I know a church on the Staffordshire-Derbyshire border where there is a
most unusual tomb. It is a plain chest, about 3 feet high, without any
inscription or decoration, on which lie two recumbent figures, whom I presume
are man and wife, though this can be no more than speculation, since neither is
visible. Both are entirely covered in long shrouds, which I would have to say
are meticulously well carved by the long-dead monumental mason. But before any
hunter-down of curiosities who might read this decides to visit the church, I
must stress that there WAS such a tomb, because the figures are no longer
there. They vanished some time ago, and have never been found, though I do have
an idea of what might have become of them. But it’s a strange story.
I first discovered the
church, in a village which I shall call Maxton, when I was out on a walk. I
can’t resist passing an old church without taking a look inside, and there was
this remarkable tomb, like no other I had ever seen, without any information as
to whom might have built it, or why it took this strange form. I looked in vain
for any guidebook to the church offered for sale, or even a postcard, which I
thought sadly neglectful. Fortunately I had on my person the bible for all
haunters of churches, namely the relevant volume of Pevsner‘s Buildings of
England. But even Herr Pevsner wasn’t greatly informative.
“Maxton. Holy Cross. Nave
c. 13. Tower and s. aisle much restored 1850s. Chancel e. window of 5 lights (etc etc). Chest tomb, said to date from 1590s, a member of Benville family and
wife, but no inscription; alabaster effigies, both figures completely shrouded;
grotesque”
And then, a few lines
later:-
“Maxton hall, 1/2 mile w.
of village. Once the seat of the Benville family. Only traces now
remain”
“That’s not very
helpful!” I commented to a man who was standing near the tomb.
“It’s a load of rubbish”,
he informed me. “Pevsner didn’t know what he was talking about. I could have
told him better”
I was depressingly
familiar with his type: an amateur local historian, whose greatest pleasure was
to discover an error in the work of a major writer: the fact that the error
might be of the utmost triviality not signifying at all. Sure enough, it only
required a few words of encouragement from me to cause him to launch forth with
his own ideas.
“For a start, the real
name of the family wasn’t Benville, it was de la Benneville”, he informed me.
“And the date should be the 1570s. This tomb is Sir Robert de la Benneville and
his wife Eleanor. They were cousins too, because the family was always very
inbred and in consequence a bit strange to say the least. This pair were said
to be quite spectacularly ugly, and they weren’t liked in the neighbourhood: in
fact they were suspected of witchcraft, but because they were so rich and
powerful, nothing could be done. Then they both died together, in mysterious
circumstances, and locals said it was by visitation of the devil; so that there
was a move to deny them burial in the church; but they were childless and had
left all their money to the church on condition that a proper tomb was erected
with them on it, so in the end it was decided to build a tomb, but with these
shrouded effigies we’ve got here.
“Some people think the
church is haunted by them”, he added, entirely predictably. “There are stories
….”
I feared he might go on
like this for ever, so I interrupted to say that he really ought to write a
guidebook for the church himself; and again, entirely true to type, he muttered
something about quarrels with the vicar, and in any case not having the time. I
disengaged myself from his company as politely as I could, and departed in
search of a pub for my lunch.
There the matter rested
until a couple of years later, when we were visited by friends from the south
who loved visiting old churches, and it occurred to us that they would probably
never have seen anything like the Benville (or should it be de la Benneville?)
tomb. So we drove them over to Maxton that afternoon; but on arrival we were
astonished to find police cars in attendance and the church surrounded by red
and white scene-of-the-crime tape. My friend the local historian was, I was
relieved to notice, absent, but a man who was obviously the vicar was standing
by.
“There’s been a
break-in”, he said, in answer to the obvious enquiry.
“Was anything taken?”
“It’s very strange. There
were two peculiar figures on a tomb. Oh, so you know about them? Well, they’ve
gone!”
“Gone?”
“Yes, they’ve completely
disappeared; heaven knows how! Nothing else seems to have been touched. Why
would anyone want to do that? And how was it done? They must have been very
heavy! And what’s even odder is that there’s no sign of a forced entry
anywhere, though I’m absolutely certain I locked up the night before. It’s a
Yale lock, you know. I can only think that someone must have been hiding inside
the church when I locked the door, and then opened it from the inside. But even
then, several men must have been involved, and how they dislodged the figures
and then carried them out without waking up half the village, I really don’t
know! The police are baffled.
“It’s almost as if the
figures got up from the tomb themselves, and walked out, isn’t it!”
………………………………..................................................
Some time later I found an item in the local paper, which informed me
that a derelict barge had been found sunk in the Trent-Mersey canal and had had
to be hoisted at no little cost. What had caused excitement was the fact that
human bones had been discovered inside the wreck. Pathologists had identified
them as belonging to a man and a woman, but had been mystified on finding that
both had been dead for a very long time; probably several centuries.
