Herald of the Hidden Read Free Page B

look outside,’ proposed Ralph, and he pulled open the heavy arched door, causing a sudden rush of sunlight that made me blink. Ronald Alwyn and I followed as he ambled along the churchyard path to one of the chunks of dislodged masonry. He crouched down beside this, turned it slightly to one side and held it steady for our inspection. Visible despite the battered surface caused by impact were eight deep grooves gouged into the mellow stone, in two sets of four. The lack of weathering or grime suggested that these marks were recent. They were such that only a hard, sharp tool could be responsible, or . . .
    ‘I believe these to be claw marks,’ said Ralph, calmly, ‘And I have examined some of the smaller shrapnel that has exploded on the ground after being pushed from the roof. Similar markings may be discerned.’
    Ronald Alwyn looked rather pale and uncertain.
    ‘But what you are saying is . . .’ he objected.
    ‘That this church either harbours some zoological freak or another kind of monstrosity, yes,’ interrupted Ralph.
    He stood up and pointed at the desolate trees, stark against the cold sky.
    ‘Look: stout and strong limbs have been torn or broken from those trees. There has been no storm. What was responsible? No-one’s been doing any lopping have they?’
    It was evident from Mr Alwyn’s reaction, his gaze becoming more agitated, that no such arboriculture had been undertaken.
    ‘I must have time to think about this. I really do not know what to think. Perhaps . . . yes, I will see the Rector, Eric Hollis. He is a Vice-President of the Trust.’
    ‘It would be a good idea. I am only too happy to come along. Or meet him later, as you choose. I will be around the village, and waiting until six o’ clock. Please meet me before then.’
    ‘Yes, do leave this with me, Mr Tyler. I will take urgent steps, and see what can be done.’
    We strolled away across the grounds along the thin damp footpath, and back to the village. It was a quarter to one, time enough to partake of a pint or two, and maybe obtain a snack. We found The Plough in Enderby to be a decent inn with a vacant corner table, and after a welcome draught of bitter, I burst into the fray.
    ‘Come on then, what do you think? What’s the legend about the Fitzgilberts?’ I demanded to know.
    ‘You heard what I said,’ objected Ralph.
    ‘Yes, but you didn’t say everything. I felt I was getting half the story,’ I protested.
    Ralph lowered his voice.
    ‘In straightforward terms it is this. We don’t know how the elder Fitzgilbert, Peter, met his death, but we can pretty well guess it was at the instigation of his brother. Now the old tales allege that in the course of their feuding, both of them were guilty of great infamies, and not above invoking forbidden powers. There used to be a whole ballad cycle about the hideous crimes they committed, but now only fragments are preserved. One of the most enduring but obscure episodes has the dead Peter Fitzgilbert returning in the form of a banshee-dragon creature which is eventually slain by a champion owing allegiance to Guy. This is undoubtedly a very coloured version of some original myth, since it has taken over certain characteristics from the renowned St George tale. We do not therefore know whether the rededication of the church to St Michael was a cause or a result of the myth.’
    I was beginning to feel a little uneasy at the direction this conversation was taking.
    ‘You surely don’t think that this giant bat . . .’ I rather gulped out, as a certain process of thought presented itself to me.
    ‘I’m only following the facts,’ insisted Ralph. ‘From the beginning, having excluded vandals, I was presented with a feat of great balance and agility. Then I observed the markings on the debris and the snapped branches. I was already aware of the traditions surrounding the church, but detailed research confirmed my suspicions in a very singular way. The disruption is caused by a