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

whole centre of the chamber between them, a narrow passage separating them, a narrow space clear all round them. There was nothing else in the vault.
    Plain altar tombs, their corners moulded into a cluster of pillars, the lips of their lids decorated with a scroll-work of leaves and vines, and a tablet on each lid brought to a high finish to carry the engraved epitaph. By these they were identifiable, even if the one coffin had not been larger than the other, and perhaps two or three inches higher.
     
    “
O Mortal Man
—”
     
    This was Treverra. And the other one, close to his side as in life, was the lady, that frail beauty with the brilliant and daring face. She must have been every inch his match, thought George tracing the deliberate misquotation from Dryden spelled out in challenging capitals over her breast:
     
    “ N ONE B UT T HE B RAVE D ESERVES T HE B RAVE .”
     
    Did a man ever think of that? Surely not! It was a woman making that claim for herself. Not wanting to be understood; wanting, in fact, not to be understood, but delighting in the risk. Why should she give that impression even in dying? She pined away. Only somehow it hadn’t looked like a pining face.
    The Vicar hefted the crowbars into the tomb. He stood holding them upright by his side, like the faithful sentinel, and looked again, long and thoughtfully, at the two coffins. “I’d like to say a prayer first.”
    He prayed with his head unstooped and his eyes open, and in his own unorthodox way.
    “Help us if we’re doing well,” he said, “and forgive us if we’re not. Lord, let there be peace on all here, living and dead.” He looked at the bold words on Morwenna’s coffin, with respect and liking in his face. “And reunion for all true lovers,” he said.
    Simon said: “Amen!”
    “And now, how do you want to handle it?”
    Simon disposed his team as practically as the Vicar prayed, and with the same sense of purpose.
    “I thought we could easily lever the lid from Jan’s coffin over to rest on hers. It’s more than broad enough to span the space between without overbalancing, and the drop’s not more than two and a half inches. We’ll cover her over with these thick felts—I brought them down on purpose—we don’t want to damage either stone. Let’s have two of you over on Morwenna’s side. Right. We three will hoist the stone up on the clear side first, and you can get some thin wedges in. Then we’ll see if there’s a deep rim to deal with, and ease your side out gradually if there is.”
    George was at the head of the tomb, the Vicar in the middle, Simon at the foot. They got their crows started into the well-fitted chink of the stone, and eased it enough to get the first wedges in. After that it was merely a matter of patience. There was a rim to lift free on all sides, but a shallow one, and they got it clear without difficulty.
    “It isn’t so massive,” said Tim, surprised. “Two of us could hoist it off in no time if we didn’t have to be so careful about damaging it.”
    “True enough, but we do.” Simon felt along the under edge where his crow had prised, and grimaced. “Matter of fact, it has chipped a bit. Hmm, here, too. Not much, but it seems to fret easily.”
    The Vicar measured the thickness of the stone slab with an unimpressed eye, and found it thinner than he had supposed. He stooped and set his shoulder under its deep overhang, and hoisted experimentally, and the thing perceptibly shifted.
    “We could lift it, Simon. Between the five of us, and taking it steadily together, now she’s out of the socket we could manhandle her over. Try it!”
    Simon eyed the stone doubtfully, and added another thickness of felt to the protective covering over Morwenna. “All right, we can but try. One at each corner, and I’ll take the middle here. Everybody set? Here we come, then. Gently—heave!”
    The stone moved, slid along in response to their hoist a couple of inches, and disclosed a hair-line of