TO my surprise the Bishop himself answered my urgent ringing of the doorbell. He looked exhausted.
‘Cassandra! Come in. I have news.’
‘And I’ve had a horrible dream.’ I briefly told him about my nightmare and my worries over the malevolent force that had sparked so much fear in the ghosts. ‘Just before I woke up, I heard the words, “He is coming”. What do you think that means?’ I looked anxiously at the Bishop.
‘I don’t know.’ Bishop Stiles passed a weary hand over his forehead. ‘But I’m afraid we have another problem. Come inside and I’ll explain.’
He led me and Miss Austen’s ghost to the library where we found the McGurk clearing away a half-eaten breakfast. ‘Now, Your Lordship, you’ve barely eaten.’ She cast me a baleful glare. ‘I told Miss Cassandra to come later.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs McGurk.’ Bishop Stiles ushered her to the door. ‘I’ll see her now.’
She stomped away.
Bishop Stiles waved me into a chair while I stared open-mouthed at the chaos in the library. There were Chronicles everywhere: on his desk, the sofa, the side table, even the floor was littered with both the vellum and the huge red leather-bound volumes. ‘I’ve been searching and searching,’ explained the Bishop. ‘And I’m afraid… that the thing I feared… that the book of magic which Clarke used...’
‘Yes? What about it?’
‘It was a Grimoire.’
Something in the way he said it set my pulse racing.
‘What’s a Grimoire?’
‘A Grimoire,’ he replied in deathly tones, ‘is an ancient book of magic, said to have been begun by Circe herself and added to by other enchantresses and sorcerers such as Merlin — the stuff of legends. Only those in the innermost sanctum of powerful magicians were ever allowed to keep a copy and it is thought that only one or two remain in the world. A true Grimoire is very rare, very powerful, and in the wrong hands, very, very dangerous.’
‘Are you saying…’ I found it hard to get the words out. ‘Are you saying… that Clarke used a true Grimoire to curse Miss Austen?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He tapped the open Chronicle. ‘For the curse to work it would have needed very powerful magic. I found a reference from the Tudor Bishop, William Wickham, who served Queen Elizabeth I. He writes of a Grimoire used by one of his parishioners for a “wicked rite” and describes the man as having blackened hands and wrists.’
I jumped. ‘But that’s what Vicesimus Knox said happened to him!’
‘Exactly.’ Bishop Stiles nodded. ‘Knox also said that his curse on Clarke was very powerful.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘We must find this Grimoire,’ said Miss Austen decidedly. ‘Perhaps it has a spell which will overcome that imposed on me by the wretched Mr Clarke.’
‘But how can we find it?’ I demanded. ‘We don’t know what became of it after Knox used it in 1819.’
‘I did wonder if perhaps Knox gave it to Bishop North,’ mused the Bishop. ‘Only North died just a matter of months after Knox cast his spell in the cathedral, so it’s possible they never met again.’ He waved his hand at the scattered Chronicles. ‘I have searched the records of North’s immediate successors, but neither Bishop Tomline nor Bishop Sumner appear to have left any kind of clue as to the whereabouts of the book – if they ever knew of its existence,’ he added gloomily.
‘Bishop Sumner?’ said Miss Austen suddenly. ‘I know that name. Pray, do you have his likeness here?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the Bishop, looking at her curiously. ‘I have his miniature. There.’ He pointed to a glass-topped table by the window. The ghost swooped over to it and peered at the dozen or so miniatures laid out on a bed of blue velvet.
‘Yes, as I thought. I have seen this man with my sister.’ She pointed to a portrait of a handsome man with sideburns and a kind smile. Engraved into the slender gold frame were the words: Charles Richard Sumner.
‘Where did you see him?’
‘In the cathedral. He gave Cassandra his arm and they stood together by the black stone which marks my…’ She paused, then said with decision, ‘my grave.’ Miss Austen sighed. ‘Would that I might see my dearest Cassandra again, though it seems not so very long since I saw her last. I had thought it no more than a twelvemonth, but …’ She looked at me sadly. ‘But it must be near two hundred years since she visited Winchester Cathedral.’
‘Did she have a book with her?’ asked the Bishop. ‘It would be old and … I don’t know… magical looking?’
Miss Austen shook her head. ‘I do not believe my dear sister had anything like that, but I cannot be sure. There is something, however, that strikes a chord…’
‘Try to remember,’ I urged. ‘What did Cassandra look like? Was she the same as when you were alive, or older?’
‘Now I think on it, I seem to recall that her hair was white and her face had lines upon it that were unfamiliar to me. Cassandra was ever a neat dresser and was wont to wear a bonnet to protect her complexion from the sun. Even in our last days together in life, when she nursed me so tenderly, her skin was still smooth. I used to recommend she use Gowland lotion – just teasing her, you know. We often made such jokes to one another.’
‘So she was a lot older when you saw her in the cathedral?’
‘She was a little bent,’ conceded the ghost. ‘I remember she leaned upon the Bishop’s arm.’
‘Are you sure it was the Bishop? This Bishop?’ Bishop Stiles pointed to the portrait.
‘Oh yes, I observed him most particularly, for he was a well-looking man, tall and keen-eyed; and because he wore Bishop’s robes, but did not wear a wig. I marked it as unusual at the time.’
Bishop Stiles nodded. ‘So Cassandra Austen and Bishop Sumner met and talked about… what?’
‘Well, if they visited Jane Austen’s grave, then…’ I hesitated.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Bishop Stiles.
‘Do you think Cassandra Austen knew about the curse?’
He drew a sharp breath.
‘It’s possible.’ He thought for a moment. ‘When did Cassandra Austen die?’ he asked me. I heard Miss Austen gasp and saw her turn an ashy shade of grey, but before I could utter a single word of condolence, the Bishop snapped, ‘I need a date, Cassandra.’
‘Right. Yes. I’ll look it up.’ I drew Aunty B’s phone from my pocket and typed rapidly. ‘Here it is.’ I glanced sideways at Miss Austen’s mournful face, whispered ‘sorry,’ and turned to the Bishop. ‘It says here Cassandra Austen died March 22nd, 1845.’
Miss Austen flinched and the Bishop pounced. He lifted the 1845 Chronicle from among those on the sofa and began turning pages. ‘I have already searched this Chronicle, but perhaps I missed something.’ I nodded. Miss Austen drifted sadly away through the wall. I let her go. I figured that even a ghost needed time to absorb the news of a beloved sister’s death.