'It's nearly five hundred years old,' the verger told him as they approached, just before Vespers, and the sudden wariness in the old man's voice didn't escape the new vicar's attention.
'Is there water in it?' he asked, looking at the small bucket that swung from the end of a thick, shiny rope wrapped around its pulley.
'Yes. But it's not good to drink. It's briny.' The verger cranked the handle and the bucket descended with a squeal that reminded Father Lane of souls and the abyss.
When the pail reappeared, the verger offered him a scoop full of murky liquid. 'Taste it,' he urged, and the vicar muttered a prayer before doing so.
'It tastes like tears,' he said.
'Yes. The tears of the heretics who were thrown down there during the Dark Ages.'
'My goodness! Is that so?'
'Yes. Three women and two men.' He gestured to the rope that was once again coiled around the pulley. 'This is made of their hair.'
Father Lane tried not to retch. He peered over the wall, down into the abyss, but there was nothing to see. 'Do you think it'll be better tomorrow morning?'
'No. The sun never shines in this part of the garden. If I was you, I'd forget all about it and carry on with your business as though I'd never told you.'
'I can't do that.' He and the verger moved gladly back into the warmth of the sun's last rays. 'If you give me the names of those poor souls down there, I'll hold a memorial service for them. Then we'll have the well closed and sealed, so it can be treated with all the respect that's due to someone's grave.'
'Yes. Right. Thank you, Father.'
The two men parted; one to go home to his family and his dinner, the other to dry toast and prayers. But before bedtime, when the owls were hooting and the moon turned the scraggy yew trees silver, the verger knocked on the vicarage door.
'Sorry for the hour,' he said, unapologetically, 'But I brought you those names. I thought you might like to hold a vigil for them, too, seeing you're so set on putting things right.'
'That's a good idea.' He took the sheet of paper from him and frowned when he saw what was written there. 'But this is your surname.' He looked at his visitor again. 'Are they relatives of yours?'
'Yes. Only one son escaped the Purge, and that was because he'd run away to sea.'