A Finer End (30 page)

“We’ll talk to Faith,” Gemma promised. “If she knows that you’ll accept her without question, perhaps she’ll agree.”

“You’ll let us know about the baby, at least?” pleaded Maureen, and Kincaid assured them he would.

At the door, Gemma turned back to the couple. “I know
it must be hard to let your child go—they always seem to grow up before you’re ready—but Faith has proved she has courage and determination. You should be very proud of her.”

When they reached the car, Gemma said, “Do you think her father’s capitulation will last if she comes home?”

Kincaid shrugged. “Human nature being what it is, I rather doubt it. But I also doubt he’d have insisted on knowing the baby’s parentage if he were responsible. I just hope I make a better job of it in the father department.”

Gemma glanced at him and said not a word.

“Have we time for another stop before your train?” Kincaid asked as they returned to Glastonbury. “I’d like to see the scene of Winnie’s accident.”

Gemma glanced at her watch. “We should be all right. Let’s leave the car at the café, shall we? I’d like to take the same route Winnie must have used that evening.”

They walked up Wellhouse Lane, its incline steep and slick, not suitable for any but the most expensive of mountain bikes, and Jack had told them that Winnie’s was an old clunker. “Faith said Winnie was pushing her bike—I can see why,” Kincaid grunted as they reach the turning into Lypatt Lane.

The smaller track was claustrophobic even at midday—how much more so had it seemed at dusk? But Winnie could have squeezed the bike against the hedge if she’d heard a car approaching. Soon they reached the jog where the lane connected with the footpath.

“If someone struck Winnie deliberately, they waited here,” Gemma mused. “But how could anyone have known she would be in this place at that time—unless she had had an appointment!”

“But that brings us back to square one,” Kincaid objected. “If Winnie agreed to meet someone here, she has no memory of it. And unfortunately, an assignation in a dark
lane isn’t something she’s likely to have put in her appointment book—”

“Hullo!” A woman had appeared in the lane and was gazing at them curiously. “I’m sorry, but you looked a bit lost,” she added. A slight woman with untidy brown hair and brown eyes, she frowned as she studied Kincaid. “You remind me a bit of someone I know.”

“Jack Montfort, by any chance? I’m his cousin, Duncan Kincaid. And this is Gemma James.”

“Fiona Allen.” Her smile faded as she realized just what they must have been doing. “You’re looking at the scene of Winnie’s accident, aren’t you?”

“You found her, I understand? And you live just up the lane?”

“The far end. Why don’t you two come along for a coffee?”

As they followed her, Kincaid looked down into Bushy Coombe. “I remember this from when I was boy. Jack and I used to climb in the Coombe, pretending to be monks—or cowboys.”

“An interesting juxtaposition,” Fiona commented with a chuckle.

“Both unwashed, and familiar with livestock?” Gemma murmured.

He gave her a quelling glance. “We made believe we were fetching water from the spring, although I suppose the logical route from the Abbey would have been by Chilkwell Street.”

“Jack must have been interested in the Abbey as a child, then,” Fiona said as they reached an unremarkable stone house with a superbly tended garden. The interior of the house was clean and spare, and Kincaid imagined it must make a restful contrast to the garden’s summer profusion. A small fire glowed in the sitting-room grate.

“I love this time of year,” Fiona explained. “Any excuse for a fire.”

She seated them on the sofa and returned shortly with
mugs of coffee on a tray. “How is Winnie today, have you heard?”

Gemma accepted a cup. “Jack went to fetch her home this morning—”

“She’s not going back to the Vicarage, alone?”

“No, she’s agreed to stay with Jack for a few days. You sound as if you’re worried about her.”

“I am, a bit,” Fiona admitted. “Although I’m not sure I can tell you why.”

“Something you saw or heard that night, perhaps?” Kincaid asked.

Fiona frowned. “No, nothing that concrete. But I do know Winnie feels more uneasy about her brother than she may admit.”

“Do you know of any connection between Andrew Catesby and Garnet Todd?”

“No. It’s odd, though … that two people so dedicated to preserving the past should be at such opposite ends of the pole. I don’t think they could have liked one another.”

“Gemma found Catesby poking about Todd’s house the day after she died.”

“Winnie mentioned that. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Andrew to have learned of the connection between Garnet and Winnie, although Winnie didn’t share much with him about her involvement with Jack’s …”

“Experiment?” Kincaid supplied helpfully. “But even if that were the case, what could Andrew have thought he’d find at Ms. Todd’s? It might help us if Winnie could remember what she did the day of her accident, or why she was coming to see you.”

“Oh!” Fiona brightened. “When I visited Winnie yesterday, she remembered that she went to the Abbey that morning. But that’s as far as we got, I’m afraid.”

“Jack said you painted the Abbey, the night Winnie was struck,” said Gemma. “Was that unusual? I’d think you’d use Glastonbury scenes as a matter of course.”

“But I don’t choose the things I paint. I suppose I could
say they choose me. I just see them, and paint them, and that was the first time I’ve ever painted the Abbey.”

“We saw one of your works in town, last night, beautifully displayed. Allen Galleries—is that your husband’s gallery?”

Nodding, Fiona explained, “Bram’s there today, hanging some new pieces. It’s difficult to change the displays when the gallery’s open.”

“What are they—the creatures you paint?”

“I really don’t know. It’s like the settings—I just paint them. I suppose it’s quite similar to what happens to Jack, with his messages from Edmund.”

“Might we see what you painted the night of Winnie’s accident?” asked Kincaid.

“Of course.”

They followed her down a corridor and into her glasswalled studio. She lifted a canvas from a stack against the wall and set it on an easel. In this painting, the creatures thronged round a human child cupped in a luminous bowl, within the great arch of the Abbey’s ruined transepts. Unlike the work they’d seen in the gallery window, here the child seemed to be the focus of the creatures’ attention, perhaps even their compassion.

“Edmund and Alys’s child?” Kincaid murmured.

“Edmund’s?”

Before Kincaid could explain, a man’s voice called out, “Darling?”

“In here,” Fiona answered. As her husband entered the room, she said, “Bram, this is Duncan Kincaid, Jack Montfort’s cousin, and his friend, Gemma James.”

“And how is Winnie?” Bram Allen asked.

“Jack is bringing her home from hospital today.”

“We’ll pay her a visit then, in a day or two, when she’s had a little time to recuperate.” Allen put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and shepherded her back into the sitting room. “Fiona’s been working too hard,” he told Gemma and
Kincaid. “She had strict instructions to stay put in front of the fire this afternoon.”

“I only went out for a walk,” countered Fiona, “and found our guests wandering about in the lane. I promise I haven’t lifted a brush.”

Although Allen was pleasant enough, Kincaid sensed that Fiona’s husband was uneasy, and his interest sharpened. “Mr. Allen, I understand it was you who found Garnet Todd’s body.”

Giving his wife an anxious look, Allen replied, “I’m just glad it wasn’t Fiona. Her experience with Winnie was pretty dreadful—but then you’d know that.”

“Rather an odd coincidence, though, wasn’t it? Mrs. Allen finding Winnie and you discovering Ms. Todd?”

“Winnie was only a few hundred yards from our house, and I walk round the Tor every morning,” Allen said with the air of a man keeping his impatience in check. “Unfortunate, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say
odd
.”

“Did you recognize Ms. Todd’s van?”

“No. To be honest, I’d had a bit too much coffee.… I thought the van would make a good shield if anyone came along.… I suppose I assumed someone had had a breakdown and left it to be collected later—until I looked inside.”

“Did you recognize Ms. Todd, then?”

Allen paled. “No. I’m afraid I wasn’t … thinking very logically at that point.”

Kincaid remembered that they had found only Garnet Todd’s and Faith’s prints on the exterior of the van. “You didn’t try to get in? To see if she needed help?”

“It was obvious she was past that.” Again, Allen gave his wife a concerned glance. “I came home and rang the police.”

“But you knew Ms. Todd?” pressed Kincaid.

“She was unique … one of Glastonbury’s true eccentrics. The town won’t be the same without her. I—Fiona?”

Fiona Allen stood and moved towards her studio. “I’m sorry.” Feverish spots had appeared on her cheeks, and she seemed to have difficulty focusing on them. “I’m sorry—I have to paint now. It’s—”

“It’s all right, darling,” her husband soothed. “You go ahead. I’ll see Mr. Kincaid and Miss James out.”

With a last apologetic glance, Fiona disappeared into the corridor.

“Does it always happen like that?” asked Gemma as Bram walked them to the door. “It was almost as if she had no choice.”

“She doesn’t,” Bram answered curtly. “She becomes ill if she’s kept from painting. And now I’d better check on her, if you don’t mind.”

They said good-bye, and as they retraced their way through the garden, Gemma shivered. “Has it struck you? Jack can’t help writing; Fiona Allen can’t help painting; and Faith says she had no choice but to climb the Tor. What
is
it about this place?” She looked up. The Tor seemed to hang above the treetops, a massive presence that dwarfed all other elements in the landscape. “And what else might someone feel compelled to do?”

“You’re sure about this?” Kincaid asked as he took Gemma’s bag from the boot in front of Bath Railway Station.

“Positive.” She kissed him, adding, “You will talk to Faith about seeing her parents, won’t you? I’ll ring you tomorrow.” With a wave, she walked away.

He watched her until she disappeared into the interior of the station, then climbed back into the car and set about maneuvering his way out of the city. As a child, he had loved their summer visits to Bath, but these days it was so chockablock with tourists you could scarcely move.

Eventually, he found his way back to the A37 going south, towards Glastonbury. He took his time, enjoying the drive through the eastern edge of the Mendips. Gemma was
right, it was lovely country, and he smiled, remembering how much she had disliked their trips out of London when they had first started working together.

Born and raised in busy North London, Gemma had been more than a bit agoraphobic. But she had changed, had adapted herself to new circumstances and surroundings. Her ability to do so was one of the things that made her a good copper, and would go a long way towards ensuring her success at her new job. Still, it was a hard transition, and he wished there were something he could do to make the process easier for her.

Of course, if he were totally honest, he’d have to admit he’d been more wrapped up in dealing with his own adjustment to working without her than with hers to her new posting. Even without the personal component of their relationship he’d have found replacing her difficult.

But he had been right to entice Gemma away for the weekend. She’d been more relaxed than he’d seen her in months, and he realized how much he missed that easiness between them. He would have to see what he could do to improve things in the future, but just now he had better turn his attention to Jack’s predicament.

They didn’t seem to be making much progress towards solving either Winnie’s accident or the Todd homicide. Not that he would expect such a quick resolution on an ordinary case, but he was frustrated both by his limited time and his lack of control over the investigation. Greely’s tactics were common enough—find the most likely suspect and bully him or her until you got a confession—but they certainly left much fertile ground unturned.

And to complicate matters further, Jack was bringing Winnie home from hospital today. If she were still in danger, how much more vulnerable would she be now?

He kept running aground on the same questions. Why had Andrew Catesby gone to see Garnet Todd? Why would someone other than Garnet have wanted to hurt—or kill—Winifred Catesby? If Garnet had not struck Winnie, where
had she gone in the van that evening? And what had Winnie done in the hours she couldn’t remember?

Some of the answers were undoubtedly locked within Winnie’s mind and could not be forced. And some of the questions were undoubtedly connected, if only he had some clue as to which ones they might be.

Kincaid arrived at Jack’s to find Winnie installed on the sitting-room sofa, her lap filled with a jumble of papers.

“That doesn’t look a proper convalescent project,” Kincaid commented.

Winnie smiled up at him. “I convinced Jack to start searching for the manuscript.”

“He told you about Simon’s theory?”

Nodding, she said, “And I think on this point Simon’s judgment should be trusted. Unfortunately, I’m not much help yet.” She gestured at the papers in her lap. “This is the best I could do. But it would be easier if I knew exactly what I was looking for.”

“How about a perfectly illuminated sheet of musical notation on parchment, with
The Lost Chant
at the top in Latin?”

“And why don’t we have it rolled and tied with a red ribbon while we’re at it? Seriously, though,
if
we’re not all completely mad, and
if
Edmund did make a copy of such a thing, it would have been on parchment. And how likely is it that something like that would have survived all those centuries without special care and handling?”

“Simon seemed to think it was possible, and he’s the expert. Where’s Jack, then?”

“Up in the attic, covered with dust and cobwebs. And swearing a blue streak, is my guess.”