by Davis Bunn
“I guess you could say that.”
“Tell you what.” Bill Wilke slammed the hood shut. “I’ll get the old lady up and running again and arrange for a set of temporary plates. You can enjoy her for a few days at least.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Wilke.”
“Name’s Bill to my mates.” He shook Brian’s hand a final time. “Instant I set eyes on you, I said to myself, ‘Here’s a bloke with his head gasket screwed on proper.’” He started back to the tow truck and began winching the MGA onto its rear tires. “Personally, I’d say this whole auction thing is just one big send-up. Won’t pack any more bang than a damp squid.” He waved a hand toward the front gates. “There’s only one bloke interested in this old place, and that’s Hardy Seade. Man’s been after title and majesty all his life. Nothing he likes better than having somebody give him the old bow and scrape.”
Arthur waited until the mechanic had departed with the red MGA in tow to muse, “Now, I wonder what else our dear Heather has in store.”
Sixteen
SATURDAY EVENING BRIAN MET ARTHUR AND GLADYS AS HE was coming down the stairs. They stared up at him for a moment, a question in their eyes. Brian explained, “Cecilia asked me to come and give her moral support.”
“My dear boy, such dress might be well and good for an evening out across the puddle,” Arthur said reprovingly. “But here in England it just won’t do. Won’t do at all.”
Brian looked down at his faded denim shirt, cotton sweater, khakis, and scuffed loafers. He carried his Malay jacket in one hand. “It’s all I have.”
“I can’t have my landlord walking about the village looking like a sun-tanned vagrant,” Gladys complained. “It simply isn’t proper.”
Arthur surveyed Brian’s lanky frame. “What size jacket do you wear?”
Brian had to search back two years to recall, “Forty-two long.”
“Well, the long’s a bother, but we might have something that will do for the moment.” He turned toward Gladys. “Be a dear and see if you can find my old duds.”
“Really,” Brian began. “That’s—”
“Joining the ranks of the elderly means that one shrinks,” Arthur said, taking Brian by the arm and leading him back to their apartment. “The process of shriveling leaves one unable to recognize oneself some mornings. Truly a horrid moment, I assure you, looking in the glass and having this prune of an apparition there to greet you before your first cup of tea.”
“These have been packed away for donkeys’ years,” Gladys said, returning with clothes draped over both arms. “I’m afraid you’re going to smell rather mothbally.” She handed Brian a shirt and tie and jacket. “Just step into the dining room and give those a try. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about attiring those long American shanks of yours.”
“No one will notice the bottom half if the top is presentable,” Arthur said.
Brian decided he had no choice but to do as they said. Through the partly closed door he heard Arthur say, “There’s an unwritten code that even eccentrics must attend to in this land. Your dear Heather was well aware of this fact.”
“She wasn’t my anything,” Brian said, slipping his arms into a shirt that smelled of mothballs. “I only met her once.”
“Which is your loss,” Arthur replied smartly. “As I was saying, the code of an English village states that a person may be mad as a hatter and chase fairies down the High Street so long as one does so well dressed.”
Brian knotted his tie and slid it up tight, marveling that he still remembered how, then slipped into the blue blazer. Self-consciously he stepped back into the hallway. “The sleeves are too short.”
“Keep your hands in your trouser pockets, and no one will notice,” Arthur replied. “Here, try on my old overcoat, it was cut large to fit over a dress uniform.” He surveyed the result. “He cleans up rather well, wouldn’t you say, my dear?”
“Like a Hollywood movie star out slumming for the evening.” She gave his lapels an affectionate brush, then drew his tie up straight. “This outfit takes me back, I don’t mind saying.”
“All right, then, let’s be off.” As they stepped into the evening, Arthur confessed, “Personally, I don’t give a toss about the bells. Banging about all hours of the day and night, it could be a bit wearing at times. But the vicar holds them in high esteem, and one must always stand up for one’s mates.”
“I miss them,” Gladys said. She pointed to the steeple rising beyond the elms. “They’ve come to be old friends. I’d hate not having them there to mark my days.”
The night was clear and carried a hint of frost. Brian pulled the overcoat closer around his front. He was unused to such bitter temperatures, yet found he relished the change. The night sky was clear and star-filled. Many of the windows they passed were festooned with holly and flickering candles. Ivy and mistletoe adorned the lampposts. There was none of the brash clamor of the American-style Christmas with which Brian was familiar. Small hints were everywhere, but quietly done. Wreaths upon the doors, spices in the air, candles and songs and firelight.
The closer they drew to the market square, the more people joined their quiet procession. The soft footfalls and conversation bounced off the ancient buildings, echoing back and forth until it seemed to Brian that the centuries opened and released memories to walk along with them.
The town hall rose from the end of the cobblestone square opposite from the central church. It was an odd structure with an open colonnaded ground floor. Tall pillars surrounded a stone-floored terrace. Benches lined the exterior, framing a grandstand space where, in the summer, bands played and children danced and couples courted. This winter evening, however, all was quiet. People streamed through the side entrance and climbed the steep stairs to the vast upper chamber. It was tall and broad, the overhead beams smoke-blackened where oil lamps had once burned. And very crowded.
“Arthur, Gladys, so good of you to come.” A very nervous vicar rushed over to shake their hands and point to his left. “We’re trying to marshal our forces up toward the front.”
“Looks like a full house,” Arthur said.
“Yes, it’s hard to tell how many are here for a night’s entertainment and how many to support the cause.” He gave Brian a gray-tinted smile. “Very nice of you to take an interest in village life. Though I must warn you, this might be your introduction to our darker nature.”
As the vicar was pulled away by someone else, Arthur motioned for Brian to follow. Brian stiffened as he passed Hardy Seade, who was standing with the county finance official and the lady who had accosted him on his own front step. The tweedy woman gave him a frosty glance and sniffed her disapproval before turning away.
“Mr. Blackstone, Brian.” A massive figure in an overly tight jacket and walrus mustache slid through the crowd. “Thought I might catch you here tonight.”
“Hello, Bill,” Arthur said. “How is the world treating you?”
“Better than the doc there.” Bill Wilke nodded affably toward where Cecilia sat isolated upon the front stage. She nervously flipped through the white cards she held, her eyes glazed, her features tight. “Looks like she’s reading up on her own execution.”
“The poor dear,” Gladys said. “I’ll just go and say hello.”
Brian debated whether he should go with her until Bill Wilke said, “Just wanted to let you know the motorcar is up and running.”
Hardy Seade and the two women slipped around Bill Wilke, heading for the front podium. Brian endured icy glares from all three. “You’ve already repaired the MGA?”
“Not all that much to fix. Couple of loose wires, set of new wheels and brakes, retuning, that’s about it.” A few teeth shone behind the mustache. “She sings a sweet melody, that old beauty.
You’ll want her delivered tomorrow, I warrant.”
“I can’t thank you enough for all this.”
“Think nothing of it.” He glanced over to where Hardy Seade and the two women
were sitting on the stage across from Cecilia. “You spot the trio of nasties when you came in?”
“Yes.”
“Strip the bloom right off the rose, those three. Shame Miss Heather’s place’ll wind up in their claws. Which reminds me.” He patted his pockets. “Almost forgot. Came across something in the glove box.” He handed over a crinkled yellow envelope. “Looks like the old dear left you another note.”
“More puzzles.” Arthur almost purred the words. “How splendid.”
Brian accepted the envelope with numb fingers and noticed the cover was split open and resealed with a fresh strip of cellophane tape. The big man looked mortally shamefaced as he confessed, “Couldn’t help myself. Nothing I love better than a good puzzler.”
Before Brian could frame a response, a bearded gentleman banged his gavel and announced, “This meeting will now come to order.”
Cecilia had almost forgotten just how bad the fear could be.
The more crowded the meeting hall became, the louder the roar in her ears grew. Her entire midsection felt ground into a single huge knot, one so tight her heart had to hammer like mad just to force the blood through. When the mayor banged his gavel, she jerked like a rabbit caught in the crosshairs. She could not remember what she was going to say, even with the words written on the cards in her hands. It was just so much scrawl, written by another person speaking a foreign tongue. Someone who was not gripped by terror’s fist. Someone sane.
Even the mayor’s words seemed caught by the wind’s roar. She forced herself to look at him, to watch as he fielded questions and objections. She felt a battery of eyes upon her, many of them hostile. The vicar slipped into the chair beside her and patted her hand. Trevor’s touch seemed merely to scald her with all that was yet to come.
She tried to concentrate as first the tweedy Lavinia Winniskill and then the councilwoman rose and spoke to the crowd. All she could catch was how it seemed as though the entire audience applauded their every word. That and the way the pair loaded their speeches with vehement scorn. Although she could not catch the words, the tone came through loud and clear. Over and over the thought echoed through her mind, they hate me, and if they don’t hate me now, they soon will.
The second woman seated herself to what sounded like a thunderous ovation. Cecilia searched the room and saw only a few sympathetic faces. For some reason she latched onto Brian Blackstone, seated in a ridiculously tight navy jacket and tie, his hair carefully combed and his tan looking even darker than normal. He watched her with those calm gray eyes, his expression serious. Meeting his gaze left her able to take an almost steady breath and focus enough to hear when the mayor turned her way and said, “Our very own Dr. Cecilia Lyons will speak on behalf of the village church society.”
Her momentary gift of calm was washed away in another flood of terror. She wanted to turn and flee. But the vicar was there, standing now to applaud and offer her a hand, as much to help her up as to wish her well. The pale fear in his own features only added to her dismay. She started toward the podium, wishing for nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Cecilia looked so frail and frightened that Brian had to resist the urge to leap from his chair and go shelter her. But shelter her from what? These were her people, not his. He was the outsider, she the village doctor. And yet she seemed so fragile standing there before the podium, so nervous. She looked up and seemed to search the audience. Then her gaze returned to him, just as it had while the two women had spoken. Brian willed to her all the strength he had to give. She seemed to fasten upon that, or perhaps it was just his imagination. Whatever the reason, she steadied herself with one hand on the podium, the other holding her white note cards, and she began.
“In preparation for this meeting, the vicar gave me several books about Knightsbridge and this region. I have tried to study them with a doctor’s eye. My responsibility for this village is to maintain its health. What I have discovered is that we cannot separate its physical health from its spiritual health. Cut out the heart, and the body will die. Cut—”
“What utter rubbish,” The tweedy woman snorted. “We don’t need an outsider to give us a philosophy lesson!”
The mayor was a hefty gentleman in his fifties, with the quiet aura of one used to leading. He was seated directly behind the podium in a high-backed chair embossed with the village seal. He turned and intoned, “Please be so kind as to permit the opposition its time at the podium, Mrs. Winniskill.”
“But the woman is spouting nonsense!”
“That is for the people to decide.” He turned to the front and said more kindly, “Please proceed.”
Cecilia tried to flip the cards, but her nervous fingers could not manage the maneuver, and one fell to the floor. She glanced down, then back at Brian, the fear naked in her gaze.
She took a shaky breath and continued, “Modern medicine is built upon lessons learned in the past. We tend to scoff at the way patients were treated in bygone days. But the truth is,much of what we accept today as modern treatment has its roots in discoveries made hundreds and hundreds of years ago. For instance, da Vinci’s description of how the body’s musculature is connected to the skeletal structure through ligaments and tendons still holds today. Quinine was first used as a remedy for malaria more than four hundred years ago. And aspirin, or the willow bark from which it is derived, has been used to treat pain and inflammation for more than a thousand years.”
Only then did Brian realize how silent the hall had become. They had listened and applauded the two women. But there was a vastly different sentiment now. People were not just listening. They were intent.
“The truth is, if we were to throw out all the positive benefits that past medical discoveries have taught us because of the errors, we would thwart our ability to treat human illnesses. But no one would think of doing such a thing. At least, not with medicine. And yet we seek to do this all the time with our spiritual life.”
“This is nonsense.” The Winniskill woman bounced a fist on her herringbone skirt. “Mayor, really, I must protest.”
“And I must request that you permit Dr. Lyons to complete her remarks.”
“But this meeting was called to discuss the bells! Which she has not mentioned one time!”
A man’s voice called from the back,“Maybe she would, if you gave her half a chance.”
The mayor frowned his reply to the outburst, then said to Cecilia, “Please do go on.”
Cecilia searched for her place. The strain was etched deep within her taut features. “We ignore the riches and lessons from Christians in the past, and point only at their mistakes. I know because I have done this myself, and I see my community doing this now.”
“Your community.” The Winniskill woman’s voice dripped with scorn. “Why, you silly little ingrate!”
A quiet murmur ran through the crowd. A male voice behind Brian muttered, “She’s a bovine in mohair, that woman.”
Then Brian spotted the lady who worked as Cecilia’s receptionist marching down the side aisle. The Winniskill woman leaned back in her chair, clearly alarmed at her approach. The receptionist was a hefty woman, made larger by the load of anger she bore. She paraded up the stage’s side stairs, pulled over a chair, and seated herself alongside the tweedy lady. “There, now,” she announced, giving all and sundry a steely smile. “I can sit right here and help you remember to keep your gob shut.”
The mayor nodded approval, then turned back to the front. Cecilia shuffled to the next card, breathed hard, and continued, “This village has known some very rich times and some very hard times. Nine hundred years ago, when William the Conqueror made this his first capital in England, Knightsbridge was one of the wealthiest communities in all the land. Records show that by the end of the following century, work on four of our seven churches had begun. Our five monasteries supported three schools and two hostels for wayfarers. According to one historian, these same schools granted our villagers the highest literacy
rate in England. The largest of those monasteries, according to rumors, sat where my little cottage is now. As you can see, our village is rich with heritage. And the village bells are part of our heritage.
“So long ago we don’t even know when the practice began, people saw the need for regular prayer. The account I read claimed it started in France almost fourteen hundred years ago, and it told how people from all walks of life began halting every hour to give a short prayer. Only a few brief words, but every hour they took time to turn to God.”
Brian’s attention shifted to the vicar. Trevor seemed to have shed years in the time Cecilia had been speaking. The vicar surveyed the crowd with a small smile upon his lips. He caught Brian’s eye and gave a tiny nod. Brian felt a shiver run up his spine in response. Despite Cecilia’s nervousness, or perhaps because of it, she had captivated this crowd.
“But how could they do this? How did they know when to pray, since there were no clocks? The answer is, they rang the church bells. Seven churches planted so that their bells could be heard everywhere in the region. And each time they rang, people stopped what they were doing and said a prayer, one that lasted no longer than it took to ring the hour. Those who could read carried a miniature text called the Book of Hours. In it were prayers and short poems, brief words to inspire and direct.”
As Cecilia turned over her final card, her voice sounded a new note of relief at nearing the end. “This was not something practiced only during the good times. Records show that the Black Death struck Knightsbridge twice. The second time it killed almost two-thirds of our population. The village became so small that all the believers could fit into just one church. Even so, right through our darkest era, volunteers went every hour to every church, night and day, to ring the bells. Our churches continued to sound out the need for prayer.”
Cecilia looked at the audience for the first time since she had begun. “Save our heritage. Remind us of our needs, however dated they might seem at the moment. Let the bells of Knightsbridge ring for centuries to come.”
