A Finer End

by Deborah Crombie

  “Jack? Oh, sorry. Is Jack in?”

  “I’m his cousin, Duncan Kincaid. Jack’s on the phone just now, but if you’ll come in, he’ll be free in a moment.”

  “Simon Fitzstephen.”

  Kincaid shook his hand with genuine pleasure. “Jack speaks very highly of you,” he said as he took Fitzstephen into the kitchen.

  Faith looked up from her cooking and smiled. “Simon! I’ve made some soup, if you can stay for a meal.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Fitzstephen said, pecking her cheek, then he greeted Gemma as Kincaid introduced her. “I’ve got some news for you all, when Jack’s free. Is Nick coming?”

  “He hasn’t rung.” There was a quaver in Faith’s voice.

  “The police have been questioning Nick,” Kincaid told Fitzstephen.

  Fitzstephen glanced at Faith. “About Garnet?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Kincaid replied. “But they released him this afternoon. Not enough evidence to bring a charge.”

  “Simon! I thought I heard your voice. Good to see you.” Jack searched his friend’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “A bit of company wouldn’t come amiss.” Fitzstephen’s smile seemed strained. “Faith’s asked me to stay for a meal. But that’s not the main reason I came. I’ve something to tell you. I wanted us all here, but I suppose we won’t wait for Nick, as we’ve no way to reach him. And Garnet—” He shook his head. “I’ve made some rather astounding progress in my research today. It seems that in 1082, Abbot Thurstan hired a mason called Hamlyn to do repairs to the Abbey church.” He had their complete attention. “Very iffy, yes? A mere possibility of a connection. But twenty years later, one Alys Montfort made a fine gift to the Abbey, with a stipulation that it be recorded using her maiden name as well, which was Hamlyn.”

  “Edmund’s Alys?” breathed Jack.

  “That would be my guess.”

  “So there was a connection with my family—surely it was my family?”

  “I think we can safely assume so,” agreed Simon. “Although I haven’t managed to trace all the links yet. And I think we can assume that Alys Montfort wanted someone at the Abbey to remember the girl she had been. What if we also assume that Edmund made a copy of his precious chant, and gave it to Alys for safekeeping?”

  “You think the chant was passed down through my family,” Jack said softly.

  “I think,” Simon answered gravely, “that the chant might be in this very house.”

  Winnie awakened to find Fiona Allen sitting by her bedside, watching her intently.

  “Fiona!”

  “You can’t imagine how good it is to hear you speak. I couldn’t just take Jack’s word for it.”

  “If it weren’t for you …”

  “I only did what I was prompted to do. There’s no need for you to feel grateful to me.” Eyes twinkling, Fiona added, “Maybe your God had something to do with it.”

  “How did you happen to find me?”

  “I was painting. When I got to a stopping point, I went for a walk, and there you were in the road.” Fiona shrugged. “Simple enough, on the surface. But to tell the truth, it was a very odd night. I painted the Abbey, which I’ve never done in all the years I’ve been in Glastonbury. And when I went out, it was as if something were hanging in the balance.”

  Winnie studied her friend. “Fiona—there was something else, wasn’t there?”

  “I painted the child. Again. But it was different this time. She seemed protected, cradled by the Abbey itself. And,” Fiona went on, “I heard singing. You know what a visual person I am … I don’t hear things, I see them. But this—it’s so frustrating, because I’m not musical, and I can’t describe it. Even worse, I can’t hear it in my head. I just know it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever experienced.”

  “But Jack and I—we—”

  “I know. Jack told me about your chant. What I don’t understand is how I fit into it—or why you were coming to see me that night.”

  “I wish I could remember!”

  “Winnie …” Fiona’s brow creased. “I’m sorry about Garnet. I know you were friends.”

  “I can see how people might have thought her difficult. She was …”

  “Strong in her opinions.”

  “Yes. There was something elemental about her. But you and Bram knew her too. I’d forgotten.”

  “Garnet was passionate about issues even in those days—but of course it was more fashionable then to be radical. I suppose we should give her credit for remaining true to her convictions, unlike most of us. Bram and I gave up our causes for middle-class comforts.”

  “I saw her that afternoon. In the café, but I only know that because I’ve been told it. I feel as though I’ve been robbed.…”

  “A last memory?”

  Winnie could only nod.

  “Let’s try something,” Fiona suggested briskly. “What’s the very last thing that’s clear in your mind before the accident?”

  Winnie felt herself coloring.

  “You can skip that part,” Fiona said, laughing. “Did Jack stay the night?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Did he usually?”

  “No. Not at the Vicarage. I thought I had to maintain some sort of propriety. But now … I wouldn’t give a toss.”

  “Well, we can ask him. He’ll remember. What about the next morning? Was it rainy or clear?”

  “Clear,” Winnie said instantly, then stared at Fiona in surprise. “How did I—”

  “What did you do when you got up?”

  “Morning prayer. That’s easy.”

  “Okay. Then what did you have for breakfast?”

  “Toast and tea.”

  “Then you got dressed. Why did you take your bike instead of your car?”

  “Because I—because it was a beautiful day.”

  “So you got on your bike and started off. It was still cool, and the morning sun felt good. Where did you go?”

  “Glastonbury.” Winnie laughed. “This is amazing! I knew that without thinking.”

  “From the Vicarage, you’d have come into the roundabout at the bottom of Wearyall Hill. Did you turn to the right, towards the Tor? Or did you continue on into town?”

  “I went straight on, into Magdalene Street. The Abbey! I went to the Abbey. I—I—I can’t bloody remember! There’s just a blank after that.”

  “Shhh. Don’t force it. We’ve made some progress.”

  Winnie sank back into the pillow. “Why would I have gone to the Abbey?”

  “Maybe we should back up again. What about the dinner party—”

  “Andrew! You know how beastly Andrew was to Jack!” Winnie felt a cold weight in the pit of her stomach as the scene came flooding back. “He’s been behaving so oddly. He hasn’t even been to see me since I got out of intensive care. And when he came before, when I was unconscious, he wouldn’t come in. The nurses told me. He’s changed, Fi.”

  “Has he? Or could it be that you’re just seeing things you’ve managed to ignore until now?”

  “I—I don’t know. I suppose he’s always been a bit too attached to me, and easily hurt.… When our mum and dad died, we went to live with my father’s parents. But they were elderly—my father was a late only child—and they were so overwhelmed by their own grief they had no emotional room for us. I became mother and sister to Andrew. He was so lost.” How he had clung to her, begging for reassurance when he woke from the nightmares that plagued him for years—

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. Andrew was eleven. After that, he was so terrified of losing anything he cared about—I suppose that’s what sparked his interest in the past. It couldn’t be taken from him.”

  “You formed a very special bond,” Fiona mused. “And neither of you married.”

  “I never thought—We were such good companions, I never felt the need. I didn’t know—I never expected Jack to come into my life. Oh, Fi! I’ve been so wrapped up in myself
these past few months, with what I was feeling. And if I’ve given Andrew any real thought, it’s been in a he’ll-get-over-it way. But it goes much deeper than that, and I should have known it.”

  “Winnie, you can’t blame yourself for Andrew’s shortcomings.”

  “I thought I knew him, but I’m beginning to doubt even that. He went to Garnet’s house the day after she died. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “She was well known for her archaeological work—”

  “He said he wanted to commission tile work for his kitchen. Andrew!” Winnie shook her head. “It makes me wonder …”

  “Wonder what?” Fiona prompted when her friend didn’t continue.

  “I’ve noticed things the past few months, around the Vicarage. Papers moved about, things missing. What if—what if Andrew’s been … spying on me?” Reluctantly, Winnie met Fiona’s gaze. “Oh, Fi. What certainty is there in anything, if you can’t trust those you love best?”

  The rain that threatened all day had not materialized, but as night came on the air developed a soft fuzziness, hovering on the verge of fog. By the time Gemma and Kincaid arrived back at the B & B, the streetlamps and car lights were haloed with moisture.

  As Gemma got out of the car, she was possessed by a sudden restlessness. “Let’s not go in just yet. It’s such a beautiful night.”

  “Shall we walk, then? See the sights of Glastonbury by starlight?” Kincaid suggested. “Unless you’d rather go down the pub for a pint.”

  She laughed. “You’re such a romantic. A walk would be fine, and we’ll see what strikes us.”

  They let themselves out the gate, and when they reached Magdalene Street, Gemma hooked her arm through his. “I keep trying to imagine what it must have been like, eight hundred years ago. It seems such a long time, and yet people’s emotions haven’t changed that much.”

  “Alys and Edmund?”

  “Yes. And we don’t even know if they were real.”

  “You could get into all sorts of philosophical difficulties with that statement. There’s the subjective approach: ‘Are they real if we believe in them?’ But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are worse dangers lurking. ‘Do we have souls? Is there life after death?’ ”

  “How can you be so flippant?” Gemma scolded, pinching his arm.

  “A defense mechanism, love. Those are places I’m afraid to go, even with my proper Anglican upbringing.”

  She glanced up at him, unsure if he was still teasing. He never talked much about such things, but when she’d asked him once, point-blank, what he believed, he’d said he couldn’t imagine a god that would let happen the things he saw every day on the job.

  “What about this murder, then? Have you changed your mind about Nick since Greely seems so positive?”

  Kincaid kept walking for a moment, then said, “I just can’t quite see Nick, or Nick and Faith, committing a deliberate murder. And in this case I think it would have been a bit hard to drown Garnet in a moment of fear or passion.” They had reached the Abbey car park. “Is that Nick’s bookshop?” he asked, pointing across the street. “Jack mentioned his office was upstairs on the corner.”

  “It overlooks the Market Square, then. Let’s cross over. Earlier I saw a big used-book shop down the way.” Continuing the thread of their conversation, Gemma asked, “What about Andrew Catesby?”

  Kincaid frowned. “No motive. What possible reason could he have for killing Todd, a woman he apparently scarcely knew—”

  “Unless he somehow got the idea that she was responsible for his sister’s injuries. But he seemed genuinely shocked by the idea that someone might deliberately have hurt Winnie.”

  “Maybe he’s a better actor than we think, and he’s the one who struck Winnie, out of some sort of warped jealousy. Then Garnet found out somehow, and he killed her to shut her up.”

  “You’re reaching on that one,” said Gemma. Then she went on more thoughtfully, “When you were asking Winnie about Faith’s parents today, there is a possibility you neglected to mention. Has it occurred to you that the reason Faith won’t name the baby’s father is that—”

  “She was abused by her own father? That would certainly explain why she refuses to go home.”

  “And it might explain why she’s so set against seeing a doctor. Maybe she’s afraid the baby may have genetic complications.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with her parents,” Kincaid agreed. “I’ll run it by Greely, make sure he doesn’t object, and get their name and address. You can be sure he’ll have got that out of Faith today.”

  “If Faith was so secretive about her family, how did Nick get her address? Remember, he said he’d even gone looking for her at her parents’ house in Street.” Then, in disappointment, Gemma added, “Oh, the bookshop’s closed.”

  “A good thing. You have no room for more books in your flat. You’re right about Nick, though—makes me wonder what else he hasn’t told us.” He stopped and gave an exaggerated sniff. “Is that fish and chips I smell?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re hungry again?”

  “It was only soup, and that was hours ago.”

  “Two, maybe three,” Gemma corrected, smiling. Faith had done her best with Jack’s meager resources, but her pot of soup had not made a particularly generous meal for five people.

  They had left Jack contemplating the ramifications of Simon’s hypothesis. If there were even a possibility that a copy of the ancient manuscript might have been passed down through Jack’s family, he would be faced with the enormous task of searching through the accumulated clutter in his parents’ house.

  The chippie was a bit further down, where the Market Square became a pedestrian mall. The shop’s door stood open, serving as an enticement. It was a clean, well-lit establishment, with a proper restaurant in the back.

  “Do you want to sit down?” Gemma asked.

  “No. Let’s keep walking. Somehow fish and chips never taste the same without the newspaper.”

  Back in the street, with their steaming newspaper parcels in hand, Kincaid turned back the way they’d come. “Let’s walk up the High.”

  They peered through the leaded glass windows of the ancient George & Pilgrims inn. The bar was full, the hum of conversation audible even through the glass. The building looked very old indeed, with its authentic black-and-white timbering and worn, blackened beams.

  “Would Edmund have known this place?” Gemma asked.

  “A century or so after his time, I think. Not that he’d have been allowed to frequent the inn. It was built to accommodate the pilgrims, and the abbot’s high-ranking overflow.”

  They walked on, past the Café Galatea and New Age shops, until Gemma stopped, transfixed, before a gallery window. A single painting, lit by a soft spotlight, stood against a black velvet backdrop. Luminous, winged creatures hovered over a moonlit city in which tiny humans went about their business, unaware. The vision was stunningly beautiful, the colors glowing like living jewels, but the creatures’ faces were fierce and otherworldly. It made her a little uneasy. “Are they protecting the people?” she asked softly. “Or do they have their own agenda?”

  “Fiona Finn Allen.” Kincaid was reading the artist’s signature over her shoulder. “That’s Winnie’s friend, the woman who found her after the accident.” He stepped back so that he could read the marquee above the window. “Allen Galleries.” Walking on, he remarked, “I suppose it shows our self-absorption that we even think those spirits should be concerned with us. What if there are layers of reality we can’t see that have nothing to do with human needs and desires?”

  Gemma gave him a surprised glance. “Now I think Glastonbury’s getting to you too. Oh, look,” she added, stopping again to gaze through a bakery window at the empty trays, waiting for their early-morning baked goods. She felt a pang of longing for Toby, who was spending the weekend with her parents, “helping,” as he called it, in their bakery. Turning to Kincaid, she said, “You know I’ll
have to go back tomorrow.”

  “And I don’t see how I can leave Jack in the lurch, at this point. I hope Doug Cullen can manage a bit longer on his own.”

  “What will the Guv say?” asked Gemma, referring to Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.

  “I’ll give him a ring at home tomorrow, explain the situation. Then you could drop me in Bath, and I’ll hire a car.”

  “No,” Gemma said, thinking it out. “I won’t need the car the next few days. After we’ve paid a visit to Faith’s parents, you can run me to Bath, put me on the train, and keep the car.”

  When he started to protest, she insisted. “No, really. I want to take the train. I won’t have to fight the Sunday trippers’ traffic coming back into London.” That was true, and a valid enough argument to silence Kincaid, but it was the thought of those few hours on the train when she would have absolutely no demands that had decided her.

  “You could do some background checks.”

  “Along with three thousand other things on Monday morning. But make me a list tonight.”

  They walked the rest of the way up the High in companionable silence. The New Age shops gave way to more pedestrian businesses: a launderette, a grocer’s, a chemist, estate agents’ offices.

  When they reached the top, they turned and surveyed the street sloping gently down the hill before them. “The mundane and the sublime, side by side,” Kincaid remarked.

  “I’ll miss you,” Gemma said impulsively, prompted by something deeper than thought.

  Kincaid put a hand on her shoulder as they started back down the hill, matching strides. “Glastonbury must have a salutary effect on you. I should bring you more often.”

  Now, thought Gemma. She had the perfect opportunity. Just a sentence or two, and she would have put it behind her.

  But she still wasn’t one hundred percent sure, not until she did a test, and she absolutely would pick one up at the chemist when she got back to London.

  It had been so good between them this weekend, away from their responsibilities in London, working together on a case again, however unofficial. Why should she break the spell?

  Especially when they had one more night alone together, under the rose-colored canopy in the Acacia Room.