“A shocking detail, but nothing further?”
She shook her head, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her mood. All she had learned was of the terrible next step the Resurgent Spirits would take, but there was nothing regarding stopping them doing it. Nothing about how those risen might be returned to their graves. Nothing about how to keep people safe from those that now roamed abroad.
Her father, sensing her despondency, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Never mind,” he whispered. “We have not learned a great deal, but what new information we have is valuable. Come.”
She was on the point of closing the book when she noticed something. There was writing at the bottom of one of the maps. A long number which included some letters. There was nothing particularly notable about it, but, having seen two versions of this book and so being quite familiar with the hand that had scribed and annotated it, Hecate noticed something odd. The number had not been written in the same ink and with the same sort of quill that had been employed for the manuscript. The lines were thinner, fainter. The loops of the letters were rounder. She glanced over her shoulder to check they were not observed. The librarian had his back to them. Their nearest neighbor along the desk was engrossed in his reading. Quickly, she unscrewed the silver pencil that hung from one of the chains on her chatelaine and opened the tiny silver notebook that was fixed to another. She copied down the number exactly as it was written before snapping shut the notebook, the sharp sound making a minute echo around the circular room. The librarian turned, frowning, but Hecate was already pulling on her gloves.
As soon as they were out of the Reading Room and standing among the bustle of visitors in the museum quad, she opened up the book to examine what she had written, her father scrutinizing it over her shoulder.
“A curious combination of letters and numbers,” she said.
“Not to one who has accessed the museum archives,” he told her. “That, if I am not mistaken, is an entry into the catalog used to identify minor documents and texts deemed too insignificant to take a place on a public shelf.”
“But that is excellent news! Can you tell what it is we are looking for?”
“Let me see … the filing system is alphanumeric so row G … box or drawer twenty-two. Then the date it was filed, so 1856 in this instance. The lowercase letters refer to either the subject of the piece or the person who filed it … ‘th.’ Hmmm, means nothing to me, but that may not matter. The italic capital will reference the category, perhaps, or subject matter. N. Not immediately clear what that…”
“Necromancy,” said Hecate straightaway.
Edward beamed at her. “Of course it is.”
“Can you get us into the vault?”
He stood a little straighter. “If I can gain access to the lost tombs of Mehut the Great I do not believe the archive of the British Museum will defeat me.”
“Father, you are so useful!”
“Indeed. Almost as useful as the girl who smuggled pencil and paper past the strictest of guardians. Had you planned all along to take notes? I did wonder at you asking your mother to borrow the chatelaine.”
“Did you think I had discovered a sudden fondness for jewelry and girlish adornments?”
“It seemed unlikely. Where are you going now?” he asked as she mounted the stairs back toward the library entrance.
“To watch you persuade whomever needs persuading to allow us access to the vaults. We must see what it is that someone took the trouble to alert us to.”
If the librarian was surprised to see them return so soon he did not allow it to disturb his haughty expression. He listened to Edward’s request for access to the archives and shook his head, explaining, sotto voce, that, even for members of many years’ standing, appointments had to be booked some time in advance, permissions had to be gained in writing, protocols had to be observed, and so on and so forth. As he spoke he cast a glance at Hecate and she had the clear impression that her presence was not strengthening their case. For all his reputation it seemed her father was meeting resistance to this perceived bending of the rules. She stepped forward.
“Please forgive my father’s persistence, Mister…?”
The young man regarded her with ill-concealed impatience.
“Thorpe,” he informed her.
“Mr. Thorpe, we have already taken up far too much of your time,” she said with what she hoped was a sweet smile. Charm was not her forte, and it did not help that the conversation had to be conducted in such hushed tones so as not to disturb the library goers. “Come along, Father.” She put a hand on his arm. “We will return to Hereford and simply tell the master of the library our request was too improper and inconvenient. I am certain he will understand, after all, he knows better than most the responsibility such a collection demands.”
A flicker of interest lit up Mr. Thorpe’s eyes. “You are acquainted with the master of the library at Hereford Cathedral?”
“I have the privilege of being his assistant.”
“You have access to the chained library there?” he asked, now completely failing to mask how impressed he was.
“That, too, is a privilege I cherish. We will keep you from your duties no longer, Mr. Thorpe. Shall I give your regards to Reverend Thomas, one librarian to another, as it were? He will be sorry we were unable to complete our mission, but I have not the slightest doubt he will understand the circumstances which caused you to refuse us entry to the archive.”
A battle was being fought inside the young man, and its blows and parries were played out in his expression. Hecate watched him move from a reluctance to give in to their request, through a nervousness about incurring the displeasure of a fellow notable librarian, coming to a restless stop at a need to save face. After a further moment’s hesitation, he stepped out from behind the high reception desk, beckoning them impatiently, lifting a ring of keys from his belt as he strode briskly toward the door.
Hecate and Edward were led along a convoluted path that took them back across the quadrangle, through another door into the main body of the museum, down a narrow flight of stairs, through a locked door, and into a nondescript basement area. Here they paused while Mr. Thorpe read the details of the catalog entry. Hecate experienced a momentary panic that he might suspect she had just written it down, but this did not, thankfully, occur to him. He took them into a second chamber and through a further door which opened into a gloomy room, lined with chests of drawers. As her father had rightly surmised, the capital letter led them to the row, and the date and other numbers to a specific drawer. The librarian opened it and removed a small box from inside. This he placed on a table in the center of the room, and lifted the lid. The three peered at the contents.
“Letters,” Mr. Thorpe said, as if a little disappointed. He took out his pocket watch. “I shall return on the hour. Kindly do not leave this room until I come to fetch you.” He snapped shut his watch and strode for the door, where he paused. “I hope you will be able to tell Reverend Thomas that you found what you required.”
“I am certain we shall,” Hecate assured him.
As soon as he had gone she and her father took out the bundle of letters and unfolded them. A quick glance told them that they were all addressed to the same person. Edward held one up so that the gaslight fell upon it more evenly.
“Here’s our ‘th’—Tiberius Harper,” he read. “A fine name, but not one with which I am familiar.”
“Who are they from? Let’s see … oh. A monk,” Hecate said, experiencing a jolt of connection as she thought of Brother Michael. “Father Ignatius. He signs himself ‘your friend’ and addresses the other man with quite familiar salutations, look ‘My dear Mr. Harper,’ ‘My good friend,’ and later … here, just ‘Dearest Tiberius.’ They started close and grew closer.”
“A friendship born of frequent correspondence, it would appear,” said Edward, spreading out the many letters across the table.
“Or adversity.”
“Now you are jumping to conclusions.”
“Father, when did you know two men, one of them a monk, who would so quickly become endeared to one another without an extreme set of circumstances?”
“You make a fair point. Where is the first letter, can you find it? This one is dated May second, 1771.…”
