Deliver us from Evil (2 page)

'No.' He broke away from her angrily. 'The time of kings has passed away. There will never be kings in England again.'

'Do not worry.' She hurried after him, and took his hand again. 'My father will look after you. Just as your father has looked after us.'

Robert did not answer her. Instead, he stared back down the street towards the Cathedral Close. His father, passing here, must have seen the candles as well. He was a kind, a tolerant, a compassionate man. He would not have stopped to interfere. It was true, he had fought in the war, but only for the right to worship as he wished; it was no business of his, he had always told Robert, to prescribe how others should worship in turn. Yet for all that, Robert thought, he served as Commissioner in the local militia and it must have disturbed him, at the very least, to see the laws being flouted so openly. He had seemed much distracted, the past few days. Robert had assumed it was memories of the body he had found. But then he remembered something his father had s
aid, as the corpse was being born
e away. 'The times are cracking,' he had whispered, barely above his breath. What had he seen in the horror of the old man's wounds? A foreboding of the rumours that even Emily had heard, of the King's return, of the overthrow of everything he had fought for and believed? Suddenly, tracking the footprints, Robert felt afraid for him - and of what might lie waiting beyond the Cathedral doors.

For he could see now how his father's trail led without deviation across the expanse of the Close. Together, he and Emily advanced carefully, since there were no shadows of buildings to conceal them now and, as they crossed the snow, the clouds thinned and were stained with a sudden, weak red. The snow, reflecting the dying sun, seemed almost to shimmer beneath the unexpected light, but there was no one to see them, not a soul abroad, and they reached the Cathedral doors unobserved. Emily shuddered, and clasped her companion's arm. 'Robert,' she whispered,
'
I
don't like it here. Please, let's not go inside.'

Robert understood her fear. He could feel it himself; it was almost palpable in the gloom of the nave. But then, from beyond the choir-screen, he heard the sound of voices, and he wanted to know what his father had found. As they crept down the aisles, he had to force his way against the terror almost as though it were a gale, and the further they went, the greater the terror grew. Not until they had continued along the entire length of the ais
l
e did they see Captain Foxe, for he was standing in the Lady Chapel, the Cathedral's easternmost and oldest point. Two ministers were hunched together by his side.

Robert tried to peer into the Chapel's darkness; and as he did so, the terror rose and grew within him so that he felt almost ready to suffocate. He swallowed, then choked. Captain Foxe glanced round; Robert froze; he clasped a pillar, breathing in deeply, and at length his father turned back again. Emily was clutching on to Robert in turn, her eyes wide, her face unbearably pale, and he could feel her body shaking against his. She had been right, he thought; he wished they had not come. But even in the grip of his terror, he wondered what it was which could reduce him to such fear; and so he began to stare again, to try and penetrate the dark.

His father and the two ministers were still standing with their backs to him, staring at something which lay at their feet. Captain Foxe bent down to inspect it more closely. Still Robert could not see what he was looking at, but when he turned round to look up at the ministers, there was an expression of revulsion and pity on his face.

'Who would - who could - do such a thing?' he murmured.

One of the ministers shook his head. 'And in the Cathedral itself.'

'Most cruel anywhere,' replied Captain Foxe. But Robert knew that he too would be feeling the shock of sacrilege, for he loved the Cathedral with a deep and secret passion, despite what he had often affirmed - that all places must be equally holy before God. After a long while staring at what lay before him, he rose to his feet. 'And you found her?' he asked, addressing the minister who had spoken before.

'Not more than half an hour ago. Naturally,
I
sent for you at once.'

'And before that, do we know when anyone was last about here?'

'
I
was, an hour ago,' said the second minister. '
I
was lighting the candles
...'

'Good,' said Captain Foxe, interrupting him. 'So we can be certain that the body was deposited during the half hour after that.' 'Deposited?'

'Yes,' said Captain Foxe shortly. 'These wounds' - he crouched down again - 'they are not fresh. She was not killed here. Feel her. She has been dead these several hours now.'

'Then you think . . . but
...
oh no. Oh no.' The minister wiped his brow with his sleeve. 'What is happening, Commissioner?' he whispered. 'If the poor soul was not killed in the Lady Chapel - then
why
was she brought here? What does it mean?'

'That,' said Captain Foxe slowly, 'is what we need to find out.'

'Do you think
...?'
Again, the minister's voice trailed away. He swallowed. 'Could this be . . .?'

'Sorcery.' His companion completed his question, then just as decisively answered it. 'There can be no doubt about it. To mutilate a body - any body - but especially one such as this - it is sorcerer's work. See! What can these wounds be, but the glutting of the thirst of malignant spirits? Oh, dread - oh, mighty dread! The Evil One is abroad in the Cathedral tonight. . .'

'No!' Captain Foxe only rarely raised his voice, and the two ministers must have known of his reputation for calmness, for they both stared at him in the utmost surprise. 'No,' Captain Foxe repeated, less vehemently now. 'Please' - he address
ed his appeal to both men - 'we
cannot allow talk of this kind to go beyond these walls.'

The minister he had interrupted began to frown, and Captain Foxe lowered his voice still more. 'You know,' he whispered urgently, 'how dangerous a fear of the black arts can be. It unsettles the multitudes, who in their superstition and cruelty will always seek to find witches on which to blame their own sense of sin. For it is rarely, if ever, the true sorcerers who are burned, but only poor old women who are guilty of nothing, perhaps, beyond seeming a little crazed in their wits.' He bowed to the first minister. '
I
know, sir, that you agree with me on this matter, for we have discussed it before.'

The minister glanced at his colleague, then inclined his head. 'It is true,' he acknowledged, 'that
I
dread the effect of the news of this crime.'

'But you would not deny,' exclaimed the second minister indignantly, 'that this must indeed be the work of a sorcerer, for who but the Evil One could inspire such a work of horror - such an
abomination
- as this?'

'
I
would not deny it, sir,' agreed Captain Foxe. 'Indeed, it appears exceedingly probable. And yet that is my very point, for so hellish, so brazen is the crime that
I
would not see lonely old women being harried for the fault, when our adversary is clearly a man of deadly cunning and skill.'

'You said a man,' asked the first minister. 'You have certain proof of this?'

'
I
do, sir.'

'Then this is not the first such murder you have come across? There has been a previous one?'

Captain Foxe's rugged, handsome face, which could seem almost simple to those who did not know him well, appeared suddenly drained and impenetrable. '
I
woul
d like to ask you first,' he said eventually, 'before
I
say anything more, the obvious question - have either of you have seen a stranger in the Cathedral today? He would needs be well built. A strong-looking man.'

The first minister swallowed. 'Needs be?' he asked.

'On the evidence
I
have witnessed,' Captain Foxe replied. 'In the previous case.'

The first minister swallowed again. He shrugged. '
I
have seen no one,' he said.

His colleague, though, as he thought, began to frown. '
I
remember,' he said at length, 'that there was a man
I
saw this morning about this very place.'

This very place? You mean here, the Lady Chapel?' 'Yes. But he had nothing with him, no bundle.' 'Describe him,' ordered Captain Foxe. 'It is difficult' 'Why?'

'It was dark. His eyes, though,
I
remember his eyes. They were piercing, exceedingly bright. And his clothes . . .' 'What of them?'

'Gaudy, again, like his eyes, very bright. It struck me that they seemed curiously old-fashioned, for he had the appearance of one of the old Cavaliers, those who fought for the King in the war.
I
assumed that he was someone returned from abroad, perhaps on the seditious rumours current in the air, that the Commonwealth is shortly to be overthrown.'

'Possibly,' was all that Captain Foxe replied. But he appeared very troubled by what the minister had said, and did not attempt to conceal his unease.

'You have heard reports of such a man, then?' the minister asked him at length.

'Possibly,' said Captain Foxe once again. He continued to stare at the body by his feet. 'A man dressed and bearded very like a Cavalier was seen last week,' he murmured softly, 'by Clearbury Ring.'

'Clearbury Ring?' Both ministers seemed scarcely to recognise the name.

'There was an old man found there last week as well. Mr William Yorke - a scholar and antiquarian from my own village. He had taught Latin and Greek to my son.
I
knew him
well
. He was dead though, when
I
saw him last. He had been murdered - very horribly.'

'May the Lord have mercy on us all!
^-
exclaimed the first minister. 'Why had
I
not heard of this before?'

'The details have been kept secret on my own instructions.'

'May
I
ask why, Commissioner?'

Captain Foxe grimaced, and glanced down at his feet again. 'For the same reason,' he said at last, 'that we must conceal the news of this death as well.'

'No!' The minister began to wring his hands and his voice, when he spoke again, was almost a wail. 'Not signs of sorcery again?'

'So it appeared.'

'And what were they, these signs?'

'The wounds, the . . . mutilations .
..
they were very similar to those

inflicted on this poor soul' Captain Foxe crouched down, identical, indeed. Violent cruelties - and the body, like this one, drained of all its blood.'

Emily had started to shudder. Robert turned and held her as tightly as she was clinging to him; he could feel her silent tears scalding his cheeks. 'We must take her to a physician,' he heard his father say, 'so that we may have her injuries exactly determined. Poor child. Poor child! May the good Lord receive her innocent soul'

Robert stared hurriedly back around, as his father spoke the word 'child'. Captain Foxe had risen to his feet again, and was nestling a little bundle in his arms. 'A cloak,' he whispered, 'please, sir, your cloak.' One of the ministers unfastened his mantle; he handed it across; as Captain Foxe raised his tiny burden so that it could be wrapped in the cloak, Robert and Emily caught their first glimpse of the murdered child. They both gasped. It was a baby; no, too small even to be a baby - as small, Robert thought, as one of Emily's old rag dolls. Its face was blue and its arm, as it hung from over Captain Foxe's hand, seemed almost purple. The fingers were so tiny that Robert could barely see them; and then, when he looked closer, he realised that each one had been snapped, so that they were bent backwards across the hand. He heard Emily cry out, 'No, no, no!'; and then he heard a second noise in his ears, a second sob of mourning and fear. It was himself.

He had expected his father to be angry. They had broken his direct instructions, after all. But Captain Foxe said nothing to them; instead, he handed his tiny burden across to one of the ministers, then walked from the
Chapel
to the pillar where the children were hiding. He gathered them in his arms; and as they shook, so beneath the protecting folds of his cloak, he sheltered them.

I
fled, and cried out,
death;

Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed

From all her caves, and back resounded,
Death.'

John Milton,
Paradise Lost