“Mistress, make haste! The dean!”
Panic rising within her, Hecate turned this way and that, searching for a place to hide. None of the cupboards was large enough, and there was no time to try the window. She could hear the dean’s footfalls now. He would be at the door in seconds. She grabbed the biscuit tin and dived beneath the desk, crouching behind the stacks of parish magazines and service orders that half filled the space. There was so much dust she felt a sneeze threatening. The door opened. Too late she remembered the last tin. It sat upon the desk, in full view, lid open, the creamy wax gleaming under the lamplight. She could see the dean’s boots and the hem of his maroon cassock and white surplice as he all but ran to the stove. As she listened, her heart pounding loud enough surely to alert him, she heard him lift the water jug and pour some into a beaker. Hecate held her breath, fighting back a burgeoning fit of sneezing. Dean Chalmers sprinted back through the door, not even bothering to close it behind him, bearing his remedy to the stricken clergyman in the choir stalls, whose coughs could still be made out.
As soon as she was certain the dean was out of sight, she emerged from her hiding place. She pressed the key into its waxy bed, forcing herself not to hasten so much as to blur the impression and so render it useless. At last it was done. She snapped shut the tin and dropped it into her bag. The chatter from the choir stalls seemed calmer now, the vicar evidently having recovered. There was some laughter and more talk, but, to Hecate’s horror, they did not begin to sing again. On the contrary, she could hear sounds of shuffling and more footsteps. It seemed the dean had called for a break in the rehearsal and the vicars were stretching their legs or seeking refreshments. She knew they could discover her at any moment. If they reached the south aisle, her route out of the cathedral would be effectively cut off. She thrust the biscuit tin back onto its shelf and dashed through the door. At the junction with the aisle she paused. It was still clear. There was no option but to run as quickly as she could. She sprinted down the gloomy space. She could hear someone coming down the steps from the nave. Glancing back she saw John step into the aisle.
And he saw her.
She froze.
He stared at her, frowning, his mouth open as if he might call out her name.
She shook her head, putting a finger to her lips to silence him.
The dean, in conversation with another vicar, started to descend the steps. In seconds she would be in view. There was no escape. She stared back at John. She had to trust him.
Please! she mouthed.
John hesitated. Hecate thought to flee but knew she could not reach the corner of the aisle without being seen, and running would make any explanation she could think of even less plausible.
“Oh, Dean, I wanted to show you the sun damage to one of the tapestries, behind you, hanging from the lectern.” John’s quick thinking turned the dean on his heel, sending him back the other way.
Hecate seized the moment and ran.
By the time she reached MT Sadiki Repairs, she had slowed to a ragged trot. She took a moment to perch upon the shabby windowsill, catching her breath, giving herself time to recover. The narrow street was deeply dark, the shop being between the reach of two lampposts. From a nearby tavern came raucous laughter, the smell of beer borne on the breeze. She closed her eyes, reliving in her mind the moment when John had seen her. She had seen surprise in his expression, of course. Puzzlement. Followed by concern, for what could she be doing that required stealth? And then, unmistakably, hurt. For she had not chosen to confide in him. Even though they had spoken earlier that very day. Even though she had trusted him with her secret and he had not betrayed that trust. She was glad they would spend time together on Saturday. She had much to tell him. He had shown himself to be a caring, trustworthy friend. He deserved better from her.
She opened her eyes and dusted paint peelings off her skirt. Putting her hand to the window she attempted to peer inside but all was in darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, however, she detected a chink of light showing through the door to the room at the back of the building. She began to hammer upon the door.
“Mr. Sadiki!” she called through the letter box. She hammered some more, banging on the wooden frame, rattling the glass panes as she did so. “Hello, are you there?” she called. She paused, listening, but heard no movement within. She was about to start knocking again when she saw light moving inside and detected slow, shuffling footsteps. She moved back a little from the door and waited while bolts were drawn and a key turned.
Mr. Sadiki stood in the entrance, a small lamp raised. He had the disheveled appearance of one roused from slumber.
“Forgive me for disturbing you so late,” Hecate said as she reached in her bag for the tins. “I wanted to get these to you as soon as they were done. I wasn’t sure if the wax might soften over time … the impressions blur…”
“Come in off the street!” he snapped, standing aside so that she could step into the shop. As soon as she was over the threshold he shut and bolted the door.
Hecate attempted to put his mind at ease. “I am confident I was not seen,” she said.
“Indeed.” He indicated the counter. “Put them there.”
She did as she was told, opening the lids so that he could inspect her work.
He set the lamp on the wooden surface and adjusted the position of his spectacles. For what seemed a worryingly long time, he examined the impressions. At last he clicked shut the lids, one after another. Wordlessly, he walked across the room, drew back the bolt, and held the door open.
Dismissed, Hecate moved to leave, pausing when she reached the doorway.
“When shall I collect the keys?” she asked. “There is some urgency…”
He stared at her before replying. In the low light he appeared less frail and elderly, his eyes having a hard focus to them. She sensed an inner strength perhaps born of a harsh life, and wondered at how this strange little man came to know and care about the goddess Hecate.
“Monday,” he told her. “Come early.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping onto the street. “I really am so very grateful.…” she continued, but she was talking to a closed door, her words going unheard beneath the sounds of bolt and lock. She adjusted the strap of her now empty satchel, looked up and down the narrow road to confirm to herself that she was not observed, and set off for home.
The following day, the crypt was empty when Hecate reached it at lunchtime, but she had only moments to wait before she heard the slow footfalls and soft whistling.
“Punctual as ever, Miss Cavendish. Apologies for my tardiness,” said the inspector, raising his bowler hat to her.
“The tower bells have not yet chimed the hour. No apology needed.” She noticed that he had a small lamp attached to his belt and could not help remarking upon it. “What a useful thing! Is that given to all police officers? I have not seen you wearing it before.”
“Every constable is given one, for his duties at night, though I also find mine useful in dark places. They are cleverly designed so as to maintain their light safely even should the policeman find himself in the midst of a fray. I brought it with me as I intend walking the beat myself this evening. In pursuit of my inquiries, you understand.”
“I should dearly like to obtain one. Might it be possible to purchase such a thing from the constabulary somehow?”
He raised his eyes at this strange request. “I shall look into it for you,” he promised. “Now I am intrigued to hear your reasons for requesting a meeting in this place.”
“It was good of you to agree to come here. I hoped that what you saw, what you heard from Joe Colwall the other day, well, that it might have caused you to consider my theories. Or at least, not to be quick to dismiss them.”
He looked at her levelly and she knew she had read him right. Not a man to act impulsively, he was more likely to act after consideration of new clues.
“I will come straight to it, then, Inspector, for I know your time is valuable and has many demands upon it. I hope that you will see your investment of both time and faith in me will be well rewarded and, ultimately, help you in your work greatly.”
“That does indeed sound a worthy reason to be challenging my arthritic bones in this chillsome place. Please, continue.”
“These are the facts as I see them. There once existed a tribe of people in an area close to Egypt called the Essedenes. They were known as warriors. They were also known for devouring their dead parents.” She paused to allow him to take this brief but shocking point in, before continuing. “It appears they not only practiced this singular form of cannibalism, they also were successful in the art of necromancy.”
“The raising of the dead?”
“Quite so. This they succeeded in doing even though their own people died out centuries ago. It is thought, and in some parts recorded in ancient texts, that as they were on the point of extinction they sought immortality by the casting of necromantic spells, or curses, if you prefer, which would enable them to rise again at a point in the future.”