‘So much beauty,’ Miss Mayfield said sadly, looking at the dove, ‘all set up, by some men, to the glory of God, and destroyed by others – for the very same reason.’

‘Well, we saved that small piece; but that is our secret. We don’t want sightseers coming in coaches to see our window, or our two statues, or our font, in which, by the way, Cromwell’s men did not water their horses, for the simple reason that they had to come on foot across the marshes.’

‘Oh, they came? I thought perhaps – seeing the window and all the other things – that Walwyk escaped a visitation.’

‘They came. Twelve of them, under a Sergeant with one of those Biblical phrases for a name, not quite “Obadiah bind-their-kings-with-chains”, but something very much akin. The Thorby who was at that time Rector had fallen victim to the seventeenth-century passion for journal keeping, and he left a vivid account of their visit and its sorry end. He wrote with some humour. I must show you his book.’

‘How did he save the window, and the other things?’

‘He? Oh, he did nothing. The men had been in the district some little time, and being strangers, without inbred immunity, they had fallen sick of what was called marsh fever in those days. It sounds like a particularly unpleasant combination of dysentery and influenza. They arrived in a very poor state. Ten died. Sergeant Love-thy-neighbour Smith and the other survivor left somewhat precipitately as soon as they could walk, having lost all interest in Walwyk’s Popish relics and practices. Those who died were buried by my journal-keeping forefather, with a pomp and ceremony that must have made them lie uneasy in their graves. In fact, their corner of the churchyard is popularly believed to be haunted. I’ll show you their stone presently.’

They walked back to the west end of the church, where the inner half of the circular tower bulged out into the nave, just as the outer half bulged out into the churchyard. An immensely thick narrow door in its base stood ajar. Canon Thorby pushed against it strongly, and it opened a little more. Inside, it was almost dark and even colder than the church. Miss Mayfield gave a little shiver.

There was a stone stairway clinging to the tower wall, curving around it as it rose; the steps were worn hollow. They ended in a square hole cut in the solid wood which was the ceiling. Through another, much smaller hole a bell-rope dangled, ending in a great tassel of purple silk. Taking this in his hand, Canon Thorby said: