‘NORTH,’ I repeated. Quite suddenly, I recalled the words I’d heard in the snowstorm. It was as though a light had switched on in my brain. ‘North of Winchester is the key!’ I cried, the words evoking a strange mixture of fear and triumph in me.
‘What?’
I stared blindly at Oliver. ‘I have to see the Bishop.’
‘You okay?’ He looked at me in concern.
I nodded, but that was a lie. I wasn’t okay. How could I have forgotten those words spoken to me only last night as I was thrown out of the cathedral? Aunty B’s future depended on me solving this riddle and I’d already ignored a vital clue. There was no time to be lost.
‘I, too, should like to see the Bishop again,’ said Miss Austen’s ghost, emerging through the pantry wall, ‘and try if we may discover more of this curse. Let us depart at once.’
I Ignoring her command – and making a mental note to chat to Miss Austen about the perils of talking to me when others were present. – I said abruptly. ‘Oliver, do you have those letters with you?’
‘Right here.’ He patted his backpack. ‘Never leave home without them.’
‘Good. Then quick, to Bishop’s Palace.’
AS we neared the great house our object, with Miss Austen’s ghost floating along behind us, the spires of Winchester Cathedral were an uncomfortable reminder of my unceremonious expulsion from its portals the night before. I shivered. I had no desire to go anywhere near it. But North of Winchester is the key—and the Bishop’s Palace was right around the corner.
This time I didn’t even ring the bell, just pushed open the door and led Oliver to the library just as the McGurk came barrelling down the hall. I threw her a triumphant glance and closed the library door behind me, just catching a glimpse of Miss Austen’s glow as she wafted through the opposite wall.
‘Cassandra,’ said the Bishop, looking up from his desk in surprise. ‘Is Amelia all right? Do you have news?’
‘No change,’ I assured him, having checked with the hospital on the way. ‘But Oliver has found something that might help.’
‘Oh yes?’ Bishop Stiles looked sceptically at him. ‘I trust this is not a ploy to see this imaginary “Private Archive”? Because I assure you, such a thing does not—’
I almost stamped my foot. ‘Bishop Stiles! Will you please just listen? Oliver has found some letters that refer to a former Bishop of Winchester Cathedral and black magic. I think you need to see them.’
‘Which Bishop?’
‘Brownlow North.’
‘Bishop North?’ Bishop Stiles was startled. ‘You mean the Regency Bishop?’
‘Yes?’ I said, looking sideways at Oliver. He nodded. ‘So we need to look at his… his Chronicle.’
Oliver punched the air. ‘I knew there had to be something like that!’
‘And you will forget you ever heard it, young man.’ The Bishop glared at me. ‘I will not open the Chronicles! I must not. And certainly not while he’s here.’ He gestured to Oliver. ‘I mean no offence, but things are—’
‘Desperate,’ I cut in. ‘Oliver has offered us the first clue to solving the puzzle. We cannot afford to exclude him.’
‘But can we afford to trust him?’
‘We have no choice.’
Oliver threw me a look. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I said, but wondered what, in fact, I did mean? Because when it came down to it, we really knew so little about him. We’d been acquainted barely more than a day, yet here he was, already one of us. Then again, he’d saved Aunty B’s life, and probably mine as well. Plus, he was taking all this ghost stuff in his stride. But maybe he had an ulterior motive. Maybe his kindness and helpfulness was just a façade, a way of inveigling himself into the Bishop’s good books so he could gain exclusive access to the Chronicles and make a name for himself by proving they existed. Didn’t academics thrive on that kind of thing?
What if I was just a useful helper on Oliver’s path to success? After all, I had a terrible track-record where men were concerned, and I had zero confidence in my ability to tell a good man from a bad one.
I was tired of being used.
I shook off these dark thoughts to see the Bishop looking stubborn and Oliver determined. Oliver faced the older man. ‘Look, I can’t guarantee it will help the situation at all, but if Bishop North left any kind of record for the year 1817, please let me look at it.’
‘Why 1817?’ demanded the Bishop.
‘That’s the date on the two letters I found hidden in the back of an obscure book in my college library. Nobody knows I’ve got them. If it’s a question of trust—’ Oliver lifted his chin. ‘I really should have given the letters straight to the college librarians, so if you tell them what I’ve just told you, I’ll probably be kicked out of Oxford.’
‘Is that meant to make me trust you?’ asked the Bishop pointedly.
Oliver flushed. ‘I intend to return the letters as soon as I get back to college.’ His face softened. ‘Please understand – it’s possible I’ve found something completely new. The sort of thing every scholar dreams of finding. It could be something amazing, but it could be nothing at all. I want to find out which it is before I give the letters back. Bishop North’s… Chronicle?’ He glanced at me, and it was my turn to confirm his words with a nod. ‘… is my best hope of doing that.’ He met Bishop Stile’s stern gaze. ‘I’ve trusted you with my secret. Won’t you trust me with yours?’
‘Show me the letters and then I’ll decide whether I’ll check North’s Chronicle for you,’ The Bishop’s eyebrows bristled and I knew he would not give an inch.
Oliver hesitated, then carefully pulled a thick cardboard case from his knapsack. From it he drew two plastic pockets, each holding a sheet of yellowed paper covered in faded writing.
The Bishop eyed the signature through the plastic. ‘Vicesimus Knox?’
‘A good man by all accounts.’ Oliver handed the first letter to the Bishop and then, to my surprise and an immediate rush of pleasure, he passed the second to me. As I read it, he tapped on the one the Bishop held. ‘This is his plea to a friend not to dabble in the “Pagan” arts. The friend’s name was James Stanier Clarke.’
A quiet gasp made me turn my head. At some point in the conversation Miss Austen had made her ghostly way into the room. Her hazel eyes were wide with shock and she had turned a deep angry pink. I suddenly realised that her changeable colouring must reflect her feelings and hoped, for both our sakes, that she’d stay on the lighter side of crimson.
‘James Stanier Clarke,’ echoed the Bishop. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘You’d know it if you’ve read any of the Austen biographies, sir,’ said Oliver.. ‘She and Clarke actually met.’
‘That’s right.’ The Bishop pulled a face. ‘Wasn’t he the man who made those ridiculous suggestions for novels she might write?’
‘That’s him.’ Oliver looked pleased. ‘Clarke was librarian at Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London palace – but he also fancied himself a writer. I found these two letters stuck between the pages of his first book, entitled The Progress of Maritime Discovery.’
I looked up from my letter and scoffed. ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t exactly a bestseller?’
‘No. It wasn’t in print for long. The volume in the college library seems to have been Clarke’s own copy. I assume he tucked the letters into it and forgot about them.’
‘Seems an odd book for a chaplain to have written,’ observed the Bishop.
‘Clarke wasn’t your typical clergyman.’ Oliver tapped the first letter again. ‘For starters, he obviously believed in black magic, because he wanted to use a book he’d found in the Regent’s library to cast a spell on some poor woman to make her fall in love with him.’
‘Yes, it says here he wished to “bind” her to him.’ The Bishop looked disapproving. ‘He must have been mad.’
‘He was definitely into some strange stuff,’ agreed Oliver. ‘Apparently, he believed he could use magic to make the woman accept his marriage proposal.’
‘According to this,’ I held up the second letter, ‘Knox believed it too, because he tells Clarke to destroy the book and give up his plan.’
‘But you think he did not give it up,’ the Bishop asked Oliver.
‘No. And if we could just check these Chronicles you mentioned, we might learn something about why the ghosts are haunting Winchester. Plus, I’d love to confirm the identity of the woman Clarke wanted to marry.’
‘Confirm?’ I asked.
‘Yes, confirm. Because I think I know who she was.’