An All-Consuming Fire Read online

  Antony moved the tea tray from the bed and pulled up a chair. “I was so worried.” He swallowed. “How’s your head?”

  “Not bad. Tender. Not as bad as the whack I got at Fairacres.” She grimaced. “Goodness, if I’m going to make a habit of this I should take to wearing protective head gear. That bobble cap wasn’t much protection.”

  Antony gripped her arm. “Felicity, it isn’t a joking matter.”

  “Oh, I know. But truly, I’m all right. I just wish I could wash my hair.”

  “Keep it dry, NHS orders.” Gwena stood in the doorway with a cup of tea for Antony. “I’ll give it a dry shampoo when I get back from rehearsal.”

  “Oh, rehearsal. I forgot.” Felicity started to push her duvet aside.

  “Stay right where you are.” Gwena tugged the duvet back into place.

  “But—” Felicity protested.

  “I can handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Gwena gave her a look that made even Antony wince.

  “Oh. Right,” Felicity agreed. “You are the professional.” She started to lean back against her pillows. “Still—” She sat up again.

  Gwena pushed her back.

  “I’ll stop at Boots on the way home and get some dry shampoo.” She turned to Antony. “You, Squib—keep her in bed.” The order was followed with a wink that held more than a hint of suggestiveness.

  “I just wish I had my notes to give her. Why on earth would anyone steal them?” Felicity’s voice still held a trace of the anger she had expressed the night before.

  “What notes were they?”

  Felicity shrugged. “It was a prompt book: script with blocking. Cast list. Notes for the characters. Lights and sound cues. Reminders for the house crew… Usual stuff.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “After Melissa left I walked through the entrances I had in mind for all the animals. I wanted to be sure the paths were clear from where Nick and Corin plan to put the pens. I was at the bottom of the stairway, making notes for Mary and Joseph. It was getting pretty dark, but I could see enough to scrawl a bit…”

  Antony nodded. “Yes, that’s where I found your hat.”

  “I heard footsteps. I thought it was Nick and Corin. I called out to them and then my head exploded. Literally. Everything went dark and I saw stars. Just like they say. Well, fireworks more than stars.”

  “Did you lose consciousness?”

  “I don’t think so. I fell forward onto my hands and knees. Dropped the prompt book. They put something over my head. Pillowcase, maybe, and pulled me to my feet.”

  “They?”

  Felicity blinked and bit her lip in thought. “I’m not sure. I had the impression there were two of them. But maybe that was just because I was expecting Nick and Corin.”

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just thought…”

  “Could it have been them?”

  “But why? What possible reason? I’d have given them my prompt book. Besides, we’re friends.”

  Antony sighed. “I know, nothing makes any sense. But you’re sure they were male?”

  “I’m not sure of anything.” She thought. “One man definitely. I just had the impression that there was someone else, too.” Felicity raised her cup to her mouth, then set it down. “Ugh. It’s cold.”

  “Where did they take you?”

  “Out of the quarry. I started screaming but it was mostly muffled by that bag on my head. I tried to kick, but I think I was pretty feeble.” She pulled up the sleeve of her pajama top. “He had big hands.”

  Anger surged through Antony when he saw the purple bruises on Felicity’s arm. “This will give that useless Constable Jones something to put in her report.” This time he got through to Sergeant Silsden and filled him in with a few emphatic phrases and a demand for action.

  “How did you get away?” He turned back to Felicity.

  “I think they—he—I’m not sure—were taking me to a car or something. I had the feeling we were heading toward the road that runs behind the community. Definitely going downhill. It was steep.”

  “Did you hear traffic?”

  Felicity considered. “Maybe. That bag on my head muddled me. And all my energy was on trying to get away. I think I scratched him.” She held out a broken fingernail. “Then I’m not sure what happened. I was struggling—kicking—and I lost my balance. I rolled. And that bag thing fell off my head—or maybe I pulled it off. It’s all a bit of a blur. Anyway, he started to pull me to my feet and—yes, we must have been by the road because there was a light. A car must have come along. Or maybe he turned a torch on. Anyway, I guess he saw me because he gave this really angry grunt like he was disgusted and shoved me away.

  “I landed face down in some bushes and I think maybe I did black out then. Anyway, next thing I knew I was back on the path coming home. And I got here and you met me with my hat.” She looked like she could cry again.

  Antony gathered her into his arms and knew it was beyond his strength to keep from crying himself.

  There was no knowing how long they might have remained clinging to one another if Cynthia hadn’t entered then with a fresh pot of tea and rack of toast.

  Antony pulled himself together. “But you never did get a look at him? Them?”

  “I should have tried, I suppose, but I was just concentrating on getting away.”

  “And good job you did.” Antony’s heartfelt reply was accompanied with a fervent squeeze of her hand.

  “I’m not sure I did, really. It sort of felt more like he threw me away.”

  Antony was quiet for a minute, considering all she had told him. At last he turned to her desk and drew out a pen and sheet of paper. “Let’s make a list. Anyone who could possibly have anything to cover up or want to destroy for any reason. No matter how absurd it sounds.” He sat with the pen poised.

  “Um, well, anyone doing drugs in the quarry,” Felicity suggested.

  “Right.” Antony wrote. “Or worse—doing a drug deal. Who do we know that that could be?”

  Felicity grimaced. “What’s the population of Kirkthorpe? Of Yorkshire?”

  “Yes, I know, it could be anyone. But think. This sounds more personal. I mean, if you’re right that he/they ‘threw you away’ when he got a good look at you, that indicates it was someone who knew you.”

  “Or didn’t know me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe they thought they had somebody else. Then saw they didn’t.”

  “Ah, like Melissa, you mean?”

  “It was pretty dark and our hairstyles are a lot alike.”

  Yes, Antony himself had momentarily confused them when he glimpsed Melissa through the window. Surely, if he could mistake another woman for Felicity… “We’ll have to ask her who might want to abduct her.”

  “We could call her or something if anyone has her number. She’s gone back to work this morning.” Felicity paused. “But you know, if that’s the case, they might have thrown my prompt book away too. Maybe they thought it was some story Melissa was working on.”

  “But wasn’t she just doing a promo piece about the pageant?”

  “I thought so, but she was awfully interested in Alfred’s death. She asked if I thought it was connected with Tara’s.”

  “I wondered about that, too.” Antony wrote Tara’s death and Alfred’s on his list. Then added Father Paulinus. And his fireworks explosion and Fred’s accident with Ginger, which now seemed very far away.

  Felicity looked at the list. “Your hit-and-run accident.” He wrote. “And that threatening note in your pocket.”

  Antony sighed. “No shortage of suspicious events, but who could possibly be connected to any of them?”

  “Well, I hate to say anything. I mean, I could be completely wrong…”

  “No matter how wild, we just need ideas here, then maybe we can see a connection. Fantasize. Who’s the least likely person connected in any
way to any of this?”

  Felicity giggled. “Father Anselm.”

  “All right. I asked for that.” But it did make Antony think. “Do we know anything about Father Sylvester?”

  “What? You’re kidding!”

  “Only a little. I mean, someone is selling drugs. Father Sylvester certainly has access to young people. He knows everyone who comes to the centre.”

  “He would be well-placed, I guess. And I suppose he would use the money for the centre. But can you imagine that mouse killing Alfred?”

  An image of the mousy lay brother who had abducted Felicity months earlier flitted across Antony’s mind. He wrote down Sylvester’s name, then changed tack. “The police seem to think Alfred’s death could have been an accident. And if someone involved in the drugs business thought you had found something—something you were writing in your notebook…”

  Felicity chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast, then held up her hand. “Wait. Stop. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Take it in order. What were the first things to happen?”

  “Father Paulinus. Then the fireworks explosion—if that was even part of all this. Then the camera thing—if it really was sabotaged. Then the hit-and-run, then Tara.”

  “Hm, all that seems focused on the mini-series. Could someone be trying to stop the film?”

  Antony frowned. “Who would want to do that?”

  Felicity took another bite of toast. “Well, a competing film company? Someone with a grudge against Harry? Or Sylvia? Someone with a grudge against the mystics?” She grimaced. “Sorry. Not a laughing matter.”

  Antony considered her words. Competing film company? What about that Australian company that wanted Harry to work for them? But that wasn’t competition, was it? Felicity continued probing. “Think about it—Rievaulx, Ampleforth—did you see anyone hanging around the set? Anyone not part of the crew? Were you aware of Harry or Sylvia getting any threatening phone calls?”

  Antony shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “Okay, what about someone in the company? Someone Harry owes money to, for example?”

  “If that were the case it seems like stopping the film would be counterproductive. Harry doesn’t give the impression of being short of a quid or two. Still…” Money could be a strong motivator. Maybe he could find out if Studio Six was behind on salaries or anything. He had seen a worried look in Harry’s eyes whenever the topic of selling the series to the BBC came up. It was likely he would be in trouble if he couldn’t sell it.

  “The company must be insured. Is it possible they could collect more from a ruined project that from selling the series?”

  The question hung in the air. Antony determined to find out all he could about the management of Studio Six. Perhaps he could ask some pertinent questions when they resumed filming on Monday. But first, he would look closer to home. The more recent happenings had been right here on the community grounds. That implied a culprit close at hand.

  “Felicity, you stay in bed. Don’t even go out in the garden without your mother.” He spoke more sharply than he meant to, but if he let himself he could easily become overwhelmed with concern for Felicity. “I have to go to noon mass—I told Father Anselm I’d give the homily. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. Anyway, I’ll look in on the pageant rehearsal afterwards.”

  “Oh, would you please? I’m sure you could give Gwen some good support. She knows all about productions, but I don’t think dealing with stroppy youth is really her thing.”

  Antony kissed her and let her think his motive was purely to help with the pageant. He didn’t want her worrying with more thoughts of evil deeds. “Remember, you’ve got a wedding to get ready for.”

  “And don’t you be forgetting that, either.” She waved him away.

  Antony walked slowly up the hill, forcing his mind from Felicity, from the unexplained deaths and mayhem around him. He had to focus on a more ancient slaughter, one that people still struggled to make sense of. Today was the Feast of the Holy Innocents. What could he say in recalling the long-ago deaths of those blameless children in Bethlehem that could be of help to people in this day? How did one make sense of any of the evil in the world?

  Today not even the peace and beauty of the community church served to order Antony’s thoughts as his feet carried him automatically to the vestry, his mind struggling to recall what he knew of the story. Estimates of the number killed varied wildly from 144,000 to fewer than twenty. Given the population of Bethlehem in the first century, a lower number was more believable. The historicity of the event itself was sometimes questioned by scholars. But there was no doubt of Herod’s use of violence to protect his power. Including murdering his own sons.

  As he tied the cincture on his white alb Antony’s mind leapt ahead. Killing to protect power. A strong motive for murder. Could that be behind the present deaths? No, he jerked his mind back with a physical shake of his head. He must stay with the subject at hand.

  Whatever the historical facts, the traditional account held together, especially as a spur for the Flight into Egypt and as a fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy and paralleling Pharaoh’s slaughter of the Hebrew children in Egypt. But most of all it was consistent with human nature. Antony sighed. Throughout the history of humankind there had been those who were willing to kill for their own purposes—those who would put their personal gain above the right of others to life itself.

  “Hymnum canentes martyrum

  dicamus Innocentium,…”

  Sing praise to the martyrs,

  let us say of the innocents…

  The chant began and Antony automatically followed along in the procession up the aisle. In the period of quiet meditation that followed his homily Antony wasn’t sure what he had said, but he knew he could do no better than the words of the collect which he repeated again in his own mind: Heavenly Father, whose children suffered at the hands of Herod, though they had done no wrong; by the suffering of your Son and by the innocence of our lives frustrate all evil designs and establish your reign of justice and peace…

  That was it. For all who suffer innocently, frustrate all evil and establish justice and peace. Amen and amen.

  He was still holding that thought uppermost in his mind a short time later as the sound of a ragged, but enthusiastically sung “We Three Kings” made Antony hurry toward the quarry. If they were already at the coming of the Magi rehearsal must be nearly completed as the visit of the Wise Men to the manger was the grand conclusion.

  And Gwendolyn’s directing was geared to ensure that that fact would be lost on no one. “…Westward leading, still proceeding/ Guide us to Thy perfect light.” The carol came to an end and Gwena strode to the middle of the stage. Even in these rustic surroundings Antony was impressed with how his sister’s stage presence commanded the attention of everyone in the theatre. She barely had to raise her voice to be heard clearly throughout the quarry. “Excellent. Wonderful! You’re all stars!” She flung out her arms to incorporate all her youthful troupe. “This will be really, really good on the night. You have all the energy and enthusiasm it will take to put this thing over.

  “I want you all to picture it with me. Everyone in costumes, torches flaring all around the rim of the quarry. Live animals around the stage. The theatre full of your admiring audience—family, friends—”

  “Enemies,” Syd murmured just loudly enough to draw guffaws from those nearest him.

  Gwena undoubtedly heard, but she ignored it as she turned to her lead Wise Man. “Melchior, you were wonderful. A natural. You have real stage presence.” Some of Syd’s assumed insouciance fell away as he puffed out his chest. “Now, we don’t want any of this to be lost on our audience. Especially when they bring in the animals. You know, we say in the business that’s the hardest thing to do—work with animals. They are terrific scene stealers and we don’t want that to happen to you.

  “Caspar, Baltasar, all three of you, come with me. We shall have a deportment lesson. You are doing v
ery, very well, but you must walk like kings.” She demonstrated. “Head up—so. Shoulders back. There now—stride like you own the earth.”

  Antony was amazed as Syd and Dylan and Shaun, who normally mimicked Syd’s slouching swagger, were transformed before his eyes. “That’s it. You’ve got it. Now. Your gifts. Remember, you are carrying gold and costly spices, the perfume of Arabia. Hold them out. Higher. That’s right. Proudly. Kings presenting to a King. The King of Kings.

  “Now, when you turn, feel the weight of your robes. It’ll be easier when you’re in costume, but try imagining it now. Heavy fur, velvet, tapestry hanging from your shoulders. Stand tall and turn so your capes swirl out.” Antony wasn’t sure whether they actually followed her instructions or Gwen just drew such vivid word pictures that he could see it in his mind, but he was amazed at the transformation in the scene before him.

  “Now, everybody,” she turned back to the full cast assembled on the stage, “Rehearsal Monday. In the meantime, I want you to practice staying in character until then. Mary.” She pointed to Flora, peeking shyly around her mass of brown curls. “I want everyone who sees you the rest of the weekend to ask why you’re so happy. I want you to practice radiating joy. You’re the Mother of God. Think about that. All the time.

  “Joseph,” Joaquin all but saluted her. “Protective. Caregiver. Strong. Everyone who comes near you feels safe. You’re the man to have around in a crisis. You can handle it. You’ve been chosen by God almighty to be the earthly protector of His Son. Got that?”

  Antony could have sworn Joaquin grew four inches before his eyes.

  And back to Syd and his scruffy henchmen. “Kings. Stately rulers. Wisdom. Men of knowledge and determination. Walk proud.”

  She went on, inspiring the shepherds to faithfulness, obedience, courage. When Gwen finished with the angels Antony all but expected to see them fly away in their beauty and grace rather than walking the earth. He wanted to tell her how brilliant she was. Just a short time with these young people and his sister had given them a vision of whole new self-concepts. But she was busy working with Tanya, inspiring the narrator to more powerful projection, more precise elocution, so instead he approached Syd.