An All-Consuming Fire Page 25

  Cynthia held Felicity at arms’ length, a hand on each shoulder. She bit her lip and Felicity saw the tears in her mother’s eyes. Cynthia held up a finger in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture and turned to a florist box in the corner. She rustled through a pile of tissue paper. At last she extracted a wreath of Syringa and held it aloft. “To hold your veil in place—the Idaho state flower. I don’t want you forgetting your roots.”

  “Never, Mom.” Felicity took a deep sniff of the heady, sweet mock orange, then leaned forward and gave her mother a kiss on each cheek.

  The Church of the Transfiguration was incandescent with clear winter sunshine pouring through the high clerestory windows. Banks of candles made the carvings of wood and stone come alive. A bouquet of white flowers filled one corner of the nave—the only decoration especially for the wedding. Felicity, waiting in the sacristy with Gwena and Judy, the choir, clergy and servers, felt her heart beating in time with the Bach prelude. In her mind’s eye she saw Jeff and Charlie seating Cynthia and Beryl on each side of the aisle. Cynthia had raised an eyebrow when Felicity explained that in an English wedding the mothers didn’t make a special entrance but she didn’t fuss.

  Now Felicity imagined she could hear the gentle rustle of fabric and scrape of feet on stone as the church filled with their friends from the college and community, including the youth of the centre still flushed with their success from the night before. She wondered how many from the Studio Six crew had come.

  Then all other thoughts were swept away when the choir began its procession down the north aisle behind crucifer, thurifer, boat boy and acolytes, singing the Palestrina introit she and Antony had chosen. Four priests in cloth of gold vestments concluded the liturgical procession.

  When clergy and servers were in place before the attar Felicity took a deep breath and clasped her father’s arm. Choir and congregation began singing “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation…”

  “That’s our cue, Dad.” Head up, smiling behind her veil, Felicity let her father lead her forward, followed by her bridesmaids. “Praise to the Lord! O let all that is in me adore him! All that hath life and breath come now with praises before him!”

  They halted at the top of the aisle as Felicity’s eyes sought out Antony standing with her brothers to her right. He was so handsome in his cutaway coat with ascot and vest. And so intent as he followed every word and gesture of the liturgy he had chosen from the most traditional prayer books.

  The choir sang the “Gloria” from Palestrina’s Missa Brevis. “We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee, we give thanks to thee for thy great glory; O Lord God, heavenly King, God the Father Almighty…” The high altar gleamed, incense billowed, angelic music soared. It was all Felicity and Antony had dreamed of for so long.

  Bride and groom sat side by side before the altar for the readings and wedding sermon. Father Anselm talked of commitment and quoted Bonhoeffer, “It’s not love that makes the marriage, but marriage that sustains love.”

  And then, the Rite of Holy Matrimony. Bishop John, splendid in gold mitre asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” The answer was not in words, but actions as Felicity’s father stepped forward and placed her hand in Antony’s, physically giving her to him.

  “I, Antony Stuart, take thee, Felicity Margaret, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward…”

  “I, Felicity Margaret, take thee…” Her voice rang with an intense timbre before her throat closed.

  The bishop blessed them with holy water. Then the rings. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship…” Felicity’s hand shook. She had always thought those the most beautiful words in the wedding ceremony.

  The Bishop wrapped their hands together with the end of his stole and thundered the proclamation, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” The message echoed from the stone arches: anyone who makes trouble incurs the wrath of God. They knelt for the Nuptial Blessing.

  During the anthem Exsultate justi the bride and groom, accompanied by best man and chief bridesmaid, slipped to the side chapel to sign the civil registers.

  And then, the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Bride and groom processed with the bread and wine to the high altar. “At the name of Jesus Every knee shall bow…” the congregation sang. Feeling so transported she could hardly breathe, and yet knowing she would never forget this moment, Felicity took Antony’s hand as they stood at the foot of the golden altar while clergy and servers prepared the royal banquet, the food of angels, Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus saboath pleni sunt caeli… “Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts, Heaven and earth are full of thy glory…” the choir sang in Palestrina’s Latin.

  “Gracious God, may Antony and Felicity, who have been bound together in these holy mysteries, become one in body and soul. Let their love for each other be a seal upon their hearts, a mantle about their shoulders, and a crown upon their foreheads.”

  Singing “Ye Holy Angels Bright” bride and groom led the procession out the great west door as the community bell pealed joyfully over their heads.

  They paused only briefly for photographs. Warmed by the fire of her joy, Felicity hardly felt the cold, but she could see Gwena and Judy shivering even in the faux fur stoles Cynthia had provided. Only a few steps down the hill, the college hall welcomed the wedding party and guests with cups of hot punch and a bountiful buffet.

  “Do you have a speech, Dad?” Felicity asked, knowing her soft-spoken father wasn’t one for much public speaking.

  “It’ll be short,” he said as he rapped a fork on a glass for attention. When the room quieted he smiled at the couple beside him. “I know it’s traditional at this moment for the bride’s father to say ‘we haven’t lost a daughter; we’ve gained a son.’ In our case, however, it seems that we haven’t lost a daughter; we’ve gained a country.” The room rang with applause as Andrew shook hands with his English son.

  The rest of the time seemed to go in a whirl. Felicity moved between the long tables glimmering with tea lights shining on Cynthia’s decorations, to greet their guests. Felicity felt she was reliving her entire life on this side of the Atlantic as she chatted with former classmates from Oxford, friends from London, Willibrord St. John and his wife from the retreat house on Lindisfarne, Sister Pamela from Julian’s Centre in Norwich, Ryan and Nancy from their pilgrimage across Wales, Sister Gertrude from Fairacres…

  Felicity had worked her way to the end of the long room when she was surprised to see Corin and his mother there. How must they be feeling after the events of last night?

  She greeted them warmly. “Thank you so much for coming.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  But Corin didn’t dodge the topic. “I thought it would be good for Mum to get out of that dreary hospital. Besides, the police won’t even let her near Dad’s room.”

  Felicity was still trying to think of a reply when she glimpsed Antony talking to someone in the vestibule. What was DI Nosterfield doing here? Had he actually come to their wedding?

  She stepped into the anteroom to greet him, then overheard enough to understand that the Detective Inspector was there on duty. Stanton Alnderby had died. She started forward but was stopped by an hysterical outburst, “No! No! No!”

  Before Felicity could spot the source of the cry she felt herself slammed against the wall. A pair of strong hands seized her shoulders and began shaking her. “Murderess! You killed him! You killed—”

  Antony and Nosterfield pulled Sylvia Mountbank from Felicity before she could bang her head into the stone wall again. Felicity shook her head to clear it. Had she understood the implications of Sylvia’s hysteria correctly? Sylvia and Stanton?

  “You were working with Stanton to secure his inheritance?” Felicity struggled to keep her voice level, to sound calm in the face of such frenzy.

  “Inheritance? That didn’t matter. Not to me. I loved him. And he loved me. I was worthy of him
. I could make him happy. That poor man, stuck for all those years with that drab Elsa.”

  Corin and his mother entered just in time to hear Sylvia’s words. Elsa strode across the foyer, pulled back her arm and landed a resounding slap on Sylvia’s cheek. “‘Helping scout filming locations,’ he said. How stupid did you think I was? I suppose you thought you were the first? My husband used the women he made fall for him just like he used everyone else. Yes, I put up with it all for years because I fell for the ‘saving the inheritance for Corin’ line. But now that Corin doesn’t want it, I would have blown the whistle if Stanton hadn’t done it on himself.”

  Elsa paused and shook her head. “It’s just a shame I didn’t do it sooner. What a pity so many people had to die.” She looked at the now-sobbing Sylvia. “Did you kill for him, or just help cover it all?”

  But now that a more complete picture was forming in her mind Felicity had other questions. She stepped forward. It was her turn to grab Sylvia’s shoulders. “Did you know about Harry’s porn operation?”

  At that Sylvia’s tears turned to anger. “Of course I knew. Harry ogling naked women. This was the perfect way to get back at him. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  “You brought the soap from the B & B, didn’t you? You were in on the whole thing.”

  Sylvia’s shoulders slumped. “What difference does it make now that Stanton’s gone?”

  “And you drugged your own dog?” Felicity’s voice rang with incredulity.

  “I wouldn’t have let her die. It was a lucky touch that your mother happened along.”

  “And Harry wasn’t the one dealing drugs, was he?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “He was happy enough to make a delivery to Syd for me. I didn’t actually intend to stitch him up. That was an added bonus.”

  “But why didn’t Harry deny the charge?

  Sylvia gave a smug smile.

  “He loved you that much?” Felicity shook her head. “But why do all that to sabotage the film? Once you thought Father Paulinus’s notes were gone?”

  Sylvia almost spit. “Harry’s precious mini-series. You heard him—there was no money in it. If it failed Harry would have had to accept that offer in Australia and I’d be free of him.”

  Felicity frowned. “Free of Harry? Why not just walk away?”

  “And walk away from the company as well? And leave it to Harry? Never. He had to go and leave it to me.”

  “And if that didn’t work framing him for the drugs would work just as well.” Felicity was still shaking her head as Antony slipped his arm around her and led her away. “Did you hear that? She must be insane.”

  “Or far too clever for her own good. It sounds like they had some sort of agreement that if either one left Studio Six went to the remaining partner.”

  “Like a prenuptial agreement?” Felicity struggled to understand. “Only they weren’t married.”

  “I think it’s called a tontine—last man standing.”

  Felicity nodded. “And Sylvia was determined to be that man.”

  Behind them they heard DI Nosterfield charging Sylvia with conspiracy to commit murder. It would take the police a long time to sort it all out, but Antony and Felicity were free of all the entangling questions and shadows.

  Cynthia, Andrew, Beryl and Gwendolyn met them at the back of the hall. Beyond them Felicity could see their guests laughing, visiting and enjoying the remains of the buffet and thick slices of the marzipan and fondant wrapped wedding cake.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll save you a big piece of cake,” Cynthia said as she wrapped Felicity’s long, green woolen cape around her shoulders.

  Gwena handed Antony his silver grey top hat. “On to the future, Squib,” she said.

  He grabbed Felicity’s hand to lead her to the waiting car. “Let’s go!”

  About the Author

  Donna Fletcher Crow is the author of 45 books, mostly novels of British history. The award-winning Glastonbury, The Novel of Christian England, an Arthurian epic covering 15 centuries of English history, is her best-known work. She also authors The Lord Danvers Mysteries. A Tincture of Murder is her latest in these Victorian true-crime novels. The Elizabeth and Richard Mysteries are her literary suspense series of which A Jane Austen Encounter is the latest. An All-Consuming Fire is the fifth of Felicity and Antony’s adventures in the Monastery Murders. Donna and her husband of 50 years live in Boise, Idaho. They have 4 adult children and 14 grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic gardener.

  To read more about all of Donna’s books and see pictures from her garden and research trips go to:

  www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com

  You can follow her on Facebook at:

  Donna Fletcher Crow, Novelist of British History

  Read all of Felicity and Antony’s adventures:

  A Very Private Grave Felicity is devastated when she finds her beloved Father Dominic bludgeoned to death. When Antony is accused of the murder they are propelled to a quest across the north of England in the steps of Saint Cuthbert, following and being followed by murderers.

  A Darkly Hidden Truth Felicity can’t possibly help Father Antony find the valuable missing icon. She’s off to become a nun. Then her overwhelming mother turns up unexpectedly and a good friend turns up murdered. From the misty marshes of the Norfolk Broads to the domains of the Knights Hospitaller in London conflict and danger dog Felicity’s steps.

  An Unholy Communion The body plummeted from the tower, rolled down the hillside and landed at Felicity's feet demolishing her plans for a quiet summer holiday. The sinister events increase as Felicity and Antony guide a youthwalk along an ancient pilgrimage route in Wales turning an idyllic pilgrimage across the land of saints and legends into a life-and-death struggle between good and evil.

  A Newly Crimsoned Reliquary Oxford’s muffled bells toll another death. Could the Medieval Latin document Felicity is translating for the good sisters at the Convent of the Incarnation have anything to do with the repeated attacks? Can Felicity prevent the next tragedy when Murder stalks the shadows of Oxford’s Hallowed Shrines?