Maggie felt hairs rising on her neck. “Are you sure what he said is true?”

The priest nodded, “Yes,” he pointed toward the mirror, eyes looking down. “She appears in it.” He left this trail here. “The point is, through this and the man, Conrad, pieces of your clippings tie in. Elizabeth herself was led from that room. Into a kitchen where there was a cellar. Within was a hatch leading to a false wall where a child had been bricked in alive.”

Maggie’s face drained. To be buried alive was one thing. Jacob mentioned the watchmen as they entered the cemetery. They listened for the tinkling of a bell as some poor soul opened their eyes in the darkness. That didn’t bear thinking about. Saved by the Bell, it had a solid foundation as a saying. But to brick up a child that was not even comatose was unthinkable.

“I see this sits badly, Maggie, as it should for any normal circumstance.”

“But you’re a priest, dammit.”

“And an exorcist,” he looked at her, gauging reactions. “Another thing I keep secret lest all manner of miscreants seeks blessings of a different kind.” He turned toward a bookcase. In it was a panel which he pulled aside. Within that was a latch. This he released, and the shelving opened outwards.

Another small room came into view that was floor-to-ceiling in oak. On it were books and parchments. All looked old, with some scripted in long-dead languages, but Maggie's eyes rested on a cabinet. The staves within it she did recognise. More elaborate than those they had entered the graveyard with, but the function remained the same.

“What are you, father?” She hated secrets and those of God had worn her out. Divine knowledge held to combat the darkness locked away leaving followers like the priest shunned by non-believers as a charlatan. It would do Joan of Arc no good as a defence, or the Knights Templar for that matter. Or them if the sanguisuge came knocking.

He picked a book from the case, “Read this when time allows, Maggie.”

The title was in French, Affaire des possédées de Loudun. She looked quizzical.

“I know you are fluent in several languages. This is an example of why such matters are not public. However, this distracts from your question.” He paused, contemplating, before taking courage from his faith. “The story goes the child was a monster, a sanguisuge from long before the beechwoods took the house. The marsh was once pasture. It was created to purge a folly in the centre. Some say this is the resting place of the child's creator; others say it is a gateway to Hell itself. Either way, it has passed into common lore as unconsecrated. A desecrated place that is a door to another world full of magic and daemons.”

“If it were not for Eleanor, I’d think you a madman.”

“Hence the need for secrecy.”