A Finer End (12 page)

Kincaid frowned. “Ian’s thinking of taking a job in Canada. Kit wants to stay with me if Ian goes, but I haven’t been able to get a commitment out of Ian either way. The last thing Kit needs is to be uprooted. And I want him here.”

“But how would you manage?” she asked, thinking of the conflict with the job—and of the changes it would mean in her relationship with him.

“How much more difficult could it be than the weekends he spends here now?”

A good bit
, she thought, but aloud she said merely, “What if Ian won’t agree?” She had never trusted McClellan’s sudden desire to make things up to Kit.

“We’ll deal with that if it happens. It’s not even positive about the job yet.”

Gemma sat forward and peered down into the garden. The roses were lush with late summer’s passion, but the rectangle of lawn was as primly tidy as ever. “Where
is
Kit tonight? I thought he’d be with you for the weekend.”

“In Grantchester, getting Tess ready for an obedience trial tomorrow. I’ll go up in the morning.”

Gemma felt suddenly excluded, as if they’d done a perfectly good job of carving out a life without her. And yet she knew that was unreasonable—wasn’t she the one who had chosen to go away? “I thought I’d see you at the Yard today,” she said, striving for firmer ground. “Tough case?”

“Wrapped up today, barring the paperwork, and that I’ve turned over to my sergeant.” He gave her a wicked grin. “Serves him right for being such a bloody eager beaver.”

“Wasn’t I?”

“Not like this. He’s a public-school boy—Eton, no less—and full of do-gooder’s enthusiasm for the job. Hasn’t learned he can’t change the world yet.”

“What’s his name?” she asked casually. Surely it was ridiculous to be jealous of this young man who had taken her place.

“Doug Cullen. He’s not a bad chap, really, and I think he’ll make a decent copper once he’s seasoned a bit. At any rate he’s intelligent, and that’s an enormous improvement over the last two they assigned me.” He took a sip of his beer and studied her. “You’ll be bossing sweet young things about yourself, any day now. How does it feel?”

She heard the distance in his tone and said awkwardly, “Don’t know yet, really.” He’d given her an opening, and the longer she waited to take it, the more difficult it would be. Abruptly, she said, “I’ve got my duty assignment. Notting Hill.”

For a moment he didn’t respond, then, without taking his gaze from the garden, he said softly, “Your old stomping ground. Good. That should make things easier for you. Congratulations,” he added, but she could see it took an effort.

“This has been harder than I expected.”

“Gemma, I’ve no doubt you can do the job—”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I feel so … displaced … without you. It’s like half of me’s missing. I never realized …”

He stared at her, then said lightly, “And I thought you’d come to give me a ‘Dear Duncan’ send-off in person.
I met this terrific bloke on my Criminal Behavior course …
”

“Fat chance, that!” she exclaimed, laughing.

He moved his bare foot along the railing until it touched hers. “I’ve missed you too.”

The wave of desire that washed over her from that small contact was so intense it left her shaken. She closed her eyes and held quite still, struggling to convince herself that every nerve ending in her body hadn’t suddenly migrated to the left side of her left foot.

When she opened her eyes, Kincaid was watching her. “Gemma? You okay?”

Tentatively, she said, “Just exactly how much did you miss me?”

He brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “Are you angling for a demonstration, Inspector?”

Her pulse leapt. “Yes, sir, guv’ner, sir.” The lights blinked on in the house opposite, as if to signal the coming of night. “You can’t make a case without evidence, you know.”

“Oh, I think that could be obtained easily enough, don’t you?” He stood, and she caught the flash of his grin as he held out his hand to her. She slipped her fingers into his, and willingly gave herself up.

S
HE LAY BESIDE
him, listening to his soft breathing, with the slight whistle on the exhalation that might easily become a snore. That she found tolerable, much to her surprise, even though she had slept alone for so many years.

Not that Winnie felt entirely comfortable with the fact that she
was
sleeping with Jack, and she knew the excuse that the transgressions of a number of Anglican priests far surpassed hers was no justification. But she also knew that it felt right, blessed, and she could not believe that God would find such joy offensive. God had more to worry him than a bit of out-of-wedlock lovemaking … as did she.

Easing out of bed, she fumbled for slippers and dressing gown, then remembered that she had not meant to stay and that her clothes lay in a heap on the floor. That meant borrowing Jack’s dressing gown from the bedpost and slipping on thick socks.

She had learned her way round this room, which had been Jack’s parents’, well enough to navigate in the dark. The first time she had stayed the night, Jack had admitted rather shamefacedly that he had been using the small single bed in his boyhood room, unable to bear the thought of taking over the mahogany four-poster in which his parents had slept for almost fifty years. But the single bed had not been big enough for two, and together they had made the transition to the larger bedroom.

If she had thought the house cold on bright summer days, now that October had arrived it was frigid. Winnie sometimes fancied that it was the shadow of the Tor that kept it so, but that was absurd. It was merely, she told herself, shivering, that the house was old and the central heating inadequate.

As she shuffled down the stairs, hugging the banister, she indulged a moment’s fantasy in which she and Jack were snuggled up cozily in her warm room at the Vicarage. But she knew that no matter how discreet they were, tongues would wag eventually, and she did
not
need more
gossip just now. Her archdeacon, Suzanne Sanborne, already had expressed concern over rumors circulating about Winnie’s “dabbling in the paranormal,” and this Winnie suspected had been instigated by Andrew.

Andrew had apologized to her after their row, and she’d made every effort to smooth things over, but there remained a wedge of discomfort between them that she feared might never be healed. His criticism had hurt her deeply, and she was finding forgiveness difficult. “Practice what you preach, Winnie,” she whispered as she reached the kitchen.

Switching on the light over the table, she opened the fridge and filled a mug with milk, then popped it in the microwave.

Jack could teach her a thing or two about forgiveness, she thought as she retrieved her drink and breathed in the sweet, comforting smell of scalded milk. Once she’d finally worked up her nerve that evening over dinner to tell Jack about her past relationship with Simon Fitzstephen, he had merely said gently, “I never believed you were a saint, Winnie. I hate to think you’ve been worrying over this for months.”

“You don’t mind?”

“The thought of you with another man does give me a twinge,” he admitted. “But it was a long time ago, and I don’t see how it affects us now.”

“I haven’t told you why I broke it off.” Winnie hesitated, piecing together a story that she’d kept to herself for more than a decade. “There was another student, Ray, a protégé of Simon’s. He was killed in an auto accident.”

“You were friends?”

“Yes. He’d have made a good priest—a very compassionate man, with a real gift for pastoral care. But he was a scholar as well, and he worshiped Simon. If Ray had lived, I think he’d have outgrown it in time, but he wasn’t given the chance.”

Frowning, Jack said, “Tragic, but I don’t see how this reflects on Simon.”

“Ray was working on a research project under Simon’s tutelage, an exploration of an obscure thirteenth-century Grail legend. When Ray was killed, Simon published the paper as his own.”

“But surely there was some mistake—”

“No mistake. A few months after Ray’s death, his family asked me to sort through his things. I found the original. When I confronted Simon, he said the work was his, that Ray had merely been transcribing it for him.”

“Of course, that would be it,” Jack said with evident relief.

“But Ray left notes, extensive ones. There was absolutely no doubt that he had done the research
and
written the paper.”

Digesting this, Jack asked, “Did you tell anyone?”

Winnie felt herself flushing. “No. Simon said he’d make a fool of me to the bishop, that he’d say I was acting out of spite because he’d rejected me, and that he’d make sure I never got a good living. He had the influence to do it too. So I convinced myself that it was a minor academic point, nothing that really mattered to anyone—and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”

Jack covered her hand with his. “You were young, inexperienced—”

She shook her head. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I know that. But I also know that you can’t trust Simon Fitzstephen. He would betray you in an instant if it was to his advantage.”

“But there’s nothing to betray,” protested Jack. “What could Simon possibly have to gain by helping me?”

“I don’t know. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

She had had to be content with that. Jack had insisted on giving Simon the benefit of the doubt, and she realized she wouldn’t choose to change that about him—it was one of the reasons she loved him.

If only her brother was as generous, Winnie thought, finding herself back at the problem that had initially kept her from falling asleep. She could see no way to mollify
Andrew other than to give up seeing Jack, which she was not willing to do, or to convince Jack to give up his communication with Edmund, which he was not willing to do—even if it were possible. This rift in her relationship with her brother nagged her like a toothache.

Sipping her milk, she thought of Faith Wills, and Andrew’s criticism of her intercession in Faith’s affairs. Andrew had been vindicated, in a sense, as things had certainly not turned out as Winnie had hoped, but she still felt strongly that she had done the right thing. Faith had agreed to see her mother, had even set a time to meet at the Vicarage, then had abruptly changed her mind. Winnie had not been able to budge the girl from her decision, and Faith had offered no excuse. The closer Faith came to her due date, only a few weeks away now at the end of October, the more concerned Winnie became about her.

Although Garnet had assured her that Faith was doing well and the pregnancy seemed normal, Winnie sensed that Garnet was holding something back—and that both Faith and Garnet were avoiding her. Had she unwittingly alienated them by her efforts to reunite Faith with her parents?

Nor had the tension between Nick and Garnet abated, as their mutual concern for Faith only seemed to increase their antagonism.

And as far as Winnie knew, no one in the group seemed to have gained any true understanding of what it was that Edmund wanted of them.

Sighing, Winnie set down her empty cup and rubbed her face. Tired, but no closer to sleep, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were building to some sort of climax, and she found no comfort in the passage from Ephesians that came suddenly to mind.
For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh … but against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places
. Could there be some truth in Garnet’s dire forecasts of doom and dark forces?

No, surely not. That was absurd. But whatever the cause of the foreboding she felt, she must protect Jack as best she could—and she could only do that if she knew exactly what she was up against.

As much as she disliked the idea, it was time she had a confrontation with Simon Fitzstephen … and she mustn’t let herself forget that it was she who held the upper hand.

With a decision made, she rinsed her cup in the sink, switched off the lamp, and climbed the stairs. Diving under the covers, she snuggled up to Jack’s solid warmth and fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

We who watch … rue the day of Thurstan’s coming.… Darkness came upon us then.…

Simon Fitzstephen sat next to Jack Montfort at the round table in Fitzstephen’s sitting room, translating aloud what Montfort had just scrawled on the page in his notebook. A fire crackled in the grate, John Rutter’s arrangement of William Byrd’s
Miserere mei
played softly on the stereo, and they had drawn the heavy velvet drapes against the coming of evening.

Having invited Jack on the pretext of continuing their genealogical research, Simon had encouraged him to try asking Edmund for information once more. Fitzstephen was convinced that the presence of the others in the group hampered the automatic-writing process: it looked as though the results of this session might prove him right.

Thurstan had been the first Norman abbot at Glastonbury, brought from Caen in France by King William after the Conquest to succeed Aethelnoth. By Simon’s reckoning, Edmund must have been in his early teens when Thurstan became abbot in 1077.

Jack’s hand again moved across the paper.
The church was never finished … it was cursed. One day the Abbot went into the Chapter House and spoke against the monks. He sent for his men and they fell upon us fully armed. We scattered in terror. Some fled
into the church, thinking to be safe there. But evil … that day … the Frenchmen broke into the choir.… Some shot arrows towards the sanctuary so that they stuck in the Cross that stood above the altar. Many … monks were wounded … three were killed. Blood came from the altar onto the steps, and from the steps onto the paving stones.…