Sons of Angels Read online

  SONS OF ANGELS

  Laverstone Chronicles, Book 2

  RACHEL GREEN

  LYRICAL PRESS

  http://lyricalpress.com/

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  For Eleanor and Sophie, real-life miniatures of Felicia and Gillian.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to DK and Luisa for living with a writer, Nerine and the staff of Lyrical Press for all the help, and Stephanie for the constant encouragement.

  Foreword

  The town of Laverstone is fictional, though it references many of the landmarks and legends of rural England. The Unfamiliar becomes Familiar, and vice versa.

  Prologue

  Carol Goodwin closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. She tucked the bedclothes around her sleeping six-year-old son, kissed his peachy-smooth skin and stood. Her smile lingered as she picked up the clothes left in a pile by the chair, the jumper inside out and the trousers with one leg rucked backward. After she dropped them into the empty laundry basket, she selected Peter’s clothes for the following day: a white shirt, gray trousers, socks, underpants and the garish red jumper the school insisted upon, and placed them on the chair to save Peter searching the house in the morning.

  She took a final look around the room, righting several of the dinosaurs Peter collected before turning out the main light, to leave only the small bedside lamp to cast gently turning shadows of cartoon dogs. She closed the door and went downstairs, just in time for the weekly detective series she followed and a glass of the chablis she’d uncorked over dinner.

  * * * *

  Peter woke in darkness. He looked around, his nervousness and heartbeat increasing as he pulled the covers closer against the cold in the room. He could just make out the thin outline of the window and the sliver of light from the landing under his bedroom door, but his nightlight had been turned off. He felt nervous without the gaily dancing puppies to protect him from encroaching shadows.

  He felt all around, his fingers trailing quickly across the scratchy wool of the blanket and the shiny satin of the quilt until it touched the soft velvet of Philip, his stuffed horse. Peter clutched the toy against his chest, the chill of the fur against his pajamas making him shiver. Whether the grasp was for the protection of the horse or for Peter, it was impossible to say. His breath coalesced where it passed the ray of light from the edge of the curtains and he clamped one hand over his mouth to listen.

  The room was silent but for the trickle of water through the radiator pipes and the beat of his heart, but Peter could hear the faint sounds of the television in the living room downstairs, so he knew his mummy had not yet gone to bed. He let out his breath, feeling pressure from his bladder due to a bedtime cup of warm milk. He pulled back the quilt to slide out of bed but froze when he heard the creak of a floorboard.

  The house didn’t creak. Mummy had bought it new when she and Daddy had got a divorce last year, which meant someone was on the landing. Peter froze. Mummy never crept about at night so the only explanation was. a burglar or a skeleton from the graveyard at St. Pity’s. He lay stock still in the darkness and was about to call for Mummy when the bedroom door opened.

  He strained his eyes against the sudden influx of light but the silhouette in the doorway wasn’t Mummy. She would have called out to him to tell him it wasn’t a monster and, besides, the figure was much too tall. He held his breath again, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. Where was Mummy? The figure stepped farther into the room, the light flickering like white fire around its body. Peter could see it was a man, of sorts. Not a nasty man, for no one nasty could have a face so perfectly calm and a smile so genuine.

  Peter relaxed. “Who are you? Are you one of Mummy’s special friends?”

  “You could say that.” The man moved closer to the bed and spoke in a voice so soft and gentle it felt like a ribbon trailed through Philip’s fur. I am a special friend to all. I am of the Light and the Life.”

  “Are you an angel, then?” Peter remembered the phrase from assembly at school.

  “An angel?” The man considered the question. “Yes, I’m an angel.”

  “Where are your wings then? Have you come to take me to Heaven?” Peter frowned. “Where’s Mummy?”

  “My wings would be too bright for you to see, little one, were I to unfold them.” The angel raised a hand to touch Peter’s face. “Suffer little children to come unto me.” The touch connected, and Peter felt such peace that, for an instant, he understood his mother’s love.

  “Suffer little children.”

  Peter felt the heat before he saw the flicker of orange flames as they engulfed Philip’s acrylic fur. He tried to scream, but the fire was so very, very hot and the one breath he managed to take he couldn’t release. Everything went gray.

  Chapter 1

  Felicia Turling felt as if her head was about to explode. She’d never wanted to hit another woman so much in her life. Not that she ever would. A slap would cause more trouble than the temporary satisfaction was worth. She let the woman babble on instead, pretending to listen while planning her outfit for the club tonight. She nodded, as if in response. Emily Baker was a promising young artist but there had been no indication of her temperament in her CV.

  “...amongst the bananas. Are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course.” Felicia smiled and took the woman’s arm in a gentle but firm grip. “Those bananas are actually an installation by the renowned artist Sarah Whitelaw. Have you come across her work?”

  Emily shook her head. “It’s a bit retrogarde in my opinion. Rotting fruit has been done to death.”

  Felicia raised an eyebrow. Retrogarde was a new term to her, one she guessed meant the opposite of avant-garde but she took it in her stride. “It’s less to do with the rotting of the fruit than the evolution of the fruit-fly. It will be gone before your show goes up anyway.”

  “Oh.” Emily cast her gaze around the basement gallery. “What about that door? Can I cover that?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Felicia steered the young woman toward the office. “That leads to the bookshop upstairs. Mr. Waterman and I share a small amount of passing trade. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee while you detail your installation for me on the gallery plans?”

  She didn’t regret her small lie for a moment, but it would teach her not to leave her shopping in the gallery.

  “It’s great you’re going to let me paint the gallery black.” Emily looked up at the steel pipes criss-crossing the ceiling. “No one’s ever let me do that before.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly what I said.” A phone began to ring in the office and she paused. “Would you mind if I got that? I’m waiting for a call from an investor.”

  “No. Sure.” Emily diverted her attention to a series of etchings.

  Felicia answered the phone and was overtaken with gallery business for the next hour and a half. Working without a break made for one hell of a long day.

  * * * *

  She was relieved when Meinwen joined her for lunch. On the wrong side of thirty, Meinwen was still single and made an invaluable friend. Rumors of an affair with the parish priest had been rife when she first moved to Laverstone, not least because of her profession as the owner of the only pagan shop in the village. As members of a village minority of artists, writers and other free-thinkers, Felicia and Meinwen had become firm friends.

  “I saw Emily Baker in here earlier.” Meinwen smiled and accepted the mug of herbal tea. “She comes into the shop regularly. Rather you than me, I must say.” Her soft Welsh accent was musical after Emily’s harsh jabbering.

  Felicia rolled her eyes. “I offered her a show on the basis of slides sent by post. I should ha
ve met her to discuss it first. Did you know she wants to paint the whole gallery black?”

  Meinwen laughed. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t know you’d offered her a show, either. That explains why she bought my entire stock of black candles.”

  “Oh no. I’m not having any religious mumbo-jumbo in the gallery.” She looked askance. “No offence.”

  “None taken.” Meinwen grinned, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on the two-seater sofa. “I loathe the mumbo-jumbo too. Most of it is just pseudo-Christian guff, performed by people who wouldn’t recognize a goddess if she showed them Paradise.”

  Felicia opened her sandwich and picked out the cucumber. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been agnostic since school.”

  “Fair enough,” Meinwen spread hummus onto a piece of pita bread.

  “‘Morning ladies.” Harold Waterman, who owned the bookshop upstairs, appeared with his own mug of tea, not trusting the “muck in a cup” Meinwen enjoyed. In his mid-thirties, he cut a roguish figure in an Italian tailored business suit and open-necked shirt. A lock of platinum-blond hair swept over his brow, a reflection of his easy smile. He reached over and took the discarded cucumber.

  Felicia bit into the sandwich. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I’m up to date on the rent, aren’t I?”

  “Of course. Nothing like that. I just fancied a bit of company.

  “Your business associate not around, then?”

  “Jasfoup’s busy with some of his freelance work.”

  “Fair enough.” Felicia picked up her coffee. “Who’s looking after your shop?”

  “Devious.” Harold grimaced. “Er... One of Jasfoup’s friends.”

  “What an odd name.” Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Not terribly complimentary.”

  Harold shrugged. “It is where he comes from.”

  Felicia repressed a shudder at the thought of where that might be. “Do you want half my sandwich? I’m on a diet.”

  “If you’re sure.” Harold smiled and held out his hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you go hungry.”

  “I’m not.” Felicia passed it to him. “Think of it as saving me from myself.”

  Harold bit into it and dropped a shred of lettuce onto his leather trousers. “It’s good. A bit under-cooked, though.”

  “It’s feta cheese salad.”

  * * * *

  After lunch, when Meinwen had returned to her pagan emporium–Closed to honor Bacchus: Back at Two–and Harold to his bookshop–We never close for time-travelers: Come back before lunch–Felicia conducted a gallery check. The series of alien landscapes were popular, as far as anything in her gallery was popular with the locals, but she hadn’t sold any despite her policy of easy payment plans. The russet-hued Dragon at Dawn, her personal favorite, had not even received an enquiry.

  The watercolors in the third gallery had fared a little better. The modest sums asked for them, all but three of them under two hundred pounds, had generated enough sales for Felicia to subsidize the exhibitions for a further three months on her portion of the price.

  Gallery two, where she’d hung four huge oils by the relatively unknown Gillian du Point, was like stepping into silence. The pictures, made with layer upon layer of glazes, seemed to suck the sound from the room. Felicia spent a few minutes looking at them. Even if she could afford the huge price tags, the smallest of the four was larger than any single wall of her flat.

  “Quite delightful, aren’t they?”

  Felicia jumped at the voice, unaware anyone else had been present. A tall gentleman in a twenties-style double-breasted coat emerged from the shadows. “Yes they are.” She stepped forward. “She’s very talented.”

  “They took a long time to make.” He indicated the smaller one with his cane. “Each layer of glaze takes months to dry.”

  Felicia nodded. She’d graduated in printmaking before progressing to a master’s in art history and a doctorate in socio-economics. “She has more patience than I do but the results are fantastic.”

  “Indeed.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I should like them all. When can you deliver them?”

  “All?” Felicia gaped at him. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Felicia nodded. “The show finishes next Friday. I can deliver them after that.”

  “Excellent.” The man inclined his head and gave her a short bow. “I will return then.” He pressed his card into her hand, nodded once more and placed a trilby on his head as he left the gallery.

  “Wow.” Felicia let out a silent whoop then looked down at the card in her hand. There were no contact details. No address, no phone number, no email. Just one name, written in white against a dark background.

  Raffles.

  Chapter 2

  Felicia rubbed her eyes and clicked the projector on another notch. Honestly, was this still the seventies? Why did some artists insist on sending color slides of their work? Hadn’t they heard of computers? She could project the image from a CD onto a wall as easily as using a slide projector. Easier, even. Loading a CD was a lot quicker than loading a cassette of slides.

  She turned the projector off. That was an hour of her life she’d never get back. The slides were all right but owed more than a small debt to Sir Stanley Spencer and his post-war landscapes of the Rapture than to anything she could comfortably call modern. What was the term that ghastly woman had used? Retrogarde.

  She turned to the etchings. They were a similar subject, and in a couple of cases the same subject, as the paintings but they’d suit gallery two if she could price them affordably. She might even buy one for her flat. If she was crafty she could get Harold to display some alongside the bibles in the bookshop upstairs.

  Sorted. She tossed the package to one side and yawned. Could she close early? She could. No one was viewing the exhibits anyway.

  Felicia locked the main doors and went upstairs, where she found Mr. Jasfoup at the kitchen table sorting through a pile of books. Wherever they had come from, they had been there a long time. Each was covered in dust and dirt, the pages redolent with the acrid smell of mold and mildew.

  Felicia wrinkled her nose. “Have you been to a house clearance? Were they really worth buying?”

  The dark-skinned man looked up and smiled. “Always. These are a set of first-edition Dickens. I paid a mint for them.”

  “They don’t look to be worth anything.” Felicia stepped closer and ran a finger across the gilt-embossed cover of volume one. “How much exactly?”

  “I told you.” He reached in his pocket for a half-empty packet of sweets. “I gave him a mint for them. Have one if you like. Gratis.”

  “Thanks.” Felicia extracted one and popped it in her mouth. “It was a good deal, then?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Jasfoup grinned, caressing the volume in his hand like a long-lost lover. “Once they’re cleaned and disinfected, they’ll be worth a couple of thousand.”

  Felicia whistled. “I’m in the wrong job. I struggle to make that much in a month.”

  “That’s gross, of course.” Jasfoup patted Felicia’s hand, eclipsing her tanned skin with his. “I’ll take my commission out of that.”

  “How much is your commission?” Felicia wondered if it was worth asking him to procure paintings for her gallery.

  Jasfoup laughed. “A soul.”

  Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Do you get many people who would give their soul for a book?”

  “One or two.” He winked. “Would you like to take tea?”

  “No thanks. I was just looking for Harold to tell him I’d closed early.”

  “That’s not like you.” Jasfoup stood to put the kettle on for himself. “Did you make a sale?”

  “No. I mean, yes, but that’s not why I’m closing early. I want to nip and see my sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.” Jasfoup dropped a teabag into a mug. “Don’t tell Harold I make it like this, will you? He
insists on a teapot but sometimes I really can’t be bothered.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks.” He filled the cup with boiling water. “What did you sell? One of the landscapes?”

  “No. Actually I sold all four of the Du Points.”

  Jasfoup paused in the act of fishing for the teabag. “The Gillian du Points?”

  “That’s right.” Felicia took her car keys from her handbag. “Sixty grand less commission. Can I use your back door?”

  “It sounds like me who’s in the wrong business. Here, I’ll see you out.”

  * * * *

  Felicia went through the double doors of St. Pity’s Psychiatric Hospital and walked up to the desk. The duty nurse smiled at her and passed over the visitor’s book without prompting. Felicia signed it, her visits filling almost two thirds of the page. Psychiatric patients weren’t popular.

  “I'll send an orderly for your sister.”

  “Thank you.” She returned the book and made her way down the two-tone corridor to the refectory, trying, as she did on every visit, to get used to the half-sickly, half-sweet smell of the hospital food. She chose a table near the windows that had the least spillage of food and tomato sauce. While she waited, she stacked the used plates on the next table along and wiped the spilled salt into her hand. She threw a pinch of it over her shoulder before depositing the rest onto a dirty plate.

  “Careful. Watch where you’re throwing things.” Julie shook salt from her hair. She was shorter than her sister by a head, though she had the same dark eyes and hair, albeit in a shorter bob.

  Felicia gave her a hug and helped her into a seat. She indicated to the orderly there was nothing she needed.

  “Felicia?” Julie’s face was drawn with fatigue. “Is there something the matter?”

  “No. Sorry.” Felicia did her best to smile at her institutionalized sister. “How have you been, Julie? You look tired.”