“Oh, if you prefer.” She took the tins. “Thank you. You have been most helpful.” She smiled at him again, wishing she could say more to express how grateful she was. “Truly, I am…”
“Tell no one. Not a soul.”
“No, of course not. I shall return with the impressions in a few days.”
He gave a grunt and a nod and then, their business clearly concluded, the curious little man turned and melted back into the gloom of the interior.
When she returned to her bicycle, Hecate found her heart was pounding. Mr. Sadiki was not the reason for her agitated state, this she knew. Far from it, for he had been prepared to help her and had not asked difficult questions. She understood, however, that, even more than lying to Reverend Thomas, this was the first step toward transgression. She had engaged the services of a stranger to do something for her which she knew to be unlawful. Having copies made of one’s own keys was of no consequence. Having copies made of those she did not, in fact, have permission to use was another matter entirely. She reminded herself that her motives were good ones. If she was to understand what had happened in the crypt, to fathom the purposes of the Essedenes, to prevent any more killings, she must have unfettered access to the books in the library. All of them. She was certain she was doing the right thing. Even so, she was on edge, so that when she heard her name called she gasped and dropped the package onto the pavement.
“Oh! Lord Brocket…”
“I startled you? Forgive me, Miss Cavendish,” said the earl, raising his top hat to her.
“That’s quite all right. My mind was elsewhere,” she said, stooping to retrieve the fallen parcel.
He was too quick for her and snatched it up.
“Allow me. Oh, it is quite heavy.…” He rattled it lightly, smiling, as if trying to guess what was inside. Still holding it, he asked, “Have you met my cousin? He has recently come to stay with us at Brockhampton. Viscount Eckley, this striking young lady is the daughter of Edward Cavendish.”
“Your golfing partner? Yes, I see the family resemblance,” said the viscount. He was smaller than his cousin, slighter, paler, lesser, somehow, in every way. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Cavendish,” he said, doffing his own hat.
“Viscount,” Hecate acknowledged him, doing her best to observe the necessary social pleasantries but keenly aware that the earl still had the tins. Her father had known the local aristocrat many years through his work with the museum and the cathedral, where the peer was a benefactor. She herself had never felt entirely comfortable in the man’s presence, though she could not have said why. She held out her hand.
“Forgive me,” she said, “I am running to a tight schedule. Must not keep my father waiting.”
Lord Brocket passed her the packet but when she had hold of it he did not release it. For an uncomfortable instant she felt trapped. He did not for one second take his eyes off her face, as if he were measuring her reaction, watching, perhaps, for some sign of discomfort. Of fear. She determined to let none show.
Smiling brightly she said, “I understand he has the better of you on the golf course still, sir. It does not do to let him win. He makes far too much of such minor triumphs in the retelling of them.”
The earl was sufficiently wrong-footed by her words to lessen his grip so that she was able to take the parcel from him. Dropping it into the basket on her bicycle as she hopped onto the saddle and called back a cheery farewell, she pedalled away down East Street. She felt an unease follow her until she was out of sight of the disquieting man.
Unnoticed by the bustling crowds of the city, something crouched in the shadows, apparently no more than a deeper darkness in the gloom. Had any one of those busy pedestrians paused to, perhaps, tie a loose lace on a shoe, or stoop to pick up a dropped glove, or had an errant child thought to dart from its watchful mother to stray nearer that corner of shade, then that cold presence might have been noticed. As it was, on this bright spring day, the good people of Hereford went about their business, occupying themselves with work or leisure, their minds taken up with their tasks, pastimes, and endeavors. And so they did not detect that unfamiliar company. They did not realize they were observed. They had no notion there was a hunter in their midst, and that they themselves were the prey. That they were spared was the result of two crucial factors. The predator would not strike beneath the revealing rays of the sun, rather it would bide its time until dusk at the very earliest. The second point of protection for the majority of those passersby was the modest rank in society which they occupied. The lowly factory worker, the daydreaming shop girl, the arthritic market trader, the children’s nursemaid, the peddler of pans, the portly pieman, and the bent-backed blacksmith—none of these had anything to fear. For the spirit who now searched for its victim sought only a person of wealth, of status, of importance, of influence. Of power.
14
On Wednesday morning, the London train departed Hereford station a little after ten. As Hecate felt it gather pace and speed southeast toward the capital she took a moment to wonder at how quickly things could change. Ordinarily, this would have been a working day for her; another day spent in her beloved library. Her father had decided, however, that the Essedenes’ behavior toward his daughter constituted a possible threat, and called for urgent action. When she had shared with him what she had learned in the ancient book, along with her theories regarding a connection between the necromantic practices of the Essedenes and the destruction of the tombs in the crypt, he had agreed she was onto something both fascinating and dangerous. Her further belief that the death of Sir Richard Thurston and the violent behavior of Joe Colwall were all in some way linked to these things had alarmed him. She had been quite concerned to see the shock in his expression as he warned her that perhaps matters were revealing themselves to be too perilous for her to continue her research alone. She had gone on to tell him of the missing pages in the book and this had, strangely, reassured him. He had already inquired as to whether or not the British Museum held a copy of Forgotten Peoples of Mesopotamia and Babylonia so that if it proved useful she might have more unrestricted access to it. Learning of the missing pages he insisted they travel together to London to read the complete chapter in the copy held there. Hecate could see that the more he was able to assist her, the happier he would be, not only for his own curiosity, but out of increasing concern for her safety. She admitted to herself she was glad of his support and his company. The train sped through the landscape of rolling green fields, blossoming orchards, and small villages. They sat side by side in the otherwise empty carriage. She reached over and took his hand and he turned to smile at her. The engine blew its whistle as the train entered a short tunnel and for a few moments they were in darkness, unable to read the other’s expression, before emerging into the sunshine again, the smell of smoke and steam blown in through an opening in the window. Swayed by the movement of the train as it rattled along the tracks and over the points, they both fell to watching the passing scenery once more, each lost in their own complicated and frenetic thoughts.
Upon their arrival at Paddington station, Edward hailed a cab and they made the short journey to the British Museum. The library had its home there, with its world-famous Round Reading Room at the very heart of the building. Despite wearing her smartest ensemble of navy wool with a tightly fitted jacket and matching gloves and hat, Hecate felt keenly that she was the country mouse visiting town. The women she saw all looked as if they had stepped from a fashion plate, and the men wore suits of fine tailoring and obvious high quality. She was glad of the silver chatelaine she had borrowed from her mother. The pretty, filigree clip at her waist caught the sun, and the four chains with their useful items at the ends swung rather fetchingly against her skirt as she walked.
Her concerns regarding their suitability for city travel were dispelled, however, by the manner in which her father was received. Every second person they passed, it seemed, knew him by sight, greeting him with a tip of the hat, a hearty hailing, a warm smile, or even a cheery wave. She should not, she realized, be surprised. During his long and successful career as an archeologist, the British Museum had been his second home. Within it, the British Library had provided a place of productive study and essential research.
As they made their way to the heart of the building, Hecate experienced a curious light-headedness. She was compelled to stop and place a hand against the wall to steady herself.
“Are you quite well?” her father asked.
“A little dizziness.”
“Insufficient breakfast,” he declared. “Come, we shall make a start but break for luncheon in an hour.”
“No, let’s not interrupt our work on my account. It is nothing,” she assured him.
He gave her his arm nonetheless.
Hecate did not tell him that she had been briefly assailed by an onslaught of sound. A noise clearly audible only to herself. It had begun as a susurration, much like the hiss of waves receding from a pebbled shore. At first she had thought it a symptom of the dizziness. The music, perhaps, of her own blood rushing through her veins. But then she had discerned voices. Words. Whispered and breathy, seeming to come from all around her. She had glanced this way and that, but could not make out their source. One word was clearer than all the others, unmistakable and full of urgency.
Beware! Beware! Beware!
She went with her father, no longer alarmed, but attentive. Listening. As they proceeded beyond the doors to the exhibitions the voices faded and then fell silent.
The Reading Room itself stood at the center of the quadrangle, with its iconic curved walls and domed roof. As they entered, Hecate was aware of heads turning, eyebrows raising, here and there a newspaper being shaken or a low gruff mumble suggesting restrained but very real disapproval. Women, her father had long ago explained, were not expressly forbidden from entering this hallowed inner sanctum. Nor were they officially permitted. Instead, their inclusion was, on occasion and with the right credentials, tolerated. What irked her most was that this was seen as a hugely generous relaxing of the rules, and any woman fortunate enough to benefit from it should be extremely and effusively grateful. Many female students or professionals were turned away. It was Hecate’s good luck that her father was all the bona fides she required.
He presented himself at the desk, exchanging whispered greetings with the young male librarian, who was evidently something of a follower of the Cavendish expeditions. As Hecate watched, Edward worked his charm, meekly handing over the ink pen in his pocket, well aware of the rule that prohibited writing devices at such close proximity to valuable books. His confident and personable manner, together with his renown, quickly secured permission for both of them to access the book he had sent a note about the previous day. The librarian acknowledged her with nothing more than a glance through his pince-nez before he disappeared to fetch the book. Hecate followed her father to a vacant stretch of desk where they awaited the young man’s return. As she removed her gloves she gazed about her, astonished at the towering shelves that lined the arching walls, wondering at all the thoughts and words and recorded deeds that were stored there, waiting to be discovered.
When the librarian returned he was carrying the twin of the book Hecate had read in the Hereford cathedral. As she set it down with some reverence upon the stand on the desk, she recognized the nut-brown leather and the crinkled edges of the pages. This copy, however, was in better condition than the one she had studied. She felt mounting excitement at the thought that she would now get to see what was contained in the missing pages. She had expected her father to open the book, so that as the librarian’s leather soles gave muted squeaks describing his progress back to the reception desk, she waited. Edward smiled at her, making a sweeping gesture with his hand that clearly said, This is your adventure. She stepped up and opened the book, leafing through it with as much patience as she could muster to find the relevant place.
The pages were there, the book intact, nothing missing at all.
She and her father exchanged beaming smiles as they both leaned in to read. She picked up at the point where the Hereford copy had left off. She had to force herself not to mutter out loud as she stumbled over the challenging archaic English of the text. In her head she made the best sense of it she could, knowing that Edward would be doing the same.
Here it is … “These Resurgent Spirits were…” What is that? Oh, possessed, yes … “were possessed of great and fearful strength…” which would explain their ability to break free of their tombs, I suppose. “But they were not powerful in themselves, for their … lack of corporeal substance made them … vulnerable. They had but one goal … to find a host.”
“A host!” On reaching this information, Hecate could not contain her voice, earning shh’s and tut’s from others in the Reading Room. She stared at her father and he at her before they both bowed their heads over the text once again.
“Having thrown off the shackles of death … the Resurgent Spirits … prowled…” Oh dear, that bit is too smudged to read. They prowled, then what…? “… once chosen, a victim had little chance to defend himself, for the spirit would strike without warning. The intended would be held fast, the breath squeezed from him … so that he did … fall into a faint. In this deathly … attitude, helpless, he would fall prey to the demon spirit as it then took up its place within and became the terrible thing that was an Embodied Spirit.”
The next page was taken up with somewhat lurid drawings of several people depicted in a state of being inhabited by the spirits. They were drawn with wild, staring eyes, gaping mouths, their arms akimbo and feet raised as if in some manner of involuntary dance. Hecate turned the next page, but other than a map, there was nothing. Beyond that, the text picked up where she recalled from the other copy, where it talked of the Essedenes’ decline.
Her father leaned close to whisper in her ear.
