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again, and promising to bring a friend with antiquarian interests to see them.
    Having shown the party the Lady Chapel and the crypt, I returned by way of the font.
    ‘Dr Hansard believes this pre-dates the present church, old as it is,’ I murmured, fingering with reverence the huge granite basin and its heavy oak lid, its fantastical carving rising to a pinnacle like a cathedral spire. ‘The cover is a fifteenth century addition,’ I added.
    ‘It must indeed inspire great solemnity, to baptise an infant using a receptacle so ancient.’
    I smiled. ‘Indeed, Lady Dorothea. But I fear that the recipients of the holy water do not always appreciate it – not if their cries are to be believed.’
    She was gracious enough to laugh at my weak joke, and, heaven help me, all I could do was admire her beautiful white teeth.
    Again it occurred to me that I was host not merely to her but to her brother and his wife, whom I was somewhatneglecting. One would be pleased, the other markedly less so. I was anxious, too, to prolong the visit. ‘Might I offer you all refreshment at the rectory?’ I asked.
    Pulling a flashy timepiece from his pocket, Sir Marcus shook his head in a decided negative. ‘I fear not, not today. We have promised to call on Sir Josiah Benton over in Leamington, but my sister would insist on seeing the church since we had to pass it.’
    ‘Then you do me extra honour, to spend so much time here.’ I opened the door for them, the ghastly squeal of the hinges reminding me to ask Simon yet again to oil them.
    Lady Dorothea shivered. ‘What a dreadful wail.’
    Lady Bramhall caught her arm. ‘Tell me, Mr Campion, do you have ghosts in your churchyard?’
    Sir Marcus spun round as if the gargoyles had spoken. ‘What foolishness is this?’
    Quickly, to cover the moment of tension, I said, ‘To the best of my knowledge, we are blessed with a quiet graveyard, all the souls at rest till the Day when we shall all be judged.’ Curiosity, however, overcame me. ‘Why, ladies, do you ask?’
    ‘Foolishness, sheer foolishness,’ Sir Marcus said.
    To my surprise, Lady Dorothea persisted, but as if to deflect attention from her sister-in-law. ‘My dresser said that she had heard noises. Moans – moans and sobs and—’
    I thought of the nocturnal sounds that had so disturbed my journey. ‘When did—?’
    Sir Marcus interrupted me. ‘She probably heard a cow or some other creature. Now, it is far too wet to stand here talking such folly. Into the carriage, for goodness’ sake, wife. And you, Dorothea. We have left these horses standing overlong already.’
    It fell to me to hand in Lady Bramhall. I pressed her fingers reassuringly. ‘I’m sure Sir Marcus is right. Pray, do not worry.’
    It was easier to offer such advice than to take it myself, however. Following Dr Hansard’s bracing words, I was perhaps more inclined to attribute the unearthly sounds to an earthly cause. I must nonetheless make inquiries myself: sometimes people would admit fears to a foolish young man like myself that they would conceal from the wise physician who could have helped them.
     
    Simon Clark, the verger, was inclined to dismiss Lady Bramhall’s fears as her husband had done, but agreed to question his fellow villagers.
    ‘Should we do more than that, Simon?’ I pulled my scarf more tightly as we huddled under the lych-gate. Despite the Hansards’ bracing words, I still had a remnant of foolish anxiety. ‘Should not you and I perhaps go and see if there’s—’
    Simon sighed as if personally affronted, his whole thin frame shaken by the effort. His wife had died earlier in the year, and though no stranger would have detected other signs of grief, this deep, racking exhalation had become habitual. ‘In all this rain, Parson? When you and the good doctor are telling us all we should keep warm and dry?’
    ‘All the more need if someone is lying out there in distress.’ But I would not press him. Who could have lived