Desolate places, p.1
Desolate Places, page 1
Desolate Places
Kate Charles
This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be sold, shared, or given away.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Desolate Places
Copyright © 2021 by Kate Charles
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64197-170-6
Print ISBN: 9781641971720
* * *
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
* * *
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
* * *
NYLA Publishing
121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.
http://www.nyliterary.com
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dramatis Personae
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Also by Kate Charles
About the Author
This book is dedicated to all of my faithful readers –
* * *
thank you for your support through the years
Acknowledgments
This book was supported by two generous donations to charitable causes, with the donors bidding for a character bearing their name. Sir Leslie Fielding’s donation to the Conservation Trust for St Laurence, Ludlow has resulted in a character who is perhaps not quite what he was expecting, but I have faith that his legendary sense of humour will enable him to take it in the spirit in which it was intended. Dr Sein Lwin of Myanmar is more likely to recognise himself in his namesake character, whose role in the book is small but important. His generosity was in support of Project Burma. Many thanks to Sir Leslie and Dr Lwin.
Thanks, as always, to my good friends and first readers: Marcia Talley, Deborah Crombie, Suzanne Clackson, and Sue Mansell.
And thanks to my splendid agent Nancy Yost, for everything.
Dramatis Personae
In London
The Church
Callie Anson – Curate
Brian Stanford – Vicar, Callie’s boss
Jane Stanford – Brian’s wife
Frances Cherry – Hospital chaplain
Graham Cherry – Vicar, Frances’ husband
Fr Michael Fairfax – Vicar
Willow Tree – Sacristan
Barbara Grant – Vicar’s wife
Pippa Masters – Curate’s wife
Mildred Channing – parishioner
* * *
The Law
Sgt Mark (Marco) Lombardi – Family liaison officer, Callie’s fiancé
DI Neville Stewart – Homicide Detective
DS Sid Cowley – Neville’s sergeant
DCS Idris Evans – Neville’s boss
Colin Tompkins – police pathologist
Danny Duffy – computer expert
Yolanda Fish – Family liaison officer
* * *
The Regent Hotel
Ronald Wicker – hotel manager
Zuzanna Dabrowska – cleaner
Angel Reyes – cleaner
Les Fielding – in the kitchen
Tariq Sadek – in the kitchen
Dr Sein Lwin – hotel guest
* * *
Londoners
Peter Anson – Callie’s brother
Laura Anson – Callie’s mother
Serena di Stefano – Marco’s sister
Angelina & Chiara di Stefano – Serena’s daughters
Grazia Lombardi – Marco’s mother
Andrew Linton – an estate agent
Triona Stewart – Neville’s wife
Lilith Noone – Representative of the Press
Rob Gardiner-Smith – Lilith’s boss
Kamala Gupta – Neonatal unit manager
Julian St Clair – a man of mystery
Olivia St Clair – Julian’s wife
Ben Chapman – a man of importance
Danielle Fisher – Ben’s partner
In Devizes
Felicity Chapman – Ben’s mother
Alan Chapman – Felicity’s husband
PC Grace Long – Wiltshire Constabulary
DS Tom Burton – Grace’s boss
Maggie Ruddle – taxi driver
Paige Mason – Alan’s secretary
In Oxford
Charlie Stanford – Brian and Jane’s son
Simon Stanford – Charlie’s twin brother
Ellie Dickinson – Simon’s fiancée
Hugh Dickinson – Ellie’s father
Georgina Dickinson – Ellie’s mother
1
It was every clergyperson’s worst nightmare.
‘Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
A mere formality, legally required as part of the marriage service. A hold-over from days long gone by, when betrothals were binding. No one expected anyone to speak, yet the fear was always there at the back of one’s mind. What if …
Callie Anson, as a mere and lowly deacon, wasn’t able to perform weddings herself, but she’d been asked by Brian, her training vicar, to help out with this one. Brian, who’d planned to do the wedding himself, had a schedule conflict pretty much at the last minute and had found a retired priest from a nearby parish to fill in, with Callie’s assistance. ‘Father Benedict is a bit past it, so you’ll just need to keep an eye on him,’ Brian had said. ‘It should be very straightforward. A nice couple. Not church-goers, of course, but they live in the parish. It will be fine,’ he’d added.
And up to that point it had been. No drama – the bride on time, the organist on good form. Lovely spring weather, and a good-sized congregation with everyone smiling.
Until Father Benedict pronounced the line about the just cause. It wasn’t a man who responded to the invitation to speak, but a woman.
One of the pink-clad bridesmaids, in fact. ‘He’s a lying toe-rag,’ she announced loudly during the two-second pause which was customary to allow for theoretical objections.
Callie, standing just behind and to the side of the elderly priest, could see their faces – the bride and the groom, in the split second before they swivelled to face the objector. The bride, eyes wide, her mouth a sudden O, frozen in horror. And the groom: guilty as hell, obviously.
The bridesmaid hadn’t finished. ‘He said he loved me,’ she stated. ‘He doesn’t love her. He never has.’
Things happened quickly after that. The bride fled back up the aisle she’d so recently come down, followed by her father and then her mother. The wronged bridesmaid threw her flowers in the direction of the groom, burst into noisy sobs, and flung herself face-down on the floor. The groom turned to his best man, shrugged, then sloped off towards the side door, closely followed by the best man, presumably heading for the nearest pub rather than seeking out his intended bride.
That night, not surprisingly, Callie dreamed about a wedding. This time, though, it was Brian who was officiating, standing in front of the familiar altar at All Saints’.
And Callie, facing him, was the bride.
She couldn’t really see her dress, but the expression of approval on Marco’s face, as she turned to smile at him, was confirmation enough that she looked the proper part.
The bridesmaids were arrayed on her left, dressed in pink – just like the real, aborted wedding. Her friend Tamsin, Marco’s two nieces – Angelina and Chiara. And Marco’s sister Serena. Surely Serena was a bit old to be a bridesmaid? And pink didn’t really suit her, with her red-gold Venetian colouring.
Brian smiled benignly and said the Prayer Book words, just as Father Benedict had said them. ‘Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
Serena was the one who opened her mouth, her beautiful face contorted with hatred. ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘He can’t marry her. It’s all wrong! She doesn’t belong. She’ll never be part of la famiglia. Never in a million years!’
Callie woke up with a gasp, tears on her cheeks, her heart thudding. And it was a long time before she was able to get back to sleep.
Father Michael Fairfax was surely the best-looking priest in the Church of England.
At least that was what Peter Anson thought, the moment he’d met him.
In spite of the fact that his sister Callie’s life was bound up in the C of E, Peter had no particular interest in that institution.
Until he laid eyes on the beautiful Michael Fairfax.
Coup de foudre – that’s what the French called it. A lightening strike to the heart. Love at first sight, to use the more prosaic English phrase.
Peter had been in love before – plenty of times. Far too many times for his own good; he didn’t need Callie to tell him that. He fell in love too easily, and more often than not with the most unsuitable men. Jason, and before that a long line of others. From the time he was a young boy, he’d been falling in love on a regular basis with one handsome face after another.
But Father Michael was different. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
He’d met Father Michael while Callie was away in Cambridge and he was staying at her flat, looking after her dog Bella. The priest had called at the flat, looking for Callie. He was new in the area, he said, and wanted to introduce himself to his fellow clergy.
Tall, of course. Well-built. You could tell that, even under his black clerical shirt – not a garment that Peter had ever before considered to be remotely sexy, but Father Michael took it to a whole new level.
And he was drop-dead gorgeous: there was no other way to put it. Bradley Cooper, Peter thought instantly, with those laser-blue eyes and mobile, sensuous mouth. Hair you just wanted to run your fingers through.
When he smiled, Peter knew that he was lost.
‘She’s not here,’ he stammered.
‘You’re her husband?’
Peter corrected him swiftly. ‘Her brother.’ Was it possible, he asked himself, that this gorgeous man was eyeing him up? Or was that just wishful thinking? ‘She’s away this week. I’m … looking after things. Taking care of her dog.’
Father Michael’s smile broadened. ‘Oh, what sort of dog?’
‘A cocker spaniel.’
As if on cue, Bella appeared at the door, swishing her tail.
‘I’m a lab man, myself,’ the priest said, leaning down to stroke Bella. ‘I have a black lab. Colin. Silly name for a dog, I suppose.’ He added, ‘We’re lucky, being so close to Hyde Park. Great place for dog walking.’
And that was that. Father Michael had said he’d come back another time, and had cheerfully taken his leave.
But Peter couldn’t get him out of his head. For the rest of the week, he’d taken Bella for long walks in Hyde Park several times a day, hoping for a glimpse of the delicious priest. A few times he’d thought he spotted either a black shirt or a black dog, only to be disappointed.
And once Callie had returned, he didn’t even have the excuse of a dog to be in Hyde Park.
Some lateral thinking was called for, Peter decided.
He remembered every word of his brief exchange with Father Michael; he’d replayed it over and over again in his mind. And he recalled that the priest had said he was the new vicar of St John’s, Lancaster Gate.
That would be his next port of call.
Monday was the customary day for Callie’s weekly meeting with Brian, when they talked about plans for the coming week and dealt with any issues which had arisen in the previous one. So she was a bit surprised when, at the end of the Sunday Eucharist, he stopped her at the vestry door. ‘I’d like to see you for a little chat. Tonight,’ he said. ‘After Evensong. In my study.’
She nodded her agreement as he hurried on.
Had he heard about the wedding fiasco, then, and couldn’t wait until tomorrow to call her on the carpet? She had been planning to tell him about it, of course, but she supposed that someone had beat her to it. Inevitable, really – she should have expected that.
Callie sighed.
Just her luck that it had happened on her watch, when he’d left her in charge. It hadn’t been her fault; she couldn’t have done anything to stop it. Brian was the one who had done their marriage preparation sessions. If anything, he should have picked up on any potential issues involving bridesmaids.
Well, she thought philosophically, if he blamed her, she’d just have to suck it up. That was what curates did. She’d learned that much from the recent Deacons’ Week at her old theological college.
And this would give her a chance to talk to him about another wedding: her own.
She’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to discuss it with Brian. Things with Marco had been up in the air for a while after his proposal; he’d wanted them to tell his family before they told anyone else. Before they started making plans.
Now Marco had told his family, though not in the way they’d intended. Not together. Instead he’d told Serena in the midst of what must have been a horrendous row, and at the end of it he’d announced to Serena that if he had to make a choice between la famiglia and Callie, he would choose Callie.
As far as Callie knew, Serena hadn’t spoken to him since.
Shortly after the row, he’d told his parents. According to Marco, they were very happy for them both. Callie wasn’t so sure that was the case, but she was willing to go along with his version of the conversation for the time being.
Angelina and Chiara, at least, were unambiguously and predictably delighted. They were going to be bridesmaids – that was established immediately. Regardless of their mother’s feelings on the matter.
And now it was time for Callie to start dealing with her side of things. She’d told her brother Peter, and her friends from theological college. But she was going to have to talk to Brian, and she hadn’t yet summoned up the courage to tell her mother.
In fact, Callie hadn’t even yet introduced the two of them, so it would be a double shock for Laura Anson: her daughter had a new man in her life, and she was going to marry him. Callie didn’t expect her mother, who had never liked surprises, to be very pleased.
But first, Brian.
Sunday lunch was over, the washing-up done and everything put away.
It was early in the year for doing much in the way of gardening, but the day was fine and warm and Felicity Chapman’s green fingers were itching for the feel of soil.
Alan was on the sofa in the drawing room, surrounded by the Sunday papers. ‘I’m going out to the garden,’ Felicity announced at the door.
He looked up with a vague smile. ‘Okay.’
In the utility room she pulled on her welly boots, shrugged on her Barbour jacket and tucked her phone into a pocket; her son Ben customarily rang on a Sunday afternoon and she didn’t want to miss his call. Her first stop was the greenhouse, where she collected her flowered gardening gloves and a few tools for weeding, then she went to the nearest bed, knelt down and got stuck into the task at hand.
When her phone pinged, she dropped her spade and reached into her pocket, rocking back on her heels.
Not Ben’s phone call, though: it was a Facebook notification. A friend request.
Felicity was puzzled; she didn’t really use Facebook much, except to keep up with Ben’s postings. She had only a handful of Facebook friends.
She thumbed the button and a window popped up. ‘You have a friend request from Julian St Clair,’ it said.
For just a split second, Felicity stopped breathing.
Callie felt she’d adequately psyched herself up for her meeting with Brian, and rang the bell with her shoulders squared and her courage screwed to the sticking place.
Brian, however, evidently had an agenda of his own.
He, rather than his wife Jane, met Callie at the front door and ushered her into his study.
‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the chair where Callie usually sat for their weekly meetings. He seemed nervous – embarrassed, almost. That surprised her; she was prepared for confrontation, for some sort of rebuke, not for his apologetic demeanour. Thrown off, she sat down and immediately blurted it out. ‘Marco and I are going to get married.’
