The couple followed old Joshua on the narrow gravel path around the church and between rows of ancient tombstones to a neglected corner of the graveyard.  "I've done me best to tidy it up like," the old man said. "But, of course, it's a good many years since any visitors came here to this part of the churchyard to pay their respects, y'know. They come mainly to the new graves on t'other side as you'd expect."
      They were in the farthest corner of the churchyard where the oldest graves were decorated with elaborate crosses, angels and ornamental urns. But the grave, which the old man took them to, was not one of the elaborate ones. It was just a plain inscribed stone, almost invisible in the shadow of a huge, brooding yew.

      The churchwarden stood to one side so that Nigel could lay the wreath, which virtually dwarfed the tiny headstone. The worn inscription read: 'IN LOVING MEMORY OF JOHN MONTAGUE ASHBY. BORN 3rd MAY 1882. DIED 23rd DECEMBER 1891. R.I.P. "SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME, AND FORBID THEM NOT; FOR OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF GOD." (ST.MARK 10:14)' After a moment's silence, the old man turned to Nigel.
      "In all the years I've been churchwarden here at St. Mark's, I've heard many strange tales about ghosts and such like," he said, "an' even had a few curious experiences myself. But the story you told me yesterday about little Johnny Ashby here - well, I don't know, but it's the strangest ever..." He took off his cap and scratched his head.

      Young Nigel had told his story to Joshua over a few pints in 'The Half Moon' the previous evening. The old fellow had taken it with a customary 'pinch of salt', but the fact that both Nigel and his wife had turned up with an expensive wreath seemed to add authority to the tale.
      The story had begun with an account of Jemma browsing in 'The Copper Pot', the local antique shop. An old oil painting of the village had taken her fancy. It was a simple but charming view of the village with the High Street ending at a frozen pond (now built over), across which stood the tower of St. Mark's framed by winter trees. It was only the next day, when she was about to hang the picture on the living-room wall that she noticed a little figure climbing over the stile by the pond. The figure was too small to make out any details, but the proportions suggested a child.

She mentioned it to Nigel during their evening meal, but neither of them looked closely at the painting until Sunday morning, after a leisurely breakfast.       "I thought you said there was a figure climbing over the stile," Nigel had said, closely examining the picture at last. "Well, there's no-one here that I can see."       "You must be looking in the wrong place."       "There's only one stile. It's in the fence at the front of the pond. But I assure you, there's no figure."       "Let me see." Jemma shook her head. "That's very odd. When I looked before, I could've sworn that someone was climbing over the stile. I remember thinking; perhaps it's someone going to skate on the pond. I believe it was very popular in those days. But there's certainly no-one here now."        "Perhaps it was a trick of the light," said Nigel. "These old paintings, you know." Jemma took the picture from her husband and turned it to the light.

"Well, I guess you're right. There's certainly no one on the stile now. But the other day I had the distinct impression..." She paused, examining the painting more closely. "You know, Nigel, it almost looks as if there’s a sort of hole in the ice now. Just there, d'you see. Under the trees on the side next to the church, you can see the jagged edges." She pointed with her finger. "I swear I didn't notice it the other day."       "I see what you mean. Yes, it does look like a crack in the ice, now you mention it."

         Nigel studied the picture for some time. "I think I know what it is," he said finally. "There's something loose behind the glass - a splinter of wood off the frame or a piece of the packing. It keeps moving, so one day it looked like a figure on the stile, and now like a hole in the ice."
      It seemed like the only logical explanation. "I'll take the back off," he said. "Maybe I can shake it out." But there was no splinter of wood, no piece of loose packing.
      What they did find was an ancient, yellowed cutting from what was a local newspaper at the end of the last century. It told about the death of a 9 year-old boy called John Montague Ashby, who had gone skating on the frozen pond early one morning. The ice was not strong enough in one place, under the trees on the side nearest to St. Mark's church. And the boy had fallen through the ice into the freezing water. He had died, said the article, drowned in the icy water. 'A dire warning to others,' it concluded, 'about the danger of children skating alone when there may be thin ice.'