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slid his crowbar under one corner of the lid and wrenched it open.
        Both men found themselves looking in at a skeleton.
        'Jesus,' groaned Steve, noticing that the empty eye sockets had been stuffed with rag. The blackened skeleton lay in what remained of a shroud, now little more than rotted wisps of linen. The mouth was open, drawn wide in a way that made it look as though it were screaming.
        But the most striking thing was the medallion.
        It hung around the neck of the skeleton, almost dazzling in its brilliance. As if the rigours of time had been unable to make an impression on it.
        'Fucking hell,' gasped Steve, 'it must be worth a fortune.'
        The medallion consisted of a single flat circle of gold suspended on a thick chain. There was an inscription in the middle, and more jumbled lettering around the rim of the circlet but, as Mackenzie leant forward, he could see that it was no language he recognized. He hazarded a guess at Latin and would have been pleased to know that his theory was right.
        'Shouldn't we tell the vicar about this?' Steve wanted to know.
        Mackenzie shot him a warning glance, 'You're joking. After what we've been through getting this, I want a souvenir.' Reaching down, he ripped the medallion from around the neck of the corpse. Smiling, he studied it lying in the palm of his hand.
        'A fortune,' he said quietly. It was then that he noticed the slight sensation of warmth in his palm. At first he dismissed it as imagination, or the sweat of his exertions. But the heat grew stronger, the skin on the palm of his hand began to sizzle and, as he watched, the medallion began to glow.
        He dropped it with a startled grunt. It stared back at him from the damp earth.
        'The bloody thing burned me,' he said, looking up at Steve.
        The younger man frowned and looked down at the medallion. He reached forward and prodded it with his fingers.
        'Seems alright to me,' he said, picking it up.
        Mackenzie snatched it from him, holding it for a moment or two. Nothing happened. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He looked down at the palm of his hand. There was a scorch mark the size of a milk bottle top on the flesh of his hand. He dropped the medallion into his pocket and picked up his spade.
        'Let's fill it in,' he said.
        'I still think we should tell the vicar,' Steve persisted, shovelling earth.
        'Shut up and keep digging.'
        They buried the coffin and its skeletal occupant and the slug, then set off back to the cemetery proper. Mackenzie was quiet, staring ahead of him as he walked, and Steve had to hurry to keep up with him.
        'What are you going to do with the medallion?' the youngster asked.
        'Mind your own fucking business,' rasped Mackenzie.
        Steve swallowed hard, disturbed by the tone of the older man's voice. What he had just seen had caused him enough trouble, he didn't want to end his first working day with a fight.
        When they reached the van, parked outside the cemetery, they dumped their tools in the back and Mackenzie threw the ignition keys to Steve.
        'You drive,' he ordered, 'I've got a blinding headache.'
        Steve didn't argue. He got in, started the van and drove off towards Medworth. Mackenzie sat silently beside him, head bowed, his breathing low and guttural.
        The youngster put his foot down. He would be pleased to get home.
        
***
        
        Debbie Lambert turned the big master key in the door of the library and smiled at the three women behind her.
        'Another day, another dollar,' she grinned.
        The women said their goodnights on the steps of the library then went their separate ways into the chill night. Although it was only six-fifteen, frost was already beginning to speckle the roads and pavements. It would be black ice by ten that night.
        Debbie shivered and walked