An All-Consuming Fire Page 18

  What could he ask him to get any idea of his possible involvement in the recent string of misdeeds? How realistic was it to suspect Syd of attacking Felicity because he feared she had spotted some involvement of his in the drug use that had gone on in the Quarry? And if Felicity had been correct in sensing a second presence could it have been Dylan or Shaun? They certainly seemed to follow every lead from the older youth. “Um, sorry I got here late. Sounds like it went well, though.” He supposed that was as good an opener as any.

  “Yeah, brilliant,” Dylan said.

  “Is she really your sister?” Shaun looked at Gwena in open-mouthed wonder. The implication was clear. How could anyone so stellar possibly be related to such a weedy priest?

  Antony assured them she really was. “Did you have a good Christmas?” Their colorless answers told him that ploy was a washout. “Enjoying your holiday?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “What did you do last night?”

  Syd frowned. “What are you—my mum?” His slouch returned, then he remembered Gwen’s instructions and squared his shoulders. “Same as any night—kicked around with me mates. Right?” He looked at Shaun and Dylan for confirmation. They agreed.

  How could he get them to be more specific? What else could he ask, Antony wondered.

  Then Syd continued. “Why? Somebody been slashing tires again? It weren’t us. You aren’t gonna get me on any more ASB charges. You can ask that old priest if you don’t believe us.”

  “Old priest?” Antony frowned.

  “Yeah, Father S. S for silly.” Dylan and Shaun guffawed. “He were at the centre all evening, weren’t he?”

  Antony certainly would check that out. Did it clear Syd or implicate Father Sylvester?

  He opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by a red-faced Corin. The frequently on-edge ordinand looked ready to boil over. Syd and the others made their escape. “Corin, what is it?”

  “My dad.” He swiped the blond hair out of his eyes with an angry gesture that exaggerated the size of his hand. “Same old, same old—I suppose I should be used to it by now, but this time it’s the pageant.”

  “What?”

  “The sheep. He’s decided we can’t use them. Says he doesn’t want to stir up the beasts. As if those dumb creatures could be stirred up. It’s not the sheep. It’s just an excuse. He’ll do anything to block my work here. I’ll bet he agreed to let us use them just so he could leave us in the lurch at the last moment. I wouldn’t put it past him.” It seemed that once he’d started Corin was determined to pour out his turmoil over the long-standing conflict with his father.

  “He thinks by pulling stunts like this he can discourage me from becoming a priest—get me back to that godforsaken sheep farm. I’d see him in Hades first. It comes to the same thing.”

  “Have you tried to talk to him?”

  “Talk? I talk myself blue in the face trying to explain about my sense of calling, my passion to be a priest. He thinks I should be able to just switch all that to a piece of land because it’s been in our family since the flood. Why can’t he see my doing that is just as likely as his taking holy orders? I’ll grow out of it he says. Grow out of it—I’m twenty-seven years old!”

  Antony had been aware of the conflict between Corin and his father, but hadn’t realized the emotional power behind it. He tried to say something conciliatory to him, but the best he could think of was to suggest Kendra might know a nearby farmer who would be willing to loan his sheep. This was Yorkshire, after all.

  Feeling a considerable failure for his lack of concrete counsel for Corin and wondering what helpful advice he could possibly have given the young man, Antony walked on into town to Saint James. The tall, yellow brick tower proclaimed the High Street presence of the former church now turned over to Churches Together to run as a community centre. A red-lettered banner hung over the door announcing their main focus which was the active youth program, but posters lining the porch outlined a variety of other programs: women’s aerobic morning every Tuesday and Thursday, mothers and toddlers group three mornings a week, and weekly tea afternoons for old age pensioners.

  Father Sylvester, looking shrunken in his grey clerical shirt, his pale eyes hidden behind thick lenses, came suddenly alive when Antony asked him about activities at the centre the evening before.

  “Yes, yes indeed. How kind of you to take an interest, Father. Yes, come. Let me show you. He led the way toward the former church hall which now served as a multipurpose room and gymnasium. He stopped just inside the door and swept the room with his arm. “Well, what do you think? It took forever to get committee approval. Of course, it isn’t a listed building or anything, but we had to be sure there wouldn’t be anything to offend the OAP’s or be inappropriate for the kiddies. They all use the space, too, you know. But I think they’re doing a rather fine job. What do you say?

  Antony stared, amazed. The formerly dingy, off-white walls were coming alive with scenes of the Yorkshire countryside. At least, he assumed that was what they intended to depict. Yes, that bit was definitely Emley Moor with its tall transmitting station.

  “So many of our young people had been given anti-social behavior warnings—or worse—many for graffiti. We wanted a way to harness their—Er, creative powers. I had suggested perhaps Biblical scenes, honoring the fact that this was once a church. I’m afraid that idea didn’t fly, but I think the children—Er, youth—did come up with something quite apropos.”

  “Yes.” Antony blinked. “Yes, indeed. Very colorful.” Once one got past the rather acid shade of green the budding artists had chosen. “It certainly takes the eye.” He couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since a sky that blue had canopied Yorkshire.

  “Who were the artists?” Antony reminded himself that he was here to check on alibis, not to serve as an art critic.

  “Oh, we had a lively group yesterday. Far more than I had expected, but you know, so many of them really have nothing for them at home, even on Boxing Day. So we gave them a good tea after Kendra’s choir rehearsal—I understand your pageant up at the community is going to be quite a treat.”

  Antony nodded. “And after tea they set about painting?”

  “A good number of them, yes. We barely had enough brushes. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to put down drop cloths. I’m afraid some of them spilled as much paint as they got on the wall. Still, a good time was had by all, as they say.”

  “And they stayed until what time?”

  “They painted until half seven. Then we cleared everything out for a basketball game. Fortunately the paint was quick-drying, although we did get a few smears. Some stayed on for that.”

  Half seven. About the time Felicity burst through the door of the cottage. Antony was so flooded with the remembered relief his knees almost went weak. “Yes. That’s grand. Do you have a list of who was here?”

  “Oh, certainly. Sign in, sign out. One of the rules. And no ducking in and out between times. They know. Only get up to no good if you allow that.” Father Sylvester produced a clipboard and Antony perused the list of scrawled signatures. To the best he could decipher them it read like a program for the cast of the Epiphany pageant. He ran over the list twice. At last he pointed. “S. Worsley. Is that the young man they call Syd?”

  Father Sylvester peered at it through his glasses. “Yes, Syd, that’s right. The tall one. Very useful. He only needed a step stool to paint the top of the transmitting station.” Father Sylvester pointed to the silver spike on the top of the tower that rather made it look like a skinny rocket taking off into space. “Kept saying how awkward the brush was. Those street artists, as they call themselves, work with spray cans, you know.”

  “And he was definitely here the whole time?”

  Father Sylvester pointed to the recorded sign out time. Antony thanked him and turned to leave. At the door he paused and turned back. “Nick and Corin. Were they here all evening, too?”

  “Oh, the young ordinands from you
r college? Excellent young men. I don’t know what we’d do without them. Yes, yes, they were here. Such dedication. And excellent role models for our young hoodlums.”

  Antony nodded and turned again.

  “At least, wait. I tell a lie. Nicholas was here all evening. Quite an artistic flair he has. I was so grateful because I’m afraid I’m quite color blind.” Antony smiled. Ah, perhaps that explained the battery acid moor. Apparently they were lucky it wasn’t bright red. “Corin was here for the rehearsal. He left with Kendra. I believe they were going to check into some sound equipment for the pageant or some such.”

  Antony started back up the hill, the stimulating cold air invigorating his thoughts. So, in giving Syd and his sidekicks an alibi, Father Sylvester gave himself an alibi as well. Did that mean the whole theory of drug dealing from the youth centre was a nonstarter, or was the emaciated priest far wilier than he appeared?

  So if not Syd or Sylvester, where to look next? Nick had been here at the time of Felicity’s abduction, but apparently Corin had not. The sight of the vicious bruises on Felicity’s arms and Corin’s big hands melded in Antony’s mind. Could a young man who claimed to be so passionate about ministry possibly be guilty of such brutality? Or was it all a cover of lies? What could he believe?

  At least tomorrow was Sunday. No scheduled rehearsal. No filming. If Felicity would stay safely tucked in bed he could forget this sordid business and concentrate on preparing for Monday’s filming. Mount Grace was a favorite of his. He hoped he would be able to convey at least some of its serenity and beauty to his potential viewing audience. Then Thurgarton and Walter Hilton after New Years’ Day and he would be finished with this blankety filming and could concentrate on the main event—their wedding.

  Please God it would all be settled by then. No worries about appearing before a camera. No worries about Felicity’s safety. No worries about lurking murderers.

  Chapter 20

  First Sunday of Christmas

  Antony awoke to the sound of the community bells with the sense that he had been dreaming about the wedding. He closed his eyes and let the images float before him: The congregation and choir singing; candles, flowers and incense swirling like Van Gogh’s Starry Night; And Felicity, tall and stately, draped in white, walking toward him up the aisle. Walking, walking, walking, but as so often in a dream, never arriving. The church aisle stretched endlessly. He reached out to her to help draw her forward.

  Then he remembered: Felicity coming to him; never reaching him. Felicity struggling. He calling out to her. Then the shadow. From behind the back pillar. Jumping out at Felicity, a heavy object raised in his hand. It had been Felicity’s scream that had wakened him, not the bells.

  No, not Felicity’s scream, but his own—when he saw the bright red blood staining her cloud of white veil.

  Antony wiped his hands roughly over his eyes to clear the image. No. That would not happen. He would not let it. He had one week. He must solve this before then.

  Please, Lord that all would be cleared up. He couldn’t imagine spending their honeymoon looking over his shoulder, fearing for Felicity—for his bride’s—safety. He wanted their wedding to be a thing of beauty, peace and holiness. Not shadowed by a lurking killer.

  Antony didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that no one from the cottage appeared at church that morning. As much as he would have been delighted—and astounded—to see Gwena there, he was glad that it must mean that his sister and Cynthia were attending to Felicity. If it only didn’t mean that Felicity was feeling worse. What was he thinking not to insist that she have an x-ray? What if there was a fracture? What if she had taken ill in the night? What if her attacker had come back to finish his job? No, he reminded himself, they had decided it had all been a mistake. Felicity wasn’t even the intended victim.

  Antony tasted blood before he moved to the communion rail. In his worry he had bitten the inside of his mouth so hard it was bleeding.

  He was half way down the hill to the cottage before the echoes of the recessional hymn had faded. “Felicity, how is she?” He demanded before Cynthia had the door fully open.

  “She’s fine. Come in.” But he was already in.

  He found Felicity and Gwen sitting on the sofa their heads bent together over a black ring binder. “Oh, Antony, I’m so sorry we missed church. We were all ready, but the police came. Look.” She held up the book. “They found my prompt book. Isn’t that great!”

  “It’ll be a real help,” Gwena seconded. “She has a great eye for detail, does your Felicity.”

  But Antony wasn’t interested in pageant directions. “The police were here? On a Sunday?”

  “It must mean they’re taking all this very seriously. I don’t think they believe that gardener’s death was an accident.” Cynthia, who had followed him into the room, sat in the chair still hidden by the Christmas tree which would remain up until Epiphany.

  “They found this Friday,” Felicity was still concentrating on her returned notebook. “They said they couldn’t return it until they had checked it for fingerprints. All they learned, though was that my would-be kidnapper wore gloves. I think the fact he threw it away proves he had the wrong person—just as we suspected.”

  “Did you tell the police that? What did they say?”

  “I mentioned Melissa. I think they’ll check up on what stories she’s working on in case there’s a tie-in, but they aren’t giving much away.”

  “Do you think they believe the deaths are connected?” Antony asked.

  “If they are, Melissa could be a link because she definitely was asking questions about them both.”

  “Yes, and if the murderer knew that he might want to know what she had in her notebook.”

  Gwena stood, still holding the prompt book. “Mind if I take this to the kitchen to study the lighting cues?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  Just then a timer dinged in the kitchen. Cynthia emerged from behind the tree. “Lasagna done. You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you, Antony? I just have to toss a salad.” Like Gwena, she didn’t wait for a reply.

  Antony took the place his sister had vacated on the sofa. “Are you sure you should be up? No headache? No dizziness?” It was such a relief that his gloomy prognostications hadn’t come true that Antony had trouble accepting the evidence of his own eyes.

  “Truly, I’m all right. I slept really well with only one paracetamol.” And to prove her well-being she gave him a hearty kiss. “Now, back to business. Do you know anything about any other stories Melissa might have been working on?”

  Antony considered, trying to remember. “It did seem like she mentioned something when she interviewed me at Rievaulx Terrace, but then we were all so sidetracked by Tara’s death. I had the feeling she was using Harry’s desire for publicity as an excuse for her own purposes, but there wasn’t anything too specific, other than probing for sensationalism.” Still, something tickled the back of his mind. Had the reporter introduced a topic that seemed tangential? Could that have been her real purpose?

  Antony went on to tell Felicity of the dead ends his gentle sleuthing had reached yesterday. “Seems that Syd and Co. and Father Sylvester have pretty solid alibis. As does Nick. Corin is still in the frame, as I think they say. He and Kendra left the centre not too long before you were attacked.”

  Felicity frowned. “I hate to think of Corin mixed up in anything shady. He comes across as—I suppose this sounds odd, but I think of him as a simple soul. Straight forward might be a better term. Awkward, a bit of a bull in a china shop, but good-hearted.”

  Antony nodded. “Yes, I would agree with that. At least I would have, but the anger he displayed yesterday was rather alarming.”

  “And he does have access to the young people—if someone is pushing drugs. But that’s just conjecture. We found those joints under the stage, and then some needles, but anyone could have walked up there through that broken gate.”

  Antony wrestled with himself. He
didn’t want to think badly of Corin—or of any of his students. Kirkthorpe’s ordinands had a stellar reputation for being of the highest calibre. But then he looked at Felicity. Gwena’s dry shampoo hadn’t entirely removed all the rusty brown stains from around her wound. And he remembered the bruises on her arms. Someone had been capable of brutality. He needed to be more rigorous in his search. “You said there might have been a second person, possibly a woman. Think. What gave you that impression?

  Felicity closed her eyes and dropped her head in concentration. “I’m not sure. There might have been a scent.”

  “Perfume?”

  “No, subtler than that.” She took a deep breath to aid her memory. “Something fruity. Could have been a shampoo, maybe.” She thought more. “And the footsteps. On the stone stairs. I think there might have been a lighter one.” She shook her head. “Useless, I know. I’m sorry to be so vague.”

  “No, not at all. You’re doing great. So it could have been Kendra?”

  “Theoretically. But…”

  Cynthia stuck her head through the doorway to tell them that dinner was ready.

  “So we’re off to another location tomorrow?” Cynthia asked as she served large rectangles of lasagna onto each plate.

  “Oh, yes.” Antony had forgotten that Cynthia would once again be his chauffeur. “It’s north of Rievaulx. Should take us about an hour. Are you sure you’re all right to drive me? Shouldn’t you stay with Felicity?”

  Felicity wasn’t having any of that. “I don’t need a minder. And if I did Gwena is more than capable.”

  Was she? Were any of them? Antony wondered. He wanted to insist that Felicity come with him, but then, how did he know that the film set would be any safer? After all, Tara had died at Rievaulx. “You will be careful. You won’t go off by yourself. Or be alone with—anyone suspicious.” He worded them like questions, but they were commands.

  As a reply Felicity leaned over and brushed his cheek with a kiss. “Worry wart.”