MINUTES later, I was out the hospital door and heading up the hill to Queen’s Solar with Jane Austen’s ghost floating along behind me.
She seemed lost in thought and completely oblivious to the newness of her surroundings, so I seized the opportunity to call Oliver and ask him to meet us at the house. It had been hard leaving Aunt Butters, but I’d borrowed her phone as a temporary replacement for the one I’d broken – had that really only been two days ago? – so I could regularly call the hospital and check on her. The staff had again reassured me that she would soon regain consciousness and I wanted to believe them. But they did not know about ghosts and curses or the ghostly plane.
‘Do you think Aunt Butters will be okay?’ I asked the ghost abruptly.
She halted in mid-air and regarded me curiously. ‘Okay?’ she echoed. ‘I do not know this word. It is neither French nor Italian, for I am familiar with those tongues. Are you perhaps speaking German?’
‘No, I’m speaking English and I’m asking if Aunt Butters is going to be all right – if she’ll be “okay”?’
‘Ah, I see.’ Miss Austen drifted a little way ahead. ‘She seems well enough, though she wanders on the Cusp. Of course, I do not know how long she may linger there.’
‘What do you mean? Surely she’ll come back to us when she’s stronger?’
The ghost hesitated. ‘She is dear to you, your great-aunt?’
‘Very dear. Aunty B’s always been there for me.’
‘Are your parents dead then?’
‘No, they’re alive.’ I walked a little faster. I didn’t want to talk about my parents. Especially not to Jane Austen’s ghost. Her family was famous for getting along. She’d had a loving father, kind siblings and a happy home life. She could never understand the… complexities of my growing up. ‘Aunty B cares about me and I care about her. A lot.’
‘What about your brothers and sisters?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Ah.’
‘So, what about Aunty B?’ I persisted. ‘Are you saying she can come back to us? Like, when she’s stronger or something?’
‘I cannot say for sure,’ answered Miss Austen slowly. ‘I confess I am a little afraid…’ She paused.
‘Afraid? Of what?’ I stopped in the middle of Queen’s Solar’s driveway and faced the ghostly figure. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
‘I very much fear that if we do not find a way to free your aunt soon, her life force will gradually dwindle and the Phantral Realm will claim her.’
I stared at Jane Austen’s ghost in horror. She had just confirmed my worst fears.
‘So what do we do? How can we free her? How long will she––’
‘You okay, Cassie?’ Oliver’s voice stopped me dead. ‘Who are you talking to?’
I froze, then spun round to face him. Great, now he’ll think I’m insane because I can’t tell him I’m talking to a ghost. Though even if I could tell him, he’d think I was nuts anyway. I brought my thoughts to a screeching halt and took a breath. There was no need for Oliver to think I was crazy. I just needed to remember the Bishop’s directive and keep the ghost chats private.
I waved my hand airily. ‘No one. Myself. I was talking to myself. Worrying about Aunty B.’
‘Of course you are.’ He enveloped me in a comforting embrace and I allowed myself to absorb it until Miss Austen, coughing in a totally unsubtle way, brought me back to my senses.
I broke free. ‘It’s because of Aunt Butters that I need to ask you something.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘Come into the house.’ I led the way to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
Miss Austen’s ghost drifted over to examine the copper saucepans and the great cast-iron cooker, before disappearing into the pantry.
I ignored her and made the tea. ‘So, this is going to sound really bizarre – but I need to ask you about your research.’
Oliver cast me an odd glance. ‘What’s happened, Cassie?’
‘Nothing. At least … Melford and Mordaunt came by the hospital this morning—’
‘So that’s why they weren’t at Happy Acres! Those sneaky old devils—’
‘I’m glad they snuck out, because they mentioned some… documents you have? They thought you might be able to help.’
‘Help?’
‘Yes, with the…’ I hesitated, then forced out the words that, even now, I was still struggling to believe. ‘With the ghost problem.’
He chuckled. ‘I knew you’d have to accept the empirical data eventually.’ Then, seeing the look on my face, he sobered abruptly. ‘What do you need?’
‘Well, what do you have?’ I countered.
Oliver looked deep into my eyes. ‘Can I trust you?’
I raised my brows. ‘Why do you need to trust me?’
‘Because I’ve found a couple of letters that might be really significant. And the Froyles are right –they could very well be relevant to our ghost problem.’
‘What letters? From whom?’
‘A man named Vicesimus Knox.’
Despite my troubles, I laughed. ‘Vicesimus? What kind of name is that?’
‘It means twentieth in Latin. He was a Regency author who wrote the bestselling Elegant Extracts. Jane Austen even gave a copy of it to her niece, Anna, and she mentions the book in Emma.’
I snuck a glance towards the pantry but there was no sign of the ghostly Miss Austen. ‘So, what was Knox writing about?’
Oliver hesitated. I could see he was trying to decide whether to tell me his big secret. ‘Oliver, I know we’ve only just met, but I need all the help I can get. Aunty B’s life may hang in the balance.’ Of course, he already knew that, but it couldn’t hurt to remind him that, just like he had last night, he might once again hold her life in his hands. ‘You needn’t worry about keeping your research confidential, because I promise you I won’t tell anyone about it.’
He leaned forward. ‘If I show you the letters,’ he said, his eyes locked on mine, ‘do you think you could persuade Bishop Stiles to let me see the archive? Not the public one, but the private one? I’m sure it exists. Did you notice those rows of big red books in his library? I was dying to sneak a peek at them. Ever since I arrived in Winchester I’ve been trying to get his permission to look at whatever he’s got – that’s why the Froyles took me there the day we met.’ His brow furrowed. ‘God, was that only yesterday?’
‘Didn’t he already agree to see you tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes, but I doubt he’ll give me the access I need. The private archive of the Bishops of Winchester has been rumoured for years, but no one has ever been able to prove its existence. Why should I be any different?’ Oliver touched my hand. ‘But if you were to come with me Cassie, and we asked him together, he might just relent, especially if it means helping your great-aunt. It’s obvious he cares for her.’
‘Yes, he does. But why do you need to see the archive, anyway?’
‘Because the letters I’ve found were written in 1817. I’m hoping the Bishop’s records will help me work out what Knox was writing about.’
‘And how will that help us save Aunty B?’ I eyed him sceptically.
He was silent for a moment, then he asked abruptly, ‘Have you ever heard of Bishop Brownlow North?’
Something stirred in my memory, but I couldn’t place it. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘He was Bishop of Winchester from 1781 to 1820. It was North who gave permission for Jane Austen to be buried in Winchester Cathedral.’
‘Bishop North,’ I repeated slowly. ‘Is he important?
‘He’s certainly unusual,’ replied Oliver. ‘At least, he is if you think it’s unusual for a Bishop of Winchester to have dealings in black magic.’