A Finer End

by Deborah Crombie

  “Jack and Faith have been worried about you.” Kincaid picked up a book on the Glastonbury Zodiac from the front table.

  “I couldn’t … after the police … I was bloody humiliated, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Well, it seems you’ve lost first place on the suspect list, if that makes you feel any better. DCI Greely has now moved Jack up in the running, but he still likes Faith as accessory.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “I’m not. Perhaps if we all cooperated, we’d make some progress finding out who did kill Garnet, instead of working at cross-purposes. If you tell me, for instance, what you found out about Garnet yesterday, I might be able to put it together with something else. That’s the beauty of an investigation.”

  “How did you—”

  “Faith had me look for you. I had a chat with the nice lady at the Assembly Rooms café.”

  “Oh … Janet. I never thought …”

  “It sounds to me as if you put your contacts and your knowledge of the town to admirable use.”

  “It seemed a good idea.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Nick moved round the table, absently straightening books. “I’d been worried for a long time that Garnet’s intentions towards Faith weren’t as altruistic as everyone seemed to think. But I knew anything I said, especially to Faith, would just be put down as jealousy.”

  “So you kept quiet, and watched.”

  “Listened would be more like it. I hear things in here.” Nick gestured around the shop. “Gossip. Rumors. Bits of conversation. All pointing in the same direction—that this year is a window of power, a time when the forces of the Old Religion are near the surface.”

  “Millennial hysteria?”

  “Maybe. But I think Garnet meant to use Faith somehow.”

  “And the people you talked to yesterday—did they corroborate that?”

  “They wouldn’t go that far, no. But they did mutter rather furtively about Samhain.” When Kincaid raised an eyebrow, Nick explained. “That’s the Celtic name for All Souls’ Day, or Halloween.”

  “And it’s just a few days away,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “When you say you think Miss Todd meant to ‘use’ Faith, are you talking about a sacrifice of some sort?”

  “I—I don’t know. But it can’t matter now, can it?”

  “I don’t see how. But I wouldn’t go broadcasting these theories to Inspector Greely.”

  “Because he’ll think I’m crazy?”

  “Because it gives you a stronger motive to murder Garnet. You have to admit you’ve made no secret of your desire to protect Faith. Who else would go to such lengths—” Kincaid broke off abruptly, realizing that he knew.

  “The Archdeacon is coming to lunch,” Winnie informed him when he returned to Jack’s. “She says the Vicarage is going to overflow with covered dishes if we don’t eat some of them. But I thought I could at least set the table.” She gestured at the clutter covering the oak surface.

  “You direct; I’ll clear,” Kincaid offered. “Where’s Jack?”

  “He had to give some attention to his practice, poor man. He’s done nothing for almost a week but run back and forth to hospital and wait on me.”

  “No luck in the attic this morning?”

  “No, but Simon stopped by to see how we were doing. What about you? Did you find Nick?”

  “Yes. He’s fine, just doing a bit of investigating on his own.” He had no intention of sharing Nick’s suspicions about Garnet.

  Seeing Winnie grasp a chairback as if for support, he suspected she was still more wobbly than she liked to admit.

  “Okay, you sit,” he ordered. “Now, where are the knives and forks?”

  Suzanne Sanborne was an attractive, intelligent-looking woman, slender, with silver-threaded, curly hair. “So you’re the famous cousin from Scotland Yard,” she said, when she had hugged Winnie.

  “Archdeacon.”

  “Call me Suzanne, please. And help me with these casseroles.”

  They were soon settled round the table for a convivial lunch, aided by the bottle of Bordeaux Kincaid had discovered in Jack’s pantry. Winnie was anxious about her parish obligations, but the Archdeacon was quick to reassure her.

  “The last thing you need to do just now is worry. I’ve asked Miles Fleming to fill in when he can, and I’ll take some of your duties myself.”

  “But I could at least—”

  “Next week we’ll talk about your taking the services,” Suzanne interrupted in a tone that brooked no argument. “But you’re going to have to be patient with yourself.”

  “Suzanne,” Winnie said hesitantly. “I know this sounds a stupid question, but have you any idea what I did on Wednesday? I had Jack bring my diary from the Vicarage last night, and I’d written in two sick visits for the morning, and a Deanery Chapter meeting after lunch. This morning I rang everyone up. It seems I kept the morning appointments, but I missed the Chapter meeting altogether.”

  “Of course I know what you did!” Suzanne answered with a chuckle. “Why didn’t someone ask me sooner? I asked you to take a bereavement visit.”

  “You did?” Winnie said blankly.

  “In Pilton. You know the vicar was on holiday last week.” Turning to Kincaid, she explained, “I’d have gone myself but I had a Diocesan meeting, so at Winnie’s party I asked her to take it for me.”

  Winnie moaned. “This is dreadful. Why can’t I remember?”

  “I’m sure you will,” Suzanne reassured her. “My prescription for you is a rest. It looks to me as if you’ve done far too much today.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “I’ve a meeting, but I can help get you settled, then Duncan can see me out.”

  Very smoothly done, Kincaid thought as they escorted Winnie into the sitting room. When she was comfortably situated on the sofa, Suzanne gave her a last admonition. “Now, don’t you worry. Your parish will tick along without you for a few more days.”

  “But I’ve a wedding—”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest.”

  “But …” Winnie’s protest trailed off as her eyelids started to droop. The wine and pasta had done their work well.

  Kincaid and Suzanne stole quietly out and he walked her to her car.

  “She really is doing remarkably well,” Suzanne said.

  “Yes, but that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  “You don’t miss a trick, Superintendent.” She gave him a quick smile, then sighed. “I hate to be alarmist, but I’m quite worried about Andrew, Winnie’s brother. He hasn’t been to see Winnie since she left hospital, has he?”

  “Not since she regained consciousness, as far as I know.”

  “He refused to go into the ICU—were you aware of that? And every time I saw him in the waiting area, he seemed progressively overwrought. I’m afraid that his silence doesn’t bode well.”

  “You may be right. Can you see him? Have you any influence?”

  “When I tried to reason with him in hospital, he only became more agitated. But we’ve been friends for a long time. Perhaps David and I should both talk to him.”

  “I take it you’re worried about more than Catesby’s mental health. Do you think he would hurt Winnie?”

  “Andrew cares for Winnie so much, I can’t imagine … but sometimes love can get twisted.” Suzanne met Kincaid’s eyes. “Until we’ve at least tried to sort things out with Andrew, I’d feel better if you kept a close eye on Winnie and Jack.”

  As soon as Fiona finished one canvas, another image coalesced in her mind, giving her no peace until she brought it to life.

  She thought she had never worked so well, with such richness of color or delicacy of detail, and for the first time in months the child had not appeared. But she was bone-weary, and when she’d put the final touches on the latest effort, she cleaned her brushes and left her studio.

  Bram looked up from the book he was reading, his relief obvious. “Finished, darling?”


  Fiona stretched out on the sofa beside him. “I’m knackered.”

  “I wish I could help.” He stroked her forehead with his thumb.

  “You do, just by understanding.” As a child, she had drawn on walls if no paper was available when the urge came on her—and had not understood when she’d been punished for it. At one point her baffled parents had tried to keep her from drawing altogether, and she had sunk into a state of depression so deep it bordered on catatonia.

  “But I feel empty tonight,” she added, yawning and snuggling a little more firmly into his lap. “This may be it for now.”

  “Are they good?”

  “Brilliant. You’ll like them.” She smiled up at him. “I think I’ll go see Winnie tomorrow, if she feels up to a bit of company.”

  “Shall I read to you?”

  “What are you reading?”

  “William of Malmsbury’s account of his visit to the Abbey in the 1120s. Listen to this. He’s talking about the Old Church. ‘… one can observe all over the floor stones, artfully interlaced in the forms of triangles or squares and sealed with lead; I do no harm to religion if I believe some sacred mystery is contained beneath them.…’ ”

  Was that what Garnet had known? Fiona wondered sleepily, meaning to ask Bram, but the words began to stretch out like shining beads on a string, until they shimmered and faded away.

  • • •

  She woke on the sofa in a darkened room, with a blanket tucked round her and a cushion placed carefully under her head. It was late—or very early—she sensed that by the quality of the light filtering in through the blinds. She sat up, intending to go to bed for what was left of the night, and her dream came back to her in a rush.

  The music—she had heard the singing again. Now it dissolved and slipped once more from her grasp.

  And she had seen the Abbey, washed in a clear, pale light. But the heavily overgrown ruins had stood in an open, pastoral landscape, rather than their modern-day walled setting. A few thin cows grazed in the foreground, watched over by a man in old-fashioned dress who leaned picturesquely on a shepherd’s staff.

  Fiona lay back and pulled the blanket up to her chin, trying to make sense of the disparate elements floating about in her head: the music, Garnet, the beautifully colored tiles in the Old Church, the odd view of the Abbey …

  Her last thought, as she drifted off to sleep once more, was that the man with the shepherd’s crook had looked remarkably like Jack Montfort.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  But even St. Michael was helpless against the Powers of Darkness, concentrated by ritual, and in the earthquake of A.D. 1000 the body of the church [on the Tor] fell down, leaving only the tower standing. Thus was the Christian symbol of a cruciform church changed into the pagan symbol of an upstanding tower, and the Old Gods held their own.

  —DION FORTUNE,

  FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART

  FAITH FELT VERY odd from the moment she woke on Tuesday morning. She wondered if any of the others sensed the heaviness, the oppression, in the air. She felt an urgency, as well, a sense that her time to take care of unfinished business was swiftly running out. And the baby, so violently active the past few days, was suddenly quiet, giving her only the occasional gentle nudge.

  She felt her abdomen carefully, the way Garnet had taught her, but she couldn’t be sure that the baby had dropped. Why wasn’t Garnet here when she needed her? And how was she going to manage without her?

  Fighting back tears of anger and frustration, she finished getting ready for work, then went looking for Duncan. She found him in the last bedroom, surrounded by opened boxes, his face already dirty and set in a scowl of discouragement.

  Last night Nick had turned up at last, with a curt apology for his absence. He and Simon had joined in the attic search, carrying the smaller items down to Faith and Winnie in the sitting room. After a long evening’s work, they had all declared the attic thoroughly sorted, with a disheartening lack of results. Now Jack and Duncan had begun working their way through the remainder of the house.

  “Anything?” Faith asked Duncan, knowing what the answer would be.

  “An old album with some photos of my mother as a child. But other than that, no. Are you ready for me to run you to the café?”

  They had developed a comfortable routine in just a few short days, and Faith realized with a pang that she would be sorry to see it end. Nor did she like the idea of the deception she meant to practice today, but she could see no alternative. She must find proof that someone besides Nick had had reason to harm Garnet. And Duncan had told her that the police had sealed the farmhouse, so she couldn’t very well ask him to take her to root through Garnet’s things.

  “I’ll see you at five,” he said as she climbed out of the car at the café, and she lifted her hand in a wave as he drove away in Gemma’s purple car.

  It was a slow morning, much to her relief, because she grew progressively more uncomfortable as the day wore on. Her legs ached, and her pelvis felt as if her ligaments had turned to jelly. Buddy fussed over her, coming in from the shop to give her a hand as often as he could.

  After lunch she waited, tidying and watching the clock. When the hands crept round to two, she gave the counter a last wipe and went into the shop.

  Buddy looked up from his jewelry counter. His face creased instantly with concern. “Are you okay, kiddo?”

  “I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind if I left early today?” It isn’t a lie, she told herself. Just bending the truth a bit.

  “Is it the baby?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said uncertainly. “But I think maybe I should take it easy.”

  “Have you called someone to fetch you?”

  “Yes,” she lied outright this time, forcing a smile. “I’ll wait outside.”

  She slipped on her cardigan and went out into the light drizzle that had kept the climbers away. There was nothing for it but to walk, so she turned resolutely uphill and began.

  The pavement grew slicker and the rain heavier as she climbed. By the time she reached the farmhouse she was gasping, and a dull, heavy pain had taken root at the base of her spine. But she had done it! No one had passed her on her way up the hill, but still she looked round furtively as she ducked under the blue-and-white crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the gate.

  She picked her way across the yard and unlocked the back door with her key. All three cats trotted hopefully out from the shelter of the barn and she stooped to stroke them as they rubbed about her ankles, purring. “Are you hungry, poor dears?” she said, and sang the silly little dinner song she had made up for them as she let them in the house.

  Every surface in the kitchen was covered with a fine black dust, and the room looked as if a hurricane had raged through it, littered throughout with the objects from the shelves and cabinets. Faith grimaced as she lit the lamp and put food in the cats’ bowls, trying to touch as little as possible. The sight of the casserole Garnet had made the day she died almost undid her.

  The evidence of the police search was even more overwhelming in Garnet’s office. There was fingerprint powder everywhere, and the room was a sea of papers. The drawers of Garnet’s desk had been pried open, and all but one drawer was empty.

  Lighting the lamp on the desk, she looked at the contents of the drawer they had left intact. It held a half-dozen spiral notebooks, and as Faith opened them, she saw that each was filled with technical notes on tile making. No wonder the police hadn’t found them useful.

  Garnet had been secretive to the point of paranoia concerning the recipes she used in the glazes on her tiles. She’d insisted that they were what made her work unique, and her restoration techniques possible. In a talkative mood, she had once told Faith that she used only natural materials available to medieval craftsmen, creating the authentic colors that made her tiles so prized.

  But it seemed Garnet’s secrets had not died with her. The journals held not on
ly extensive notes, but accounts of formulas and experiments, failures and successes.

  Faith was so fascinated that she forgot the time, until a glance at the darkening window reminded her that she must keep on. She had meant to be finished and back at the café when Duncan came to collect her, although what she would tell Buddy she had yet to figure out.

  She put the journals back and thought for a moment. The office was a dead end. If there had been anything useful the police would have found it. Slowly, she returned to the kitchen. This was the heart of the house, where Garnet had spent her time when she was not working. Here she had sung while she cooked, she had read, she had rocked in the well-worn rocking chair.

  Faith lowered herself into the rocker. Here she would have rocked her own child, if Garnet had not died. She looked round, trying to see the kitchen from Garnet’s point of view. Garnet hadn’t owned many things, but among her most treasured possessions had been her books, especially her cookbooks. They sat in the small nook above the cooker, apparently untouched by the police maelstrom.

  With a grunt of effort, Faith stood and pulled out one book, then another, swiftly thumbing through them.

  It was in a vegetarian tome Faith had seldom seen Garnet use that she found the papers tucked inside the flyleaf: several sheets of foolscap filled with Garnet’s spiky handwriting, pages torn from a book, and a newspaper clipping, yellowed and brittle with age.

  First she unfolded the printed sheets, her eyes widening with shock as she read. The pages had obviously been torn from a primer on ancient magic, but these were not the gentle ceremonies Garnet had taught her—these were rituals that called the darkest and oldest powers up from the depths, rituals celebrating the Tor as the entrance to the Underworld, the home of the Great Mother. Participants began by walking the ancient spiral maze, the physical manifestation of the vortex of energy that would suck them up to the summit, and then down into the very heart of the Tor. Those who passed through chaos and death would emerge reborn, filled with the power of the Mother.