Hecate felt John tense beside her.
Edward took out his pipe and helped himself to a match from the box on the mantelpiece as he spoke.
“Look here, Brocket, we’ve come as a show of the concern that exists in the light of recent events. I have to tell you”—he paused to light the tobacco and draw smoke through the stem of his meerschaum—“that concern is chiefly for Her Ladyship. Such sympathy as there is for the situation does not, I feel obliged to let you know, extend to yourself. You might want to think about how poor public opinion could impede your political progress. I know this is where your ambitions lie. There is always a price to be paid for trampling over the accepted boundaries, the limits of what is expected of a privileged public figure.”
The short speech was direct and challenging but the earl did not get the opportunity to respond to it. At that moment the door opened and Viscount Eckley entered the room with, to their surprise, a handsome woman of middle years on his arm.
“Ah, cousin. And my dear, there you are.” The earl’s smile broadened. “Permit me to present Mrs. Veronique Fletcher. Her late husband had a fine estate a little west of Shrewsbury, you might recall?” he asked, leading the woman forward so that she could greet their guests. When she spoke, her voice was soft and bore traces of her French ancestry. She dipped a shallow curtsey.
“I have heard so much about you, Miss Cavendish,” she said, her dark eyes taking in Hecate’s unconventional dress with a somewhat amused sweep.
Two things struck Hecate at once. The first was that her mother would declare the woman to be all mistress and not in the least bit wife. The second was that Veronique Fletcher was, beyond the slightest doubt, also an Embodied Spirit. She could sense it so strongly she had to prevent herself from taking a step back. There was a vibration about her that she recognized at once. Not the unstable madness she had encountered in the man who had been Joe Colwall, nor the drunken aggression the viscount had displayed. This was something more fundamental, more settled, and all the more unnerving for that. Hecate watched John closely as he took her hand in greeting but he did not react in any way that might suggest he felt it, too. His expression remained polite but somewhat stern, his own disapproval of the people in whose company he now found himself affecting him on an entirely different level. Her father seemed equally unperturbed though he could not fail to be struck by the woman’s flamboyant and handsome appearance.
“Now, cousin,” Lord Brocket beckoned to the viscount, “don’t you have something to say to Miss Cavendish?”
Viscount Eckley stepped forward, once again not faring well in comparison to his nobler, more self-assured relation. He was sober, but strangely unsteady.
To Hecate’s relief he did not take her hand. Her pulse quickened. There was a coldness in his presence, which he shared with Mrs. Fletcher. A chill that surrounded them both and seeped into anyone who came close. She was aware of a nausea taking hold of her, a visceral reaction to the two beings in front of her. Again, she had to force herself not to recoil or retreat. Her father came to stand next to her, and she was grateful to have him close.
“So, Eckley, what have you to say for yourself? My daughter is waiting,” he said, his tone the most severe she had ever heard him use.
The air in the room seemed to crackle.
The viscount could not muster a smile, but he spoke politely enough.
“Hugely regretful, sorry business, embarrassment to myself and my dear cousin. Stupid of me, caught up in the fun of the evening, don’t you know? Sincere apologies…” and so on. He added a bow for good measure, though nothing could make his words sound genuine.
Hecate dearly wished she could remove the focus from herself and so quickly accepted his apology.
“Excellent!” Lord Brocket declared that particular matter closed with a clap of his hands. “Now, my dear,” he said, addressing his mistress directly, making no attempt to hide his obvious affection for the woman who had usurped his wife, “I was about to offer our visitors some refreshment. Shall we take tea here, or the morning room, perhaps?”
“Oh, but it is such a beautiful day. Let us have some lemonade, or ginger, perhaps, or some cider, outside. A table by the moat would be more refreshing, after such a journey. Would that please you, Miss Cavendish?” she asked.
Hecate, having no clear plan as to how to proceed, decided being out of doors might put her hosts at ease and so allow her to question them more directly. It would also give her a little more time to assess the nature of their relationship. Was Brockhampton Manor to play a part in the Essedenes’ plans? Could its ancient heritage and connections be something they sought out in particular, or had the geographical location an importance to them she could not yet see?
“Thank you, I should like that,” she said.
The bell was rung, servants instructed, and Hecate, her father, and John were led outside. All was suddenly bustle and activity. As the party walked toward a lawned area beside the moat, footmen and maids scurried by, carrying table, chairs, and trays of drinks and cakes. The new lady of the manor might be lately arrived and spurned by society but she was evidently at ease when commanding servants. They were on the point of taking their seats when Hecate’s attention was drawn back to the gatehouse. It was a curious building, almost a replica on a small scale of the manor itself. It had been constructed with a quirky lopsidedness, but otherwise it accurately mimicked the black beams and whitewashed walls of the main house. It served no practical purpose but had been added to the property as a show of wealth and the fashionable taste of the day.
It was not, however, its appearance nor its function as a statement of status that interested Hecate. Her interest lay in the atmosphere she had experienced as she walked through it, and the unmistakable ghostly voices she had heard.
“Your gatehouse is a charming building,” she said. “I should very much like to take a closer look.”
Her father’s attention was piqued. He knew her well enough to understand her interest in the gatehouse must be important.
“Yes,” he agreed, “an intriguing construction. The archeologist in me cannot resist digging around in ancient places. How about it, Brocket?” he asked, already walking away from the table.
The earl sat down. “I’m sure Veronique would be happy to show you. Vicar, why not stay here, see if you can’t redeem my soul? Fifteen minutes long enough for you?” The invitation was meant to provoke and insult. To his credit, John maintained his unruffled exterior.
“Challenge accepted,” he replied, earning a bark of laughter from his host.
“It would be my pleasure to show you,” Veronique said quickly. “Edgar, don’t let the reverend die of thirst. We three will enjoy the little house together and leave you three to your talk.” With that she took Hecate by the arm and steered her away.
It took a great effort of will for Hecate not to snatch back her arm to free herself from the spirit’s cold grasp. She was relieved it was but a short distance to the gatehouse, but that relief was short-lived. As they stepped across the threshold this time she was immediately aware of an unnatural drop in the temperature. She glanced at her father and could tell at once that he felt it, too. Sunshine fell through the windows yet the interior contained none of the warmth of those rays, even when she stood within their light. While Mrs. Fletcher chatted away politely regarding details of the building’s history, she herself heard little of what she said, for she was overwhelmed with a sensation of dread. The voices began to call to her, louder and more insistent with each passing moment. She followed the other woman up the short run of stairs to the first floor as a moth to a flame, appalled by the atmosphere of the place but unable to resist looking closer.
“This upper floor has been employed for many purposes down the centuries,” Veronique told them. “Some mundane, such as a storehouse for gamekeeper’s traps, others more … interesting.” Her smile had lost its easy charm and instead emitted something Hecate could only describe to herself as menace. “It’s said that séances have been held here. Successful ones, I should imagine, as the place is thought to be haunted.” She gave a light laugh which had no more warmth to it than her smile.
It was then that Hecate noticed something unusual about the beams on the far wall of the room. She walked forward to examine them more closely. Her father saw what she was looking at and moved to stand beside her, reaching out to touch the strange marks upon the wood.
“We have seen these before!” he whispered to her.
She nodded, recalling their visit to the British Library and the curious drawings on the monk’s last letter. The shapes marked on the beams were identical.
“Tell me,” she said, pausing to clear her throat as her voice was choked with alarm and she did not wish to show it, “what do these symbols signify?”
Veronique glanced casually at what she was indicating. “Oh, they are nothing so important, merely scorch marks of clumsy builders centuries ago. Look, do you not think the carving of the window frames attractive?”
Hecate fought confusion. She was in no doubt that the person opposite her had been summoned from her grave, had hunted for her intended host, and was now an Embodied Spirit, here at the behest of whoever had called her, prepared to do their bidding. The game the two of them were engaged in was wearying. How long, she wondered, would the pretense be maintained? She had hoped to buy time to think, to decide whether or not to confront them with the truth, but now, standing in the gatehouse, she was unable to think clearly. Her surroundings were so oppressive and so sinister they must surely have some vital significance to the ancient beings that were now striving to tread the earth once more. And those marks, too quickly dismissed by Mrs. Fletcher, were surely the key to the puzzle.
“My dear, are you quite well?” the other woman was asking.
At that moment Hecate made her decision. To show her hand, to directly confront two Embodied Spirits in what appeared to be a significant place for them would be foolish. The danger was too great. She recalled the violence and wickedness that had roiled forth from the possessed Joe Colwall. She did not have iron bars and burly policemen to protect her now. She would continue to go along with the subterfuge. She would not give away the fact that she knew what her hosts were. She had been naive to think that having her father and John with her would provide sufficient protection. All she had done by taking them there was put them in danger. The few things she had that might protect her from the spirits might not work against the two of them, with Lord Brocket acting against her, and in this place of terrible, dark power. She decided they would complete their visit, and leave as soon as possible. And the first thing she would do upon returning to the library would be to search for the meaning of the symbols burned into the beams, for these were surely proof positive of a connection between Brockhampton Manor itself and the Essedenes’ plans.
“I am a little thirsty, perhaps,” she said, turning to descend the stairs. “Even a covered carriage can be quite warm in this sunshine. If you don’t mind, I think something to drink…”
“But of course!”
They rejoined the others, Hecate experiencing a lightening as if she had shed a heavy weight with each step she took away from the outwardly charming gatehouse. She did her best to appear untroubled but knew that John would notice the change in her. She hoped the others would not see it. As they took their seats and a maid poured lemonade, she put on her brightest smile. Her father, following her lead, found subjects upon which to make light conversation. They had, after all, received the apology they had come for, and Edward had said what needed to be said regarding the earl’s actions. Etiquette demanded that they now observe the niceties of an insignificant social engagement. Much as it frustrated Hecate, she was for once happy to fall back onto what passed for civilized behavior. At least when safely back in the carriage she would be able to discuss everything she had discovered with John and her father.
