Satisfied she could not improve upon the wording, she folded and sealed the letter, tucking it into her pocket.
“Forgive me, Reverend Thomas,” she said to the librarian, “I need to visit the—”
“What? Oh, yes, yes.” He waved her away before she could name anything which could make him uncomfortable. “You might stop in at the vestry and see if the verger has the kettle on,” he said, surprising her with such a suggestion. By way of explanation he went on, “Today I cannot keep the chill from my bones. Some tea, perhaps…”
“An excellent idea,” she said, hurrying away.
Downstairs the choir was in the stalls practicing. Hecate took the route down the north aisle, the music following her. She was aware her feelings were still in turmoil after John’s proposal. She found herself listening for his voice among the others. The memory of that kiss was bright and shining. She paused by St. Thomas Cantilupe’s shrine, taking a moment to marshal her thoughts. The stormy light outside flattened the colors of the great stained-glass window in the transept, rendering its colors dark and somber. Solomon came to wind himself around her ankles. She picked him up, hugging him gently.
“Well, Miss Cavendish!” Mr. Gould’s voice was jarringly loud and bright as it cut into the quiet moment. “I am surprised to see you having the time to stand at your leisure and bother with the cat. Or are you troubled with vermin in the library, is that it? Has Reverend Thomas sent you to fetch the animal to roust them? What a disturbance! Still, one cannot have mice in a library, no. Of course not. That would not do, would it? And what is the cat for if not to be put to such use? Indeed. Would you not agree?”
The verger’s ability to use fifty words where one would do, to say so much and yet at the same time say little at all, never ceased to amaze Hecate. Also, his obvious need for someone to be in agreement with him at all times was a test to her patience. She put the cat on the floor, smiling to herself as Mrs. Nugent checked to see that he was not leaving prints as he trotted off across the ancient tiles. She brightened that smile.
“Do not concern yourself, Mr. Gould, there is no infestation in the library. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to see you.”
“To see me, Miss Cavendish?” The man could not have been more astonished if she’d suggested they polka around the font together.
“I have a favor to ask.”
He beamed, and a pinkness spread across his face and to the very tips of his ears. “How might I be of service?”
Hecate took the note from her pocket. “I have this letter, and alas I did not have the opportunity to send it by post. In fact, it is too important to be entrusted to the postal system.”
“Important, you say?”
“Quite so. It is for Inspector Winter, see?” She handed it to him so that he could read the name it bore and take in the official library seal.
“Well! Has it to do with the events in the crypt? Has Reverend Thomas new information, perhaps?”
Hecate tried hard not to show her irritation. It was typical of him to assume any important business to be that of her superior, and, of course, a man. She herself was evidently worthy of being no more than the messenger. Her smile began to falter. She pressed on.
“The contents of the letter are confidential,” she said.
“Oh, yes, of course!”
“What I can tell you is that this … information must get to its recipient at the earliest possible moment. I would deliver it myself, having my bicycle to enable me to cross the city swiftly, however.” Here she paused to summon the humility required to swallow her own, bitter lie. “However, Reverend Thomas does not consider the task should be entrusted to a woman. It would not be fitting, you understand?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“I thought you might perhaps send for a constable? Or summon a reliable boy?”
“A boy? Oh dear me, no, that would not do!” He took a step back, his grip on the letter tightening as he did so. “There is no necessity to find another. I will deliver the letter myself.”
“But, you are so busy, your responsibilities so many, we could not possibly ask…”
“Please, tell the master of the library not to give it another thought. It will be my honor to be of such service,” he insisted.
“That is exceptionally kind of you,” Hecate told him. She was satisfied on two counts. First that her note would be delivered. Second that, given it was sealed, Mr. Gould would not be able to open it and read its contents. He was still on her list, still not above suspicion.
“Is there likely to be a reply? Should I wait for one?”
“No doubt the inspector will inform you of that once he has digested the contents of the letter. While you are gone, why don’t I make tea? I can take some up for the reverend and set yours on the stove for when you return. Will that suit?”
“It will suit very well indeed. Now, I will not delay a moment further,” he said, turning on his heel and all but trotting away in the direction of the north door.
“Well then,” Hecate said to herself beneath her breath, watching him go. “Tea.”
The vestry presented its habitual combination of muddle and method. There were stacks of unrelated papers upon the desk awaiting the verger’s attention; books placed seemingly at random about the room; two biscuit tins on the shelves beneath the window; and two rings of keys left unguarded on hooks by the door. Hecate filled the kettle with fresh water from the churn kept on a cool flagstone in a dark corner, and set it on the little stove to boil. While she waited she fetched china cups and a teapot and pictured in her mind the verger’s breathless progress through the city streets on his way to the constabulary. She could not be certain Inspector Winter would send a reply. Her note did not necessarily require one. He merely needed to arrive at the appointed place at the chosen hour of the given day. In fact, she rather hoped he did not send a reply, for Mr. Gould would be sure to try to press it into the hand of the librarian, and it would be up to her to explain the situation without giving away her duplicity. She set biscuits on a plate beside his chair, just in case sweetening was required.
Hecate was late arriving home that day. She had not attempted to redo her hair, so that it hung about her shoulders, still wet from the persistent rain. She had received a brief reply from Inspector Winter to the effect that he would be out of town that night but would call the following evening. If he did not hear from her he would assume this time and date to be convenient. She did her best to enter the house as quietly as possible, wishing to have time to herself in her room. The back door creaked unhelpfully as she went in from the garden. As she passed the open door to the sitting room she was surprised to find her mother sitting by the unlit fire.
“Mother? Why are you in here all alone? And no fire. Let me send for Stella to lay one—”
“No need. I shall not sit long. I sought a few moments out of Charlie’s room, but I shall return soon.” She looked up then and took in her daughter’s disheveled appearance. “What a state you are in, daughter! Must you go about looking as if you are without either home or parents?”
“It was raining.… I am sorry. Where is Father?”
“Sitting with your brother.”
“How is Charlie?”
Her mother gave a sigh that demonstrated the depth of her weariness. “He is stable now, out of danger, so Dr. Francis assures me.”
“That is good news!”
“It is. And yet … Dr. Francis sees him only in his extreme moments of poor health. He does not live with his condition, with this … sword of Damocles suspended above us, above our family, every minute of every day.”
“Oh, Mother, he is feeling better! Do not distress yourself unnecessarily.” Hecate took the chair on the opposite side of the hearth and sat down.
