“Surely there is plenty of time?”
He took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicked it open. “We have been here longer than you might think,” he said, showing her that it was almost four o’clock.
She was astonished. She felt she had stood before the goddess for mere moments, but almost an hour had passed. She nodded then. “Yes,” she said. “Let us go. I am ready.” She saw that he had noticed an alteration in her demeanor but she did not wish to talk to him about it. Not yet. She required time to make sense of what had happened. “Come,” she said, smiling at him, a newfound confidence bubbling up inside her. “Let us go home.”
15
Hecate and her father had chosen an empty carriage compartment so that the train journey home from London had been entirely taken up with discussion regarding the new information they had gleaned. There had been no time before their departure to take tea, so that all they had to sustain them was a bag of apples purchased from a barrow at the station. Sitting opposite each other, they both ate hungrily as they summarized the situation, and agreed on the main points. Someone had gone to the trouble of writing the number reference on the page in Forgotten Peoples of Mesopotamia and Babylonia. That person may or may not have been Tiberius Harper, but either way they had wanted to direct anyone reading about the Essedenes to Father Ignatius’s letters. It was, Hecate and her father were certain, a warning. What it was not, however, was a solution. The letters fell short of explaining how the Resurgent Spirits could be stopped from becoming Embodied, and how they in turn could be vanquished, or their hapless hosts saved. The evidence pointed to there being a text in existence, both in 1771 and 1881, that would enable someone to summon the dead. Given the fact that the latest necromantic activity had been in Hereford Cathedral, it was not unreasonable to suppose both the Essedene curse and the person using it were located in there. It would have to be someone with access to the crypt and the text in question. Hecate was convinced it must be in the locked cabinet in the library. Her father had warned against making this assumption, not so much because the theory was unproven, rather that it meant only one of four people were under suspicion. Only these four had access to the complete sets of keys that would be required to gain entry to the crypt, the library, and the locked cabinet. This short list now replaced in her mind that of the mythical creatures in the map. Instead of manticore, phoenix, griffin, unicorn, she had four names of real people to consider.
The dean, the verger, the master of the library, and the leader of the vicars choral.
“Not John,” Hecate said as the train lurched over an old set of points. “I will not believe him capable of such a thing.” When Edward gave no reply she asked, “You cannot believe it, Father, surely?”
“I do not wish to believe any of these men capable of such a terrible course of action. However, until we know who is responsible, we must proceed with the utmost caution. Whoever it is has gone to great lengths to unleash a dangerous power. He will not easily be stopped, and will not, I fear, be beyond violent acts against anyone who should get in his way. You must promise me, Hecate, that you will not put yourself at risk. That you will not confront anyone while alone with them. We need more information and a plan.”
“I work with Reverend Thomas and it would seem strange to alter that habit. I am rarely alone with either the dean or Mr. Gould. But John…”
“Just until we have the proof we need. I will have your word on this,” he said, concern etched upon his expression.
“But I must discuss all of this with John!”
“You are not listening to me.”
“Father, it is ridiculous to suspect him. If it will reassure you, let us speak with him together, tell him everything we know.”
“And if it is John behind the raising of these spirits we will be warning him that we are close to discovering the truth. We should not share what we have learned with anyone. Not yet.”
Hecate leaned back in her carriage seat and took a bite of apple, her stomach rumbling. She understood her father’s desire to protect her, but she could not, she would not, believe John to be the sort of man who would cause such destruction, such wickedness, such awful consequences.
“Very well,” she said at last, “I will not say anything to him. Not yet. That way you can be at ease regarding my spending time with him.” She watched her father relax a little at the fact that he had her agreement on this and she realized anew how concerned he must be for her safety. “There is something else, Papa,” she said, seeking both to reassure him and keep no secrets. “When we were at the museum … when I stood in front of Hekate … she spoke to me.”
Instantly, he was alert again, leaning forward in his seat.
“You heard her? You are certain?”
“There was no mistaking her voice, or that she addressed me directly. It was … exhilarating!”
“I knew it!”
“You…?”
“I saw the trancelike state you entered. It was clear to me that it was caused by your proximity to the statue. This is capital. Capital! What did she say to you?”
“She warned me.…” she told him, watching his expression closely. “She said there is danger, but she also said, I must be brave. I must not turn away from what has to be done.” She waited, hoping that her father’s natural concern for his daughter’s well-being would not override that sense they shared that she must act. That she was in a unique position to stop the Essedenes and whomever was summoning them. “It has to be me,” she said.
He nodded. “I see that. We must draw strength from the fact that she has communicated with you.”
“She called me Daughter of the Moon. What did she mean?”
“You know that she herself is the Goddess of the Moon. She was identifying you as her own child.”
She saw then that her father’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Oh, Papa! Do not fear for me…” She reached forward and took his hand.
“It is not fear that moves me, my little friend to phantoms, but pride,” he told her. “I knew before you were born that you were destined to be different. I watched you grow into a fine young woman, waiting for a sign that my belief was not misplaced. Oh, you were always a wonderful child. Curious, brave, full of energy, and ever questing for adventures … And there were times when I thought I saw a sensitivity to ethereal things, the way you might turn your head suddenly in a graveyard, or how I might catch you babbling in conversation when you were apparently alone. But nothing … certain. Until now,” he said, smiling then. “How does such a connection strike you? How does it make you feel, Hecate?”
She returned his smile, joy lighting her face. “It feels as if I shall never face anything alone again.” She moved to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. The swaying of the train and the excitement of the long day took hold of her, so that soon she was asleep.
The next morning Hecate returned to her duties at the cathedral. She found the master of the library in an uncharacteristically talkative frame of mind, as he could not resist hearing about her trip to the British Museum. She was concerned, at first, that he might press her for information. Information which she was determined not to share, as she and her father had agreed, with anyone on their list. She need not have worried, however, for Reverend Thomas’s greatest wish was, it seemed, to tell her of his own time spent seconded to the British Library and how appreciative the head librarian had been of what he had been able to offer with his own expertise.
As she listened to him speak she was aware that her view of him was forever altered. Every word, every deed, would fall under new scrutiny, seen in a new light. The light of suspicion. The day passed with them both engaged in their work. She was aware of the Mappa Mundi’s heightened state of restlessness, occasionally glimpsing figures moving or glowing, but she did not have the place to herself for a moment. More than ever, she knew that obtaining her own set of keys to the library and its treasures was the right thing to do.
She was pleased when it came time to finish work for the day, for there was something she wished to do, and the thought of it pressed on her mind with so many other thoughts that her teeming brain ached. She and Reverend Thomas left the library, shutting off the sunlight from the rose windows as he closed and locked the door. On Hecate’s way down the north aisle a movement caught her eye, and she noticed Corporal Gregory beckoning her in the doorway to the Stanbury Chapel. She said her goodbyes to the librarian who first thought to question what she planned to do, and then, seeing she wished to step into the chapel that was traditionally used for private prayer, did not press her. Hecate waited for him to walk out of sight before closing the heavy door and taking a seat on one of the short pews beside the young soldier.
“What is it, Corporal?” she asked. “You seem agitated.”
“Miss Cavendish, I have heard you are investigating the terrible occurrences in the crypt.”
“Why yes, I feel I must. Things are far from right.”
“Indeed they are not! It is my duty to warn you of danger. My duty to protect you and all who inhabit the cathedral. I must beg you to desist from venturing down a path that could bring you to harm.”
She saw then the pain in his expression and knew that for him, the proximity to peril not for himself, but for those he saw as under his protection, stirred dreadful memories. She would have taken his hand in hers if it had been possible. Instead she smiled at him.
“I am touched by your concern, Corporal Gregory. And impressed by your sense of duty and your vigilance. Please, rest assured, I will proceed with caution. I have my father’s support in what I do. I have Brother Michael’s help. And I have you to watch over me. All will be well.”
Hecate steered through the city streets with some speed. She was not making haste in order to get home. After what she and her father had discovered, she felt compelled to seek out Inspector Winter. Even as she crossed the square in High Town and turned right past the black-and-white beams and wattle of the famous building in its center, she knew she faced an impossible task. How could she convince the sensible, fact-loving detective of her far-fetched theories? How could she make him understand that the city was under threat from something so otherworldly and unseen? She knew that, as yet, she did not have sufficient evidence with which to convince him. Instead, she decided, she would ask to speak with Joe Colwall, who was being kept in the cells. It seemed to her too much of a coincidence that a mild-mannered man should behave as if possessed by a demon at a time when demons were prowling the city streets. She did not believe in coincidences, and she was certain the logically minded inspector would have no time for them either. If she could make him see that Mrs. Colwall’s murder was something out of the ordinary, and that the man in his jail was far from ordinary … it would be a start.
