“I am so sorry. It would have been a comfort for him to have you there.”
“Would that we could all pass from this world in such peace.”
Edward raised his hat. “You are a good man, Reverend.”
“The rain is worsening, I think. Can I offer you a lift to work, Hecate? I’m afraid there is not room for three.”
“Oh. I had thought to walk in with Father.”
John looked at Edward. Hecate watched the silent exchange. Here was the most important man in her life encouraging her in one manner of behavior, and here was the new man in her life suggesting another. Was this what it would be like were she to marry? To be forever torn between her old life and her new? Her father and her husband?
Edward put his hand on her elbow and guided her toward the gig. “Go with John, Hecate,” he said.
“But—”
“We will talk more when you get home this evening. In my nice dry study. Off you go.”
He helped her up as John reached down and took her hand. Once seated she turned to her father, who smiled up at her.
“Off with you, little worker bee!” he said cheerily.
“Until this evening,” she said, raising her hand as John urged the horse forward and the gig pulled away. She held on to the armrest to brace herself against Bucephalus’s erratic progress and the infamous Hereford potholes.
John glanced at her.
“I am so happy to see you,” he said. “An unexpected delight. And a very welcome one, I must say.”
“It cannot be easy, what you are called upon to do.”
“As you say, I am called to do it.” He smiled at her then, and her heart danced a little at the warmth in that smile. “All the same, I am grateful for the joy of your company,” he said, his blue eyes holding her in their gaze.
She reached across and put her hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of him beneath her fingers, and together they traveled on to the cathedral.
27
In his office at the police station, Inspector Winter sat deep in thought. He picked up the note he had received from Hecate the previous day and read it through for the umpteenth time. News of the whereabouts of his missing constable was important to him, and he had regretted not being able to meet her sooner. However, after what he had witnessed in the crypt, after the irrefutable proof she had provided regarding her connection with spirits there, he had felt compelled to conduct his own investigations. He was not concerned with the lost souls she had described to him. By her account, these were benign, even helpful ghosts. Her demonstration of their existence had, more importantly to him, lent weight to her theories concerning the desecration of the tombs in the crypt and the reasons for the murders in the city. That these acts of violence should remain unaccounted for troubled him greatly. With no clear leads to follow, Hecate’s insistence that the two events were linked, and that to solve one he must solve the other could not be ignored. On the contrary, he would be foolish not to use what facts she had given him.
And it was these facts that led him to focus on the actions of Lord Brocket. Hecate’s insistence that the earl’s cousin was one of the Embodied Spirits she had told him about indicated that there was a connection there that went beyond coincidence. To the inspector’s logical mind such an alliance raised a question. Why would a wealthy, powerful individual knowingly harbor a demonic, murderous being? Either he was aware only that his cousin was strangely altered and given to uncharacteristic behavior, nothing more. Or, the earl knew precisely who, or rather what, he had taken into his home. In search of answers, Inspector Winter had taken the Birmingham train to the town house of Viscount Eckley and presented himself there, knowing the man to be absent. He had been able to question the somewhat alarmed housekeeper regarding her master’s relationship with his cousin. It took mere moments to establish that there was little affection between them. When pressed further, the housekeeper revealed that in point of fact the earl frequently snubbed or belittled his relative. Recently, however, he appeared to have had a change of heart, inviting the viscount to stay at Brockhampton. On the train journey home the inspector had come to the conclusion that it was not fond regard that prompted Lord Brocket’s sudden interest in his cousin. The earl would certainly not tolerate the younger man’s loutish and difficult behavior without good reason. Given the earl’s own recent scandalous actions, it was fair to assume those reasons would further his own causes. If Hecate’s theories that these beings sought out the wealthy and powerful were correct, and that they did not act as individuals, but under the control of another, the earl would seem to fit that description. Could he be pulling the strings of a puppet at the cathedral who was summoning these fiends for his own advancement? Or was he himself a lesser player in a larger scheme? This line of thought brought the inspector to the unpalatable truth that someone at the cathedral could be responsible for calling the dead from their resting places, either as minion or puppet master.
He rose from his seat, his legs stiff from inactivity. Opening the door he called along the corridor.
“Sergeant Highcliffe!”
“Sir?” The sergeant appeared quickly.
“Have a constable take your place at the desk. I require your assistance.”
“Right away, sir. Will we be making an arrest?”
“Not on this occasion,” he said, taking his bowler hat from the stand. “I wish to pay a visit to Dean Chalmers. I often find the presence of a uniformed officer helps concentrate the mind of the person being interviewed. However lofty his state.”
The sergeant hid his surprise well and went to find a constable to stand in for him.
His superior selected a fresh pencil from the box on his desk and left his office, whistling softly as he went.
It was at the end of that same day that Hecate heard organ music. John was at his practice. The rich sounds of the great instrument soared into the vaulted ceiling, filling the cathedral with joyful notes and dramatic chords. She descended the library stairs, bidding good afternoon to Reverend Thomas, and made her way through the choir stalls. John was about to come to the end of the piece of music he was playing. She waited, standing just out of his sight, watching him. He played with such concentration, such skill. It was a gift, his flair for music. Whether singing with the other vicars choral or giving a recital on the organ, his talent was obvious. She felt proud of him then and was grateful for that. He finished the piece and became aware of her presence.
“Oh, Hecate! What a lovely surprise.”
“I did not wish to interrupt your playing.”
“Had I known I had such a particular audience I might have done better.”
“Or I might have put you off.” She moved forward and sat down on the stool beside him. He shifted up to make more room but still they were sitting close. Hecate placed her fingers over the cool ivory keys, imagining what it must be like to be able to bring forth such wonderful music.
“You have escaped the library,” he noted.
She nodded but did not reply, fixing her attention on a tiny chip in one of the keys. She traced its shape with a finger, bothered by such sharpness hidden among the smooth keys, wondering if John knew that this small flaw existed. Did he wince each time he found it as he played? Or was he oblivious, being so entirely taken up with what he loved? After all, it was unreasonable to expect perfection in anything.
The nape of her neck was exposed as she leaned forward and she felt John lift his hand to touch it gently. His flesh felt cool against her own warmer skin.
She turned toward him then and the intensity in his gaze moved her.
“Hecate,” he murmured, “what an extraordinary creature you are. Your coloring, your spirit, your presence … you are composed of the very elements.”
“Take care I do not burn you, then.” She smiled.
“You might consume me in a blaze and I should not care. To be so close to you, to know you … it would be a price worth paying.”
