An All-Consuming Fire (20 page)

But by far John Ward’s favorite subject was peacocks. One fine male cock seemed in danger of having his speckled tail feathers set alight by the fire-breather while five peacocks looked on from across the page.

Antony considered. Had Master Ward simply been taken with the beauty of these strange birds? Or perhaps been attempting sketches of pets on his family property? Or was there a larger meaning here? In heraldry the peacock was a symbol of resurrection and immortality and was also used to represent beauty, power and knowledge. An association with John Ward’s own family crest?

But that was idle speculation and the film crew would be upon him soon. Antony started to close the book, then a scramble of letters caught his attention He turned the tome around in an attempt to decipher it and the book slipped form his grip. Horrified that he might have damaged the ancient volume, Antony picked it up and turned it over carefully. Then breathed a sigh of relief. No damage done. He put it back in the box.

That was when he noticed the sheet of paper that had fallen from between the pages. It was on modern paper and in a much more modern handwriting than the pages it had dropped from. Several columns, each one a list of names. And, interestingly a small doodle that looked like one of John Ward’s peacocks by the last and shortest list.

Could Father Paulinus—surely it was his work—have been on the track of identifying the Cloud author? What an academic coup that would have been. Or was he tracing the lineage of the scribe who made this copy? Or of the scribbulous John Ward? Whatever it was Father Theobald might have an idea—or at the very least, be interested to see it. Antony returned the paper to the box. He must remember to tell the Archivist when he returned.

Antony turned to one of the treatises on the Cloud from the other box, this one by Maurice Chauncey, a monk of the Charter House in London who fled to Flanders under Henry VIII, but before he could tuck into the reading Father Theobald entered again, this time followed by a most unmonastic entourage.

“Right now, camera in that corner.” Harry pointed to Fred, unaccompanied by Ginger. He was obliged to use a handheld camera in these tight spaces. “Lenny, we need lights. Sylvie, our good father here is looking peaky. See what you can do with him.” It seemed that under the pressure of a shooting schedule Harry was capable of forgetting that his wife was the producer of this series, which technically made her his boss.

In a few minutes all was ready and Antony faced the camera holding the small rectangle of golden calfskin. “I hold here a book of mysteries. Who wrote it? When? Where?

“We don’t know. The best we can guess is a monk. Sometime in the fourteenth century. But it’s all guesswork really. And yet this slim volume, written with great force and originality in singularly vigorous and eloquent English, about which we know so little, has influenced some five centuries of those seeking to deepen their devotion and understand more of the ways of God. Or, as our unknown author puts it—to pierce the Cloud of Unknowing.”

Harry shouted “Cut” in a voice geared to a room several times the size of the one they were working in and led his crew out to a more spacious, more picturesque area where they finished their filming beneath a Gothic arch with a statue in the background. Joy Wilkins took her place beside Antony wearing a silky blue dress that emphasized the color of her eyes.

He was ready for her first question as to why readers still choose to engage with a work written half a millennium ago. Antony held up the papers he had selected from a newsstand that very morning, telling of war, disease and conflict. “Because people are still looking for answers for the same problems. People are looking for God.”

“And how does the Cloud Author suggest people find him—or her?”

“‘The most godly knowing of God is that the which is known by unknowing,’ our unknown author says. Finding God can never be a merely intellectual pursuit. The nature of God can’t be understood by our rational minds alone, so we must apprehend him another way—through love because God is love. As our author says, ‘love may reach to God in this life, but not knowing.’”

“So love can break through the Cloud of Unknowing?” Joy prompted.

“Our author recommends short prayers, which he calls darts which ‘pierceth heaven’, he says. But feelings are more important than words. We can pierce the cloud with ‘a sharp dart of longing love.’

“And he tells us that seeing God this way is a ‘blind beholding,’” Antony added. He hoped his words made more sense to his listeners than they did to him. Recent events had done nothing but emphasize to him the blindness—the unknowing—of so much of this life. But he didn’t dare examine it too closely. This was no time to encounter a crisis of faith.

Yet, what if he didn’t find answers to the questions piling up in his daily life? Could he in good conscience continue without a ‘beholding’? At least a blind one—whatever that was?

A
short time later Antony held a single, golden thought to himself, allowing it to draw him forward across the darkness of the moors, even causing him to be thankful for Cynthia’s high speed driving as the headlights sliced through the black that descended like a pall. At home there would be, if not an answer, at least light, warmth, comfort, love—all that Felicity had come to represent in his life. At the end of the day, at the conclusion of the journey across the stygian moors, Felicity would be there.

Father Paulinus, Tara, Alfred… Not to mention the list of alarms and accidents that had plagued recent days… It was too much. The darkness from the moors seeped into the car. Into Antony’s mind. Even the golden talisman of coming home to Felicity dimmed under the onslaught of darkness.

And then Cynthia turned off the Leeds Road onto Stocksbank. The familiar towers of the Community of the Transfiguration loomed silhouetted through the bare tree branches on his right. A turn to the left and a rectangle of golden light poured onto the lane from their cottage window.

Hardly waiting for Cynthia to turn off the engine, Antony jumped out of the car and was through the front door. “Felicity!”

“In here, Squib.” His sister’s voice called him into the front room. Gwena sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a pile of pink bows.

“Felicity. Where is she? Is she all right?” Antony was surprised at the urgent harshness in his own voice.

“Of course she is. Why shouldn’t she be?” Gwen held up a bow. “For the tables at the reception. Pretty, huh?”

“But where is she?”

His sister shrugged. “She went down to the quarry with some reporter woman. Melissa somebody. Promo for the pageant, I suppose.” Gwen looked vaguely at the darkened window. “Been gone a long time.”

Cynthia breezed in and tossed her coat on the sofa. “How did your rehearsal go today, Gwen?”

“Just went over the music at the centre. Too dark to work at the theatre by the time the police were done at the quarry.”

Cynthia dropped to the floor and began twisting a length of satin ribbon into a pink puff. Antony couldn’t wait around to hear more. He couldn’t explain why, but he was seized with a sense that something wasn’t right.

He charged back out into the night. Felicity had gone to the quarry with Melissa Egbert. Little chance the
Sun
reporter was any more interested in the pageant than she had been in a mini-series on the mystics. She would have sniffed out Alfred’s death as she had Tara’s and would be set on sensationalizing it. Serial murderer—or something even more demonic—stalking Yorkshire Moors. Antony shivered.

Inside the community grounds Antony lost his footing on the slick path and fell to one knee. He pushed himself upright, berating himself for his failure to bring a torch. There was nothing for it but to call in at in his room.

Torch tucked under his arm, he took an extra moment to try ringing Felicity’s mobile, realizing how foolish he would feel if she and Melissa were having a cozy coffee in the common room. The incessant, hollow, unanswered ring at the other end of the line, however, only served to increase his urgency.

Antony wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the tarry darkness was even thicker on the back side of the community. His torch barely made a pinpoint of light on the stone steps descending into the quarry. “Felicity!” He shouted. Surely the women wouldn’t still be here. What could they possibly accomplish in this blackness? And cold. He shivered. “Felicity!” His voice echoed off the walls of the quarry.

At the foot of the stairs Antony stopped and played the thin light of his torch as far as it would reach over the floor of the quarry. Empty. He started to turn back when his beam struck something. Something red in the grass.

Two strides took Antony to Felicity’s red knit cap. He held it at arms’ length, considering. What did this mean? What was it doing here? Why would she have taken it off?

He played his flashlight over the ground. The newly cut grass was too short to tell him if there had been a struggle. But were those red splotches? He dropped to his knees and examined the rough quarry floor in the dim light of his torch. Blood? Could it be blood?

The picture of Alfred so recently sprawled only a few yards from here with similar rusty brown smears seeping from his broken head made Antony’s stomach clench. What had happened here?

Every possible answer his mind could pull up chilled him more. All that had happened since his involvement in the film began—it was far too much for normal human error. Or even malicious pranks. Someone was trying to stop the project. Stop him. And there was one thing in this world that would stop him dead in his tracks. Felicity.

If any harm had come to her—

No. Harm to Felicity was not what would stop him. It was what would spur him to action. He had held back far too long—denying any need for his own involvement—when the evidence was swirling all around him—beginning that first night with the fireworks explosion interrupting his study. The fire that destroyed Father Paulinus’ notes and killed him, the accident with the camera, Tara’s death—they were obviously connected. It was harder to see how Alfred’s death and drugs in the quarry could be related—but they must be.

And now—Felicity. It was fine to say the police would deal with it, they were the professionals. But Felicity was his.

All the fine determination in the world, however, was of little use. Felicity was still missing.

His mind slowed with dread, and yet his feet stumbling with urgency, Antony circled the quarry, calling her name repeatedly. Always answered only by the empty echo.

Even in the dark it was obvious that there was little hiding place here now that the weeds and scrub had been cleared out. Even the smallest gum wrapper or fag end would have been bagged by the police squad so recently looking for evidence to explain Alfred’s death.

All that was left was the stage itself with its cavernous black underbelly. Getting a firm grip on himself, Antony forced his stiff legs to carry him forward.

He had to steel himself against the fear of seeing again Alfred’s bloodied head in the stream of torch light, even though he knew it had long been removed by the police. And, indeed, a few minutes later he could confirm that the understage was as pristine as the entire quarry.

Clutching Felicity’s hat as if it could lead him to her whereabouts, he blundered his way back to the cottage. This time the golden light falling from the windows seemed a garish warning of danger rather than the welcoming beacon it had been earlier.

And then his heart filled with gladness. Through the window he glimpsed a head of long, golden hair. “Felicity!” He punctuated his joyous cry with a slam of the door.

But the radiant blond woman who met him in the hall was not Felicity.

“Oh, isn’t she with you?” Melissa Egbert asked, flipping her hair back over her shoulders.

And now he could see that, indeed, it was the shorter, slighter woman he had seen through the window.

“Yes, we were together earlier this afternoon,” Melissa replied to Antony’s urgent grilling. “She was anxious to tell me about the pageant, even if I can’t manage to get a line on this second unexplained death. The police don’t seem to have much, either. Or if they do, they aren’t sharing with the press, that’s for sure. It’s all just too, too coincidental, though, after that make-up girl hanging herself, don’t you agree?”

Antony felt he would like to shake her. “Where did you leave Felicity?”

“At the quarry. About four-thirty I suppose. It was starting to get dark, but she wanted to walk through some business she was thinking of for the pageant. Something to do with llamas, I think she said. I had an appointment with Father Sylvester at the St. James Centre. Quietest man I’ve ever met. How on earth he puts up with those noisy youth I’ll never know. Anyway, I came back to tell Felicity…”

But Antony had long quit listening as he pulled his mobile from his pocket and scrolled down to his entry for the West Yorkshire Police. It was a depressing fact that he even had the police in his phone. A pleasant female voice answered on the second ring. Antony forced himself to sound calm and explain the situation as clearly as he could.

“And how long has this person been missing?” The efficient voice enquired, the speaker obviously filling out a form.

Antony explained. “Yes, only a few hours,” he had to admit. But he was certain something was wrong. “Definitely out of character. Yes. Absolutely.” Well, there was her inclination to impetuous behavior. Still… “Capable of taking care of herself?” He sighed at the next question. “Yes. Yes, she is.” At least she would think she is. He prayed God that she was.

The last of his description entered on the form, Constable Jones gave him her set speech: “In cases like this we advise families to contact ‘Missing People’ who will be able to provide support, advice and practical help at this difficult time.” She gave him a number which he didn’t bother to write down.

“I can assure you sir, that the majority of persons reported missing return soon after their disappearance without suffering any harm.”

Antony rang off. Afterwards, he couldn’t remember whether he had thanked the constable or not. Thank her for what? Filling in a form? It was obvious that was the extent of the help he would get from that quarter. Felicity was not a ‘majority of persons reported missing’ she was the dearest person in the universe. And she was missing. On a cold, dark night. With three unexplained deaths in a few days.