by Davis Bunn
“I’ll give you a prescription for something to help your nerves,” Cecilia decided. “But I’d like to see you again at the beginning of next week.”
“All right. Fine.” The woman’s gaze remained intent upon Cecilia’s hands as she wrote on the pad and tore off the sheet. “Thank you.”
“Please make an appointment with the receptionist as you leave.” Cecilia found herself wondering what answers she would have then that she did not have now.
But as the door closed and she reached for the phone, Maureen called through to announce,“The lab just sent over the results of Tommy Townsend’s sweat test.”
Cecilia felt wrenched by the news, so much so that she could not keep a tremor from her voice. “We weren’t supposed to get them until tomorrow.”
“I suppose they’re as worried about the kid as we are. They see his name often enough.” When Cecilia said nothing, Maureen asked, “Shall I open it, then?”
“No, no, I’ll be right out. And do me a favor, would you? Call Trevor and ask if I can stop by the vicarage after work.”
Nine
WHEN CECILIA ARRIVED AT THE VICARAGE, THE SKY HAD darkened to the final rose-tinted hues of a long and stressful day. The lab results on Tommy Townsend’s sweat test had come back negative, which was a great relief, yet meant she was still no closer to knowing what ailed the little child.
A light breeze cast itself down the ancient lane, perfumed by wildflowers along the riverbank. The vicarage stood behind the village’s central church, a structure whose stone skirting had been laid more than twelve hundred years before. The church’s Norman tower was one of the first built in England, set in place by William the Conqueror himself soon after his invasion from France in 1066. Knightsbridge had been the staging point for William’s conquest of London, and his first capital in England. The castle ruins still rose like stunted teeth along the village’s north border. This evening the ancient church rose to capture the day’s final colors, glowing with a quiet pride of place and heritage.
The vicarage had been erected using stones taken from the ancient castle and looked like a medieval keep—there was even a tiny square turret to match the church’s bell tower. The lead-paned windows glowed warm and welcoming as Cecilia let herself in through the gate and walked to the front door.
But the day continued to mock her, for when Molly, the vicar’s wife, opened the door, her first words were, “Thank goodness you rang. I was about to call and ask you to stop by.”
“What’s wrong?”
Molly glanced behind her as her two teenage children began quarreling somewhere down the back passage. “Oh,Trevor’s healthy as a horse. As always. But he’s not sleeping well, and he’s just wearing down to a nub.”
Cecilia did not need to ask. “The bells.”
“He blames himself, you know. He thought it would save the church money to have all the bells down at once. But of course that was just the opportunity the Keep Knightsbridge Peaceful brigade were looking for.”
“Lavinia Winniskill is a menace.”
“Oh, it’s not just her. She likes to be the lightning rod, and the town malcontents are only too glad to let her stand in the limelight.” Molly Parkes pushed open the door. “Anyway, I’m glad you’ve come. The bell keepers were around this afternoon, and they’re ready to put them all back in next week. We were planning to have the official rededication a week from Sunday. But today Trevor’s learned the Keep Knightsbridge Peaceful Committee has managed to place a motion before the town council. They intend to block the bells’ return to the towers.”
“Poor Trevor.”
“The man is beside himself, I don’t mind telling you.” She led Cecilia down the house’s flagstone hallway, past the high-ceilinged parlor where Molly’s youngest daughter was studying at the dining table. A miniature Christmas tree stood by the fire, with boxes of tinsel and ornaments arrayed upon the floor. Molly Parkes stopped before a closed door, knocked, and when a muffled voice responded from within, Molly mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Cecilia had no choice but to push open the door. “Trevor?”
“Oh, it’s you.” Trevor Parkes was a former all-county cricketer and had once been slated as an alternate to the England squad. Normally he held the quietly focused intensity Cecilia had found in many top athletes, especially important in a game that could last four days. This evening, however, he looked to have aged twenty years.
He waited until she had shut the door to declare, “Our little village is about to become a victim of its own complacency.”
Cecilia hesitated long enough to realize this was the only invitation Trevor was able to offer. She crossed the room and seated herself on the other side of his desk. Trevor watched her and yet did not seem to truly see her at all. Certainly not enough to be dragged from his thoughts. “I imagine the vast majority of villagers would claim to believe in God. But so long as their lives meander along in comfort and ease, they are more than happy to keep God at arm’s length.”
Trevor’s features seemed slackened by defeat. “They are a smug lot, my parishioners. They are surrounded by all the beauty this world has to offer, all the ease of modern life, all the warmth of friends and people whose job it is to smooth out all the bumps. Why should they allow God any closer than is comfortable? The present season is merely a reason for temporary good cheer and overeating. Our Savior’s birth is merely another tradition.” His tone burned with bitter mimicry. “As for God, well, He’s a good enough chap to have on your side in a pinch. But a bit too pushy if you let Him get close, don’t you see. Demands all sorts of things. Lost in the past. Thinks in terms of black and white, when anybody with sense knows the world is shades of gray, particularly in this day and age. No, no. Getting too involved in this religion business simply wouldn’t do.”
Cecilia found herself unable to observe him any longer. Though she knew he did not mean it as such, his features held too strong a conviction of her own casual faith. She glanced at the sidewall, with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, before her gaze rested upon the fireplace. The house had been built centuries before the notion of central heating, and each of the rooms still contained a working fireplace. They were small affairs, the log-holders not much bigger than salad bowls, with cast-iron frames intended to heat up and radiate warmth.
“But faith is not a matter of convenience. God is not a divine waiter, standing about until we decide we require His help. He calls us to commit.” His words were stretched and racked by the pain of seeking to reach those who did not wish to hear. “We are not invited to a dinner party where we can pick and choose among the courses. God calls us to be His children, loyal and selfless, eager to strive forward until we are ready to join Him at the eternal wedding feast.” He was glumly silent for a long moment, then added, “Perhaps it’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Cecilia responded quietly, still unable to raise her eyes from the cold and blackened fireplace.
“If I could only find a way to reach them. To make them see it’s not just about a group of bells. Bit by bit we are relinquishing the standard of God and the heritage that helped to build this community and this nation. If I can’t reach them three weeks before we are meant to celebrate the birth of His Son, whenever can I manage?”
She only partly heard him. Cecilia found herself recalling another night, one from her first winter in the village. She had been frightened by so much—the alienness of the place and the people, the way everyone seemed to stand back and measure her, the inability to make friends, the loneliness and the questions and the doubts that she had indeed done the right thing by moving to Knightsbridge. Night after night she had come to this very room and sat with Trevor and his wife. They had been comfortable with the silence of intimate companions, content to let her play chess with their son or watch television or read or simply reflect upon the day’s challenges. Cecilia had spent hours staring at the tiny fireplace, where a pile of coals always glowed as strong as sunset jewels, hissing a
nd whispering in the tongues of night and winter. Now she stared at the unlit logs and felt convicted by how the fire was going out—not from the room, but rather from this fine man. And she was partly to blame. She had come when she needed something, then allowed pressures and work and her own selfish direction to stand between her and all this good man stood for.
“These bells were set in place by people who wanted the very hills to ring with God’s call,” Trevor went on. “They have rung the time to pray for more than seven hundred years. It would be a desecration to their memory and all they stood for to let them go silent.”
Cecilia lifted her gaze and said, “Tell me how I can help.”
“We can’t simply . . .” It took a moment to realize what Cecilia had said. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to help,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “What do you want me to do?”
“My dear,” his gaze remained clouded. “These are powerful people within the community. I’m only coming to realize just how potent. I very much doubt you would want to make them your enemies.”
She swallowed. “You just said we need to commit. All right. I’m committed.”
Trevor stared across the desk at her for a long while, long enough for her to realize that the man’s wavy blondish hair was not graying so much as turning transparent, as though the winds of time were blowing out the color. For some reason she found this strengthening her resolve, such that she seemed almost to expect it when he said, “Saturday evening there’s to be a special open meeting of the town council. They are going to put forth a motion to halt the bells’ re-installment. I was going to speak, but—,” He paused.
“I’ll do it,” Cecilia offered.
“It would certainly carry more weight if someone who is not directly connected to the church were to speak on our behalf,” Trevor mused.
“Fine,” she answered, though it turned her stomach to jellied ice to think of standing before the village assembly. “Tell me what you want me to say.”
Ten
“HARDY SEADE I S HIMSELF THE THIRD TENANT ON YOUR estate,” Arthur explained to Brian over dinner that evening. “He uses the old stable block to house his collection of antique cars. He also heads the group wanting to buy the estate at auction.”
“Arthur, don’t bother the young man so,” his wife complained.
“It’s all right.” Brian went on to Arthur, “Any idea what they plan on doing here?”
“Oh, they make no bones over their desire to tear down all the outbuildings and build a high-tech office and laboratory complex.”
Brian froze with his fork in midair. “You’re kidding.”
Arthur Wainwright possessed the chiseled features and wayward white hair of an aging movie icon. He shook his head sadly. “I wish I were.”
“Now, the both of you just stop it. All this misery and mayhem can wait until coffee.” Gladys Wainwright hefted a platter heaped with slabs of mutton. “Do have some more lamb, dear.”
“I wish I could, but I just don’t have room left for anything.”
“Oh, but you must. I’ve been baking all afternoon, making one of my famous brambleberry tarts.” She stood and picked up a tray, then when Brian started to rise, she stopped him with, “Stay right where you are, dear. We don’t allow guests to help until their second visit.”
Brian turned back to Arthur and said, “You’re right, she’s a great cook.”
“Yes, the only thing my Gladys likes better than gossip is baking.”
Arthur rose and began gathering plates. “I won’t be a moment.”
Brian settled deeper into his chair and stared around him. The ceilings in these back downstairs rooms were lower, the rooms more cramped. Gladys had explained that this rear section had once been the servants’ quarters and contained the oldest portions of the house. The kitchen certainly looked it, with a flagstone floor sculpted by feet until it rippled with the tides of centuries. The entire apartment sighed with weary overuse and a lack of care. The whitewashed room where he sat was stained by water and time, the floor so scored that the last flecks of varnish peeled from the scarred wood. Brian tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, it wasn’t really his.
Even so, when Arthur reappeared, Brian’s voice grated with frustration and helplessness. “I just don’t see how Heather could have let Castle Keep get so run-down.”
“Yes, well, there you are.” Arthur set down the cheese board and eased into his chair. “Heather was a dear woman. Her husband, Alex, was one of my closest friends. When I retired, Gladys and I experienced a number of financial setbacks, most especially a brother-in-law who needed psychiatric care.”
“Call a spade a ruddy spade, dear.” Gladys walked in and set down the plates and turned back to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “My brother was an alcoholic and a spendthrift. The only reason he didn’t perish in prison was because of my Arthur’s generosity.”
“When I came out of the force, we were skinned. Dead broke,” Arthur continued. “Don’t know what we would have done if Heather had not offered us this flat.”
“Starved on the street,” Gladys called from the kitchen. “Begged pence from passersby.”
Arthur waved it all aside. “You asked how Heather could have allowed the place to fall into such disrepair. The answer is simple. When Alex died, she went a bit mad.”
Gladys returned bearing a steaming pie so large it seemed ready to lift itself from the pan. “Alex was a dashing figure of a man. And such a charmer. He could draw a chuckle from a cadaver.”
“Heather just fell to pieces,” Arthur continued. “We were stationed in Kenya when it happened, but her letters were eulogies that would break your heart to read. When we came back on leave, well, we found a shattered spirit.”
“A hollow gourd.” Gladys placed a slice dripping sugar and berries onto a plate and set it in front of Brian. “I simply don’t know what would have happened if your Sarah had not appeared on the scene.”
“Heather would not have survived,” Arthur responded. “It is quite that simple.”
“Do go ahead and start, dear. It’s not as good when it grows cold.”
Brian took a bite, and exclaimed, “This is incredible.”
Gladys beamed as she placed a plate in front of her husband. “Yes, well, I do make a rather good pudding, if I say so myself.”
“After Sarah arrived, Heather’s letters went through a dramatic shift,” Arthur said between bites. “Day and night, really. In the space of one year she went from a shroud seeking the tomb to a woman with a reason to live.”
“Still, she never did see to the estate after Alex passed,” Gladys said. “The only work she had done was to paint the walls of Sarah’s room. Alex was the one who loved this place. He was passionate about it. Heather lived here because her family had been here for generations; I don’t suppose she really cared one way or the other very much. But not Alex. He adored Castle Keep.”
“An estate like this requires work all the time. Manors are funnels into which one is always pouring money. A year without work and they begin to wear. Twenty years, and . . . ,” Arthur waved his fork about the room. “You see the result.”
Gladys peered tightly across the table. “Perhaps you’d rather we not speak of your departed wife.”
“No, it’s all right,” Brian said, immensely glad it was the truth. “Sarah talked so much about Castle Keep, I feel like I know its every nook and cranny.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Gladys replied. “This is a house that dearly loves its secrets and its mysteries. The foundations are over a thousand years old, laid by monks who established a monastery at the ford of the river Thames.”
“Rumors and unfounded suppositions,” Arthur scoffed.
“It’s not and you know it.” Turning back to Brian, Gladys continued, “That’s why William the Conqueror chose this ford to cross the river and build his castle, because the monks had located a market village here in the Dark Ages. He nee
ded supplies for his armies, and a spiritual anchor for his life.”
“There’s never been any documented proof of that,” Arthur countered. “And the theories are hotly disputed.”
“Well, be that as it may, this house is full of spaces and secrets it shares with no one,” Gladys replied. “I know that for a fact, and so do you. The old place has been built on and added to so often no one has any idea what it contains. Why, Alex himself hired an architect to come in and draw up plans, and the poor man almost had a seizure trying to fit the interior within the exterior. The measurements simply would not add up.”
But Brian remained caught by memories all his own and the ease with which they arose in this ancient chamber. He tasted the words before he spoke them and found a sense of rightness there. As though here in this place he was protected. Safe and welcome to share a part of what he had carried all the way around the world. And sought to run from as well.
“The last couple of months before Sarah died, we talked about how it would be when she was gone.” Brian stopped there, only mildly aware that the room had gone utterly still, as though his words had sucked out space within which the couple could move. He was too focused on his own internal state, too satisfied to find a rightness in speaking of these secrets he had never shared with anyone. “I didn’t really want to, but Sarah said it would help her face what was coming if she knew she could have a little hand in planning my future.”
A ripple in the window’s drapes caught his attention, as though a gentle spirit had passed and drawn one invisible hand along the printed fabric. He continued, “I knew what Sarah was doing. She wanted to force me to look beyond the moment and what we both knew by then was coming. I had always wanted to travel but never really had the time. So we spent hours plotting a course. The plan was for me to come here to Knightsbridge and use the manor as a base, then travel on, going to all the cities she had read about and dreamed of going with me—Venice, Zurich, Cairo, Paris, dozens of places.”
