Memory and Desire (46 page)

His grin broke into a laugh. The laugh exploded into a war whoop. Richard danced a Highland fling up and down the sidewalk, then swept Claire into a waltz. The dazzling sunshine might as well be frost compared to the light that illuminated his face and spilled out to brighten hers as well. Together they sailed onto the high street sharing the giddy grins of people who've just stepped off a roller coaster.

They almost danced over the Digbys. Trevor smiled tolerantly at their apologies. “Is the case closed, then?"

“Yes. Oh yes, it is,” answered Richard, catching his breath but not his gravity.

“I'm so sorry,” Trevor went on. “I never connected Diana Jackman with Vincent's granddaughter Diane. She said her maiden name was Cox and that her folk were originally from Kent."

“No need to apologize.” Claire assured him.

Priscilla settled her shopping bag on her arm. “Call in for a coffee when you're free. We're thinking of setting up a museum in that empty shop once the police leave. The true story of Elizabeth Spenser. The story behind The Play. Your design skills would be helpful, Richard. And Claire, perhaps you could make a copy of Elizabeth's shroud."

Even they assumed she'd stay, Claire said to herself. Her and Richard's posture betrayed all—they were clinging together as though their bodies had been magnetized. “I'd be glad to. But why can't you use the original cloth ... Oh. Alec's going to bury her in it."

“Yes,” said Trevor, “he called in last night and we had a very meaningful discussion. He greeted the idea of the museum with enthusiasm, and will talk to you, Richard, about photographing the cloth before the—the ceremony. A private one, he said. As seems only fitting."

“We still have her lovely altar cloth,” added Priscilla.

“I'll do all I can,” Richard said. “The true story needs telling."

Across the street Rob Jackman propped open the door of the pub, stared balefully out into the sunshine, and vanished back into his den. The dog draped itself across the threshold and laid its chin on its paws. A couple of reporters sat down at the outside tables and offloaded their cameras.

“I'll have a word with Rob,” said Trevor.

Priscilla shook her head. “A terrible tragedy."

“Yes,” Claire and Richard said, simultaneously and wholeheartedly. Hand in hand they walked on up the street to the gates of the Hall, which stood wide open once again.

Birds caroled merrily and children laughed. The twin beds of flowers lining the forecourt looked like a double rainbow leading to the pot of gold that was the Hall. Workmen scrambled over the bleachers, breaking them down into their component parts. Claire imagined these workmen's ancestors taking apart the ancient Norman castle and dismantling the gallows on the green. “All the world's a stage,” she said.

“And all the men and women merely players,” Richard replied. “We've made our curtain calls now. And even though they're not, thank God, going to strike the set after all..."

“...the show's over,” concluded Claire.

The Hall basked in the sun, stone glowing, windows shining, all passion if not spent at least redirected. The pile of building stones seemed half-absorbed by the green grass at the end of the lawn, like the ancient tombstones beside the church or like the megalithic circle beyond the slope of the hill. Banks of red and pink roses spilled over the walls. “Good bye, Melinda,” Claire whispered.

And Richard concluded quietly, “Thank you."

Fred trundled a wheelbarrow of burned and broken bits around the corner of the building. “Richard! The glazier needs to talk to you about those smashed windows."

“Richard!” called Janet from the kitchen doorway. “Should I just use soap and water on the floor in the entrance hall?"

Susan trotted briskly across the forecourt, dodging the waving boards and tubing, and offered Richard his clipboard. “The smoke damage on the fireplace in the high great chamber isn't too bad. Should I try some more kaolin and benzene?"

“Richard,” Claire said, getting into the spirit of things, “should I pick out that monogram on the Penelope canvas or do you want me to leave it in, with proper attribution, of course?"

Richard waved away the clipboard. “Fred, Janet, Susan—I'll sort things presently."

The volunteers retreated, trading bemused smiles.

“Well then,” Richard said to Claire.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him. His lips in reply were flexible, creative, and promised glories to come. Somewhere behind the Hallelujah Chorus playing in her mind Claire heard the workmen cheering. Fine, but she had no intention of taking a bow.

When they parted she was beyond dizzy, approaching ecstatic. Her glasses were skewed across her face. Richard adjusted them.

His eyes shone with the same burnished sunlight reflected from the windows of the Hall. Funny, Claire told herself, she'd come here thinking she was a stranger in a strange land, only in the end to come home.

Together she and Richard turned toward the Hall, the intersection of past and present that was the gateway to the future.

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