“I have something for you,” he said, handing her a small leather jewelry box.
“A present?” She took it from him, a little puzzled.
“It was sold to me by the mysterious woman I told you of. She produced it after our talk and insisted it was meant for you. I had planned on giving it to you on your next birthday but, well, after what you told me, after what has happened, I could not wait until the summer. I want you to have it now.”
She opened the box. Inside, nestled against a cushion of cream satin, sat a beautifully wrought cameo brooch set in gold.
“Oh, Papa! How very lovely!”
“Hold it up to the light. Notice the clarity of the shell on which the image is carved … do you see?”
She did as he suggested and the tawny color of the background glowed as the morning sunlight fell through it, the carving showing up in sharp relief.
Her father could not resist taking it from her to point out the details.
“The image is that of your namesake. Some might mistake it for Diana, as she, too, was associated with the moon, and there is a crescent set into the hair … here.”
“But this is not Diana?”
“Indeed, it is not. Closer inspection will reveal a coil of her hair to be a serpent. Only one, so not enough to point us in the direction of Medusa. And worked into the setting are further clues that confirm her identity. Look.”
“Keys … a torch, and another tiny snake!”
“Which, as you well know, being familiar with the qualities and particulars of that original Hekate, are indisputably her symbols.”
She did know, of course. Had known since she was old enough to ask about her unusual name and to wish to hear the stories behind it. She knew that the goddess was associated with the night and therefore the moon, with ghosts, with magic. Often depicted at a crossroads, she was believed to inhabit the liminal spaces between light and dark, life and death. She was thought to act as a guide through the land of the dead when called upon, and would appear accompanied by her loyal pack of hounds. “The serpents represent her magic,” Hecate said, running her finger over the smooth surface of the cameo. “The keys stand for the thresholds she watches over.” She beamed at her father, throwing her arms around his neck. “I shall treasure it,” she told him.
“Here, you should wear it, now that you are a friend to ghosts.” He took it from her and pinned it to the lapel of her tweed waistcoat. “Well then,” he said, his voice catching with emotion. He hugged her again and Hecate knew that behind his pride in her newfound ability there was, small and hidden but nonetheless powerful, the fear of a father for his daughter who was venturing into unknown territory.
She stepped back and admired the pin in the mirror before taking his hand. “Come along. If we are late to breakfast we will raise Mother’s suspicions.”
As planned, she arrived at the cathedral early that day. Her purpose was simple yet fantastic; she intended conducting a ghost hunt. She parked her bicycle before morning prayers had finished and stepped as quietly as she was able over the flagstones and into the Lady Chapel. If she ventured into the nave, she would be seen by the vicars choral in the choir stalls, and the dean as he took the service. Her plan was, should she find nothing in the beautiful, second-grandest chapel in the cathedral, she would next try the tiny Stanbury shrine. As it transpired, she had no need to venture beyond the altar steps before her. There, standing tall and straight, ever watchful, was the lone soldier. She felt her breath catch in her throat. Now that she studied him with the benefit of what Brother Michael had told her, she recognized the uniform as being from the Napoleonic Wars, and saw that the soldier’s hair was unfashionably long. She approached him a little shyly, the notes of a sung psalm surrounding her as she walked. The soldier continued looking straight ahead, his unsubstantial body taut, his jawline set, every fiber of his ethereal being giving the impression of someone determined and professional.
“Good morning to you, Corporal Gregory,” she said softly. While the vicars were at their prayers and so unlikely to hear her, both Mrs. White and the verger could be anywhere at that moment in the course of their duties.
The soldier’s eyes darted in her direction before resuming their forward stare.
“Morning, miss,” he said.
“I am so very pleased to meet you,” she replied, doing her best to make her voice sound less astonished than she felt. This was, after all, only her second time conversing with a ghost. “Brother Michael spoke of you yesterday. I would very much like to hear your story.” When he made no reply she added, “If you feel you can trust me with it.”
He turned his head to look at her then, his expression relaxing a fraction as their eyes met. She felt her heart lurch to see how terribly young he was.
“Mine is a sorry tale, miss. A lesson to others, perhaps. You might not think well of me after hearing of it.”
“I would not presume to judge you, Corporal.”
He considered this for a moment and then began to speak again, and she saw that though it pained him to relive the events of his past, he was, in fact, keen to share it with her. As if the telling of it was in some small way an unburdening.
“I was an eager recruit, not some wild roustabout with brandy in his blood and friends who knew no better. It was the army for me, and glad of it. My father was dean here, and my brother had taken the living in a parish near Bromyard, but it was always the life of a soldier that called to me.” He glanced down at his scarlet coat. “Was my proudest day, when I donned the uniform of His Majesty’s infantry. We were sent to France within the month. I had scarce learned how to shoot straight, but I cared not, for this was my destiny. I believed myself prepared for what was to come.” He looked back at her again and heartbreaking fear was written upon his handsome face. “I was not. The thunderous cannons, the choking stink of gunpowder, the sobs of the dying … I was not prepared for the mud that sucked at my feet, holding me fast for the enemy’s musket fire. I was not prepared for the relentless onslaught, the pitiless rhythm of attack and retreat, attack and retreat, attack and retreat. Day upon day. And only thin stew or bread to fuel us. I was not ready for any of it, yet I endured. I obeyed every command. I fought as best I could alongside my comrades. Long weeks passed. The more men fell, the more each of us was required to do, so that rest became our greatest wish. Rest and sleep.”
At that moment the vicars stopped singing. Hecate heard the dean’s mellifluous voice bringing the service to a close with a short blessing. She found herself holding her breath, desperate for the soldier to continue his story, not wanting the spell of their conversation to be broken, but knowing that soon they might be interrupted.
“Please continue,” she said.
“After many weeks of fighting, we gained ground, moving forward across the war-scarred fields. We took possession of a woodland, one that must have been beautiful before the cannon fire tore at the trees. Still, there were some oaks standing, and clusters of holly and hazel. From here we were sheltered and the slope of the hill gave us a vantage point. Six of us were chosen to guard this post; to keep watch. We followed a rota of our captain’s devising. Two of us would keep vigil at any time while the others cooked, cleaned weapons, or slept. There came a lull in the fighting. For a while all was peaceful. We began to recover but still we were weary. One night a fellow soldier … his name was Evans … was to share the watch with me. I could see he was fighting sleep, so I sent him to rest with the others. I took up my position, my back to a tree stump. All was quiet save for owls hunting, foraging for mice among the brambles. I paid no heed to my own drowsiness. I should have done so. Alas, I did not, and sleep overtook me.” He paused, his expression full of sorrow. “When I awoke, there had been a stealthy attack in the darkness. All five of my comrades were dead, bayonetted where they lay. I had been missed by the enemy. Upon discovering my friends I would have ended my own life had I the chance, but an attack had begun. Later … much later, a court-martial decreed I pay for my failure with my life. It was a fitting end.”
Hecate longed to be able to put a hand on his arm to comfort him. She could hear footsteps coming up the north aisle and the quiet chatting of the vicars.
“What keeps you here, Corporal Gregory? Do you wish to … move on?”
“Oh no, miss. This is my vigil now. I will never again abandon my post.”
“Hecate!”
The sound of Clementine calling her name made her swing around. She was astonished to see her friend walking toward her, escorted by Reverend Forsyth.
“Clemmie, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, leaning forward to exchange a kiss in greeting.
The reverend explained. “I found Miss Twyford-Harris wandering the cathedral in search of you. Knowing your route to the library I brought her this way.”
Clemmie nodded. “I thought I’d come and see these precious books of yours. See what it is that demands your attention and keeps you so occupied. Oh, what a darling cameo you are wearing, is it new? Gracious, Hecate, it was not my aim to shock you. You look quite disconcerted to see me.”
Hecate was acutely aware of the fact that Corporal Gregory was still standing at her side. It was obvious the other two could not see him. She was uncertain of his ability to see them but it felt extremely awkward. She found herself glancing at him. It was a small action, but one that she noticed did not escape John Forsyth’s observation. She felt him watching her more closely.
“I am delighted to see you, Clemmie. And would be even more delighted to show you the library. Do you think Reverend Thomas will permit a visitor so early in the day?” She directed her question at Reverend Forsyth, holding his gaze, smiling brightly. She had the unsettling feeling that he could see how wrong-footed she was and somehow tell that her demeanor was not a result of Clementine’s surprise appearance.
“I am certain he would be pleased to show off the collection,” he replied. “He takes great pride in it. A new admirer is always welcome.”
