“I am quite well,” she assured him. When Edward took her hand to examine the burn she said, “It is of no consequence. It will heal. But the books…”
He held her arm, unconvinced that she might not yet faint or fall. “There is no real damage done,” he told her. “It appears worse than it is. The shelves can be righted, the desk replaced. Perhaps one or two minor items have perished, but the map is remarkably unscathed. Look.”
She turned to study it and let out a small cry of joy and relief. For all that had taken place in the room, the Mappa Mundi did indeed appear to be undamaged. Everything was in its rightful place, the bull reduced to its more ordinary tiny scale, all the figures quiet as if subdued and tired by recent events, but not hurt or ruined. Only the city of Hereford still pulsated with a low golden light, at least to Hecate’s eyes. She knew the others would be unaware of its strange activity.
“What I do not understand,” the dean’s voice cut into her thoughts, “is why you were here at such an hour? And on your own? Did Reverend Thomas ask that you work at night? It seems a curious thing for him to do.”
“No,” she said, realizing that she would have a great deal of explaining to do, “the reverend had no knowledge of my plans. There was something I had to do. Something that could not wait.”
“Hecate,” Edward spoke quietly to her. “Why did you not come to me for help?”
“After what happened to Charlie, and to John … I would not put you at such risk again, Father. I could not.”
The dean picked up a scorched book and brushed some of the sooty marks from it. “This book is not part of the chained collection,” he said.
“It is not, and I know I was not supposed to have it, but, oh…” Now that the immediate danger was past and she recalled what she and Brother Michael had discovered before the spirits entered the library, she became animated. “Dean Chalmers, I know this will be difficult for you … for anyone … to believe, to understand, but I promise you, I had good reasons for what I did.”
She wanted to tell him she had not been alone. Wanted to tell them both how her wonderful ghostly family had helped her, had saved her. Wanted to explain that she would never have succeeded without them. But she could not. A weariness crept over her. She suddenly became aware of how she must appear. She was standing in the middle of a room that was blackened and dirty and in parts damaged because of her actions. She had risked things that were not hers to risk. She had acted in a way she knew would be against the wishes of both Reverend Thomas and the dean. She had been secretive and impetuous. Her hair and dress were singed, her face filthy, her hand burned, her outlandish clothes torn and soot covered. Unsteadily, she pulled herself from her father’s hold. With as much dignity as she could muster she retrieved her ruined coat from the embers and shook it out. It was unwearable. She straightened up.
“I understand that there will be much more to say on the matter, but I would be grateful if it could wait until morning. I should very much like to go home,” she told them.
“Of course,” Edward said, removing his own coat and slipping it around her shoulders. The dean helped clear a path so that she could more easily step through the debris.
“I must contact Inspector Winter,” he said. “He will need to examine the crypt again. How many more times must this happen? As for the library … what I remain puzzled by,” he said as he righted a chair, “is why the door, though unlocked, would not open.”
Hecate opened her mouth to explain but her father spoke up.
“All questions can wait for tomorrow,” he insisted.
She was relieved not to have to talk further, on two counts. For one thing, she was exhausted and her burns were starting to trouble her greatly. For another, she had still not uncovered the identity of the person responsible for summoning the spirits, and one of the possible suspects was currently standing in front of her. What gave her strength was the fact that the crucial book was still hidden beneath one of the fallen shelves. She could retrieve it when she returned. She allowed herself to be led out by her father, agreeing that they would meet the next day for further discussion.
30
Hecate slept late the next morning. When Stella brought a tray of breakfast to her room it was almost noon. Her burns were bothering her, so she allowed the maid to help dress her into a dark skirt and blouse, her mourning dress being beyond repair. She was accepting another cup of tea when Clementine arrived, sweeping through the door, full of love and compassion.
“Dearest Hecate, I came as soon as I heard!” The two exchanged kisses, the pale peach silk of one dress contrasting starkly with the dark garb of the other. “Such terrible, terrible things to happen. First John’s fall, and then the fire with you nearly lost to us forever … You poor lamb,” she said, taking the seat opposite. “And your mother gives you tea. Would you not prefer brandy, to steady your nerves?”
“I’m not sure they are in need of steadying. Truth be told, I am once again numb. As if my feelings are frozen in the moment before John … before he fell.”
“Mama woke me the minute she received your mother’s note. She was quite incoherent, I have to say. I was able to learn little of sense save that poor John was dead and that you had been with him in the cathedral.… Hecate my dearest, do you wish to talk about it? And Mama spoke of an engagement!”
Hecate smiled wanly. “It’s true. We were engaged only the evening prior.”
At this Clementine burst into tears. “Such cruel luck!”
“Please, do not distress yourself on that account. I’m sure I will survive being known as the girl who had the shortest engagement ever. Save your prayers and your sorrow for John.”
“Of course.” She nodded, dabbing her eyes with monogrammed lace. “Of course. It is not my place to give in to tears when you are being so very brave. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
Hecate set her teacup down on the table beside her. “As a matter of fact, there is something.”
“Only name it.”
“I want to see John. To say goodbye. Could you face coming with me? Only I fear I will not persuade Mother otherwise.”
Clemmie nodded, blinking away more tears. She got to her feet, reaching out her hand. “We shall go together. No one will stop us,” she promised.
John had been taken to the chapel in the cloisters. As Hecate and Clementine were escorted along the stone covered walkway toward the ancient door set within the quadrangle, she flinched as she passed John’s little house. She had stood in that doorway the last time he had touched her, when he had reached out to stroke her bruised cheek. Her hand went to her face, instinctively tracing that same place where he had so lightly rested his fingers. It was incomprehensible to think she would never feel his touch again, never hear his voice. They came to the chapel entrance and went inside. It was a single room, no bigger than a family drawing room, but with a high ceiling and long slender windows letting in sunshine. At the center a modest wooden catafalque had been placed, with John’s body, in his vicar’s robes, laid out upon it. Edward had been adamant that he should not be left unattended. The vicars choral interpreted this as a sign of love for their fallen brother, and an act of respect from the man who was to have become his father-in-law, so they readily agreed. The vigil had been kept through the night by his fellow vicars. When Hecate and Clementine were led into the little chapel they found candles burning and the dean himself keeping watch over John. Hecate experienced a moment’s panic. Dean Chalmers, for all that he was her father’s friend, was still on her list of suspects. Had they unwittingly delivered John’s body into the care of the very person responsible for his death? She was relieved to hear that at least two sentinels had been in place at all times. The dean offered his condolences and then left the women to say their goodbyes. Clemmie was content to hang back, not wishing to intrude upon Hecate’s time with her deceased fiancé, and reluctant, in any case, to stand any closer to a dead body.
Hecate stepped forward. John looked heartbreakingly young. He had landed on his back, the impact of the fall killing him instantaneously. What damage his poor body had sustained was not on show. Skilled morticians had already visited, for he was carefully positioned upon cushions and cloths which had been artfully folded, so that none of his injuries was evident. He looked for all the world as if he were asleep. His hands were folded over his chest, resting upon his crucifix, causing a jolt of memory for Hecate as she recalled how he had clung to the symbol of his faith even as he fought for his life. She removed a glove and put her hand over his. She thought she had prepared herself for this moment, but she had not. The cold lifelessness of his flesh undid her. She wept then, tears of sadness for the love she had glimpsed gone forever, for the friend she had lost, for the life together they would never have, for the unfairness of a future snatched away from such a good man. Her tears fell unchecked as she sobbed, dripping onto him, leaving tiny wet marks upon his clerical robes which caught the uneven light of the candles as they soaked into his garment. She found she had not the strength to stop weeping, nor to move, until Clemmie came and put an arm around her, gently making her release her grasp of John’s hand, turning her friend slowly away, and helping her from that sad, lonely place.
Another day passed before Beatrice would agree that her daughter was sufficiently recovered to face a meeting with the dean, and then only after some nimble footwork on the part of her father. Hecate once again parked her bicycle at the entrance to the cloisters. Her dress and coat were receiving Stella’s attention in the hope they might be repaired and cleaned, so she wore instead her navy wool skirt and a dark jacket of her mother’s, another armband stitched in place. Beatrice had refused to let her leave the house wearing her riding hat, so she had returned to her rather battered boater. The burns on her hand remained painful but some ointment and a carefully applied bandage meant she would be able to ride her bicycle home later. Her father had pushed it for her on the journey to the cathedral.
“I shall leave you here,” he told her, putting away his pipe.
It had been decided that, prior to Hecate being brought before the dean, Edward would speak with him. Her position at the cathedral hung in the balance. Her father’s support was vital.
“Thank you again, for agreeing to speak with him.”
“I can only do so much. I have known the man thirty years: If his mind is made up he will not be swayed.”
She nodded, lowering her head. “On top of which, we do not know, even now, whether Dean Chalmers has his own agenda.”
Her father sighed. “Just as you were reluctant to have poor John remain on our list of suspects, so it does not sit well with me to think of the dean in such a way. But, I must accept that, until we have proof to the contrary, he remains in doubt.”
“All the more reason why I must fight to keep my position in the library,” she said.
She watched her father stride along the cloister in the direction of the dean’s office. She would not have much time before being called, so she hurried through the south door. She moved quickly, not wanting to encounter Mr. Gould at that point. The morning service was over and most of the vicars choral were either back in their houses, taking a late breakfast, or out attending to their parish church duties. She thought about the space at their table where John once sat and pitied them the pain of their grief. Heading down the stairs toward the crypt, she paused to whisper to Corporal Gregory.
