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had probably been a church for centuries farther back; but it might have been burnt down, or fallen into ruin, and been replaced by this building.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 licking, called off the war, and recognized our independence. Now when the vicar said that about his ancestor having proclaimed peace with the United States, I saw George Langley prick up his ears; and I knew why.
‘You see, George is a collector of Revolution pieces, and he has some pretty nice things, if I do say it. He began asking questions; and the first thing anybody knew, the vicaress had brought down the old King of Arms’ tabard and was showing it off. You know what a tabard is, Mr Trent, of course. Such a lovely garment! I fell for it on the spot, and as for George, his eyes stuck out like a crab’s. That wonderful shade of red satin, and the Royal Arms embroidered in those stunning colours, red and gold and blue and silver, as you don’t often see them.
‘Presently George got talking to Mr Gifford in a corner, and I could see Mr Gifford screwing up his mouth and shaking his head; but George only stuck out his chin, and soon after, when the vicaress was showing off the garden, he got the vicar by himself and talked turkey.
‘Mr Verey didn’t like it at all, George told me; but George can be a very smooth worker when he likes, and at last the vicar had to allow that he was tempted, what with having his sons to start in the world, and the income tax being higher than a cat’s back, and the death duties and all. And finally he said yes. I won’t tell you or anybody what George offered him, Mr Trent, because George swore me to secrecy; but, as he says, it was no good acting like a piker in this kind of a deal, and he could sense that the vicar wouldn’t stand for any bargaining back and forth. And anyway, it was worth every cent of it to George, to have something that no other curio-hunter possessed. He said he would come for the tabard next day and bring the money in notes, and the vicar said very well, then we must all three come to lunch, and he would have a paper ready giving the history of the tabard over his signature. So that was what we did; and the tabard is in our suite at the Greville, locked in a wardrobe, and George has it out and gloats over it first thing in the morning and last thing at night.’
Trent said with sincerity that no story of real life had ever interested him more. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if your husband would let me have a look at his prize. I’m not much of an antiquary, but I am interested in heraldry, and the only tabards I have ever seen were quite modern ones.’
‘Why, of course,’ Mrs Langley said. ‘You make a date with him after dinner. He will be delighted. He has no idea of hiding it under a bushel, believe me!’
The following afternoon, in the Langleys’ sitting-room at the Greville, the tabard was displayed on a coat-hanger before the thoughtful gaze of Trent, while its new owner looked on with a pride not untouched with anxiety.
‘Well, Mr Trent,’ he said. ‘How do you like it? You don’t doubt this is a genuine tabard, I suppose?’
Trent rubbed his chin. ‘Oh yes; it’s