A Finer End

by Deborah Crombie

  She didn’t think about how she would manage when the baby came.

  You just did one thing at a time, and right now the soup needed stirring. It was a rich mixture of cabbage, tomatoes, and caraway seed—Schii, Buddy said it was called, a recipe from his German grandmother who had emigrated to the Texas Hill Country. She tasted it, reached for the salt, then felt the oddest sensation in her abdomen. A flutter, almost a tickle—there it was again.

  She was standing, spoon in one hand, salt in the other, mouth open in surprise, when the door opened and a woman came in. Dark, silver-streaked hair in a plait down her back, a worn face, dangly earrings, long Indian cotton skirt—Faith recognized her as a regular customer and a friend of Buddy’s, but she’d never really spoken to her.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked, coming up to the serving counter.

  “I—I just felt something.… I think the baby moved.”

  “First time?”

  Faith nodded. Putting down salt and spoon, she pressed her palm carefully against her abdomen.

  “Good. That’s normal, you know. Nothing to worry about. Before you know it she’ll be kicking you like a footballer.” The woman looked Faith over, assessing her with what seemed a professional eye. “Do you have a midwife?”

  Faith shook her head.

  “Have you been to a prenatal clinic?”

  “No.” All those things meant registering with the social services, giving name, address, parents …

  The woman studied her a moment longer. “Like that, is it? How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. Old enough to be on my own.”

  “Your parents know where you are?”

  “Don’t want to know,” Faith replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “And I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

  “How about making me a cup of tea?” the woman said, apparently unfazed by Faith’s rudeness. “I’m Garnet, by the way, I live up the hill.”

  Faith complied, glad of the opportunity to collect herself, while Garnet stayed at the counter, watching her.

  When Garnet had her tea, she said as if continuing a casual conversation, “Not very comfortable, sleeping in that old boxroom upstairs, I shouldn’t think. Not the best thing for a girl in your condition, either—all that damp.”

  Faith’s heart raced with panic. “But … how did you—”

  “Buddy and I have been friends for a long time. He’s worried about you.”

  Flushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity, Faith stammered, “But I thought he didn’t—”

  “Don’t let the drawl fool you. He’s a sharp old bird, and more kindhearted than he’d like anyone to know. He thought I might have a spare room. It’s nothing fancy,” Garnet continued. “But it’s warm and dry, and there’s a real bed.”

  “But I—”

  “You could pay me a little rent, and help out with the groceries. Buddy says you’re turning into a pretty good cook.”

  “But why would you do this for me? I don’t understand.”

  Garnet gestured at her belly. “You’re going to need care, girl, and I can give it to you. I was a midwife, once, and those things you don’t forget.”

  “That’s still not why,” Faith said stubbornly. “Are you in the habit of taking in strays?”

  Garnet smiled. “Only cats.” Shrugging, she added, “I’m not sure I can give you a better reason. I hadn’t made up my mind until I saw you again. There’s something … I don’t know. Let’s just say I have some old accounts to settle.”

  “I couldn’t pay much,” Faith said slowly.

  “You’d better come and see the place before we talk about that,” Garnet said, businesslike again. “Go straight up Wellhouse Lane. It’s the old farmhouse on the right, just past the junction with Stonedown. If you come after work today, I’ll be there. And you’d better look to your soup.” Finishing her tea, she handed Faith her empty mug and turned away.

  It was only when the door had jingled shut behind her that Faith realized the woman had referred to her baby as “she.”

  Winnie had never quite learned to quell the depression engendered by Jack’s house. Although the detached, orange-brick Victorian was massive and respectable in the way of its kind, it seemed dwarfed by the shadow of the Tor looming above it. Adding to that unprepossessing beginning, the shrubbery was overgrown, last winter’s leaves still littered the walkway and covered porch, and even on this sultry July afternoon, the interior was bone-numbingly cold.

  Rubbing at the goose bumps on her bare arms, she followed Jack through a dining room filled with massive and unrepentantly ugly Victorian furniture, and into the kitchen-sitting area. This was the snuggest room in the house, with a leather armchair drawn up to a television, an oak table bearing evidence of Jack’s hastily cleared tea, and warmth radiating from an Aga.

  Jack switched on the red-shaded lamp over the table. “Like a cuppa while we wait?” he offered as Winnie took a seat. “Nick rang; he’s on his way.”

  Refusing Jack’s offer of tea, Winnie asked, “However did Nick manage to get an invitation to Simon Fitzstephen’s for drinks?” The author was reputed to protect his privacy fiercely and did not often lend his presence to social events.

  “Fitzstephen came into the bookshop for a signing. Nick took the opportunity to lay on some judicious flattery.”

  Winnie was not looking forward to seeing Simon Fitzstephen, but she had no intention of letting Jack go without her. “It would take a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon to refuse Nick. He has such an irresistible air of earnestness,” she said lightly, while wondering how her former mentor would react to her unexpected appearance.

  And what sort of reception would their story get from Simon? He had made his reputation by documenting the history of the Grail legends, but Winnie had always suspected that for Fitzstephen the Grail study was an exercise of pride rather than heart.

  From Jack’s inability to sit still tonight, she gathered he was nervous about the meeting as well. “You don’t have to tell Fitzstephen anything, you know, if you don’t feel it’s right.”

  “I know,” Jack said as he sank restlessly into a chair beside her. “But then I’ll feel an ass for having wasted his time.”

  “Nonsense,” she reassured him. “It’s a friendly social occasion.”

  “Right.” He acknowledged her effort with a grin, then pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “But I do have something more concrete to go on.”

  “This came today?” Taking the sheet, Winnie added, “That makes it sound like it came in the post.” In truth, the communications were sporadic, the connection sometimes tenuous. Often the message would stop in midsentence, then take up again a week or two later in exactly the same place, as if there had been no interruption.

  It was a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle—a piece here, a piece there, trying to make sense of it as you went along.

  Aethelnoth was abbot then, and made us the poorer for it. Tender as a willow shoot, I was, but sturdy. Sturdier than my father had foreseen. He did not count on the ministrations of Brother Ambrose, the infirmarian, who kept me in when the wind blew from the north and fed me with herbs and warming broths. There I grew into my calling, and my heart rejoiced. But all that was before … brought God’s wrath upon us.…

  She looked up. “That’s all?”

  “Yes. But the name of the abbot gives us a date. Aethelnoth was the last Saxon abbot, from 1053 to 1078. I hope Fitzstephen can tell us more.”

  There was not going to be any way round telling Jack the truth about Simon; she could see that. And the longer she waited, the worse it would be. Winnie steeled herself for confession. “Jack, there’s something I ought—”

  “There’s Nick.”

  Rescued by the sound of a motorbike, Winnie thought as Jack stood, giving no evidence of having heard her faltering words. Breathing a sigh of relief as she followed him to the door, she promised herself she would tell him, at the very first
opportunity.

  Leaving Nick’s motorbike in the drive, they took Jack’s car for the short drive to the village of Pilton. The evening light slanted across the rolling landscape, and behind them the Tor rose in silhouette against the setting sun.

  As the road made the sharp left-hand bend into the village, Nick navigated from directions scribbled on a scrap of paper. “It’s below the church. You take the turning signposted ‘The Old Vicarage.’ ”

  Pilton had to be one of the most charming of the Somerset villages, running down steeply wooded hillsides into a meandering stream valley. It was also a maze of twisting switchback and dead-end lanes. Their turning took them downhill, past the lovely church of St. John the Baptist, then another sharp turning to the left brought them into a steep lane barely wide enough for the Volvo. “Just on the right,” Nick called out, pointing. “Riverside Cottage.”

  Jack followed the lane to its end, pulling the car up in a grassy space where a stone bridge crossed a rocky stream. They got out and took their bearings. The light was a liquid green under the thick canopy of trees; the silence was broken only by water gurgling over the rocks. The cottage stood before them, divided from the lane by a low stone wall; inside the wall a smooth expanse of lawn ran down to the stream, and a flagstone path led from the gate to the arched front door.

  Following the men, Winnie paused, her hand on the gate. She felt suspended in the strange, breathless atmosphere, and wondered if she might, at the very last instant, change her mind.

  Then Jack turned, waiting for her, and she knew that whatever transpired that night, there could be no going back.

  Simon Fitzstephen stacked the dishes from his cold supper in the sink for Mrs. Beddons, his housekeeper, to wash in the morning. They had reached a comfortable arrangement over the years; Mrs. Beddons came in the mornings, fixed his breakfast, did the chores, and made him a hot lunch, then before she left for the day she put together a salad or cold meats for his evening meal.

  Although the royalties from his books would have allowed him to live on a grander scale than Riverside Cottage, he had no desire to leave Pilton. The village was not only beautiful, it was one of the oldest possessions of Glastonbury Abbey, a gift from the Saxon king Ine sometime early in the eighth century. Fitzstephen traced his own family’s links to the Abbey only as far back as the twelfth century, when an ancestor had acted in loco abbatis for King Henry II, on the death of the previous abbot.

  These associations of place and family gave Simon Fitzstephen an integral sense of connection to his work, at which he had been gratifyingly successful. He had not imagined, when he left active ministry to pursue his study of the Grail, that his books would be so well received by the public. The only drawback he had been able to discover to his minor celebrity was the tendency of his readers to an uncomfortable degree of familiarity. He was by nature a reserved man; he’d found his one speaking tour in America an excruciating experience.

  At least the young man who had wangled an invitation this evening was English, and seemed quite civilized. He was also quite astonishingly beautiful and seemingly unaware of it.

  The thought made Simon glance at his watch. Nicholas Carlisle and his architect friend would be arriving soon. He should finish the preparations for his guests.

  By chance, Simon had run into his old friend Garnet Todd that afternoon, and he had invited her along as well. She was knowledgeable and sharp witted: surely she’d add a bit of spice to the evening’s gathering.

  He set glasses, mixers, gin, and whiskey on the round drawing-room table. Inlaid with walnut burl and set round its circumference with two rows of drawers, it had been used by the lords of Pilton Manor for collecting rents. With a vase of full-blown garden roses set in its center, it did justice to the room, his favorite in the house. Three gothic-arched windows stood open to the lawn, and the green silk on the walls brought the garden in. Ornately framed sepia photographs hung everywhere, generations of Fitzstephens. But Simon was the last of his branch of the family, and childless. His name would have to live on through his books, a prospect which did not distress him, except for the fact that lately the well of his creativity seemed to have run dry. What could he say about the Grail that he had not already said, and said well? And yet he had another book under contract to his publisher, and he could not stall much longer.

  Returning to the kitchen, he fetched the silver dishes of olives and salted almonds Mrs. Beddons had left ready. Just as he had everything assembled, the bell rang. He swiped a hand through his thick hair and went to greet his visitors.

  Nick Carlisle stood on the doorstep with his friend, a large, fair-haired man—and, much to Simon’s shock, Winifred Catesby. What was she doing here?

  Nick introduced Jack Montfort first, giving Simon a chance to recover as he shook Montfort’s hand absently. When released, Simon forestalled Nick’s second introduction.

  “Winifred.” He bent to kiss her cheek, his lips meeting air when she turned her face away at the last moment.

  “Hullo, Simon.”

  “You know each other?” Montfort asked.

  “Simon taught a few of my classes in theological college,” Winifred replied coolly. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, hasn’t it?” Simon responded drily. He ushered them into the drawing room, very much aware of her bare arms and her sleeveless, blue silk dress.

  The bell rang again just as he had them seated, this time heralding Garnet Todd and an unfamiliar companion. Garnet wore her usual Romany attire, which amused Simon almost as much as her staunch vegetarianism; once in a moment of indiscretion, she’d revealed to him that she was a butcher’s daughter from Clapham.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Simon,” said Garnet. “I brought my boarder. This is Faith.”

  The girl was tall and slender, with a long neck and short-cropped hair that set off her delicate features. She was also, Simon realized as she moved past him into the entry hall, quite visibly pregnant, and not much more than a child. “Faith?” he repeated. “Just Faith?”

  “Just Faith.” The girl turned serious dark eyes on him, with no hint of a smile. What, Simon wondered, had Garnet got herself into?

  And if he had had any doubts about young Nick Carlisle’s sexual preferences, they were resolved the instant Faith walked into the drawing room. Both men rose, but Nick was clearly riveted. The girl seemed unaware of her effect, regarding them all with the same solemn gaze.

  As Simon introduced Garnet, Winifred said, “Garnet Todd, the ceramist? I love your work! I’ve been hoping one day to have you restore the tiles in my church.”

  “Your church?” Garnet’s worn face creased in a smile.

  “I’m vicar of St. Mary’s, Compton Grenville,” Winifred answered, and they were soon deep in discussion of the church’s tile work.

  Trust Garnet to monopolize the conversation, Simon thought acidly as he served drinks. When he could get a word in edgewise, he said, “Nick tells me you have a particular interest in the history of the Abbey, Mr. Montfort?”

  “You might say that. Call me Jack, please. And I understand that you’re the expert where the Abbey is concerned. I’m especially interested in the eleventh-century period and in Aethelnoth’s abbacy.”

  “Aethelnoth? That’s not a name most people know. Not exactly a shining star in the Abbey’s history, that one.”

  “I wondered what happened in his time that the monks would have seen as bringing God’s wrath upon their House?”

  “Among other things, Aethelnoth removed the gold and silver from the Abbey’s holy books and sold it for his own profit, and he appropriated Church lands. His rather disreputable career ended when he was formally deposed and sent into confinement at Christ Church, Canterbury.

  “In fact,” Simon continued, warming to his subject, “neither of the last two Saxon abbots was anything to write home about. Aethelweard, Aethelnoth’s predecessor, hacked up King Edgar’s remains and tried to stuff them in a reliquary, after which he became incu
rably insane—small wonder—then fell and broke his neck. But I don’t know that any of their misdeeds was worthy of calling down God’s wrath upon the Abbey.”

  Montfort and Nick Carlisle exchanged a look of disappointment. “Those sorts of things were fairly common, I take it?” Montfort asked.

  “Unfortunately. Abbatial election usually had more to do with political astuteness than religious vocation, but those two lacked either quality. Of course, Frederick Bligh Bond came up with a much glorified version of Aethelnoth through his automatic writings, but in this case I’m inclined to believe the historians.”

  “Bligh Bond?” Nick echoed huskily, then cleared his throat. Again he and Montfort exchanged a loaded glance.

  “You’re familiar with Bond?” Simon asked.

  Montfort’s reply made it clear that he was. “Are you saying that you accept Bond’s … um … received information in other cases?”

  “Do I believe that Bond had a direct line to former monks of the Abbey?” This was turning out to be a good deal more interesting than Simon had anticipated. “Not likely. But Bond’s knowledge of the Abbey’s history and architecture was extensive. I think it highly probable that he communicated it somehow to his friend, Captain Bartlett.”

  “Oh, really, Simon!” broke in Garnet. “Why not say ‘telepathy’ if you mean ‘telepathy’? And if you’re willing to admit that possibility, why rule out the idea that Bond—and Bartlett—might have tapped into some sort of collective memory? You certainly know the importance of collective memory to the Celts—”

  “That’s an entirely different matter. Their collective—and racial—memory was based on the transmission of myth and tradition through highly stylized storytelling, ritual, and ceremony.”

  “And it was an extremely powerful force, in ways we can’t even begin to understand,” Garnet challenged, reddening. “Why is it impossible that there are other things that operate beyond our understanding?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Faith, speaking for the first time. “What’s automatic writing?”

  Jack Montfort gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s when someone writes things down without being consciously aware of what they’re writing, or knowing where the information originates.”