by Davis Bunn
“Hello, Steve.”
“Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Is it really you?”
“What, you don’t remember your own brother’s voice?”
“Good grief, don’t do this to me. Wait a second.” There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. “All right. Is this really Brian?”
“I just said it was.”
A woman’s voice sounded in the background. Steve said, “It’s Brian.” The woman’s voice rose an octave. Steve said into the receiver, “Where are you?”
“England.”
“He’s in England.” To the receiver, “The last card we got was from somewhere more exotic, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Sri Lanka.”
“He was in Sri Lanka.” When the woman pressed on with something more, Steve said,“We’ve got more than one phone in the house, Carol. Go get on another line.”
An instant later a woman’s voice said, “I have to hear this for myself.”
“Hello, Carol.”
“I don’t believe this. Brian, shame on you, you’re making me cry.”
“It’s good to hear your voice again.”
“Wait a second.” There was the sound of rustling and someone blowing her nose. “How are you? Did you already ask him that?”
“You didn’t let me,” Steve replied.
“How are you, Brian?”
“Fine. Really.”
“Your cards have sounded, well . . .”
“Grim,” Steve finished for his wife. “Worse than awful.”
“I’m good and I’m getting better.”
“I almost believe you,” Steve said.
“Your brother calls for the first time in two years. Believe him,” Carol said, then went on to Brian, “Sarah had that relative in England, didn’t she? The one she said was like a second mother to her.”
“That’s right. Her Aunt Heather.” He decided his first call home in two years was not the time to go into details of what he found himself facing here, so he asked, “How is the family?”
There came the expected pause, then Steve replied, “Carol and I are doing great.”
“How’s Judy?” Judy was their daughter. She was a model kid, beautiful and sweet and a joy to be around.
“Judy is a godsend,” Carol replied.
“And Rick?” Rick was their son. He had been fine until his teenage years had catapulted him into serious rebellion.
“No change,” Steve replied flatly.
“Well, there’s change,” Carol added, her voice matching her husband’s. “But nothing you want to hear about.”
“Yes, I do.”
“We’re involved in something called crisis intervention,” Steve said, “and that’s all we’re going to say for now.”
Brian found the urge to give something in return for all their caring and their constancy so great it pressed like a fist into his middle. “I never realized how strong you guys had to be to just hang in there.”
There was a moment’s silence, then his sister-in-law said, “You need something important enough to keep you caring.”
“I’m beginning to see the truth of that,” Brian replied.
“Man,” Steve sighed. “You really are getting better, aren’t you?”
“All the time,” Brian agreed.
On Monday afternoon Maureen slipped in between patients to tell Cecilia that the senior physician, Dr. Riles, wanted to see her. It was not uncommon for them to go days without more than a few words, dashing in and out, coming together only for their weekly briefing. With her nerves already jangling, Cecilia could not help but worry her way through the rest of her day.
After seeing the final patient out the door, she walked to Grant’s door and tapped softly. When he called from within, she stepped inside and said, “You wanted to see me?”
“Come in and have a seat.” He finished making his final case notes and carefully inserted the gold Cross pen back into the top. “I suppose you’re off to the village meeting about the bells?”
She stiffened. “You don’t think I should be involved?”
“I don’t have a problem with it in the least. We’re running a caring service here. Taking sides in a village dispute is a very healthy sign of settling into Knightsbridge, as far as I’m concerned.”
She relaxed a trifle. “I might have made some enemies.”
“That’s their problem,” he declared stoutly. “You are as fine a doctor as I’ve ever worked with, and you are showing every sign of making a solid name for yourself in the community. We’re not in the business of firing and laying off and correcting lifelong attitudes. All of which is why I was so concerned about taking you on.” He smiled. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to discover that I worried over nothing.”
“Thank you, Grant. Both for the words and the sentiment.”
He pulled a pocket pendant from his vest and opened it to reveal a tiny pair of scissors. He pared a fingernail, inspected it, and finally said, “It has come to my attention that you might be having more than what might be considered normal feelings for one of your patients.”
The denial was formed almost before Cecilia could stop herself. Shame and exposure left her voice shaky. “I’m sorry, Grant. It’s, well, I’ll need to correct things.”
He showed an elder doctor’s powers of perception. “Come on rather sudden, has it?”
“Totally unexpected,” Cecilia agreed, swallowing to relieve the trembling in her throat. “I think I was more surprised than anybody.”
“The medical faculty would tell you that such a thing as a doctor becoming involved with a patient is simply not done.” He pried out a tiny file and began buffing the wayward nail. “Of course, one must be careful not to drop him in the midst of ongoing treatment and leave the poor bloke on the hob.”
“Maybe so, but the sooner I stop being his doctor, the better.”
“It’s a minefield, of course. But we’re not immune when it comes to falling in love, are we?”
Cecilia found it necessary to blink hard, merely to cover the sudden heat that filled her eyes. “No.”
“The greatest risk, of course, is falling in love with a chap who’s still grieving.” He tossed a glance her way, there and gone in a flash. “Have you given thought to that?”
“All the time.”
“Never met the fellow myself. But Mr. Blackstone seems stable enough, by all accounts. Kind. Intelligent. Handsome in a roguish way, if Maureen can be believed.” A smile almost as swift as his glance. “Can’t hurt that the bloke is rich.”
“He’s not, though.” Cecilia found she had no choice but to show her misery. “And when he loses the manor, there’s every chance he’ll be leaving Knightsbridge.”
“Ah.” A careful inspection of his nails. “And would you be planning to leave with him?”
“No,” she said, both to him and herself, the misery exposed. “I’ve fought too hard to call this place home.”
“That’s a relief. We’d hate to lose you, Cecilia.”
She rose from her chair, feeling that her self-made decision had blasted a hole through her heart. “Was there anything else?”
His look said he understood all too well. “I’m sorry, lass. Truly.”
Twenty-six
CECILIA RETURNED HOME FROM WORK UTTERLY DRAINED from the day and the fractured night before. She dumped her doctor’s bag and papers and keys and purse on the kitchen table, then just sat there, staring at the sink and the dripping faucet, too tired to rise and make her own dinner. Her thoughts were a jumble of worries and half-formed fears, some centered around her patients, others about her house, and more still about Brian. None of her motives seemed clear anymore. None of her goals appeared worthy of the life she was spending to realize them.
Finally she managed to walk into the parlor where she collapsed on the sofa and closed her eyes for what she thought would be a quick fifteen minutes. But when she awoke it was to discover she had
conked out for two full hours, and the voting was to end in less than ten minutes.
Cecilia grabbed for her coat and woolly hat and bolted from her house. She raced down the lane and was vastly relieved to find the throng gathered about the town hall still in noisy disorder. She waited in line, trying to make herself as small as possible, cast her vote, then joined the tide moving upstairs. As soon as she slipped through the door, she spotted Arthur and Gladys seated beside Brian. They waved her over, pointed her into the chair next to Brian, and then Gladys demanded, “Where on earth have you been?”
“Asleep. I got home from work and crashed.” She inspected Brian’s head. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
He didn’t look fine. He looked morose. “No dizziness or serious pain?”
“It feels more like a bad bruise.” Gingerly he felt the bandage over his stitches. “How long do I have to wear this?”
“A few days, not more.” Cecilia started to ask what the matter was, when the mayor climbed to the podium, banged the gavel for quiet, and announced, “Voting is now closed. We will count the ballots as swiftly as possible.”
Trevor slipped into the row behind them and muttered, “There is nothing I hate worse than waiting.”
“My dear fellow,” Arthur exclaimed, “you look positively ghastly.”
“I keep repeating that it doesn’t matter,” Trevor answered, clenching his arms across his middle. “But I can’t seem to convince myself.”
“It matters,” Brian said grimly. “All of it does.”
The comment caught them all by surprise. Gladys said, “You scarcely look any better than the vicar.”
“They’re holding the auction the day after tomorrow,” Brian reminded them.
A second pall settled over the little gathering, isolating them further from the tumult. Finally, it was Arthur who straightened and said sternly, “See here, do you want to hold on to Castle Keep?”
“More than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time,” Brian answered.
“Then it’s settled.” The old gentleman pounded his fist on the seat beside him, and for an instant he shed his burden of years and once again became the general leading his troops into battle. “I knew Heather better than anyone alive, and I am absolutely certain she would not have neglected the issue of death duties.”
“It has been bothering me all along,” Gladys agreed. “But what are we to do?”
“Six hundred thousand pounds is six hundred thousand more than I have,” Brian agreed.
“Oh piffle!” Blue eyes clear as winter’s first frost glared at them. “What are we, a bunch of whiners?”
“No, dear,” Gladys chided gently. “But we are rather poor.”
“Nonsense. I for one am not willing to sit around and let Hardy Seade and his ilk walk away with my home!”
“But what are we to do?” Cecilia demanded, drawn to hope despite herself.
“The answer is in the riddles,” Arthur said. “I’m convinced of it. And where have the riddles been found?”
“Inside whatever the last puzzle revealed,” Brian said, a spark of interest flaring in his voice and his eyes.
“Precisely.” Arthur used his fist as a gavel, pounding it a second time. “Then we must go back and tear apart that laboratory.” He stared at them, one at a time. “Who’s with me?”
Before they could respond, the mayor climbed back up and hammered the gavel. “The meeting will come to order. Silence, please.” When everyone had settled as best they could, and those who remained on the stairs had entered and found spaces around the back wall, the mayor continued,“We have arrived at a final count. Bailiff, do the honors, please.”
A portly man with the bearing of a retired policeman mounted the side stairs. He dragged out the moment long enough for the people to begin stirring impatiently, hunting for his spectacles, coughing and fiddling with the page, dearly loving his moment in the spotlight. Cecilia found herself clenching the chair in front of her as the man finally began,“We are here to decide the matter, which reads as follows:‘Should the village churches have their bells restored, and the habit of chiming the hours be resumed?’The villagers were asked to vote for or against.”
“Get on with it, man,” someone muttered, and was swiftly joined by a restless chorus of assent.
The bailiff lifted his gaze and frowned the gathering to silence. Behind her,Trevor shifted nervously in his chair.
Finally the bailiff admitted to himself he could tarry no longer and released the news, “The ayes have it, five hundred and nineteen votes to—”
His final words were drowned out by the pandemonium that filled the chamber. The crowd on their side of the hall leaped to their feet with a great shout, and Cecilia found herself hugging everyone about her. From across the hall came angry accusations, but the merriment that surrounded her was so great that Cecilia could ignore them all. Her back was pounded by people she did not see, she shook a dozen hands in as many seconds, she laughed, she cheered.
Then she found herself staring into Brian’s eyes, seeing the happiness and the melancholy mixed there with such tender openness that it was the most natural thing in the world to sweep him into her arms and offer the comfort of a heartfelt embrace. Brian stood in stunned immobility for a long moment, then slowly brought his arms up and around her. And the feeling was so good, so complete, that she could do nothing save close her eyes to the world and the commotion, and give herself over to the comfort she had expected to give, yet found herself receiving.
They were finally forced to release one another when Arthur stepped in close and cried, “One battle down and one to go! All right, who’s with me?”
“Count me in,” Cecilia said, running her hand down Brian’s arm, squeezing his hand, releasing it, and stepping back, feeling still the embrace and the strength of the man.
The old gentleman lifted his fist in defiance to the crowd and the tumult and the night. “Tallyho!”
Twenty-seven
BUT THE SEARCH OF THE SECRET STUDY PROVED FUTILE. More than that, it was depressing. They began in the best of spirits, joined by Molly and Trevor, laughing and calling to one another, buoyed by the recent victory. Yet the hours ticked by, and with them their gaiety and energy drained steadily away.
Finally at midnight Gladys chided her husband, “You really must have a lie-down, dear.”
“Nonsense.” Arthur fumbled about, fatigue increasing his burden of years. “Has anyone checked the corner over here?”
“I did,” Brian replied, using Gladys’s words as an excuse to sit down. “Twice.”
“I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” Trevor admitted. “This hasn’t been the easiest of weeks.”
“There, you see,” Gladys scolded. “And he wasn’t up half the night like you were.”
Arthur’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “My dear chap, I feel like we’ve let you down horribly.”
Brian’s face mirrored the weary resignation in his voice. “You’ve done all you could.”
“We’ll start again first thing tomorrow.” Slowly Arthur bent over to accommodate the tunnel. “Come along, my dear.”
Cecilia and Brian were the last to leave, walking down the stairs together, standing outside the old place beneath a star-chased sky. Too tired and too beaten to speak, she reached over and gripped him in another tight embrace. Only as she turned away, this time it felt more like a farewell.
Cecilia managed to make it upstairs and disrobe before sleep overcame her. The next thing she knew, the first faint tendrils of dawn were gracing another clear blue sky. She rose from bed and dressed hastily, suddenly ravenous. She scrambled three eggs and ate them with two pieces of toast. Only when her stomach was full could she sense the same sorrow she had known the night before.
Her mind went back to the talk with the businesswoman, Monday’s first patient. How clear it had all seemed then. How vivid the sense of turning. Cecilia found herself hearing her own words as though
spoken by someone else. About the vulnerability and the need for answers she did not have. Her body began rocking back and forth, gentle motions driven by unseen winds. Her eyes closed and her heart whispered words that seemed drawn from outside her, speaking far more clearly than she could herself, expressing thoughts she had never given voice to, until now.
Brian was glad he was alone when he found the letter. Very glad indeed. He had awakened an hour before Tuesday’s dawn, eaten breakfast, and returned to the secret room because there was nothing much else to do. It was as he was packing one of the spark machines, turning the ivory crank and polishing the great wooden wheel, that he had heard a sibilant rustling. Squeezing in close to the contraption, he had squinted and poked and prodded and finally pulled out yet another yellowed envelope.
“My dear Brian,” Heather began, “I do so hope you enjoy my latest little surprise. Well, Alex’s, actually. He discovered this place and these contraptions in our early courtship days. In our rare bad moments I would accuse him of marrying me just so he could claim them as his own. But never mind that. I hope they bring you as much pleasure as they did him.”
Brian used the cloth to wipe off a low bench, then tested it cautiously before easing himself down. By the light of Arthur’s flashlight he continued reading, “My hands are better today, perhaps because I spent half the night talking with your dear wife. These contacts with her remain the most brilliant light in my dimming vision. Sarah is truly an earthbound angel. But of course, this you know. What you most certainly have not heard from me before, my newfound friend, is that she deserved you, and you her.
“I spoke at length about this particular missive with your dear wife, and it has left me feeling restored. Not in health, but in confidence. I hope you will forgive me for mentioning Sarah here, but I feel it important to establish credibility. I have shared with you my mistakes. Now allow me to pass on some of Sarah’s own wisdom.
“‘The treasure you seek is not here in this room, of course. And I am hoping you have already begun to discover it for yourself. That is my hope for you, Brian. That this lovely village and this marvelous house will bestow upon you the most precious treasure of all, that of knowing God.