The Book of Hours by Davis Bunn Page A

“We’ll clear out the church charity’s shop window and put this inside with a great sign. ‘Win a piece of village heritage and save the church bells.’ Marvelous, I can’t thank you enough.”
    The real estate agent shouldered his way closer. Hardy Seade was no longer smiling. “I’ll give you a thousand pounds for it.”
    Arthur chortled, “Really, what on earth would you want with a dollhouse at your age?”
    â€œIt’s for my niece.” The words came out clipped with anger.
    â€œI happen to know for a fact,” Arthur countered, “that you are an only child.”
    Rage rose from his reddened cheeks to fill Seade’s gaze. “A thousand pounds, Mr. Blackstone. You and I both know it’s not worth half that.”
    Brian handed the dollhouse to the vicar. “It’s not mine to sell.”
    The agent shot Brian a venomous look. “The offer stands,Vicar. A thousand pounds for the model.”
    â€œHardy!” Lavinia shrilled. “You can’t possibly mean to give money to that man and his demented cause!”
    â€œOh, do be quiet,” Hardy snapped. “A thousand pounds cash,Vicar. Here and now.”
    â€œThat’s most generous of you, Mr. Seade, I’m sure.” Trevor carried his dollhouse and his smile down the broad front stairs. “And I’ll be delighted to accept any donation you care to give us, just as soon as our raffle tickets are printed up.”
    Hardy Seade almost steamed with rage as he turned back to Brian and snarled, “I’ll have a court injunction placed against you this very afternoon. You’ll not carry a single stick of firewood from this place.”
    â€œOh, I very much doubt it will be as simple as all that.” Arthur held to the same cheery tone as the vicar’s. “I went by the council offices this morning, and I happen to know that the auction refers to the house and grounds. No mention was made of the furnishings.”
    â€œWe’ll see about that.” Hardy Seade thumped down the stairs. “Come along, Lavinia.”
    Arthur waited until they had carried their mutterings down the line of elms to turn and pat Brian on the shoulder and say, “That was a most generous act.”
    â€œThey sure make a pair,” Brian observed.
    â€œYes, Lavinia Winniskill and Hardy Seade are certainly flies in the marmalade. And I must say, seeing their faces when you offered the vicar your little prize, why, it was better than a day at the races.” The old man turned his back on the angry couple. “You really must come down for a spot of dinner tonight.”
    â€œThanks, but I don’t want—”
    â€œNow, now, none of that. You’ll find Gladys is a marvelous cook.”

Eight
    T HE DAY CLEARED WITH SUCH A GRADUAL TRANSITION THAT Cecilia really did not notice it until the sky had bloomed to full and open blue. She began her Thursday afternoon at the village wards. That was a fancy name for a converted fifteenth-century cottage. There were several of these ancient structures about Knightsbridge, given to the town at some earlier point because the landowner couldn’t bear to tear down a house that had stood since the days of good Queen Bess. Now they were worth a fortune, and the heirs were constantly trying to wrest them back.
    The cottage stood down a narrow walk connecting the market square to the village green. The front door opened straight into the nurse’s station, essentially a beamed front parlor where the duty nurse sat and quietly knitted through the night. Each of the wards held six beds, but rarely were more than three or four of them in use. Today the women’s ward held a recent stroke victim and a mother in her late thirties being tested for a new medication. The male ward held one patient, a highly educated man and binge drinker. Once every three or four months Robert would be found in Cork Talk, the local