An All-Consuming Fire (27 page)

Felicity risked one more look over the protecting vegetation, then dropped to her knees with a gasp. They were coming her way. It was too late to run or to hide. She grabbed Antony, pulled him to the ground on top of her and planted an enormous kiss on his face. She was aiming for his lips, but somewhat missed her target. Antony didn’t seem to object, however, as he folded his arms around her.

She waited until the footsteps on the pavement were well past them before sitting up.

But she didn’t get up. She leaned against the solid, if scratchy, hedge as she played the scene again in her mind. “We were wrong, Antony. Not an insurance fiddle. Drugs. I’m sure I just witnessed a drugs deal.”

“Harry?” The glow of the fiery sky made Antony’s normally pale face look flushed.

She nodded. “We must have been right about Studio Six needing money. And that’s how Harry was getting it.” She jumped to her feet, pulling Antony after her. “Come on. We need to call Inspector Nosterfield or somebody.”

They were nearly back to the cottage when a dark figure standing on the sidewalk outside the garden made Felicity stop so abruptly Antony almost tripped over her. Had Harry spotted them? Was he waiting to silence them before they could ring the police?

Felicity looked around frantically for a place to hide, but there was nothing. The dormant bushes bordering the narrow front garden offered no shelter. Nothing to do but face him. Surely even a truly desperate man wouldn’t attack her ten feet from her own front door.

A trio of gold and silver rockets exploded over their heads just as a clutch of youth from the centre ran by, calling New Year’s greetings to everyone and to no one.

The man on the pavement turned. Felicity gasped. “Dad!” She hurled herself at him with a joyous cry.

“Oh, Dad, I didn’t think you’d come! I was so afraid…! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” She muffled her face in his shoulder as another missile went off with an enormous bang.

“What nonsense. Of course I wouldn’t miss my chance to walk you down the aisle, Muffin.” Then he held out the hand that wasn’t gripping Felicity. “You must be Antony. I’m Andrew.”

“Come in. Everyone’s here. You won’t believe it. Mom’s made spaghetti.” Felicity pulled both men toward the cottage, its wide front window reflecting the fireworks.

Felicity’s happy New Year had begun.

F
elicity woke late the next morning with a hammer pounding her head. That was unfair. She had toasted in the New Year with Martinelli’s—or rather, what the English called Schloer—which she couldn’t say without laughing because it made one sound drunk even when only consuming sparkling grape juice.

Then on the stroke of midnight, as Big Ben chimed on the television, Gwena, who was stage-managing everything, ran to open the back door. “Got to let the old year out!” she cried, then stuck a broom in Antony’s hands. “Here, Squib, your honors—you’ve the darkest hair. Even if I wouldn’t call you tall and handsome. At least you’re strange enough.”

“Thanks,” he said and took the broom obediently.

And they had all followed Antony as he vigorously swung the broom, backing from the open front door through the cottage to the back, sweeping the New Year in and the old year out. Felicity put her hand to her throbbing head. It would have been all right if Gwen had merely concluded with their rather raucous singing of “Auld Lang Syne” but then she pulled all the pots and pans from Felicity’s cupboard and insisted they march through the house—and around the garden—repeatedly—banging pots and lids. Felicity was certain her cooking utensils would never be the same again.

“Why are we doing this?” Antony had demanded on the second loop through the cottage. “We didn’t do this as kids.”

Gwena laughed above the ruckus. “Can you imagine Aunt Beryl allowing such a thing? I learned it when we had a long run in Stoke—it’s to scare the devil out the back door.”

Felicity saw Antony’s grimace at that. He was undoubtedly thinking their annual house blessing at Epiphany was more to the point. But the clatter had continued.

As it did now in Felicity’s head. She had to admit, though, it had been a New Year’s Eve she would never forget. Especially when the pot-banging procession marched down the hall past the living room and she had glanced in to discover her parents sitting very close to one another on the couch in the glow of the now-drooping Christmas tree with the light of distant fireworks illuminating their shared smiles.

A pounding head was a small price to pay for that sight.

Felicity was wondering whether to make the attempt to get out of bed when Gwena came in with a tea tray. “Ready for a cuppa?”

Felicity reached for a mug. “Just what my head needs. I’ve never welcomed in a new year like that.”

Gwen sipped and leaned back in her hair. “Fun, huh? Only thing we missed was having a tall, handsome stranger carry a lump of coal over the doorstep.” She was quiet for a moment. “That brother of yours would qualify.”

“Jeff? He’s all right, isn’t he?” Felicity hadn’t thought of either of her brothers in those terms.

“More than all right, I’d say. What about the women in his life?”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. So that’s what Gwen was getting at. “I don’t have any idea about anything current. He’s always been such a workaholic. I suppose he got that from our mother. Shall I enquire?”

“No, don’t bother. I like a bit of mystery. And competition.” Gwen gave her a saucy grin.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Felicity’s family which necessitated bringing out the slightly battered frying pan. “Scrambled all right for everyone?” Cynthia pulled a bowl of lovely brown eggs out of the refrigerator as Felicity dug in the back for a package of bacon and Gwen filled the electric kettle. Felicity took secret pleasure in watching Cynthia serve Andrew. Then she smiled as Gwena seemed to take delight in making a special pot of coffee for Jeff who requested that rather than tea. All that reminded Felicity to put a few slices of bacon aside for Antony who would be joining them after mass.

Antony’s arrival was later than she had anticipated, however, and the bacon had long gone cold. “No worries, I’ll just have a butty,” he said.

Felicity put the bacon between two slices of buttered bread and handed it to him. “I thought you’d be here ages ago. Is everything all right?”

“I hope so. I’ve been swatting up Walter Hilton for tomorrow. Haven’t taught him for donkey’s years. Think I’ve got it down now, though.”

Jeff and Charlie drifted back into the kitchen from where they had been visiting with everyone in the living room. Their entrance reminded Felicity of their unfinished conversation from the day before. “All right, you two. I still want to know the meaning of those supercilious looks you were exchanging yesterday.” Felicity started a fresh pot of coffee for her brothers.

“Well, it might be nothing,” Jeff began.

“You didn’t look like nothing yesterday,” Felicity insisted.

“Thing is, I was typing fast—” Charlie began.

“Stop making excuses, we all know it was Freudian,” Jeff interrupted with a smirk.

Charlie grinned in return. “Okay, so I somehow searched for Studio Sex rather than Studio Six.”

“And something turned up?” Felicity asked.

“Your firewall warned me I might not want to go there. Then I knew I did.” His brother started to jeer. “To the website, I mean.”

“So what is it, a massage parlor?”

“No, it’s a film studio.” Now Charlie’s lighthearted leers turned to a grimace.

“Porn, you mean?” Felicity prodded.

Jeff nodded. “Afraid so.”

“But that doesn’t mean…”

“No, but there’s more. Thing is, Jeff checked the company’s registration. It’s in the name of H. F. Lund. Awfully close to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Harry Forslund?” Felicity frowned. It sounded plausible. She turned to Antony. “What do you think? Would Harry drug Sylvia’s dog to get her out of the way so he could shoot porn?”

“I suppose it’s possible. Certainly as good as any other theory we’ve come up with.” Antony paused, then shook his head. “Does that mean Harry killed Tara?”

“Because she found out what he was up to? Maybe tried a bit of blackmail? Threatened to tell Sylvia, for example?”

“Interesting speculation. But that’s all it is,” Jeff reminded them.

Antony nodded. “We’re still missing something. It doesn’t seem like all the pieces fit.”

“It still seems worth a call to Nosterfield,” Felicity said.

But before Antony could ring the police his mobile rang. He looked at the name on the screen. “Melissa Egbert. I wonder what she wants.” He stepped into the hall before taking the call.

He was back in the kitchen a few minutes later. “You’ll never guess. She thinks she might have found Father Paulinus’ notes.”

“You mean they weren’t destroyed by the fire? Where did she find them? What do they say?”

Antony explained briefly to Felicity’s brothers about the fire that killed the monk whose role as guide to the mini-series Antony had then been drafted in to fill. Then back to Melissa, “When she was here before she mentioned she would be going to Ampleforth—research on some article she was working on. I mentioned the doodles I found in an early copy of
The Cloud of Unknowing
.”

Antony smiled. “It seems they must have been a clue. As least she said she found what appears to be Paulinus’s notebook shelved with a book by J. Peacock. I think it was Paulinus’s joke. She was very clever to figure it out. I certainly didn’t.”

Felicity tried to recall what she knew about Melissa’s work. “She told me she was intrigued to learn how one family had hung onto the Rievaulx lands for so long. Could there have been something in Father Paulinus’s notes about that?”

“She said she’s not sure how to interpret them, but if she’s right it could be important. That was all she’d say on the telephone. That’s why she wants to meet.”

“You mean she has the notes? She took them out of the library? Stole them?” Felicity was shocked.

Antony spread his hands. “Or copied them. Or photographed, or something. I didn’t quiz her. I just agreed to meet and look them over.”

“She’s coming here?”

“No, she had some family do on this afternoon. I suggested we meet tomorrow after my filming at Thurgarton.”

“I wonder what she can have found?”

“I don’t know, but she sounded excited. Whatever it is, she’s convinced it’s important.”

“Great, I’m going with you. I can’t wait to see what she found.” Felicity’s mind was racing. “Do you realize this could be the key to the whole thing? You just said we were missing a piece of the puzzle. The cost of keeping up an estate like that must be phenomenal today. I saw a program about that on the BBC not too long ago—all the things they have to do. Creating tourist attractions and selling farm produce and all that. Maybe Harry is working for the Duncombe family. There can be a lot of money in drugs and porn, can’t there?”

Jeff was practically convulsed with laughter by the time his sister stopped for a breath. “You’re wasted in ministry, Sis. You should be writing fiction. Do you realize you just took bits from unrelated sources and spun all of that out of thin air?”

Felicity tossed her head. “I don’t care what you say. I want to read those notes.”

Antony didn’t protest, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. It was settled in Felicity’s mind. If Father Paulinus had found out about Harry’s extracurricular work and now Melissa was going to share that information with Antony—practically under Harry’s nose—there was no way Felicity was going to let Antony go alone onto the film set of a man who had already killed three times.

A
ntony took a deep breath and looked into the camera. “Today we are at Thurgarton Priory where Walter Hilton wrote his spiritual masterpiece. Hilton is a most unusual man: a monk who was also a lawyer; a lawyer who was also a mystic.” Antony paused to smile.

“Hilton is often cited as the most practical and accessible of the mystics. The very title many editors have applied to his major work
The Ladder of Perfection
implies concreteness, an orderly ascent in easy steps to progress in the spiritual life.” The pale midmorning sun hadn’t yet melted the tiny jewels of frost that sparkled on the ragged winter grass where Antony stood on the lawn beside Thurgarton church.

Their journey that morning had taken over an hour and a half, the longest they had traveled for a filming, but much of it had been on the M1 and Antony never failed to admire Cynthia’s efficient, if fast, driving. It was with a sense of enormous relief that he delivered his prepared speech on Walter Hilton, the last of the English mystics they would be covering for the series. If all went well this would be his final day of filming. Antony couldn’t believe the sense of relief that thought gave him. He was determined to stay on track and get his part finished as efficiently as possible.

Antony turned to view the church. “Only a fraction of the ancient Priory Church remains today. The old priory was taken down in the mid-eighteenth century and the owner erected the present mansion on its site, the cellars of which are the only portions of the religious sanctuary that now remain.” Antony waited while Fred turned Ginger’s eye on the fine red brick stately home which abutted the church.

When Ginger pointed again at the tower of the church Antony continued. “What you see here is the Priory Church of St. Peter, the southwest tower of what was originally a pair of such structures, built in the thirteenth century. Even though it’s only a fraction of the original, there is still much that Walter Hilton would recognize from the busy days he spent here. And it’s still a magnificent structure, rising six stories from the green lawn.” Antony pointed, inviting the camera to pan the height. “Each level is pierced by a series of Gothic arches in what students of church architecture would identify as the Perpendicular style.

“To the south, where they would have caught the warmth on sunny days, would have been the cloisters, dormitory for the sixty members of the community, the prior’s lodging, kitchen and chapter house where the canons would have gathered daily to hear a chapter read to them from the Augustinian Rule they followed and to conduct business.”