An All-Consuming Fire Read online

  “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.

  Chapter 24

  Antony 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.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Antony caught a gesture from Harry that he interpreted to mean “get on with it.” Well, he was giving them the facts. Sylvia could always edit it. But he obediently shifted his focus, “Just four years after Wycliffe began pronouncing against religious orders, which he called ‘sects,’ and agitating for their abolition, Walter Hilton, at the age of 43, joined the order of Augustinian Canons here at Thurgarton Priory.”

  Antony began walking slowly toward the church. “They followed the Rule of St. Augustine, which, while requiring a life of poverty, celibacy, and obedience, allowed sufficient flexibility that canons could follow either active or contemplative vocations. Unlike fully professed monks who were strictly confined within a monastery, canons could, and very frequently did, undertake outside work.

  “This must have been exactly right for Walter who was trained for an active life in the law courts and yet was drawn to the contemplative life, and even as a contemplative, spent so much of his time busily engaged in writing and giving spiritual direction. He may even have continued with his legal practice.

  “During the time Walter was here the Prior of Thurgarton was appointed to examine those suspected of Lollardry, so it is possible Walter himself took part in these enquiries as a lawyer.

  “It takes very little imagination to envision the vigorous figure Hilton must have been, striding forward, brisk, erect, assured, in a black robe—they were known as the ‘Black Canons.’ One can almost see him now with light hair, a long, straight nose, firm mouth and luminous eyes moving swiftly along the sandstone cloister of the priory, perhaps coming from Mass or the Divine Office which held central place in the life of the Community, or maybe coming from giving spiritual direction to a seeker, or even legal advice to his Prior.

  “But whatever was behind him, Walter’s active mind would be looking forward to reaching the solitude of the undercroft of the Priory where he could get back to his writing.

  “Is he on his way to answer a letter requesting spiritual guidance, such as his Latin Letter to Someone Wanting to Renounce the World addressed to a lawyer who, like himself, had experienced a religious awakening? Or perhaps today he will work on the English version of one of the many works he is translating, such as the Eight Chapters on Perfection? Or one of his Biblical commentaries, especially on the Psalms? Or is he thinking of the spiritual advice he would write to the anchoress to whom he was addressing his great work that was to become The Ladder of Perfection?

  “Whatever might have been in his thoughts at any one time, we can be sure his mind was never idle, because his output was enormous, especially for one who had chosen an active order that embraced work in the world alongside a life of prayer, contemplation and writing.”

  Antony crossed the grass to the heavy, wooden door under the tower of the church. He pointed out the intricate zigzag design in the Gothic arch surrounding the door, then produced an ancient heavy, black iron key and unlocked the door. But before Antony could enter the cool, dark interior Harry called a break for lunch. Antony was more than happy for a respite. His throat felt parched and breakfast seemed like it had been hours ago. Probably because it had been. He walked toward the catering van where he hoped he’d find Cynthia and Felicity.

  Before he reached the van, however, he was greeted by a beautiful blond that wasn’t Felicity. Zoe bounded around the end of the high brick wall that shielded the private lands from the public and raced toward him, her golden hair gleaming in the sun. “Hello, girl,” he stroked her glossy head. “Am I glad to see you!”

  Cynthia followed, slightly out of breath. “I promised Sylvia I wouldn’t let her out of my sight, but I can’t keep up with her. I was afraid Sylvia wouldn’t trust me to take her walkies again.”

  “She looks fully recovered.”

  “She’s full of energy. We have to be careful that she drinks plenty of fresh water, though. It’s probably time to give her another drink now.” Cynthia led to the back of the caravan where she found Zoe’s bowl, emptied it and refilled it with fresh water from a hosepipe there.

  That made Antony even thi
rstier, so he got two bottles of water from Gill and gave one to Cynthia. “I thought Felicity would be with you.”

  “She was, but she went off with that reporter before Zoe and I went on our walk.”

  “Melissa?” He looked around, but didn’t see either of the young women. “She must have gotten here earlier than I expected. But that’s fine. Felicity may be more help with Paulinus’s notes than I can be. Do you know where they went?”

  “Felicity said she’d be back for lunch. She and Melissa went to the Red Lion on the Southwell Road. Melissa said there was someone she needed to see who was driving down from the north for a meeting.” She paused and frowned. “Some kind of association. No, that’s not right. Cooperative, maybe?” She shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Another interview for her article?”

  “I suppose. She seems to think her series could be something rather big. I thought it was just some historical piece, but she sounds more like an investigative reporter. Do the English have something like the Pulitzer Prize for newspaper articles?” Cynthia asked.

  “A Press Association award, maybe? Not the prestige of a Pulitzer, but nice. No wonder she’s so intense, though. Sounds like she’s aiming for the big time.”

  Just then a pair of arms encircled him from the back, engulfing him in a big squeeze. “Ha, gotcha,” Felicity crowed.

  He turned in her arms and returned a proper hug. “Just in time for lunch. Or did you eat with Melissa?”

  “No, I just walked her to the pub. She had an appointment. Said she’d just have a drink, then meet me back here for lunch. So I picked up this great footpath map and came back by way of Robin Hood’s barn.”

  “Given that we’re in Nottinghamshire, that could be literal.” Antony guided them back to the catering van where Gill was handing out mouthwatering kebabs.

  “All right, back to work.” Savannah, the best boy, called them to order. Observing her saucy manner, a new thought struck Antony. If Harry was making porn films, how many of his crew were involved? Was it possible that the nubile best boy took her clothes off in front of the camera after hours? Antony shook his head to clear the thought. That was the trouble once one started down the path of suspicion—one could suspect almost anyone of almost anything. Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report, think on these things, he admonished himself.

  Sylvia scrutinized Antony, then apparently decided he was camera-worthy. “Right, go ahead and set the scene inside the church, then you can finish up with a summary of Walter’s philosophy. There’s a memorial plaque to Hilton on one of the pillars. I want you standing by that when you talk about the Ladder. It’s a rather fetching engraving of him, should have viewer appeal. Then Joy will interview the parish priest about what their ties to Hilton mean to the parish today.”

  Antony obediently took his place just inside the door he had opened earlier and turned to face Ginger. The lights Lenny and his crew had arranged that morning came on and Antony opened his mouth. “Wait, I’m getting a shadow across your face,” Fred called. “Take one step back and two to your right.”

  Antony did so and felt the light fall across his face. Fred was good. And pleasant to work with. But did he moonlight filming porn? Again, Antony pushed the thought away. Focus, he ordered himself. “The church was restored in the nineteenth century and a useable parish church was created from the medieval fragments of what had once been a magnificent structure ringing to the sound of Gregorian Chant.”

  He moved down what had formerly been merely a side aisle of the now much-reduced church. “Three of these pillars were part of the original twelfth century nave. In Hilton’s day pairs of pillars would have proceeded in stately procession beyond the present chancel up a great aisle, past a transept, to the quire where the sixty resident canons would have chanted the Divine Office eight times a day. There would have then been a chapel extending to the east beyond that.” Antony gestured and turned to the pillar with the memorial plaque where he was to conclude his lecture.

  It was all he could do to make himself walk in a seemly way as he realized that in a few minutes he would be finished. He could go back to Kirkthorpe free of the weight this project had been. “Of all his enormous literary output, Hilton’s masterpiece is The Ladder of Perfection. It is still in print more than six hundred years after he wrote it. Hilton’s is a common sense path which makes it a surprisingly fresh and vigorous approach even for a modern reader seeking a more meaningful—”

  “Wait! Sorry.” Fred stepped out from behind Ginger. “Sorry to interrupt,” Fred repeated, looking at a fuming Harry. “Camera’s picking up something back there. Need to clear it out.”

  He started toward a dark shape no one had noticed on the floor beyond the pillar. Apparently Lenny or someone had left a pile of drop cloths or something where they would catch a camera angle.

  Fred reached for the pile then drew back with an oath. Antony stepped over for a closer look. Then groaned and crossed himself. Not a pile of discarded tarps, but the body of Melissa Egbert.

  Chapter 25

  “Please, can we just get this over? We have a wedding rehearsal in a few hours. Our wedding rehearsal.” Felicity shifted an inch closer to Antony on the sofa. The living room of her cottage seemed much too small and stuffy this morning and she felt like she’d said it all before. “I told the officer yesterday. Didn’t he write it down?”

  Besides, they had their man, didn’t they? Felicity shook her head as she recalled the chaos yesterday when, in the middle of the questioning by Nottinghamshire police, Inspector Nosterfield had arrived from the West Yorkshire division to arrest Harry Forslund on charges of drug dealing and suspicion of murder and pornography.

  But she had no impulse to smile when she saw Sylvia’s shocked face. “Harry, no!” The director’s wife had been wordless.

  Harry had blustered. “Murder? Nonsense! You can’t arrest me. There’s no law against filming racy movies. We didn’t use kids! Consenting adults. Never hurt anyone.”

  “Harry, why?” Sylvia persisted.

  “For the studio, of course. We’re doing good work here. No one else makes films like this. But it doesn’t pay. Cheap thrills, that’s all anyone wants today. Entertainment. So we give it to them. You do the books. You know. How do you think I meet the payroll?”

  Sylvia buried her head in her hands and they led a still protesting Harry away in cuffs.

  The officer sitting across from Felicity cleared his throat to bring her back to attention. “I’m sorry, miss, but we do need to hear it again.” Sergeant Scott Simenson of the Southwell and villages division of the Nottinghamshire police had short, dark hair and round, dark eyes in a round face and seemed, to the impatient Felicity, to move considerably slower than the proverbial molasses in January. Of course, in England that would be treacle, she reminded herself.

  Police Constable Perry Crawford, as angular as the sergeant was round, and fortunately, somewhat quicker-motioned, looked back through his notes. “If you could just tell us again about your last conversation with the victim.” He held his pen poised.

  Felicity sighed. It was a good thing she had managed to get everything for the wedding so well organized before Christmas because there hadn’t been a minute to do anything since. At least Cynthia had happily promised to see to the adjustment on Judy’s bridesmaid’s dress, but helping the police with yet another murder investigation was the absolutely last thing Felicity had planned to be doing two days before her wedding. At least they had the murderer. That was a relief. “As I said, we walked to the pub. Melissa rambled on and on about this article she was writing, but I didn’t take in the details.”

  Felicity closed her eyes as she thought. “Let me see. Rievaulx and all the lands were granted to somebody after the abbey was suppressed. The Earl of Rutland, maybe. Would that be right? Then somebody named Buckingham—like the Palace, I remember that—owned it, but Cromwell confiscated it all and gave it to his general
after the civil war. But Buckingham got it back by marrying the general’s daughter. I’m sure I got that right because I thought it rather clever, although I think she said Buckingham was dissolute.

  “But it turned out to be all for nothing because Buckingham died childless so the estate was sold to the present family in the seventeenth century. I asked her if it wasn’t unusual for an estate to stay in one family for—what? more than three hundred years—and she said it was almost unique. That that was her slant for the article—how they’ve managed it.

  “I started to ask about that, but then we were at the Red Lion where she was meeting someone for a drink. She was excited to interview him.”

  “Him? You’re certain she was meeting a man?”

  Felicity considered. “He—she—it—whatever. They had come down from the north for some meeting. I’m sure you can check what was on in the area that afternoon. I think she said he.”

  “But she definitely didn’t mention any names?”

  “No. And I didn’t see anyone. I just stepped into the pub to get a map, then walked back to the church through the fields.”

  “And how did she seem?” PC Crawford asked.

  “Excited. She had just found some new information…” Felicity paused and thought. “Keyed up might be better. Like she was ready to confront someone. Or maybe spring a surprise on them. An unpleasant surprise.”

  “But you don’t have any idea what it was?”

  “No, I don’t.” Felicity controlled her breathing to keep her voice from rising.

  The officers now turned their interrogation to Antony, sitting beside her, but he could add little to what he had already told them. All he knew was the topic of Melissa’s series, nothing about what she might have uncovered.

  “And now I’ll never know what she wanted to talk to me about.” No one could doubt the sincerity of Antony’s regret.