Midlands Canal Mystery: Scene 5: Don't Ever Confuse a Gravestone for an Ashtray

Mr. Hedges, the warden of All Saints, was a tiny, stern-faced octogenarian, no taller than my five-feet-three, with eyebrows so bushy he could have dusted the beams in the 30-foot ceiling simply by inclining his head backwards.

He ceremoniously offered us a tour, moving along the marbled-floored aisles with surprising agility, despite the difficulties of age. We were walking, he informed us, on a foundation that had been laid in the 12th century, with the nave and chancel built in the 14th century.

We followed him among the church’s treasures, including Jacobean- and Norman-era stone baptismal fonts, burnished wooden pews from the 19th century, and the 17th century altar, which had been decorated for the upcoming wedding with tall vases of lilies.

As I listened to Mr. Hedges explain how the manor house and church are regularly hired out for weddings and other large events, my gaze rested on a huge marble tomb to the left of the altar. Two life-size woman knelt in prayer above a knight lying in repose, his hands neatly sliced off. “Who is this?” I asked.

“That’s Sampson Erdeswicke. They say that Roundheads cut off his hands during one of their rampages.” He shook his head gravely. “This Sampson – there were two of them – was a Sandon antiquary and paid for church restorations in the 16th century. Very different from his ancestors,” he added, knitting his brow into a single hirsute line of disapproval. “They were lawless thugs who terrorized this area for generations.” His small body quivered with emotion, as if he were feeling today the outrages of centuries earlier.

He caught me staring at him, and said in response to my puzzled expression: “My father fought in the Great War. I fought in World War II. My son fought in the Falklands. I have no tolerance for those who abuse the law or take for granted the liberties of this land.” Hedges’ face had turned a painful, almost ecclesiastical, shade of purple.

We stood silently – half out of respect, half out of nervousness – while the warden recovered his composure. He then escorted us to the churchyard, solemnly inviting us to wander among the tombstones. We did so for a few minutes, but as the sky was beginning to grow darker with clouds, we all decided to head back to the boat.

Well, all of us except Roger. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Rog?” called Caroline.

A muffled, “Coming,” emanated from near the church entrance. As we walked in the direction of Roger’s voice, a long thin waft of smoke became visible, rising up from behind one of the larger tombstones.

Caroline put her hands to her cheeks as if she had a toothache. “Oh, Roger,” she groaned. He popped up, his bald head shining above a mischievous but guilty grin.

Now, my sister-in-law is a well-brought-up person, but she was ready to forgo all etiquette and lay her husband to rest in one of those graves. She was stopped, however, by the appearance of Mr. Hedges, who was just now exiting the church, not five feet from where Roger was putting out his cigarette-joint on the edge of the tombstone.

The church warden wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes as he watched Roger use an historic grave marker for an ashtray. His feathered brow gathered into a glower and his face grew as black as the clouds overhead.

We all froze, struggling to come up with some mitigating explanation that might wash away the appearance of things. As if by divine intervention, the skies suddenly opened, and, taking advantage of the torrential diversion, we fled.