“Then tell me what it is that is troubling you so.”
“I want to, truly I do. There is just so much to explain.…”
He nodded. “In which case we need quiet time to talk. I have the use of the gig and horse on Saturday. I was to officiate at a wedding but it has been postponed. It would be a pity not to make the most of the turnout. Let me take you for a drive. A picnic, perhaps?”
Hecate thought about what her father had said but she could not, would not suspect John of being dangerous. And she would, she realized, welcome the chance to share with him what she had learned so far. He knew of her gift. Hekate had told her to protect herself. What better way to do that than to enlist the help of those who understood her, and those she could trust?
“A picnic would be very nice,” she told him.
He smiled. “If the excitement of such a thing would not be too much…”
Realizing she must have sounded insincere she sought to reassure him. “Truly. I will look forward to it.”
“More than Clementine’s ball on Friday evening?”
Hecate let out a heartfelt groan.
“You had actually forgotten about it!” He laughed lightly.
“I would avoid it if I could, but Clemmie has insisted on my being there. And I know it will do Charlie good.”
“I wish you good luck.”
“I wish you were going to be there,” she said suddenly and meant it. John was not of the correct social standing to have been invited, which seemed a stupid injustice to Hecate.
“Lady Twyford-Harris sets the bar very high,” he said.
“She makes an exception for my family,” Hecate pointed out. “More’s the pity.”
“Enjoy yourself. Dance. Laugh with your dear friend. It will do you good. You can tell me all about it on Saturday.”
“There will be nothing to tell on that score, I promise.”
It was she who lingered then. She wished she could find the words to tell him that she would rather have spent the time in his quiet, intelligent company than endured the frivolity of a ball. She wished she could reassure him that she preferred his conversation to that of any of the dukes or earls or young viscounts that would no doubt bore her.
“Go home, Miss Cavendish,” he told her then, turning to walk toward the constabulary building. “I would not detain you and bring your mother’s wrath upon my head.”
She smiled at this, although that smile faded as she glanced back at the prison building and recalled the wretched and wicked creature that was kept locked beneath it.
16
That Thursday evening the night sky was helpfully strewn with clouds, affording Hecate some cover as she made her way through town, for once on foot, it being vital that no one saw and recognized her. Sneaking out of the house unseen had not presented any great difficulties. Her mother often retired to bed early, and as Charlie’s health was again fragile she had insisted he do the same. Edward was out of the house, attending a meeting of the chamber of commerce with Phileas. In addition, slipping unseen from her bedroom to roam the city was something Hecate had been doing since she was a young girl, so that she had perfected the art of leaving the house undetected when the occasion merited it. She had thought long and hard about telling her father of the keys. She had taken him into her confidence in so many important ways, but she was uncertain of how he might react. It was testament to the singularity of her parent that she knew he would be accepting of all things supernatural or arcane, but less so of her doing something that was, after all, against the law. And would she not, if she informed him of her intentions, make him an accomplice? She would not risk bringing his reputation into disrepute. Let this jeopardy be hers and hers alone.
She reached the cathedral a little after eight o’clock. As she approached the south door, her leather satchel held tight against her hip to stop its contents rattling, she could hear the first notes of song drifting out from the choir stalls. The door was shut, but she knew it would be unlocked. There was a rehearsal in progress which required the attendance of all the vicars choral. It was the south door that they would use to and from their rooms in the cloisters. Hecate glanced about her. There was no one to be seen. She took hold of the heavy iron ring and twisted it. The latch lifted and the door swung open. The ancient hinges gave only a small squeak of protest, so regularly used was this particular entrance, and, at the dean’s insistence, well maintained. She went inside.
The interior of the cathedral was a little cooler than the night air outside. With no boilers lit, this was not uncommon in the early weeks of spring. Lately, however, people had begun to notice that however warm and sunny the days, the space within the cathedral walls did not rise. Hecate believed the chill came from the darkness that had been disturbed in the crypt. She promised herself that one day sunbeams would once again spread their warmth through the stained glass of the windows. One day the wicked curse that afflicted this holy place would be lifted.
As she walked quickly down the south aisle she passed within a few feet of where the vicars sat, their voices lifted in song. They could not see her, as she was obscured by the construction of the rear of the choir stalls, and by the great organ itself. The music filled the air, great surging chords as John played the organ, sweet contralto notes, vibrant tenor melodies, and rich bass lines rose and fell, swooped and soared. The beauty of the music gave her courage. She might be doing something secret. She might be betraying the trust of people whom she cared about. It mattered not, in the greater scheme of things. She had told the goddess she would do what was needed, she would do what was asked of her. This was a part of what she had been called to do. She turned left and hurried toward the vestry door. Through the patterned glass set into its top half, she could see that a lamp had been left lit inside. She did not let this worry her. Mr. Gould was not a part of the choir, but she knew his habits. She was confident he would have returned to his quarters in the cloisters hours ago and was most likely sleeping off a late supper and a tankard of beer. After such rehearsals it was John’s habit, she had learned, to lock up, sparing the verger the bother of waiting for the session to finish. It was Hecate’s good fortune that the choir gave a performance of popular choral music every Easter to raise funds for the upkeep of the organ.
Expecting the room to be empty, she gave a yelp on seeing a figure standing by the key rack. For one awful moment she thought Mr. Gould had broken his routine and was still at his post. It took her a few seconds to realize that what had surprised her so was in fact nothing more than a cassock set up on a hanger to air. She paused for a moment to allow her galloping heart to calm itself.
“Well then,” she muttered, taking a deep breath and striding forward. She went around the cluttered desk and stood before the ranks of hooks and keys. Reaching into her satchel she took out one of the tins Mr. Sadiki had supplied her with. When she lifted the first key from where it hung—beneath a label reading NORTH AISLE STAIRCASE—her hand was trembling. She flipped open the lid of the tin, exposing the pale wax inside.
“Miss Cavendish!”
Hecate jumped at the sound of her name being called, wheeling around, dropping the key which clattered onto the tiled floor.
“Oh! Corporal Gregory…” She closed her eyes, offering a quick prayer of thanks to God or anyone else who was listening that it was only one of her phantom friends that had discovered her.
“What are you about, miss? Do you have need of assistance?” the young soldier asked.
“Thank you, Corporal. Now that you are here, I should be grateful if you could keep watch. Position yourself in the south aisle and return here to alert me if anyone threatens to enter the vestry.”
“Right away!” he said, clicking his heels together and then leaving the room as he had come into it, through the door without troubling to open it.
Hecate picked up the fallen key and brought her mind to bear on her mission once again. As Mr. Sadiki had instructed, she laid the key flat onto the wax and pressed it firmly. When she lifted it there was a pleasingly deep and clear impression left behind. She turned over the key and repeated the process with the other side. Her hand still more than a little unsteady, she returned the key to its proper place. Next, she selected the one labeled MUNIMENTS ROOM. This impression she made with more confidence, the process a little quicker. Even so, the whole procedure felt tortuously slow. She heard the choir finish a piece of music and waited, not wanting to risk making a sound during such quietness. There was a short exchange between Dean Chalmers and John and then the choir launched into another piece. She moved on to the LIBRARY key, followed by the LIBRARY CHAIN one, which was lighter and shorter. She could not immediately see the other one she required. She ran her finger along the rows of hooks, surprised that the cabinet keys were not with the others for the library.
“Where are you?” she whispered. She came to the last key on the last row. Nothing. “Not here!” She put her hands on her hips and cast about the room, trying to imagine what separate, hidden place might reveal them. “Where would Reverend Thomas choose…?” she asked, and was surprised when Mrs. Nugent appeared before her to answer her question.
“’Tis not hard to imagine, my dear,” she said. “Better ask, what is more precious to the master of the library even than his beloved books?”
Hecate thought for a moment. “His stomach?”
The ghostly cleaner gave a girlish giggle. “Indeed!”
Hecate strode confidently to the biscuit tins. The third one, smaller than the others and set on a higher shelf, yielded a leather pouch. She shook the contents onto the desk. One medium-sized iron key and another tiny brass one. “Treasure!” she exclaimed, and then beamed at the cleaner. “And you are a treasure yourself, Mrs. Nugent!” she told her, before quickly taking the remaining tins of wax from her bag. To save time, she set them down on a small clear space upon the desk, side by side, lids open. The first key was heavy enough to press easily. She dropped it back into the pouch, which she set in the tin, and took hold of the little padlock key. It felt smooth and almost delicate between her fingers. She would have to take care not to damage it. Just as she lowered it toward the wax the singing came to an abrupt halt. There were some shouts, a minor commotion, and sounds of coughing. Then, footsteps, running.
Corporal Gregory bounded through the door, materializing in front of her.