David took a leaflet then pushed his way through the gates, looking up in awe at the magnificent double transepts, which had obviously been conceived on the scale of a cathedral. Referring to the leaflet, he discovered that following a fire in 1188 and the collapse of the central tower in 1213, the church had been rebuilt, starting around 1220, in the Romanesque style. He looked around him, shaking his head in wonder. It blew his mind to think that this place had been standing for over two hundred years before Columbus had discovered America.
From what he could see, the entire church was surrounded by a large graveyard. Some of the stones were old and weathered, some were bright and new. There were all kinds of memorials to the dead, from tiny flower urns to huge Victorian edifices featuring angels elaborately carved in white marble. He followed a gravel path, which meandered among the graves, and started looking for the Webley family vault. After half an hour he’d managed to cover just a fraction of the cemetery, so decided that maybe the best course of action would be to seek help from the vicar. He retraced his steps to the entrance then following the directions given on the sign by the gate, crossed the road to the vicarage.
His ring on the doorbell was answered by a stout woman in her mid fifties, dressed in tweeds with a flowery apron tied around her midriff. ‘Could you tell me, is the vicar available please?’ David asked politely.
‘Certainly, certainly,‘ the woman said in a deep resonant voice, throwing the door open wide. ‘Do come in, my husband is writing his sermon at the moment, I’ll show you through to his study.’ She set off into the house, then looked back over her shoulder and said, ‘I must apologize for answering the door my apron, but I’m in the middle of arranging some flowers for the church.’ David smiled and followed her into the house, closing the door behind him. They went down a dark passageway towards the rear of the house, then the woman stopped abruptly, knocked on a door and entered. The vicar, a thin, white haired man of about sixty, was seated behind a huge oak desk in the middle of the paneled room, surrounded by open books, writing on a pad.
‘Gentleman to see you, Peter,’ she said, showing David in then closing the door behind him.
The vicar stood up, smiled and held out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, er, Mr…?’
‘Wiseman, David Wiseman.’ They shook hands.
‘Ah, a cousin from across the water, splendid, splendid,’ the vicar said jovially. ‘Sit down Mr. Wiseman. Now, what can I do for you?’
David sat, then cleared his throat. ‘I believe my aunt was buried in your churchyard about twenty-five years ago. I was wondering if you would be able to help me find her grave?’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ the vicar said, reaching over to retrieve a large ledger from the side of his desk. Opening the volume, he looked up and asked, ‘What was the dear lady’s name?’
‘Freda Webley, Lady Freda Webley.’
The vicar’s jovial air disappeared, to be replaced by a look of sadness as he slowly closed the ledger and folded his hands over it. ‘I don’t need the church records to help me find her,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A sad case, terribly sad. She’d only been married a matter of weeks you know, and she was so happy and full of life.’
‘You knew her?’ David asked with surprise.
‘Yes, yes. I hadn’t been here long when Sir Ross arrived back from Europe with your aunt. He invited me up to Webley Manor to discuss the question of their betrothal in the church. I’m afraid he became rather angry when I pointed out that it was impossible for him to marry a lady of a different faith in an Anglican church. She was a Jew, you know, got out of Germany just before the war.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Of course, of course. Anyway, I told them that if the lady cared to convert to Sir Ross’s faith, then I’d be more than happy to act as her mentor and guide her through the procedure, but it seems they were in a hurry, or at least Sir Ross was.’
‘How do you mean?’ David asked.
‘She seemed quite keen on the idea of conversion and said she would come and see me the following day to discuss it further, but she didn’t keep her appointment and the next thing I heard, they had gone down to London and been married in a registry office.’
‘Did you see her again after that?’
‘No, they had only been back a few days before she fell ill, then it was only a matter of weeks before Sir Ross came to see me with the dreadful news that she had passed away. It seemed that one moment we were discussing their wedding, and the next we were discussing her funeral. It was dreadful, perfectly dreadful, and now, judging by the Times this morning, I shall be receiving another visit from him.’
‘Why do you think he’ll come to you?’ David asked with surprise.
‘To discuss the family vault, of course. I expect he will want to lay his good lady to rest there.’
‘Even though he isn’t lord of the manor any more and doesn’t even live near here?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Sticklers for tradition these old families, you know. The Webleys have been buried at the Minster for over three hundred years, I can’t see Sir Ross breaking that tradition now.’
‘Speaking of which, would it be possible to see the Webley vault?’
‘Of course, of course,’ the vicar said, getting up from behind his desk. ‘That’s what you came for after all, wasn’t it? Let’s go over there now.’
With the vicar leading the way, they went out of the house and across the road to the churchyard. Once through the gates, they headed around to the south side of the church, where the more elaborate memorials stood on a sunny patch of grass that led to the ruined cloister arcade of the old abbey.
‘Wow!’ David exclaimed. ‘What did that place used to be?’
‘That was Stone Abbey,’ the vicar explained. ‘It was founded by King Henry II in 1163 as a priory for the Augustinian monks who were largely responsible for rebuilding the church. It fell into disuse after the Dissolution in 1539. Not much of it survives now, except the cloister arches and the remnants of one or two processional doorways.’ David shook his head with wonder.
They followed a winding path between the memorials until the vicar stopped in front of what looked like a stone shed with a shallow pitched roof. It was made entirely from discolored white marble and had Grecian style corner columns and the Webley family crest elaborately carved on the solid door, which was protected by a heavy, rusted iron gate, securely padlocked across its face. The entire edifice looked scruffy and unkempt with moss growing in clumps on the roof and a thick tangle of ivy around the entrance. ‘Here we are,’ the vicar said, ‘the Webley family vault.’
David stared in disbelief. ‘It’s kind of small, isn’t it? I was expecting something much bigger.’
‘This is only the entrance you understand,’ the vicar explained. ‘The vault itself is underground and is quite large. It was originally built in 1686, just after King James II awarded a title, the village, the manor house and all the surrounding lands to an ancestor of Sir Ross’s for his support in crushing the revolt of the Duke of Monmouth.’
‘You mean the king just gave the Webley family this whole area for helping him out?’ David asked incredulously.
‘That’s the way it used to happen in those days,’ the vicar explained. ‘Most of the wealthy families in this country received their lands and titles through services to the monarchy.’
‘And my aunt is down there in the vault?’ David asked.