Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

I might have run screaming from the church. I ought to have checked for a pulse. I did neither of these practical things. I stood and gazed. It occurred to me even then that I was reacting to the scene as I was intended to react, for, in that moment of terrified discovery, the macabre display was beautiful and full of meaning.

The early-morning sun angled through the stained-glass windows, stencilling the pament floor with a pattern of rich colour: vert, sable — how easily the heraldic colours sprang to mind in this theatrical moment — gules and azure, that rare blue still sometimes to be seen in untouched medieval churches. The seemingly peaceful couple were framed by a canopy of pale, sunlit stone. Sir John Hartest, survivor of the Battle of Agincourt, lay in plate armour, gauntleted hands resting on his chest, helmeted head encircled by a jewelled wreath. At his left hip on a richly sculpted baldrick was carved a dagger with an ornate gilded hilt. His features were serene; as the sunshine slid across his face he seemed almost to smile.

At first sight the figure by his side appeared no less serene. Closed eyes, a dreaming face, her pallor a match for his alabaster. Her long fair hair had been arranged to frame her face before spilling over the edge of the tomb. The long white dress she was wearing had been carefully draped and folded; a girdle traced the sinuous line between her legs. I brought my eyes back to her breast and to the head of the dagger, very slightly to the left and very precisely into the heart.

I started as frozen emotion began to run again and the paralysing spell of the scene lost its grip. I looked away and then forced myself to focus once more on the dagger. But how could it...? Surely not! I peered more closely at the hilt, professional curiosity taking over for a moment. And then I looked back at the one at Sir John Hartest’s side. A representation of a vicious stabbing dagger, possibly of Spanish manufacture and designed to penetrate plate armour with a short, underhand stroke. A misericorde. The word meant compassion — pity. Such blades were often used to put dying soldiers out of their misery on the battlefield. What kind of sick trickery was I witnessing? The carved stone dagger and the wrought steel dagger were identical.

The Sleeping Beauty bewitchment of the tableau was fading rapidly now and reality was crowding in. Hasty and fearful, I looked round the church, belatedly considering the possibility of a murderer lurking behind the pews, under the velvet hangings, in the vestry — there were a hundred places to hide in a medieval church and I knew them all. My eye roamed over the nave and was caught by the grotesque and inquisitive features of a carved oak devil, one of the bench end figures, eager, apparently, to enjoy this violent event which had shattered his centuries of unwelcome peace. Imperceptibly, the sun changed its angle and a rosy glow began to creep over the white cheeks of the dead girl, infusing her with life before my disbelieving eyes.

With a dry rustle and a clearing of the throat, the ancient machinery of the church clock gathered itself and launched into its ten-o’clock strike. Not with a shriek, but with a very female whimper, I fled down the aisle towards the heavy oak door.

I’m an architect. I spend my life working in old churches and ancient buildings — that sort of architect. I’ve seen ghosts, even unwittingly addressed a few words to one or two, but I had never been terrified in an old building before. And yet it was terror that snapped at my ankles as I ran down the aisle, fought with the massive old box lock, and burst out into the blessed spring sunshine, the birdsong, and the cool breeze of a Suffolk morning. I ran down the path towards the safety of my old Golf.

In the deep shadow of the lych gate I cannoned off a hard body.

“Where are you rushing off to, I wonder?” came a far from friendly male voice. I looked up to see my client, the man with whom I had a ten-o’clock appointment. My client, Edward Hartest, or, as his letterhead had it: “The Honble. Edward Hartest, J.P.” “Not fleeing the field already, are you? For God’s sake — I’m only thirty seconds late! I take it you are my church architect?” He tapped the top of my hard hat. “Of course. Who else would wear one of these ugly things? Hang on — you’re upset! Has something happened? Now look here, Miss... er... I don’t know what’s happened, but hysterics won’t help. Pull yourself together if you can and tell me what’s going on here!”

He smelled of hay and diesel oil. He was wearing an ancient checked shirt and jeans, the uniform of a farmer in May. I didn’t like him much and I certainly wasn’t going to be patronised by him. I glared. “Will you move out of my way, please! I’ve got to get to my phone!”