A Finer End (19 page)

T
HE MILES FELL
away under a leaden sky. Traffic had been fairly light on the M4 since they’d left Reading, allowing Gemma to relax enough to enjoy driving. Beside her, Kincaid dozed, head tilted back against the headrest. They had departed London before seven, hoping to avoid the worst of the morning rush hour.

He’d rung her the previous afternoon with the invitation to spend a long weekend in Glastonbury. Her first response had been an adamant no, she had too much pending at work. Kincaid had patiently reminded her that she had the authority to delegate, and that she hadn’t taken a full weekend off since she’d started the new job.

Bristling, she’d pled a meeting and hung up. But afterwards, sitting at her desk in the brief after-lunch lull, she wondered if Kincaid were right. When she’d first been promoted, he’d warned her that the biggest danger in command was thinking oneself indispensable—had she unsuspectingly fallen victim to that delusion? Her team was competent, and although they were working a number of ongoing cases—a string of petty burglaries in the Portobello Road; a serial rapist who posed as a Good Samaritan—there was nothing they couldn’t manage on their own for a few days.

And staring into the cold cup of coffee that had made up her lunch, she had to admit she was exhausted. She wasn’t eating right, nor sleeping well. Maybe a weekend away would give her a chance to recoup.

She’d rung Kincaid back and accepted. Before he could respond, she’d added, “I’ll drive. You’re daft if you think I’m riding all the way to Somerset in your rattletrap of a car.”

Now, as she glanced at his relaxed form beside her, she realized that perhaps there had been more than duty involved in her overwork the past few weeks—she’d been avoiding spending time with Duncan as well.

What a coward she was! To confirm what she suspected
she had only to go in the nearest chemist and buy a test. But then she would have to deal with her choices—and with Kincaid’s reaction, should she decide to go through with the pregnancy.

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.