The Cathedral of Lost Souls, page 17
“I appreciate your hard work, I truly do.”
Satisfied her worth was acknowledged, the portly woman explained the layout of the room.
“Only two tiny windows, high up, and no candles for you in there. There’s a deep cupboard to the right as you enter where all the vestments and so on are kept—you’ll know it by the smell of mothballs. I’ve a terrible time keeping moths from nibbling the fine wool of the cassocks and the silk of the altar cloths; they’ve a taste for it, the little winged horrors.”
“Vestments to the right, please go on…”
“There are three tall cupboards, all locked, of course. The value of the silver is considerable, and there are treasures that have been in the cathedral for centuries. They are rarely seen now, though still have to be polished to ward off tarnish.”
“Of course. And the book…?”
“What you seek is in a strongbox. I myself was uncertain of its whereabouts until only Wednesday last, when I happened upon the master of the library inspecting it, no doubt in preparation for his journey. It pains me to tell you it is still a little sooty, after, well, you recall.…”
“But he hasn’t moved it yet?” Hecate’s heart lurched. Was she too late? She felt her father’s hand on her arm as the same thought occurred to him.
“Oh no, he replaced it in the strongbox. It is an ugly, heavy old thing, but secure, which is its point, after all. I saw him use a key, just one, but in three locks, in order.”
“In order? Can you show me? The lock will not open if I get the order wrong.”
“I saw what he did.” She tapped the side of her nose. “There’s not much as goes on in this place that I don’t know about, mark my words.”
“Bless you, Mrs. Nugent. I believe you yourself are one of the cathedral’s finest treasures.”
The cleaner did not exactly blush, but she smiled broadly, her cheeks dimpling.
“Now,” said Hecate, taking the special key from the ring, “to work.”
“I shall keep watch,” Edward whispered in her ear before walking back to stand at the junction of the south aisle and the transept.
The hound sat beside the door. The cat, bored, wandered away to look for mice. Mrs. Nugent could not resist taking out her duster and cleaning the door handle before stepping aside.
Hecate held up the plain, insignificant-looking key, puzzling over how something so magical, so important, could look so drab, giving no hint of its abilities. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself, listening for the whisper of the goddess, drawing deep on her own hidden talents, believing in what she could do. The tiny gold key on her brooch began to spin. She touched it and it immediately fell into her palm where it glowed with a light of its own. Pausing to call on Hekate for her assistance, she gently slotted the golden key into the gray metal one. A curious silence settled about her, the air fizzing. And then, without any further encouragement, the larger key started to change. Its tines and teeth stretched and stuttered and grew and shrank until, after only a few seconds, it settled upon a shape. She lifted it to the keyhole and slid it in. The fit was perfect. Smiling, she turned it, causing the ancient lock to release with a worryingly loud clunk that echoed through the cathedral. She waited, listening, but no running feet came, no sounds of other doors being opened, no shouts. She turned the handle and felt the door open.
“Father!” she called in a stage whisper.
He hurried to her.
“You have it unlocked?”
She nodded. “In we go,” she said.
She pushed the door and they stepped over the threshold, leaving the hound to stand guard outside.
The interior was in deep darkness. Hecate paused to light the policeman’s lamp and angled it to illuminate the way forward. All was as Mrs. Nugent had described. Silver in the glass cabinet flashed in the beam of light, as did a huddle of brass candlesticks on a shelf. She wasted no time exploring, but quickly located the strongbox on the floor in a corner.
“It appears impenetrable,” her father commented. “The thickness of it, the metal straps, the lock…”
It was indeed a rustically made and unremarkable thing to look at, but close inspection revealed a lattice of metal straps, heavy iron studs, and three keyholes set into the lid. She ran her hands over it, keeping the enchanted key in her fingers, the gold key still in place, hoping the proximity to the locks would assist the transformation. She closed her eyes again, breathing in deeply, the smell of camphor and incense catching in her throat. The key began to tremble. She opened her eyes, peering closely at the keyholes.
“Mrs. Nugent, the order?” she whispered.
The ghost leaned down, her stature so short and round she was already placed close to the top of the box. She pointed with her duster.
“Start on your left, dearie. Reverend Thomas turned that one twice. Then this end.”
“So, jump the middle one?” she asked, glimpsing her father’s face as he attempted to follow what was to him a one-sided conversation.
“Just so,” the cleaner replied. “He had some difficulty with that one, I recall. And then to the last, in the center.”
Hecate followed these instructions. Between each lock she paused, placing all her attention on the keys in her hand, asking, believing, waiting, until the metal shifted and twitched and formed its new shape. She was prepared for some resistance with the second keyhole, but managed well enough. The final one, however, turned loosely but did not result in releasing the lock.
“Have I done something wrong? Are you certain of the order, Mrs. Nugent?”
“Why, yes, I recall it well.”
Hecate felt panic rising. She had not even reached the book. To be halted so early in the process … she could not fail.
She spoke as gently as she could, determined not to let the strain show in her voice.
“Do please try to think of what you saw, Mrs. Nugent. Try to picture every detail. You have been so very helpful, the layout is precisely as you described it, the order of the key turning was—”
“Key turning! Oh, mercy, I had forgotten. The master of the library had to keep turning and turning with the last lock. ’Round and ’round he went, ’til I thought he would break the key or tire of the effort. He is not in the best of health, truth to tell. Did not go well with him, kneeling on the cold hard flagstones, him with his gout…”
“The keyhole?” Hecate urged her to keep to the matter at hand.
The old woman nodded, her phantom white curls bobbing as she did so. “’Tis as I say, he kept turning it, over and over, puffing all the while, oooh, I shouldn’t wonder if it was not twenty turns in all.”
“Twenty. Well then.” Hecate set to counting, listening for a click that would suggest the lock freeing, waiting for the connection she should surely feel through her fingers when the key finally met resistance. She reached twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
“There!” She startled herself with the loudness of her own voice, she was so relieved to feel the lock give.
“You’ve done it!” her father agreed.
She sat back on her heels and slowly lifted the heavy lid of the strongbox. Repositioning her lamp she could see several scrolls, a set of deeds tied with red ribbon, and there, looking harmless and worthless, the banned book. She reached for it, hesitating only a moment. The spell which protected it, and which had so violently worked against the griffin, should not be triggered unless she opened the book, so she took care to tuck it into her belt, keeping it tightly closed. Quickly, she closed the lid and relocked it.
Her father went to the door, opened it, and peered out.
“We remain undiscovered,” he said.
Together they hurried from the sacristy, pausing to lock the door. The hound and Mrs. Nugent hurried after them as they made their way along the south aisle, Solomon sprinting past playfully so that he reached the entrance to the crypt ahead of everyone.
Corporal Gregory was at his post. He stood to attention as they approached.
“Ready to do your bidding, miss,” he told her with a smart salute.
“If you would accompany me and stand beside me, Corporal, I should be most grateful for your protection.”
“I will not falter, no matter what,” he promised. She knew that he meant it, yet she saw the flicker of fear in his sad eyes, no doubt at the memory of the last time he had fought with a Resurgent Spirit.
“As yet, no spirits have arrived,” she reassured him. “The more quickly we can accomplish our task, the less likely it is we shall have to encounter them at all this night. Come, let us go down.”
Since the first desecration of the tombs, the crypt had not been used for anything other than storage. The damage to the iron door and the tombs and caskets had been repaired, all looked spick and span, but the dean had declared the area out of bounds to the public and indeed to anyone who had not purpose there. Hecate used her magic key to unlock the door at the bottom of the short flight of stone stairs. It creaked loudly as she opened and shut it. She turned her lamp to sweep the empty space. There were candles on the old stone altar, but even at this subterranean level, she was reluctant to use them. The crypt was unusual in having several high windows set into its walls, some of which were on the same side of the building as the cloisters. They could not risk light being seen and raising the alarm. Hecate could not risk being interrupted in her vital work.
Out of the shadows stepped her other phantom friends, Brother Michael and Lady Rathbone, come to stand beside her.
“It lifts my heart to see you all here,” she said to the little gathering, “but I implore you, should there be trouble, look to your own safety first.”
There were general protestations as each ghost declared themselves to be there to help her.
Watching her face, her father asked, “Are your phantom friends trying to dissuade you from your task?”
“Oh, no, they merely fear for my safety.”
“As good friends would. Tell them I will not leave your side.”
She smiled at him. “You have just told them yourself.”
“They can hear me?”
“It seems they can. Let us agree if there is a serious threat to any of you,” she said, addressing the ghosts, “you will look to yourselves.”
“We would never abandon you,” the young soldier told her.
“Of course not, but don’t you see, if I am concerned for your safety because of my actions it will inhibit my work. While I value your protection, Corporal, I must know you will not endanger yourselves.”
“If my daughter’s life is in peril, I will take her from this place,” Edward said to the invisible company. “You have my word.”
Eventually agreement was reached. They would be prepared to warn her of approaching danger, to distract and divert any threats as best they could, but they would not risk their own souls being lost to the Resurgent Spirits, fleeing if it came to direct confrontation. The only one who would not agree to this was Corporal Gregory, who declared he would gladly forfeit his own restless soul to save Hecate. She knew he would not be persuaded otherwise. She found herself hesitating then, and realized it was not out of fear, but because she was waiting to see if John would join them. The others looked from one to the other, understanding her hope. When he made no appearance, she straightened her shoulders and took the book from her belt.
She set it down on the altar and took out the other, smaller book. This she opened and quickly spoke the words that would render powerless the spell that protected the banned book. A little nervously, she put the remedy book aside and placed her hand over the Essedenes’ book. The cover felt unnaturally warm under her palm. Slowly, cautiously, she opened the book. Silence. No shrieking, no leaping about, no dreadful clawing creature emerging to clutch at anyone daring to read the pages.
“Well then,” she murmured, laying the book flat. She turned the pages, passing quickly over the summoning incantation that had been used to raise the very dead she now sought to return to their rightful place. Finding the place in the book she required, she angled the lamp to fall upon the ancient text—mortuus est reversus. She opened her mouth to begin reciting the words, but her throat was dry. She faltered, coughing, wishing she had some water at hand. A nervousness assailed her. The violence of the Resurgent Spirits who appeared last time she had used the book was still vivid in her memory. Her hand instinctively went to her brooch. All three attachments were spinning or wriggling, sensing the danger and importance of the moment. A shift in the pressure of the air to her left made her turn, stepping back, whipping a vial of holy water from her belt.
But it was not a Resurgent Spirit that materialized from the gloom, it was John.
Relief flooded her body. “Oh. I wasn’t sure you would come,” she said, returning the water to its leather loop, pausing while her heart rate settled to a more normal beat.
“You cannot think I would let you face such a thing without me, Hecate?” He moved forward, reaching toward her, his phantom fingers landing upon her cheek in a weightless touch. As he moved closer she had to quell a shiver against the cold of his presence. She smiled, genuinely pleased to see him, and yet unsettled as she always was now by his spectral form. This was the John who had loved her, the John who had asked her to be his bride, and yet it was not him. It would never be him again.
“Continue,” he told her, “we have every faith in you, Hecate.”
Nodding, she turned back to the book and tried to read. This time she was able to recite the words clearly, calmly, her voice bouncing back off the low vaulted stone ceiling and thousand-year-old walls, aural shadows of themselves. She read the Latin, and then repeated the words in her own English translation. “‘Return whence you were brought forth, that all will be as it was. Leave those bodies you now claim as your own, for they are not your rightful homes. Be not violent in your leaving, take not soul with you, cease your unnatural time on this earth, stolen from another. Return. Return. Return!’”
She raised her voice and her hands as she finished the words and then waited, listening, her own breath shallow and fast.
The air did not stir.
No hissing or growling came.
No swirling mass of darkness arrived to fight her or resist the spell.
Hecate turned the lamp, inspecting the crypt, searching. She found only her spectral family, gazing back at her, all equally perplexed.
It was Corporal Gregory who broke the silence.
“Is it done, miss? You have sent them back?”
“Truly, Corporal, I do not know.”
Mrs. Nugent tutted. “You spoke the words very nicely, my dear. For all to hear.”
“Do you believe the words have done their work?” her father asked.
Brother Michael stepped forward, trying to appear brave but failing to stop himself fading and reappearing, his anxious habit giving away his true feelings. “While we cannot be certain, I believe Mrs. Nugent is right. You have cast the words, child. You have met no resistance. It would seem your work is done.”
She turned to look at John. “But … how will I know? Last time, when I used the book, the cathedral was filled with both Resurgent and Embodied Spirits. This time, well, they are not here. How far can the words reach? Over what distance can it be effective? How can I be certain I have not failed?”
“Time will tell,” he said simply.
Exasperation replacing the spike of fear Hecate had been experiencing, she snapped the book shut and tucked it back into her belt.
“It seems to me the only way to know if the spell has worked is to seek out the nearest Embodied Spirit.”
“Tiberius Harper,” her father said.
“Precisely,” she agreed. She put out her lamp, turned, and strode toward the stairs. “Thank you, dear friends, for your support.”
“Miss!” the young soldier called after her. “Where do you go now?”
“To seek the proof I need.”
“We go to the Fosse,” Edward told them.
“Wait!” Brother Michael raised his usually quiet voice, making her pause and turn. “The book,” he reminded her. “You still have it. Will you not return it to the sacristy?”
She put her hand upon the worn leather of the book, shaking her head. “And let Reverend Thomas remove it from the influence of the Mappa Mundi? Perhaps forever? No. It should be returned to the library, once it has served its purpose. Until we can be sure the incantation has worked, it stays with me.”
They left the cathedral and in a few short minutes were within sight of Tiberius’s house. Hecate led the way, and they took up a secluded position behind a young chestnut tree. The small park was in darkness, the moon slumbering among plump clouds. From where they stood, they could clearly see several of the windows of the villa, as well as the upstairs conservatory, which was fully illuminated and without shutters. Edward leaned close.
“And now we wait.”
She nodded. “Indeed. The difficulty we have is that as we are waiting for something that might no longer exist to show itself, we cannot know…”
“How long we have to wait.” He finished her thought, and added, “Or if we are unable to see the Embodied Spirit because it has been banished from the land of the living, or because Tiberius Harper has gone to bed, where he sleeps peacefully.”
“Precisely … but look! There!” She dragged her father around the tree so that they were better hidden, but pointed up at the conservatory. They could clearly see the maid, quick and lively in her movements, as she brought in a small tray of drinks and set it down on a table near the end window. As they watched, breath held, another figure strode into the room, thanked the maid, and settled into an armchair, taking up a whiskey glass and a book.
Edward cursed under his breath. “It seems our Mr. Harper is still very much at home, both in house and body.”
If Hecate had been given to swearing, she would have done so. “Not affected in the slightest.”
“It would appear not.”
“This is terrible,” she said, turning to lean back against the rough tree trunk, a sudden weariness entering her very bones. “Father, I have failed. It has not worked. All this time trying to get to the banned book, relying on its contents … only to find it unequal to the task of returning the spirits.”
