On the way back to London, after passing through Abingdon, Mr Gifford had said it was time for a cup of coffee, as he always did around five o’clock; he made his own coffee, which was excellent, and carried it in a thermos. They slowed down, looking for a good place to stop, and Mrs Langley’s eye was caught by a strange name on a signpost at a turning off the road—something Episcopi. She knew that meant Bishops, which was interesting; so she asked Mr Gifford to halt the car while she made out the weatherbeaten lettering. The sign said SILCOTE EPISCOPI ½ MILE.
Had Trent heard of the place? Neither had Mr Gifford. But that lovely name, Mrs Langley said, was enough for her. There must be a church, and an old one; and anyway she would love to have Silcote Episcopi in her collection. As it was so near, she asked Mr Gifford if they could go there so she could take a few snaps while the light was good, and perhaps have coffee there.
They found the church, with the parsonage near by, and a village in sight some way beyond. The church stood back from the churchyard, and as they were going along the footpath they noticed a grave with tall railings round it; not a standing-up stone but a flat one, raised on a little foundation. They noticed it because, though it was an old stone, it had not been just left to fall into decay, but had been kept clean of moss and dirt, so you could make out the inscription, and the grass around it was trim and tidy. They read Sir Rowland Verey’s epitaph; and Mrs Langley—so she assured Trent—screamed with joy.
There was a man trimming the churchyard boundary-hedge with shears, who looked at them, she thought, suspiciously when she screamed. She thought he was probably the sexton, so she assumed a winning manner and asked him if there was any objection to her taking a photograph of the inscription on the stone. The man said that he didn’t know as there was, but maybe she ought to ask Vicar, because it was his grave, in a manner of speaking. It was Vicar’s great-grandfather’s grave, that was; and he always had it kep’ in good order. He would be in the church now, very like, if they had a mind to see him.
Mr Gifford said that in any case they might have a look at the church, which he thought might be worth the trouble. He observed that it was not very old—about mid-seventeenth century, he would say—a poor little kid church, Mrs Langley commented with gay sarcasm. In a place so named, Mr Gifford said, there had probably been a church for centuries farther back; but it might have been burnt down, or fallen into ruin, and been replaced by this building. So they went into the church; and at once Mr Gifford had been delighted with it. He pointed out how the pulpit, the screen, the pews, the glass, the organ-case in the west gallery, were all of the same period. Mrs Langley was busy with her camera when a pleasant-faced man of middle age, in clerical attire, emerged from the vestry with a large book under his arm.
Mr Gifford introduced himself and his friends as a party of chance visitors who had been struck by the beauty of the church and had ventured to explore its interior. Could the vicar tell them anything about the armorial glass in the nave windows? The vicar could and did; but Mrs Langley was not just then interested in any family history but the vicar’s own, and soon she broached the subject of his great-grandfather’s gravestone.
The vicar, smiling, said that he bore Sir Rowland’s name, and had felt it a duty to look after the grave properly, as this was the only Verey to be buried in that place. He added that the living was in the gift of the head of the family, and that he was the third Verey to be vicar of Silcote Episcopi in the course of two hundred years. He said that Mrs Langley was most welcome to take a photograph of the stone, but he doubted if it could be done successfully with a hand-camera from over the railings—and of course, said Mrs Langley, he was perfectly right. Then the vicar asked if she would like to have a copy of the epitaph, which he could write for her if they would all come over to his house, and his wife would give them some tea; and at this, as Trent could imagine, they were just tickled to death.
‘But what was it, Mrs Langley, that delighted you so much about the epitaph?’ Trent asked. ‘It seems to have been about a Sir Rowland Verey—that’s all I have been told so far.’
‘I was going to show it to you,’ Mrs Langley said, opening her handbag. ‘Maybe you will not think it so precious as we do. I have had a lot of copies made, to send to friends at home.’ She unfolded a small, typed sheet, on which Trent read:
Within this Vault are interred
the Remains of
Lt. Gen. Sir Rowland Edmund Verey,
Garter Principal King of Arms,
Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod
and
Clerk of the Hanaper,
who departed this Life
on the 2nd May 1795
in the 73rd Year of his Age
calmly relying
on the Merits of the Redeemer
for the Salvation of
his Soul.
Also of Lavinia Prudence,
Wife of the Above,
who entered into Rest
on the 12th March 1799
in the 68th Year of her Age.
She was a Woman of fine Sense
genteel Behaviour,
prudent Oeconomy
and
great Integrity.
‘This is the Gate of the Lord:
The Righteous shall enter into it.’
‘You have certainly got a fine specimen of that style,’ Trent observed. ‘Nowadays we don’t run to much more, as a rule, than “in loving memory”, followed by the essential facts. As for the titles, I don’t wonder at your admiring them; they are like the sound of trumpets. There is also a faint jingle of money, I think. In Sir Rowland’s time, Black Rod’s was probably a job worth having; and though I don’t know what a Hanaper is, I do remember that its Clerkship was one of the fat sinecures that made it well worth while being a courtier.’
Mrs Langley put away her treasure, patting the bag with affection. ‘Mr Gifford said the clerk had to collect some sort of legal fees for the crown, and that he would draw maybe seven or eight thousand pounds a year for it, paying another man two or three hundred for doing the actual work. Well, we found the vicarage just perfect—an old house with everything beautifully mellow and personal about it. There was a long oar hanging on the wall in the hall, and when I asked about it the vicar said he had rowed for All Souls College when he was at Oxford. His wife was charming, too. And now listen! While she was giving us tea, and her husband was making a copy of the epitaph for me, he was talking about his ancestor, and he said the first duty that Sir Rowland had to perform after his appointment as King of Arms was to proclaim the Peace of Versailles from the steps of the Palace of St James’s. Imagine that, Mr Trent!’
Trent looked at her uncertainly. ‘So they had a Peace of Versailles all that time ago.’
‘Yes, they did,’ Mrs Langley said, a little tartly. ‘And quite an important Peace, at that. We remember it in America, if you don’t. It was the first treaty to be signed by the United States, and in that treaty the British government took a
