The Book of Hours

by Davis Bunn

  He could not help but smile. “That would be fantastic.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that so swiftly, if I were you. I don’t know what I have in the fridge, and it’s Sunday, so all the shops are closed.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.” He rose from the car to greet Arthur and Trevor as they hurried toward them.

  The two men bore worried expressions. Arthur halted and announced, “Bad news, I’m afraid. Someone’s broken into the charity shop and stolen the dollhouse.”

  Together with Trevor and Arthur, Brian and Cecilia rushed down the narrow lanes and crossed a market square dappled with late-afternoon light. A single police constable stood outside the charity shop’s main entrance, making notes in a leather-bound book. Together they made a cursory examination of the exterior, which yielded nothing. The back door had been jimmied; then apparently the thief had waited in the shadows for a moment when no one was looking through the window. As they inspected the shop’s interior, a chorus of wails rose outside the shop as word spread and more young girls arrived to bemoan the loss.

  As the police finished up, Trevor surveyed the shop with tragic eyes and complained, “Seven hundred and nineteen pounds.”

  “What’s that,Vicar?” The constable demanded.

  “How much we’ve raised through the sale of raffle tickets. Seven hundred and nineteen pounds.”

  The policeman asked, “You’re certain this dollhouse was the only thing stolen,Vicar?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Let those who want have a refund, but I doubt there will be many takers,” Arthur said kindly.

  Trevor led them out the back, and with the constable’s help secured the door as best he could. “The dollhouse was the biggest moneymaker of all. We planned to draw the winning ticket as the highlight of our celebration when the bells are rededicated.” Even from behind the shop they could hear the chorus of woe rising from the market square. “Those poor children.”

  “If we turn up anything, we’ll be in touch.” But the policeman’s tone suggested that he very much doubted it would happen. He touched the rim of his cap. “Evening, all.”

  They trod back around the shop and bid the dejected vicar a farewell. As Brian, Cecilia, and Arthur started back toward the manor, the old gentleman mused, “You know, we may be missing something here.”

  Brian continued to watch the vicar’s departing back as he asked, “What’s that?”

  “What if the burglars weren’t after the dollhouse at all?”

  Cecilia pointed out, “But that’s all they took.”

  “Exactly!” Arthur looked from one face to the other. “What if it wasn’t the dollhouse they were after, but another hidden hoard?”

  “You took the entire dollhouse apart,” Cecilia reminded him, “and didn’t find any other secret compartment.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Brian hurried to catch up with the departing vicar. Trevor heard his approach and turned to greet him with a questioning gaze. Brian stammered, “I just wanted to thank you for the message at church this morning.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “No, really.” He struggled to find a way to express what his heart was feeling. “All day I’ve felt, well, enriched.”

  Trevor straightened gradually. “My dear chap, what a nice thing to say.”

  “I’d appreciate being able to come by and talk with you sometime.”

  “By all means. Shall we say tomorrow evening?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.” Brian could find nothing else to say that seemed adequate, so he merely offered his hand. “For everything.”

  As he dressed for Cecilia’s dinner in his cleanest khakis and shirt, Brian’s eyes fell upon the letter. Heather’s latest note lay crumpled and yellowed on the dresser by the parlor’s center window. He reread Heather’s words, then carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Standing by the window, his eyes open and staring out over his back garden, he spoke aloud, “Thy will be done, oh Lord. Amen.”

  He turned away, immensely satisfied. It was not much as prayers went, but he had two years of rust to remove.

  Sunday dinner was a cheerful affair, salad and omelettes and freshly baked bread. Over a basket of fruit for dessert, Brian shared with Cecilia the latest letter from Heather. It seemed the most natural of acts, a gesture of thanks for the blessings of that soft day. Midway through the reading, she reached across the table for his hand. Brian sat and studied the way the kitchen’s lighting softened her features. Even in repose she was very intense, this petite lady, with an air of intelligence so brilliant it turned her eyes to fiercely dark jewels. He noticed for the first time how a few freckles sprinkled the highest points of her cheeks. Almost as though she could feel his gaze, one finger of her free hand rose to stroke beneath her eye, then moved over to slip a strand of hair back behind her ear. He found himself wishing there was a way he could lean forward and trace that same line with his lips.

  Cecilia chose that moment to look up. She sat there, staring back at him, a new depth to her gaze. “I wish . . .”

  When she did not go on, Brian quietly pressed, “What?”

  She rose to her feet. “How about some coffee?”

  He leaned back in his chair, watching her still. “Sure.”

  “All I have is instant, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine.” He asked a second time, “What do you wish, Cecilia?”

  “I wish I had been able to meet Heather.” She filled the kettle and set it on the stove. “What she said there was beautiful.”

  “I thought so too. But that’s not what you wished, was it?”

  Cecilia’s movements halted abruptly. When they restarted, everything was in slow motion, as deliberately she poured hot water over the instant coffee and brought over the two cups. “How do you take it?”

  “Black is fine, thanks.”

  When she reseated herself, she did not meet his gaze. “Any idea what Heather meant in her clue?”

  Her sudden shyness kindled a pleasant warmth in him. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “And?”

  Brian reached across and captured her hand, forcing her to lift her chin and reveal the confusion in her gaze. “Cecilia, I wish I could stay here at Castle Keep.”

  She breathed as though suddenly her heart was too large for her body. “I suppose that will have to do.”

  They sat there a long moment, drinking coffee and holding hands, the overhead light bathing them in a glow as yellow as freshly churned butter, granting a gentle intimacy to the tattered room.

  When Brian finished his coffee, he rose and pulled her up with him. “Would you come over to the house with me? There’s something I need to check out.”

  As they walked the gravel path beneath a star-flecked sky, Brian explained, “I remembered something Sarah said once. I think it was after one of her long conversations with Heather, but you know how it is: things get mixed up in your head.”

  “You can say that again,” Cecilia murmured, and the night wind caught her words and tossed them skyward.

  “The thing about the house that scared her the most was the attic and the stairs leading up. She described the top floor as a long, narrow hall, not much taller than Heather and running the entire length of the house. The stairs were tight even for her, and so steep she had to use her hands to climb. The place was full of dust and strange noises. She used to have terrible nightmares about monsters coming down from the attic to get her.”

  As they crossed the front hallway and started up the main staircase, he continued, “Whenever it rained or the wind blew hard, her bedroom ceiling creaked and rattled like beasties were racing back and forth overhead.”

  Together they walked down the middle floor hallway and started up the steps to the third floor. “What I just remembered was Sarah describing how Heather had turned this into a game. She and Heather spent an entire weekend making a list of all the things that scared her. Then Heather took the list up
into the attic, and she said that if Sarah could face up to her fears, meet them head-on, the rewards would be greater than she could ever dream.”

  The attic stairwell stood behind a door that merged with the hallway, a crack and a keyhole the only signs of a door being there at all. Brian twisted the rusty skeleton key, pulled back the door, and went on, “Whatever it was Sarah found, she said it was like entering an Aladdin’s cave.”

  But Cecilia did not start up the stairs. Instead she looked up at Brian and asked, “What is it that frightens you the most?”

  He started to explain the thoughts of the previous night and how he had spent two years running from anything that hinted of commitment or responsibility. But the night seemed years ago now, back on the other side of all he had experienced and learned that day. He stood there in the dimly lit, dusty hallway, and realized that his entire world was changing. Altering so greatly that he had to search to find something new to be frightened of. And when he realized what it was, he wondered whether he should say it at all.

  Cecilia cocked her head to one side. “Why are you looking at me . . .”

  They heard the sound together. A scraping and a knocking from up above. Cecilia’s eyes grew round. “Was that one of Sarah’s beasties?”

  Brian launched himself up a stairwell so narrow that his shoulders brushed each wall. The steps were almost as steep as a ladder, and he used his hands to climb faster. “Stay there!”

  “You’re not leaving me down here alone!” Cecilia scrambled up behind him.

  He fumbled at the catch to the narrow door, slammed it back with his shoulder, stepped into gloom, and shouted, “Who’s up here?”

  Then stars erupted in his head, and suddenly his legs could no longer support him. He did not even feel the floor when it rushed up to catch him.

  “Brian? Please wake up!” The voice worked its way through his fog and growing pain. “Can somebody hear us? Help!”

  It was the near-panic in her voice that gave him the strength to fight off the blackness and the agony that took its place. Brian rolled over, groaning softly only because anything louder threatened to lift the top of his head. “Cecilia?”

  “Over here.” She almost sobbed the words. “I was so worried.”

  Brian could not rise to his feet. Pushing himself to his knees was enough for the entire world to thunder with pain. Cecilia’s frightened face swam through the gloom, and he crawled toward her. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody hit . . . Oh, you’re bleeding.” She leaned over, revealing hands tied behind her back. “Can you release me?”

  “I’ll try.” Every word heightened the pain in his head. He squinted and brought the knots into focus, but his fingers seemed unwilling to work. It took forever to loosen the cords enough for her hands to slip free.

  Cecilia swiveled back around and cradled his head in both her hands. “Look at me—can you focus?”

  “Hurts.”

  “I’m sure it does.” She held up a bloodied finger. “Follow this, please. Good, good.” The hand returned to probe his head, so gently that the fingers soothed the agony, at least momentarily. “Your skull seems intact.”

  He mumbled, “Did you see who hit me?”

  “Nothing. Tilt your head back. Good.” The probing continued. “I heard you fall, I rushed up, and I saw this shadow. Then I was hit, but on the shoulder and not my head. I fell, and somebody fell on top of me, holding me down. Then he tied me up and left.”

  “He?”

  “Had to be a male; he was too strong and heavy for a woman.” She used her good arm to push him up. “Can you stand?”

  “Yes.” But only because she was there to support him. Even so, the steep attic stairs almost defeated him. Twice he swayed and thought he was going to fall. But together they made it down both sets of stairs and into the central parlor. With a groan of relief, Brian collapsed onto his pallet.

  “Stay right there.”

  Brian had to laugh at that. As if he were going anywhere at all.

  “I’ll go call the police and get my bag. That cut needs a couple of stitches.”

  Brian lay and listened as a doorbell rang and voices drifted up from downstairs. He could make out Gladys and Arthur’s rising worry. Then he must have drifted off, for the next thing he knew the pain seemed fresher and Cecilia was bending over him again. But at least now he could focus more easily, and he saw that there were three figures behind her—a very worried Arthur and Gladys, and beside them the same constable Brian had seen at the charity shop that afternoon. Brian murmured, “We meet again.”

  “Hold still,” Cecilia said. “I’m going to give you a local. This will sting a little.”

  The policeman waited until Cecilia withdrew the needle to ask, “I don’t suppose you observed any more than Dr. Lyons?”

  “Less.” Brian watched her thread the hooked needle. “I didn’t even see a shadow.”

  “I’ve had a good look around upstairs. It appears the intruder used a high stepladder to scale your sidewall and broke in through the ventilation slats. There are footprints all over the place. Any idea what was stowed up there?”

  Brian felt a faint queasiness as the skin of his forehead was poked and tugged by the needle. “None at all.”

  Cecilia must have caught the change, for she paused and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “So-so.”

  “Really, Officer,” Gladys complained. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “If we want to catch the assailant, we need to be on this immediately.” But he wore the same skeptical expression he had shown at the charity shop. “Though to be perfectly frank, sir, unless you can tell us what was up there, we have nothing to go on.”

  “He can’t help you, and neither can I.” Cecilia slipped a hand behind Brian’s head, raised it up, and held a plastic cup to his lips. “Drink this.”

  The viscous liquid seemed to soothe even before he swallowed. He felt the warmth flow directly from his belly to his head. He sighed, “Better.”

  “Good.” Cecilia smiled at him before turning to the constable and continuing, “We were actually going up to see what might be stored there.”

  Brian forced his suddenly sluggish mind to function. “Did you see any secret compartments?”

  “Secret . . . I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, so Heather’s clue was behind this little escapade of yours, was it?” Arthur brightened. “I say, that means I must have been right about the dollhouse.”

  The policeman turned toward the old gentleman. “You are referring to the house that was stolen today?”

  But Brian found it impossible to stay around any longer. His eyelids drifted lower, and he fell asleep to the sound of Arthur’s excited voice.

  It seemed he was only asleep a moment, for he returned to the same excited voice. Even before Brian was released from the drug-induced slumber, Arthur’s words took form in the dream. Which was perhaps why his first truly rational thought was the answer to Heather’s riddle.

  “Oh, look what you’ve gone and done,” Gladys scolded. “He’s waking up.”

  “I haven’t bothered him a bit.” Arthur prodded him with one finger. “Am I bothering you, old chap?”

  “Do stop being such a booby.” Gladys waved his hand away. “Cecilia told us to let him sleep.”

  “Can’t sleep his whole life away.” Arthur was immensely cheerful.

  “Can you now, dear boy? I say, would you care for some tea?”

  Brian nodded, focused on his watch, saw it was just after one. “What are you two doing here?”

  “I spelled Cecilia a few hours back.” Arthur’s grin was immense in the parlor’s gloomy half-light. “Gladys insisted on keeping me company. How’s the old noggin?”

  “Hurts.”

  “Well, of course it does!” Arthur seemed to find great satisfaction in that bit of news. “You just had yourself a lesson in the school of hard knocks!”

  “I really wish I knew wh
at has gotten into you,” Gladys erupted.

  “Brian knows precisely what’s kept me up the better part of the night, don’t you, sport?”

  He nodded and instantly regretted it.

  “We know they stole the dollhouse because there’s something more hidden away!” Arthur’s voice brimmed with the triumph of the chase. “And they broke into Castle Keep to find it!”

  Gladys huffed but said merely, “I suppose I’d better go put on the kettle.”

  Brian took the opportunity to say, “Could you go get Cecilia?”

  The old man’s gaze sharpened further. “I say, you haven’t come up with where it’s hidden, have you?”

  “Just go wake her up, okay?”

  Twenty-one

  A FEW MINUTES LATER CECILIA’S PLAINTIVE VOICE AROSE from downstairs. When she stepped into the parlor, Brian had to smile, though every movement of his face stretched and pulled at his wound. Cecilia wore a college sweatshirt so old the stitching had come out and the letters fallen off. Her jeans were washed to a chalk color, and her sneakers came from two different pairs. Her hair was tousled and her face lined with the sleep that was still in her eyes. Brian croaked in greeting, “Here we have what the fashionable doctor is wearing this season.”

  “I’m not on duty tonight, so I didn’t lay out any clothes.” She knelt beside him and opened her bag. “I knew I should have given you an injection. That oral solution wasn’t going to keep you out all night.”

  “It wasn’t the pain that woke me. It was Arthur.”

  The gentleman’s gaze turned furtive. “I say, old chap. That’s telling.”

  Before Cecilia could speak, Gladys appeared in the doorway and fussed, “Poked the poor man in his ribs,Arthur did. Ought to be taken outside and horsewhipped.”

  “Really, Gladys dear, that’s a bit much.”

  Brian interrupted, “If he hadn’t, I might have missed the dream.”

  “There, you see!” Arthur cried in relief. “Just as I said, the man was ready to get up.”

  Cecilia’s gaze narrowed. “You told me he was in pain.”

  “Well, of course he is. All you need to do is—”