“Oh, Hecate, you know very well how much Reverend Forsyth adores you. Almost as much as Phileas does. It is such fun to watch!” she declared, clapping her hands.
“Fun for you it may be. I do not find it so.”
“But, dearest, to have two eligible men vying for your affections.”
Hecate put her hands on her hips and faced her friend squarely. “Phileas is a family friend. I regard him almost as an older brother, a fact of which he is well aware. And I thought you forbid me from marrying a vicar. Anyway, I have far too many things to think about to be bothered with romance.”
Clemmie had no interest in what such things might be. Instead she got to her feet and drifted around the room, listing the qualities of both men as she went.
“Of course, Phileas has Kynaston, and I think you would be happy living there. And we would be almost neighbors! But then he does have an unfortunate way of playing the fool which can be charming but also bothersome. Now, John is terribly handsome.…”
“Clemmie…”
“It’s no use pretending he isn’t. Those blue eyes! And you could take him anywhere without fear of embarrassment. Except of course that he is a vicar, and, well, only just acceptable. Your mama likes him, which is in his favor, but then your papa likes Phileas. And if you married John you would be rather poor.”
“I thought you said you didn’t care about the station of a suitor. You said it was his character and whether or not he loved you that mattered.”
“Don’t be silly, Hecate, I said I’d settle for a baronet instead of a duke if I cared for him. I didn’t say I was prepared to live in a monk’s cell.”
At the mention of the word “monk” Hecate immediately thought of Brother Michael. What her friend could never know was that she could not leave her ghostly family. Marrying John would at least mean she could live with him at his cathedral home.
“The cloister houses are not cells. Reverend Higgins married last autumn and his wife is extremely pleased with their accommodation,” she said.
“Ah, so you have considered marrying John, I knew it!” Clemmie laughed as if catching her friend out in a game.
Hecate opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. It was true, she had wondered what it would be like. The fact that he knew of and accepted her gift was no small thing. She thought about how she felt when she was with him. She felt that she could be herself. She felt that he understood her. She felt pleased to be in his company and enjoyed his wit. But was that love? And Phileas? Her fondness for him was in no way romantic. She could not imagine herself wed to him.
“As I seem singularly unable to choose, much better that I remain single,” she said, rather hoping for a change of subject. She found the matter somewhat weighty and complicated without knowing why.
Clemmie, sensing her friend’s drop in cheer, stepped up behind her and slipped her arms about her.
“My poor dearest Hecate. Matters of the heart can be quite perplexing.”
Hecate rested her head back. “That’s just it, I’m not certain my heart is playing any part in it.”
“Then you must wait until it does. When you feel your heart lift, that is when you know you have found a man worth your time. Though be careful it is your heart that speaks to you,” she added, spinning Hecate around to face her. “A woman must take care not to give in to what is merely desire!” she warned, grinning with glee.
“How will I know the difference? Do you?”
“Of course, silly! When Viscount Bales begged me to elope with him I was all but packed when I came to my senses. Intemperate feelings are delicious, but they are no basis for marriage. We must be on our guard against charming men who would take advantage of that aspect of our natures.”
Now it was Hecate’s turn to laugh. “I don’t suppose either Phileas or John would dream of taking advantage of me!”
Clemmie shook her head. “Don’t be so certain,” she said, suddenly serious. “A man in love will act in ways you might not have imagined them capable of.”
Hecate stepped away to straighten another stack of papers. “And you wonder why I prefer my treasures,” she said lightly.
“Better still, let us think about what you are going to wear to Mama’s out-of-season ball. I will not let you fall victim to your mother’s selection a single time more,” she said, moving toward the large wardrobe in the corner of the room.
“Oh Lord, is it that time of year again? The Twyford-Harris balls seem to come round with increasing speed.”
“Nonsense. Now, what have you in here. Oh dear…” she said, pulling out a gown at random and shaking her head. “Come along, try something on. We must address the extent of the problem before we can correct it.”
Hecate gave herself over to Clemmie’s insistence, knowing how much her friend enjoyed dressing for occasions, and happy to let her prattle on about French fashions if it pleased her.
Two days later the inspector finished his investigations in the crypt. The dean had instructed a team which included two rather reluctant canons and the verger to carefully collect any broken remnants of tombs and place them in two ancient oak chests in the far corner of the crypt. He then assembled a small gathering of the vicars choral to offer prayers and a blessing. Hecate, standing at the top of the steps, listened to the sung words and gently intoned lines. It was the dean’s hope that this would put the spirits and the matter in general to rest, at least until Inspector Winter could furnish them with answers to the seemingly unanswerable questions. She knew, however, that whatever had come out of those tombs was no longer in the crypt, and was far from at rest.
Mrs. White had declared herself unable to ever set foot in the place again, despite the dean’s assurances. Hecate stepped forward, happy to offer to take over the small but important task of cleaning the crypt once a week. To others, this was seen as a helpful, possibly womanly gesture on her part. To Hecate, it was the opportunity to spend time in the intensely atmospheric space, perhaps allowing her to find clues the policemen had missed, or even to somehow connect with the spirits that remained there in order to gain an insight into what had taken place. Reverend Thomas had raised a squeak of protest at his assistant being taken from her work, but he was silenced by a questioning look from Dean Chalmers. When the short service was over and everyone else had left the crypt, she took a mop and bucket, broom and duster, and set about the task of cleaning. As she worked she stilled her mind, opening her heart to any souls who might wish to make themselves known to her. Nothing came. In fact, the silence was so deep she considered it more a void. As if nothing spiritual remained in the crypt. The more she worked on, the longer she spent there, the more certain she became that all spectral activity had ceased, the dark presence had left, and there was in its place a tense emptiness. Her hope had been that she would be contacted by a benign spirit. One such as those who had become her friends in the cathedral. One that might shed some light on the disturbing mystery with their unique perspective. By the time she had finished washing the floor, dusting the candlesticks, and polishing the marble of the remaining tombs, however, she had still heard nothing. She paused to survey her work and was pleased with the results. The least she could do for the troubled place was help restore it to order and peace. The dean’s blessing had subtly changed the vibration of the space. Her own simple endeavors had added to this in a small but important way. She stood, hands on hips, a little disappointed and yet satisfied that she had, for now, done what she could.
As she had anticipated, she found Reverend Thomas all pursed lips and tutting at the time her new obligation was demanding of her when there was work of her own to be done. Hecate could see her chances of accessing more books in the collection for her own research were dwindling. In an effort to win over her superior, she promised to work through her lunch break to catch up. This appeared to mollify him when he took himself off for his own meal an hour later.
Hecate fully intended to push on with the repair on her desk.
The Mappa Mundi, however, had other ideas.
She sensed rather than saw the new activity. Putting down her glue brush, she turned in her chair. As before, the image of the city of Hereford pulsated restlessly, but this time there were other parts of the ancient map which were moving, too. She stood up slowly and moved closer. As she did so, the griffin swooped from one of the library shelves and came to perch on her shoulder. “Keep still now,” she whispered to him. There was something about the way the map was behaving that caused her to approach as quietly as she could, so as not to interrupt the activity. She wanted to see what it had to show her. Wanted to understand.
On this occasion, she noticed the water in one of the great northern rivers seemed to be actually flowing, the blue of it brighter than it had been, light catching ripples and waves as the water moved. A little above the river, which was called the Jaxartes, there was a drawing of the golden fleece of Greek legend. A few inches to the left was the space where the griffin himself was depicted. It was what was shown between these two mythological creatures that held Hecate’s attention now. There were two people, kneeling down, each holding a long knife or sword. The inscription declared them to be the Essedenes. She knew they were depicted cutting the limbs of a figure, which had always struck her as disturbing. Now that the little figures had sprung to life, raising and slashing with their blades, slicing into the flesh of the arms and legs in front of them, the scene took on a fresh horror. As she watched, wondering what such a thing could possibly signify, the figure on the left ceased his cutting. He turned his head, and with his narrow, kohl-lined eyes, looked straight at Hecate.
For an instant, their gazes met.
She gasped, taking a step back, unable to look away.
The griffin squawked and took to the air.
Hecate felt as if she were locked in an inescapable connection with the terrifying figure. Its vision held her and its glare appeared to be challenging her. For what seemed like a torturously long time but could have been no more than half a minute, she was trapped as surely as if the frightening being had held his sword to her throat.
And then it looked away and she was released.
