What Remains of Heaven by C. S. Harris EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: C. S. Harris
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
TANFIELD HILL, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812
His breath coming in undignified gasps, the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw
abandoned the village high street and struck out through the lanky grass of
the churchyard. He was a small, plump man, well into his middle years, his
hair sparse and graying, his knees stiff. Looking up, he saw the belfry of the
village church silhouetted dark against the white of the evening sky, and
suppressed a groan.
“What have I done? What have I done?” he murmured to himself in a
kind of chant. He never should have lingered so long with old Mrs.
Cummings. Yes, the woman was dying, but he’d done what he could to ease
her passing, and one did not keep the Bishop of London waiting—
especially when one was a lowly churchman who owed the Bishop’s family
his living.
Hot and breathless now in his haste, the Reverend reached the sweep of
gravel before the church. His step faltered, the small stones crunching
beneath the leather soles of his shoes. “Merciful heavens,” he whispered,
his jaw sagging at the sight of the Bishop’s carriage, its coachman dozing
on the box. “He’s here.”
Swallowing hard, Earnshaw cast a searching glance around the ancient
churchyard. Despite the lengthening shadows, the jagged piles of stones and
aged timbers left from the demolition of the charnel house that had once
stood against the north wall of the chancel were clearly visible. But Bishop
Prescott was nowhere in sight.
The Reverend hesitated, the urge to rush forward warring with a craven
desire to duck into the sacristy for a lantern. He pushed on, his heart
thumping painfully in his chest as he neared the gaping hole before him.
The workmen had accidentally broken through the thin brick wall that
afternoon. The wall had concealed a forgotten staircase of worn stone steps
that led down to an ancient crypt far older even than the venerable Norman
nave above it.
During his ten years of service here at St. Margaret’s, Malcolm Earnshaw
had heard vague rumors of a crypt, sealed decades ago for health reasons.
But nothing the Reverend had heard had prepared him for the workmen’s
gruesome discovery.
Tugging his handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed the linen folds
against his mouth and nostrils as the foul air of the crypt wafted up to him.
He was near enough now to see the glow of lantern light on the worn steps
coming up from below. The Bishop had indeed gone before him.
Again Earnshaw hesitated, not from indecision this time but from
revulsion at the horror of what lay below. The Bible taught that the trumpet
shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. And again in Ezekiel
it was written that God shall put flesh on the bones of the dead and breathe
life into them. Earnshaw knew that. Yet still he found himself trembling at
the need to confront once again a sight that might have been conjured from
the vilest visions of Dante’s Inferno.
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