Free Ellis Peters - George Felse 04 - A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs by Ellis Peters Page A

but more tolerant.
    The great waste of sand opened before them, and the great waste of sea beyond, a vast still plane and a vast vibrating plane. Through the tamarisk fronds they saw to the left the fanged head of the Dragon jutting out to sea, and nearer, at the southern end of the length of Pentarno sands, the low pebbly ridge of the Mortuary, dark with the rim of weed that built up there with every incoming tide. To their right was the clean, bright sand where young Paddy ran down to bathe every morning and every afternoon during the holidays. And here, tucked away on their left at the blown limit of the dunes, was St. Nectan’s church. They saw it first by the small, squat tower and the little peaked roof over the empty lantern where once there had been a bell. Then, as they entered the small, cleared bowl, the whole building stood before them; very small, plain as a barn, with tiny, high lancet windows pierced here and there without plan or pattern, a narrow, crooked, porchless door with a scratched dog-tooth border almost eroded away, and a rounded tympanum with a crude little carving that could barely be distinguished now.
    “Saxon, all the base of the walls,” said the Vicar, bounding out of the back of the Land-Rover and approaching George as he stood contemplating the relic. “Windows and door and lantern very early Norman. The roof was re-slated not long before they gave it up as a bad job and built St. Mary’s. The foundations go right down to the rock. We keep losing this, but St. Mary’s will fall down first.”
    The permanence and elemental quality of the sea pervaded the little church, the laboriously cleared graveyard with its stunted stones and erased names, the feathery curtains of tamarisks. Only the large grey hulk of the Treverra tomb, a stone cube rising about three feet above the surrounding ground, still obstinately asserted its own identity.
    Before the tomb there was a railed-in pit, stone-lined and narrow, like a Victorian area. The iron gate swung freely on its newly-oiled hinges, and the fresh drift of sand was already filming over the steps of the staircase that descended to the low, broad door.
    “I thought we should be sure to have an audience,” said Simon, coming from the Porsche with a large iron key in his hand.
    Tim laughed. “We have. Don’t you know ’em yet? Half Pentarno and a fair sprinkling of Maymouth is deployed wherever there’s cover along the coast road, moving in on us quietly right now. By the time we’re down the steps and inside they’ll be massing all round the rim. Only just within sight, they won’t cramp you, but they won’t miss a thing.”
    “One of my choirboys,” said the Vicar brightly, “borrowed my binoculars this morning. I didn’t ask him why. I fancy most of the trebles are up on the Dragon’s Head, passing them round. It’s more fun that way. Shall we go down?”
    They already had their gear piled outside the sunken door. Simon trod gently down the steps, disturbing the furls of blown sand, and fitted Miss Rachel’s key into the huge lock. It turned with ready smoothness, a fact on which, George noted, nobody commented. Sam Shubrough’s benign red face was serene in ambush behind his noble whiskers, his eyes as placid as the sea. They entered the vault, letting in daylight with them to a segment of rock flooring, thinly and idly patterned with coils of sand that must have drifted under the door. It fitted closely, or there would surely have been much more. A well-sealed place, dry and clean, the walls faced with stone slabs, shutting out even the saltness of the sea air. Treverra had made himself snug.
    Tim switched on the electric lamp he was carrying, and set it on the stone ledge that ran all round the walls at shoulder-height. Sam added a second one at the other side. And there they were, the two massive stone coffins, each set upon a plinth carved clear and left standing when the vault was cut deep into the rock. They occupied the