‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘How recently d’you think it was done?’
‘Within the last few months, from the looks of it.’
Months? So, while Fletcher was still here. I suddenly think about the architectural plans in the box. Did he discover the vault? Maybe find a way down? But why pave over it again?
‘Right.’ Kirsty takes a hammer and another chisel from the toolbox, as well as some protective goggles and a dust mask. ‘You might want to stand well back. Here we go.’
The sound of the chisel striking stone echoes around the empty chapel. It reverberates through me, almost as if someone is taking the chisel to my own bones. I glance at Flo. She pulls a face and sticks her fingers in her ears.
Kirsty brings the hammer down on the chisel again then pulls away a chunk of stone paving slab. ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ she says. ‘This stuff is like papier mâché.’
It doesn’t sound like it, unfortunately. I grimace as she whacks the hammer against the chisel on another corner of paving. This time, the whole lot crumbles and falls through what is now a much wider hole. I hear the bits of stone crash into the vault below.
Kirsty pulls her mask down and regards her handiwork. ‘Okay, I think if I just lift this older flagstone here, we can expose the top of the stairway.’
She bends and starts to lift the stone. I go to help.
‘Careful,’ she says. ‘We don’t want to damage it.’
We wiggle the stone free of the loose cement.
‘One, two, three …’ Kirsty says. ‘Heave.’
We lift the stone up – my back twinges – and place it down to one side.
‘Whoah,’ Flo mutters, coming closer.
We stare into the hole. The removal of the paving slabs has revealed a steep and uneven staircase that leads down to a vaulted tunnel.
Kirsty crouches right down, examining the tunnel roof with her torch. ‘The rest of the foundations look okay. It’s just this section that has rotted.’
‘Right,’ I say, pulling my own torch out of my pocket. ‘I’ll go down first. Flo, I think you should stay up here.’
‘No way.’ She folds her arms. ‘We go together.’
There’s no point arguing. I know that look. I invented that look.
‘Fine. All together it is.’
I snap the torch on and gingerly start down the stone steps. They are barely wide enough to fit half of my foot on and there is nothing to hold on to for balance, just the smooth and slightly damp curved wall. At some point there must have been a trapdoor here, I think.
‘Mind your footing,’ I say to Flo and Kirsty, who are following closely behind me.
The torches illuminate about four or five steps ahead. My shoulders brush the brick. As I near the bottom, the vault opens out. I straighten and point the torch around. I hear Kirsty whistle. The underground room is small and narrow. The ceiling curves above us. Clustered in an arch on one side of the vault are three coffins.
Flo mutters. ‘Total Bram Stoker.’
I feel a small chill. Which is ridiculous, of course. I’m a vicar. I deal with death and coffins pretty regularly. And yet, down here, beneath the ground, in the darkness …
‘So, this is a crypt,’ Kirsty says.
‘That’s what most vaults are,’ I say. ‘Basically, fancy graves for those deemed of importance within the village or town.’
Curiosity is now getting the better of claustrophobia. I walk up to the coffins and train my torch on them. They’re all a bit mouldy and warped, but only the uppermost one has completely cracked open, revealing its occupant.
Or perhaps the occupant was trying to claw his way out?
I shove that helpful thought aside and try to focus. Each coffin has a slightly corroded brass plaque on the top, engraved with the name of the deceased:
James Oswald Harper, 1531–1569. Isabel Harper, 1531–1570. And finally, Andrew John Harper, 1533–1575.
The Harper family vault. Except, something isn’t right. Something is itching at the back of my mind.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ I say.
‘Why?’ Flo asks. ‘You just said rich families had their coffins put into vaults?’
‘Yes, but the story goes that the Harper family were Sussex Martyrs, burnt at the stake for refusing to renounce their religion.’
‘That’s right,’ Kirsty says. ‘Their names are on the memorial. We restored it only last year.’
That’s what is bugging me. The names on the memorial. The same names. If the Harpers were burnt at the stake, what are they doing buried down here?
‘When did the purge of Chapel Croft take place?’
‘Oh, we did this in school,’ Kirsty says. ‘The Protestant Purge of Chapel Croft took place on the night of 17 September 1556.’
I point at the plaques on the coffins. ‘So why are the dates of death different – over a decade later?’
We all stare at the coffins.
‘So, you’re thinking they weren’t burnt as martyrs?’ Flo says.
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
It looks like, somewhere along the line, someone has decided to rewrite history. Easy enough to do. Record keeping was poor in the sixteenth century. And didn’t Rushton say that the fire destroyed most of the parish records?
And history is written by the ruthless.
‘But everyone knows that the Harpers were Sussex Martyrs,’ Kirsty says. ‘It’s kind of a big deal. If it isn’t true …’ She trails off.
If it isn’t true, then the Harper family name would be irrevocably tarnished. It might even mean they were the ones who betrayed the burning girls to save their own necks. And that is a big deal in a small village. Does Simon Harper know his family reputation is built on a lie? Is that why he ‘donated’ money to the church? To keep it hidden? But, if that’s the case, it would mean that someone within the church must have been complicit in covering it up.
I stare at the skull of James Oswald Harper. It’s in surprisingly good condition. I frown. And then I train my torch inside the coffin. What the hell?
‘Kirsty, could you just point your torch over here?’
‘Sure.’
‘What is it?’ Flo asks.
I don’t reply. I stick my torch in my mouth and, using both hands, tug at the cracked wood of the split coffin.
‘Mum,’ Flo says, sounding worried. ‘What are you doing?’
I grunt and pull again. There’s a crrrrack that echoes around the small chamber and the entire wooden coffin lid peels off. I stagger backwards, clutching the broken lid. The coffin tips to one side and a skeletal body tumbles out.
Flo yelps. Even Kirsty mutters, ‘Shit!’
I stare at the remains on the ground. Then I look back at the coffin, where a far more decayed, brown skeleton rests inside. That’s what I saw. A second skull. A second body inside the coffin.
‘Wh— why are there two?’ Kirsty gasps.
Good question. I crouch down beside the first skeleton. Only slightly yellowed. Dressed in a black priest’s cassock and white dog collar. Strands of blond hair still cling to the scalp. And then I spot something else.
On one finger is a chunky silver signet ring.
I crawl forward and gently lift the skeletal fingers, peering at the ring more closely. Engraved on the front is a saint wielding a cross and a sword. Words in Latin run around the circumference: