“Oh, forgive me, Dean. I wanted to see—”
“These ropes are here for a purpose, my dear. Come now, there is nothing more to be seen.” He beckoned to her in the manner of a fussing grandparent. She quickly climbed the stairs and stepped under the rope.
“My apologies, Dean. I had no wish to cause you alarm.”
“Do not misunderstand me, I do not believe you to be in any danger. I simply wish to keep the incident as quiet as is possible. To avoid further upset, d’you see? To protect the reputation of the cathedral.”
“Of course. I understand. Did the inspector have anything helpful to say?”
He shook his head. “I believe he was as mystified as we all are. But I can tell you this, my dear, and I hope you will reassure your family of the truth: Whatever wickedness occurred in the crypt, there is nothing there to fear any longer.”
Hecate turned back to gaze down the dark stairwell once more, thinking about what she had and what she had not heard or felt as she had stood at that entrance. “As a matter of fact, Dean, I believe you are right about that.”
That night, small clouds, harmless in themselves, were unwitting participants in a brutal act. The streetlamps of the city were not as many nor as effective as could have been wished, so that there were places even at its center that fell between their blurred pools of light. In these intervals moonlight must serve as illumination, but on the moment of this spring midnight, the soft clouds had drifted together. The moon was obscured, and the lampless streets and pathways thrown into deep gloom. The well-to-do gentleman knew the city and did not think to question the prudence of using shortcuts and snickets if they provided him with the swiftest route. So it was that, with the bells behind him chiming the hour, he walked from the Cathedral Green and took the narrow alley that ran in the direction of East Street. The walls on either side were high, and his path turned a tight corner at the midway point. There were no public houses here, no places of business, so that beyond the chimes of the cathedral clock, all was quiet. Even so, the gentleman did not hear the approach of his killer. There were no heavy footsteps to alarm him, nor coarse shouts or curses to alert him to the imminent danger of attack. Instead the first he knew of the violence that was to be brought upon him was when he found himself propelled forward with great force, thrown down upon the cobbles with such a blow that he had not time to save himself. He crashed to the ground, shocked, stunned, too affected to defend himself, his walking cane flung from his hand, his top hat fallen from his head. He struggled to right himself, to at least turn to face his assailant, but as he did so he felt a tightness at his throat. Though he could see no one in the darkness, he was aware of a crushing weight upon him, and of his breath being taken from him, so that he was not able to so much as cry out nor call for help.
And no help came.
9
Hecate slept poorly. She had waited up for her father to return home from an evening at the Rotarians’ Society so that it had been past midnight when the two had sat in his study together. She had told him of the disturbing events in the crypt and the pair had debated for hours the possible causes and ramifications of what had happened. Despite their best efforts, they concluded their talk with more questions than answers. Hecate’s dreams had been vivid and fractured. She was glad of the sound of garden birds heralding the start of a new day.
The sharp early light promised more bright sunshine, confirming a further step into spring. Hecate sat for a while at the small table in her room making notes. She compiled a list of facts gathered from Brother Michael and her father and her own studies, but still could not draw a satisfactory conclusion regarding the ruined tombs. Brother Michael had not known of any significant burials there. She remained unconvinced that grave robbers were to blame. It was somehow too simple and too flawed an explanation. On top of which, she knew in her heart that the dark presence she had detected was of the utmost relevance. Why should people who had been reasonable, benign souls when alive, become evil or dangerous when dead? No, she knew that whoever had been disturbed in those tombs it was not merely their agitated, restless spirits that she had detected. However otherworldly her own theories, to rule out completely anything more mundane, she decided she should speak to Inspector Winter. While he might not want to divulge information to her, he could not, if she approached the subject carefully, avoid confirming her own suspicions. She had resolved to find an excuse to leave the library and visit the crypt while the inspector was there, as Reverend Thomas had let slip that he would be returning for further investigation that morning. The dark presence she had detected in the crypt was less easy to explain, even to herself. She could not pretend that she had not felt it, nor that it had not frightened her. And yet, might not her shock at what she had found on entering the crypt, coupled with Mrs. White’s distress and the dean’s own sadness, have amplified what she had felt? She had asked herself if, perhaps, the drama of the situation and the particularly pitiful state of the coffins might not have caused an overreaction. She knew, of course, that it was highly likely a soul or several had been disturbed by what happened. Could she have mistaken sadness and grief for something wicked? After all, Brother Michael had detected nothing untoward at all, and no spirits had appeared to her later in the day.
She sped beneath the old stone arch that spanned St. Owen’s Street. The hefty remnant of the ancient city wall looked unfashionable alongside the elegant Georgian houses that lined the length of the road. As she reached the town square she could hear the newspaper boy yelling out the headlines. Even before she could fully discern his words she detected an unusual excitement to his tone. By the time she drew level with his pitch outside the butter market, his announcement was all too clear.
“Read all about it! Gruesome murder in the city! Read it here! Knight of the realm murdered in cold blood! Read all about it! Gruesome murder!” As he shouted passersby stopped to press coins into his hands and take a copy of the paper. Soon a small crowd had gathered. Some stood reading the details of the terrible crime. Others whispered to one another in shocked voices. One elderly lady had to be helped to a bench. A mother led her open-mouthed children away.
Hecate stopped pedalling and hopped from her bicycle. She wheeled it to the stand and picked up a paper. She read quickly, the story indeed bearing out the boy’s words.
Sir Richard Thurston, well known man of business and Herefordshire philanthropist was last night discovered murdered. A constable patrolling the city beat came across a scene of terrible violence, the peer stricken and prostrate upon the street, his assailant fleeing. The officer of the law was unable to give chase, rightly judging that his duty lay with the unfortunate victim. Alas, so grievous and dreadful were the injuries inflicted on the late Baronet that he could not be saved. Speaking on the matter later, Inspector Winter of the Herefordshire Detective Branch confirmed the case was being treated as one of murder and the perpetrator was being sought. Anyone who might have witnessed all or part of the events that took place …
Hecate could not bring herself to read on. Hereford had its share of crime, that could not be denied, but murder was mercifully rare. When such serious attacks occurred they were invariably spurred by a quarrel and inflamed by drink. Robberies happened, and violence was sometimes a factor, but the actual killing of a seemingly random victim was an uncommon event. She could hear those around her discussing their own theories. Sir Richard was well liked in the community and not known for mixing with people of intemperate behavior. He had not been a gambler or a womanizer. Could robbery have been a motive? Was the poor man cut down for his pocket watch or signet ring? Would such a fiendish assailant, left to run free, strike again? As she listened to them conjuring all manner of possible explanations for the attack, she felt a coldness enter her bones. She had no reasoning to offer, no sensible, rational hypothesis. All she had was an unshakable, soul-deep, powerful certainty within herself that this awful killing was in some inextricable way connected with whatever menacing presence it was that she had sensed in the crypt.
On reaching the library, Hecate found Reverend Thomas already at his desk. She knew she was not late, which meant he had arrived early, a sure sign that he was unsettled. He saw the newspaper in her hand and launched forth with what was for him an uncommon amount of words.
“A terrible business. Truly terrible. Brutally attacked. Struck down. Shocking. And so near the cathedral.”
“Is that the case?” Hecate had not read far enough for such a detail.
“Only a matter of strides from the Green. The pity of it is, had he been a little further along the street when his assailant came upon him, he might have been within hearing of our own constable. Might have been saved. A terrible business indeed.”
Hecate could only nod in agreement as she moved to her own desk, glancing at the Mappa Mundi as she did so. She was relieved to see it calm, undisturbed, unchanged. She had removed her hat and coat reluctantly, as the room felt even colder than the previous day. Tempted as she was to keep her outdoor garments on, she knew she would be hindered and made clumsy by them, so trusted to her woolen shawl instead. The library’s thick walls and enormous windows did little to provide an even climate for the interior. She anticipated she might spend most of the winter months in coat, shawl, and fingerless mittens, while Reverend Thomas would become ever bulkier with layers of woolen garments beneath his clerical robes.
As she sat gathering her wits, attempting to still her mind as it raced to make sense of what had happened, the griffin appeared. He did not hop onto her shoulder, but sat perched upon her inkstand, feathers ruffled, as if he, too, was out of sorts. Hecate became aware of a movement beyond him. Brother Michael stood at the end of the second row of chained books, beckoning with some urgency. Glancing at her employer, who had his head bowed over a ledger at last, she hurried to her friend. Standing close enough to whisper, she asked, “Brother Michael, whatever is it?”
“Good morning, my dear, oh, firstly, pray forgive the muddle…” Here he gestured toward an open box in the corner of the room. Now Hecate could see there were documents scattered upon the floor around it. “I wished to verify a notion, something that came to me as I considered more and more the events in the crypt. My apologies for the disturbance, alas, my capabilities…” He let the sentence trail off. The matter of the ancient monk’s limited ability to move physical objects was a source of embarrassment and frustration to him. He could only ever use his ghostly breath to turn a page or lift a loose paper and so had often to ask for Hecate’s assistance. “But you see,” he continued quickly, “there was something about the date that chimed in my memory.”
“Yesterday’s date? The fifth of April? I’m sorry, I cannot bring to mind anything significant about it.”
“Nor was I able to, initially, but, well, when one has so many hours to contemplate … At first I thought it must be an obscure point on the ecclesiastical calendar, one that might have fallen out of regular use. But no, I could find nothing. Still, the fifth, I knew it was of note … but where to search? It was then I remembered a set of entries in the archive, I believed they were in the parish records.…”
“Parish records for which year?”
“Better ask which century. I cast my mind back and yet further back until I convinced myself there had been something that predated even my arrival at the cathedral. Something that would not necessarily be in a bound volume, rather loose papers.” He smiled then, his small eyes crinkling at the corners. “Imagine my relief! I was able to disturb the contents of the lidless crates containing those long-forgotten writings.… Hence the disarray…”
“There is no need to apologize, Brother Michael, I can straighten things in a moment.”
“You are too kind, for I know it will take longer … and yet, our endeavors will be worthwhile, for I found what I was looking for.”
“The significance of the date?”
“Not the meaning itself, but that I was correct in my thought. The date is of importance. Or at least, the date was of importance. I found an entry in the records that clearly noted it, underlined, set slightly apart from other mentioned festivals and prayer days, in a manner which was curious … but, alas, the writing was so smudged I was not able to learn more.” He looked crestfallen, aware on sharing his discovery that it was not, in fact, of much use.
Hecate gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s a start,” she whispered. “It means your recollection is correct. We have only to search the date in other, better-preserved records, to reveal more.”
“My thoughts precisely! Which is why I wish to examine a volume of the cathedral records from the beginning of the eighteenth century. Would you be so good as to retrieve it from the shelves and set it where I might peruse it at length?”
Out of habit, they both glanced in the direction of Reverend Thomas. To unchain a book from the shelves they would need that key.
“Do not concern yourself with the good reverend,” she told Brother Michael. “I will think of a reason to request the book and see that it is placed where you can study it. The eighteenth century, you say? Something from the first decade, perhaps?” When he nodded she gave him a smile by way of confirmation of their plan before hurrying back to her desk. She felt encouraged to think that she would have her friend’s help. She wished she had been at liberty to talk more with him. Would he have understood her belief that the murder of the night before was connected to what had come out of the crypt? For a spiritual man, the monk was of a pragmatic mind. Would he think her fanciful? She had no proof, no logic to her thought, after all. And yet … She turned her attention to her work as best she could, waiting for her moment to descend beneath the cathedral and revisit the crypt.
The long west wall of the library was an internal one with windows high up that opened into the north transept. These were for borrowed light rather than viewing. There was no glass in these windows, but wooden shutters which could be opened to allow air to circulate in the warmer months, and in winter heat from the mighty Gurney coal stoves on the floor below could travel up and lend at least a modicum of warmth. Beyond this, there was a feature of her workplace which Hecate knew few people were aware of. As had been intended, the acoustics of the cathedral carried song and organ music high and wide, flooding not only the main body of the building but also its vaulted ceilings and far corners with sound. A secondary effect of the construction was that voices were also carried aloft. Such was the success of the design that it was not only voices raised in song or to intone prayers or deliver a sermon that traveled in this way, but softer, more conversational words. Words sometimes spoken in the mistaken belief that they would not be overheard.
So it was that Hecate was able to eavesdrop on a short but helpful exchange between Dean Chalmers and the inspector. She had just finished explaining to Reverend Thomas that she wished to remove a certain book from its bonds so that she could treat some foxing she had noticed on its cover, and so was positioned at the far end of a row of shelving. The point where the shelves stopped allowed room for a desk beneath one of the gasoliers and it was here she placed the liberated book. As she was opening it so that Brother Michael would be able to browse it as he pleased, voices from the floor below traveled up and through the open shutters. She listened, recognizing first Dean Chalmers’s distinctive tone, and then the rolling Herefordshire vowels of Inspector Winter’s diction.
“My earnest wish is that we can return the crypt to an orderly and respectable condition as soon as possible,” the dean was saying.
“I understand that, Dean,” the inspector replied, his unhurried pattern of talking removing all urgency from the conversation. “You have my assurance that my constables will work as swiftly as they are able, but you must consider the nature of what it is we are here to do. Every broken piece of wood, every shattered chunk of stone … each has its part to play in telling us the story of what happened. I cannot permit the clearing away, removal, or otherwise interfering with what is now evidence.”
