A Finer End (38 page)

“You’d have done the same,” Gemma told him. “I just got there first.” Somehow she understood that his gratitude was mixed with envy. He had wanted to be Faith’s savior, the hero of the day. “Perhaps it’s just as well, you know, that things worked out the way they did. Gratitude is a
burden you’d not want to come between you two. You’ve a clean slate now.”

“I wish I did,” Nick said softly, his expression bleak, and Gemma recalled what she had learned of his past.

“Will they let us see her?” she asked.

“I’ll find out.” Kincaid went to the desk, leaning over to speak to the dark-haired nurse. Gemma saw him flash his most effective smile, then he returned to them.

“Just one of us, for five minutes, and that’s a special dispensation. You go in, Gemma. I’ll stay with Nick.”

She eased open the door. The girl lay in the hospital bed, eyes closed, her dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. The baby lay in a cot beside her, only the top of her fuzzy head visible beneath a teddy-bear blanket.

Just as Gemma started to turn away, unwilling to wake her, Faith opened her eyes. Going to the bedside, Gemma murmured, “She’s lovely. Have you decided what to call her?”

“Bridget.”

“Bridget … wasn’t she a local saint?”

“Andrew … he always liked the story about St. Bridget’s Chapel at Beckery; that all who passed through the hole in the chapel’s side would be forgiven their sins.…”

“It suits her,” Gemma said softly. “And you were very brave, you know.”

“Was I? I was so scared. I didn’t know—”

“You can’t know, until you’ve been through it. The nice thing is, you forget quickly.” Gemma smiled. “Now, you get some rest—”

“I wanted to thank you. If you hadn’t … Garnet knew what was going to happen, didn’t she? On the Tor. Do you think somehow she knew about Andrew too?”

“I think Garnet loved you,” Gemma told the girl gently, “and that’s all that matters.”

•  •  •

Andrew had been rushed into surgery; there the hemorrhaging caused by the blows to his temple had been surgically evacuated to relieve the pressure on his brain. Now, his doctor had informed Winnie, they could only wait.

She had insisted that Jack stay behind in Glastonbury. Her undivided attention seemed a small penance for what she owed her brother. How could she have been so blind, so self-absorbed, that she had not seen his peril? As she sat beside Andrew’s bed, her heart was gripped with fear for her brother—and for herself.

Could she bring herself to forgive him for what he had done? Even more difficult, could she find the strength to love him, knowing the secrets he had kept from her?

And if Andrew survived this, would he be able to live with his own terrible knowledge?

He stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. To her profound relief, he knew her instantly, and smiled. Then she saw the shadow of returning memory in his eyes and, with it, a recoil of horror and shame.

“Andrew, it’s going to be all right, I promise. We’re going to work through this together.”

He turned his face away.

Gemma and Kincaid found their way back to the ICU visitor’s area and sat down to wait for Winnie. Kincaid fidgeted, frowning abstractedly as he studied a bright print on the wall.

“What is it?” Gemma pressed. “Surely you don’t think Faith is to blame for hurting Andrew—”

“Of course not. It’s just that Greely’s inclined to consider the case tidily wrapped up. Convenient for him, but I don’t like it.”

“He assumes Garnet saw Andrew in the lane the night of Winnie’s accident, and later confronted him.”

“Right. And that would fit nicely—except for the fact
that Andrew’s alibi for the time of Winnie’s accident checked out. And if he were willing to
kill
Faith to keep his sister from finding out about their relationship, why would he have tried to hurt
Winnie
?”

Gemma thought for a bit. “Andrew’s affair with Faith must have started after Winnie met Jack, an act of emotional desperation, perhaps. When he discovered Faith was pregnant he cut her off, making her promise to tell no one. What a terrible irony that his rejection of Faith drove her to leave home, and led her to become friends with his sister.”

“If his motive in murdering Garnet was to keep her from telling Winnie, why would he kill Garnet the night
after
Winnie’s accident, when he didn’t know if Winnie would ever regain consciousness? Nor would it explain where Garnet drowned.”

“Bathtub? Kitchen sink?” Gemma offered.

“Then he cleaned up afterwards without leaving a trace? I suppose it’s possible. But something’s not right about this. Gemma, what happened up there on the Tor tonight? Was there something—” Kincaid broke off as the ICU door swung open.

Winnie came out and sat beside Gemma. Her face was bleak with exhaustion, and she closed her eyes briefly, seeming to gather strength.

“How is he?” Gemma asked.

“Resting comfortably, the doctor says. It’s too early to know if the swelling will return, but they think the prognosis is good.”

“He’s conscious? Did he—”

“No.” Winnie’s eyes filled with tears. “No, he didn’t tell me anything.”

They drove back to Glastonbury in silence. Glancing at Nick, Winnie wondered if it had been loyalty to Andrew
that had made Faith impervious to Nick’s determined assault on her affections. Perhaps now she would be able to truly see this young man.

“Faith!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even ask. Is she all right? And the baby?”

“She’s doing fine,” Gemma answered. “And the baby’s lovely. Faith’s called her Bridget.”

“St. Bride,” Winnie said softly. It was a good name, and fitting.
My niece
, she realized for the first time, and that brought the tears she had held in abeyance. She let them slip unchecked down her cheeks, the salt on her lips tasting like blood. Something good
had
come of all this, and that thought comforted her.

But as they crossed over the River Brue, she said suddenly, “I want to go to the Abbey.”

“But it’s closed,” Nick protested.

“Take me to the Silver Street gate, then. Please. I can’t explain—”

Duncan glanced back at her. “It’s all right. Just tell me where to go.”

“Past the Assembly Rooms, on the High Street. There’s a turning to the right.”

The gate at the bottom of Silver Street was kept locked, but as it was made of wrought iron, it was the one place you could see easily into the Abbey grounds. Duncan pulled up next to the rubbish bins and Winnie was out of the car before it had come to a full stop.

She stood at the gate and looked through. The sky had cleared, and in the moonlight the ruined church cast a shadow on the greensward. Why had she come here? What had called to her so powerfully?

Closing her eyes, she saw a different vision. She’d stood there in the sunlight, beneath the great stone transepts, and she had heard the music rising round her. The chant … she had heard the chant, and she had known it for what it was. The elation and the certainty of her experience filled her once again.

Without turning, she said, “Out of all the Grail mythology entwined with Glastonbury over the centuries, there is one legend that says the Grail is not an object—not a cup or a chalice—but a transcendent state of being, brought about by ritual and prayer. This chant that the monks of the Abbey were willing to sacrifice their lives for, that Edmund devoted himself to saving for future generations, is a part of that complex of rituals.

“I was here.” She turned to the others. “On the day of the accident. I remember now. I saw everything, and I felt I would burst with the joy of it.”

“And afterwards?” Duncan asked.

She frowned. “I went—I think I went to the Galatea. Then I rode to Pilton to make a bereavement call—Suzanne told me that. And then”—the scene flashed before her … the green of shimmering leaves and the sparkle of water—“why, I stopped to visit Simon. We had tea in his cottage garden, by the river. But why didn’t he say, when I couldn’t remember?”

“Simon lives by a river, and no one bothered to mention it?” Aghast, Gemma exchanged a look with Duncan.

Nick said, “But Jack’s gone to see—”

Duncan quelled him with a glance. “Let’s get back in the car, shall we?”

He stepped away and made a call on his mobile phone. After a moment, he hung up with a mutter of frustration and climbed in with them. “There’s no answer at Jack’s. Winnie, give us directions to Simon Fitzstephen’s cottage.”

Kincaid caught a glimpse of the tower of the medieval church as they passed, then Nick instructed him to make a left into a steep lane that dead-ended after a hundred yards. Jack’s blue Volvo was pulled up on the verge just past the cottage Nick and Winnie identified as Simon Fitzstephen’s.

As Kincaid parked behind Jack’s car, he told himself Jack was in no real danger; it was Winnie who was at risk.
He debated whether to insist she stay behind with Nick, or to keep her in his sight, and decided on the latter.

The damp fronds of a willow brushed his face as he got out of the car, and in the darkness the rushing of the stream was as loud as a roar.

Kincaid rang the bell, then immediately opened the door and called out, not wanting to give Fitzstephen a chance to do anything rash—although there was no reason for the man to get the wind up. He had, after all, been in and out of Jack’s house the last few days as calmly as you please: he had probably decided that Winnie was not going to recover any inconvenient memories.

Fitzstephen appeared in the hall and, when he saw them all gathered on his doorstep, made a gesture of surprise. “What is this, a delegation? Jack, look who’s here.” His ascetic face seemed flushed, his hair more unruly than usual. “This is delightful. Come in, come in.”

“Winnie! What are you doing here, darling?” Jack exclaimed.

“Do sit down,” said Simon. “Jack and I were having a celebratory Scotch, if anyone would care to join us.”

The chant manuscript lay open on the sitting-room table, their glasses beside it.

“We haven’t come to celebrate, Simon. There are some things we need to talk about.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone has been very ready to blame both Winnie’s accident and Garnet Todd’s death on Andrew Catesby,” continued Kincaid. “A convenient solution, at least until he’s able to defend himself.”

“If I know anything, it’s that Andrew would never have tried to hurt me,” said Winnie.

“No,” Kincaid agreed. “I don’t believe he would have either. In fact, I don’t think your accident, or Garnet’s death, had anything to do with Andrew
or
Faith. I think it was something else entirely.”

Simon sat down and reached for his glass. “Surely, Winifred’s accident was just that, an accident,” he said reasonably.

“No. Jack’s suspicions were quite valid. Someone deliberately struck Winnie that night. It was a daring move, and a foolhardy one, but there were tremendous stakes. You see, Winnie had realized that this chant”—Kincaid gestured towards the manuscript—“was quite special indeed. And she had shared that knowledge with only one person.

“Don’t you think it rather odd, Simon, that you neglected to mention to anyone that Winnie had come to see you that afternoon?”

“Why should I have mentioned it?” Simon sounded bewildered. “She’d come to pay a visit in the neighborhood, and stopped in afterwards for a cup of tea. What was so odd about that?”

“We talked about the chant, Simon.” Winnie stepped forward. “The twelve-part perpetual chant.”

“What on earth is going on here?” Jack asked. “What are you all talking about? Winnie—”

“I told Simon that I thought the chant was one of the rituals that makes up the Grail—”

“But the Grail is a myth,” protested Jack. “And even if it were true, how could a chant be a cup?”

“I don’t think the Grail
was
a cup. I think it was—is—a state of grace, and that this chant was one of the things used to create that state. When I asked Simon, as a fellow priest, what this meant for us, and for the Church, he said”—Winnie closed her eyes, as if trying to recall the exact words—“ ‘it wasn’t a valid construct, because our society was no longer theocentric.’ And then he suggested that I might be suffering from some sort of emotional hysteria as in, ‘middle-aged women in love have a tendency to become deranged.’ ”

Watching Simon’s face, she added softly, “Oh, yes, I remember it all, now. You thought you could put me off it, but after I left, you must have realized that wasn’t enough.
So you came after me. You waited for a chance to make sure I wouldn’t spread my theories any further.”

Fitzstephen lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Winifred, I don’t know what to say. We did talk about the chant, yes, but I never dreamed it was any more than a flight of fancy on your part. I can’t imagine you think I’d—”

“Did you think that if this came out it would ruin your reputation as a Grail scholar? Destroy all your well-researched theories? Or did you think you’d somehow manage to take credit for the discovery? You’ve always been unscrupulous, Simon, willing to use other people’s work as it suited you, but—”

“Has everyone forgotten Garnet Todd?” Kincaid asked. “You and Garnet went back a long way, didn’t you, Simon? Friends—maybe even lovers at some time?”

“What has my relationship with Garnet to do with this?”

“I believe that Garnet knew—or at least suspected—that your motives might not be in line with the rest of the group. Perhaps she’d followed Winnie that night, wanting to talk to her about Faith, or perhaps she just happened to see you coming out of Lypatt Lane, and once she learned of Winnie’s accident she put two and two together.

“Did she come to see you the next night, determined to confront you about the attempt on Winnie’s life? Did you have drinks in the garden? And when you realized what she knew, did you ask her to look at something in the stream? Did you—”

“No, wait,” interrupted Jack. “I’ve just remembered! We were looking for Faith that evening. I rang you and asked you to check the farmhouse, as Garnet didn’t have a phone, and you said you would go.”

“I did.” Simon had stiffened in his chair. “There was no one there, and I came home again. As for the evening of Winifred’s accident, I had a speaking engagement in Bristol, in front of two hundred people, if anyone bothered
to check. I left shortly after Winifred’s visit and didn’t return until midnight. You are all mad, utterly mad.”