Mr Jones, however, enjoyed rambling to out-of-the-way places, and with the help of his ordnance map he soon discovered the path over the Down. After traversing a muddy field of clay and stubble he began to climb the billows of smooth green that hide the chalk, till, three-quarters of the way up, the path intersected the long line of yews which marks the reputed site of the Pilgrims’ Way. Here he paused and took off his hat; the day was warm for December. He looked back to the trees which hid Hopton from his view and saw, beyond, a wreath of smoke marking the passage of a train through the quiet country, and, farther still, dark pine-clad slopes, silhouetted against the fainter background of a distant ridge. A deep sense of peace stole into his heart. The noisy class-room in which he taught, the uncomfortable flat to which he returned when his day’s work was done, seemed very far away. Nobody was in sight. He felt himself in touch with Nature and with the Past. Here was the Pilgrims’ Way: the Old Road along which, centuries before the pilgrims—centuries, indeed, before the Romans came, the men of the Stone Age had passed on their long journeys to celebrate mysterious rites at Stonehenge. What secrets might not lie hidden beneath the sombre shade of these ancient yews, what discoveries might here await the spade of the archaeologist? Imagination could people that ancient track with strange presences. Mr Jones shivered in the twilight of the dark over-hanging boughs; he was beginning to grow cold. Some elusive memory seemed struggling into consciousness, casting its shadow before: the memory of something unfamiliar, and somehow unpleasant. The fluttering of a large bird in the branches of one of the yews startled him out of his reverie. He resumed his climb.
At the top of the hill he found two paths. As he stood consulting his ordnance map he became aware of an approaching rustic who greeted him with a civil ‘Nice day, sir.’
‘Is this the way to Godstanely church?’ asked Mr Jones.
‘Yes, follow the lane, and when you comes to the cross-roads, go straight down, and then up past the vicarage. I’m going that way myself; I’ll show you if you like.’
Mr Jones accepted the offer and continued the conversation. ‘Do you think I can get into the church? I want to see the frescoes. Or shall I have to go to the vicarage and ask for the key?’
‘Vicar, he aren’t been over willing to let strangers into the church since he found them painted things. Mostly it’s kept locked; but bein’ as it’s Saturday there might be the woman as does the cleanin’ about somewhere.’
‘Perhaps I ought to call at the vicarage first and ask permission?’
‘Well, that’s as might be. Vicar aren’t best pleased with folks as interrupts him Saturday.’
‘Isn’t the vicar glad to find people taking an interest in his discovery and coming to see the church?’
‘Well, Mrs Gant—that’s Vicar’s housekeeper, him bein’ a widower—she says to me, bein’ her second cousin like, “I dunno what’s come over him,” she says; “first he was pleased as Punch when chaps as writes for the papers comes and asks him about them picters, and now he’s as cranky as I never did see. Comes of shuttin’ hisself up with them ’orrors,” she says. “Porin’ over them and goin’ without his food regular—and there at nights, too!”’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Jones, ‘I understand that the fresco represents a crude but vigorous conception of Hell.’
‘Well, it aren’t what I calls right, sir—that picter.’
‘Not right? In the old times when the fresco was painted the clergy used to think such representations very good for you. People couldn’t read or write, you know. No education in those days as there is now! They tried to frighten people into goodness by showing them what would happen to sinners hereafter.’
‘May be, but it aren’t to my way of thinkin’, sir, beggin’ pardon for the liberty of contradictin’, and it weren’t to the way of thinkin’ of them as put plaster over the thing. Best have left the devils under the whitewash.’
‘The mediaeval artists and poets painted hell in lurid colours and we prefer it whitewashed, sic tempora mutantur,’ said Mr Jones sententiously.
‘Well, here’s the vicarage, sir, and there’s the church. And darn me if that aren’t Mrs Harris, the cleaner, comin’ out of the gate. She’ll let you in all right. Good afternoon.’
‘Good-bye, and thanks!’ said Mr Jones, going quickly to overtake Mrs Harris and explain to her his desire to look over the church. She had finished her cleaning and was just going home; she demurred at first to Mr Jones’ proposal that she should leave him the key on condition that he brought it back presently to her cottage. ‘Do you get teas?’ he said, ‘Perhaps you could accommodate me with some. In the meantime please let me give you this for your trouble.’ A sixpence changed hands. Mrs Harris expressed herself satisfied that Mr Jones was a person to whom the key might be entrusted, and explained the way to her cottage. He promised to be with her in about half-an-hour.
Mrs Harris’s cottage was some distance away, and out of sight. Apart from the vicarage, which stood in its own grounds not far off, there was no house in the immediate vicinity of the church. All trace of the ancient town of Godstanely except its medieval church had long since disappeared, and even the church, as far as its exterior was concerned, had been so much restored that Mr Jones was not inclined to linger outside. He was struck, however, by the site of the edifice. It stood on a circular mound and, except on one side, where the path led up to the gate, was surrounded by a ditch. Could the mound be a tumulus? Mr Jones did not remember that this had been mentioned in the account he had read of the finding of the frescoes. Were churches ever built, he wondered, on prehistoric burial-grounds? He must remember to look up that point when he got home; at any rate it was well-known that churches were built sometimes on the sites of heathen temples, the temples themselves being sometimes consecrated to Christian worship. He was thinking of this as he proceeded through the porch. He unlocked the door and, leaving the key in the lock, entered the church.
The interior was very small, with ancient beams overhead, and several old-fashioned high-backed pews round the pulpit; but Mr Jones had no attention to spare for these. The whole of the western wall was covered by a very remarkable fresco. It was extraordinary that it had not been destroyed by some zealous Protestant vicar of the past, and that, instead, it had been covered up and then forgotten, thus being preserved for the curious of a later age. The work was crude but vigorous: twelfth-century certainly, but of less artistic merit than is usual in the frescoes of that period. The upper section represented the weighing of the good and evil deeds of the dead, and the joy of those souls that were saved; the lower section, separated from the upper by a band decorated with what looked like cinerary urns, showed the torments of the damned. Intersecting the band at right angles so as to form with it a cross, a ladder stretched from heaven to hell; from its lower half diminutive human figures were tumbling in spite of frantic efforts to clutch the rungs, or, clinging vainly to these, were plucked off by gigantic demons with malignant enjoyment, and carried on pitchforks to a boiling cauldron and other forms of punishment. The leering faces of the devils, their hanging tongues, animal ears, huge eyes, and claw-like feet showed gruesome imagination on the part of the artist. Mr Jones bent down to examine the painting more closely. Some of the figures were less distinct than others, and the occupations in which they were engaged were not always quite clear. In one corner especially the details were vague and blurred. Something or other was being done by a figure—apparently a demon—whose face was turned away and whose hand held some kind of weapon, while other demons, squatting on their haunches, looked on. Upon the back of the first demon was painted distinctly a neat little quatrefoil in a triple ring. ‘The dedication cross,’ muttered Mr Jones to himself. As he said this he was again aware of the feeling that was on the point of remembering something which he had unaccountably forgotten. He bent down to look at the cross more closely. The plaster on which it was painted and a fragment of stone underneath seemed half detached from the wall. Without thinking what he was doing Mr Jones put out his hand and touched it. Immediately the fragment fell to the ground, revealing a narrow but apparently deep hole.