REST IN PEACE

Written by Peter Bayliss
December 1997

he heavy old iron key made a scraping noise in the lock as it turned. The sound echoed noisily in the empty church. Then, pushing and pulling in turn, the churchwarden and the vicar managed to force the little door in the north transept open wide enough to squeeze inside. William handed the Rev. Cuthbertson one of the torches he'd brought and they shone them down a narrow corridor to the left, which ended in worn steps going down beneath the floor-level of St. Matthews.       "This is indeed a find," announced the vicar, coughing in the musty air. "A crypt that we didn't know existed..."       There was an almost tangible quality to the inky blackness. A faint dripping sound could be heard, and their breath plumed mistily in the torchlight. Their progress was very slow as they carefully descended the steps, their free hands feeling along the icy hardness of the stone wall at their side for guidance.      "It was strange, vicar, that dream of yours..."      "Yes, very strange. The Lord works in mysterious ways, William. There must have been some hidden purpose behind my being given such a vision."       "The figure that you saw," continued the churchwarden.       "What did it look like?" With an involuntary shudder, he swatted away a cobweb which brushed against his cheek.
	"I couldn't really make out the features. The face was indistinct. But the figure seemed to be wearing some sort of clerical vestments ... as if he was a previous incumbent. Very old-fashioned they were too, William ... why, 17th or 18th-century I should say. And I saw him enter this same little doorway here where no door existed in our modern church - or at least where one had been covered up by plaster."
The plasterwork in St. Matthews had all been a Victorian addition, so when the two men had earlier that day chipped away at it, they felt they were restoring rather than defacing. The door underneath had been locked, but the Rev. Cuthbertson remembered an old key which fitted none of the other doors. It had been kept in an oak chest in the vestry.

          They came to the bottom of the steps and could make out a faint bluish light in front of them at a little above head height.
      "We must be almost there," said Cuthbertson. They soon found themselves in a small subterranean chamber with a grill at the top of the side wall. Through this they could see the edge of the gravel footpath around the churchyard. There was not enough light, however, to illuminate the room, but there was just enough to give them a tantalising glimpse of something twinkling in the corner.
      Their torches showed up a collection of shiny, metallic objects, candlesticks, goblets, plate, some crosses, statuettes and other gilded ornaments.
       "The good Lord be praised," said the vicar. "Before I'd had the dream, I'd been worrying about how we were going to find the money to keep St. Matthews in good repair. So this is why the dream was sent to me." He shakes his head in wonder.
      "This is incredible, William. I would guess these things were put here for safekeeping in the 17th-century, you know, when Cromwell's soldiers were despoiling so many of the churches."
     The churchwarden's eyes glittered. "All ... all this..." he stammered. "Our financial problems are at an end, vicar. There must be more than enough here to restore and refurbish the church ... why, we could do all sorts of wonderful things for the village ... the church school needs such a lot of work doing to it." He rubbed his hands together. "Let's see, we could..." He began to tick off an imaginary list on his fingers.

      At one side of the treasure, the Rev. Cuthbertson found a ragged skeleton, its bones covered with shreds of black cloth.
      "Look at this, William. It must be the figure out of my dream. I suppose, you see, that he must've decided to hide here when the soldiers were coming. Like a priest's hole. Of course, we know the plasterwork was Victorian, but perhaps there was something else in front of the door -- an arras or frame -- to hide it."
      The mind of the churchwarden was miles away. "We could give the old priest a proper burial in the churchyard," he said. "We could leave some of the treasure here, d'you see, vicar, and we could have an effigy of the priest in 17th-century garb ... a bit of subdued lighting for effect ... a donation-box by the door ... it could be a real money-spinner, vicar ... a tourist attraction."
      The Rev. Cuthbertson looked at the skeleton and seemed to see the priest glaring back at him disapprovingly from vacant eye-sockets.
      "Now then, William, you're getting carried away. This is a church, you know, not Madame Tussaud's. Remember where you are. The old priest ... he loved his church, and he would rather be here inside than out there in the churchyard. He died, I think, from natural causes- probably from all the strain of moving the treasures so they'd be safe for future generations. I'm even a little worried about making any sort of, er, profit out of this discovery, though I guess it'd be okay if it was to save his beloved church from decay."
      "But I guess," added the vicar, "it might be better to think about what to do in the morning." He shone the torch on his wristwatch. "It's getting late, William." The Rev. Cuthbertson and his churchwarden turned and went back along the passage, closing the transept door behind them. They carefully stepped over the plasterwork they'd scraped from the wall to reveal the door. They left behind them the newly discovered crypt with the dead priest like a pharaoh guarding his treasures.

      The next morning, both Cuthbertson and the churchwarden were astonished to find that the mysterious door in the north transept had completely disappeared. The plasterwork had been put back on the wall, which now appears as smooth as if it'd never been touched. But all the treasure from the crypt was heaped up against the wall. "To save his beloved church," murmured the vicar to himself. He said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.