moved, I assure you."
"That will do no good," she said, and turned to the door. Tom straightened himself and addressed her back with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Mrs Gabriel," he said, "is there something that I don't know? Which you could tell me?"
Her voice came from beyond the door. "What do any of us know about this Church, or its history? Least of all you, young man."
The door shut. Twenty minutes later, Tom was walking through the doorway of Fordrace library.
Vanessa Sawcroft rewarded Tom with a wide smile of welcome as he cautiously approached her desk, wondering not for the first time how she managed to wear her grey twill suit in the throes of midsummer. The library windows were open, but the air was sluggish and smelt of lilac and leather. Ms Sawcroft, a spare, neat woman in her fifties, wore her shirt done up to the neck and her hair in a crisp grey bob, which shimmered slightly as she moved. She fixed Tom with an efficient eye.
"Hallo," said Tom. "I was wondering—"
"You look awfully tired, Reverend," she said.
"Call me Tom," said Tom. "Yes, I am rather. We've had some trouble up at St Wyndham's. There may have been a theft."
"I'm sorry to hear it. Have you come to drown your sorrows in literature?"
"Something like that. I'm after your section on local history."
"Over there on the third shelf. Anything in particular?"
"Church history, local legends, that sort of thing."
"It's all there."
Tom took himself to the shelf indicated, which was pleasantly sited by a high window in a remote corner. A wicker chair with a green cushioned seat awaited him. Scanning the shelves, he plucked from them a pamphlet published by the Fordrace Women's Institute, entitled 'Our Church and its People', and two glossy books about the parish churches of Hereford and Worcester, which would include St Wyndham's.
Neither of the glossy books told him anything he didn't know. His church was Norman, built in the 11th century, quite possibly on a Saxon site. It was named after a minor saint whose exploits were obscure, and had maintained its backwater feel throughout the centuries. It had an attractive tower, a notable mahogany pulpit (which had been brought to the church from Palestine in the 14th century by a benefactor knight), a walled-up prayer room above the chancel and lots of rural peace and quiet. Even this information was out of date, thought Tom. The prayer room had been opened and made safe several years ago, and as for peace and quiet, there was little of that about at St Wyndham's this morning.
The pamphlet was mainly a dreary catalogue of Rotary Clubs, Benevolent Funds and coffee mornings, all of which Tom knew only too well. He flicked his way impatiently from page to page until, under a passage entitled 'Our Rich Heritage', a short paragraph caught his eye.
Although our village's grand tradition of Christian worship has marched forward triumphantly through the centuries, there are strong folk traditions in our area, which have persisted despite the best efforts of our enlightened ministers to discourage them. Today they are mostly quaint superstitions which harm nobody, but this was not always the case. Fordrace was once a local centre of one of the witch scares which so troubled our ancestors, and exorcism in the old days was common.
And that was all. 'Strong folk traditions . . .' Tom frowned. What exactly was he looking for? It was difficult to know. If Mrs Troughton was correct, his church was possibly of great historic significance, and he should certainly know more about its background than he did. Fine. But then there was Mrs Gabriel. A silly old woman for sure, but she evidently attached more significance to the cross than the purely archaeological, and in the light of the theft – that inexplicable theft – it suddenly seemed a very good idea to try and scratch the surface of these 'quaint superstitions', whatever they might be.
At the back of the pamphlet was a short bibliography, which
"That will do no good," she said, and turned to the door. Tom straightened himself and addressed her back with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Mrs Gabriel," he said, "is there something that I don't know? Which you could tell me?"
Her voice came from beyond the door. "What do any of us know about this Church, or its history? Least of all you, young man."
The door shut. Twenty minutes later, Tom was walking through the doorway of Fordrace library.
Vanessa Sawcroft rewarded Tom with a wide smile of welcome as he cautiously approached her desk, wondering not for the first time how she managed to wear her grey twill suit in the throes of midsummer. The library windows were open, but the air was sluggish and smelt of lilac and leather. Ms Sawcroft, a spare, neat woman in her fifties, wore her shirt done up to the neck and her hair in a crisp grey bob, which shimmered slightly as she moved. She fixed Tom with an efficient eye.
"Hallo," said Tom. "I was wondering—"
"You look awfully tired, Reverend," she said.
"Call me Tom," said Tom. "Yes, I am rather. We've had some trouble up at St Wyndham's. There may have been a theft."
"I'm sorry to hear it. Have you come to drown your sorrows in literature?"
"Something like that. I'm after your section on local history."
"Over there on the third shelf. Anything in particular?"
"Church history, local legends, that sort of thing."
"It's all there."
Tom took himself to the shelf indicated, which was pleasantly sited by a high window in a remote corner. A wicker chair with a green cushioned seat awaited him. Scanning the shelves, he plucked from them a pamphlet published by the Fordrace Women's Institute, entitled 'Our Church and its People', and two glossy books about the parish churches of Hereford and Worcester, which would include St Wyndham's.
Neither of the glossy books told him anything he didn't know. His church was Norman, built in the 11th century, quite possibly on a Saxon site. It was named after a minor saint whose exploits were obscure, and had maintained its backwater feel throughout the centuries. It had an attractive tower, a notable mahogany pulpit (which had been brought to the church from Palestine in the 14th century by a benefactor knight), a walled-up prayer room above the chancel and lots of rural peace and quiet. Even this information was out of date, thought Tom. The prayer room had been opened and made safe several years ago, and as for peace and quiet, there was little of that about at St Wyndham's this morning.
The pamphlet was mainly a dreary catalogue of Rotary Clubs, Benevolent Funds and coffee mornings, all of which Tom knew only too well. He flicked his way impatiently from page to page until, under a passage entitled 'Our Rich Heritage', a short paragraph caught his eye.
Although our village's grand tradition of Christian worship has marched forward triumphantly through the centuries, there are strong folk traditions in our area, which have persisted despite the best efforts of our enlightened ministers to discourage them. Today they are mostly quaint superstitions which harm nobody, but this was not always the case. Fordrace was once a local centre of one of the witch scares which so troubled our ancestors, and exorcism in the old days was common.
And that was all. 'Strong folk traditions . . .' Tom frowned. What exactly was he looking for? It was difficult to know. If Mrs Troughton was correct, his church was possibly of great historic significance, and he should certainly know more about its background than he did. Fine. But then there was Mrs Gabriel. A silly old woman for sure, but she evidently attached more significance to the cross than the purely archaeological, and in the light of the theft – that inexplicable theft – it suddenly seemed a very good idea to try and scratch the surface of these 'quaint superstitions', whatever they might be.
At the back of the pamphlet was a short bibliography, which
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