10

It was twelve o'clock by the time Mrs Troughton had been convinced of the theft. Despite Tom's insistence that the churchyard desecrators had dug at the precise edge of the trench where the missing arm of the cross would have been, she was resolved to check this for herself. To this end, Mr Purdew had been summoned, his cigarette drooping more dejectedly than ever, and the earth around the roots of the suffering yew tree had been scraped clear for a further foot in every direction. Nothing was found, and, at the warden's behest, the roots were covered over again. There followed a dismal half hour in which Tom was sandwiched between police constable and archaeologist, discussing the crime from every possible angle. Mrs Troughton, who was in a wild state of fury, took immediate exception to Tom's comment that such a theft was inexplicable.

"You do realise," she said, glaring through glasses in Tom's direction, "that this cross is utterly unique. It is clearly of very early Christian date, and may represent a fusion of Saxon and Celtic art unlike anything found before. Who knows, vicar – your little church may stand on a truly ancient site! For even a fraction of the cross to be stolen is an absolute tragedy, and may stop us from decyphering the primitive symbolism on its carvings!"

"There's no firm proof that the missing piece was ever down there," Tom said. "But even if it was, the bulk of the cross has not been touched, and will still be a monument to the early Church. I just don't understand why anyone should try to steal the one arm. Why not take the rest as well?"

"It was too heavy," said PC Vernon, and wrote this down in his book.

"Obviously," said Mrs Troughton.

"But why bother scrabbling round in the dirt in the middle of the night just to pinch a piece of stone, which must itself have been too heavy for anyone to lift without help?"

"Maybe," said PC Vernon, "they're going to ransom it."

Tom didn't know quite how to answer this, though in fact he thought it wasn't such a stupid idea. It was better than any of his own, which were laced with confusion. His head was awhirl with disordered objections to the events of the morning. Even if a ransom was farfetched, there was no other conceivable explanation for the theft, except plain malice. But malice would have led to vandalism, and the rest of the cross had not been touched. And what was all the scorching in the trench? You didn't use a welding torch to shift earth. Tom gave up. It made no sense.

By the time Mrs Troughton had made an ill-tempered departure, Tom was unable to string a coherent thought together. His mood was not improved by the arrival of Mrs Gabriel in his office to complain about the further desecration.

"It's your example they're following," she said, "and thank you no I won't sit down. You started this, vicar, and who knows if there isn't worse to come. Already they've breached the church!"

Tom sighed; to his ears came the accusing sound of Mr Purdew's workmen, mending the door.

"To move the cross!" Mrs Gabriel shook her head at the thought. "Maybe it was there for a reason, did you think of that?"

"Mrs Gabriel, you do not go round burying crosses six feet underground for a reason. And even if someone did, it's been there for hundreds of years and it's time it was found and restored. The people of this day and age would like to see it and enjoy it. They can get spiritual comfort from its antiquity."

"For some people the splitting of the cross would give greater comfort," said Mrs Gabriel. Tom frowned with bewilderment.

"What do you mean? The cross was already split," he said.

"Maybe, but now it's split and separated," said Mrs Gabriel, with firm conviction. Tom felt he was missing something.

"I know it is a great shame, and was a wicked act to steal this relic," he said, "but Mrs Gabriel, we still have most of the cross, and can raise it in the churchyard. It won't be moved, I assure you."

"That will do no good," she said, and turned to the door. Tom straightened himself and addressed her back with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Mrs Gabriel," he said, "is there something that I don't know? Which you could tell me?"

Her voice came from beyond the door. "What do any of us know about this Church, or its history? Least of all you, young man."

The door shut. Twenty minutes later, Tom was walking through the doorway of Fordrace library.

Vanessa Sawcroft rewarded Tom with a wide smile of welcome as he cautiously approached her desk, wondering not for the first time how she managed to wear her grey twill suit in the throes of midsummer. The library windows were open, but the air was sluggish and smelt of lilac and leather. Ms Sawcroft, a spare, neat woman in her fifties, wore her shirt done up to the neck and her hair in a crisp grey bob, which shimmered slightly as she moved. She fixed Tom with an efficient eye.

"Hallo," said Tom. "I was wondering—"

"You look awfully tired, Reverend," she said.

"Call me Tom," said Tom. "Yes, I am rather. We've had some trouble up at St Wyndham's. There may have been a theft."

"I'm sorry to hear it. Have you come to drown your sorrows in literature?"

"Something like that. I'm after your section on local history."

"Over there on the third shelf. Anything in particular?"

"Church history, local legends, that sort of thing."

"It's all there."

Tom took himself to the shelf indicated, which was pleasantly sited by a high window in a remote corner. A wicker chair with a green cushioned seat awaited him. Scanning the shelves, he plucked from them a pamphlet published by the Fordrace Women's Institute, entitled 'Our Church and its People', and two glossy books about the parish churches of Hereford and Worcester, which would include St Wyndham's.

Neither of the glossy books told him anything he didn't know. His church was Norman, built in the 11th century, quite possibly on a Saxon site. It was named after a minor saint whose exploits were obscure, and had maintained its backwater feel throughout the centuries. It had an attractive tower, a notable mahogany pulpit (which had been brought to the church from Palestine in the 14th century by a benefactor knight), a walled-up prayer room above the chancel and lots of rural peace and quiet. Even this information was out of date, thought Tom. The prayer room had been opened and made safe several years ago, and as for peace and quiet, there was little of that about at St Wyndham's this morning.

The pamphlet was mainly a dreary catalogue of Rotary Clubs, Benevolent Funds and coffee mornings, all of which Tom knew only too well. He flicked his way impatiently from page to page until, under a passage entitled 'Our Rich Heritage', a short paragraph caught his eye.

Although our village's grand tradition of Christian worship has marched forward triumphantly through the centuries, there are strong folk traditions in our area, which have persisted despite the best efforts of our enlightened ministers to discourage them. Today they are mostly quaint superstitions which harm nobody, but this was not always the case. Fordrace was once a local centre of one of the witch scares which so troubled our ancestors, and exorcism in the old days was common.

And that was all. 'Strong folk traditions . . .' Tom frowned. What exactly was he looking for? It was difficult to know. If Mrs Troughton was correct, his church was possibly of great historic significance, and he should certainly know more about its background than he did. Fine. But then there was Mrs Gabriel. A silly old woman for sure, but she evidently attached more significance to the cross than the purely archaeological, and in the light of the theft – that inexplicable theft – it suddenly seemed a very good idea to try and scratch the surface of these 'quaint superstitions', whatever they might be.

At the back of the pamphlet was a short bibliography, which included the following entry:

For some details of local lore, see 'Legends of Fordrace and the Wirrim' (1894) by Harold Limmins, a local teacher and scholar. Published a hundred years ago, this remains the only work to address this subject in any detail.

That was more like it. Tom looked at his watch. He would ring Sarah soon to check on the boy. But first . . . He got up from the wicker chair and began scanning the rows hungrily. From an adjacent row, Ms Sawcroft, laden high with books, smiled over at him.

"Having any luck, Tom?" she asked.

"I'm homing in," he replied, and went on searching.