“Well then,” she said to her sorrowful reflection. “To go into battle requires that one wear battle dress.”
She put on a chemise, cotton bloomers, and a corset, before adding a petticoat, and then stepping into her black mourning dress. It was the only piece in her wardrobe Stella had not yet shortened, so Hecate selected two sturdy skirt hitches. When pulled short, the hikes gathered the front of the skirts, lifting them to her knees, out of the way. She quickly put on her long brown boots and laced them up. Her cameo she pinned to the bodice of her dress, the creamy carving of Hekate in sharp contrast to the dark bombazine beneath it. Her broad apothecary’s belt fitted snugly around her waist, three vials of holy water waiting in the loops. She fetched a large iron ring she had been keeping for the purpose and threaded the cathedral keys onto it, before fastening it through one of the belt’s D rings. The police lamp she attached via its loops onto the right side of the belt, facing it forward so that it would provide the best light while she was moving. From her top drawer she selected a pair of brown woolen fingerless gloves, tight fitting and warm while allowing her to perform fiddly tasks.
She paused to check herself in the mirror. Her hair was still in its French plait which would keep it out of her eyes. Years of habit made her feel the need for a hat. She went to her cupboard and searched through hatboxes until she found what she was looking for.
“Yes,” she said to the lady’s riding hat, “you will do nicely.” She cut off the veil so that what remained was a sturdy, low top hat. It would provide a modicum of protection from blows to the head. The lapis pin was long enough to secure it in place. As she looked in the mirror again the gold cross at her throat caught the light. She touched it, thinking of John, feeling that he would be with her. She wondered then about what her father had once said regarding talismans and amulets. He believed that they worked because of the faith that the wearers placed in them, suggesting that it was the strength of that faith that caused them to have effect. This worried her. Was her faith strong enough? Stronger than John’s had been? She held a different view. Perhaps that faith lent the wearer courage, and that courage saved them. Or perhaps, she thought then, it was the love with which those things were imbued that gave them power. The gold crucifix from John’s beloved grandmother passed on to her. The brooch her father had kept for her all those years. The hatpin given to her by her mother. The keys made by a stranger who would take no payment. The lamp provided by an ally in her mission.
She shrugged on her Mackintosh and took a black band from her dressing table. The paleness of her coat bothered her, given that she was now in mourning for her fiancé, so the armband pinned in position felt fitting. She needed one more thing. A short search unearthed the Spanish embroidered shawl which had been a present from Clementine. She snipped off the tassels and looped it around her neck, knotting it to a carefully judged length. The ghastly memory of the black mass of the Resurgent Spirit entering John’s body flashed before her. She closed her eyes against it, but still it remained. Steeling herself, she raised the scarf to test that it would sit properly over her nose and mouth. It might afford only some small protection, buy her some moment of time if a spirit came close, but some was preferable to none at all.
“Better to be prepared than to suffer for the lack of preparation,” she muttered, repeating one of her father’s maxims.
Leaving the house as quietly as she could, knowing which creaking stair or wobbling floorboard to avoid, she strode to the stable to fetch her bicycle.
The rain had stopped, though high cloud remained. The night was moonless and a thin mist swirled throughout the streets as Hecate rode swiftly through the city. In no time she was parking her bicycle at the entrance to the cloisters. Pausing for a moment, she listened for voices or footsteps. Hearing none, she lit the policeman’s lamp at her hip and walked briskly along the covered walkway. She kept the light low, hoping it would not catch the attention of any of the vicars choral as she made her way to what had been John’s front door. She turned the handle and the door opened. Inside, everything was as it had been only two short days ago. Two days in which so much had changed. She stood, taking a breath, experiencing the sharp memory of John standing just there, when he had opened the door to her. When she had taken him to meet his end. She closed her eyes, as if she might shut out the painful thought, the piercing blue of his eyes, the love for her that was always there.
“Not now,” she muttered to herself. The single key to the cathedral was on its hook. The first hurdle had been jumped. She took the key and forced herself to leave John’s home without a backward glance. When she returned to the south door, she found Solomon sitting there. He greeted her with a soft meow. She smiled, leaning down to stroke his bright fur, grateful for the comfort of his warm, unquestioning presence. “Come along then, little one,” she whispered to him, “you can help me this evening.”
Instead of enjoying her attention, however, the cat let out a low, fierce growl, flattening its ears against its head.
Hecate knew at once it was not responding to her. She stood up, whipping around, dropping the cathedral key as she did so, its clatter on the flagstones echoing down the cloisters.
Viscount Eckley stepped from the shadows, jauntily swinging his cane.
“In such a hurry, my dear?” he asked, taking another step toward her.
“I … left something in the library,” she told him. “I am returning to collect it.” She fought the urge to move back a pace, knowing she must not be out of reach of the key. “What brings you here at this late hour, Viscount?” she asked.
“Why you, of course. Did you think we were unaware of your actions? Did you truly believe we were not observing your every move?”
“Did you truly believe you would be permitted to proceed with your murderous plans unchallenged?” she asked.
“And who is it who will stand in our way? You? Your father? A policeman who might be better put out to grass? I admire your courage, my dear, but you must realize you are unequal to the task, all of…”
She did not wait for him to finish his little speech. She dropped to the ground, snatching at the key. The Embodied Spirit, however, moved with terrifying speed. He struck with his cane faster than a striking snake, pinning the key ring to the ground before she could reach it.
“As I say,” he went on, “your ambition outreaches your ability.” He smiled then, another hideous, wet, toothsome grin.
Two things happened simultaneously. Solomon, aggravated by the increasingly close proximity of the spirit, attacked the cane, hissing and clawing, throwing himself at it. Small though he was, he succeeded in unbalancing the viscount, causing him to draw back his stick, cursing at the animal as he did so. At that same moment, Lady Rathbone swooped through the door, throwing herself at the viscount, dress and hair billowing, screaming as she did so, distracting him for a crucial instant. And in that instant, Hecate grabbed the key, unlocked the door, and ran inside. Solomon stopped fighting and darted in beside her just as she flung herself against the door in an attempt to shut it. She had the latch in place, but the viscount was too quick and too strong. She had no chance of getting the key in the lock as he hurled his body weight against the door, leaving her with no option but to run.
She was glad of her lamp, the interior of the cathedral being in darkness save for the few sentinel candles here and there which burned at all times. Fortunately, she was so familiar with the layout and so aware of any raised flagstones that might trip her that she made swift progress. She tore past the Lady Chapel and was drawing level with the top of the crypt stairs when, to her horror, she saw both Lord Brocket and Constable Mitchell emerging from the subterranean level. She came to a skidding halt.
The aristocrat raised his top hat. “Good evening to you, Miss Cavendish. Kind of you to unlock St. John’s door for my cousin. I relied upon the constable’s talents with lock picking to tackle the smaller mechanism of the outer and inner crypt doors. Now, why don’t you save a deal of unpleasantness, hand over your set of keys, and come with us?” he asked, his hand outstretched.
Hecate could hear the viscount’s footsteps behind her. If he reached her, if they took hold of her, all would be lost.
“Are you not ashamed to have fallen so low?” she asked him. “To rely upon these summoned ghouls to do your bidding, to work to your plan, to set yourself above all others even though it be at the expense of innocent lives?” As she spoke she paced, turning, never allowing herself to be placed between her adversaries, playing for time when she could seize the opportunity and run for the turret door. “Have you lost all sense of what is right and what is wrong? Of what is good and what is wicked? Are you content to simply follow the path of your ruthless ancestors?” she asked him, all the while watching, waiting for her chance.
“Your naivete is quite charming. Alas, when you have lived as long as I have, you will better understand that goodness will only get you so far.”
She thought of John’s sacrifice to save Charlie. She thought of where they stood at that moment. “A curious philosophy to proffer considering where we find ourselves,” she pointed out, gesturing to the glorious building. “There is always a right path, Your Lordship. It is up to us to choose to take it.”
She glanced toward the north transept and saw Corporal Gregory appear, striding forward, coming to stand in front of her. He drew his sword. Both Embodied Spirits reacted to his arrival. Lord Brocket, unable to see him, was distracted by their attention being drawn by something not revealed to him. Hecate saw the smallest hint of doubt in his expression.
“There is righteous help to be found to counter the evil you wield,” she said, backing away with a nod to the young soldier who raised his sword with a battle cry.
As her ghostly ally produced his protective barrier, she turned and ran, racing down the north aisle, Solomon bounding from the quire to catch her up. Hands trembling, she lifted the key ring on her belt and selected the key for the turret door. Even as she opened it she could hear shouts and cries behind her. Corporal Gregory would not be able to hold off her pursuers for long. She charged up the stairs, counting them as she went, driving herself to go faster. She had not reached the halfway point before she heard the heavy tread of the viscount on the bottom stair, lumbering up the stairwell behind her. Fear lent wings to her heels, but the climb was so steep, she was no match for the speed of the Embodied Spirit. Guttural cries and growling echoed up the turret until at the final window the viscount was only strides behind her. He hurled himself up the stairs. Hecate gave a shout as she felt him grab her ankle. She fell forward, her knees and shins connecting painfully with the stone of the stairs. Frantically she kicked and squirmed but the spirit merely tightened his grip. He began dragging her back down the stairs. She twisted around so that she was facing him, gasping at the vile appearance of his transformed face, his mouth open, teeth bared, not, she realized, with a smile this time, but with the intention to bite.
Anger rose within her. She would not let this hideous creature defeat her. She had not come so far, lost John, seen her brother nearly taken, risked so much, only for it to end in such a way.
“I think not!” she said, plucking her mother’s pin from her riding hat. She took a firm hold of the lapis lazuli handle and brought the sharp end down with as much force as she could muster, right through the viscount’s hand. The spirit roared in rage and pain, releasing its grasp on her ankle as she swiftly pulled out the pin again, holding it tight. Hecate sprang to her feet and ran on, reaching the library door with the spirit’s screams reverberating off the turret walls behind her. She fumbled for the key on the ring, found the right one, opened the door, leaped through it, Solomon with her, slamming the door and turning the lock. Seconds later came the sounds of both Embodied Spirits flinging themselves against the door. It would not yield. Hecate stood shaking, still holding her mother’s pin.
Brother Michael appeared at her side.
“My child! What has befallen you? Who hunts you? Those creatures…!”
Hecate turned her back on the shouts and curses coming from the stairwell and deftly returned the pin to her hat.
“Those creatures are precisely the reason I must do what I came here to do,” she said, dusting down her skirts and striding toward the locked cabinet, the griffin flapping down to accompany her. She detached the lamp from her belt and set it down upon the small reading desk that was fixed to the wall. Lifting the key ring, she selected first the padlock key.
“Well then,” she said, as much to herself as Brother Michael, who was peering over her shoulder. “Let us begin.”
As before, the cabinet opened without resistance, Mr. Sadiki’s keys working each lock smoothly. The door opened with only a faint sigh from the old, worn hinges. This time, Hecate went straight for the insignificant-looking book on the bottom shelf. Its pages were dust dry, their edges starting to crumble, but what was written inside was at least legible. It appeared to have been scratched with a sharp nib in some haste with no importance given to decoration or even neatness. She flicked through the pages, deciphering the Old English without too much difficulty as simple words had been used. She quickly came to the instructions she had so fervently hoped for. She read them aloud.
“‘To overcome dark defenses when accessing a spell to undo that which should never have been done.’ How aptly put,” she said, running her finger down the page to the necessary incantation. She stepped as close as she dared to the enchanted book, holding the other one up so that she could read it while keeping its more dangerous fellow in her line of vision. She would not for one moment take her eyes from it once she began the words, for she could not imagine it giving into its fate quietly. She was aware of the griffin retreating to a safer distance.
“‘For all that is good, for all that must be protected, let not this barrier to truth and justice remain.
No more shall this stand, else nefarious deeds will prosper.
