“It appears the dean wishes to see you,” he said, peering up at her through his thick glasses. “Miss Cavendish, are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes, Reverend Thomas. I am perfectly fine, thank you,” she said, hastily getting off the steps. It was clear no one but she had heard any of the wild sounds that had come from the map. She wished she had time to think about what had happened, but the verger had evidently been sent to fetch her.
“Go with the verger,” the librarian told her. “I will put away the steps.” He watched her closely as she passed him, clearly unconvinced about her health.
Hecate put on a bright smile and addressed Mr. Gould. “I am pleased to meet you,” she told him, holding out her hand. “I understand you do important work here at the cathedral.”
He was a nondescript man; the sort one might pass in the street and not notice. He was of middling height and weight, with thinning hair and a sallow complexion. Unlike the master of the library, he enjoyed the company of people whenever he could find it, and loved nothing more than to talk.
“Oh dear me, Miss Cavendish, how kind of you to say so. And how very good it is to meet you, too. Yes, indeed. We are always happy to welcome new people to the cathedral to join our merry band. Every pair of hands is needed, every mind put to good use, isn’t that so, Reverend Thomas?” He clutched Hecate’s hand in both of his and shook it warmly, reluctant to let it go. She smiled at him. All that came from the librarian by way of reply was a grunt as he folded the steps and carried them away.
“You say the dean wishes to see me?” Hecate asked.
“He sent me to fetch you. Oh, do not be alarmed, for there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest anything amiss. Quite the contrary in fact. Dean Chalmers is a man of great thoughtfulness. No doubt he is eager to make certain you are settling in and happy in your work,” he said, glancing in the direction of the librarian. “Please follow me. I am to take you to the crypt.”
Before Hecate had time to question him about the venue for the meeting he was hurrying toward the door. She glanced back at the map as she left, still shocked by what had happened, still needing to make sense of it. As she turned to follow Mr. Gould, she noticed that the monk was browsing the second row of shelves. She wondered that she had not noticed him enter the library, but then reasoned she had been too affected by the map to be aware of what was happening on the other side of the room. She made a note to herself to ask Reverend Forsyth about the monk’s identity when next she saw him.
As they made their way along the north aisle, Hecate saw a figure coming up from the crypt stairwell. She recognized him as Lord Brocket, the earl of Brockhampton, a local aristocrat and acquaintance of her father’s. He saw her and paused to smile, raising his top hat briefly, before continuing on his way. She wondered what business he could have with Dean Chalmers. She supposed it was not unusual for men of good fortune to shore up their souls by making donations to the cathedral.
“Here we are,” the verger had begun to chatter again. “Have a care, Miss Cavendish, for the treads here are uneven,” he counseled.
Hecate had not been in the crypt before. It was reached via a short flight of stone stairs. Unlike those in the library tower, these were straight and gently sloping and led from the area in front of the Lady Chapel down to the subterranean level. The first thing she noticed was the surprising amount of light. Unusually for a floor that was entirely underground, the space had several windows. They were set high in the wall, showing glimpses of grass through the iron tracery and snatches of blue sky here and there. Another unusual feature was a second flight of steps leading up to another door. This heavy, iron-barred exit gave on to the Cathedral Green. Inside, the space was not, as she might have expected, some gloomy, dust-laden tomb, but a clean, airy room with its own vaulted ceiling, the stone beautifully carved to give a sense of height and space. There were iron gates behind which coffins were kept on shelves, and several impressive tombs positioned at irregular intervals around the four walls. There were a few sarcophaguses in the main space, but the majority of it was given over to pews and there was what appeared to be an altar of sorts against the far wall. The dean heard their footsteps and turned to greet them.
“Ah, Miss Cavendish safely delivered. My thanks to you, Mr. Gould.”
“No trouble, Dean. No trouble at all. Happy to be of service.”
He bobbed up and down as he spoke, not quite bowing, yet successfully expressing the reverence in which he held the dean. He smiled and kept his eyes cast down. He reminded Hecate of a young hound approaching the leader of the pack, submissive and craving approval.
“I will detain you no longer,” Dean Chalmers told him. “I know how busy you are.”
Unable to find a reason to linger, the verger nodded, muttered his farewells, and left.
“Come, my dear,” the dean beckoned Hecate, leading her toward the plain, sturdy altar. “I trust Reverend Thomas was not too perturbed by my taking you from your work in the library?”
“Not at all, Dean. That is, he did not say so.”
“Well then, we will take his silence on the matter as evidence of a lack of complaint. Have you been in the crypt before?” When she shook her head, he continued. “I thought not. And I imagined the place might be of interest to you, given your familiarity with your father’s work as an archeologist.”
“Indeed it is! I confess it is not as I thought it might be. It is so much brighter, and … cleaner.”
The dean chuckled. “Mrs. White would be gratified to hear you say that! It is a common misconception that crypts are the domain of spiders and bats. As you can see, this is far from the truth. And the same is the case for many such places. Hereford’s crypt is a little more unusual than most, however. You may have noticed this.” He raised a hand to indicate the broad table in front of them.
“It appears to be an altar. Which means services must be held down here. Can that be correct?”
“You have your father’s sharp mind, my dear. I’ve always said so. Yes, although no longer in use, it is an altar and services were held here for many years. This humble space served the parish of St. John when there was no other church available. Hence the external door also, and the pews, which are somewhat redundant now.”
“How strange it must have been singing hymns down here among the dead,” she muttered.
Dean Chalmers pointed up at the impressive vaulting. “As a matter of fact, voices lifted in song often sound better here than they do in the nave. Or so Reverend Forsyth tells me. He sometimes brings the choir to the crypt for practice.”
Hecate smiled at the thought of him doing something so controversial. “Do the other vicars choral object?”
“Not in summer. The temperature is quite pleasant when it is uncomfortably hot elsewhere, even in the main body of the cathedral.” He paused and then asked simply, “Tell me, are you happy in your position as assistant to the master of the library?”
“Oh yes, Dean. I am so very grateful for my post.”
“And Reverend Thomas … you find him a fair taskmaster?”
“He has been very patient with me.”
“He can be taciturn at times. It is only his manner.”
“I’m sure it must be testing to have to explain everything to someone new.”
“Quite so. And yet, time invested in his new assistant now will surely afford him greater productivity later. I wanted to be certain you were finding your position … pleasant. As your father approached me directly regarding your employment at the cathedral, I consider myself very much in loco parentis during your working day. Please do come to me, should anything ever give you cause to feel … uncomfortable.”
Hecate studied his face, searching for signs of concern, but the dean’s warm smile remained in place.
“Everyone here has made me feel very welcome,” she assured him.
“Excellent!” He gave a clap of his hands, which echoed through the crypt. “I had best let you return to your work. Come, I will escort you as far as the Stanbury Chapel and then my presence is required in the cloisters where I am told there is an issue with the pipes. A workman has been summoned. You see, my dear, not all my duties are of an esoteric nature.” He led the way back up the stairs.
As they emerged onto ground level Hecate noticed a small woman energetically polishing the brass railings in front of the altar of the Lady Chapel. She had not seen her before, but she was clearly employed in the work of cleaning. It seemed Mrs. White’s conversation with Dean Chalmers regarding her workload had been doubly successful, for not only was she now excused her duties in the library, but she had a new helper to assist her.
The afternoon passed in something of a daze for Hecate. To begin with, she had returned to her desk and to the mundane task of sorting through the old papers. The undemanding, repetitive nature of her work had a meditative quality about it that allowed her mind to travel elsewhere. And the place it traveled to was, of course, the map. Her head buzzed with thoughts of what had occurred when she touched the scar on the Mappa Mundi. Even without looking at it, sitting in such close proximity, remembering what she knew she had heard and seen, caused her skin to tingle. She would not for one moment have thought about telling the dean of her experience. While she was touched by his kindness and concern for her, she could not imagine even starting a conversation about having visions and hearing things on only her third day of work. True, as a spiritual person whose life’s purpose was built upon the unfathomable, he might have had an open mind to what she had experienced. That did not, however, mean she would feel at ease discussing it with him. Nor did it rule out the chance that he might consider her in some way ill or hysterical and send her home. The thought of what her mother might say to such a report made her all the more determined to carefully consider whom she told. Her father, she believed, would know what to make of it. He was a man who had in his work found the perfect balance between the unknowable and the practical. He had spent years chasing whispers of stories and snatches of hearsay, but in those quests he had been required to dig in the ground and construct pulleys and shafts and supports that demanded of him the skills of an engineer. He had lived among the gritty, hot, snake-riddled ruins in the desert, facing real hardships and dangers, but he had witnessed men brought to their knees by their terror of some ancient curse or other. Yes, she knew in her heart, her father would believe her. What was more, he might even be capable of offering some manner of explanation for what had taken place.
The sunshine had moved off the windows, throwing the room into shadow, and Reverend Thomas had lit the gasoliers. The light they gave off was superior to oil lamps but came with a soft rasping noise which Hecate did not care for. Rather than the flicker of a candle, the lights appeared to pulsate. For all their advantages, it seemed to her that gaslights were a poor substitute for daylight when it came to any sort of close work.
