The Book of Hours (6 page)

Brian watched as she tightened the tourniquet, thumped his vein higher, and inserted the needle. “How long will this go on?”

“If you haven't passed it by tonight, I'll need to move you to the local clinic and put you on a drip.” And possibly a catheter, but again there was no need to frighten him with that just yet. “Any nausea?”

“This morning.”

“That can be a side effect of the muscle relaxant.” She completed the first injection and began preparing the second. “Drink as much as you possibly can. I'll leave you my direct number. If the pain starts again, or if you begin to spasm, you must call me immediately.”

His eyes never left the syringe she was preparing. “Thank you.”

Her mind went back to the meeting in her office the previous morning, and shame almost engulfed her. She cleared her throat and asked, “How long were you sick . . . where did you say you'd come from?”

“Sri Lanka.” As she inserted the second needle and pressed the plunger, his breathing eased. “I was in the hospital for almost five weeks.”

That bit of news halted her once more. “What?”

“It was my own fault. I was living rough and eating rougher.”

“How long have you been traveling?”

“Two years.” A film began to settle over his eyes, and the words became more labored. “Ever since my wife died.”

She completed the injection with all the motions of a well-programmed robot. “You lost your wife?”

His nod was drugged and slow. “Hairy cell leukemia.”

The news pushed her off her knees and sat her on the floor. “How long was she ill?”

“Four years. In and out of remission three times.” He turned his face toward the window. The English sunlight seemed overweak falling upon his leathery skin. His voice grew ever more slurred as the second drug took hold. “I think we were both ready by the time it finally happened. But it didn't make it any easier.”

“No, I suppose not.” With numb fingers she began gathering her bits and pieces. “I have to get to the clinic.”

“I promised her I'd hold on to this old place. But I can't.” The words gathered and pushed against one another, the act of forming them distinctly lost to him now. “Least, that's what the Realtor told me.”

The realization that he was talking about Castle Keep caught Cecilia in the act of rising. She sank back to her hands and knees and drew in closer to his face. “What did you say?”

“Six hundred and thirty thousand pounds,” he mumbled. “Never had that much money in my entire life.”

“What are . . . the death duties, is that what you're talking about?”

“Six hundred and thirty thousand,” he said, and the eyelids slid slowly down. “Got to go with the auction. Don't have a choice.”

“Mr. Blackstone, wait. Hold on a moment longer, please.” She raised her voice and almost shouted, “When did you hear about the auction?”

He mumbled something that might have been, “Yesterday.”

“Mr. Blackstone?”

Brian raised his right hand slightly from the pallet and mumbled, “Sorry, Sarah. So sorry.” Then his breathing deepened, and he was gone.

Five

B
RIAN DRIFTED IN AND OUT OF THE CLOUDS AND THE SUNLIGHT
and the day. Perhaps the drugs had a cumulative effect, perhaps it was simply the result of a stronger dose; whatever the reason, Brian felt as though he were swimming not through hours, but rather mysteries of time and place. He was only partially aware when he passed the stone around midday, a gift he did not genuinely appreciate until later that afternoon, when the drugs finally began to wear off.

Which was why, when afternoon shadows stretched long musty arms across the parlor and a man's voice called from his front hall, Brian was able to rise and walk out to greet him.

“Oh, hello.” He was tall and a few years older than Brian, lean and hard. “I'm Trevor Parkes, the vicar.” He hefted the pot he was holding. “Gladys, your tenant downstairs, has made you some soup. She wasn't certain whether you'd be presentable, so she asked me to bring it up.”

“Come in.” Brian leaned heavily against the wall. “The kitchen is back this way.”

“Yes, I know.” The vicar moved in close enough for the soup to waft tantalizingly. “You seem remarkably mobile for someone suffering from kidney stones.”

“Not anymore.” Brian was surprised at how weak he felt. Rising from the pallet and walking the hallway proved enough to exhaust him. He entered the kitchen and collapsed into a high-backed chair by the central table. “Passed it a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, well done.” The vicar hefted the pot. “Shall I do the honors?”

“Please. I imagine there are some bowls around here somewhere.”

“Yes, just over the sink here.” The vicar moved into the light of the western window, revealing the strong features and corded arms and neck of a serious athlete, which made his voice sound even milder than it actually was. “I wager the drugs have left you rather washed out.”

“Limp as a wet rag,” Brian agreed. “You've been in this house before, I take it.”

“Any number of times. I had the honor of calling Heather Harding a friend.” He set the pot on the stove, found the matches, lit the flame under one eye, and moved the pot into position. “I arrived in Knightsbridge just as she started her decline. Enjoyed many a pleasant cup of tea here at this table. Do you have any bread?”

“Sorry. The cupboard is totally bare.”

“Well, I'm sure Gladys can spare you a slice or two. Hang on a tick.” Before Brian could tell him not to bother, the vicar was out the door and gone.

Brian sat at the table and felt the lowering sun warm him to his bones. The ruddy glow was kind to the old chamber, painting the dilapidated appliances and peeling walls and worn plank floor with glowing strokes. He heard pleasant voices echo from downstairs, and someone laughing. The faint sound convicted him of his own loneliness.

The vicar returned swiftly, carrying a half loaf with him. “No good soup should go undipped.”

“I'm surprised they were willing even to give me crumbs from the table,” Brian said, trying to respond with humor of his own. “Seeing as how they're about to lose their home.”

“Yes, Arthur showed a marked unwillingness to join me in my mission of mercy.” He fished in the drawer for a ladle, washed it and the bowl and the spoon thoroughly, then ladled out a generous portion. “All of which I find quite strange, I must say.”

“I don't see why.” Brian watched the vicar set the bowl down in front of him. The fragrant steam caused his entire body to clench with sudden hunger. “It must be hard to look around for a new home, especially at their age.”

“No, what I meant was, I find it remarkable that Heather did not make any mention to me of the house being auctioned off.” Trevor slid into the seat across from Brian, observing the way the spoon trembled as it rose. “When did you last eat?”

“Last night. Beans and rice. Only been back on solids a week.” The split-pea soup was as thick as goulash. “This is great stuff.”

“Yes, Gladys is quite accomplished in the kitchen. You've been ill?”

“Food poisoning. Sri Lanka.” The short responses were fit in between bites. Brian felt the first faint twinge and forced himself to slow down. But it was hard. His body seemed desperate, beyond famished, no matter what state his stomach might be in. “Spent over a month in a Colombo hospital.”

The vicar grimaced in sympathy. “That must have been dreadful.”

“Beyond belief.” He pushed the scenes away by returning to matters closer at hand. “You say Heather never mentioned anything about planning to sell the house?”

“Not a word.”

“Maybe she didn't bother to think about death duties.”

“She was frail; she was old. And she was very ill, particularly toward the last days. She was also a genuine English eccentric.” The memory brought a smile to the vicar's face. “But one thing Heather was not, to the very last, was forgetful.”

“I wouldn't know. I only met Heather once. She despised me.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.”

“Loathed the ground I walked on.” Even after all these years, the memory still rankled. “She came to Philadelphia the month after I asked Sarah to marry me. At least, she said it was to visit. What she really wanted was to convince Sarah to break off the engagement.”

To his surprise, Trevor's smile resurfaced. “Yes, I'm afraid that does sound like Heather.”

“For the first week she was over, Heather and I fought constantly. I finally told Sarah I was leaving and would be back when Heather returned to England. That is, if Sarah still wanted me.”

“Which she did, I take it.”

“Heather wouldn't come to the wedding, not even when Sarah traveled over and begged Heather to be her bridesmaid.” He scooped up the last spoonful. “I've never been to England. Sarah came over a few times more before she became ill, but she always made the trip alone.”

“I never met your Sarah, of course. I believe her illness started around the same time as Heather's own decline.”

The sunset dimmed, the colors gradually washed of their glow. “That's right.”

“Heather talked of her constantly. Your wife must have been a remarkably beautiful woman.”

Brian turned to the window, only to find his late wife's face etched into the sky, the evening, the life that still remained to him. “Inside and out.”

With a pastor's understanding,Trevor rose to his feet and turned his back to Brian and his moment of remembered pain. “Should I put on some tea?”

“I doubt there's anything to make it with.”

“Oh, Gladys thought to give me a few bags. Couldn't see you go without a cuppa.” He turned around long enough to offer a quick flash of a smile. “Not even the man planning to rob them of their beloved home.”

“It's not my idea.”

“So I gather.” Trevor opened the cupboard by the stove and exclaimed, “What on earth do we have here!”

“What is it?”

“A letter from Heather!” The vicar turned back around, holding a slender pink envelope yellowed with age. “It's addressed to you.”

Brian stood and felt the world swim. “Uh-oh.”

Trevor was instantly by his side. “Let me help you.”

Brian had no choice but to lean heavily on the other man. “Maybe I'd better go lie down.”

“Of course. Slowly now, that's it.”

Weakness rose like a relentless flood tide. “I didn't come here to sell the place. I promised Sarah I'd keep it.”

“I must say, I find it baffling that Heather had not seen to the death duties.” Trevor waited until he had settled Brian on his pallet to ask, “Why are you down here and not upstairs?”

“Two choices up there,” he mumbled, the fatigue tugging relentlessly at his eyes. “Heather's bed or Sarah's.”

“Oh. Of course. I understand perfectly.” He rattled the letter he still held. “Shall I read this to you?”

Brian was about to agree, when sleep rose up and covered him with the mantle of night.

Brian knocked on the downstairs apartment door, then stood in the gloom and listened to the vague sounds within. The door finally opened to reveal the stern-looking older man. “Oh, it's you.”

“Goodness, Arthur, that's no way to greet the fellow.” His wife was shorter but about one and a half times as wide. She pushed by her husband and beamed at Brian. “How are you, dear?”

“Much better. I can't thank you enough for the soup.” He handed back the empty pot. “I just had a second helping, and it was better than the first.”

She preened with pleasure. “Trevor says the nasty little stone things finally decided to leave you in peace.”

“This afternoon.”

The old gentleman was stiff in the manner of a man born to command. “Had four bouts of stones myself over the years. Terrible, they were. Dreadful.”

Gladys added, “Arthur and I spent eighteen years in warmer lands. Africa, mostly. Stones develop more swiftly in hot climates. Dehydration.”

“Plus three years in Delhi,” The old man said. “RAF. You know Delhi?”

“I had planned to go there,” Brian replied, surprised at his own gratitude for the old man's willingness to unbend this much. “But I ate something that didn't agree with me in Colombo.”

“Arthur has been to Colombo, haven't you, dear? With the queen.”

That pushed Brian back a step. “As in the queen of England?”

“Arthur flew her plane,” his wife proudly announced. “Twice.”

But Arthur was fastened upon an earlier thread. “Gut rot is a risky business. Laid you up for long?”

“Almost five weeks.”

“A month and more in a Colombo hospital.” A faint hint of a smile appeared beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. “That must have been a lark.”

“It was,” Brian replied. “A living nightmare.”

It might have been a cough or perhaps a laugh. Then Arthur Wainwright said, “You'll have to come down sometime; we'll trade a few tales of war wounds and warmer climes.”

“I'd like that. Very much.”

“What must you think of us,” Gladys scolded. “Making you stand here in the drafty hall. Come in and have a glass.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you could loan me a flashlight. I need to go upstairs, and I can't seem to get the lights to work.”

“Oh, they haven't worked for years. Arthur, go bring the man the big torch. It's on the bathroom sill.” To Brian, she added, “The electrics in this house are atrocious. Heather was always going on about them, promising to have the walls torn open and all the wiring replaced. But she never did.”

“Never did get around to much of anything,” the old man grumbled, disappearing into the gloom of the apartment's dusky interior. “More's the pity.”