The Shining Skull by Kate Ellis Page B

envied him his easy manner, the effortless concern he could muster in a split second;
     and the remarkable memory that allowed him to store all his parishioners’ joys, woes and hospital admissions in its data bank.
     But then he supposed it was all part of the job and it had been acquired with practice, like his own encyclopaedic knowledge
     of pottery sherds and artefacts.
    The excavations at the church were hidden from public view by tall white screens, carefully erected with no gaps for the local
     teenagers to peep through during their long and boring evenings spent hanging around the village phone box and bus shelter.
     Neil glanced at them as Ventnor unlocked the church door, wondering if anything was going on behind them that might require
     his attention. He fingered the mobile phone in his pocket: if he was needed someone would let him know.
    He followed Ventnor down the side aisle to the vestry. St Merion’s Church, in common with many Devon churches, possessed an
     intricately carved and painted rood screen between nave and chancel. Neil paused for a moment to admire the medieval paintwork
     faded to a subtle, muted beauty over the centuries. The heavy peace within the church was unaffected by all the activity outside
     in the churchyard and the footsteps of the two men rang hollow on the cold stone floor as they made for the vestry.
    The vestry itself was a cosy room with monumental cupboards for surplices and choir robes filling one wall and a large oak
     desk that had been leaned on by many hopeful couples as they signed the marriage register. A large iron safe, an ancient artefact
     in itself,stood near the door. John Ventnor opened it and took out an old, leather-bound book with the word ‘burials’ emblazoned in
     faded gold on its cover.
    ‘Do you know the name and date of the burial?’ the Rector asked, flicking carefully through the pages.
    Neil nodded. ‘Juanita Bentham. 1816.’ He took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his combat jacket. ‘I’ve made a note of
     all the names on the monument, although there were a few infant burials that weren’t listed. And I’ve noted all the names
     we have so far from the coffin plates. Perhaps if we matched them with the register.’
    ‘Are all the Bentham burials disinterred now?’
    Neil nodded. ‘It’s just a job of matching names to skulls.’
    John Ventnor walked to the desk and flicked through the pages of a large diary. ‘I’ll conduct the Benthams’ reburial service
     after I’ve finished writing my sermon. Since Miss Worth died there are no living relatives so there’s nobody to notify.’ He
     sighed. ‘That line keeps going through my head. “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” The Benthams were the village
     squires. Front pews in church. Forelocks tugged as they rode past in their carriages. They had the power to appoint the parish
     clergy . . . my predecessors. They even had the village pub named after them.’
    ‘And now they’re just a load a mouldering skeletons – exactly like the farm labourers who had to work their fingers to the
     bone on their estates and bow and scrape . . . ’
    ‘Death, the great leveller.’ The Rector smiled and looked at his watch. ‘Can I leave you to lock up, Neil? Just bring the
     keys back when you’ve finished.’
    Neil was glad to be left alone in the silent church, alone to think, away from the bustle of the churchyard and the sight
     of the ground yielding its grim harvest.
    He roamed around the church for a while, examining the rood screen and the worn grave slabs in the aisles, each telling a
     story of a human being who had lived, loved and died in Stoke Beeching centuries ago. He imagined them: the old; the young;
     male and female; young soldiers killed in far off wars or sailors drowned in tragic shipwrecks off the treacherous Devon coast;
     young women dying in childbirth; unmarried sons and daughters barely out of their teens succumbing to fevers; loved matriarchs;