Then to the Church of St. Lawrence Jewry. * "Follow the Drainpipes, find the Amphib'ns ,' Wilkins had written. Daniel walked round the churchyard, which was studded with graves, but had not reached the graves-on-top-of-graves stage – Wilkins's parishioners were mostly prosperous mercers who'd fled to their country houses. At one corner of the roof, a red copper vein descended from the downhill end of a rain-gutter, then ducked into a holed window beneath. Daniel entered the church and traced it down into a cellar where dormant God-gear was cached to expect the steady wheeling of the liturgical calendar (Easter and Christmas stuff, e.g.) or sudden reversals in the prevailing theology (High Church people like the late Bishop Laud wanted a fence round the altar so parish dogs couldn't lift their legs on the Lord's Table, Low Church primitives like Drake didn't; the Rev. Wilkins, more in the Drake mold, had stashed the fence and rail down here). This room hummed, almost shuddered, as if a choir of monks were lurking in the corners intoning one of their chants, but it was actually the buzzing of a whole civilization of flies, so large that many of them seemed to be singing bass – these had grown from the corpses of rats, which carpeted the cellar floor like autumn leaves. It smelled that way, too.