The Book of Hours (30 page)

Brian found he had no choice but to drive over to the side of the road, pull on the brake, and open his door. Arthur asked in genuine astonishment, “Where on earth are you off to?”

“I have to make sure he's okay.”

Arthur cast a soldier's disdainful glance back to where the deep furrows plowed across the grass and into the forest. “Joe Eaves received precisely what he deserved, wouldn't you say?”

Brian answered by walking back on shaky legs and entering the woodland's cool depths.

He could have followed this particular trail on a moonless night. The truck had uprooted three young saplings, scraped the bark off several trees, and in so doing had clearly slowed itself to a safer speed. For when Brian finally found the attacker, the motor was idling quietly, the truck wedged between two mammoth oaks. Joe Eaves had swiveled himself up on the seat and was using both feet to push with savage fury at the front windscreen. When he spotted Brian's approach, he redoubled his efforts. The sight was enough to turn Brian around and hasten him back to the car.

Arthur greeted him with, “Well?”

“He's alive and kicking,” Brian said, climbing in. “Let's go.”

Thirty-five

T
REVOR MET THEM AT THE ENTRANCE TO
C
ASTLE
K
EEP WITH
a strident, “What in the name of all under heaven kept you so long?”

“You try rushing a bureaucrat,” Arthur replied querulously.

“But the auction begins in less than an hour!”

Arthur extended his arm. “Hold off on the complaining and help me out of this motorcar. You're worse than Gladys.”

“I've been twice to the mayor's, saying you were on your way.” He eased the old man erect, then spotted Brian's side of the car and demanded, “What happened to your lovely machine?”

The pair of journeyers responded together, “Joe Eaves.”

Trevor walked around for a closer look. “You had an accident with the gardener?”

“Never mind that,” Arthur snapped, brandishing his folder. “That battle's over, but victory still hangs in the balance!”

Brian matched his stride to that of the gentleman, whose medals glittered magnificently in the light. Ever since Joe Eaves's futile attack, he had felt utterly protected, sheltered even from the tense moments with the ministry bureaucrat. For a time Arthur had looked as though he would explode from the frustration of dealing with a recalcitrant official. Even though Brian knew full well his occupation of Castle Keep and the future he saw unfolding was edging ever closer to the cliff of abandon, he remained disconnected from the swirl of argument and tension.

Percival Atkins had finally lost patience with the bureaucrat's endless objections, and strode off in search of the minister himself, who happened to be a frequent visitor to Christie's hallowed chambers. Brian had sat and watched as if from a great distance while their meeting had then been moved to a vast and ornate conference room. There, two crusty historians on annuity from Christie's gave unequivocal backing to Percy's strident demand for immediate action. Over the objections of his own underling, the minister agreed to extend a temporary reclassification of Castle Keep, pending a final decision to elevate the property to grade-one historical significance.

As they raced down the cobblestone lane toward the council offices, Brian began to have swift glimpses of a future beyond this moment and this day. The jolting surges of hope left him feeling as though he were seeing Knightsbridge anew. Not even his rising excitement and the pressure of time could keep him from appreciating what they passed. Their way took them along a medieval estate wall so old it billowed like brick-and-flint sails. Beyond that were centuries-old homes of Cotswold stone, held up by metal stays connected to iron cables that ran through the house. It was only when he passed beneath a row of ancient willows forming a tunnel of light-flecked green that Brian realized what caused him to see everything anew. For the first time since his arrival, he was seeing the village as home.

They halted at the entrance to the council offices for a quick breath. “Steady on, chaps,” Arthur puffed. “Who's to do the talking here?”

“You are,” Brian directed.

“Give them both barrels,” Trevor agreed.

“Right you are.” Arthur squared his shoulders, pressed through the door, and said, “Once more into the breach, dear friends.”

It was the final word that cast a glow over their passage down the hall and into the mayor's outer office.
Friends
. Even when there was the thunder of footsteps behind them, and Brian turned to confront a furious Hardy Seade, the glow remained. It was true, so genuine that not even the man's boiling wrath could diminish the realization. He was not alone. He was flanked by friends, and this was home.

Seade demanded,“What's this claptrap about delaying the auction?”

Arthur waited for the mayor to rise from his desk and join them to declare, “Today a temporary injunction has been issued against both the auction and any possible development of the property.”

The county finance manager stomped up alongside Hardy Seade and screeched, “By whom?”

“The Minister of the Interior himself,” Arthur announced smugly.

“That's a bald-faced lie!” Hardy roared. “The auction is going ahead as scheduled!”

“Afraid not, old chap.” Arthur presented the papers to the mayor. “You'll see the minister's chop down at the bottom of the page.”

Hardy Seade pushed Arthur aside. “Let me have that!”

The old man would have gone down had Brian not been there to catch him. “I say, steady on,” Arthur protested.

“Yes, do get a hold on yourself.” The mayor used his body to fend off Hardy's clawing for the papers.

“But my buyers are already arranged! The deal is finalized!”

“Not according to these papers.” The mayor read aloud, “‘Any intended disposal of said property is hereby postponed until after a review of its historical significance and appropriate heritage classification can be assigned.'”

The tax woman cried, “That is absolutely preposterous!”

Hardy Seade added, “A government survey could take years!”

“Indeed so.” The mayor looked up and offered Brian a genuine smile. “Well, Mr. Blackstone, it appears that you are now an official resident of our little town.”

“But he can't be!” The tax woman appeared on the verge of coming undone. “This man is a vile, treacherous, irresponsible—”

The mayor revealed a hard edge to both his gaze and his voice. “Perhaps you could tell me why you seem so personally involved in this matter.”

“I . . . He . . .” The tax woman foundered, then gave Hardy Seade a glance of desperate appeal. “Hardy, dear . . .”

“I asked you, not Mr. Seade,” The mayor barked.

She could only manage, “That man owes us back taxes.”

“Which he is now in a position to pay,” Arthur proclaimed. “With interest.”

“Then our involvement in this matter must be strictly limited to upholding the minister's ruling,” the mayor grated. “Wouldn't you agree?”

“I . . . That is . . .”

“You can't do this!” Hardy Seade waved his fist within an inch of Brian's nose. “I had enough of this treachery from Heather Harding!”

“You accuse us of treachery?” Arthur's laugh rang out as strong as the afternoon sunlight. “My dear chap, after the tricks you've pulled with Joe Eaves, that goes beyond the pale.”

“Eaves? What does the ruddy gardener have to do with anything?” Seade's hair sprouted wildly, his eyes bulged. The man looked on the verge of exploding. “We're talking about Heather Harding and her vile tactics. And now yours! Well, you won't get away with it, I can tell you that! I'll—”

The mayor glanced behind their little throng and said, “Ah, bailiff, there you are. Please be so kind as to escort Mr. Seade from the building.”

“Come along, sir.”

“You haven't heard the last of this!” Hardy Seade attempted to grip the doorjamb as he was pulled from the room, but the bailiff was ready and blocked him neatly. As he vanished down the hallway, he shrieked, “Castle Keep is mine!”

The mayor waited until the outer doors had shut to offer Brian his hand. “Mr. Blackstone, allow me to welcome you to Knightsbridge.”

Thirty-six

T
HEIR DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS A SUBDUED AFFAIR.
C
ECILIA
sat across from Brian, stunned to immobility by the sudden reversal. The old couple were clearly exhausted. Trevor and Molly tried gamely to keep the conversation going, but the effort was too much even for them. Brian sat and marveled at his growing sense of belonging somewhere. He studied the faces about Gladys's dining table, cast by the overhead light into softly wearied lines. Brian looked from one face to the next, indulging in the joy of knowing that here indeed were friends. Here were family.

The phone's ring seemed to jangle them all. Arthur returned to the dining room to announce, “That was Percy. His in-house experts have passed tentative judgment over both volumes. The Bible is in sad shape, but he thinks many of the illuminated pages can be restored and mounted as individual prints. The
Book of Hours
, on the other hand, has the entire house agog. It appears, Brian, that you are now a wealthy man.” He waved his hand across the table and announced grandly, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new master of Castle Keep.”

“Here, here,” Trevor said.

“You know, something continues to niggle at me,” Arthur went on, fumbling his way back into his chair. “Why on earth would Joe Eaves attack us after the book was safely stowed away?”

“Revenge,” Cecilia suggested.

“Doubtful,” Arthur murmured. “Hardy Seade must have mentioned our excitement this morning, and he could well have followed us out of town. No doubt he sought what we might have been carrying with us.”

“Who's to understand the workings of such a mind,” Gladys said.

“I for one will sleep better when I hear the police have him under lock and key.”

“There's something else,” Brian said, releasing the doubts he had found surfacing all day. “You know how Percy said the chapel had been untouched for centuries?”

Trevor nodded thoughtfully. “If so, how did Heather know about those tomes?”

Arthur fiddled with his coffee spoon. “Percy's not the sort of chap to make such a declaration unless he was absolutely certain.”

“I've found myself wondering about that as well,” Gladys added reluctantly. “It wouldn't be like Heather to find such a glorious book and just leave it sitting there in the gloom for years and years.”

“Quite right,” her husband agreed.

Cecilia looked from one face to the next. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Trevor shared her disbelief. “You mean there's more?”

Arthur demanded, “Search on your knees in the depths, isn't that what the riddle said?”

“In the manor's oldest part,” Brian agreed.

“Well, barring the cellar,” Gladys observed, “our kitchen is the oldest portion of the house itself.”

Trevor stared at her. “I don't recall hearing anything of the sort.”

“Heather told me that on several occasions, I remember it distinctly,” Gladys countered. “Our kitchen was at one time the original scullery of the first Castle Keep.”

Arthur surveyed the gathering, and gave one and all a grand smile. “I suppose you know what that means.”

“Shouldn't we leave off until tomorrow, dear?”

“Nonsense.” The old gentleman was already struggling to his feet. “The tide of events and all that rot. Come along, let's get to work.”

Thirty-seven

A
N HOUR LATER, ALL THE POTS AND PANS HAD BEEN PLUCKED
from Gladys's shelves, all the cupboards laid bare, all the stains and age revealed. Gladys alternated between helping them stack and standing in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands over the dust and the decline.

After a first circuit of the room proved futile, Brian walked out the front door and seated himself against the pillars. A few moments later, the door opened and Trevor's voice asked, “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” He waited for the vicar to slip down beside him, and said, “I just had to come out and appreciate the night.”

“A momentous occasion,” Trevor agreed. “Our hearty congratulations. We're all happy for you.”

“I know. And that makes it all the sweeter.”

The vicar hesitated, then asked, “Might I pry for a moment?”

“Fire away.”

“My wife would most certainly say that I was meddling where I did not belong. But it is a pastor's habit to snoop about at times.” Another momentary vacillation, then, “Cecilia has become something of an adopted daughter. And not just by me. Many of the locals about here take quite an interest in her.”

Brian folded his hands in his lap and waited. Overhead the sky was awash with silver.

“You lost your wife two years ago, and began traveling almost immediately, is that not correct?”

“Left the day after the funeral.”

“And you've been traveling ever since?”

“Haven't been back to America a single time.”

The voice was gently English, but the gaze direct, the words cutting. “It has left me wondering, you see. Have you experienced two years of healing, or two years of avoiding your grief?” When Brian did not respond, Trevor went on, “I understand that you might think you have feelings for our Cecilia. But are these feelings merely a result of unresolved grief? Your judgment might be all over the place, really. Grief affects people in so many ways. Not to mention anger. There's bound to be some anger in such a situation. We must guard against passing on a dose of this unresolved wrath to someone else.”