“I shall fetch my coat,” she said, already undoing her shawl.
The two-seater gig which the dean had, after some petitioning from the vicars choral, supplied for the use of any with a parish church to care for, was old, small, and lacked much by way of suspension. John clicked his tongue to urge on the somewhat nervous bay gelding. The dean had taken a shine to the animal and given him the rather grand name of Bucephalus, arguing that such a legendary association might lend him courage. In truth, the horse’s fear of everything, including his own shadow, was all that he shared with his noble namesake.
They traveled in tense silence. Hecate knew John would be bringing his experience as a priest to bear on how he could best help the shocked sister of the deceased and offer her the comfort of God’s word. While she herself was there to, in turn, support him and offer what help she could, she had her own questions about the murder. There was something so brutal, so out of character for those involved, so disturbing, that it brought her back to the darkness that had come out of the crypt, and the random nature of the murder of Sir Richard. Could all three things be in some way connected? The link felt tenuous, but nonetheless she could not shake it from her mind.
They drove over the old stone bridge and past St. Mary’s Church and into the village. The Colwalls’ cottage was down a short track to the right, its garden bordered by a meandering stream that fed into the River Lugg at the point where it joined the Wye. John reined in the horse, left his seat, and tied the animal to the gate post. He moved to offer Hecate his hand but she had already jumped down. A little awkwardly he withdrew his hand and straightened his wide-brimmed black hat.
“Let us go in,” he said, leading the way.
At his knock, the door was opened by a tiny woman who appeared to be held together by the two shawls and an apron tightly tied around her frail body. John made the necessary introductions. Red-eyed, Mrs. Tribbet greeted her visitors and bid them enter and sit by the fire. Most of the ground floor of the cottage was taken up by a single room. The floor was flagstoned and the hearth home to a smart cooking range, both things indicating this had not been a place of poverty but of reasonable comfort and security. The heavy air of the cold day was sitting atop the chimney so that the fire did not draw well, sending more smoke than was pleasant back down the chimney and into the room. The smell of coal and wet wood being burned should have filled the house, but above this was the stronger scent of carbolic and bicarbonate of soda. Hecate knew this to be evidence of fierce cleaning efforts in order to remove the stains of death. Even as she took her seat on a ladder-backed chair she noticed signs of what had occurred in that once loving home. The cracked glass of the stitched sampler above the fireplace. On the small dresser beside the window a willow-pattern china set showed not only fresh chips but many spaces in the collection. A delicate figurine sat forlornly on the windowsill missing an arm. The change in color of a rectangle of flags suggested a rug had once been there, and a vision of such a one soaked in blood flashed through her mind. It was clear the old woman had done her best to restore order but she could not hope to expunge the truth of what had happened. For Hecate it was not these small, poignant alterations that concerned her, however. What took a cold grip of her heart was the unmissable, powerful air of menace which lingered in the very stones of the little house.
On the opposite side of the hearth, close to where their host sat, John leaned forward and spoke gently. “Tell me, Mrs. Tribbet, please, if you are able, how we may be of service to you. I knew both Mr. and Mrs. Colwall. They attended St. Mary’s for many years, indeed had done so before ever I took charge of the parish. They gave the appearance of being a devout, devoted, and contented couple.”
“Oh, reverend sir, they were surely all those things!” Mrs. Tribbet tugged an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and proceeded to dab at her eyes as she spoke. “The happiest of couples their whole married lives.”
“Your sister had lately been unwell, I recall.”
The old woman nodded. “She was troubled by the rheumatism and it had got the better of her. She was not as able to tend the garden or keep house as well as she would have liked.”
“And Mr. Colwall looked after her willingly?”
“Oh, he did, reverend sir! A wife could not have wished for a better husband, nor I for a brother-in-law more pleasant and steadfast. Until…” Here she stopped and fat tears coursed down her cheeks, evading her attempts to stop them with shaking hand and kerchief.
John took her other hand in his. “Mrs Tribbet, I have no wish to cause you further distress. You have suffered a grave experience such as no one should. I am here to pray for you, pray with you, if you so choose. Or, if there is help of a more practical nature … perhaps the packing up of your sister’s belongings? The funeral arrangements?”
“Oh, the funeral!” The old woman both nodded and shook her head at the same time, unable to speak through her grief.
Hecate got up and went to her, putting an arm around her trembling shoulders.
“Hush now, dear Mrs. Tribbet. Reverend Forsyth will know what must be done. There will be time enough for you to let him know of any hymns that your sister had a fondness for. In the meantime, let’s you and I take a turn about the garden that Mrs. Colwall evidently loved so much. You can tell me your brightest memories of her while the reverend makes notes of how many men and carts will be needed to empty the cottage.”
John got to his feet, continuing to reassure the grief-stricken woman that everything would be seen to. Once outside, she became calmer. Hecate had no doubt that the memory of what she had seen in the house made the room an impossibly painful place for her to be. She herself was glad to be away from the dark vibrations that dwelled there now. If she had questioned her own theory that there was a connection between this shocking violence and what had occurred in the crypt, she questioned it no longer. Such a presence could not be mistaken for something else. When Mrs. Tribbet had shown her the apple trees and the beehives, she risked returning to the subject of her sister’s death.
“I understand that for you this must be a double blow,” she began, “for you have not only suffered the loss of a beloved sister, but of a brother-in-law also. From what Reverend Forsyth tells me, he was, before this … aberration, a good man.”
Mrs. Tribbet stopped walking and stared into the middle distance as if seeking answers there. “It makes no sense at all. They had been together more than fifty years and in all that time never so much as a raised voice, much less a raised hand. That he should have come to such … rage! ’Tis as if some other person had taken charge of him and wielded that h-h-hammer…” Her voice faltered over the word.
“Had he been in any way altered, or his behavior unusual, before that night?”
“Not in the least. Why, only two days previous we had met at Ledbury market and passed a pleasant time of laughter and ease despite Mary’s worsening condition.”
“There was no indication anything was amiss? Are you certain?”
“Nothin’ at all, save of course for them both being saddened by the news of Sir Richard’s passing.”
“Sir Richard Thurston?” Hecate’s pulse skipped. “He was widely respected.”
“Oh he was, but ’twas more than that. Joe worked on his estate for many years, you see. Up at Hampton Court Castle, before he and Mary moved to Mordiford.” She let out a deep, pitiful sigh. “Sir Richard’s death was a blow to them both, but especially Joe. And now this…” She waved her handkerchief in the direction again and fell once more to silent weeping.
Hecate was aware of a small chink of light fracturing the darkness that surrounded the strange events of the past few days. The link to Sir Richard appeared, on the face of it, a minor one, and possibly insignificant. But it was a link, nonetheless. The two shocking and violent events that had recently taken place involved two men who were known to each other, with a meaningful connection. She strengthened her resolve to investigate further those connections she believed existed, with the curious behavior of the map and, ultimately, the destruction in the crypt.
13
The following Monday, Hecate asked if she might be permitted to finish work half an hour early. She explained to Reverend Thomas that she had an errand to run for her father. When he pressed her for details she had trotted out her planned response regarding collecting something from the museum relevant to an upcoming exhibition there. He had accepted this and granted her permission to leave at half past four, provided she did not make a habit of it.
“The library must be your first concern now, Miss Cavendish,” he had reminded her.
“Of course, Reverend. I shall point that out to my father.” As she went to fetch her bicycle she had carried the heavy stone of guilt in her stomach. She could not recall ever having told such a blatant lie. She was more than a little shocked at how convincingly she had reinforced it with a further untruth. As she hitched up her shortened skirt and rode away she chided herself for reacting to what she had earlier convinced herself was a little white lie. Something necessary for the greater good that would hurt no one. There was no use, she told herself, being squeamish, given where she was about to go and what she was about to set in motion. In case the librarian happened to be looking out of one of the enormous rose windows behind his desk, she did not proceed down Church Street, which would have been the most direct route to her destination. Instead she continued across the Green in the direction of Broad Street and the museum. Only when she knew she was comfortably out of sight did she turn right and pedal along East Street for a further two minutes.
MT Sadiki Repairs boasted a modest facade. The tiny shop was set into a listing, timber-framed house, squashed between two taller, younger buildings that seemed intent on pressing upon it until it took up less and less space, perhaps ultimately disappearing altogether. For now it stood its ground, inhabiting its humble area, beams and lintels swayed and buckled beneath the strain of holding its place. The walls were in need of a coat of wash. Its black beams, exterior and interior it transpired, were similarly overdue the attention of a paintbrush. The small panes of glass in the door were opaque, on both sides, with the grime of ages. Hecate leaned her bicycle against the equally sparkling window, confident she was not contributing greatly to the lack of visibility afforded the display of cobbler’s last, boots, laces, and keys. A bell clanked rather than rang as she opened the door. The interior of the little shop was as unimpressive as the face it presented to the world, so that no one could claim they were not delivered what they had been promised. There was a single lamp burning behind the high counter, which was beyond the reach of any sunlight that succeeded in penetrating the rheumy windowpanes. She trod the three available paces of gloom cautiously, breathing in the aroma of boot polish and metal filings. Upon reaching the counter, summoned by the bell, a diminutive man of advanced years emerged from the shadows of the deeper interior in the way of a shy jungle animal compelled to break cover.
“Ah, Mr. Sadiki?” Hecate asked brightly. Without waiting for confirmation she continued. “I am in need of a set of keys and have been reliably informed that you are the person to whom I should come. I had thought of the cobblers in the square, who advertise their services so widely, but no, I was told the master key cutter in town is Mr. Sadiki, and that I should trust none other.”
The old man regarded her wordlessly, the unlikeliness of what she was saying apparently having surprised him into silence.
She pressed on, uncomfortably aware of how jarringly chipper she sounded in that small, mute space, and knowing her own nervousness was making her so.
“The facts are these. My father has amassed quite a collection of keys which are vital to his work. He requires access to many secured places, and, within those, several equally secure cabinets. And so forth. And, as I assist him in his work, he wishes to provide me with my own set, which is why I have come to you.” She paused to nod at a rusting sign on the wall behind the proprietor, dully illuminated by the lamp, declaring one of his services to be, simply, KEYS CUT.
He turned to look at the sign as if it had, until this moment, escaped his notice.
Hecate plowed on.
“There is, however, one slight … complication. My father cannot, not even for one afternoon, give up his keys. No. That would not be possible. And I see that this presents us with a problem, for if you do not have the keys to copy, how will you copy them?”
The question hung in the air.
The man pulled a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and set them upon his nose, the better to scrutinize the young woman before him.
