At that moment Fred, pulling Ginger backwards on her dolly, emerged from the side of the temple and Joy Wilkins, her shining blond hair set off with her favorite flame-colored scarf, ushered a tall man in a tweed jacket between two of the Ionic columns and down the steps of the temple. They stopped at the bottom of the steps and Joy continued her interview.
“Let’s get closer.” Felicity moved forward. “Antony said Joy was going to be interviewing some local expert. I think someone who knew the family who owned this before they gave it to the National Trust. I know Antony was relieved he wouldn’t have to be on camera today.”
A small group of crew members stood behind Harry and Sylvia to the right of the camera, well out of range of Ginger’s bright eye, but where they could hear, if not see, the interview. Felicity crossed the lawn to stand beside Antony. He slipped his arm around her waist and they exchanged smiles before Antony turned back to listen to the interview.
Felicity, however, gave scant attention to the speaker. She couldn’t wait to tell Antony about her discovery that the noose had been soaped and to find out what he might make of that fact. But this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation, so Felicity considered the crew members around her. Had one of them stolen soap from the B and B bathroom and rubbed it into the rope hanging from the gibbet? If so, why? Soap was a lubricant. Felicity had used it herself when removing a tight ring from a swollen finger.
As it seemed so many things did lately, the thought triggered a long-buried memory. This one of helping her father with DIY tasks around the house. How often had she seen Andrew pick up a bar of soap and rub it on a sticking pipe to make it turn more easily? He called it his secret weapon.
For an instant she was eleven years old, on her hands and knees, her head under the kitchen sink helping her father. Her heart pinched so hard she gasped for a breath.
She gave herself a small shake and returned to the matter in hand. Would soaping the rope somehow make it easier to commit murder? Or had Tara done it herself, thinking it would make her suicide easier?
Felicity shook her head to clear the troubling thoughts and made a half-hearted attempt to listen to the interview. Even as the camera and its subjects moved away from her.
“Yes, that’s right, Sir Charles Duncombe, Lord Mayor of London and the wealthiest commoner in England, bought Helmsley and Rievaulx in the late seventeenth century. His son Thomas built the Terrace half a century later. He lived at Duncombe Park,” the speaker, his back to Felicity, gestured across the valley beyond the abbey. “This made the perfect vista for showing off his estates and entertaining his guests.”
Joy led her expert to speak about the Picturesque movement in landscape gardening which was popular in the middle of the eighteenth century, as they walked toward the edge of the Terrace, leading camera and crew in procession. “Yes, the Picturesque was all the rage. Many gardens were created on those principles, but Rievaulx’s design represents a new idea. Instead of the visitor being led from one garden feature to another, a series of thirteen views or stations were cut through the trees. The idea was to make it all appear the work of nature so one could simply wander the half mile of paths and at each clearing see the abbey from a different angle—rather like a giant piece of sculpture.”
The speaker stepped toward one of the cuts in the vegetation rimming the plateau, inviting the camera to take full advantage of the panoramic sight of the abbey. As he did so he came into Felicity’s full view for the first time and she gasped. Stanton Alnderby. Why was Joy Wilkins interviewing him about the history of the Terrace? Hadn’t Antony said it was to be a descendant of the former owners? She must have misunderstood. Corin had indicated their farm was in this neighborhood. So Stanton must have an enthusiasm for local history. He did seem to know what he was talking about.
Joy’s next question was lost on Felicity, though, as her mother’s tug on her arm pulled her away from the view of the ruined abbey. “I’ve seen enough old stones for one day, no matter how picturesquely they’re arranged. Let’s go into the temple,” she whispered.
Harry Forslund swung around with a warning look. Felicity put her finger to her lips and followed her mother more to keep her quiet than from any desire to leave Antony’s side and the stunning view.
Once they were out of range of the microphones Felicity thought of arguing with her mother, but it was easier simply to follow up the wide steps and across the portico of the temple. “Ah, now this is lovely!” Cynthia stopped just inside the door, admiring the long banqueting table surrounded with Chippendale-style chairs and set with fine porcelain.
“Dishes are Chamberlain Worcester and the chairs were made to order for the room.”
Felicity gave a little squeal of surprise as the speaker stepped from behind her. “Corin. Nick. What are you doing here?” Then she thought. “Oh, of course. You must have come with your father. I was so surprised to see him. He seems to know his stuff. Do you share his passion for local history?”
Corin made a dismissive gesture. “I love the views of the abbey, even if I find all this beyond indulgent,” he waved a large hand at the pair of ornate velvet and gilt settees against the wall, “but Nick wanted to see the sights.”
“Sure, blame it on me.” His dark eyes sparkled behind his glasses. “But I wouldn’t mind being served a light meal here.”
Corin bowed. “Roast meat with sauces, wine and beer, followed by fruit, tea and coffee. With cream and sugar, of course. I believe that was the standard menu. Thomas Duncombe had a kitchen built below to ensure flawless service for his guests.”
For someone who professed little interest in the history, Corin seemed to have the details down, Felicity thought, but Cynthia spoke, her neck craned to look at the ceiling. “It’s magnificent. Who are they?”
Corin glanced upward. “Apollo and the Muses in the middle. I don’t remember the others.” He stopped and turned suddenly as if he felt he had said too much.
Felicity was confused. Corin professed to dislike the place and yet he knew all the details down to the menus served. Could he be covering something up? A small shiver snaked up her spine. Don’t be silly, she reprimanded herself. “So you live near here.” It was a statement, but an open invitation for him to share more.
He gestured vaguely southward. “Across the valley. Beyond Helmsley.”
The snake wiggled again before Felicity could step on it. Near enough to slip out in the middle of the night for an assignation with a nubile young woman who then threatened to tell your bishop or the principal of your theological college? Felicity was so disgusted with herself for even thinking anything so outlandish she would have hit herself up the side of the head if she had been alone. Instead she merely said, “Let’s join the others. Surely they’ll be taking a break soon.”
As she reemerged into the winter afternoon Felicity glanced at the sun already headed toward the western horizon. The day was passing too quickly. Antony would be taking the train to Blackpool this evening and they had had no time alone together since that early walk this morning which ended so disastrously. She almost ran down the path to where Antony stood by the film crew at the final station. Through the bare branches of the trees the abbey glowed golden in the westering sun in the valley below. The arched windows of the upper stories gave the effect of having a light turned on behind them. Joy was wrapping up, “Thank you, Stanton Alnderby, for sharing your family history with us.”
Felicity spun back to Corin. “Family history? What does she mean? Wasn’t this Duncombe land?”
Corin nodded. “Until they gave it to the National Trust.”
“But your name isn’t Duncombe…”
“My great grandmother was—Dad’s mother’s mother. Younger daughter of a younger son, so there’s no title.” He grinned. “And certainly no money. But lots of tales to tell for those who care about all that.”
Now it made sense. No wonder Corin’s father’s was so set on his son following him onto the land rather than be
coming a priest. Heritage was a fine thing, but it could be a burden.
Filming had stopped and Felicity reached Antony’s side just as Harry was just dismissing his crew. “Right, that’s a wrap. Excellent work, all of you. You get an early start on your Christmas break, so be good boys and girls. Not too much holiday cheer. We’ll see you all back bright and shiny after Boxing Day at Ampleforth.”
Felicity was surprised, shocked even, by his jocular manner. Only a few hours earlier they had found one of his crew members dead. She pulled Antony apart from the others. “How can Harry be so cheerful? I understand needing to carry on with the filming schedule, but he seemed almost elated.”
Antony nodded. “I’ve been puzzling over that. At first I thought he was just putting a good face on it to keep everyone’s minds off the earlier events—help them focus on the job at hand, but I’m not so sure—”
The rest of his thought was cut off by Harry Forslund himself. “Father Antony, you won’t be rushing off just yet, will you? Someone here I want you to talk to. Melissa Egbert, meet Father Antony.”
Felicity turned and blinked. She felt as if she were looking in a mirror. The woman Harry presented to Antony could easily have been Felicity’s sister at least. She even wore her long blond hair in a single plait down her back, just as Felicity had done hers today. The only difference was that Melissa was at least five inches shorter and finer boned. If I’d been built like her I’d be a ballerina today, Felicity thought. But she merely acknowledged the introduction with a smile when Harry gave her name.
Felicity’s attention sharpened when Harry continued, “Melissa’s with The Sun. Doing a piece on our little project here. Told her you’d give her all the background, Father. But with recent, Er—events, I know she’ll want to hear about your experience this morning.”
He turned back to the journalist. “Great tie-in actually. Not that we’d claim any sainthood for our Tara—although she was a lovely girl.” He shook his head dramatically. “Tragic, really. Still, it does make one think of the Lollards who died the same way.”
The director turned back to Antony. “But don’t let me steal your thunder. You’re the storyteller, Father.” Harry stepped back as if handing the baton to Antony. Felicity thought of the party game where someone started a story, then handed a stick to the person who had to continue the tale.
But Antony looked as uncomfortable as if a cudgel had been dropped in his lap. He cleared his throat. “Er—I believe the concept we’re trying to convey here is that peace and holiness never come in this life without struggle. The gibbet could be seen as a symbol of that struggle. Richard Rolle, the first of the English Mystics—who entered the hermetical life just a few miles across the moors here at Pickering—”
Antony warmed to his subject, “came under undeserved suspicion of heresy because of his popularity among the Lollards. They admired and studied his works and interpolated insertions of their own into the text of some of his books. Many Lollards themselves were executed. Some hanged.” He added the last sop to Harry’s image almost under his breath, then came to an abrupt stop.
“And so what tie-in do you see in the tragic death of one of your crew member this morning, Father?” Melissa’s pencil skimmed across her notebook even as she spoke.
Now Antony was free to express his true feelings. “None at all. As you say, it’s tragic. Our prayers are with Tara’s family, and also the police as they work to find answers.”
“But this isn’t the first attack on this project, is it, Father? Do you suspect demonic forces at work opposing you?”
Felicity caught her breath. She remembered all too vividly just a few months back when what should have been an idyllic walk through Wales turned into a life and death struggle against the forces of evil. She had learned the hard way that powers beyond the visible did exist in this universe.
But Antony regarded Melissa levelly. “What are you talking about?”
“I understand one of your cameramen had a serious accident last week. One that could have resulted in his death, even?”
“Well, thankfully it didn’t,” Antony snapped. “Besides, that was an accident. Pure and simple.”
“Are you certain of that?” Melissa probed.
“I am certain there is no demonism at work here.”
“And what about your own ‘accident’ a few days ago, Father?”
Now Antony gaped. “What! How did you hear about that?”
Melissa looked smug. “I have my sources.” Her glance at Cynthia made Felicity groan inwardly. When could the reporter have talked to her mother?
Melissa forged ahead. “But really, now, it isn’t so outlandish to think that the forces of darkness would be displeased with a documentary about the mystics’ fiery passion for God, is it?”
Antony stared at her wordlessly.
Melissa’s next attempt seemed even further afield. “The Duncombe family—still great landowners around here. Have you had any contact with them?”
Antony shook his head.
“But this is their land—historically, at least. It happened on their land. Is there any indication they are displeased with your project? Might any of them be involved in any way?”
Antony’s face clearly said he had no idea what she was getting at. “The Terrace is National Trust property; the abbey is English Heritage.” And that was an end to it.
Melissa attempted a couple of different approaches, trying to get Antony to speculate on Tara’s death, but when it became clear Antony could be pushed no further she thanked him and walked off, her long braid swinging between her shoulders.
Felicity frowned. “Harry made that sound like the interview had been scheduled by the reporter, but do you think he called the press to capitalize on Tara’s death?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. But then, the press was sure to get wind of it all anyway. I’m much more concerned about her questions about demons. ‘The forces of darkness—’ It makes it sound like Harry is trying to turn this into a zombie movie.”
Felicity considered. “I suppose Harry could be playing up the sensational because he’s afraid a straight series on the mystics won’t draw the viewing audience they need.”
Antony nodded. “Or not be attractive to a major network. He wants to sell this to the Beeb, after all. The other day he said something about having to take up an offer from Australia if this doesn’t sell. I don’t think he relished the idea.”
But Felicity had a much darker idea. “Or he could be sabotaging his own film for the publicity.” No, she argued with her own words, not even someone as headstrong as Harry Forslund would commit murder for a publicity stunt. Would he?
And even if he would, Sylvia would stop him. Wouldn’t she?
No, in spite of all the unanswered questions Tara’s death had to be suicide. That was the only rational answer.
Chapter 12
Christmas Eve
December mist obscured the green hillside beyond the window, the electric fire glowed on the hearth and Gregorian chant issued from the radio tuned to Classic FM. Tonight would be Christmas Eve. Felicity snuggled into a corner of the sofa with her long-abandoned volume of Richard Methley. It was hard to realize that by the time her essay on this fifteenth century Carthusian monk from Mount Grace Priory was due her life would have changed forever. She put a bookmark in the chapter on Methley’s translations and took a sip of tea, smiling softly. Yes, just twelve more days and she would be Mrs. Antony Sherwood.
Her contented sigh ended with a frown. There was so much to be got through before that glorious day. And reading for an essay was the least of them. Christmas—alone here with her mother. Felicity was determined it would be good. She was honest enough to admit to herself that outcome would be mostly up to her. Cynthia brimmed with good cheer. That was the problem.
Then Boxing Day with a pageant rehearsal and two more after that—if all went well, more if not; and Antony would return for three more days of filming—Please, Lord, let that
get done without any more mishaps; then family would begin arriving on New Year’s Eve and there would be the wedding rehearsal and then the pageant and then… Delicious shivers of excitement overcame her worries as she gave in to imagining their wedding. Let it be perfect, she breathed.
Cynthia came in trailing ice pink ribbons. “Darling, I would have these poseys finished, but I ran out of ribbon. Do you think that quaint little shop up the street would have another spool?”
Felicity sat up with a jerk, her daydreams scattered. “Mother, what are you doing?”
Cynthia held out a ribbon-bedecked lace cone. “Making the base for the bridesmaids’ nosegays. Then all I’ll have to do is pop the fresh flowers in when they arrive from the florist on the morning of the wedding. Isn’t that clever? I found the pattern in one of those bridal magazines under your bed.”
When Felicity didn’t respond Cynthia continued. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m sure it’s all right. It was an English magazine. I know you want everything to be proper.”
Felicity remembered her earlier resolve to keep the peace and forced a smile. “No, it’s fine. Very clever.” She set her teacup aside. “I’m sure the yarn shop at the top of the road will have ribbon. I’ll just pop out and get some. I was wanting some fresh air anyway.” She hadn’t been, but now she was.
She bundled into coat, scarf and her red bobble hat from the Dewsbury market and set out at her long-legged pace. Even so well swaddled she shivered as a blast of wind hit her. At least the snow had held off. She would normally hope for a white Christmas, but with all there was to do for the pageant things would go more smoothly without the complications of snow underfoot. At home her father would say it was too cold to snow, but she wasn’t sure it worked the same way in England. Actually, accustomed as she was to judging temperatures in Fahrenheit and with Celsius being a foreign language, she never really knew what the temperature was.
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