An All-Consuming Fire Page 16

  “We don’t know. The best we can guess is a monk. Sometime in the fourteenth century. But it’s all guesswork really. And yet this slim volume, written with great force and originality in singularly vigorous and eloquent English, about which we know so little, has influenced some five centuries of those seeking to deepen their devotion and understand more of the ways of God. Or, as our unknown author puts it—to pierce the Cloud of Unknowing.”

  Harry shouted “Cut” in a voice geared to a room several times the size of the one they were working in and led his crew out to a more spacious, more picturesque area where they finished their filming beneath a Gothic arch with a statue in the background. Joy Wilkins took her place beside Antony wearing a silky blue dress that emphasized the color of her eyes.

  He was ready for her first question as to why readers still choose to engage with a work written half a millennium ago. Antony held up the papers he had selected from a newsstand that very morning, telling of war, disease and conflict. “Because people are still looking for answers for the same problems. People are looking for God.”

  “And how does the Cloud Author suggest people find him—or her?”

  “‘The most godly knowing of God is that the which is known by unknowing,’ our unknown author says. Finding God can never be a merely intellectual pursuit. The nature of God can’t be understood by our rational minds alone, so we must apprehend him another way—through love because God is love. As our author says, ‘love may reach to God in this life, but not knowing.’”

  “So love can break through the Cloud of Unknowing?” Joy prompted.

  “Our author recommends short prayers, which he calls darts which ‘pierceth heaven’, he says. But feelings are more important than words. We can pierce the cloud with ‘a sharp dart of longing love.’

  “And he tells us that seeing God this way is a ‘blind beholding,’” Antony added. He hoped his words made more sense to his listeners than they did to him. Recent events had done nothing but emphasize to him the blindness—the unknowing—of so much of this life. But he didn’t dare examine it too closely. This was no time to encounter a crisis of faith.

  Yet, what if he didn’t find answers to the questions piling up in his daily life? Could he in good conscience continue without a ‘beholding’? At least a blind one—whatever that was?

  Chapter 17

  A short time later Antony held a single, golden thought to himself, allowing it to draw him forward across the darkness of the moors, even causing him to be thankful for Cynthia’s high speed driving as the headlights sliced through the black that descended like a pall. At home there would be, if not an answer, at least light, warmth, comfort, love—all that Felicity had come to represent in his life. At the end of the day, at the conclusion of the journey across the stygian moors, Felicity would be there.

  Father Paulinus, Tara, Alfred… Not to mention the list of alarms and accidents that had plagued recent days… It was too much. The darkness from the moors seeped into the car. Into Antony’s mind. Even the golden talisman of coming home to Felicity dimmed under the onslaught of darkness.

  And then Cynthia turned off the Leeds Road onto Stocksbank. The familiar towers of the Community of the Transfiguration loomed silhouetted through the bare tree branches on his right. A turn to the left and a rectangle of golden light poured onto the lane from their cottage window.

  Hardly waiting for Cynthia to turn off the engine, Antony jumped out of the car and was through the front door. “Felicity!”

  “In here, Squib.” His sister’s voice called him into the front room. Gwena sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a pile of pink bows.

  “Felicity. Where is she? Is she all right?” Antony was surprised at the urgent harshness in his own voice.

  “Of course she is. Why shouldn’t she be?” Gwen held up a bow. “For the tables at the reception. Pretty, huh?”

  “But where is she?”

  His sister shrugged. “She went down to the quarry with some reporter woman. Melissa somebody. Promo for the pageant, I suppose.” Gwen looked vaguely at the darkened window. “Been gone a long time.”

  Cynthia breezed in and tossed her coat on the sofa. “How did your rehearsal go today, Gwen?”

  “Just went over the music at the centre. Too dark to work at the theatre by the time the police were done at the quarry.”

  Cynthia dropped to the floor and began twisting a length of satin ribbon into a pink puff. Antony couldn’t wait around to hear more. He couldn’t explain why, but he was seized with a sense that something wasn’t right.

  He charged back out into the night. Felicity had gone to the quarry with Melissa Egbert. Little chance the Sun reporter was any more interested in the pageant than she had been in a mini-series on the mystics. She would have sniffed out Alfred’s death as she had Tara’s and would be set on sensationalizing it. Serial murderer—or something even more demonic—stalking Yorkshire Moors. Antony shivered.

  Inside the community grounds Antony lost his footing on the slick path and fell to one knee. He pushed himself upright, berating himself for his failure to bring a torch. There was nothing for it but to call in at in his room.

  Torch tucked under his arm, he took an extra moment to try ringing Felicity’s mobile, realizing how foolish he would feel if she and Melissa were having a cozy coffee in the common room. The incessant, hollow, unanswered ring at the other end of the line, however, only served to increase his urgency.

  Antony wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the tarry darkness was even thicker on the back side of the community. His torch barely made a pinpoint of light on the stone steps descending into the quarry. “Felicity!” He shouted. Surely the women wouldn’t still be here. What could they possibly accomplish in this blackness? And cold. He shivered. “Felicity!” His voice echoed off the walls of the quarry.

  At the foot of the stairs Antony stopped and played the thin light of his torch as far as it would reach over the floor of the quarry. Empty. He started to turn back when his beam struck something. Something red in the grass.

  Two strides took Antony to Felicity’s red knit cap. He held it at arms’ length, considering. What did this mean? What was it doing here? Why would she have taken it off?

  He played his flashlight over the ground. The newly cut grass was too short to tell him if there had been a struggle. But were those red splotches? He dropped to his knees and examined the rough quarry floor in the dim light of his torch. Blood? Could it be blood?

  The picture of Alfred so recently sprawled only a few yards from here with similar rusty brown smears seeping from his broken head made Antony’s stomach clench. What had happened here?

  Every possible answer his mind could pull up chilled him more. All that had happened since his involvement in the film began—it was far too much for normal human error. Or even malicious pranks. Someone was trying to stop the project. Stop him. And there was one thing in this world that would stop him dead in his tracks. Felicity.

  If any harm had come to her—

  No. Harm to Felicity was not what would stop him. It was what would spur him to action. He had held back far too long—denying any need for his own involvement—when the evidence was swirling all around him—beginning that first night with the fireworks explosion interrupting his study. The fire that destroyed Father Paulinus’ notes and killed him, the accident with the camera, Tara’s death—they were obviously connected. It was harder to see how Alfred’s death and drugs in the quarry could be related—but they must be.

  And now—Felicity. It was fine to say the police would deal with it, they were the professionals. But Felicity was his.

  All the fine determination in the world, however, was of little use. Felicity was still missing.

  His mind slowed with dread, and yet his feet stumbling with urgency, Antony circled the quarry, calling her name repeatedly. Always answered only by the empty echo.

  Even in the dark it was obvious that there was little hiding place
here now that the weeds and scrub had been cleared out. Even the smallest gum wrapper or fag end would have been bagged by the police squad so recently looking for evidence to explain Alfred’s death.

  All that was left was the stage itself with its cavernous black underbelly. Getting a firm grip on himself, Antony forced his stiff legs to carry him forward.

  He had to steel himself against the fear of seeing again Alfred’s bloodied head in the stream of torch light, even though he knew it had long been removed by the police. And, indeed, a few minutes later he could confirm that the understage was as pristine as the entire quarry.

  Clutching Felicity’s hat as if it could lead him to her whereabouts, he blundered his way back to the cottage. This time the golden light falling from the windows seemed a garish warning of danger rather than the welcoming beacon it had been earlier.

  And then his heart filled with gladness. Through the window he glimpsed a head of long, golden hair. “Felicity!” He punctuated his joyous cry with a slam of the door.

  But the radiant blond woman who met him in the hall was not Felicity.

  “Oh, isn’t she with you?” Melissa Egbert asked, flipping her hair back over her shoulders.

  And now he could see that, indeed, it was the shorter, slighter woman he had seen through the window.

  “Yes, we were together earlier this afternoon,” Melissa replied to Antony’s urgent grilling. “She was anxious to tell me about the pageant, even if I can’t manage to get a line on this second unexplained death. The police don’t seem to have much, either. Or if they do, they aren’t sharing with the press, that’s for sure. It’s all just too, too coincidental, though, after that make-up girl hanging herself, don’t you agree?”

  Antony felt he would like to shake her. “Where did you leave Felicity?”

  “At the quarry. About four-thirty I suppose. It was starting to get dark, but she wanted to walk through some business she was thinking of for the pageant. Something to do with llamas, I think she said. I had an appointment with Father Sylvester at the St. James Centre. Quietest man I’ve ever met. How on earth he puts up with those noisy youth I’ll never know. Anyway, I came back to tell Felicity…”

  But Antony had long quit listening as he pulled his mobile from his pocket and scrolled down to his entry for the West Yorkshire Police. It was a depressing fact that he even had the police in his phone. A pleasant female voice answered on the second ring. Antony forced himself to sound calm and explain the situation as clearly as he could.

  “And how long has this person been missing?” The efficient voice enquired, the speaker obviously filling out a form.

  Antony explained. “Yes, only a few hours,” he had to admit. But he was certain something was wrong. “Definitely out of character. Yes. Absolutely.” Well, there was her inclination to impetuous behavior. Still… “Capable of taking care of herself?” He sighed at the next question. “Yes. Yes, she is.” At least she would think she is. He prayed God that she was.

  The last of his description entered on the form, Constable Jones gave him her set speech: “In cases like this we advise families to contact ‘Missing People’ who will be able to provide support, advice and practical help at this difficult time.” She gave him a number which he didn’t bother to write down.

  “I can assure you sir, that the majority of persons reported missing return soon after their disappearance without suffering any harm.”

  Antony rang off. Afterwards, he couldn’t remember whether he had thanked the constable or not. Thank her for what? Filling in a form? It was obvious that was the extent of the help he would get from that quarter. Felicity was not a ‘majority of persons reported missing’ she was the dearest person in the universe. And she was missing. On a cold, dark night. With three unexplained deaths in a few days.

  Antony pulled on his recently discarded coat and checked that his torch was still in his pocket. “I’m going out. Search the grounds—” His thoughts were incoherent, but he knew he couldn’t stay here and do nothing.

  “Just a minute, I’ll go with you,” Cynthia said. “Did you look in the church? Maybe she’s checking something for the wedding.”

  Antony’s heart soared. Was it possible? He picked up Felicity’s red hat. She would need it. Without waiting for Cynthia he lunged toward the hall.

  The front door slammed so hard it almost knocked him back into the living room. “Oh, I am sooo mad!” A stomping of feet punctuated the angry voice. The lovely, beloved angry voice. “Can you believe they stole my notes!” A wild-eyed, wild-haired Felicity stormed into the room. “And I’ve got a blinding headache.”

  She looked at Antony, standing there speechless. “You’ve got my hat!” She flung herself into his arms, and broke into sobs.

  Chapter 18

  “Darling! You’re bleeding!” Cynthia was the first to spring into action. She tore her daughter from Antony’s arms and led her to the kitchen where she pushed her into a chair and began bathing the cut beneath the red-streaked golden hair with warm water.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” she glared at Antony. “Isn’t there a first aid kit around here somewhere?”

  That jarred him into action. Yes. Somewhere. Bathroom, maybe? He stumbled down the hall. By the time he had finished tumbling the bathroom cupboard to no avail, Gwena had produced the small white box marked with a red cross from the shelf beside the cooker and Cynthia had parted Felicity’s matted hair to reveal the oozing goose egg lump on the back of her head.

  Melissa looked up from the notes she was scribbling. “Shouldn’t we take her to accident and emergency?”

  “No!” Felicity was adamant. “The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of the night in a dingy emergency room. I’m fine. At least I will be.”

  Felicity flinched as Cynthia dabbed at her head with a fresh cloth. “Sorry, darling, I am being careful.”

  “Here.” Gwena held Felicity’s hand and shook two paracetamol into it, followed by a steaming mug of sweet tea. “Get that inside you.”

  Antony drew breath to argue about going to the doctors. Surely she should be seen to. What if she had concussion? A fracture? What if…

  “Where’s that torch you had?” Gwena demanded. Antony drew it from his pocket. Gwena took the half-drunk tea from Felicity’s hands, tilted her head back and shone the light into her eyes. Felicity blinked. “Pupils constricted. Good. Do you feel dizzy?”

  “No.”

  “Nauseous?”

  “No.”

  “Did you black out?”

  “It was black,” Felicity answered with considerable asperity.

  “She’s all right.”

  “How should I bandage this? I don’t see any ointment.” Cynthia was rifling through the contents of the first aid kit.

  Melissa looked up from her mobile where she had been scrolling down the screen. “NHS says, ‘Do not use antiseptic because it may damage the tissue and slow down healing. Pat the area dry with a clean towel. Apply a sterile adhesive dressing, such as a plaster.’ There you have it.”

  “No adhesive,” Felicity ordered.

  “Clean gauze, then an ice pack,” Gwena prescribed.

  The first aid seemed interminable to Antony who could only watch helplessly from the sideline. He was grateful for the ministrations of Felicity’s mother and her efficient female assistants but he wanted Felicity to himself. He wanted to know more about what had happened. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her.

  As it was, the activity in the kitchen was followed with a hot bath for the patient, during which Antony, abandoned in the front room, notified Constable Jones that, indeed, the missing person had shown up. But not as unscathed as the constable had so blithely predicted.

  Melissa kept him company on the sofa. “So, how did your work at Ampleforth go today?”

  Antony had no desire to be distracted by idle chatter, but courtesy demanded that he answer, so he told her about examining the early manuscripts of The Cloud. Then he remembe
red, “Oh, I forgot to tell Father Theobald.”

  At Melissa’s probing he told her about the sheet of notes he found tucked in the ancient volume. “I suppose I should ring Theobald.”

  “Don’t worry,” Melissa said. “I’ll be in that area tomorrow. I’ll pass on your message. Which box was it in?”

  Antony told her, then they both lapsed into silence until the gurgling drain in the bath gave Antony hope that he could have some time alone with Felicity. But Cynthia tucked her daughter up in bed and shooed Antony on his way. “She’ll be much better in the morning.”

  “But shouldn’t someone sit up with her? What if she needs—”

  “We’ll take it in turns. Melissa is staying over, too. Sharing the sofa bed with Gwena. You go get some sleep.” She ushered him to the door. “Or pray.” The door clicked behind him and he was alone in the night.

  Chapter 19

  Feast of the Holy Innocents

  Cynthia’s advice was good, Antony supposed, but neither her directive to rest nor to pray seemed within his reach as he tossed, turned and fretted through the dark hours of the night. At least the cold, moist air was halfway reviving as he hurried, almost blindly, down the hill to the cottage at first light the next morning.

  He raised his hand to deliver an insistent knock on the door. In just over a week he wouldn’t have to knock. He would be at home here. Cynthia flung the door open. “You look worse than she does.” She stepped back for him to rush past her into the narrow hallway.

  Felicity was sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of white pillows, a tray with tea and toast on her lap. Antony just shook his head and gazed at her, his heart too full to speak. She held out her hand to him, drawing him into the room. He leaned over and kissed her gingerly, afraid of doing anything to increase her discomfort.

  Felicity, however, put her other hand on the back of his head and pulled him forward. When they broke for air she giggled. “Silly, I won’t break.”