“Here it is, see? Safe and sound.”
“Ah, good, good! Though why it should have migrated south like a bird detecting the shortening days…”
“I believe Reverend Thomas had it on his desk last week. He must have been confused about its home. I shall move it to its proper place when he returns.”
The monk shook his head slowly. “Why he insists on taking the key with him when he leaves the library I cannot fathom. You have surely proved yourself trustworthy by now.”
“I would hope so,” she agreed. “Sadly, I do not think the reverend would ever entrust the keys to someone such as me.” To make her point she held out the skirts of her dress and gave a little curtsey.
“Ah, yes.”
“I don’t believe he has ever quite come to terms with having to work with a woman. Handing over the keys would be a step too far.”
“Then we must content ourselves with what access his prejudices allow. I was rather hoping you might release Pitkin’s edition of St. Paul’s Letters when next you are able. Such a thing of beauty both in form and content. It never fails to lift the spirits, eh?” he said, chuckling at his own little joke.
Already, Hecate and Brother Michael had worked a system whereby he requested a particular book and she removed it from the shelves while Reverend Thomas allowed her use of the key. He would not leave her in charge of the priceless collection, but he was happy to have her select volumes for cleaning and regular inspection against mites or damp. In this way, she was able to place whichever book the monk desired open on one of the reading tables, where he could look at it to his heart’s content, using his ghostly breath to turn the pages. While she could extract any book and place it on the reading shelves within the limits their chains allowed, the light was so poor, and space between the rows so limited, as to interfere with a proper examination of their contents. Each of her ghostly friends had their own unique qualities and abilities, and differed in how substantial their haunting forms were. The elderly monk had very little impact on the solid world through which he now drifted and was dependent on her help.
“Gladly,” Hecate told him, “but today I must ask a favor of you.”
“Why of course! How can I be of assistance?” he asked, his chest puffing up a little with importance.
“Something dreadful occurred this morning, in the crypt. Were you aware of it?”
“Ah yes, such a terrible disturbance! I rarely venture beyond the library these days, but something so violent, well, its vibrations are felt throughout the building. There is little of importance to be found down there, surely?”
“Someone thought otherwise. Several of the tombs have been broken open and their contents … removed.”
“How dreadful! And how curious…”
“Indeed. I cannot recall anyone of any note being interred there. I remember seeing a record in the archive of souls inside the cathedral, but none stood out as being important that were laid to rest in the crypt itself. I thought perhaps you might know different.”
He shook his head, perplexed. “On the contrary, Hereford’s crypt has never housed anyone of particular standing. In fact, over the years, whenever the graveyard has been excavated and bodies removed or reorganized, quite a number of them have been stored in the crypt. These were far from complete bodies or skeletons, you understand. Indeed, such has been the proliferation of boxes of bones that it was merely a charnel house and for a while the place was renamed Golgotha.” He chuckled again, but not so heartily this time. “A joke in poor taste, in truth. But, the fact is, such was the confusion of remains housed there it would be impossible to say for certain to whom they belonged.”
“So, those coffins, they could have housed anyone?”
“Save for one or two notable exceptions. Of course, there will be a record in the archive of who was buried outside the cathedral, but…”
Hecate followed his line of thought. “But it would be impossible to know which bodies had ended up where after the excavations.”
“Alas, it was not the most orderly of processes. There was no one of any great experience in charge, it seems.” He leaned closer to her, the chill of his otherworldly form settling about her as he did so. “They ought to have employed a monk,” he whispered with a smile. “We know how to do these things properly.”
“Instead we have a muddle upon a conundrum,” she observed.
The ancient spirit turned back to browse along the bookshelves saying, “In which case the dean is fortunate in having you to solve it for him.”
Their conversation was halted by the arrival of Reverend Thomas, his face flushed from a hearty lunch and the exertion required to climb the stairs. On finding Hecate apparently doing nothing he was quick to admonish her.
“Miss Cavendish, have you time to stare into empty space?” Reverend Thomas’s tone was sharp. “I cannot imagine the dean would approve of any tardiness in the restoration of such a fine gift for the cathedral.”
“No, Reverend. That is, I am determined to give this beautiful map my very best efforts and undivided attention.”
“See that you do,” he said, sitting heavily on the captain’s chair behind his own desk. The leather cushion upon it gave a small squeak of protest. The librarian muttered a few more words regarding the need for the swift completion of new work, but he had, in fact, lost Hecate’s attention. At that moment she had noticed that the Mappa Mundi was behaving strangely. At once her pulse quickened again. Could it be responding to the shocking events in the crypt? As she watched, an image near the bottom left of the map seemed to glow, to pulsate with light. Reverend Thomas had his head down over a ledger now and was unaware of the minor miracle that was taking place only yards from where he sat. Hecate got up and stepped quickly and quietly over to the map, anxious to examine more closely its curious activity. On closer inspection she was able to see that it was the drawing of the cathedral itself that was shimmering with a pale light of its own. The depiction marked not only the building, but the city. Now the image had acquired a vivid quality, its colors brighter, its lines clearer. Whatever had taken place in the crypt, it seemed that the map was most definitely responding to it.
She had the opportunity to examine it more closely a little later that afternoon when the master of the library was called away to an urgent meeting of Chapter. It was no surprise to either of them that the committee which was responsible for overseeing the running of the cathedral should need to meet to talk of what had happened in the crypt. Hecate took advantage of being alone to leave her desk and go to the map. Brother Michael had offered nothing illuminating regarding the other possible inhabitants of the crypt. She decided it would help her organize the facts better if she could be certain that it had not indeed been grave robbers who had broken the tombs. And for that, she must either persuade the policeman in charge, Inspector Winter, to share his thoughts with her, or visit the crypt again and see the lie of the land for herself. Given that senior members of the constabulary were not in the habit of discussing cases with young women on the periphery of the matter, the second course of action seemed the most likely to yield results.
When the master of the library returned from the meeting he was even more taciturn than usual, so that the remaining time passed largely in silence. Hecate was relieved when the working day drew to a close. At five o’clock precisely, Reverend Thomas checked his pocket watch against the ringing of the tower bells, closed his ledger, and rose from his chair.
“‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil therein.’ Would you not agree, Miss Cavendish?” he asked, holding the door for her as she hurried through it, hat and coat in hand.
“I would, Reverend,” she said.
“Let us hope tomorrow will begin more ordinarily,” he said, closing and locking the door behind them, testing the handle an extra time to be certain his beloved library was secure. Hecate thought it best not to point out that the crypt was similarly unfailingly locked.
They descended to the north choir aisle and the librarian repeated his actions with the lock of the second door, after which he muttered a goodbye and took himself off in the direction of the vestry, no doubt hoping for a cup of tea before Evensong. Hecate strode toward the east end of the nave. As she had anticipated, the entrance to the crypt was closed, likely under the instructions of the dean; the heavy red rope used for occasional ceremonial cordons had been tied across the top of the stairwell. Hecate glanced over her shoulder. She was alone. She carefully lifted the twisted rope and ducked beneath it so that she could continue down the worn and ancient stone staircase. The door at the bottom remained locked. There was a small barred window set into the door. She took hold of the cool iron posts and peered between them. There were no candles burning in the dusty space. Unusually, set into the high walls of the crypt were windows, allowing a watery late afternoon light to fall within. When her eyes adjusted to the low illumination it was just possible to discern the dim shapes within. Gradually objects revealed themselves to her in a little more detail, though everything remained softened by gathering shadow, blurred by darkness. The caskets and tombs were as she had seen them earlier; rent apart, smashed, their remnants scattered. There appeared no method or system to the way in which they had been opened, and still she could not see where or how the contents had been removed. The second flight of stairs which led to the door in the external north wall was sprinkled with a fine layer of the dust of the disturbance and yet bore no footprints save for one set, those belonging to John who had sprinted up to check the door when the desecration had been discovered. As that, too, had been securely locked, nothing was explained. Hecate felt her heart thud heavily beneath her ribs. She knew she must open herself to whatever souls might be adrift in that gloomy place but she was reticent. She was reluctant to make herself vulnerable to the menacing presence she had detected earlier. She slowed her breathing and closed her eyes. She listened. She waited. A minute passed, and then another.
It was Corporal Gregory who came to stand beside her.
“A sorry state, Miss Cavendish!” he said, shaking his head sadly. “And one I could neither foresee nor prevent.”
Hecate sought to reassure him. “Do not blame yourself, Corporal,” she said. She knew his history, and that having such a destructive event take place on his watch would distress him greatly. Although executed by firing squad in France, the soldier had received dignity in death. His grief-stricken father had used his position as then dean of Hereford Cathedral and seen to it that his beloved son was laid to rest secretly within the walls of the Green.
“Did you … see anything?” Hecate asked him gently.
He shook his head again and might have had more to say on the matter but a shout from the top of the stairwell caused him to disappear.
“Miss Cavendish! For pity’s sake come away, child!” The dean’s voice jolted her back to the living.
She whipped around to see him silhouetted against the light from the candelabra and sconces behind him.
