sunlit churchyard full of ancient tombstones which sprouted from the well-cut grass.
That first impression of loving-care was confirmed by a notice pinned on the board beside the gateway:
'This Churchyard received a Special Commendation in the Churchyard Section of the 1974 Best Kept Village Competition. Visitors are asked not to disturb the south-east corner, which has been left in its natural state for the purpose of ecological study.'
Mosby pushed the wooden gate gingerly, fearing to disturb the false ecological tranquillity of a scene under cover of which millions of insects and small creatures were doubtless busily eating and being eaten. The hinges had been well-oiled, however—as one would expect of a Specially Commended churchyard—and it was not until the latch clicked shut again that he startled a group of glossy young blackbirds from their breakfast among the graves. Even then they flew only a few yards, to settle as though by common consent on another favourite feeding ground, full of confidence and greed. No doubt graveyard worms were especially succulent, even though man's role in the food chain of this older part of the churchyard, where the stones were grey-weathered, had long been exhausted.
The crunch of the gravel under his feet was unnaturally loud, so he forsook the path for the grass, pausing to read those stones which still had legible inscriptions.
Anthony Price - Our man in camelot
A life-long love story there, maybe, with Sarah hastening to follow her George. Or maybe just a hard winter balancing the ecological books.
But it would be nice to think of another stone some day, somewhere:
Nice, but goddamn ridiculous. He didn't even know her real date of birth any more than he knew her real name.
He still had a full half-hour in hand before Harry Finsterwald arrived, enough time for him to see all the things Margaret Handforth-Jones would expect him to have seen.
But first things first. The church was unlocked and the door of the vestry was open, as Margaret had said it would be, and the Mothers' Union banner was there waiting for him, neatly furled alongside a crisp white line of choirboys' surplices and what looked like the vicar's second-best jacket and emergency dog-collar.
Reassured, he went back into the main part of the church; the banner could wait until after he'd met Finsterwald. It was one thing to beat General Ellsworth with it, at a time and place of his own choosing, but quite another to present Finsterwald with so choice a tit-bit.
Next, the tower—he must be able to enthuse about the 'super views', even if the other finer points of church architecture would have to be dismissed on the 'we've-got-nothing-like-that-back-home' level.
The tower door was concealed behind a heavy curtain and although it was also unlocked it was secured with a massive iron bolt, so stiff and set so high up that it would have discouraged the more adventurous of the local small fry. And the route thereafter was well-calculated to put off most other explorers: at first a steep stair climbed awkwardly in the thickness of the stone wall to another high-bolted door which opened on to a bell-ringing level festooned with ropes which disappeared into holes in a ceiling far above; faded biblical exhortations 'O Lord, open Thou our lips' and 'Our mouths shall show forth Thy praise', painted on the walls in large letters, gave place to a curtly printed card 'KEEP THIS TRAP
SHUT' thumb-tacked on a trapdoor at the head of a rickety wooden staircase. After that there was a level empty except for the continuing bell-ropes and a naked ladder climbing to another trapdoor bearing a similar notice; then, at last, the bells themselves, huge and still in the confined space… one of Ellsworth's ambassadors, an officer of no known religious persuasion, had become an enthusiastic bell-ringer (and a devotee of warm English beer into the bargain)—he had even tried to infect Mosby with his strange mathematical passion for change ringing, but to no avail… and then another ladder to another trapdoor.
Then blessed sunlight and fresh air, and the cooing of pigeons turning into the flapping of heavy wings as the trap banged open.
Mosby caught his breath and steadied himself on one of the tall stone pinnacles which had looked so delicate from ground level, but which now had comforting stability. It was humiliating to have such a poor head for heights, and especially this particular height, the uneasy treetop zone belonging neither to earth nor heaven, too high for safety and too low for detachment. The slight queasiness in his stomach and the prickle of sweat on his face were the familiar symptoms of the fear he always experienced at the moment of take-off and landing.
Anthony Price - Our man in camelot
The difference was that here they were totally irrational, he told himself angrily: the tower of St Swithun's Church had stood firm for half a thousand years and was probably good for the next thousand.
If there was any place where he could get to grips with his weakness it was here.
Looking down was worst, so he would look down first—
In the stillness of the churchyard the movement at the gate caught his eye instantly. And even if there had been no movement the bright blue and yellow of Harry Finsterwald's check shirt would have shouted at him.
He cursed under his breath and looked at his watch. Just when he'd found the guts to experiment with his fear the stupid jerk had to jump the gun by a full twenty-five minutes, breaking the rule (which admittedly he had also broken, but with better reason) that rendezvous times should be kept exactly unless—
The sudden thought shrank Mosby into the cover of the pinnacle. Then, very slowly, he raised his head into the right angle where the stone upright joined the parapet and peeked down again.
