The Tuscan Child(12)

“So where can I drop you?” he asked.

“The vicarage, please. I’ll have to arrange for a funeral.”

“If you want cakes or sandwiches for it, just let me know and I’ll supply them. On the house.” And he smiled.

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” I heard my voice wobble as I said the words.

He came around to help me out of the van. “Are you staying at the lodge or going back to London?”

“No, I’d better stay here while I sort things out.”

“Then let me know if you need a lift back out to Langley. I should be around for an hour or so.”

“Thanks, Billy. You always were a good friend.”

He actually blushed, making me smile.

As I walked away a car drew up on the other side of the street. A window rolled down and a voice called, “Miss Langley!”

I turned to see Dr. Freeman. I went over to him.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” he said. “He was a good man.”

“Were you the one who was called to him yesterday morning?”

“I was. Poor chap. He must have been dead for a while when they found him. Massive heart attack, I’m afraid. Nothing that could have been done, even if someone had been with him.”

This made me feel a little better. At least he hadn’t lain there alone and calling for help.

“Will they be doing an autopsy, do you know?”

“No need,” he said. “I’ve submitted my report that the cause of death was a myocardial infarction—a heart attack. There were no signs of foul play. No reason to submit him to the final indignity.”

“Thank you, Doctor. So his body can be released for burial?”

“It can.” He got out of his car. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m already two hours late for lunch and my wife will not be pleased.” He gave me a friendly nod and walked toward his front door.

I continued on to St Mary’s Church. The church itself was a fine old grey stone building dating from the fourteenth century. The vicarage was less old and less attractive: solid red brick from Victorian times. I was about to walk up the path to the vicarage when on impulse I turned the other way, pushed open the heavy oak door, and went into the church instead. I was immediately enveloped in the cool stillness of the place. It still had that wonderful smell that old churches have: part damp, part old hymn books, and the lingering scent of burned-out candles. I stood there, staring down the nave to the altar window with its original stained glass of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus. I’d always loved that window as a child. The Virgin’s robe was the most beautiful blue, and when the sun shone through the glass it sent stripes of blue and white and gold on to the choir stalls in a way that had always seemed magical to me.

I watched it now, trying to recapture that feeling of peace that always came to me in that church, but the Virgin looked out past me, that chubby baby so secure in her arms, her serene smile mocking me. “Look what I’ve got,” she seemed to be saying. “Isn’t he perfect?” I closed my eyes and turned away.

I started to walk around, staring at the walls, studying the monuments and plaques to generations of dead Langleys. As I child I’d known them all by heart. Edward Langley, Baronet Josiah Langley. Eleanor Langley, aged twenty-two. And now it was as if I felt their presence. “Don’t worry,” they were saying. “You’ll get through this. You’re a Langley. We’re strong.”

It was all right for you, I thought. You had a home to go back to.

A noise behind me made me jump.

“I thought I spotted someone going into the church,” the vicar said. “Joanna, my dear. I’m glad to see you seeking comfort from the Lord.”

Actually I had been seeking comfort from my ancestors, but I let him pray with me before he led me back to the vicarage, where his wife served me tea and a big slice of fruit cake.





CHAPTER SIX





HUGO


December 1944

They came out of the trees to find the ground rising steeply before them through the mist—first a grassy knoll and then a rocky crag topped with what looked like an old, ruined building. A flight of ancient, worn stone steps had been cut through the grass, then a steeper flight ascended the rock to the remains of some buildings. At least that clearly used to be the case, but part of the rock had been destroyed, and the steps now clung precariously to the side of a sheer drop. At the foot of the flight was a post with the words “Pericolo. Ingresso Vietato.” Danger. Entrance Forbidden.

“It doesn’t look as if the monks have been here for a long time,” Hugo said.

“Two years now.”

Hugo had been thinking it was an old ruin. “Two years?”

“It was bombed by the Allies.”

He reacted in horror. “We bombed a monastery?”

She nodded. “It was necessary. The Germans had taken it over and were using it as a lookout point. They brought big guns up here to shoot at passing aeroplanes and to command the road in the valley.”

“I see. So the monks had already left?”

“Yes, they were turned out when the Germans arrived. It was a famous chapel, with beautiful pictures. The Germans looted all the artwork, may they burn in hell. The buildings are now beyond repair, and we are forbidden to go here.”