Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

He’d not gone a hundred yards along the Bodley Road when he became acutely aware that he was being followed by one of his companions in the pub, a young man, delicate and feminine of face and figure, who’d had little to say and equally little to drink, but had merely stared at him as he’d informally expanded upon his lecture with anecdotes about Satan and Satanism which would not have been appropriate in a lecture hall setting.

At the railroad station, he hesitated, turned aside and then faced the student, remarking upon the fact that they seemed to be walking in the same direction and asking if the student was taking the last train to some neighboring town.

The young man replied that he had been overstimulated by the lecture and the ensuing conversation in the public house, and was walking to restore a measure of calm before returning to his rooms at Christ’s Church College.

Artemidorus suggested that he walk with him and gave the student his promise that they would not talk of stimulating matters, intellectual or otherwise. It was enough to set the hook, and of course they did talk of the old religions and of faith expressed through carnality, of Druidic ritual and witchcraft, and of la vecchia religione, that primitive religion that had survived through the ages in Catholic Europe.

When they passed the bridge that arched over the canal, Artemidorus suggested they walk along the path for a distance before returning, at which time they would part ways, he going on the mile to his room in the bed and breakfast and the student returning to Oxford and his bed in the school dormitory.

Fifty yards along the canal, with the moon lying like a silver coin on a sea of molten lead, at a place where a footbridge sheltered a thick stand of water reeds and climbing vines, Artemidorus first kissed, then undressed, and finally murdered the young student, never having even asked his name.

After concealing the clothes and body in the vegetation, he washed his hands and returned to the Bodley Road, coming up from the towpath in sight of the church.

Somehow, it no longer looked so commonplace and undistinguished. Even though it was clearly modern, no more than fifty or sixty years old, the thought came to him that the fabric of the building might well incorporate a stone altar-screen or a window, a tomb or even an entire wall, from some early church that had once stood upon the spot. With the intention of walking around the perimeter, inspecting the windows and foundation as best he could, he walked down the path of the latticework gate with the sign upon it.

Instead of the schedule of masses, it bore the words, “This Church Is Open. Please Secure the Gate and Door Behind You When You Enter or Leave.”

A little thrill went through him. He felt as though an opportunity for a small adventure had been thrust upon him very unexpectedly. He’d thought he’d just have a stroll around the exterior of a commonplace little church building but, instead, here he was, given the opportunity to explore its modest secrets and mysteries on toward midnight in the full of the moon after having committed a terrible act.

The latch gave easily to his hand. It swung open without a sound. He closed it behind him as he’d been admonished to do and went into the archway, where the moonlight was prohibited by the overhanging eaves. The iron-hinged oak door gave to his hand as easily as had the gate. He stepped inside, closed it behind him, turned for the first full view of the interior and was nearly overcome with wonder at the extraordinary grandeur that presented itself to him.

This was no common wooden church fifty or sixty years old. The outer structure was no more than a skin, a concealment of and protection for the ancient temple of stone within.

He could not date it precisely, there were a dozen architectural epochs jumbled there, centuries lying cheek to jowl, a sixteenth-century wall burrowing into a wall from the tenth, a stained-glass Gothic window, filled with the light of the moon, illuminating a Norman memorial stone set into the floor. The pews were carved with a hand that had been alive during the historical Arthur’s time. The christening font was so ancient that he believed it might well be pre-Christian. It was a treasure filled with pieces worthy of the greatest museums in the world.

It was all quite dumbfounding.

But nothing was so overwhelming as the painting on the wall behind the altar. The power and magnificence of it burst upon him like a revelation, the moonlight suddenly striking through a clerestory set high beneath the roof, bringing it to blazing life, as though the thousand writhing figures in the painted hell below and the ascending souls on their way to heaven above moved before his gaze.