It was at that moment that Hecate saw Brother Michael had come to stand beside her father. And then, taking form swiftly and silently, Corporal Gregory, who stood straight and strong beside her. One by one her other ghostly friends appeared, Mrs. Nugent and Lady Rathbone, coming to stand facing her. Without a sound, and seen only by her, they came to strengthen that circle, to lend their support, to show their love for the girl who was a friend to phantoms.
John had begun the words used in an Anglican exorcism, speaking out in a clear, strong voice. In front of them, Charlie started to move. At first he merely turned his head, or lifted a hand, but gradually his whole body writhed, his eyes remaining shut tight, his mouth working silently.
“The power of Christ compels thee!” John repeated the line three times, and each time Charlie thrashed more violently.
Hecate could not help crying out for fear that her brother’s frail body would not withstand the process.
“Hold firm, daughter,” Edward told her. “Inspector, do not for one second loosen your grasp.”
“I have him, Mr. Cavendish!” he promised.
It was then she heard the whispered prayers of Brother Michael, the soft words of comfort from Lady Rathbone, the call to courage from Corporal Gregory. Each in their way did what they could.
John’s voice became ever louder, the words of the rite spoken with increasing urgency. At one point he stumbled over them and glanced at Hecate.
“John … is it working?”
“The possession is entrenched, even now.…” He shook his head. “I have never before encountered anything so strong.”
“You have to help him! Please, do not falter.”
“I will do my utmost.… I will do all that is within my power, but, Hecate, I have to tell you, there is something of immense evil at work here.”
“Please!” she said again.
He nodded and raised his hands, speaking with yet more determination and fervor.
“Begone from this innocent child! The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost drive you from this place! In St. Thomas’s name, I command you! In the Lord’s name, I command you! The power of Christ compels thee!”
Charlie’s eyes sprang open. At first Hecate thought this a sign he was waking, but when she looked again she saw that it was not her brother’s eyes that gazed up at her. Instead she found a dark, fearsome presence showing itself, flicking this way and that as if searching for the cause of its distress. She saw the gaze lock onto John. Charlie’s body lifted from the ground where it lay, wrenching itself free of the hold of those who were doing all they could to keep him in their grasp. He levitated, arms dangling, legs jerking, as it rose above their heads. Instinctively she and her father moved beneath it, as did her spectral family, arms upstretched as if they might catch the boy were he to fall. The creature inside him turned his head to glare at John, spitting in fury, but still it would not be dislodged.
John ceased reciting the words of the exorcism that he knew by heart and instead raised his voice in a prayer to the cathedral’s own saint.
“Hail Thomas, good shepherd, patron of the flock of Christ and teacher of the Church, lend your help to the sick, I beg you, and confer on devout minds by your intercession, the light of grace…”
This was too much for the spirit to endure. Not yet fully Embodied, the call to the holy bishop who had once prayed on that very spot was something it could not resist. With a shriek it left Charlie’s body, manifesting as a black swarm of fat-bodied flies that flew in a whirlwind, filling the upper reaches of the transept.
Edward cried out in alarm as Charlie fell. The lost souls held fast their place beneath him, Corporal Gregory using his shield of protection, slowing his descent and cushioning his fall, so that his father was able to catch the boy in his arms.
“Charlie!” Hecate clutched at him, gasping with relief as she felt a more natural warmth return to his skin.
She turned to John. “It worked! You have saved him.”
John’s face lit up with joy. He smiled. He opened his mouth to speak.
And the swarm descended.
Hecate screamed.
“John! Protect yourself!”
He stepped back, throwing his arms up in a futile attempt to defend himself. In an instant, the vile entity had found its new home. He clutched at the wooden cross that hung around his neck. Even above her own screams, Hecate could hear him reciting prayers, calling on St. Thomas and God to help him. But the demon fought back. As she and her father watched helplessly, John was raised up, as Charlie had been. But he went higher. Up and up, past the shutters of the muniments room, above the walkway to the bell tower, up and up until he was under the bosses and arches of the vaulted ceiling of the transept.
“Father, we must help him. Say the words of the prayer he used. Say them with me!”
“Hecate, have a care! If the demon leaves him now he will fall to his death.”
“And if it does not?” She ran forward so that she could see him more clearly, calling up to him, not daring to pray, yet terrified of doing nothing. She saw him continue to hold up his crucifix. She saw him struggle to take a breath. She saw that he would not give in to the thing that would take his soul, no matter the cost. He made his choice. For a split second he looked down and their eyes met. Hecate’s heart lurched. He kept both hands tightly on the cross, though the rest of his body danced and spun, twisting and twitching until it was suspended upside down. She could hear him shouting out the words of the prayer, over and over. Louder and louder, though he had no air left in his lungs.
There came a terrible shriek. A fierce, furious sound that filled the great cathedral. Hecate saw the dark spirit leave John’s body and fly between the shuttered boards of the belfry, out into the night.
And she saw John fall.
The sight of him plummeting, his black robes fluttering, his hands still holding fast to his cross and his faith, his beautiful blue eyes closed, his mouth moving in prayer, before his body hit the unforgiving stones of the cathedral floor, would be seared upon her memory forever.
29
The moments after John’s death were to remain a blur to Hecate for some time. Days later, she would recall running toward him, and her father grabbing hold of her, stopping her, making her look at him instead, and telling her that Charlie needed her. That she must go to him. She had allowed herself to be steered back to her brother, who murmured her name, so that she once again knelt beside him and took his hand. Inspector Winter and her father had tended to John, though there was nothing to be done. By the time the dean and two of the vicars choral, alarmed by the sounds coming from within the cathedral, came running, the detective was taking off his coat and draping it over John’s body.
She remembered later, quite vividly, curious, isolated things. The smell of extinguished candles, their bitter smoke lingering. The gentle voice of Brother Michael as he said ancient prayers for the fallen priest. The sound of boots upon flagstones as John was carried away. The feel of Charlie’s hand in hers as together they made their unsteady progress along the north aisle, out of St. John’s door, and into the cab that had been summoned to take them home. So profound was her shock at John’s tragic death that she did not feel sorrow or grief or even anger at that time. All those things were to come later.
Once home, Edward put Charlie to bed, while Beatrice led her shaken daughter to the drawing room where a fire had been lit. Hecate did her mother’s bidding and settled in a chair by the hearth, sipping the tea that had been brought. She knew her mother was struggling with the drama of the night in so many ways. She had seen her son dangerously ill, whisked away, later to be told they had taken him to the cathedral because there was a specialist doctor staying there who was able to help him. While she was making sense of this information, she had been told of John’s death, Edward explaining he had gone up to fix a loose part of the shuttering that had been interrupting earlier choir practice. Hecate, in her stunned state, was doing her best to be gentle with her mother, understanding that her manner of navigating her own shock and grief was to fuss over her daughter.
In truth, she had not the strength, at that moment, to resist. She sat in the chair, her body still and quiet but her mind a tumble of thoughts. A tangle of if only’s and what if’s. What should she have done differently? What could she have done to save John? How could she come to terms with losing him in such a way? How could she forgive herself for asking such a dangerous thing of him? The idea that he was dead because he acted for her was torment. And yet, her mind reasoned that John would have helped anyone if asked. He risked everything because Charlie was in peril. He was a man who had dedicated his life to loving and helping others. He could not have done other than he did. It gave her a crumb of comfort to know that he would be pleased that her brother was saved. That he would do the same thing again even had he known the consequences.
As she allowed her thoughts to strike and parry in this way, she came to see that blame was of no use, and that the choice to step into the path of danger had been John’s own. Gradually, in place of confusion and angst, a heavy calm descended upon her mind. Her heart, however, was another matter entirely. For now the numbness began to lift. The pain she felt at losing someone who had become so dear to her would not be so quickly soothed. The sorrow she felt for the way his life, his future, had been snatched from him would, she believed, be her constant companion forever. She would have liked to weep, to release her grief in a flood of hot tears, but none would come. She felt suspended between the drama that had befallen her and the coming weeks of sadness. She saw then that this limbo, this pause, was something she could, something she must, use. There would be time for grieving. Time to mourn John’s passing, both publicly and privately. But this was not it. Now she must act. If she was not to see another and another and another of her loved ones put in peril or cruelly taken from her, she must act. And she must do it alone.
She was relieved to finally be permitted to take refuge in her room but had no plans to sleep. She had made up her mind and nothing would turn her from her course of action. She would not let one more person come to harm attempting to help her. She would not risk those she loved. She would act on her own. It was time for her to do what had to be done, to answer the call that Hekate herself had spoken of. It was for her to do, her risk to take, her courage that was needed. She waited until she was certain the rest of the household was abed. Getting up from the chaise where she had been resting in her nightclothes as a ruse should her mother or father come to speak with her, she went to stand before the looking glass.
