CHAPTER EIGHT

THE LEGEND OF EDWYN WARWICK

“Ol’ Warwick was an influential fellow, no one doubts that,” began the vagrant, “but the curious things was no one, not the business folk, nor the judges, nor even the priests themselves knew where ’ee was laid to rest. Then, some fifty years ago, there was a tremor beneath this very church. The ground shifted, see, and a wall collapsed, over there.” He pointed a shaking finger towards the south transept. “It were a door, bricked up and forgotten for I don’t knows ’ow many years.

“The priest of the time, ’ee lit a candle, and crept into the ’ole, finding a staircase, the steps crumblin’ with age. Ventured down, ’ee did, and found ’isself in a vault, deep beneath the church. Packed with coffins it were, right up to the ceiling. Now the priest, ’ee were a curious sort of fellow. ’Ee started pokin’ around, lookin’ to see who were interred down there in the darkness. He found one coffin, marked with a name, it was.

“Sophia Warwick.

“’Is heart, it skipped a beat, because young Sophia was the niece of ol’ Edwyn. She’d died a young ’un, but like ’er uncle, no one knew where the poor girl was buried. The priest, ’ee started searchin’ all the harder, until it found the finest coffin ’ee did ever seen. Right up ’igh it were, near the ceilin’. Solid oak, brass ’andles, the works…

“They bring it out, this coffin, but there’s no name, nothing to say who’s layin’ inside. Askin’ God’s forgiveness, the priest gets a crowbar and thrusts it into the lid. Grittin’ ’is teeth, ’ee ’eaves and ’eaves with all ’is might. One by one, the nails they comes loose, and the priest yanks open the lid to reveal Edwyn Warwick laid out in front of ’im. The priest starts, callin’ out to the blessed Mother for protection, because ol’ Warwick lying there in ’is coffin is resplendent, see, like a man gone to sleep, not one who’s been dead for a hundred years or more.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, interrupting the monologue.

“It’s nonsense,” insisted Ebberston.

“I say it ain’t,” insisted Pete. “You weren’t there, Father, but I were. When I were a boy, I worked in a merchant’s ’ouse and I remembers the priest running through the doors, driven ’alf mad with what ’ee found. My master, ’ee rushes over ’ere to sees for ’isself. I came with ’im, and saw it as clear as I sees you now.

“Warwick’s skin was soft and flushed, see? ’Is ’air wafting in the breeze. ’Is lips, they were parted, and ’is teeth shone like stars. My skin, it was crawlin’ at the sight of ’im. Any minute now, I thought, Ol’ Warwick’s gonna open those eyes of ’is and stare into thy very soul.

“Weren’t long before the church was ’eavin’, mind. Word got round, see, and the good and the great, they came from all around to gawp and gape at Warwick’s body. Even ’is descendants, they comes down from London; they wept like babbers, when they saw ’im lying out like that. ‘It’s a miracle,’ they cried. ‘A miracle!’”

“It’s poppycock,” said Ebberston, his arms by now folded across his chest. “That’s what it is!”

“Do you not believe in miracles, Father?” I said, losing myself in my role. “Why, the good Lord—”

“I’m sorry,” the priest interrupted. “I’ve heard this story time and time again. That this church would become a carnival is unthinkable.”

“And yet they came, mind,” Pete insisted. “The lines, they stretched ’alfway down Corn Street, see. And that’s not all. The gentry they didn’t just come to see the body. They wanted to touch it, as if some of Warwick’s magic would rub off on them. I’ve heard that things were taken, the ring from ’is finger for a start; the cross from around ’is neck.”

“Rubbish,” Ebberston said. “I don’t know where you’re getting this from.”

“I only say what I ’eard, and what I saw with me own eyes. Warwick’s body, it was as fresh as the day ’ee died.”

“Could this not be the miracle that Monsignor Ermacora was investigating?” I asked. “If the body showed no signs of decay—”

“Of course it was showing signs of decay,” Ebberston interrupted, “and I shall tell you what I told the Monsignor. A coffin was found in the vault. It was discovered in the spring of 1844. There was no tremor or earthquake, or whatever claptrap the local legends suggest. Restoration work was being carried out, financed by the League. Yes, Warwick’s body was found and identified, from a ring on his finger.”

“And his remains?”

“Gone to dust. A new lid was secured to the coffin and he was interred here.” Ebberston patted the tomb in front of us. “Where he lies to this very day.”

“Is that so?” came a voice from behind.