It was Sunday evening, and the congregation had dispersed. I was
making my way into the church to take a last look at a famous
fourteenth-century tomb. Not a soul was visible; but the sound of a pick
and the sight of fresh earth announced that the sexton was at work
digging a grave. I walked to the spot. A bald head, the shining top of
which was now level with the surface of the ground, raised the hope that
he would prove to be a sexton of the old school. I was not disappointed.
"Good evening," I said.
"A good evening to you, sir," said the sexton, pausing in his work with
the air of a man who welcomed an excuse to rest.
"And whose grave is that you're digging?" I asked.
"Old Sally Bloxham--mother to Tom Bloxham--him as keeps the 'Spotted
Pig.' And a bad job for him as she's gone. If it hadn't been for old
Sally he'd ha' drunk hisself to death long ago. And who may _you_ be?"
he asked, as though realising that this sudden burst of confidential
information was somewhat rash.
"Oh, I'm nobody in particular. Just passing through and taking a look
around."
"Ah! there's lots as comes lookin' round, nowadays. More than there used
to be. Why, bless your life, I remember the time when you nivver seed a
soul in this village except the home-dwellers. And now there's bicycles
and motor cars almost every day. Most on 'em just pokes their noses
round, and then off they goes. Some wants to see the tomb inside, and
then there's a big stone over an old doorway at the back o' the church,
what they calls ''Arrowing o' 'Ell,' though _I_ don't know what it
means. You've 'eard on it? Well, I suppose it's something wonderful; but
_I_ could nivver see no 'Arrow and no 'Ell."
"I'll tell you what, sexton," I said, noticing some obviously human
bones in the earth at his graveside, "this churchyard needs a bit of new
ground."
"Ye're right there," said he, "it's needed that a good many years. But
we can't get no new ground. Old Bob Cromwell as owns the lands on that
side won't sell, and Lord ---- won't give, so wot are yer to do? Why, I
do believe as there's hundreds and thousands of people buried in this
little churchyard. It's a big parish, too, and they've been burying
their dead here since nobody knows when. Bones? Why, in some parts
there's almost as much bones as there is clay. Yer puts in one, and yer
digs up two: that's about what it comes to. I sometimes says to my
missis, 'I wonder who they'll dig up to make room for me.' 'Yes,' she
says, 'and I wonder who you'll be dug up to make room for.' It's
scandalous, that's what I says."
"But does the law allow you to disturb these old graves?"
"It does when they're old _enough_. But you can't be over particular in
a place no bigger than this. Of course, we're a bit careful like. But
ask no questions, and I'll tell yer no lies."
"But this grave you're digging now; how long is it since the last
interment was made in the same ground?"
"Well, that's a pretty straight 'un. That's what I call coming to the
point!--Thank 'ee, sir--and good luck to you and yours!--However, since
you seem a plain-dealing gentleman I'll tell you summat as I wouldn't
tell everybody. You poke your stick about in that soil over there, and
you'll find some bits as belonged to Sam Wiggin's grandfather on his
mother's side." (I poked my stick as directed.) "That's his tooth you've
got now; but I won't swear to it, as things had got a bit mixed, no
doubt, afore they put him in. Wait a bit, though. What's under that big
lump at the end o' my spade?" (He reached out his spade and touched a
clod; I turned it over and revealed the thing it hid: he examined it
carefully.) "You see, you can generally tell after a bit o' practice
what belongs to what. Putting two and two together--what with them bones
coming up so regular, and that bit o' coffin furniture right on the top
on 'em--I reckon we've struck 'im much as he was put down in '62."
"Are none of his relatives living?" I asked.
"Why, yes, of course they're living. Didn't I tell yer he was
grandfather to Sam Wiggin--that's 'im as farms the Leasowes at t'other
end of the village. What'll he say?--why, nothing o' course. Them as
sees nothing, says nothing."
"But," I said, "if Sam comes to church next Sunday he'll see his
grandfather's bones sticking out all over this grave."
"'Ow's 'e to know they're his grandfather's? There's no name on 'em,"
said the sexton.
"But surely he will remember that his grandfather was buried in this
spot."
"Not 'im! 'E don't bother 'is 'ead about grandfathers. Sam Wiggin!
Doesn't know 'e ever had a grandfather. Somebody else might take it up?
Not in this parish. Besides, we've all got used to it. Folks here is all
mixed up wi' one another while they're living, so they don't mind
gettin' a bit mixeder when they're dead."
"But is the parson used to it along with the rest of you?"
"Well, yer see, I allus clears up before he comes to bury--ribs and
shins and big 'un's as won't break up. Skulls breaks up easy; you just
catches them a snope with yer spade, and they splits up down the
joinin'. Week afore last I dug up two beauties under that yew; anybody
might a' kep' 'em for a museum. I've knowed them as would ha' done it,
and sold 'em for eighteenpence apiece. But I couldn't bring my mind to
it."
"So you just broke them up, I suppose?"
"No, I didn't. One on 'em belonged to a man as I once knowed; leastways
I remember him as a young chap. He was underkeeper at the Hall. The
young woman he wanted to marry wouldn't 'ave 'im, so he shot hisself wi'
a rook gun. I knowed it was 'im by the 'ole in 'is 'ead, no bigger nor a
pea. Just think o' that! No bigger nor a big pea, I tell yer, and as
round as if it had been done wi' a punch. I told my missis about it when
I went 'ome to my tea. I says, 'Do yer remember 'Arry Pole, the young
keeper in the old lord's time, what shot hisself over that affair wi'
Polly Towers?' 'Remember 'im?' she says. 'Why, I used to go out walking
wi' 'im myself afore he took up wi' Polly.' 'I thought you did,' I says;
'well, there's 'is skull. See that little 'ole in it, clean as if it had
been cut wi' a punch? He never shot hisself, not 'e!' Why, bless yer
heart, doesn't it stand to sense that if 'e'd done it 'isself, he'd
a'most ha' blowed 'is 'ead off, leastways made a 'ole a lot bigger nor
that? And wot's more, there'd ha' been a 'ole on the other side, and
there wasn't any sign o' one."
"But perhaps it wasn't 'Arry Pole's skull?"
"Yes, it was. Why, where's the sense of its not bein'? I remember his
bein' buried as if it was yesterday, and I knowed the spot quite well.
And do you think it likely that two men 'ud be put in the same grave
both wi' rook bullets in their 'eads? If it wasn't 'Arry Pole, who was
it?"
"But wasn't all this gone into at the inquest?"
"Well, you see, it's over forty years since it 'appened; but I can
remember as the 'ole were looked into, and there was a good deal o' talk
at the time. There was two men as said they seed him wi' the gun in his
hand, and a mournful look on his face, like. And so, what wi' one thing
and another, when they couldn't find who else had killed him, they give
the verdict as he must ha' killed hisself. So, you see, they made it out
some'ow. But you'll never make me believe 'e did it 'isself--not after
I've seen that 'ole."
"I wonder who shot him," I said meditatively.
"Yes, and you'll 'ave to go on wondering till the Judgment Day. You'll
find out then. All I can tell yer is that it wasn't me, and it wasn't
Polly Towers. However, when I found his skull I didn't break it as I do
wi' most on 'em. I just kep' it in a bag and put it back when I filled
in the grave.
"But you were askin' me about Parson. Well, I telled him the state o'
the churchyard when he come to the living. At first he took it pretty
easy. 'Hide 'em as far as you can, Johnny,' he says to me. 'And remember
there's this great consolation--they'll all be sorted out on the
Judgment Day.'
"But one day something 'appened as give Parson a pretty start. It was
one of these chaps in motors, I reckon, as did it. I see him one
Saturday night rootin' about the churchyard and lookin' behind them
laurels where I used to pitch all the bits and bobs of bone as I see
lying about. I've often wished I'd took the number on his motor, and
then we'd ha' catched him fine! But he was a gentlemanly-looking young
feller, and I didn't suspect nothing at the time.
"Well, next morning, when Parson comes to read the Service, what do you
think he found? Why, there was a man's thigh-bone, large as life, stuck
in the middle of the big Prayer-Book at the Psalms for the day. Then,
when he opens the Bible to read the lessons, blessed if there wasn't a
coffin-plate, worn as thin as a sheet of paper, marking the place, Then
he goes into the pulpit, and the first thing he sees was a jawbone full
of teeth lyin' on the cushion; there was ribs in the book-rack; there
was a tooth in his glass of water; there was bones everywhere--you never
see such a sight in all yer life! The young man must ha' taken a
basketful into the church. Some he put into the pews, some into the
collectin' boxes, some under the cushions--you never knew where you were
going to find 'em next!"
"That was a blackguardly thing to do," I said. "The man who did it
deserves the cat."
"So he does," said Johnny. "But I can tell yer, it's made us more
partikler ever since. Everything behind them laurel bushes was cleared
out and buried next day, and, my eye, you wouldn't believe what a lot
there was! Barrer-loads!
"I'm told that when Lord ----, up at the Hall, heard on it, he nearly
killed hisself wi' laughin'. There's some folks"--here Johnny lowered
his voice--"there's some folks _as thinks that his lordship 'ad a 'and
in it hisself_. Some says it was one of them wild chaps as 'e's allus
got staying with him. That's more likely, in my opinion. But it wouldn't
surprise me, just between you and me, to hear some day that his lordship
was going to give us a bit o' new ground."