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By Root 4350 0

But one had only to look around the main body of the cathedral to notice signs of new life. Here and there, on walls and on the ancient tombs, careful restoration and cleaning had revealed fragments of the medieval paint which had once made the place a riot of colour. In every chapel, splendid embroidered cushions and hassocks, lovingly made by local hands, had recently appeared; and the new Sarum Group of embroiderers had won national renown for the chasubles and copes, and the dazzling altar cloths that caught the eye with such force. Today, even the flowers in the cathedral had been arranged, she could see, by a professional artist’s hands. It seemed to her that there was a new and more vigorous spirit in the place than there had been before.

But a greater wonder was at the east end, where a huge new stained glass window had been installed only five years before. The Prisoners of Conscience Window was the work of the famous French glass designers, Gabriel Loire and his son Jacques, whose workshop was outside another cathedral city, Chartres. It was good, Patricia thought, to see the old colours return to the windows too.

And then she knew why Adam Shockley was wrong.

It was not a museum after all – neither the quiet close nor the bustling town, neither the great house at Wilton nor the medieval cathedral with its soaring spire. All were as alive as on the first day they were made. For ancient forms could be re-used, medieval forms and colours recreated, and new forms would be found at Sarum. They might come slowly, almost invisibly, but they would come because their roots were deep. England had been ruined by two devastating wars; but here, as elsewhere, the ancient culture of Europe would put forth its vigorous flowers again.

She smiled. She was pleased with the thought.

After the service, while the prince was taken to tea at the old bishop’s palace, now the cathedral school, Patricia led her little party back towards the car.

Shockley and his daughter had to return to London that evening and she had promised to show them Stonehenge.

As they left the close, she moved to Kersey Godfrey’s side and linked her arm through his, smiling up at him happily. She touched his hand.

“You’re coming to show them Stonehenge, aren’t you?” she murmured.

“If I’m not in the way.”

She squeezed his arm.

“You’re not.”

They crossed the bridge and walked along to the little car park.

“It’s only twenty minutes drive, if that,” she explained. “Kersey and I will take you there.”

They reached the car. Then she paused and stared.

“I don’t believe it.”

Young John Wilson had been lucky that day. It was his thirteenth birthday.

He had stood in the close to watch the royal helicopter arrive. Then, when the prince had been greeted and moved into the cathedral, he went away. It was twenty minutes later that he walked past the car park near Crane Bridge.

The place was deserted. Idly, he moved about amongst the cars.

The big maroon Volvo was parked in one corner.

And on the driver’s seat lay an expensive woman’s handbag. The door was locked. But there was a little pile of bricks beside the wall nearby.

There were no people and police about: all in the close, no doubt, waiting to see the Prince of Wales. He moved in quickly.

There is a particularly delightful spot at Sarum – it is on a little island below Crane Street bridge – a strip of grass between two streams where the river Avon makes its gentle curve round the western side of the close.

On the opposite eastern bank, the gardens of the handsome close houses run down to the stream. On the western side, the meadows stretch, broad and placid, towards Wilton.

There are long, green riverweeds in the stream; moorhens, ducks and swans make the place their habitation. There are trees along the island’s bank. It is a quiet timeless, place where, by the hushed sounds of the riverbank, one can measure the even greater and more dignified silence of the cathedral close next door.

It was here that John Wilson loitered.

Having extracted the cash, he had thrown the bag and the rest of