The Burning Court by John Dickson Carr

octagonal granite pillar supported the groined roof. On two sides the crypt was a catacomb. In the one long wall facing them as they entered, and in the short wall to the right, niches had been made in regular tiers to contain the dead. The exposed coffins were set into the wall endways, evidently from some one’s business-like wish to save space even in the grave; and the niches were barely larger than the coffins. Near the top, where the old Despards lay, most of the niches were ornamented with marble facings, scrollwork, a contorted angel or two, even a Latin eulogy; but lower down they became more severe. Some tiers were filled, some almost empty; and eight coffins could be laid along one tier.
    At the other end of the crypt, towards their left, the light picked out a tall marble plaque on the wall, inscribed with the names of those who had been buried here. Over it drooped a marble angel, with head hidden. On either side of the plaque stood a great marble urn, out of which a mass of dead flowers still drooped; and there were the remains of more flowers on the floor. 1 Stevens observed that on the plaque the first name was Paul Desprez, 1650-1706. The name turned into ‘Despard’ just past the middle of the eighteenth century; and it might be guessed that the family, having sided with the British during the French and Indian War, found it convenient to Anglicize their name. The last on the roll, boldly cut with a shock of obtruding the present, was Miles Bannister Despard, 1873-1929.
    Mark’s light moved away, and over to find Miles’s coffin. It was in the wall directly opposite them, and in the lowest tier, which was only a few feet from the floor. It was the last in its tier. All the niches to the left were occupied, and there were several vacant places to the right. It stood out not only because it was new and gleaming, where all the others were crusted with dust or rust or corruption, but because it was the only coffin in its tier made of wood.
    They stood for a moment in silence, and Stevens heard Henderson breathing behind his shoulder. Mark turned and handed Henderson the light.
    “Keep this on it,” he said. His voice came back in such echoes that he jumped; it was as though the voice itself raised dust. “Come on, Ted; take one side and I’ll take the other. I could lift it down by myself, but we have to go easy.”
    As they moved forward, they all started again to hear footsteps coming down the stairs behind, and they whirled round. The lantern was burning on the path up at the top of the crypt; Partington, with his bag and box and two ordinary Mason jars perched on top. On either side of the coffin, Stevens and Mark Despard slid their hands into the niche and pulled. …
    “It’s damned light,” Stevens found himself saying.
    Mark said nothing, but he looked more startled than he had been that night. The coffin was made of polished oak scrolled at the edges, and of no great size; Miles had been five feet six. On the top was a silver name-plate, with Miles’s name and the dates. With a very small heave they hoisted it out and put it on the floor.
    “It’s too damned light, I tell you,” Stevens found himself saying. “Here, you won’t need that screwdriver; this thing opens with two long bolts and clasps down through the centre of the edges. Catch hold.”
    They heard the clink as Partington put down his Mason jars, together with a sheet in which he was apparently going to do some wrapping-up. Mark and Stevens tugged at the bolts until the coffin-lid began to lift. …
    The coffin was empty.
    The coffin, bedded with white satin, gleamed under the shaking light in Henderson’s hand; but it was empty. There was not even a pinch of dust.
    Nobody said anything, though each could hear the others breathe. Mark sat back on his haunches so abruptly that he nearly fell over backwards. Then, with a common impulse, both he and Stevens turned down the lid of the coffin to look at the silver name-plate