully qualified solicitor in a few months. And I may tell you that this is not a case of treasure-trove. We are acting on the express instructions of the deceased. I regard that inscription on the mirror as having a testamentary character. The treasure is definitely stated to be a personal bequest to the finder.”

“I doubt if a court of law would take that view,” said Burbler. “Anyhow, it will be safer for us to keep our own counsel. Morally speaking, the stuff is ours, and that is all that matters.”

This being an eminently reasonable view to take of the case, I agreed to inviolable secrecy as to the treasure, and the sergeant then began his preparations. His outfit was a much more businesslike one than mine, for it included a small spade and a very large and massive folding jemmy. The latter, when the joints were screwed together, was about three feet long and was a decidedly hefty tool for use either as a crow or a pick; and when the sergeant had “jumped” its beak into the joint between the stones, one or two vigorous heaves at the knobbed handle fairly lifted the inscribed slab out of its bed.

“Now, Mr Cobb,” exclaimed Burbler, “just stick that bar of yours into the opening while I get a fresh purchase.”

I thrust in the case-opener, and the sergeant took a fresh purchase with his jemmy. Another strong heave, and the stone came up a couple of inches. I seized its edge and held it until the sergeant, dropping the jemmy, came to my assistance. Then with a united effort we hoisted the stone right up and turned it back, disclosing a square, black hole and the top of a flight of brick steps.

It was an uninviting-looking entrance and we both gazed at it in silence and without any enthusiastic tendency to struggle for precedence.

“Well,” the sergeant remarked, at length, “it’s a small hole, Mr Cobb; we can’t both go down at once.”

I admitted that we could not, and suggested the propriety of lowering the lantern to make sure that the air was not too foul.

“Yes, that’s true,” said Burbler, “but I haven’t got any string. Just hold the lantern down at arm’s length and see how it burns.”

I lay down on the pavement and let the lantern down as far as I could reach. It burned quite well but failed to make the interior of the vault clearly visible; in fact, I could see nothing at all save an enormous cluster of horrible-looking fungi which occupied the lower steps and generated in me an urgent desire to see Burbler go down first.

I lifted up the lantern, and the sergeant and I gazed at one another irresolutely. And then the deathly silence of the crypt was suddenly shattered by a brassy voice which shouted:

“Body-snatchers, by jingo!”

The sergeant and I leaped to our feet, and Burbler nearly fell down the hole. The light of the lantern revealed two men, one of whom – a fiddle-faced, red-jowled old sinner who looked like a retired military officer – was in evening dress, while the other was obviously a clergyman. The newcomers stared at us and we stared at them; and a very embarrassing situation it was for the sergeant and me.

“Taken red-handed, by Jove!” said the violin-faced warrior. “Caught on the bally hop! What!”

As this remark, though vulgarly expressed, stated an undeniable truth, no comment seemed to be called for. Moreover, neither the sergeant nor I was at the moment bursting with conversational matter. So we continued to gape at the intruders like a couple of fools.

Then the parson spoke.

“Would you kindly explain,” said he, “what is the meaning of these very strange proceedings?”

I left the explanation to Burbler as the more expert and accomplished liar. But he was not so ready as I should have expected. He gibbered confusedly for a few seconds and then replied with a most unconvincing stammer:

“We are –er– engaged in –er–er– archæological research.”

The parson smiled faintly and the warrior, glaring ferociously at Burbler, growled:

“Archæological bunkum!” and then fixed an inquisitive eye on the sergeant’s jemmy.

“If you wish to know what is under this crypt,” said the parson,” I can save you the trouble of further excavation, for I was not only present but I personally supervised the reconstruction of the Glynn vault some twenty years ago.”

“Indeed!” gasped Burbler.

“Yes. There seems to have been some silly tradition of a buried treasure in the vault, and as a result we suffered a good deal of inconvenience. There was a tendency on the part of unauthorized persons to injure the iron gate and – and, in short, to engage in archæological research.”

Here the fiddle-faced ass flung up his fat head and roared:

“Ha! ha! Archæological, by gum! Dam good that! Excuse me, Padre.”

“So,” pursued the parson, “I thought it desirable to set the matter at rest by a thorough examination of the vault. Needless to say, nothing was discovered beyond the bones of the deceased and the decayed remnants of two oaken coffins. I had the entire floor of the crypt dug up and the foundations examined, and then the vault was rebuilt, the remains re-coffined, and the pavement of the crypt relaid as you see it now. Is there anything else that you would like to know?”

“No, thank you,” replied Burbler. “That settles our hash – I mean to say, that is all the information that we require.”

“Then, in that case, perhaps you would like me to show you the most convenient way out of the precincts?”

“Thank you, it’s very good of you, sir,” said Burbler: and the parson rejoined: “Not at all.”

We picked up our ridiculous tools – excepting the jemmy, which the warrior pounced on and examined attentively before handing it to the sergeant – and took our way sadly up the steps and along the churchyard path. At the lychgate the parson wished us a courteous “Good evening”, and his companion leaned over the gate and bellowed after us:

“You’ve had a devilish easy let-off, you two rascals. Suppose you know it’s a misdemeanour to be found at night with housebreaking tools? What? Oh, I know a jemmy when I see one, don’t you make any mistake!”

“I expect you do,” snapped Burbler. “Done a bit in that line yourself, eh?” and he turned away, leaving the fiddle-faced warrior gasping.

The sergeant and I trudged dejectedly along the high road, and for a while neither of us spoke. At length I ventured to remark:

“Well, sergeant, Simon Glynn has been one too many for us this time.”

But Burbler’s heart was too full for conversation. He only replied with a morose growl:

“Damn Simon Glynn.”