A Finer End (28 page)

The policewoman, O’Toole, stood, too, closed her notebook, and gave Faith another bright, false smile as she followed Greely out.

Faith sat where they had left her. The baby moved, kicking her repeatedly just above the pelvis, fierce little jabs. Placing her hands against her belly, Faith whispered, “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right,” and rocked mindlessly back and forth. Gradually, the kicking grew less frequent, then ceased. “It’s going to be all right,” Faith said again, softly, reassuring herself as much as the baby.
But how?

Greely had made up his mind to pin Garnet’s murder on her and Nick: he would keep looking for some sort of evidence to support his theory. It was her fault that Nick had got involved in all this; it was her responsibility to find a way to clear him.

If she could just search Garnet’s things, and her papers. Surely Garnet had left some trace, some clue, as to who wanted her dead.

Tomorrow she’d insist on going back to work, and then she would find a way to get back into the farmhouse. And she would not let herself wonder what Nick might have done if he’d found her missing and believed Garnet responsible.

Nick stood outside the police station in Yeovil, stranded, without his bike and without a ride.

When he’d arrived at the bookshop that morning, Inspector Greely and a policewoman had been waiting for him in an unmarked car. “Let’s go for a little ride while we chat,” Greely had said. “Unless you’d rather we talked in the shop?”

Nick had got into the car. But then they’d driven him from Glastonbury to the Yeovil station, and when Nick had protested, Greely replied slyly that they were just protecting his interests by doing things properly, tape recorder and all.

They marched him inside and into an interrogation room, Nick burning all the while with fury. After four hours of repeating the same questions in the bare, ugly room, they had let him go. With the smile Nick had begun to hate, Greely had assured him they would soon find something that would link him to Garnet Todd’s murder. “Oh, and don’t leave town,” Greely added cheerfully, as if it were an afterthought.

Still running on anger and adrenaline, Nick stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking. By the time he reached the A37 going north, he’d begun to feel weak. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day.

A lorry driver took him all the way to Glastonbury, dropping him at the Street roundabout. He started up Magdalene Street out of habit, but as he neared the shop it occurred to him that he had no idea what he would say to his boss.

Oh, just a bit of police grilling, a small matter of a murder. Nothing to worry about
. Right.

Hurriedly, he crossed the street and, rounding the corner into the High, took refuge in the Café Galatea.

Now that he could get something to eat, he found he’d lost his appetite. Instead, he spooned sugar into a coffee and sipped it gratefully, warming his hands on the cup. It was a normal Saturday afternoon in the café; half a dozen customers relaxing over tea in the midafternoon lull; a middle-aged hippie in tie-dye and sandals hunched over the computer in the back; Melissa, the waitress who fancied him, glancing at him from beneath her lashes.

But in the space of four days his life had become a nightmare, and he had no guarantee that, for him, things would ever be normal again.

How the hell had he got himself into this mess? And what did he do now? Would he have been better off if he hadn’t taken Superintendent Kincaid’s advice—if he’d continued to deny that he’d been to the house? But Greely had told him they’d found his prints, and they would be doing a forensic match between his bike tires and the tracks in Garnet’s yard. When the test results came back, he’d look guilty as hell.

He could tell Greely some of the things he’d begun to suspect about Garnet, but it would only make his motive look stronger.

But there must have been others who had felt as he did about Garnet—there must have been someone who had wanted her dead. And if he could find out who, he might have a hope of saving himself.

Kincaid and Gemma pulled into Jack’s drive just as he was getting out of his Volvo. They found Faith waiting for them in the kitchen, hands on her hips, furious spots of color on her cheeks.

“Something smells good.” Jack wrinkled his nose in appreciation. “We haven’t had a proper meal in—”

Turning on Kincaid, Faith spat, “How could you? You
told Nick he should talk to the police, that it would be all right! So he did, and now they think he’s a
murderer.”

“Faith, I told him it was the best course, and I still think that’s true. They’ve got Nick’s prints in the house and his bike tracks in the yard. He’d only make things worse for himself by lying.”

“But you’re a policeman. Can’t you tell Greely it’s not true, that Nick wouldn’t—”

“I don’t have any jurisdiction here. I can offer the Inspector my opinion, but I can’t tell him how to run his case.” Kincaid held up his hand before she could interrupt again. “I will tell you that I don’t think he’s got any solid evidence, so right now all he can do is try to get a response from Nick.”

“He thinks
I
helped. Did you know that?”

“Faith—”

“He said I needed legal advice.”

“Greely came here?”

Faith nodded.

“He interviewed you with no one else present?”

“There was a policewoman with him.”

Kincaid hesitated. It was a sticky situation, as Faith was legally an adult, but Greely could have found a better way to handle it. “If he comes again, tell him that you will only talk to him if Jack, or one of us, is present. If he won’t agree to that, tell him you insist on legal representation. That means he can’t talk to you without your lawyer present. Got that?”

“But I don’t have a lawyer!”

Kincaid turned to Jack. “Is there someone you can call?”

“An old school friend. She’s one of the best solicitors in the county.”

“Why don’t you do that, just alert her to the situation.”

As Jack went to make his phone call, Gemma guided Faith to the pot simmering on the cooker, and in a moment had the girl detailing the ingredients.

Crisis defused temporarily, Kincaid thought with relief,
but what sort of idiotic thing had he just done? He had known even as he offered his support that he was placing himself in a precariously biased position. But something about this girl seemed to bring everyone’s protective instincts to the fore. Except DCI Greely’s, it seemed.

The doorbell rang. The murmur of Jack’s voice came from the next room, so Kincaid went to the door, girding himself to do discreet battle with DCI Greely.

But it was a man he hadn’t seen before, of middle age, dressed in cardigan and tweeds, with a rather unkempt mane of gray hair.

“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.”