A Finer End (24 page)

“Even if Faith were physically capable of strangling or suffocating Garnet, why would she do such a thing? Maybe someone killed Garnet to keep her from hurting
Faith.”

“Nick, for instance?” Checking the map again, Kincaid directed, “Right at the next roundabout. The B and B should be just along Magdalene Street.”

Gemma made the turn and slowed, searching for the B & B’s sign. “I’d like to know what Winnie Catesby’s brother was doing poking about Garnet Todd’s place.”

“I suppose we could have a chat with Mr. Catesby as well. There!”

Gemma swung the car too sharply into the gravel drive of a square, well-kept Georgian house, red brick with white trim. Kincaid got out and rang the bell, and soon returned with a pleasant young man who opened the security gate for them and directed Gemma where to park.

The young man informed them that their room was in the coach house, and while the men removed the bags from the boot, Gemma looked round with pleasure. The coach house stood at the end of the drive, separated from the main house by a formally landscaped garden, and protected from the noise and traffic of the busy street.

Inside proved as delightful as the exterior, and as Gemma followed the men up a graceful staircase, she was thankful not to be spending the night in Jack’s dark house beneath the Tor. “The Acacia Room,” the young man told them when they’d reached their room, and Gemma’s first thought
was that “Rose” would have been more appropriate, for it was done in soft shades of that color. A bay window on the front looked over the drive.

As Kincaid thanked the young man and closed the door, Gemma went to the north window and pulled aside the lace curtain. Below her was a square pool with a fountain, canopied by a tree with the most beautiful bark she had ever seen. Patterned in shades from the palest green to deepest russet, it reminded her of an abstract painting.

“The tree—what is it?” she asked as Kincaid came to stand behind her.

“An acacia. Lovely, isn’t it?” He put his hands on her shoulders and she leaned back against him. Her gaze traveled upward, over the garden wall, and she gave an involuntary gasp of surprise. “What is that?” She pointed at the view of rolling, emerald-green grounds and, just visible through the trees, a round stone building.

“It’s the Abbey,” he replied, sounding amused. “You didn’t know?”

“Right in the center of the town?”

“Mm-hmm. The Abbey came first, and the town grew up around it.”

“And that?” She gestured at the round structure.

“The Abbot’s Kitchen. It’s the only intact building in the precinct, saved—if I remember correctly—because after the dissolution the Quakers used it for a meetinghouse. See the four chimneys, large enough that the Abbot could roast whole pigs or oxen for his guests.”

“Doesn’t sound a very religious life, throwing big parties.”

“And
they drank a lot of wine. It was a very political life. If an abbot wanted his establishment to prosper, he had to butter the right bread.”

Gemma laughed. “I think you’ve mixed your metaphors. How is it that you know these things?”

“I was an annoyingly curious child. It’s a good thing I found an outlet for it as an adult, or I’d very likely have
come to a bad end.” He wrapped his arms round her for a moment, then released her. “I’ve got to make some calls before we go out again, if you want to unpack.”

“Nick’s bookshop is just down the street, isn’t it? Why don’t I see if I can turn up his address, then meet you back here. That way we’ll save a bit of time.”

She started up Magdalene Street, eager to see more of the Abbey, but after a briefly tantalizing glimpse through an iron railing, her view was blocked by the public toilets, then a hideous public car park. Past that, she glimpsed the tunnel-like entrance to the Abbey and, on the opposite side of the street, Nick’s bookshop.

She accomplished her errand at the bookshop quickly. The shop’s owner informed her that Nick wasn’t on the telephone, but told her how to find his caravan in Compton Dundon.

Thanking the woman, Gemma went back out into the street. She crossed to the paved area surrounding the Market Cross, where Magdalene Street met the High Street, and looked up the High, taking stock of the town. It seemed pleasant but unremarkable, except for the high incidence of New Age shops offering candles, artwork, crystals, clothing, and every sort of healing imaginable.

Turning away, she walked back the way she had come. This time when she reached the Abbey entrance, she turned in. At the end of the flower-lined passage she found a separate gift shop as well as the entrance to the Abbey museum and grounds. Posted signs directed her past the museum’s exhibits and the brass-rubbing station, and at last she stepped through the door that led to the Abbey ruins.

Directly across the sweeping expanse of lawn lay the Abbot’s Kitchen and, nearer to her, a partial ruin whose shape made her think of a cauliflower. But it was to the left that she was drawn, past the smaller, more complete church and the discreet sign that designated it as the Lady Chapel, towards the twin towers whose silhouette seemed as familiar to her as the shape of her hand. The grass seemed
greener, the sky bluer, than any she had seen before, and there was a quality of stillness to the air that she had never experienced.

She walked slowly, the grass springing beneath her feet, past the single standing wall of the nave, until she reached her destination. The “North Transept,” and the “South Transept,” the signs read. This had been the great central aisle of the church, not the entrance, as she had initially thought. She gazed up, marveling at the human ingenuity that had constructed such things.

She had no sense of time passing, or of anything other than the immediate moment. It seemed nothing could disturb the peace within the precinct walls, and with a newly comprehended horror, she thought of the story Jack had told them of the monks murdered by their own abbot.

It was only when she reached down to touch the stone of what had been the High Altar that she chanced to see her watch. An hour had gone since she entered the Abbey gate. To her it had seemed only minutes. Kincaid would think her lost, or kidnapped.

As she hurried back towards the entrance, it occurred to her that perhaps those alternatives were no stranger than the truth—but how could she tell him that she had been spellbound?

Kincaid had long since finished his phone calls and given up peering out the front window. Although he was tempted to go looking for Gemma, he stuck by his rule of staying put when separated. Perhaps she’d found Nick Carlisle at the bookshop after all and taken the young man for a coffee.

Instead, he stretched out on the bed and mulled over the unanticipated events of the hours since their arrival. He had expected to spend a couple of days reassuring his cousin over the matter of his girlfriend’s accident. What he had got instead was a murder; a likely attempted murder; the
possibility that Jack’s friend Nick might be the prime suspect in the murder inquiry; and the bizarre phenomenon of Jack writing out messages from a monk dead more than eight hundred years. The complications arising from any of these items were mind-boggling.

He should have known better. If it turned out that Nick Carlisle was guilty of murder, and he participated in bringing him to book, then his relationship with his cousin might be irreparably damaged. He’d seen similar situations too often. The job didn’t mix with friends and family.

And there was the matter of Gemma’s apparent rapport with the girl Faith. Already Gemma seemed inclined to defend her, and Kincaid suspected that if Carlisle had indeed murdered Garnet, Faith had been an accessory to some degree. Gemma had been touchy enough lately without adding emotional involvement in what should be a professional matter.

But he could hardly turn tail and go back to London at this point, especially if there were any chance that Winnie Catesby might still be in danger.

That left Jack. His cousin had never been given to flights of fancy, and he certainly seemed normal enough now, except for the automatic writing. And as Kincaid had no logical explanation for what he had seen with his own eyes, for the time being he supposed he would have to take communications from Edmund of Glastonbury at face value.

Glancing restively at his watch, Kincaid thought that unless Gemma
had
found Carlisle, they would be looking for his caravan in the dark. Just as he swung his legs off the bed and stood, he heard quick footsteps on the stairs.

“What on earth happened to you?” he demanded as Gemma came in. She looked flushed and disheveled, as if she’d been hurrying.

“Oh—I was … I stopped at the Abbey, just for a bit.” She went to the dressing table and, unfastening her hair, brushed it out. “I’ve got the directions, such as they are. Just give me
a second, then we’ll go.” She replaited her hair with a speed he always found amazing, then turned to him with a smile. “Ready?”

“That’s Wearyall.” Kincaid pointed at the long, humped hill on their left as they left Glastonbury. “According to the legend, it was the first land sighted by Joseph of Arimathea after his voyage from the Holy Land.”

“This was underwater?” Gemma asked, surprised. They were heading west, towards the larger town of Street, only two miles away, then south to the village of Compton Dundon.

“Almost the entire area. That’s why they call it the Isle of Avalon. At one time, Glastonbury Tor must have been the only thing above water for miles. And that,” he continued as they crossed a sluggish little stream, “is the River Brue. I was devastated as a child when I learned that this was the site of the Pons Perilis, the bridge where King Arthur had his vision of the Virgin Mary.”

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Gemma agreed. They were coming into Street. The town seemed both more prosperous and more suburban than Glastonbury, if less charming. As they quickly left it behind, a ridge of hills rose to their left, lit by the western sun.

“It’s pretty country,” Gemma said a bit wistfully.

Kincaid gave her an amused glance. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into a country girl. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just—” She stopped, having no idea how to explain the sudden longing that had swept over her for the peaceful, rolling landscape. Instead, she shrugged. “Maybe I just needed a break, that’s all.” But, for the first time, she wondered how much Kincaid had missed his native Cheshire.

“Carefully, now,” he said, glancing at the map. “It’s this side of Compton Dundon.”

She nodded, slowing, and soon found the turning—and a mile or two up the lane, in a farmer’s field, the caravan. The latter had seen better days, and looked forlorn with only a few scraggly sheep for company. Nick Carlisle’s motorbike was parked near the door.

“Let’s leave the car by the road and walk, shall we?” Kincaid suggested. “That field looks a bit treacherous.”

Gemma found a wide spot in the verge to park and they picked their way across the rutted, mucky ground. “Rain must have been heavier here,” she said softly, then fell silent as they approached the caravan. There was no sound of music or telly, and Kincaid’s rap on the door shattered the air like gunshot.

Nick opened the door quickly, paling when he saw them. “What is it? What’s happened? Is Faith—”

“No, she’s fine,” Gemma hastened to reassure him.

“Then what—”

“We just wanted a word. Can we come in?”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stepped back, holding the door for them. “My humble abode. And it
is
humble.”

Not only humble, but untidy, thought Gemma as she surveyed the space. It was essentially one room, with a kitchenette at one end, a sleeping area at the other, and a partition at the back that must house shower and toilet. Dishes were piled on the draining board and clothes strewn on the floor, but the majority of the clutter consisted of books. They filled every available space. There were even a few stacks that appeared to be permanently installed on the bed, as if Nick arranged himself around them when he slept.

Nick looked tired and rumpled; he gazed at them, then looked round the room with a perplexed expression, as if unsure what to do with visitors.

Kincaid gestured towards the small table. “Perhaps we could sit down?”

“Oh. Right.” Nick hurried to clear two of the chairs of
books and papers, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor, then pulled out the chairs with an air of triumph. “Tea?”

Gemma averted her eyes from the kitchen. “No, no, we’re fine, really. We just wanted to have a chat about yesterday.”

Nick flipped the third chair round and straddled it, watching them warily. “Okay. Chat away.”

“You said that you looked everywhere for Faith yesterday afternoon and evening,” Kincaid said easily. When Carlisle nodded confirmation, he continued. “But you didn’t go to the farmhouse?”

This time the young man’s nod was less assertive.

“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Gemma asked. “It would seem the obvious place to start.”

“I—I promised Faith I wouldn’t go there. Garnet didn’t like it when I did.”

“But you were obviously worried about Faith,” said Kincaid. “And you’d told her to look at Garnet’s van. If it had been me, and I thought Garnet might have been responsible for Winnie’s accident, and then Faith disappeared, I’d have turned that place upside down looking for her.”

“I—” Nick hesitated. Then his resolve seemed to harden. “Look. I know you’re Jack’s cousin, but I don’t see that this is any business of yours. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Because a woman is dead, and fresh tracks from your motorbike are all over her yard,” Kincaid replied sharply. “And because Jack asked us to have a word with you before we brought that to Inspector Greely’s attention. Jack was sure you’d have a good explanation.”

Nick looked from Kincaid to Gemma, dismay written on his face. “Oh, shit. I didn’t think of that.”

“You were there.” Gemma made it a statement.

“I was worried about Faith. I went to the farmhouse to talk to her, even though I knew she’d be furious with me.”

“Did you see Garnet?”