A Finer End

by Deborah Crombie

  Would he be pleased? Horrified? Although they had smoothed over the rift caused by her leaving Scotland Yard, she knew the hurt was still there, beneath the surface, and it had left their relationship on shaky ground. Not to mention the fact that he had just begun to adjust to the acquisition of a twelve-year-old son. How would he cope finding himself abruptly saddled with her, Toby, and another child on the way? Not that she couldn’t manage on her own, she’d proved that, but just now the thought of it seemed overwhelming.

  Oh, Lord, how could she have been so careless, with so much at stake on the job? She was at a point in her career when a maternity leave was the last thing she needed. And how would her new superiors respond to a pregnant and unmarried detective inspector?

  Blinking back tears, she concentrated on overtaking a lorry, then slid the Escort back into the center lane. She’d done too much of that lately: crying at the drop of a hat. A bad sign. Out-of-control hormones mixed with a healthy dose of self-pity. She snorted at the irony of the whole situation, and beside her Kincaid blinked and stretched.

  “Sorry. Was I snoring?”

  “Actually, you were sleeping quite gracefully. I could use a map check, though. I think our exit’s coming up soon.”

  He retrieved the large-scale AA map book from the rear seat and glanced at the open page. “Exit seventeen, towards Chippenham, Bridgwater, and Taunton.”

  “We passed sixteen a few miles back.” Rain spattered against the windscreen and Gemma turned the wipers on. “It’s getting darker by the minute.”

  “Not a bad omen for the weekend, I hope,” Kincaid said, grinning. “Want me to drive the last leg?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You just don’t want to give up possession.” Kincaid patted the car’s dash. “Now aren’t you glad I gave you an excuse to take it out on the motorway?”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your cousin,” she quipped back. “So he can fill me in on all your embarrassing childhood exploits. Seriously, though,” she continued, glancing at him, “it sounds as if he’s a bit paranoid, thinking someone may have run his girlfriend down deliberately. I hope you’re not getting into something awkward.”

  “Jack’s the last person I’d have described as nervy. But I haven’t seen him since Emily’s death. He may have changed.”

  His wife and baby, Kincaid had said. Gemma shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking of. “How long since they died?” she asked.

  “A couple of years now. It was just about the time we started working together.”

  How green she had been, thought Gemma. And how little she’d anticipated what had developed between them.

  “Will we stay with him?” she asked.

  “He didn’t say. As I remember it, the house is a great Victorian pile of brick, built right against the side of the Tor.”

  “The Tor?”

  “You’ll see,” he answered cryptically. “When I was a kid I found it fascinating and a bit frightening, but Jack seemed oblivious. Home ground, I suppose.”

  Intrigued by this unfamiliar aspect of his childhood, Gemma said, “Did you visit them often?”

  “Only a few times. Usually they came to us. I don’t think my aunt Olivia ever gave up being homesick for Cheshire.”

  “Your mother inherited the family home, then?”

  He laughed. “You make it sound like some sort of grand country estate. It’s just a rambling old farmhouse, a bit leaky round the edges. I’ll take you for a visit sometime. And Kit.”

  “I’d like that,” Gemma said carefully, unwilling to pursue it further. Instead, she asked, “How did Kit mind our going away for the weekend?”

  “He already had plans with the Millers. A dog show in Bedford.”

  “Any word from Ian about the Canadian job?”

  “No. He’s still hedging. I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe he wants the job but feels guilty about taking it.”

  “He’s got to make his mind up before the beginning of spring term.” Kincaid’s exasperation was evident. “I don’t want the transition to be any more difficult than necessary for Kit.”

  “Aren’t you making rather a big leap, assuming Ian won’t insist on taking Kit to Canada with him? He does have the right.”

  “Yes, but I can’t see him doing it. It would cramp his style too much. Right now he’s getting mileage with the ladies by playing the grieving widower with child, but in a new setting Kit might prove more hindrance than help.”

  “Oh, that’s cold.”

  “But true.”

  Gemma had to agree, having heard enough snippets from Kit about Ian’s “tutorials” behind closed doors in what had been Vic’s office.

  They fell silent as they reached their exit from the motorway, and soon they were heading due south, with the plains of Wiltshire on their left and the rising hills of Somerset on their right. At Trowbridge they picked up the A361 towards Shepton Mallet and Glastonbury, and the sky began to lighten in the west.

  “It may clear up,” Kincaid said hopefully, and by the time they’d passed through the hillside village of Pilton, a few miles east of Glastonbury, his prediction proved correct. The heavy overcast had broken up, leaving the sky a milky blue streaked with wisps of cloud.

  Concentrating on the road, Gemma caught a fleeting glimpse of a strange, cone-shaped hill before it disappeared round another bend. “What on earth was that?”

  “Glastonbury Tor.”

  The hill came into view again, this time staying on the horizon. It looked artificial, a man-made mound with the squat shape of a building perched on the summit like a Christmas cracker paper crown. “Did somebody make it?” Gemma asked.

  “No. The hill itself is a geologic formation. The contouring of the sides could possibly be man-made, but if so, it’s so old that no one knows who did it, or why.”

  “And the building on the top?”

  “St. Michael’s Tower. All that’s left of a twelfth-century church, destroyed by an earthquake. The remains of the last Christian stance against the pagan, legend has it.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been up there. The wind blows through the tower like a knife, and that stone is colder than death. I doubt anything Christian ever stood a chance on that hill.”

  “Are you sure you won’t go in and sit with her for a few minutes?” Suzanne Sanborne asked. “I think it would help you—”

  “No!” At the startled glances of the other visitors, Andrew lowered his voice to a snarl. “You don’t understand. Our parents—” He stopped, unable, even after so many years, to relate the horror of being made to stand at his unconscious mother’s bedside. She’d been in the water too long before they’d fished her body from the wreck of their sailboat off the Dorset coast. And now Winnie.…

  “Then you’ve got to get some rest. You’re not doing Winnie any good by getting yourself in such a state.”

  “I can’t sleep.” Andrew clasped his hands between his knees to stop their obvious trembling. They sat in the visitors’ area outside the ICU, waiting for the nurses to allow Suzanne another ten-minute stint by Winnie’s bedside.

  “Then go by the surgery and have David prescribe you some tablets. I’ll stay here with Winnie until Jack comes. There’s no need for you to—”

  “What right does he have to be here?” The rage that had been eating at him for months burned in his throat like acid. “Arranging your schedule, ordering the nursing staff about—”

  “Jack’s here because Winnie would want him to be.” Again the light touch of Suzanne’s fingers on his arm, and the direct gaze he couldn’t meet. “Andrew, we’ve been friends for a long time. Jack’s a good man: he cares for your sister very deeply. What more could you want for her?”

  “Someone who wasn’t a crank,” he replied bitterly. He had read the papers she left lying about the Vicarage, as if communications from a dead monk were nothing to be ashamed of. Oh, he knew all about their little Arthurian
group, and it sickened him.

  But that wasn’t the whole truth. He had never wanted to share his life with any woman other than his sister, and Jack Montfort had stolen that from him. The rhythm and pattern of their days together had provided him an anchor, a touchstone, and her absence had left him adrift.

  And as if that weren’t enough, he thought as he took his leave of Suzanne, he knew now that Montfort had brought Winnie too close to things she had never been meant to know … things that must be kept from her, no matter the consequences.

  After a morning spent at home, lingering over coffee and newspapers, Bram Allen could no longer put off going into the gallery, but he disliked leaving Fiona on her own.

  If he’d been at home yesterday afternoon, he might have prevented Jack Montfort from stirring up the horror of Winnie Catesby’s accident all over again. Why did it have to be Fiona, of all people, who’d found Winnie lying in the road? And why had Winnie been coming to see Fiona—if indeed that were the case—without warning or invitation?

  Frowning, he buttoned his crisply pressed shirt, chose a tie, and went to find his wife.

  She was in her studio, sitting on her stool, but to his relief her easel was empty and her hands idle in her lap.

  “All right, darling?” he asked, slipping his arms round her. He had thought, once, that he had the makings of an artist. Then he’d met Fiona, seen canvases come to glowing life beneath her brush, and he’d known that gift would never be his. So he’d nurtured her work as best he could, shielding her from life’s vicissitudes and taking vicarious pride in her achievements—until she’d begun to paint the one thing he couldn’t bear to see.

  Fiona sank back against his chest. “It’s just … there’s this tension in things. I thought when I started painting it would dissipate; then when I found Winnie I felt sure it had been in anticipation of that. Precognition of a sort, perhaps. But the feeling’s still there.”

  “Maybe it’s just stress, system overload. Try not to fret, darling.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” murmured Fiona, but he was not at all convinced she meant it.

  Bram held her more tightly. “I love you, Fi. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. How could you think otherwise?” She patted his hand. “Go on. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  With that he had to be content.

  Jack carefully cracked open the door to the spare bedroom and peered in. Faith lay on her side, her hands curled into fists under her chin. The innocence of her face, relaxed in sleep, tugged at his heart. She could be his child, he thought, his little Olivia, if she had lived to grow up.

  Turning away, he closed the door quietly and returned to the kitchen. Not knowing who else to call, he had got David Sanborne out of bed the previous night to check on Faith. Exhaustion, stress, a chill from exposure, David had pronounced—nothing that a hot water bottle and plenty of rest wouldn’t cure, but the girl had better stop such silliness if she didn’t want to induce labor prematurely.

  But once Jack had got a fairly coherent story from her, Faith had continued to fret about Garnet until he’d agreed to ring the police. The duty officer in Yeovil informed him that they couldn’t report Garnet Todd missing until at least twenty-four hours had passed. Jack had left a message for Detective Greely, and only then had Faith fallen into a fitful sleep.

  After a few hours’ sleep himself, Jack had spent the morning fielding phone calls and checking with the hospital. Winnie’s condition remained stable, and Suzanne Sanborne had offered to spend the morning with her.

  In the meantime, he waited for his cousin’s promised arrival. Duncan had rung the previous evening to say he would be coming for the weekend. Although relieved, Jack had begun to worry. How was he going to explain the events of the last few months? Would Duncan think him as mad as the police obviously did? It didn’t matter, he told himself. He must convince Duncan that Winnie was in danger; and now he’d begun to fear for Faith too.

  How much of the girl’s rambling last night had been delirium? Nick had rung this morning, saying he believed Garnet had struck Winnie with her van—but why would Garnet Todd do such a thing? And if it were true, where was Garnet now?

  Filling the kettle from the tap, Jack spooned loose tea into his mother’s old Brown Betty teapot. Hadn’t he read once that tea stimulated one’s mental processes? If that were the case, he should be competing with Sherlock Holmes after another cup, but he was no further along in finding answers.

  He’d just poured boiling water over the fresh tea leaves when the doorbell rang. Jack hurried to the door and swung it wide.

  As he grasped his cousin’s hand, he saw that Duncan had lost the hollow-eyed look he’d remarked on when he’d seen him last. But who was the pretty redhead with him?

  She held out her hand and gave him a warm smile. “Jack, I’m Gemma James. I take it Duncan didn’t tell you I was coming?” The look she cast at his cousin was affectionately withering. “Your manners, love, leave something to be desired.”

  They had got the awkwardness of their accommodation out of the way first. Jack had apologized profusely, explaining that he’d just put someone in the room fitted out for guests, but he’d move his things into his old room and give them the master bedroom. Encouraged by Gemma’s well-placed kick at his ankle under the kitchen table, Kincaid had demurred, saying they’d find a nearby B & B, and Jack had recommended an establishment near the Abbey.

  Gemma had breathed an inward sigh of relief. She found the dark old house with its ugly Victorian furniture depressing, and the mass of Glastonbury Tor rising from the back garden made her feel unexpectedly claustrophobic. It was as if the hill might lean over and swallow the house at any moment.

  Over cups of tea, Jack had haltingly recounted his experiences with the automatic writing, his meeting with Winnie Catesby, the gradual involvement of the others in the group, and the disappearance yesterday of Garnet Todd.

  If Kincaid felt any surprise at his cousin’s story, he didn’t show it. His expression remained neutral and sympathetic, a demonstration of his listening skills, and Gemma realized how acutely she missed working with him.

  “Can you do it on demand?” Kincaid asked when Jack paused. “The automatic writing.”

  “I—I don’t know. I’ve done it often enough with Nick or with Simon Fitzstephen, but—”

  Kincaid leaned forward, his eyes alight with interest. “What do you have to do?”

  “Just have pen and paper, and empty my mind. Talk about something inconsequential, or listen to someone reading the paper, for instance. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “Let’s give it a try, then. I’ll be your assistant.” The look Kincaid gave his cousin was challenging. What sort of mischief had he beguiled Jack into in those long Cheshire summers? Gemma wondered.

  She watched them as they sat opposite her at the table in Jack’s cluttered kitchen, Kincaid reading an incomprehensible financial article aloud from the Guardian while Jack sat in a relaxed posture, pen and paper ready. Jack Montfort was larger, fairer, and more blunt featured than his cousin, but the resemblance was there if you looked. What was more readily apparent was the easiness between them, the sense of long-established trust and camaraderie. And the man certainly seemed rational and well balanced, in spite of his worries. Could this bizarre tale he’d told them possibly be true?

  Lulled by Kincaid’s voice and her own drifting thoughts, Gemma started violently when Jack’s pen suddenly began to move across the paper. He wrote without pause, and without looking at the script. His eyes, half closed, seemed fixed somewhere in the distance.

  He filled several pages, then set the pen down. “Success, I see,” he said, looking at the scattered pages.

  “You mean you don’t know what you’ve written?” asked Gemma.

  “I suppose I’m aware of it at some level, but I don’t process it—it’s like static on a radio.”

  Kincaid touched a page. “What does it say?�
��

  “I’ll have to translate, so if you’ll bear with me …

  “O Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned grievously against Thee. Though my days of the flesh are but a distant memory, still I feel her skin, soft as goose down, and the round fullness of her breasts.…”

  Frowning, Jack stopped and cleared his throat, and Gemma found it endearing that he had colored slightly.

  “Sixteen and yet a woman, Alys she was called, the daughter of the stonemason come to repair the damage to the church. She found me comely and would wait for me when I went to the spring. There was little speech between us … we came together in need and pleasure as the beasts do.

  “The work was finished when Alys found she was with child. She begged me for herbs.… To my shame I did her bidding … for my cowardice as well as my lust I have brought misery on us all.…

  “From Brother Ambrose, who had befriended me, I stole the necessary potion. With it I gave her what was most precious to me … a bond between us stronger than death. Alys and her father left the Abbey then. Such sorrow I had never known, it tethers me to this place still.…”

  Jack looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “This woman—Alys—she meant to abort their baby. Don’t you think that’s what he means?”

  Gemma, intensely moved by this recounting of the girl’s predicament, said, “I—I suppose it’s possible. They were very skilled in using herbs, and her position would have been untenable, wouldn’t it? Edmund couldn’t have married her.”

  “I suspect it would have been thought she’d sinned against the Church, as well, in seducing Edmund, rather than the other way round,” Kincaid offered.

  “But what if Alys changed her mind? Or the herbs didn’t work?” demanded Jack. “We’ve searched for months for a blood connection—perhaps a niece or nephew—as we suspected there might be a genetic component to the link.”

  “An illegitimate child?” Kincaid mused. “In that case there wouldn’t have been any record.”