The Cathedral of Lost Souls, page 21
She quickly came to the sacristy and paused, her hand on the door. Whoever was inside had not thought to lock it. She realized she was about to meet whoever was responsible for raising the Resurgent Spirits with the Essedenes’ curse. This was the man without whom Brocket, Harper, and the Essedenes themselves would not have been able to carry out their cruel plans. She knew also that it had to be one of three men: the verger, the dean, or the master of the library. Instinctively, she offered up a silent prayer to Hekate that it would not be Reverend Thomas, for she could not bring herself to believe him capable of such wickedness.
When she pushed open the door, she saw a figure, robed as the corporal had explained, crouched on the floor. He had succeeded in opening the strongbox, its lid propped up as he leaned in to rummage through the contents.
“What you seek is no longer within your grasp,” she declared.
The man—for such she was certain he was by the heft of him, his height, and the fact that there were no women she suspected—took her by surprise. She had expected him to face her, to argue his case, to rail at her, to threaten. She had not expected him to bolt from the room. He rose from the floor, flinging himself forward, his hood still obscuring his face, barreling into her with such force that she fell. Without a second’s hesitation he ran from the sacristy. Winded, Hecate scrambled to her feet, but having the breath knocked from her robbed her of both voice and strength. She staggered out into the south aisle. She could hear his footsteps as he fled and saw the figure racing toward the north door.
It was then that Gil stepped into view, looking from the running man to Hecate in bewilderment.
“Stop…” She tried to shout to him, to tell him to go after the man, but her lungs screamed for air, and she could make no sound beyond wheezing. By the time she had regained her breath, the figure had left the cathedral altogether and Gil was standing beside her, supporting her as she slumped against the wall.
“What has happened here?” he asked. “You are injured.”
She shook her head, fighting for the words. “I am unharmed.” She lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the door. “That man, did you see who it was? Did you see his face?”
“I did not. Did he … did he assault you?” He looked at the open sacristy door. “Are burglars now stooping so low as to disguise themselves as men of holy orders?”
She thought to tell him that it was no common thief, but where would she begin to explain everything that had led to this point? How could she find the breath to speak to him of books of spells and spirits stirred from their sleep? At that moment she felt tired to her bones. She had been within arm’s length of a man who was vital to her foes’ plans, and she had let him get away. Get away with his identity still undiscovered.
Gil helped her to the nearest pew and sat her down.
“Take a moment,” he said. “You have had a shock.”
“I fell awkwardly, nothing more.”
“Shall I fetch a cab to take you home?”
“Certainly not. I am in charge of the library while Reverend Thomas is indisposed.” As she spoke, her spirits lifted, a realization altering the moment from one of complete failure to one of a small but precious joy. “He is lame!” she said.
Gil nodded slowly. “Aye, the gout is a dreadful thing, no doubt about that.”
“He cannot run, not a step, not if his life depended on it.”
“Well, that is true, I suppose. Yet he is safe enough in the cloisters and never far from help should he require it,” he pointed out, frowning, attempting to make sense of her concern for the librarian.
Hecate stood up, brushing dust off her skirt. The discovery that the master of the library could be taken off her list of suspects had utterly revived her. True, she had not caught the culprit, but she knew now there was one more person whom she could trust. Another ally, and one that could indeed prove helpful. She also knew that whether the guilty man was Dean Chalmers or Mr. Gould, he had left the sacristy without the banned book, which was snug in its hiding place at her home. She had thwarted him. Without that book, there would be no more Resurgent Spirits. The fight that lay ahead was a fearsome one, but at least now both sides knew what numbers they faced. Brocket and Harper would have no more fiends for their army, and she was glad they would know it was she who put a stop to their man’s work.
“Thank you, Gil, I am quite recovered. Do you, perhaps, know of the verger’s whereabouts? The sacristy should not remain unlocked.”
“Why, here he comes now,” he said.
Turning, she saw Mr. Gould approaching down the south aisle, already greeting them.
“Oh, Miss Cavendish, what a pleasant surprise. Mr. Wheatley, I trust the window is progressing as you hoped. No hitches or unforeseen obstacles? No? No, good, good.”
Everything about him seemed as normal as ever. Hecate looked him up and down. He was wearing his usual long robe, but a monk’s habit could have been thrown off and discarded in seconds. He did not appear out of breath. Would he have had time to circle the east end of the cathedral, divest himself of his disguise, and return through the south door calmly? She could not be certain. She decided not to show that she suspected him but to continue to bluff.
“The sacristy door is open,” she said, not for one second taking her eyes from him.
“Open?”
His surprise appeared genuine.
Gil stepped over to the door. “Miss Cavendish disturbed a thief. We have her to thank for nothing being taken.”
“Oh my goodness. A thief! How appalling. We must call a constable at once.”
Gil shut the door, examining it as he did so. “Not forced. A key must have been used.”
Hecate suggested, “Or perhaps it was inadvertently left unlocked. Reverend Thomas has been in some level of discomfort of late. Such things are apt to affect one’s concentration.”
The verger considered this. “That may be, yes, the poor reverend…”
“I can leave you to secure the door again? I must return to the library.”
“Of course, of course. I have a key myself. Here, I will lock it now so that we are all assured of no further thievery. Dear me, dear me, what a business.”
As Mr. Gould continued to chatter for the most part to himself as he went in to check the sacristy, Hecate stepped closer to Gil.
“I would very much like to talk to you, on the subject of our … shared interest,” she told him, with a glance in the direction of the verger, not wishing to be overheard.
His eyes brightened. “That would be … Yes, I should like that,” he said. “I have never before met another who sees those from the past as I do. Have you?”
She shook her head. “I have so many questions for you. In addition, there is something else, something important, which I must share with you.”
“Has it to do with the tombs in the crypt which were destroyed?”
“That happened before you came to work at the cathedral, but you heard news of it?”
“Who in the county has not? It … caught my interest.”
“Have you detected something … a strange presence, perhaps, beyond what you might have encountered before?”
He was on the point of answering but Mr. Gould reemerged from the sacristy, still talking.
“It is as you say, mercifully, nothing seems to have been taken. I shall lock the door now but we must remain vigilant. All of us.”
Gil briefly took Hecate’s hand and whispered, “We will talk more.”
She nodded, took her leave of them, and hurried back to the library, to Brother Michael and her beloved map.
15
As night fell, Hecate, her father, Inspector Winter, and the hound traveled toward Brockhampton in a cab. As Hecate watched the determined expressions on the men’s faces, she felt a surge of fear for them. The inspector was armed with nothing more than a truncheon, and however skilled he was in the use of it, he would be no match for the unnatural violence of the Embodied Spirits. Her father wore an old regimental sword at his hip. He had been a proficient fencer in his youth, but that time was distant. She, and only she, could see them safely through what lay ahead by doing what she had been called upon to do. She wore what her father now referred to as her full battle dress: shortened skirt, long boots, apothecary’s belt and bandolier, Hekate’s brooch, John’s gold cross on a chain around her throat, Clemmie’s scarf around her neck, her top hat held in place on her French plait by her mother’s lapis pin, vials of holy water, the lamp Inspector Winter had given her attached to her belt loop, and her book of spells in her pocket. She had her casting objects. The new addition was the map’s gift: the astrolabe. This she had attached to a metal ring on the apothecary’s belt. She was as ready as she could be. She wondered what Gil would make of how she looked, and of the strange little crew they presented. It had crossed her mind to ask for his help, but only briefly. While they shared the ability to converse with spirits, he had mentioned nothing of being familiar with magic, nor with necromancy. Besides which, she would be putting him in unknown danger. She felt certain he would want to protect her, but she would not risk his life. Could not draw him into such peril unprepared.
As they neared the end of their journey, she reached into the small wicker basket she had brought containing items essential to her mission. She took out a stone jar and three sheep’s horn beakers. Bracing herself against the swaying of the carriage, she poured out the tormentil root tea she had prepared earlier, handing a cup each to the men.
“It will help protect you from troubled spirits,” she told them, offering no more by way of explanation. Watching them, she saw it was a small test of trust. She downed her own tea, her father followed suit without hesitation, and the inspector followed suit.
He returned the cup to her. “Thank you,” he said, failing to quell a shudder at the bitterness of the tea. “Your spell casting, at what distance does it … lose its efficacy?” he asked.
“I cannot be certain, but we must not leave room for any Embodied Spirits to escape. We have the element of surprise. They do not expect us to appear at what is after all their headquarters and stronghold. Nor do they know what weapon I bring. We cannot risk any of them being outside the reach of the spell casting. We must draw them to us.”
“You have a precise location in mind?” her father wanted to know.
“The ruined church. It is roofless, mostly stone walls and glassless windows. We can position ourselves defensively there and yet be able to see those we face. It is only a short distance from the main house.”
He nodded. “A strategy of good sense. How long, do you estimate, the process will take?”
“I cannot say. I might have to repeat the incantations several times, and each round takes minutes. I will need to complete the casting.”
“We shall give you the time you need,” the inspector told her and then nodded at the hound that sat on the floor between them. “Your companion will be an asset in this, I believe.”
She reached out and ruffled the dog’s rough fur. “He will defend me to the end,” she murmured.
The driver steered the cab off the main road, the change of surface indicating they were starting along the long, twisting driveway that ran across the Brockhampton estate. He had been instructed to take them not to the house, but to the ancient orchard beside it. He was to park under cover of the trees and wait for them. A high fee had been negotiated for his cooperation, with the threat of consequences should he desert his post.
As they alighted from the little carriage Hecate felt a chill settle about them, despite the warmth of the summer’s evening. It was properly dark, and they did not wish to risk being seen before they were in place, so they relied upon the moon and the path through the orchard to find their way. The hound loped ahead, nose to the ground, searching for traces of anyone who might pose a threat. Edward walked next, Hecate behind him, the inspector bringing up the rear. Silently, they threaded their way through the trees. The blossom of spring had given way to fruit, tiny apples hanging in clusters from the old, bent boughs, moonlight glancing off their smooth skins. A little way off, an owl screeched to its mate. Bounding hoofbeats caused the hound to briefly raise his head. On detecting nothing more than the presence of a startled deer, he resumed his task. In a mere ten minutes they came in sight of the ruined church.
Seeing lights ahead, Edward signaled to them, and they crouched behind a stone water trough.
Inspector Winter spoke in a slow whisper.
“It seems our preferred venue is already occupied.”
And so it was. Through the broken doorways and missing pieces of wall, figures could be seen. They appeared to be engaged in some manner of celebration or gathering. Sounds of laughter, some shouts, a fiddle being played, drifted out on the sultry night air.
“How many do you see?” Hecate asked.
“I think perhaps a dozen.”
“Yes.” Edward nodded. “I see Brocket’s mistress, Veronique Fletcher, and there, look, his cousin Viscount Eckley has returned.”
The inspector muttered an uncharacteristic oath under his breath, pointing as he did so. “And there, if I am not mistaken, is Constable Mitchell,” he declared, shocked to see his former police officer in such company. He had heard from Hecate that the young man had become a host to a Resurgent Spirit, but it still shook him to see someone he had known and trusted for years now a dangerous foe.
“Well, daughter”—her father turned to her—“this presents us with something of a problem, does it not?”
“On the contrary. We have them all assembled rather than scattered around the property. All we must do is find another suitable place…” She stood up, peering into the dark, looking about her. “Of course, why did I not think of it sooner? Come, this way, gentlemen, and keep low.” At a run, she led them away from the church, around the side of the house itself, taking care not to be visible. They soon came to the timbered gatehouse that was set over the moat. It was a tiny black-and-white copy of the house itself, a piece of whimsy and flamboyance on the part of the original house owner. Hecate hesitated as they drew close to it. She had entered it once before when she and her father and the inspector had visited Lord Brocket. Veronique, the earl’s mistress, herself had shown it to her, taking her upstairs. Even now Hecate shuddered at the memory of that first time an Embodied Spirit had revealed its true nature to her. She also recalled the powerful atmosphere of the little building, and as she approached she was again assailed by a heaviness and a sense of dread. She knew now that the place had a particular significance to the Resurgent Spirits, as the curious marks on the beams inside were also to be found drawn on one of the letters from Father Ignatius to the original Tiberius Harper. However unsettling the place was for her, there was no alternative; she must go in.
“We must go up to the first floor,” she told the others as they reached the rustic wooden doors.
Over the years the space had been used to store apples, to keep ratcatchers’ equipment, to house itinerant workers, and to serve various other agricultural purposes. It was charming to look at, and to anyone else no doubt a pretty but insignificant construction, with its black timbers, white walls, and leaded windows. To Hecate, however, it was a place of sinister secrets and revelations, all connected to the Essedenes and their work. She could not think of a better location for her task. The stairs opened up into a single room, no more than four strides across and six along, with windows set into three of the timbered and white-painted walls. The beams were not coated in the black paint that was characteristic of some such places, but left in their natural wooden state. This made the mysterious marks that some of them bore all the more noticeable. Ignoring the buzzing in her head and distant voices, Hecate stepped over to one such shape and examined it anew. It had an indistinct outline and was roughly the size of a hand. It was dark brown and slightly faded, as were the other twenty or so similar marks.
“Look, Father. These are as described in the letters we found at the British Museum. Do you recall the drawings there, too?”
“Indeed. To see them again, and so many…”
The inspector noticed their interest.
“They are of importance?” he asked.
“They are, but I cannot say how. Not yet.” She looked around, choosing the best place to stand for the incantations. “Well then,” she said. “Here, I think, with my back to the wall.”
“And we shall be able to observe all comers from these windows,” Edward said, opening the wooden shutters and fixing them back against the wall. “Inspector, would you help me move these sacks so that we can move swiftly from one to the other?”
The men set about clearing the space. Hecate took a piece of chalk from her apothecary’s belt and drew lines of two strides long so that they formed a triangle. Next, she took a bundle of elder leaves from her basket and sprinkled them on the floor. That done, she selected the small incense burner and put it toward the front of the sacred area, tipping frankincense oil into it and lighting the small candle beneath it. Instantly the pungent aroma of the mysterious oil, known to be repulsive to bad spirits, began to drift around the room. Then, following the instructions in what she and her father had named the “poetry book,” she set candles at the three points and lit them.
“Might as well light our lamps, too,” she said. “If we are to set out our stall for all to see, why not illuminate it so there is no mistake regarding what we are about.”
With all three policeman’s lamps at their belts glowing, the space was brightened by patches of shadowy light as they moved, the candles small, still points. Hecate placed the open book on the long line of the triangle in front of her and knelt before it. The last item from her basket was a small iron bell, which she set down beside the book.
