An All-Consuming Fire Read online

  “Of course you can. The coverage for media projects is endless.” Jeff counted them off on his fingers. “Negative and videotapes, nonappearance of cast, producers indemnity, filming equipment, props, sets and wardrobe, employer’s liability, public liability, errors and omissions, fire, flood…”

  Felicity held up her hand. “Okay. I get it. In short, disaster and liability insurance, but no insurance against the film flopping.”

  “You got it.”

  “So there would be absolutely no reason for Harry to sabotage his own film.” Felicity threw up her hands. She had been so certain they had solved the puzzle. At least that part of the conundrum. Where could they look now? She was convinced something was going on. There had been far too many calamities around that project to write it off to simple human error or bad luck.

  “You’re certain there isn’t anything?” She looked from one brother to the other. There it was again, that look passed between Jeff and Charlie that could best be described only as a leer. “What? You did find something, didn’t you? Tell us!”

  Charlie’s cat-with-the-cream look turned to a genuine smile, but before he could speak Cynthia, Judy and Gwena came in, full of plans for the evening.

  “It’s almost New Year’s Eve!” Cynthia breezed down the hall and pulled an apron from the cupboard even before Judy, followed by Gwena had the front door closed. “I’ll make my traditional spaghetti.” Cynthia grinned at her three grown-up children. “You always loved it when you were little. Do you remember?”

  Felicity boggled. Certainly she remembered. Vividly. She remembered her father in an oversized chef’s apron wafting a wooden spoon. Come here, Muffin. Tell me if I’ve got enough oregano in this. She did recall, however, that her mother usually marked the holiday by coming out of her office long enough to eat Andrew’s spaghetti with them. Sometimes she even stayed with them to watch the Times Square celebrations on the television.

  Felicity gave her brothers a meaningful look. Jeff was first on his feet. “It sounds great, Mom. I’ll give you a hand.”

  Felicity swallowed, remembering her father’s scratchy beard on her cheek when he kissed her happy New Year but stuffed it away as she got to her feet to follow them into the kitchen.

  Antony, with a worried look on his face, came into the kitchen to ask what time Cynthia was planning to have dinner. “Oh, the sauce should simmer for at least an hour. Are you going to be too hungry to wait?”

  “No, that’s perfect. I, uh—well, it’s the first evensong for the Naming and Circumcision of Jesus.” He pointed in the direction of the monastery.

  Cynthia looked up from the onion she was slicing. “You what?”

  Gwena came into the room behind him. “Sheesh. You priests are never off duty, are you? What a way to spend New Year’s Eve.”

  Antony held up his hands. “Sorry. I don’t want to put a damper on anyone’s celebrating.”

  His sister laughed. “No worries. Actually, Squib, I think I’ll go with you.”

  Antony stared. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. Everyone knows high church liturgy is the best theatre in town. You’ll have to give me absolution for coveting your costumes, though.”

  “They’re vestments.” Antony said it almost under his breath but he gave his sister a wide smile. “Great, fifteen minutes, then? Anyone else want to go?” He made the invitation general. “No pressure.”

  In the end everyone but Cynthia, who stayed home to oversee the simmering of her sauce, chose to bundle into their coats and trek to the community church. Felicity slipped her arm through Antony’s and smiled all the way up the hill. So soon she would be holding the same arm walking back down the church aisle as Mrs. Antony Sherwood.

  If the monks had realized that at least one of their congregation would be coming purely for the spectacle they couldn’t have done a better job of being sure not to disappoint her, beginning with the prelude from Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Then the procession as the congregation sang “At the Name of Jesus.” It seemed that the thurifer produced an entire cumulus of incense and the white and gold vestments, especially Father Anselm’s sumptuously embroidered cope, were especially luminous in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just Felicity’s state of euphoria as wedding visions morphed with the service before her.

  The acclamations and responses followed on cue. “Unto thy name give praise, O Lord,” then Scripture readings, canticles and prayers proceeded through their stately pace: “Almighty God, whose blessed Son was circumcised in obedience to the law for our sake and given the Name that is above every name: give us grace faithfully to bear his Name…” Father Anselm led them in the Collect of the Day followed by the Collect for Aid against all Perils, “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night…”

  Felicity was still smiling as they stood and sang the recessional, “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name.” Perils and Dangers were behind them. Surely they were. She breathed an additional prayer that it would be so, then hurried out to catch up with their departing guests.

  Her smile widened as she heard Gwena say, “That gold cape thingy alone was almost enough to make a convert of me.”

  They were at the top of the stairs leading down the hill to the community gate when it began. Felicity shouldn’t have been surprised, the amazing fireworks display of Christmas Eve was still fresh in her mind, but still it was startling and thrilling when seemingly the entire hillside on the other side of the river came alive with a wall of orange and red flame. Popping and fizzing, skyrockets sailed into the sky, the entire scene multiplied in its effect by the misty cloud cover that amplified and reflected every spark and flare like a series of mirrors, turning the night to daylight.

  Gwena gave the first joyous shout and flung out her arms, connecting with Jeff who stood beside her and ending in a hug that must have come close to knocking him off his feet. Felicity turned to Antony and copied Gwen’s example. A moment later the whole group was running down the hill, except for the very pregnant Judy who was being escorted by her attentive husband with great care.

  It seemed that the fireworks not only lit the night, but warmed it as well. And brought all the neighbors out of their homes to run up and down the street shouting “Happy New Year!” Felicity had never before experienced such a sense of camaraderie with people she didn’t know in all her time in England. It was like one of those block parties one saw in news accounts of the Queen’s Jubilee or something.

  They crossed the main road and were about to turn into Nab Lane when a particularly bright rocket bursting just over their head illumined a dark passage behind the corner shop and Felicity recognized a familiar silhouette. “Syd! Happy New Year!” She called and waved.

  But the shape did not return her greeting. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. If he had merely continued walking away she would have thought no more of it. It was the furtive manner with which he slipped behind the building that aroused her suspicions. “Antony!” She pulled him aside. “That was Syd. I’m sure of it. And up to no good, I’ll wager.”

  “No, Felicity, wait.”

  But it was too late, she was already concealing herself behind the hedge that bordered the walk. She put a finger to her lips and mimed for Antony to be quiet, but with the fireworks exploding all around them it was hardly necessary. She peered over the top of the bushes in time to see another form step from the shadows to meet Syd. She ducked down again. “It’s Harry,” she hissed. “What’s he doing here? Why is Syd meeting him?”

  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 wer
e 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.

  Chapter 23

  Felicity 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.”