“Not a word, Miss Cavendish. I shall hold you to it.”
She nodded and climbed the stairs. As she left she could hear the low, slow murmur of Inspector Winter’s voice as he set the constables about their work.
She found Mrs. Nugent polishing the iron rail. The phantom cleaner paused in her work.
“Lord’s sake, but you do look pale, my dear,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Has Reverend Thomas been setting you to hard work? He’s a man to get his shilling’s worth out of everyone, that much is clear.”
“Oh, no, thank you for your concern, Mrs. Nugent,” she said, keeping her voice soft so that it would not be detected by those in the crypt. “I am much taken up with recent events, that is all,” she explained, shifting the weight of the tea tray a little as her arms began to grow tired of holding it.
“A terrible business.” The old woman shook her head sadly. “Wickedness is what it was. Wickedness.”
“Mrs. Nugent … do you know something, anything, about what might have—”
“Hecate? Talking to yourself again?”
John’s voice from the top of the stairs startled her. She swung around to face him so quickly that one of the cups flew from the tray.
Instinctively, Mrs. Nugent caught it. She held it for a brief instant before setting it down on the tray again.
The ghost stood very still. Although she knew the vicar could not see her, she knew that he would have seen the china cup apparently suspended in the air, unsupported, before returning itself to its rightful place.
Hecate knew it, too. She forced herself not to look in the direction of her spectral friend. Instead she met John’s questioning gaze.
His eyes widened.
She strode up the steps, aiming to brush past him.
“Hecate…”
“I am sorry, John, but I am in rather a hurry. You know how Reverend Thomas will torture me if I am late back to the library.” She would not look at him then but kept a too-bright smile fixed upon her face, trying her best to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.
He placed his hand gently on her arm.
“I think it’s time you shared the truth with me,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“I…” She looked at him and knew that, this time, she could not explain, could not escape his inquiries, could deny the facts no longer. She nodded. “Yes,” she said simply.
“I’ll meet you at the south door at five,” he said, taking the tea tray from her. “I was on my way to the vestry anyway,” he assured her. “Now you can return to your post without being delayed further. Until five?”
To her surprise, Hecate found herself letting out a breath she had not known she was holding. The thought of telling him of her gift, of sharing her secret, did not frighten her. On the contrary, she was relieved at the prospect. She welcomed it.
“Until five,” she agreed.
10
True to his word, John was waiting just outside the door to the cloisters. Hecate felt a mixture of nervousness and excitement at the thought of the conversation that lay ahead. He smiled at her as she approached.
“Would you care to walk as we talk?” he asked.
“No. That is, I would prefer to speak with you somewhere private, where we might not be overheard.”
“Of course. Well, there are my rooms, but no, that would not do,” he added quickly, seeing her expression. “Wait, I have it! The perfect place.”
He offered her his arm and she took it. To her surprise they about-turned and reentered the cathedral. Their route took them first to the vestry. She waited while he fetched a large key and then they proceeded to the door in the corner of the north transept which led up to the tower.
“Have you ever experienced the view from the top?” he asked her. “It is quite something, and on a day like today would be seen to best advantage, I believe.”
She smiled then, feeling that such a view would be a welcome distraction from the intimate nature of their talk. For she had realized that there could scarcely be anything more intimate than sharing with another one’s own, peculiar, supernatural self.
The stairs of the tower were similar to those in the turret that served the library; ancient worn stone steps, twisting tightly, lit only by occasional narrow windows. They differed in as much as they were in two parts. The first flight led to the gallery above the nave. They traversed this and went through a second door, passing the entrance to the belfry, and continuing up. Their greatest difference was in their number. Hecate lost count after she had trodden the two hundredth stair. Her breathing became ragged with the climb and she could taste a trace of damp walls in the air. As they ascended she experienced a sensation of light-headedness that was not brought on by the exertion but by the vertiginous nature of the stairwell coupled with its close confines. The effect was both dizzying, as a great height might be, and stultifying, in the way that a small space often was. The echoes of their footsteps, having nowhere to go, bounced back from the walls, lending a syncopated rhythm to their progress. John made the climb ahead of her, his long black robes sweeping the sandstone. Every ten steps or so he paused, under the guise of allowing himself a rest, while in truth providing a moment for her to catch her breath. When at last they reached the summit he used the key to unlock the low door that led out to the roof.
Hecate raised her hand to shade her eyes, the sunshine sharp after the gloom of the staircase. John took her arm and guided her to the crenellated wall, which was high enough to make her feel safe, yet sufficiently low to permit an uninterrupted view. And what a view it was! She gasped as she turned, slowly, taking in the sweep of the city below, and the verdant pastures beyond resembling the rolling waves of a limitless green sea. John was pointing out landmarks and things she might find of interest, but it took her a while to register that he was speaking.
“There,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently turning her to face west a little. “You can see the gold cockerel atop the spire of St. Peter’s Church. Those orchards directly beyond will be in full bloom soon. They are cider apples, for every Hereford man likes his cider, so we cannot have too many. And there, you can see the bend in the river near Breinton, where it is shallow enough to ford in the summer.”
Sunlight flashed off the water and a trio of swans took flight, giving her an uncommon view of their slow beating wings.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing. “A new building?”
“That is the city crematorium, currently under construction. Quite an undertaking.”
She looked at him. “Reverend Forsyth, is that your notion of a joke?”
He gave a rueful shrug. “I seek only to put you at your ease.”
Turning away from him, she moved to the other side of the tower to take in the view to the north and east. He came to stand beside her.
“Won’t you tell me now, Hecate?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “Do not be apprehensive. I am, after all, practiced in the art of listening.”
