So, they had tried another exorcism. Was that the priest they had taken away in the ambulance to die? She had no doubt he was dead. She could smell death, like a miasma over the room.
Walking across to the table she stared at the cross, the candlesticks, the splashes of blue wax and slowly she shook her head. The power was there in the holy things, if only they knew how to summon it; their God was all-mighty, it was his servants who were weak.
Once she might have taken the things herself – the bread and wine – and used them, not for evil exactly, never for evil, but to weave her own quiet spells, but not now. She had done with all that.
Glancing round she listened carefully. The house was silent. They were watching to see what she would do next.
There was very little Holy Water left in the flask. Picking it up she dribbled it in a circle around the table and then stepped inside the circle – protective, powerful, as safe as a stone wall. Picking up the discarded briefcase she quickly packed the cross, the candlesticks, the empty pots. The wafers and salt she put inside her clean handkerchief and tucked inside her pocket. The wine in one of the flasks she put under her coat, and the briefcase she slid under a coffer. Then she stood upright again.
‘So, madam, you shall not have these to play with! You’ve done enough damage today, I think.’ Her voice was steady, ringing strongly through the room. ‘Leave the Grants alone. They know nothing of the past!’
Safe in her circle she looked round, listening.
There was no reply. Shaking her head she stepped out of it, leaving it where it was to dry upon the flags and she walked slowly to the door.
Reaching for the light switch she turned and glanced back into the room. Nothing had changed; there was no sound.
Locking the front door behind her she switched on her small torch and began to walk swiftly across the gravel. Turning into the path which led to the church she stopped once and glanced over her shoulder, listening, then she hurried on.
The key to the church was where it always had been, hidden near the porch. Inserting it into the lock she pushed open the door and paused. It was ice cold inside and very black. She hesitated then, reaching for the bundle in her handkerchief and the small flask she stepped in and strode quickly up the aisle, her torch beam faintly lighting her footsteps.
On the rug between the choir stalls she paused. Perspiration had begun to stand out on her forehead. The handkerchief crumpled in her hand felt very hot.
With a last effort of will she almost ran the last few steps to the altar rails and stooped looking for the latch to open the little gate, her fingers scrabbling amongst the intricate wooden carvings to reach the hidden bolt. She found it at last and tore it back; pushing the gate she stepped up to the altar and put down the bread and wine in front of the cross. ‘There!’ She was panting. ‘Safe! You can’t touch it there, my lady!’
Turning she flashed her fading torch down the aisle in triumph.
At the far end she could see something moving between her and the door. She narrowed her eyes, peering through her thick glasses and her throat constricted in fear.
Behind her was the God she had rejected in her youth. Was it too late to ask His help now? In front of her the twisting spiral of light was growing larger. With a gasp of terror she plunged blindly down the chancel steps and ran into the side aisle, dodging behind the pillars, trying desperately to reach the door.
‘Let me just get this straight.’ James Wood looked at David with a troubled frown between his eyes. ‘You and Edgar Gower went to the Hall with a view to performing an exorcism of the ghosts there?’
David nodded. He felt a small surge of irritation. ‘All I want is for you to come up with me and take charge of Edgar’s kit. His Holy Water and stuff. He was worried that –’ he hesitated. ‘That it might fall into the wrong hands.’
‘The hands of the ghosts, presumably.’ Wood tightened his lips. ‘Of course I’ll come with you. Poor Edgar. I’m so very sorry.’ He glanced at David. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, David. It wasn’t your fault, you know.’
‘No? I brought him here. If it wasn’t for me – ’
‘Accidents happen. They are no one’s fault. Edgar was always obsessed with that house; no one could have kept him away. And if he had heart trouble anyway – ’
‘They don’t know that.’ David sighed.
‘They are doing a post mortem, you say? I suppose they have to.’ Shaking his head sadly James Wood reached up to the coat rack in his hall for a thick jacket and dragged it on then he opened the drawer of a table by the front door and took out a serviceable looking torch. ‘I will drive across to see poor Dot. It must have been such a shock for her. Well, come on. We’ll go over there now. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, dear,’ he bellowed over his shoulder towards the kitchen from where David’s nose had been picking up the wonderful smells of frying garlic and onions. Banging the door behind them he set off on foot up the road.
‘I’ve a car by the post office –’ David protested.
‘No need. It’s only ten minutes’ walk.’ Wood was striding out in front of him, the beam of the torch playing across the frosty tarmac. ‘It will give us a chance to calm ourselves down.’