Antony sneezed explosively and realized that he was standing in water over his shoes on a chill winter evening. Whatever he did he wanted to get help fast. But first, he should preserve the record for the insurance company. He wouldn’t want a skeptical adjuster accusing him of tangling with a telephone pole and then claiming hit and run. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and did his best to get photos of the car and the scene.
Then, pulling his feet from the mire with a squishing sound, he scrambled up the bank, soaking his cassock in muddy water to the knees, and made for the relative warmth of the car.
Back in the car he considered. Did he have a duty to ring the police before moving the car? Surely there was nothing the police could do now. The hit-and-run vehicle was long gone and Antony could give no kind of a description. He had seen nothing but blinding lights. Of course, the other driver was at fault for leaving the scene of the accident—and for causing the accident by driving in the wrong lane. He was probably guilty of driving over the limit, but there would be no proof of that. Celebrating at a holiday party. That had to be the answer.
A simple accident. No one would have caused that collision on purpose. If Antony hadn’t instinctively jerked aside the crash would have been head-on. No one would knowingly put their own life in such jeopardy. And what could possibly be the purpose?
Antony heard the chug before he saw the lights. Then, from a field ahead a Land Rover rounded a clump of bushes and turned onto the road toward him. Antony jumped from the car, waving wildly. When the headlights caught Antony the driver braked and rolled down his window. “Ee, ye’r right mucky,” the farmer observed.
“Um, spot of bother. I wonder if you might be able to help me get my car out of the ditch?”
The farmer pushed his cap back and scratched his head. “How’d ye manage that?”
Antony sighed. “It’s a long story. If you could just—”
The farmer nodded. “It’s yer lucky day.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Tow rope in the back.”
Less than an hour later Antony all but staggered into Felicity’s bungalow after pausing only long enough to pull his shoes off at the door.
“Antony, where have you been? You’re so late! I’ve been ringing and ringing your mobile, but it must have been turned off. You’re white as a sheet.” She looked at his muddy clothes. “What on earth?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out Felicity threw her arms around him and engulfed him in an enormous hug, muddy cassock and all. “Oh, I was so worried! I kept thinking about that accident with the camera and thought what if something had fallen on you?”
He pulled back fractionally and managed a grin. “You mean, what if I weren’t able to walk down the aisle in two weeks?”
“Or ever.” She clung to him with a desperation he wouldn’t have imagined from his fearlessly independent Felicity.
Before he could reply Cynthia entered from the sitting room. “Antony! You’re a mess. Get out of those wet clothes this instant. Felicity, let go of him and go put the kettle on.”
A few minutes later Antony was wrapped in a warm blanket, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of hot tea laced with plenty of sugar—just the way he liked it.
The lawyer Cynthia’s reaction was immediate when he concluded his account. “Call the police. You really should have done it before you left the scene. Or you could have stopped at the nearest police station on your way home.”
“I’m glad he didn’t—he’d have been even later.”
Cynthia ignored her daughter. “At least you had the sense to take pictures. It’s important to preserve the record. And I suppose it would be possible to unearth that farmer if you need a witness.”
“He wasn’t a witness. He came along much later,” Antony said around a swallow of tea.
“A witness to the fact that it happened where and when you say.”
Felicity jumped up to get Antony’s phone and look up the non-emergency number for the West Yorkshire Police. A short time later Antony, now fully dressed, was opening the door for Sergeant Mark Silsden whom he hadn’t seen since the summer. On that occasion, the shocking death of a former student had set in motion events leading to an alarming encounter with the forces of evil. Now, as Antony ushered Silsden into the sitting room he hoped that seeing the sergeant again wouldn’t bring those alarms back to Felicity. She was already worried enough over what must be nothing more than a series of accidents.
Felicity served another round of tea and Antony told the facts in as straightforward a manner as he could, struggling to keep any alarm out of his voice for Felicity’s sake.
Silsden recorded it all in his notebook. “And can you please send those pictures to this address?” He produced a small card with his e-mail address on it. Antony nodded. “But you can’t give any description of the other vehicle?”
Antony shook his head. “It was dark and it all happened so fast.” He stood. “The community car’s out front. You’ll want to see it.”
“Aren’t you going to tell him about the camera?” Felicity insisted.
“I don’t see why. They can hardly be connected,” Antony protested. Still, he obediently sat down and gave Silsden a brief account of the accident at Pickering Castle two days ago. Then stood again.
“And the fireworks,” Felicity persisted.
“They were just fireworks. Some local lads having a laugh.”
“It could have started a fire. Someone could have been hurt.”
Antony made quick work of the story, then led the way to his car.
He returned in a few minutes. “There. Duty done.”
“Right.” Felicity kissed his cheek. “And that had better be the end of it. I want an ‘all is calm, all is bright’ Christmas.”
“Could Christmas in a monastery be anything else?” Antony hoped the kiss he returned to her held more assurance than his voice.
Chapter 7
Felicity and her mother were still sitting at the table nibbling toast the next morning when Felicity saw Antony walking down the lane. Not bothering to put on a jacket she dashed out into the crisp morning. “How did Father Anselm take the news?”
He returned her hug and gave a rueful grin. “He wasn’t amused. All the hassle of dealing with the insurance and seeing to repairs will fall to the community.”
“Mm, yes, unfortunate for them. But I am thankful you don’t have to do that.”
They were still talking about the downside of car ownership as they walked into the kitchen where Cynthia was just concluding a phone call. “There, that’s taken care of.”
Felicity’s heart sank. What had her mother done now? Please don’t let her have hired a DJ for the reception. “What’s settled, Mother?”
“I hired a car. You’ll need transportation for the rest of your filming, won’t you?” She looked at Antony.
“Yes, but—”
“Well then, there it is. And,” she beamed at her daughter, “we’ll be able to get around when Antony’s gone off to his family for Christmas. We need to visit florists and bakeries and photographers—” She reached for her wedding planner. “I’ve got a list. We don’t want to have to be taking buses for all that.”
“Mother,” Felicity took a deep breath. How many times had she told her mother it had all been arranged? “My friends—”
Antony cut her off before the argument could escalate. “Thank you, Cynthia. That’s enormously thoughtful, but I’ll have to sign on your contract in order to be able to drive.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. I’ll drive you. I’ve been longing to see these fascinating places you’re always dashing off to and I’ve never seen a film crew at work. It must be thrilling.”
“Not really. It’s mostly cold and boring. Especially when I make a dog’s dinner of it. That’s terribly kind of you, but I’m certain you have better things to do with your time.”
But Felicity disagreed. “Mother, that’s brilliant. I’d love t
o see the behind the scenes bit. It will make watching the finished programs even more fun.”
“No, really—” Antony began to protest but was cut off by a knock at the door.
Felicity sprang to answer it. “Oh, Nick and Corin. I forgot they were coming by.”
The young men were glowing from their walk in the crisp air and their exciting news.
“We spent all yesterday afternoon at the St. James Centre—” Nick began then paused to rub the steam off his glasses.
“You can’t imagine how chuffed the youngsters are about the pageant,” Corin continued as he sank his lanky frame onto the chair Felicity indicated nearest the table.
Nick perched on the edge of the folding chair Antony pulled from the cupboard. “We thought we’d have five or six show up. There were nearer twenty. I can’t imagine how we’ll find parts for all of them.”
“Not to mention costumes,” Corin added.
Felicity laughed. “I’m not sure what the English expression is, but at home we’d call that biting off more than you can chew.”
“Yeah, we say that here, too. But my mate Phil Davies would tell me I’ve sat down to eat an elephant.” Corin grinned at her and Felicity realized how charming he could be when he wasn’t being difficult.
Nick nodded. “Maybe we didn’t quite think this through before we started. But we’re into it now.”
“True. You can’t disappoint the kids,” Felicity agreed.
“Goodness, I’d have thought your monks would have more costumes than you could use.” Cynthia bent over the table with a freshly filled teapot.
“What are you talking about, Mother?”
“Well, you know—all those white robes they wear in church. I’ll bet they have enough for a whole angel choir. And the fancy cape thingeys like those purple ones they wore a couple of nights ago. Perfect for the wise men.”
“They’re called copes, Mother.” But maybe Cynthia did have something there.
“That’s brilliant, Mrs. Howard,” Corin said.
Nick looked to Antony. “Do you think they’d let us use vestments?”
“Isn’t Brother Sylvester the advisor for the St. James team?” Antony asked.
Nick nodded. And Antony smiled at the irony—Tall, pale blond, bone thin Father Sylvester—the quietest monk he had ever known, sponsoring the St. James Centre. Perhaps it was a discipline—or even a penance?
“Sylvester would need to get permission from Father Nicholas—he’s the sacristan. If Father Anselm has given permission to use the Quarry Theatre, I expect Father Nicholas will approve. No actual liturgical vestments, of course, but you won’t be asking to use chasubles. Cassocks, surplices and copes should be all right.”
“And how are you coming along with clearing the weeds?” Felicity asked.
“We’ve got a crew coming to work in about an hour. Alfred said we could use his tools and he’ll even meet us at the quarry to get everything organized.”
Felicity was impressed. “You really are doing a great job.” She picked up a sheaf of papers from the counter. “Here’s the narrator’s script I’ve put together. It’s pretty basic, mostly scripture. I expect the actions and carols to do the real storytelling.”
Corin and Nick read over the sheets she handed them. “That’s brilliant.”
“Yeah, really good. Will you be the narrator?”
“Certainly not. I’ll direct a couple of rehearsals if needed, but one of your local youth needs to narrate. It’ll be much more authentic.” Felicity didn’t add that the pageant was scheduled for the day before her wedding so she just might have a few other things on her mind. She hurried on before they could protest. “Now, we’ll need to work out a rehearsal schedule.” She glanced at the calendar hanging on her wall. “Um, how about the Saturday after Christmas for the whole cast? That would be a week before the pageant. Then again on Monday. Of course you’ll rehearse your principals separately. That should do it if it’s going well. You won’t be able to get your cast of thousands together when families are having their own celebrations.”
Corin shook his head, making his mop of hair swipe his forehead. “Some hope for most of those kids. It would be a good start if they even had families. Never mind doing a Christmas dinner.”
Recalling their earlier conversation on that fraught subject Felicity asked, “Will you be going home for Christmas, Corin?”
“Yeah.” He ducked his head in a gesture of uneasy submission.
“And taking me with him for moral support,” Nick added.
“And to wrestle with the stupid sheep. Surprisingly enough Dad agreed to let us use some. Even offered to truck them over the day before the pageant.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Well, I think Mum made him do it.”
“Still, it’s a start at reconciliation,” Felicity urged. “So your parents will be here for the pageant?”
“First thing they’ve come to. Mum’s wanted to but Dad always said they couldn’t leave the farm. Stupid sheep again.” It was obvious Corin tried to make light of it, but Felicity could tell how much the divide with his father bothered him. Perhaps the pageant would help build a bridge.
“So when are you leaving?”
“Tonight. After Lessons and Carols. Assuming my old banger will make it over the moors.” He nodded at his companion. “Nick here has a solo. So we’ve got to get the major clean-out work done on the theatre today—”
“That’s why we were hoping you could, er—” Nick started strong, then faltered too.
“Of course we’ll help you.” Felicity startled at Cynthia’s voice. She didn’t even realize her mother was still in the room.
“We?” Was Cynthia really volunteering to spend the afternoon slogging through the cold and wet pulling weeds in an abandoned quarry?
Apparently she was. “This sounds like the most marvelous project. And I’m sure you can use the help. All hands to the deck. Isn’t that what you say?”
Felicity nodded weakly. If she could just get her mother into suitable footwear they might both enjoy the walk. And the outing would just possibly take Cynthia’s mind off dreaming up ever-more-elaborate wedding plans for one morning at least.
An hour later, with Cynthia appropriately clad in a pair of Wellington boots and an old Barbour coat Antony borrowed for her from the mud room in the monastery, Felicity, Antony and Cynthia carefully descended the stone steps into the quarry, with a cacophony of voices calling them forward from the Quarry floor. Felicity could almost picture how it would all look when the way was alight with the tiki torches Nick had informed her they had located. She was pleased to note that already the stones were clear of moss and the worst of the weeds cut back from the path.
But when she emerged from under the overhanging winter branches onto the floor of the quarry Felicity stopped short at the scene of chaos before her. She hadn’t remembered the area being quite such a jungle. What were they thinking? They wouldn’t have it cleared if they worked full-time from now until Epiphany.
And the chances of their getting much accomplished today didn’t look hopeful. Nick and Corin seemed to be giving conflicting orders to a motley gaggle of young people: Some appeared to be squabbling over the tools the community under-gardener was trying to dispense, others were using hoes and pruning shears for mock sword play and another small group hung back near the stage where a couple of the older boys were smoking.
The whole project was doomed to disaster before they started. Felicity was wondering if she should suggest to Antony that he give Corin and Nick some direction when Cynthia strode forward with her arms extended as if she would embrace them all. “My, isn’t this delightful! How good of you all to come.”
A ringing silence met the commanding American voice that had been honed in two decades of courtroom debates—most of which she had won. Cynthia took a step aside toward the pair dueling with secaturs. “How lovely that you have such excellent equipment to work with.” She turned to include the two
with hoe and pruning shears. “I wonder which pair of you can clear a patch of that hillside first? Father Antony, why don’t you oversee the competition?” She gestured toward the sloping back area that would provide excellent viewing for their audience.
“Alfred, dear—that is your name, isn’t it?—do you have more of those long-handled things? I’m sure Antony could use another team or two.” Felicity watched open-mouthed as everyone acquiesced to her mother’s orders.
The gape turned to a gasp, though, when Cynthia clutched her arm and propelled her toward the group lounging against the wall of the stage. “Thank you for being so patient and not grabbing at the tools. Actually, I think you’ll do much better working with your hands anyway since you seem to have chosen the stage area. Felicity will show you where to set to work cleaning out underneath. We’ll be needing to use that area, so be sure you get it good and clear.”
Before Felicity could protest Cynthia glanced at the cigarette butt at the feet of the tallest, hooded youth. “I know you won’t want to leave that litter there. I’m sure Alfred can give you some trash bags. Better ask him for a whole box—you’re sure to find lots of trash under the stage.”
Cynthia turned toward Corin who was looking rather desperate as he attempted to show a pair of small girls how to wield rakes, leaving Felicity facing five pairs of sullen eyes. She gulped. Then took a deep breath and gave the most overtly sullen boy a level look. “Hello. I’m Felicity. What’s your name?”
She held her breath, having no idea how she would proceed if he refused to answer. He took a long draw on his cigarette, then blew the smoke out slowly, returning her stare. She knew if she had been closer to him he would have blown the smoke in her face.
After a measured silence he dropped the fag and ground it with the toe of his boot. “Syd.”
“Good.” Felicity was afraid she showed all too clearly how relieved she was that he deigned to speak to her. The ice was broken. She turned to the smallest boy, thin and shivering in a threadbare hoodie. “And you?”
An All-Consuming Fire Page 7
