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Georgie bolted across the nave, shoulder smacking the door just in time to prevent it flying open.

“Thank heavens,” they grunted. “We thought no one would ever find us. The door is stuck.”

“Who is that?”

Elfreda recognized the voice. She stumbled over to Georgie.

“Georgie Redmayne,” they said, and before she could stop them: “Elfreda Marsden.”

“Miss Marsden.” The voice at the door was perceptibly colder.

“Sir Hugh.” Elfreda cast a wild glance at the toppled font. She was now the vandal. Papa would judge this as harshly as marriage to the Major.

I have no such daughter.

“The door is stuck,” she confirmed, adding her shoulder to it, although the lie only forestalled the inevitable.

“Did your father put you up to this?” asked Sir Hugh. “The committee has voted to move ahead with the repairs to the chancel arch. We will not be delayed.”

“My father is opening barrows in the Peak.” This was the truth, but her false brightness made it sound like a lie.

“I asked Miss Marsden to show me the church.” Georgie piped up. “I’m only lately returned to the neighborhood and was keen to admire all that had previously been lost to decay.”

“There is much to admire.” Sir Hugh spoke like a man who’d just inflated his chest.

“Indeed,” said Georgie.

“I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” said Georgie.

“And when should we expect your brother’s return?”

Elfreda crept to the font and dropped into a crouch. She grabbed onto the basin. Hopeless. It was utterly hopeless. She and Georgie couldn’t lift the thing, not with all the time in the world.

“…sometimes swells after a rain,” Sir Hugh was saying. “I believe it has jammed. Stand back, my dear.”

Elfreda scurried to the door, bracing herself alongside Georgie. The door jolted and began to leap in its frame.

“Sir Hugh!” A shrill salutation made the leaping cease. “You’re behaving like a March hare. What’s come over you?”

“Mrs. Alderwalsey.” Sir Hugh’s voice became muffled. Presumably, he’d moved away from the church to address her.

Elfreda sagged. Was the entire restoration committee convening? Would the vicar turn up next? Lord Fawcett? Her forehead felt damp.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” whispered Georgie, ear pressed to the door.

She shook her head.

“We can tell them we found it like that.”

She shook her head.

“Should we try to move the pedestal too? Seeing as we’re in a pickle regardless.”

She shook her head. “The pedestal isn’t Saxon. If the hoard was beneath the font, someone else discovered it centuries ago.”

“I’m sorry.” They looked pained. “I’ve gotten us into a scrape.”