A Finer End

by Deborah Crombie

  She stared at her brother, astounded. “It’s my job to minister to people, parishioners or not. You know that. And I would never have gone to see the girl’s parents without her permission. She’s seventeen years old, for heaven’s sake, and she misses her home and her family!”

  “You don’t have a clue what girls are like these days! Or teenagers, for that matter. They’re lazy and they expect the world handed to them on a platter, and this one probably deserved her predicament—”

  “That’s absurd—”

  “Not to mention the fact that she’s already got a strike against her if she’s involved with these batty friends of yours. And what makes you think this girl’s told you the truth about anything?” Andrew shook his head in disgust. “Since you met Jack Montfort, you seem to have lost all common sense.”

  “Andrew, what on earth has got into you?” Then realization dawned. “This isn’t about my work at all! This is about Jack, isn’t it?”

  For a moment she thought he would deny it, then he met her eyes. “Glastonbury is a small town, Winnie. People talk. I went to a council meeting last night, and you and Jack Montfort were a great source of speculation. Montfort may have some justification for going off the deep end, but I can’t see that you have any excuse for plunging in with him. I’m surprised that your bishop hasn’t had a discreet word with you about associating yourself with blatant spiritualism—”

  “That’s enough!” She pushed back her chair and stood, her bewilderment turning to icy fury. “You’re being bloody offensive, and you don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’d better go home.”

  Andrew stood, too, a little unsteadily, and leaned towards her. “How do you think I feel, being gossiped about? I’ve worked for years to build my reputation in this town—you know how hard it is to get project funding—and now people snigger when they see me and make comments about my sister’s raging hormones causing her to take leave of her senses. They all want to know if you’re sleeping with him—are you sleeping with him, Winnie?”

  For the first time since she was nine years old, Winnie raised her hand and slapped her brother across the face as hard as she could.

  “Inspector James …”

  Gemma said the words aloud as she drove, trying out the sound on her tongue. Heady things, titles. They tempted you to think you were a different person, when in reality the changes were more like the layers of accretion on a pearl. A little more irritation gained you a little more luster, another layer of knowledge, of experience.

  Or perhaps she’d wanted the title to make her into a different person—one whose sense of accomplishment wasn’t tempered by her sense of loss. She’d been so busy worrying about how Kincaid would deal with her decision that she’d failed to take her own response to their separation into account. And in spite of her excitement, and the intensity of her focus on her training, she’d felt a constant ache that seemed only to grow more profound with time. She’d come to think of it as the equivalent of the phantom-limb syndrome—she found herself carrying on imaginary conversations with him throughout the day. It was as if their thought processes had become permanently intertwined. Even when they’d been apart in the course of a job, investigating different avenues on a case, she’d been constantly filing away mental references to share with him.

  Kincaid had reacted the way she’d expected, his initial dismay turning quickly to angry bewilderment. “Doesn’t our partnership mean anything to you?” he had asked, and her justifications had sounded weak in her own ears. He’d pulled himself together, of course, had even tried to be understanding and supportive—but he had withdrawn from her. During her last weeks of training in Hampshire, she’d rung him a few times and their conversations had consisted of pleasantly distant chat. Returning to London yesterday, she’d found her new duty assignment awaiting her, and she knew she must tell him about it in person.

  He’d been away from the Yard on a case, so she’d gone home, fed Toby his supper, then tucked him up at Hazel’s and headed for Kincaid’s Hampstead flat. She should have rung—he might still be out, he might have other plans, he might not want to see her—and perhaps it was fear of the last that had prompted her to go unannounced.

  The traffic was light as she drove through Camden Town, the September evening warm enough to allow her to drive her new car with the windows down. The Ford Escort, whose color went by the romantic and improbable name of Wild Orchid, had been a much-needed gift to herself on her promotion. The increase in her salary had made it feasible, but more than that she had needed some sort of visible symbol of her achievement. And Kincaid had not seen the car yet, which gave her an excuse for showing up on his doorstep.

  When she reached Hampstead the glitterati were out in force, strolling and positioning themselves to see and be seen in the sidewalk cafés, cell phones permanently attached to their ears.

  Turning into Carlingford Road, she saw Kincaid’s old MG Midget parked in front of his building, covered with its tarp, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was at home. The Major’s ground-floor flat was quiet, as was the stairwell of the building, nor was there any sound of telly or stereo from Kincaid’s flat when she reached the top floor. Her hopes sank, but she knocked, and after a moment he opened the door.

  “Gemma! I didn’t know you were back.”

  She absorbed the details as if it had been months rather than weeks since she’d seen him: unruly chestnut hair, jeans and a cornflower-blue T-shirt that brought out the indigo in his eyes, bare feet, and the smile that always made her catch her breath.

  “Late yesterday,” she answered as she followed him into the flat. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “Not unless you count drinking a beer and sitting on the balcony.” Going to the fridge, he retrieved a lager and held it out towards her, his eyebrow raised questioningly.

  Nodding, she accepted the cold bottle and looked round the flat with pleasure. He had managed that rare thing: comfortable masculinity. The small but functional kitchen was separated from the sitting room by a lamplit island that served as the flat’s depository for keys, the day’s mail, and the usual household odds and ends, but the clutter was well organized.

  In the sitting room, the furniture was upholstered in rich reds, blues, and greens—stained-glass colors, he called them—the walls held his collection of vintage London Transport art, and every spare nook and cranny was filled with books. But the true focus of the room was the view, first of the balcony with its colorful pots of flowers (contributed by the Major) and, beyond that, the panorama of London rooftops limned by the evening light.

  “Join me outside?” he asked, and as she stepped out through the French doors she laughed aloud.

  “You’ve made Sid a platform!” Sid, the black cat Kincaid had inherited from his late friend Jasmine Dent, turned and gave her an unblinking emerald stare from a cat-sized perch attached to the balcony railing.

  “I got fed up having heart failure every time he jumped up on the railing,” Kincaid explained, running his hand along the cat’s back. “He’s already used up a couple of his nine lives—and I’d hate to think what the Major would do to me if Sid plummeted three floors into one of his prize rosebushes.” He settled in one of the lawn chairs, stretching out his long legs and resting his feet on the railing. “I can’t take credit for the platform, though. It was Kit’s idea.”

  Gemma sat beside him, very much aware of his physical nearness. “How is Kit?”

  Kincaid frowned. “Ian’s thinking of taking a job in Canada. Kit wants to stay with me if Ian goes, but I haven’t been able to get a commitment out of Ian either way. The last thing Kit needs is to be uprooted. And I want him here.”

  “But how would you manage?” she asked, thinking of the conflict with the job—and of the changes it would mean in her relationship with him.

  “How much more difficult could it be than the weekends he spends here now?”

  A good bit, she thought, but aloud she said mere
ly, “What if Ian won’t agree?” She had never trusted McClellan’s sudden desire to make things up to Kit.

  “We’ll deal with that if it happens. It’s not even positive about the job yet.”

  Gemma sat forward and peered down into the garden. The roses were lush with late summer’s passion, but the rectangle of lawn was as primly tidy as ever. “Where is Kit tonight? I thought he’d be with you for the weekend.”

  “In Grantchester, getting Tess ready for an obedience trial tomorrow. I’ll go up in the morning.”

  Gemma felt suddenly excluded, as if they’d done a perfectly good job of carving out a life without her. And yet she knew that was unreasonable—wasn’t she the one who had chosen to go away? “I thought I’d see you at the Yard today,” she said, striving for firmer ground. “Tough case?”

  “Wrapped up today, barring the paperwork, and that I’ve turned over to my sergeant.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Serves him right for being such a bloody eager beaver.”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  “Not like this. He’s a public-school boy—Eton, no less—and full of do-gooder’s enthusiasm for the job. Hasn’t learned he can’t change the world yet.”

  “What’s his name?” she asked casually. Surely it was ridiculous to be jealous of this young man who had taken her place.

  “Doug Cullen. He’s not a bad chap, really, and I think he’ll make a decent copper once he’s seasoned a bit. At any rate he’s intelligent, and that’s an enormous improvement over the last two they assigned me.” He took a sip of his beer and studied her. “You’ll be bossing sweet young things about yourself, any day now. How does it feel?”

  She heard the distance in his tone and said awkwardly, “Don’t know yet, really.” He’d given her an opening, and the longer she waited to take it, the more difficult it would be. Abruptly, she said, “I’ve got my duty assignment. Notting Hill.”

  For a moment he didn’t respond, then, without taking his gaze from the garden, he said softly, “Your old stomping ground. Good. That should make things easier for you. Congratulations,” he added, but she could see it took an effort.

  “This has been harder than I expected.”

  “Gemma, I’ve no doubt you can do the job—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I feel so … displaced … without you. It’s like half of me’s missing. I never realized …”

  He stared at her, then said lightly, “And I thought you’d come to give me a ‘Dear Duncan’ send-off in person. I met this terrific bloke on my Criminal Behavior course …”

  “Fat chance, that!” she exclaimed, laughing.

  He moved his bare foot along the railing until it touched hers. “I’ve missed you too.”

  The wave of desire that washed over her from that small contact was so intense it left her shaken. She closed her eyes and held quite still, struggling to convince herself that every nerve ending in her body hadn’t suddenly migrated to the left side of her left foot.

  When she opened her eyes, Kincaid was watching her. “Gemma? You okay?”

  Tentatively, she said, “Just exactly how much did you miss me?”

  He brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “Are you angling for a demonstration, Inspector?”

  Her pulse leapt. “Yes, sir, guv’ner, sir.” The lights blinked on in the house opposite, as if to signal the coming of night. “You can’t make a case without evidence, you know.”

  “Oh, I think that could be obtained easily enough, don’t you?” He stood, and she caught the flash of his grin as he held out his hand to her. She slipped her fingers into his, and willingly gave herself up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There are times in the history of races when the things of the inner life come to the surface and find expression, and from these rendings of the veil the light of the sanctuary pours forth.

  —DION FORTUNE,

  FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART

  SHE LAY BESIDE him, listening to his soft breathing, with the slight whistle on the exhalation that might easily become a snore. That she found tolerable, much to her surprise, even though she had slept alone for so many years.

  Not that Winnie felt entirely comfortable with the fact that she was sleeping with Jack, and she knew the excuse that the transgressions of a number of Anglican priests far surpassed hers was no justification. But she also knew that it felt right, blessed, and she could not believe that God would find such joy offensive. God had more to worry him than a bit of out-of-wedlock lovemaking … as did she.

  Easing out of bed, she fumbled for slippers and dressing gown, then remembered that she had not meant to stay and that her clothes lay in a heap on the floor. That meant borrowing Jack’s dressing gown from the bedpost and slipping on thick socks.

  She had learned her way round this room, which had been Jack’s parents’, well enough to navigate in the dark. The first time she had stayed the night, Jack had admitted rather shamefacedly that he had been using the small single bed in his boyhood room, unable to bear the thought of taking over the mahogany four-poster in which his parents had slept for almost fifty years. But the single bed had not been big enough for two, and together they had made the transition to the larger bedroom.

  If she had thought the house cold on bright summer days, now that October had arrived it was frigid. Winnie sometimes fancied that it was the shadow of the Tor that kept it so, but that was absurd. It was merely, she told herself, shivering, that the house was old and the central heating inadequate.

  As she shuffled down the stairs, hugging the banister, she indulged a moment’s fantasy in which she and Jack were snuggled up cozily in her warm room at the Vicarage. But she knew that no matter how discreet they were, tongues would wag eventually, and she did not need more gossip just now. Her archdeacon, Suzanne Sanborne, already had expressed concern over rumors circulating about Winnie’s “dabbling in the paranormal,” and this Winnie suspected had been instigated by Andrew.

  Andrew had apologized to her after their row, and she’d made every effort to smooth things over, but there remained a wedge of discomfort between them that she feared might never be healed. His criticism had hurt her deeply, and she was finding forgiveness difficult. “Practice what you preach, Winnie,” she whispered as she reached the kitchen.

  Switching on the light over the table, she opened the fridge and filled a mug with milk, then popped it in the microwave.

  Jack could teach her a thing or two about forgiveness, she thought as she retrieved her drink and breathed in the sweet, comforting smell of scalded milk. Once she’d finally worked up her nerve that evening over dinner to tell Jack about her past relationship with Simon Fitzstephen, he had merely said gently, “I never believed you were a saint, Winnie. I hate to think you’ve been worrying over this for months.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “The thought of you with another man does give me a twinge,” he admitted. “But it was a long time ago, and I don’t see how it affects us now.”

  “I haven’t told you why I broke it off.” Winnie hesitated, piecing together a story that she’d kept to herself for more than a decade. “There was another student, Ray, a protégé of Simon’s. He was killed in an auto accident.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Yes. He’d have made a good priest—a very compassionate man, with a real gift for pastoral care. But he was a scholar as well, and he worshiped Simon. If Ray had lived, I think he’d have outgrown it in time, but he wasn’t given the chance.”

  Frowning, Jack said, “Tragic, but I don’t see how this reflects on Simon.”

  “Ray was working on a research project under Simon’s tutelage, an exploration of an obscure thirteenth-century Grail legend. When Ray was killed, Simon published the paper as his own.”

  “But surely there was some mistake—”

  “No mistake. A few months after Ray’s death, his family asked me to sort through his things. I found the original. When I confronted Simon, he said the work was his
, that Ray had merely been transcribing it for him.”

  “Of course, that would be it,” Jack said with evident relief.

  “But Ray left notes, extensive ones. There was absolutely no doubt that he had done the research and written the paper.”

  Digesting this, Jack asked, “Did you tell anyone?”

  Winnie felt herself flushing. “No. Simon said he’d make a fool of me to the bishop, that he’d say I was acting out of spite because he’d rejected me, and that he’d make sure I never got a good living. He had the influence to do it too. So I convinced myself that it was a minor academic point, nothing that really mattered to anyone—and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”

  Jack covered her hand with his. “You were young, inexperienced—”

  She shook her head. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I know that. But I also know that you can’t trust Simon Fitzstephen. He would betray you in an instant if it was to his advantage.”

  “But there’s nothing to betray,” protested Jack. “What could Simon possibly have to gain by helping me?”

  “I don’t know. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

  She had had to be content with that. Jack had insisted on giving Simon the benefit of the doubt, and she realized she wouldn’t choose to change that about him—it was one of the reasons she loved him.

  If only her brother was as generous, Winnie thought, finding herself back at the problem that had initially kept her from falling asleep. She could see no way to mollify Andrew other than to give up seeing Jack, which she was not willing to do, or to convince Jack to give up his communication with Edmund, which he was not willing to do—even if it were possible. This rift in her relationship with her brother nagged her like a toothache.