Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  “It is magnificent.” For its size and its humble appearance from the outside, I had not expected Saint Michael in the Fields to be so grand.

  “I can show you,” she said eagerly. “The church has been here for more than four hundred years, you know.” She pointed to the painting behind me. “Here is our Blessed Mother, cradling Jesus taken down from the cross.”

  I stared at the pathos painted into the beautiful face of the Madonna, and in this place, the rendering of her suffering might have made me weep had not Mrs. Tigwalt hurried me on to the next exhibit.

  “And here is Saint Michael, casting Lucifer into the bowels of hell,” she said, leading me to a more primitive painting. The halo and wings of the angel might have been drawn by a child, but the face of the fallen angel was hideous, perhaps because it was so crudely wrought. The demon had never looked more vile, its visage seethingly malevolent, while the angel, not quite as majestic as he would appear in later Renaissance art, wore a bland expression, as if his duty meant to him no more than ridding the world of a fly.

  “The Stations of the Cross were done in the late seventeenth century.” She indicated a panel showing Veronica wiping the blood from Jesus’s face, a crowd of leering onlookers behind.

  I peered closer, something having caught my eye on the wooden faces of the ugly mob. My heart quickened. Was it my imagination or was that a suggestion of protruding canines on one of the faces?

  My heart lurched in reaction. I peered closer, but could not make out the details. I wondered if having thoughts of vampires teeming in my brain was causing me to see things. The religious iconography was indeed suggestive to my imagination, and as the light was bad, I concluded I could not be correct.

  I drew back, composing myself. “Is Father Luke usually home for dinner?” I suddenly wanted out of this church, to conclude my business and get back to the manor.

  “Oh, he’ll be along, although sometimes he is gone until late. I can give him a message if you like.”

  I thought of the message I might entrust to Mrs. Tigwalt and felt a giddy rush of hysteria. Yes, please inquire as to the proper vampire remedies, as a very beloved child is being currently afflicted by a higher-order lord of the undead.

  What I did say was, “If you would tell him I called, and would like to speak with him. He can send a message to Dulwich Manor with a time that would be convenient.”

  “I can do that, dear,” she said, smiling cheerfully.

  Over her shoulder, I spied another depiction of Saint Michael’s great triumph over his brother angel, Lucifer, but this time, the devil was depicted as the wily serpent who had stolen paradise from mankind. The image made my breath catch, for I was becoming increasingly certain this symbol was of some significance. Its frequent occurrence could not be coincidence.

  I saw that in the broody, finely wrought painting, which was done in a much more detailed and formal style than the previous one I’d viewed, there was a disturbing suggestion that this creature was more than a mere snake. The serpent seemed to have clawlike hands that were raised to attack the archangel, but these were nearly obscured by foliage the painter had placed around the image. There was no mistaking the scales on the spine which tapered down to a pointed tail. And there was a shadow behind it that could have been, if one were looking for it, a hint of wings.

  I swallowed hard, digesting the implications of what I was seeing—or thought I was seeing. Was this indeed a dragon? More important, did it have some significance to the dragon tattoo Wadim had borne, something to do with what Mr. Fox had referenced as the mysterious Dragon Prince? What had he called him?

  The name came back to me. The Dracula.

  Then my attention was stolen by something else in the background. I heard my own sharp intake of breath hiss in the reverent quiet of the church. Mindless of how I must look, I rushed forward, pointing to an object in the upper right-hand corner of the painting. “That tree. It is the tree on the meadow, by The Sanctuary.”

  Mrs. Tigwalt came up behind me. “What is that, dear?”

  I was not mistaken. The slender trunk, the dome of tangled branches—it was a unique and instantly recognizable shape. However, I realized how I must sound, so I forced myself to smile and say casually, “What a coincidence.”

  “Oddly shaped, isn’t it? It must have been done by a local artist. He obviously used the nearby landscape as the model for his work.”

  “Of course.” It was a reasonable explanation, I told myself. It could all be mere coincidence, made to seem more by my overexcited imagination.

  “Sometimes, artists use symbols to represent meaning in their painting. Oak trees, being strong and lasting, would be an excellent representation of Saint Michael’s powerful position as God’s right hand.”

  Her earnestness made me smile. “It is a hawthorn,” I told her softly.

  “Oh, well, then that is even more significant.” Her eyes widened and she nodded sagely. “Hawthorns are holy trees. They are the only tree that blooms at Christmastide as well as spring, which indicates God’s special blessing through that tree in the season of His son’s birth.”

  I recalled Fox telling me about the May Day ritual of the Eton boys, using branches of hawthorn to ward off evil. “So it is a symbol of good?”

  “Indeed, yes. You know, of course, the story of Joseph of Aramethea at Glastonbury Tor?”

  “I…I’m afraid I do not.”

  She tsked, shaking her head as she took my arm and led me along the wall, down to a particular carved panel depicting Jesus being taken down from the cross. “Joseph was Our Lord’s friend, a wealthy patron, and it was in his tomb that Jesus was laid. You did not think a poor carpenter could afford a stone tomb such as that, did you?”

  “I recollect him now,” I assured her.

  “He became one of the first Christian bishops. He sailed north, landing on our island at Glastonbury, back when all those marshes were under water and Glastonbury lay on the coast. There he struck his staff on the ground upon setting foot on land, and a hawthorn tree sprouted from it. This is the Holy Hawthorn.” She smiled triumphantly, her eyes glowing. “It is still there today, some say, for being holy, of course, it has survived the ages.”

  “What a very interesting legend,” I managed to say.

  Her look soured. “It is not legend. It is the truth. And he put the chalice of Christ in a deep well very close to it. You know, the Holy Grail. Why, the water still runs red with Christ’s blood even today.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, though my credulity was strained. “Thank you for showing me your beautiful church.”

  “Oh. Well, come back any time, dear. My, look at the hour. It’s long past when I should be starting the father’s supper. Would you like to stay and eat with us?”

  “I am afraid I cannot. They are expecting me at the manor. But I will come and see you again.”

  She tried to be cheerful, but clearly she was disappointed to be losing me. “Come early, dear, and we’ll have a nice tea.”

  I paused at the doors of the church, my gaze straying to a silver bowl set upon a table against a wall. Above it a crucifix hung, and I swallowed at the sight of that broken body.

  On impulse, I turned back to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Tigwalt, as you know, I am not a Catholic. But I came here today because I am having some difficulty, and I think this church has given me solace.”

  Her eyes glistened instantly. “Oh, dear, that is so very good to hear,” she said with passion.

  I felt guilty for my deceit. Except it really wasn’t completely untrue. “Might I trouble you to ask for some holy water?”

  “My goodness, of course, dear. I have only to get a jar for you to take it away in.” She began to rush toward the back of the church where a door stood at an angle from the main exit doors. “There should be something back in here. People do like to take the holy water. Let me see, what can we use as a vial?”

  The room contained a stock of priestly vestments and an assortment of
objects—cruets for the water and wine and dull flat trays with handles. While Mrs. Tigwalt was distracted rummaging about, I slipped quickly to the other side of the nave where it opened into the narthex. The symmetrical design of the church demanded another font.

  I took the matching crucifix from its nail, muttering a quick prayer of forgiveness. The urgent and secretive need that pressed upon me was not logical, but I felt desperate. I secreted my boon in my reticule and resumed my position in time so that when Mrs. Tigwalt emerged with a tiny vial and dipped it into the basin, I appeared to have gone nowhere.

  “Thank you,” I said, offering a coin as she pressed the talisman into my hand.

  “Oh, my dear, no!” she declared, clearly horrified that I would try to pay her.

  I could not have her refuse. For my own conscience’s sake, I would insist on remuneration for what I’d stolen. “For the poor,” I urged, and she relented.

  “All right then. You had better hurry, missus, if you are going to make it back to the manor before dark,” she urged.

  “Please remember my message to Father Luke.”

  “Oh, my dear, I am going to tell him all about you.” She beamed. “He adores this church as much as I do. He’s absolutely devoted to it. He’ll be so sorry to have missed a chance to show it to you.”

  I waved weakly, realizing I had just made a grave error. I’d needed the crucifix. But, now, when my theft was discovered, I would no doubt be a persona non grata with Mrs. Tigwalt and Father Luke, generous donation aside.

  And I needed Father Luke to tell me what he’d been doing in that graveyard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That evening, after a tense supper, I played cards with Alyssa to make amends. She was sullen, but allowed my penance.

  I did not permit myself even so much as a glance in the direction of the brooding Mr. Fox. He sat amongst our company, wrapped in the dark thoughts he’d never share. He had made that very clear when he’d refused to explain his inordinate interest in my mother. Whatever strange path Mr. Fox walked, he walked it alone.

  As did I. And though perhaps I did not know all, or even enough, I knew something. Thus, when everyone was abed, I stole into Henrietta’s room as silently and stealthily as a thief. I anointed her with the holy water I’d gotten from Mrs. Tigwalt and improvised some prayers.

  Standing over the child, performing these ministrations, I was struck by how easily my reality had reformed around this belief in supernatural menace. Tears pricked my eyes. My own credulity marveled at my actions, and I stared at the vial of holy water. I thought for a moment I had perhaps indeed slipped into the tortured world of my mother. I had gone mad, just as everyone knew I would.

  There was a certain freedom in believing this, if I could. There would be no shadowed fight to be waged, and Henrietta would really be safe. I would trade my sanity for that, I knew. I would lay down my life and more for the child, embrace madness if it meant I could see her live free of the evil I felt around her even now, for my senses seemed sharpened toward it.

  Henrietta lay undisturbed, her full, rounded cheeks flushed with the kiss of untroubled sleep. An impulse bade me touch the stolen crucifix against her skin. What else could I do to safeguard her against the night? Should I spread salt about, as Fox had done? And garlic—was that a powerful repellent, as superstition held? I needed to research what kinds of things were held by tradition to ward off evil.

  I fell asleep in a chair by Henrietta’s bedside until a breeze rifling through the room woke me. I was sure no window had been left open. Immediately alert, I leapt to my feet and rushed into the schoolroom. The furniture, blanketed in the deep coal-gray of shadow, appeared as strange, disjointed forms, taking on sinister aspects in my unsettled state of mind.

  I noticed a sudden drop in temperature, more than could be accounted for by the breeze. I followed the bank of windows to discover the last one at the far end stood open. The pitch of the moonless night lay silent this early in the spring. Somehow that silence was eerie, unnatural.

  I put both hands on the sash, pulling it down with all of my strength. The heavy frame of glass rumbled in its tracks so that the sound I thought I heard behind me was almost swallowed by it. But not quite. I heard, distinctly, the scrape of a shoe on bare floorboards.

  I whirled to find the room empty. Despite the evidence of my eyes, I had the strangest feeling it was not vacant at all. I waited, my hand gripping the purloined crucifix, until all was quiet once again.

  “You are avoiding me,” Fox said to me immediately after breakfast. He stood close to me because he did not wish to be overheard. However, I found his proximity strangely and disturbingly distracting.

  Mary’s shrill call saved me from having to make a reply. “Come, now, everyone, we are to have a croquet match!”

  “Do you play?” I asked Mr. Fox, assuming an arch tone as I moved past him.

  He narrowed his eyes as he fell into step with me. “Admit it. You are put out with me.”

  “I am merely accepting of the state of affairs between us. I realize we are not friends, not even business partners, but only had a common purpose for a time. That time is over.”

  He lifted his head, an arrogant gesture I was not sure whether I despised or admired. I held my tongue, although I wanted badly to tell him what I thought of his cryptic references to my mother, for our last interaction was still firmly lodged in my craw.

  Had I thought he would give over one small detail of why he had found the topic of my mother’s fate relevant, I would have pursued our conversation, but I’d despaired of his being forthcoming. “I am going to play croquet,” I said as I brushed past him. “May I proceed?”

  I picked up my pace, joining the others gathered on the lawn. A few moments later, he departed, and I was annoyed at the pang of regret I felt at his absence.

  Putting matters of Mr. Fox firmly out of my mind, I applied myself to my mallet and ball. As I tend to excel at sporting activities, I did well in the match; Roger crowed at his cleverness in selecting me for his partner.

  “For me,” he announced to a glowering Sebastian and bored Mr. Farrington, who were our opponents, “the game is not so much here”—he swung his mallet smoothly—“as here.” He tapped his temple, then looked meaningfully in my direction.

  “Roger, please do not provoke our guests,” Mary chided. She and Alyssa were seating in rattan chairs that had been carried out to the lawn in preparation for our eating luncheon al fresco later. “You are being a beast.”

  “But I am winning, my love,” he called cheerfully.

  He howled with pleasure when I struck Mr. Farrington’s ball and, placing my foot on my ball, delivered a steady stroke that sent his far into the rough. Sebastian groaned and threw himself into an empty chair. “That is the end of us!”

  The game quickly transformed into a rivalry of the two brothers. When it was concluded and we’d won, Sebastian groused while Roger gloated. We rested afterward under the shade provided by the Grecian-style folly and refreshed ourselves with glasses of lemonade so cold it made my teeth ache.

  A maid came from the house and whispered to Mary. My cousin’s head came up sharply, and she turned to me, her eyes very wide. “But, of course, Beth, show him in.”

  She waved to Roger, who bent his head for a moment before jerking it back up to stare at me as well. “Well, well,” he said, and smiled broadly.

  The momentary mystery was solved when a lean figure, walking slightly bent over a silver-topped cane, emerged onto the flagstones and made his way down the three wide steps to the lawn.

  I recognized him at once and stood, exclaiming, “Uncle Peter!”

  His smile upon his seeing me bent his eyes with deep pleasure into half-moons. “Emma, my love,” he purred in his heavily accented tones. He folded me in his arms, neither one of us caring about the spectacle we provided for the others. “I am so very glad to see you.”

  Emotion welled inside me. The man had been my Prince Peter in all of
my stories, and my Sir Peter when I needed a knight to rescue my imagined imperiled self in a daydream. His patience and attention had given me reason to suspect I was, after all, someone of worth, even if only to him.

  “Whatever are you doing in Wiltshire?” I asked, pulling back to look at him. His face was lined more deeply than when last I had gazed upon it.

  “Why, I’ve come to see you, of course.” He paused meaningfully, his gaze boring into mine—never losing his smile—before lifting to include the others. “And Alyssa and her new husband.”

  On cue, my sister drifted forward, presenting her cheek coolly. She was miffed at the slight, which had been rather obvious, of his having taken special notice of me first. “Hello, Uncle Peter. It is good to see you.”

  “You are as lovely as ever, dear Alyssa. And Mary, my dear, you grow as regal as your great queen. I hope you do not object to my descending upon your house party.”

  Mary greeted him with genuine warmth. “Indeed not, Mr. Ivanescu. You do us an honor.”

  Mary had loved him, too, I recalled. Alyssa and I had made her a third daughter-in-residence when Uncle Peter visited so she wouldn’t miss any of his perplexing riddles, the amazing sleight of hand he was apt to produce to surprise us, or the thrilling stories that were his specialty when he was in the right mood.

  “I am staying in the village inn, of course. I would have sent word, but I could not resist seeing the surprise myself.” Again, his gaze rested upon me.

  Mary was appalled. “But you must stay with us.”

  He held up his hand. “No, I will not hear of it. Besides, my man is unpacking my portmanteau even as we speak, so the matter is quite settled. But I will not quibble if you were to offer me some of your lovely English tea.”

  “Yes, yes, come in, please. You must meet everyone.”

  I followed, dazed and deliriously pleased. Mr. Fox had materialized again, and he tried to catch my eye, but I was not of a mind to tangle with him at present.