“Yes, yes. Of course. But surely, if what we are dealing with is a simple case of grave robbing…?”
“We do not, as yet, know that, sir. What we do know is that this is far from a simple case of anything. I would not be doing my job if I did not proceed thoroughly and with diligence. Furthermore, there are … new demands upon my time which you will no doubt have heard about.”
“Ah yes, poor Sir Richard.”
“You will appreciate a murder inquiry must take precedence over everything else.”
“Of course.”
“So you may be doubly certain I will not tarry in the crypt longer than is absolutely necessary. It is likely I shall be unable to return to the scene after today.”
There was a pause in which Hecate imagined the dean biting back words of frustration. When he spoke again his voice was controlled but tense.
“Then I shall detain you no longer. I shall call upon you before Evensong in the sincere hope that you will be able to tell me you have completed your work.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the habitual and somewhat inappropriate tuneless whistling of the detective as he left the transept and walked away up the north choir aisle.
Hecate had no choice but to wait until lunchtime. As soon as Reverend Thomas left for the cloisters she made her way down to ground level, trotted quickly and quietly across the choir stalls and through the broad wooden door into the vestry. It had ever been a strange muddle of a room. It acted as an antechamber to the more exalted sacristy, which housed valuable and sacred objects. Here, in this lesser place, were kept prayer books, hymnals, prayer cushions, candles, cleaning equipment, spare mittens and mufflers, and all manner of things mundane and useful. It served as an office, too, with the verger having his record book and key cupboard in one corner of the room, on his desk an untidy stack of papers, and a knee rug hung over the back of his chair, for he always felt the cold. It was here, too, that choir and clergy often gathered to organize themselves before processing through the cathedral or emerging for a service. Perhaps, though, the most important facility the vestry provided was that of the stove upon which a kettle was kept on the point of boiling, for however much God sustained the spirit, as the dean was given to saying, tea and biscuits sustained the body. It was his little joke, and one that those around him tolerated happily, partly because they were fond of him, but mostly because the sentiment ensured there was always tea and not infrequently biscuits to go with it.
She was not sorry to find the room empty, for while she got on with Mr. Gould well enough, he was something of a chatterbox, and she had no time to waste. With practiced speed, she assembled tray, china cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, and one of the smaller biscuit tins, the weight of which suggested a delivery of flapjacks had been made by a caring parishioner that very morning. She was just setting the freshly filled teapot onto the tray when Mr. Gould appeared.
“Oh, Miss Cavendish! What a pleasant surprise,” he began, “and a warming cup of tea. Such a good idea. A bright day but summer in the sun, winter in the shadows, and dear me we live our lives in the shade within these walls, do we not? And so busy at our work. I was only saying to Dean Chalmers this morning, I have not seen our young librarian all week, and he agreed with me that Reverend Thomas kept you at your duties really quite long hours—”
She felt mean cutting him off, but needs must. “Forgive me, Verger, I’d love to stay and talk but I’ve to take these to the crypt,” she explained, lifting up the heavy tray.
“Of course, yes, indeed, must keep the constables fueled…” He held the door open for her. “Are you sure you can manage that? I could carry it for you.…”
“No need. I am equal to the task,” she called back over her shoulder as she went. She walked quickly along the south choir aisle, at the end of which she turned left. On entering the crypt she was glad of her shawl, for there was a noticeable drop in the temperature. She told herself firmly that this was merely a consequence of the position of the place, below ground level with no heating, no furnishings, and scant sunlight from its few high windows. The air was musty, the tang of damp and the grit of disturbed ancient dust finding her tongue. Brother Michael’s words came into her mind and she wondered why it might be that grave robbers would feel the need to steal bodies on some date of ancient significance. She quelled a shudder and put on what she hoped was a bright, pleasant, but practical expression. There were two constables in dark uniforms brightened by two rows of brass buttons, both engaged in their work, taking measurements and making notes. The inspector wore a long tweed jacket and a dark brown bowler, both of which added to his appearance of someone taller than he was strong. He paced the floor with steady strides, looking this way and that, as if assessing the possibility of something. He saw her and looked as if he might protest at her being there. Fortunately the sight of the teapot changed his mind.
“I thought you would be in need of refreshment yet not wish to break long from your work,” she explained, setting the tray down on the nearby tomb of St. Oswald. The elaborately inscribed stone box housed the remains of both him and his wife and was covered in drawings and graffiti born of centuries and worn smooth. It was one of the tombs to have escaped the destruction that had befallen others in the crypt. If the inspector thought it in any way unseemly to use the resting place as a tea table, he gave no sign of it. Hecate poured three cups and handed them around before opening the tin. “Honey flapjack?”
The constables helped themselves with nods of thanks. Inspector Winter hesitated only a moment before following suit.
“Thank you, Miss…?”
“Cavendish. Hecate Cavendish. I assist Reverend Thomas in the library.”
He looked at her anew. “Daughter of Edward Cavendish, perhaps?”
“The same. You know my father?”
“Indeed. We sit on the committee of the chamber of commerce. I recall him saying he had a daughter who shared his interest in all things … shall we say ancient and obscure?”
She smiled. “I am told we are alike.”
This statement seemed to meet with his approval. He took a bite of his biscuit before saying, “I believe you are on my list.”
“I am?”
“It is important I speak to everyone who was present at or around the time of the discovery of the break-in. This will ensure I have a comprehensive view of events.”
“And is that what you believe it to be? Thieves, breaking in?”
“Now, I did not say thieves,” he corrected her. He turned and gesticulated with his biscuit, taking in the general scene of destruction. “It is clear there has been considerable damage done to several of the tombs, but we cannot categorically say as yet that anything was stolen.” He bit into the biscuit.
Hecate helped herself to one, knowing that she would not get the opportunity for lunch. The oats were still warm and soft, the sweetness of the honey uplifting. It was an unlikely venue for a tea party, and yet there was a shared focus among those present, and a collective willingness to do right by the deceased, that somehow stopped it from being disrespectful. She had many questions she longed to voice, but she held back. He was that rare thing: a person who would not speak before thinking. As such, what he had to say was likely to be worth hearing. He paced the area again, his long legs and lanky frame moving slowly, his biscuit still raised. At the far end of the space he stopped and turned, frowning at the scattered debris. He took another bite of the flapjack. Hecate forced herself to wait. At last he spoke again.
“It seems to me that, were there to have been men moving upon the floor among the wreckage of these tombs, just as I have done, such pieces as are strewn about would have felt the impact of those footfalls. See, here, like so?” He bobbed down to a squat so that he could examine more closely his own footsteps. Something caught his eye and she saw him pick a tiny object from the rubble and hold it to the light for a moment before putting it into his pocket. Hecate moved quickly to join him, taking care to pick her way between the pieces, eager not to muddle his investigations. She could see that the fragile stone pieces, shards of marble, and splinters of wood had indeed crumbled beneath his deliberately placed feet. Those pieces either side of where his strides had taken him, however, were not similarly crushed.
She frowned. “So you are suggesting that whoever was in here somehow traversed the room … what, above the floor?” She instinctively looked up. The stone vaulted ceiling offered nothing by way of an explanation. “Might they have used ladders or boards on top of the tombs … or swung on ropes? It seems … unlikely. Unnecessary even. Is that what you are suggesting?”
He looked at her levelly. “Miss Cavendish, it is not my business to suggest anything. I am about the matter of inspecting the evidence and finding facts in that study. The fact is, no person set foot on these broken remnants before those who made the discovery of the vandalism.” He pointed toward both the stairway that led back into the cathedral and the second one to his right that led to an external door which gave on to the Cathedral Green. “My constables took records, notes and drawings, mapping the path of footsteps we found and they all came from the stairs to the Lady Chapel, across to the point where Mrs. White made her discovery, and back again. They also recorded the route Reverend Forsyth took to check that the external door had not been breached, which, indeed, it had not. There were no further steps.” He stood up, his knee joints cracking like rifle fire, the sound echoing in the chamber. “Another point that is raising more questions than answers: What implements were used to open the caskets? It is my understanding that marble, however old, does not splinter when impacted with a hammer, and yet we see here, shards. Similarly, stone such as was used here would require a chisel for any inroads to be made into it, and yet here we see pieces of stone bearing no chisel marks and thrown some considerable distance. Likewise, the wood of the more humble tombs has not been pried with a wrench, for there is no splintering to indicate such a thing, but neither have they been chopped with an axe, for had they been so dealt with, they would have been more greatly reduced.”
He let this information settle around him. Both the constables had finished their tea and biscuits and stood listening to their superior. Hecate digested the information, as no doubt did they. The more she thought about it, the more her mind returned to one simple fact. A fact that she hardly dared voice, for her own fear of it, and for fear of sounding like a madwoman to this resoundingly practical and sensible man. She needed to hear it from him, but could he, too, have reached such a disturbing conclusion? She worried that the moment might pass. She must encourage him to speak.
“Inspector, there appears to be only one explanation for what took place here. One … conclusion, that is, about how these tombs were destroyed.”
He stood as motionless as one of the stone effigies that inhabited the alcoves of the crypt. After this moment of contemplative stillness, he finished his biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “I have found, Miss Cavendish, in my many years with the force, that it is unwise to move from fact to speculation. Detective work must stay with the facts, and let those facts tell the truth. There is no room for suggestion, nor supposition.”
“Quite so,” she agreed, doing her best to keep her voice calm. “But the inescapable fact, the truth of what happened here seems to be, that these tombs were not broken into, they were broken out of!”
A crackling silence filled the room. The younger constable grew noticeably pale. The older one was unable to stop himself looking this way and that, as if viewing the scene anew. Hecate did not for one moment take her eyes off their superior, hoping to see a confident rebuttal of this idea in his expression, but she found none. When he spoke again his voice was level as ever, but there was a more somber tone to it.
“I must ask you, Miss Cavendish, to keep such thoughts to yourself. Indeed, nothing that you have learned here this day should be repeated. To anyone. Let us be clear on this point.” He held her gaze and she saw something of the steel that was the true character of this seemingly mild man. She wondered if he regretted discussing the case with her so freely, given what it had led them to consider. Hecate could, ultimately, accept the truth of their conclusion. The constables would fear it. The inspector would be the one who must make sense of it.
The cathedral clock struck the quarter hour.
“I must go,” she said, gathering the tea things and picking up the tray. As she mounted the steps he called after her.
