Unruly Passions

by Kate Charles

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Margaret Phillips is one of the first women to achieve the office of Archdeacon. She is intelligent, confident and capable, and though things have not always gone smoothly for her, she has reached a stage in her life where both her career and private life are harmonious. If there is one thing she can be sure of, it is the love and support of her husband, Hal.

Valerie Marler, bestselling author, creates a fictional world where her privileged heroines always end up with the men of their dreams. She's in control of her own life as well: talented, beautiful, rich, and with as many men as she wants, Valerie calls the shots. Until she meets Hal Phillips, who revels in his status as a happily married man and who is not interested in what she has to offer.

Rosemary Finch, the vicar's wife, hasn't been blessed with the same gifts as Valerie Marler; she is neither rich nor beautiful, and her life has not been an easy one. But she loves her husband and they both adore their Down's Syndrome daughter, Daisy. However, when she meets Hal Phillips, the man Valerie Marler wants and can't have, her life spirals out of control...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

The two young boys who found the body hadn’t been looking for it. Though they were vaguely aware that the police were combing
the area for a missing person, fearing foul play, their thoughts were elsewhere on that beautiful June day. They were skiving
off school – it was too nice a day to waste, they’d agreed, and they’d headed off towards the river to do a bit of swimming,
or perhaps try their luck at catching a fish or two.


The blue car, its windows halfway open, was deep in the woods, down at the end of a dirt track near the river. Though it was
midday, it was a very secluded spot, and the boys thought that perhaps a courting couple had discovered their own secret place.
They sneaked up on the car, winking at each other. One went on either side of the car, and they prepared to give the couple
the scare of their lives.


It didn’t work that way. For in the back seat of the car was not an amorous couple but a dead body. There was no doubt that
the body was dead, no question of the possibility that the boys had merely caught someone napping. Neither of them had ever
seen a corpse before, but they knew that they were looking at death. The place where the knife had gone in was evident if
not visible; flies clustered thickly round the stab wound, their buzzing filling the car with an obscene noise. And then there was the smell.


Each boy’s face mirrored the horror of the other as they looked first at the body, then across at each other. One of them
was screaming; perhaps both of them were. Afterwards they both denied it, of course, and each swaggered about with their friends,
boasting that he had been the first to see the body, describing it in gruesome detail, joking about his mate’s cowardice.


But at that moment it was no joke. The boys fled back through the woods, tripping over the undergrowth and their own feet,
seized with a primordial need to escape from the terror of unnatural death.


The story, though, starts some months earlier, before the woods are clothed in the green leaves of summer …


The knife. Rosemary Finch held it up to the light and examined the engraving on the tarnish-blackened handle, then wrapped
it carefully in tissue and placed it in a tea chest of similarly wrapped items. She hadn’t seen that knife in years; it was
certainly too good for everyday use, for the endless cutting-up of cakes and Victoria sponges and flapjack for church teas
and parish parties. There were special knives for that purpose, ancient knives with dulled or chipped blades and warped handles.
Dozens of them, and they seemed to multiply in the drawer. But this knife was different: a wedding present, from the parish,
on the occasion of Rosemary’s marriage to their Vicar. Their names and the date of the wedding were engraved on the silver
handle. Beribboned, it had been used on that day to cut the wedding cake, then put away. At the time, Rosemary realised, her
breath catching in her throat, she and Gervase had probably intended saving it for their children’s weddings.


Moving house is usually classified as one of life’s great traumas, and when the house being left behind holds the accumulated
memories of years, the wrench is even greater. The packing had been going on for days; sometimes it seemed like months to Rosemary, who had found it an emotionally draining process. Each item, each possession, had to be examined
and evaluated, its value assessed. Nothing had come into the house by accident, and the meaning behind each thing had to be
pondered before it was consigned to the rubbish bin or the jumble sale, or packed up to find a new home with them elsewhere.


And for Gervase, Rosemary thought with a rush of empathy, it was even worse than it was for her. He had been in the house
far longer, and it held for him so many memories, not all of them happy. Only he could sort through the contents of his study.
He’d been putting it off until the last minute – not that he’d said so, but Rosemary knew him well enough to understand that
it was true – and it was bound to be a painful job. The removal men would arrive in the morning; tonight it had to be done,
and he was tackling it while she finished up in the kitchen.


The desire to offer her support did battle with the wish not to intrude on his privacy, and overcame it. Abandoning the kitchen,
Rosemary crossed the corridor and tapped on the closed door of Gervase’s study.


‘Yes?’ His voice sounded normal. ‘Come in.’

Rosemary pushed the door open and leaned in. Gervase was at his desk, facing her, sorting through a stack of old parish magazines.
He looked up at her in enquiry, tilting his head down to focus on her over the tops of his half-moon reading glasses, and
her heart went out to him in a rush of love. Gervase, with his beautifully ascetic face and his crown of wavy hair. It was
silver now, that hair, but just as thick and wavy as it had ever been.


‘I wondered how you were doing,’ Rosemary said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve kept a few mugs out, and of course the
kettle will be the very last thing to be packed.’


Gervase smiled. ‘Not just yet, my dear. Perhaps a bit later.’

‘I’ll let you get on, then.’ Sensing that he wanted to be left alone, she pulled the door to and stood for a moment in the
hallway. The house was quiet – no radio, no television, only the loud tick of the magnificent long-case clock in the corner
of the square hall. That clock, the moon now rising on its painted dial, was a relic of Rosemary’s childhood. During that
childhood it had travelled with her family to a succession of huge old vicarages, turning each one into home as it stood in
the hallway, ticking reassuringly through day and night. But when her father died, and her mother moved into a bungalow, the
clock had come to Rosemary, bringing with it an echo of her childhood.


This vicarage was nothing like the vicarages of her childhood, of course. It had been built in the sixties, during the era
when old vicarages were being sold off wholesale to aspiring middle-class people, to be replaced by new, purpose-built boxes.
Victorian vicarages, built in the days when clergymen had tribes of children, were too large for modern clergy families, too
expensive to heat, the argument ran, and of course there was something in that. This vicarage was warmer than the draughty piles of her childhood, Rosemary acknowledged, but she couldn’t help feeling that something had
been lost. What memories would her daughter carry with her of this house, where she’d spent all of her life to date?


Daisy. Instinctively Rosemary’s ears strained for the sound of Daisy’s breathing, but of course she could hear nothing. She
crossed the hall, went up the stairs, and pushed on the half-open door of Daisy’s room. Daisy hated the dark, and insisted
on keeping the door ajar at night, at a precise angle. There was a night-light burning as well, and in its dim glow Rosemary
could see her daughter, curled into a foetal ball and sleeping soundly, her arms wrapped round Barry, her teddy. Without knowing
that she did so, she smiled and backed out of the door, returning it to its half-open position.


Rosemary went back to the kitchen, intending to resume her packing, but something – something more than procrastination –
impelled her to pay a farewell visit to the church. She took the key from its hook, let herself out of the back door and in
the dark, guided by instinct and memory, followed the well-travelled path to the large brick edifice which dominated the landscape,
and which had likewise dominated her life and that of her family for so many years. A red-brick Victorian church, workmanlike
in construction and with no particularly distinguished architectural heritage, it was none the less beautiful in Rosemary’s
eyes, fitted out as it was in high church trappings, its atmosphere thick with the prayers of a century of worshippers.


There were lights on within, Rosemary could see, and the south porch door was unlocked. Nothing to be alarmed about, she told
herself: Gervase had surely locked it earlier, and anyone who was here now had let themselves in with their own key. In the
old days, of course, the church had never been locked, day or night, and Gervase preferred it that way. ‘It is God’s house,’
he often said, ‘and should be open freely.’ But times had changed, and the PCC insisted that sensible precautions had to be
taken. The compromise position was that the church should be open during daylight hours, and locked at night.


Rosemary slipped into the church so silently that the woman who was redoing the flowers on the pedestal in front of the rood
screen was unaware of her presence for several minutes. She stood at the back and watched Hazel Croom pulling out a few drooping
blooms and replacing them with fresh ones, thus ensuring that her arrangement would do for the rest of the week, until she
– or the next person on the flower rota – started again from scratch on Saturday.


The white lilies, obligatory for Easter, were still quite fresh, and their heavy perfume was overwhelming, even from a distance. Rosemary breathed deeply, and Hazel Croom turned.


‘Rosemary!’ She frowned in displeasure. ‘You scared the heart out of me, creeping about like that.’

Rosemary came up the aisle towards her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. Why, she wondered, did Hazel always make her feel like
a recalcitrant schoolgirl? Was it deliberate on Hazel’s part – putting her in her place like that – or was it some flaw in
her own character? ‘The flowers look nice,’ she said lamely.


It was at the flowers that Hazel looked, rather than at Rosemary. ‘Not bad,’ she allowed. ‘They’ll do till the weekend, at
any rate.’


Rosemary’s next words were involuntary. ‘And we’ll be gone.’

‘Yes.’ Hazel Croom turned to look at her. ‘You’ll be gone.’ It was an accusation, heavy with meaning. ‘We shall miss Father
Gervase very much.’


The knife twisted. And me? thought Rosemary. What about me? She hated herself for caring, for still craving this woman’s approval
after all these years, when she knew that she would never have it. And she resented the implication that it was her fault
that they were moving, that somehow she was dragging Gervase away against his will. ‘And we’ll both miss Letherfield, and
St Mark’s, very much,’ she said, knowing that she sounded defensive. ‘But I’m afraid that we didn’t have any choice.’


‘Because of Daisy, you mean?’

Rosemary nodded. ‘She’s been so unhappy at school. It’s been a nightmare, ever since she left the Infants School and moved
to the Juniors. Some of the other children have been so cruel. And they just don’t have any sort of provision for children
with special needs, and no resources – they were insisting that we’d have to send her away to a special school.’ Her pain
came through in her voice. ‘We just didn’t know what to do.’ She remembered as she said it that Hazel Croom had been one of those who had advocated having Daisy institutionalised,
from the time of her birth onwards.


‘Yes, well.’ Hazel sniffed. ‘I’m sure there were … other options. There always have been.’

‘Daisy is a member of our family,’ she said, more sharply than she’d intended, then went on in a more conciliatory voice.
‘And the new school is superb. The one in Branlingham.’


‘Is it a special school for backward children, then?’

Rosemary flinched; at least Hazel hadn’t said ‘Mongoloid’, though she suspected she’d been thinking it. ‘No, it’s just the
village primary school, but there are several children with special needs. The head teacher is very keen that they should
be integrated with other children.’


Hazel pulled out a brown-tinged lily and tossed it into a pail of rejects. ‘I’m sure you’ll all be very happy,’ she said crisply;
it was clear that she hoped otherwise.


‘The new parish is very nice,’ Rosemary said in a hearty voice, sounding to her own ears as though she were trying to convince
herself. ‘We were so fortunate to find it. The Bishop was so understanding and helpful.’


‘I see.’

‘It’s a lovely mediaeval church,’ she went on. ‘Not very big, but with some lovely features. And the Vicarage is enormous.
The three of us will rattle round in it.’


‘I thought there had been some talk of selling the Vicarage,’ Hazel probed. ‘I’m sure that’s what Father Gervase told me.’

‘That was the original plan,’ explained Rosemary. ‘The diocese wanted to sell the old vicarage, and buy a smaller house in
the village as a replacement. But there’s some pressure group called “Save our Parsonages”, dedicated to fighting the sell-off
of places like that. They took on the diocese and won, so the Branlingham Vicarage stays. I’m afraid,’ she added ruefully, ‘that it’s going to be in a terrible state. The old vicar
was a bachelor, and only lived in about two rooms. Because they thought they were going to sell it, it hasn’t been redecorated
at all. And we can’t afford to wait to move in, because of the new school term.’


‘What a shame,’ said Hazel Croom, meaning the opposite. Meaning, if you have the temerity to leave Letherfield, you get what
you deserve.


Absently Rosemary stroked the petal of a lily. ‘I’m sure it will get done eventually.’

‘Don’t you know that when you touch lilies, they go brown?’ snapped Hazel. To emphasise her point she snatched the lily that
Rosemary had just touched out of the arrangement, crushed it in her fist, and flung it into the pail. Deliberately she gathered
up her paraphernalia. ‘I’ll finish this tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘If you’re going to stay, you can lock up.’


Hazel had gone. The scent of the crushed lily still pungent in her nose, and the tears still stinging her eyes, Rosemary sat
down on the chancel steps. She thought about praying, but knew that her thoughts were in too much of a turmoil to attempt
it. Hazel Croom had stirred up so many emotions, so many memories … and on this, her last night in Letherfield. When would
she see this church again? She knew full well that unwritten church etiquette dictated that they shouldn’t return, even for
a visit, for several years. Her own parents had always followed that rule to the letter: in Rosemary’s childhood, moving on
had meant moving on for good, knowing that there was no chance of revisiting old haunts or renewing old friendships. Gervase,
undoubtedly, would feel the same way.


Rosemary’s mind went back almost exactly fourteen years, to the first time she’d ever been in St Mark’s. Hazel Croom had been responsible for that; it was something she never let
Rosemary forget. ‘If it hadn’t been for me,’ she was fond of saying, ‘you wouldn’t be here at all.’ She closed her eyes and
relived that first day.


Rosemary Atkins was a young teacher of English at a secondary school in Long Haddon, a Suffolk market town. Fresh from her
vicarage upbringing, with all that that meant, she had naturally enough attached herself to the main parish church in the
town centre. Its middle-of-the-road churchmanship was a bit bland, but she attended faithfully.


The deputy head at Rosemary’s school was a forceful woman called Hazel Croom. Unmarried and in her early forties, she lived
with her parents in Letherfield, a village outside Long Haddon. Unlike most of Rosemary’s colleagues, Hazel was a committed
church-goer, and to hear her talk, the main upholder of St Mark’s in Letherfield. The goings-on at St Mark’s were her main
topic of conversation in the staff room; everyone, from the head teacher down to the caretaker, was treated to daily stories
of her beloved Father Gervase.


Rosemary, as a church-goer herself, was the recipient of even more than the usual quota of St Mark’s stories. ‘You ought to
try it sometime,’ Hazel often urged her. ‘It’s much more interesting than Long Haddon parish church. Father Gervase brings
such a wonderful spirit of worship to the place. And of course Laura is such a perfect helpmeet for him. Devotes herself to
the parish, she does. Sunday school, flower rota, Mothers’ Union, visiting the sick – everything that a vicar’s wife should
do. Not like that Mrs What’s-her-name at Long Haddon parish church,’ she sniffed. ‘Works in that dentist’s surgery. Just not
the done thing. I don’t know what her husband is thinking, allowing her to have a job like that. Her place is at his side, working in the parish, and bringing up their children.’


Like water dripping on a stone, Hazel Croom’s blandishments worked away at Rosemary. During the Easter school holiday that
year, Rosemary went home to visit her parents, and when she came back to Long Haddon on the Saturday night, she resolved to
try St Mark’s the next morning. Why not? she told herself. It’s only for one Sunday, and Miss Croom will be pleased.


Besides, it was almost like a soap opera, like listening to The Archers, which she’d done faithfully for as long as she could remember. Rosemary had heard so much about the sainted Father Gervase
and his perfect family that she was curious to see these paragons. Then in future when Miss Croom talked about them, she would
be able to picture them properly.


Underestimating the amount of time it would take to get to Letherfield, Rosemary arrived late, and slipped into a back pew.
She enjoyed the service. With a full complement of servers, and even incense, it was much more to her taste than the blandness
of Long Haddon parish church – and she observed the priest with interest. Not quite how she’d pictured Father Gervase, she
decided. He was younger and more callow than she’d expected. An adequate preacher, no more, with a rather nasal voice.


After the service she found Hazel Croom. Hazel had a bit of paper in her hand and a frown creasing her forehead. ‘What a nuisance,’
she was muttering as Rosemary came up to her. Then she saw her colleague. ‘Oh, Miss Atkins! So you’ve come to St Mark’s at
last!’


‘Yes, you finally talked me into it.’ Rosemary smiled. ‘I’ve heard so much about Father Gervase that I wanted to see him for
myself.’


Hazel Croom’s frown deepened, and the corners of her mouth went down. ‘Oh, it’s terrible. Just terrible.’

What?’ Rosemary looked at her, puzzled. ‘I must admit that I didn’t think the sermon was the best I’ve ever heard, but …’

It was Hazel’s turn to look bewildered. What are you talking about?’

‘Father Gervase’s sermon.’

Miss Croom’s jaw dropped. ‘But that wasn’t Father Gervase, that was Father Michael, the curate. How could you possibly think that was Father Gervase?’


‘Then what …’

‘But of course, you’ve been away – you don’t know what’s happened.’ Hazel Croom flourished her piece of paper. ‘Didn’t you
hear the Intercessions? Praying for the repose of the soul of Laura Finch?’


‘Oh.’ Rosemary stared at her as her mind worked, putting the pieces together. ‘Not Father Gervase’s wife Laura?’

The other woman nodded solemnly, pressing her lips together.

‘But I never knew their last name. I never would have thought … What happened?’

‘Oh, it was terrible,’ reiterated Miss Croom. ‘A fortnight ago, it was. You knew she was expecting a baby, a new brother or
sister for young Thomas?’


Rosemary nodded; she’d been told, a number of times, that the perfect family was soon to expand.

‘It all went wrong. Some sort of blood poisoning, they said. She went into hospital in Long Haddon, feeling poorly, and the
next thing she was dead. We buried her last week.’


‘Oh …’ Rosemary let out her breath on a sigh. ‘Oh, how dreadful. The poor woman. And poor Father Gervase.’

‘That’s the point.’ Hazel Croom waved her paper again. ‘He’s beside himself, poor man. Just can’t cope with anything. Sits
in the Vicarage and cries, and as for young Thomas …’


Rosemary’s latent maternal instincts surfaced. ‘The poor little boy!’

‘He’s with his grandparents – Laura’s parents – at the moment,’ Miss Croom informed her. ‘I offered to keep him, just for
a bit, until Father Gervase is able to cope, but it was felt better that he should go to his grandparents.’


‘I’m sure that you’re being a great support to Father Gervase,’ Rosemary said.

Hazel Croom’s lips twisted in a self-satisfied grimace. ‘Well, I try to do my bit.’ She tapped the paper. ‘I’ve organised
a rota for his meals. The women of the parish are taking food in every day.’


‘How good of you.’

‘Someone has to do it,’ Miss Croom said briskly. ‘Not that it always goes smoothly. Miss Brown has just told me that she can’t
manage tomorrow – something about her sister’s varicose vein operation. You’d think she could have given me more notice.’
She looked up at Rosemary with a calculating expression. ‘Of course, you could do it.’


‘Me? But I don’t even know Father Gervase.’


‘That doesn’t matter.’ Hazel Croom dismissed the objection with a flick of her wrist. ‘You can cook, can’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’d do it myself, of course, but tomorrow is Mother’s bridge night.’ She produced a pen and altered her list, then showed
it to Rosemary. ‘See, I’ve put you down for tomorrow night. Monday the twelfth. Some time between seven and half past. Take
the food to the Vicarage. Not the old vicarage, but the modern one, right next to the church.’


Rosemary gave up. ‘What shall I make, then?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ Hazel Croom shook her head. ‘Father Gervase is a saintly man, not a practical one. He usually eats
anything that’s put in front of him. But at the moment I don’t think he’s eating much at all. I’ve tried to make him eat,
but if he doesn’t want to …’


Returning to her flat, Rosemary perused her cookery book for something to tempt the palate of a grieving widower. Her vicarage upbringing ensured that she was a competent cook, if
not an inspired one; lack of money had always been the limiting factor. Taught well by her mother, she was expert at conjuring
up inexpensive meals which could be stretched almost indefinitely to feed as many people as necessary. One extra turned up
at the last minute? No problem – add another tin of beans.


But this was different; this was special. Into the night she pored over the book and settled at last on a savoury sausage
hotpot, redolent with herbs, and a jam roly-poly. Comfort food.


After school on Monday she nipped round the shops and collected the ingredients. At the butcher’s she decided to splurge on
his best sausages, rather than the ones she usually had, and when the dish was done she knew it was worth it: it smelled wonderful.
If this didn’t tempt Father Gervase to eat, nothing would.


Wrapped in newspaper in her basket, the casserole was still hot when Rosemary arrived at St Mark’s Vicarage. Her heart thumping
with nervousness, she rang the bell.


The man who opened the door wasn’t what she’d been expecting, though Rosemary wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. He looked to be in his late thirties. He was quite tall, and rather thin; he had thick wavy dark hair, parted
on the side with a lock drooping over his forehead and worn long – too long – over his ears. His face was elongated in shape
and strong-featured, with a sensitive mouth. It was the face and frame, she decided, of a Romantic poet rather than a priest;
he should be wearing a cravat and frock-coat rather than that threadbare black clerical shirt. And then she noticed his hands:
they were beautiful hands, with long tapering fingers. Definitely the hands of a poet, thought Rosemary, smiling to herself
at her fancifulness, her nervousness forgotten. ‘Yes?’ said Father Gervase, looking at her blankly.


‘I’ve brought your supper,’ she said, smiling in what she hoped was a friendly way.

His puzzled look remained. ‘Forgive me if I’m being rude, but do I know you?’

Rosemary laughed. ‘No, you don’t. My name is Rosemary Atkins. I’m … new to the parish.’ As she said it, she knew that she
would not be returning to Long Haddon parish church. ‘I work with Miss Croom,’ she added.


‘Ah.’ Father Gervase smiled, and the smile transformed his face. ‘I’m beginning to understand.’

‘There was something about Miss Brown’s sister. Miss Croom asked me to take over,’ Rosemary explained. ‘Sausage hotpot,’ she
added, lifting the basket so that the delicious herby scent wafted towards the priest.


‘How very kind of you,’ Father Gervase said, and though they were stock words – words he’d said a thousand times before, and
especially in the past weeks – they were said with an informed sincerity. ‘Won’t you come in, Miss … Mrs … Atkins?’


‘Miss,’ she said. ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

Father Gervase stepped back and gestured for her to enter. ‘It wouldn’t be an intrusion at all, it would be a pleasure.’

She couldn’t refuse. He took the basket from her and led the way to the kitchen. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he said in a surprised
voice, looking round as if aware of his surroundings for the first time. ‘I’m not very good at washing up and that sort of
thing.’


That was evident. The kitchen was a disaster area, and Father Gervase had to look for a tiny bit of clear surface to deposit
the basket.


‘I’m surprised that Miss Croom doesn’t do it for you.’ The words were out of Rosemary’s mouth before she had time to think,
and she was immediately sorry she’d said them. They seemed both a betrayal and an impertinence.


But Father Gervase laughed spontaneously, and gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘She would, if I would let her in. Not that
I haven’t had to work hard to keep her out. Miss Croom, and all of the excellent women of the parish. They mean well, of course,
and they’re very kind, but …’ His voice trailed off.


‘Yes, I understand.’ Rosemary felt pleased somehow that he didn’t consider her one of them.

‘You’ll join me for supper?’ he urged, taking the casserole from the basket. ‘It looks as if there’s enough for … a whole
family.’


‘Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly,’ she said.

‘Please. I hate eating alone.’ He said it matter-of-factly; it was clear that he meant it and wasn’t just being polite.

‘Well, then, yes I will,’ Rosemary capitulated. ‘But only if you’ll let me do some washing-up afterwards.’

The meal was a success. Although Father Gervase’s appetite wasn’t voracious by any means, he ate the sausage hotpot with evident
enjoyment, and there wasn’t a crumb left of the jam roly-poly.


They talked through the meal, and it stretched out late into the evening. In the back of her mind Rosemary was conscious that
she should go, should leave the poor man in peace, but he didn’t seem to want her to leave. He offered her coffee, and when
it became evident that making it stretched his domestic capacities to the limit, she took over and made it herself, and they
drank it at the kitchen table.


Their conversation, while not stilted in the least, was on neutral topics: Rosemary told him of her vicarage childhood, and
that led on to the subject of the Church in general. Father Gervase seemed subdued but not melancholy; she sensed that he
was trying to avoid the subject of his bereavement, and she had no wish to cause him any pain by mentioning it.


But it was bound to come up. It approached laterally, when she asked him about his son. ‘Miss Croom tells me that you have a little boy,’ she said. ‘How old is he?’


‘Tom is ten next month.’ Father Gervase paused. ‘A difficult age … to lose his mother. And we were so hoping to give him a
sister. A little girl …’ His face creased in pain and he swallowed.