An All-Consuming Fire (13 page)

Brief though it was, Felicity found that the words of comfort and the weak but resolute sun had combined to relieve the chill at her heart if not in her hands and feet. She turned to share that encouraging word with Antony when she saw Lenny approach Harry, carrying his camera. The men exchanged conspiratorial nods.

What? Was it possible Lenny had been filming that at Harry’s direction? Could Harry be planning to exploit the grisly death of one of his crew members for his series? Surely she had mistaken the look she thought she saw pass between the men.

And yet… “Antony,” she asked when he joined her. “Did Lenny join the prayers?”

Antony looked puzzled.

“Was he standing behind me, maybe?” She prompted. “I didn’t really look around.”

Antony thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t recall seeing him. But I expect he was. Harry’s orders for the crew to gather were comprehensive.”

Felicity nodded, but she still wondered. Had the gaffer-cum-cameraman been standing at the back of the group, or had he been hidden in the clump of trees just up the hill with the telephoto lens of his camera recording every detail of his fellows’ shock and grief? At Harry’s orders?

At that thought a surge of anger drove the frozen lethargy from her. What was going on here? How
had
Tara come to her fate at the end of that rope? And why was she undressed? Had a lover rejected her so harshly she felt driven to make such a spectacular bid for attention? Or was it all the result of something far darker? Pete—was that the one Antony said was trying to make time with her—had she rebuffed him so harshly he snapped and did this to her? Maybe because she preferred Savannah’s attentions?

“Ready for that warm bath?” Antony interrupted her thoughts.

She nodded and they started toward the lane. But again, they had taken barely half a dozen steps when Harry’s orders stopped them in their tracks. “All right boys and girls. Twenty minutes. It’s a shame about Tara, but the police have everything under control. No more we can do here. We’ll finish today’s footage from the Terrace.”

“What? You can’t! It isn’t decent!” Savannah ran at him with her fists flailing.

Harry caught her wrists. “Whoa, there. It’s what she would want. Tara was a pro. We’ll dedicate the series to her memory.” He handed the wildly sobbing best boy over to Sylvia who led her away once again with an arm around her.

“Right.” Harry turned back to the crew. “Less than a mile walk around that way,” he pointed to the curving road. “Or get in one of the vans. Twenty minutes.” As an afterthought he added. “Sylvia will do make-up.”

Felicity replayed the scene in her mind a short time later as the steam rose from the hot water pouring into the wonderful old-fashioned, claw-footed tub in the B and B’s one bathroom. It had taken Felicity months when she first came to England to catch on to the fact that bathroom was a very specific term meaning the room where one took a bath. She had more than once been shown to such a room when what she was asking for was a toilet.

She sank into the blissfully warm water and leaned back, trying to sort out the dynamics of the interpersonal relationships she had witnessed. She wished she knew the crew better so she could have more idea of what was going on. Was Savannah that distraught at the sudden death of a coworker or friend? Or had there been something more to their relationship? How serious had Pete’s attraction been? And had Felicity been right in thinking Tara was making advances to the spikey-haired grip—what was his name—muscular, looked like he lifted weights—Mike, maybe? She recalled Tara’s unnecessary physical contact with Antony and wondered just who such behavior could have angered—especially if it had gone considerably further with someone else.

Well, all that was conjecture and no doubt the police would go over it all. Felicity pushed the thoughts away and reveled in the warmth penetrating her chilled limbs. She picked up the luxurious oversized bath sponge their hostess had thoughtfully provided and reached for the soap. How odd. There was no soap on the wire utility rack spanning the tub. Nor on the shelf beside the tub. She would just have to make do with rubbing herself vigorously with the sponge.

“Felicity, darling, are you still in there?” Cynthia’s voice was accompanied by several sharp raps on the door. “What’s taking you so long? Don’t you want to watch the filming? I certainly do.”

“Mother.” Felicity sat up so quickly she splashed water out of the tub. Cynthia had slept in. She didn’t know what had happened.

Felicity pulled on layers of her warmest clothes and was soon filling her mother in on the events of the morning as they walked toward the abbey. “Hanged herself? That little fat girl with the tacky hair?”

“Mother!” Felicity looked over her shoulder to see if anyone could have overheard them. In less tragic circumstances her mother’s bald-faced observations might be refreshing rather than shocking. “She’s dead,” Felicity protested.

But Cynthia was unfazed. “That’s a shame, of course, but she was up to no good.”

“How do you know that, Mother? Just because you didn’t like her hairdo?”

“What I didn’t like was the way she rubbed her body against your intended. And you shouldn’t have liked it either.”

“No, I didn’t. And nor did Antony, thank goodness. But do you think somebody killed her for that?”

“Rubbing somebody the wrong way, you mean?” Cynthia smiled. “Who knows? You never can tell about what people get up to.” They rounded a curve in the lane, bringing the police vehicles and activity surrounding the gibbet on the hillside into view. “Oh, isn’t that fascinating!” Cynthia strode ahead.

“Mother, I don’t think the police—” It was hopeless. There was no curbing Cynthia when she had the bit between her teeth. And the thing that made it doubly irritating to Felicity was that she knew she was often just the same way herself.

Felicity was thankful that at least Cynthia did have the sense to stay well back behind the police line. Then she reminded herself that after all, her mother was a lawyer. She probably knew far more about protocol in such situations than Felicity did, in spite of her various encounters with danger in recent months.

The two women stood near the trees just beyond the gibbet observing the white-suited officers going efficiently about their work photographing the scene, scanning the area for evidence and examining the body. At last Felicity heard Inspector Birkinshaw tell her crew they could remove the body. Felicity felt as if she should put her hand over her heart or somehow mark Tara’s removal with respect as they zipped what had so recently been a lively young woman into a bag and two policemen carried her to the waiting vehicle on a stretcher.

The others packed up their equipment and departed leaving three uniformed Police Constables to guard the area and continue combing it for clues. Felicity would have been more than happy to turn her steps upward to the Terrace, but Cynthia was already moving toward the scene vacated by the forensics team. They were stopped several yards from the gibbet by the yellow tape barrier. Still, they were too close for comfort in Felicity’s opinion.

In spite of her unease, though, she had to admit that there was a macabre fascination. Even as a child Felicity had been revolted by the horror videos her brothers watched, and yet many a Friday night she would creep down from her room and peek at their late night viewing with their friends. She felt the same mesmerized drawing now as she gazed at the tall wooden structure, the discarded rope coiled at its base, the sad hollows Tara’s body had made in the long grass.

Then her gaze was drawn back to the rope. At first she thought she was seeing frost on the twined strands of hemp. But surely not. The sun had been up for several hours now. A cold winter sun, yes, but enough to melt the earlier frost from the grass. So what was the white film coating the rope?

Cynthia’s attention, however had moved further afield. She watched the police constables poking in the bushes and examining the nooks and crannies of broken stones around the abbey, then began a search of her own along the path. Felicity was happy enough to be moving toward the Terrace where she would find Antony with the film crew, so she turned away from the gibbet and hurried up the steep hillside to Cynthia. “Mother, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, really, I suppose. I just thought that if I had done something terrible to that girl I don’t think I would have gone back through the abbey where those policemen are searching. It’s too exposed, even at night. I would have headed for the nearest cover, which is these trees.” She poked in the grass under a bush. “So I just thought I’d have a look. I know it’s unlikely, but someone could have dropped something.”

It made sense to Felicity and she began looking as well, even though all she found was an interesting stone, a gnarled stick and a discarded juice box. She wondered for a moment if the box could be a clue, but it was far too weathered. Probably a remnant of a months-ago summer picnic.

“Well, now, that’s interesting.”

Felicity looked at the white oval object Cynthia was holding up. “A rock?”

“No.” Cynthia sniffed it. “Lemon Verbena. Very nice soap.”

The white-coated fibers of the noose sprang to Felicity’s mind. She knew what had glazed them. “Mother, don’t touch it. I mean, put it back. I’ll get the constable.”

A hastily summoned PC Craig agreed that it was, indeed interesting. “Very sharp-eyed of you.” He nodded at Cynthia as he drew an evidence bag from his pocket.

“I’m afraid I touched it,” Cynthia said.

Craig asked her to stop by the mobile unit later and leave them a copy of her fingerprints, “for purposes of elimination,” and the women were free to go.

But Felicity couldn’t leave it at that. It was their discovery after all. “But, Constable Craig, what does it mean? Why would anyone rub soap on a noose?”

He frowned and raised an eyebrow at her.

“They did,” she insisted. “I saw it. At first I thought it was frost on the rope—”

“Thank you, Miss Howard. As I said, you’re very sharp-eyed. Don’t worry. Our forensic experts will examine it all carefully.” He nodded at Cynthia. “Ma’am,” and turned back down the hill.

There was nothing for the women to do but move on. But Felicity couldn’t let it go. What did it mean? Why would anyone rub soap into a noose? Her mind repeated the question.

And why such a dramatic execution—if that was what it was? Most murderers would want to hide their victims, not go to extreme lengths to publicize their foul deed.

It reminded Felicity of the ghastly medieval custom of putting the heads of executed prisoners on pikes in public places as a warning to future miscreants.

But what message could this hold?

T
he hill on up to the Terrace was steep, but they were already almost halfway up, so, walking at an angle, Felicity and Cynthia continued on their way. “Be careful, Mother,” Felicity warned. “These leaves are slick underfoot. Best hold on to the tree trunks.” Felicity matched her actions to her words as she felt her own feet slip. It occurred to her that if a villain had come this way last night he would likely have left a trail that PC Craig and his men could follow.

She looked around in hopes of spotting something, but the sodden leaves and winter brown weeds all looked the same to her. She was more than happy to leave it to the police.

“Oh, how charming!” Cynthia cried as she crested the hill. She grabbed a low-hanging branch from one of the trees bordering the rim and pulled herself onto the plateau beyond.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Felicity likewise hauled herself over the crest onto the level and stood beside her mother.

Cynthia turned her head one way, then the other, looking at the small neoclassical buildings at each end of the long sweep of leaf-strewn lawn. “But what are they?”

“Follies.” Felicity looked at the round, dome-topped structure surrounded by classical columns to their right. “That’s the Tuscan Temple.” She turned to the far end. “And that’s the Ionic Temple.” Appropriately named, since a row of Ionic columns supported the classical portico of the rectangular building.

“But what are they for?” Cynthia persisted.

“I’ve only been here once before. I came with a group of ordinands last spring, but the most I remember is that they were built in the mid-eighteenth century by some great landowner to give his guests a nice day out. They would drive over here in their carriages to view the abbey and he gave them dinner in the Ionic temple. It’s basically an elegant dining room. I’m afraid that’s about all I remember.”

At that moment Fred, pulling Ginger backwards on her dolly, emerged from the side of the temple and Joy Wilkins, her shining blond hair set off with her favorite flame-colored scarf, ushered a tall man in a tweed jacket between two of the Ionic columns and down the steps of the temple. They stopped at the bottom of the steps and Joy continued her interview.

“Let’s get closer.” Felicity moved forward. “Antony said Joy was going to be interviewing some local expert. I think someone who knew the family who owned this before they gave it to the National Trust. I know Antony was relieved he wouldn’t have to be on camera today.”

A small group of crew members stood behind Harry and Sylvia to the right of the camera, well out of range of Ginger’s bright eye, but where they could hear, if not see, the interview. Felicity crossed the lawn to stand beside Antony. He slipped his arm around her waist and they exchanged smiles before Antony turned back to listen to the interview.

Felicity, however, gave scant attention to the speaker. She couldn’t wait to tell Antony about her discovery that the noose had been soaped and to find out what he might make of that fact. But this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation, so Felicity considered the crew members around her. Had one of them stolen soap from the B and B bathroom and rubbed it into the rope hanging from the gibbet? If so, why? Soap was a lubricant. Felicity had used it herself when removing a tight ring from a swollen finger.

As it seemed so many things did lately, the thought triggered a long-buried memory. This one of helping her father with DIY tasks around the house. How often had she seen Andrew pick up a bar of soap and rub it on a sticking pipe to make it turn more easily? He called it his secret weapon.