A Finer End (31 page)

Kincaid grinned. “I expect you’re right. Why don’t you have a rest, and I’ll bring you a cuppa in a bit. How’s Faith?”

“Holding up, but terribly worried about Nick. No one’s heard a word from him.”

“I’ll go and have a chat with her.”

He found Faith in the kitchen.

“I see you managed to conjure up something to feed the masses,” he told her, and was rewarded by a smile.

“I made Jack run me to the supermarket this morning, before he went to collect Winnie. There’s fresh bread and roast beef, if you’d like a sandwich.”

“I stopped on the way back from Bath, thanks.” He pulled out a chair. “Are you not joining in the Great Treasure Hunt?”

“I’m going in to the café until closing time. Buddy rang—he’s desperate for help. Sunday’s a big day, with all the weekend climbers.” She watched him, her chin up, as if bracing to counter a negative reaction.

“Are you sure you feel up to it?” Kincaid asked gently.

“I’m fine. And it’s only for a couple of hours.”

“I’ll run you up to the café, then, and pick you up at closing—”

“I can walk,” she said acidly. “I’m pregnant, not crippled.”

“Faith, it’s your safety I’m thinking about. Until we know more about what happened to Garnet—and to Winnie—I’d just as soon you didn’t go out on your own if it can be helped.”

“Don’t tell me you think Nick—”

“I didn’t say a word about Nick, and, no, I don’t think it’s likely that Nick had anything to do with Garnet’s death. But why do you suppose he hasn’t rung or come by the house?”

Faith grasped the back of a chair. “I don’t know. That day, when he came into the café and said I should check Garnet’s fender … I was so furious. I told him to get out. But we’ve had rows before.…”

“You don’t think he’s still angry with you—”

“And now, because of me, the police think he … I’d say he’s got good reason to be narked with me.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. But if you like, I’ll have a look for him after I drop you at the café.”

“Could you?”

“Any suggestions as to where, other than the caravan?”

“He likes to go to the Galatea, on the High Street. And the Assembly Rooms café.”

“Do you know anything about Nick, where he comes from, for instance?”

“Somewhere in Northumberland. He’s got a first from Durham in philosophy or something. And I think his mum is well off.”

“So why is he working as a clerk in a bookshop?”

“I don’t know. He’s always on at me about finishing my education, but I can’t see that it’s done much for him.”

“What about Garnet? Do you know anything about her background?”

“Not much,” Faith replied. “Her parents died when she was fairly young, and she didn’t have any other family. She came to Glastonbury for the first Pilton Festival, in ’71, and stayed. What do you suppose will happen to her house?”

“Did she leave a will?”

“She never mentioned one.”

“If she died intestate it will be a complicated process, but I’d imagine the property would eventually go to the county. Unless, of course, some long-lost relative comes out of the woodwork.” It was a remote possibility that some distant cousin had decided the property might be worth murdering Garnet, but one they should check. “Do you know anything about Garnet’s friends?”

“She knew people in the Archaeological Society, because of her restoration work. And then there’s Buddy, of course. They’ve been friends for ages.”

“Buddy’s your boss?”

“Yes. And he’ll be run off his feet if I don’t get to work.”

Kincaid fished his car keys from his pocket. “Faith, on the night of Winnie’s accident, what exactly did Garnet say when she left the house?”

Faith snatched a shapeless cardigan from the peg on the
kitchen door as they passed. “She said … ‘I have to go. I’m late for an appointment.’ ”

“And you assumed it was a delivery?”

“She’d said so in the café, when Winnie invited us to Jack’s.”

A peek into the sitting room showed Winnie not waiting for the tea he’d promised, but fast asleep on the sofa.

When they reached the Escort, Faith said, “I like your car. It’s purple.”

“Wild Orchid, actually. But it’s not mine. It’s Gemma’s.”

Faith gave him a sideways glance as she stretched the seat belt around her stomach. “She’s nice.”

“Very nice,” Kincaid agreed.

“She said she has a little boy, and she’s raised him by herself since he was born.”

“That’s right.” Kincaid answered cautiously, wondering where this was going. “It hasn’t always been easy, but she’s done a terrific job.”

“What about his father?”

“He and Gemma divorced just after Toby was born, and he disappeared not too long afterwards. Didn’t want to pay his child support.”

Faith digested this in silence as they drove to the café.

“Not all men are like that, you know,” Kincaid offered. “Are you wondering if your baby’s father will help you?”

“I don’t need his help.” Her voice had grown steely.

“Faith, Gemma and I went to see your parents this morning.”

“But I—You didn’t tell them—”

“No, we didn’t tell them where you were. But we
did
promise we’d tell you how much they want you to come home.”

“That’s the last thing my father would want!”

“I think your dad misses you. It’s just hard for him to say so. Sometimes love and anger and worry get all tangled up, and the wrong thing somehow spills out.”

Faith was out of her seat belt as he came to a stop in
front of the café, but not before he’d seen the tears in her eyes.

“I’ve got to go. You can pick me up at five if you want.”

“I think I’ll come in for a cup of tea,” Kincaid decided abruptly. “I’d like to meet Buddy.”

“Charles Barnes,” said the café’s proprietor, gripping Kincaid’s hand. “But most folks call me Buddy. What can I do for you?”

“Just a few minutes of your time, if you can spare it.”

“Sure, I can. Any friend of Jack Montfort’s is a friend of mine.” Buddy motioned Kincaid to a seat at a nearby table. “He’s been good to Faith. Garnet would have”—he cleared his throat—“Garnet would have appreciated that.”

“Garnet was fond of Faith, I take it.”

“More than fond,” Buddy replied. Glancing at Faith, busy in the kitchen, he lowered his voice. “There were times I wished I’d never told her about Faith, thinking to do a favor for them both. Garnet worried about her so, you’d have thought she’d brought that girl into the world herself. And now what’s going to happen to Faith, with Garnet gone? I’ll keep her on here, after the kid’s born, but she’s got no place to live.”

“Have you any idea why Garnet was so concerned about Faith’s welfare?”

“She talked about the Tor, and about Faith being a magnet for the old powers, but there was nothing concrete. Garnet always had a bee in her bonnet about that stuff.”

“You knew her for a long time, Faith said.”

His weathered face creased in a smile. “We were going to change the world, you know? Who’d have thought we’d end up old hippies, stuck to the side of Glastonbury Tor like burrs. Although I guess you could say Bram and Fiona made something of themselves, but they couldn’t leave Glastonbury either.”

“You all knew each other?” Kincaid asked, surprised.

“Oh, we were tight, the four of us. Fiona and me, Bram and Garnet. But then things changed. They always do, don’t they? Bram set his sights on Fiona, and Garnet and I … Well, we made the best of things. Garnet bought the old Kinnersley place for a song, and I suppose I thought we’d just go on forever.…” He lapsed into silence.

“Why did Garnet never have the old farmhouse modernized?”

“Habit, mostly,” Buddy said fondly. “At first she couldn’t afford it, then she just got used to it, I reckon. And I think she liked the reputation it earned her.”

“It can’t have been easy for her, living there alone.”

“Not as hard as you might think. She had indoor plumbing, fed from the spring above the house, and the woodstove heated the water. And I don’t think she missed things like television all that much. Garnet never had any trouble keeping herself occupied.”

So Garnet could have drowned in water from her own taps
, Kincaid thought, but he said merely, “But she was lonely, I expect, until Faith came along.”

“I expect she was.” Buddy said it quietly. His glance in Faith’s direction made it clear that the girl’s presence had filled more than one void.

There was no sign of Nick’s motorbike outside his caravan, and no answer to Kincaid’s knock.

Making the return journey to Glastonbury, Kincaid found a parking spot on the High Street. He and Gemma had lunched in the Café Galatea the previous day, and the pretty dark-haired waitress smiled in recognition as he came in.

He waited until she’d finished serving the nearest table, then asked her quietly if she knew Nick Carlisle.

“Nick who works in the bookshop down Magdalene Street? Yeah, sure.”

“Has he been in today?”

“No. Yesterday, though. Late. Moped over his coffee like he’d just lost his best friend,” she added, with an air of disappointment.

Thanking her, Kincaid crossed the street and ducked into the stone passageway that led to the Glastonbury Assembly Rooms. The doors stood open and he climbed the stairs to the café on the first floor. It was only semi-partitioned from the corridor and the meeting room, but it was an inviting, comfortable-looking space, if a wee bit scruffy. Ella Fitzgerald crooned Cole Porter over the sound system, and several tables were occupied by customers bent over books or newspapers, enjoying the Sunday-afternoon lull. He went through the buffet queue and, when he reached the register, struck up a conversation with the cashier, a pleasant woman wearing a baseball cap. When they’d discussed the cake and the weather, he asked her if she knew Nick. “Tall, slender chap, with dark curly hair?”

“Who could forget Nick?” she said, laughing. “Comes in all the time.”

“Has he been in today?”

“As a matter of fact, he has.”

Kincaid pounced on the slight hesitation. “Was there something odd today?”

“Nick usually comes in on his own, has a meal or a coffee—always chats me up—but today he was deep into it with a strange bunch, at the table in the corner there.” She nodded towards a table beside the worn sofa.

“Strange, how?”

The woman shrugged. “Well, you know Glastonbury—you see all kinds. I’ve been here twenty years and nothing surprises me. But this bunch, they’re
serious
pagans. Moonlight rituals on the Tor, that sort of thing. Gives me the willies, and I wouldn’t have thought that was Nick’s style.” She eyed him more critically. “Is there some reason you’re looking for Nick?”

“Just a friend passing through, wanted to say hello. He’s not on the telephone, so he can be the devil to get in touch
with.” Giving her a reassuring smile, he took his coffee and gingerbread to a table beside the disused fireplace, mulling over this latest bit of information. Who were these people? Druids? Witches? And just what was handsome young Nick up to now?

“Any joy?” Kincaid asked, sitting down on a tufted ottoman.

Winnie looked up from a thick batch of papers. “No, but it’s interesting reading. These are estate documents—it seems the Montforts have owned property in this area practically forever.”

“I suppose that follows. But Uncle John never talked much about his family.”

“What was he like?” Winnie nodded towards the silver-framed photos on the bookcase. “I can see that Jack resembles him.”

“In looks, yes, but Jack’s much more like his mother in temperament. Uncle John was terribly reserved”—he pulled a long face—“and I always wondered how he and Aunt Olivia ended up together. When we went on holiday, he never joined any of our activities. He always had more important things to do.”

“Was it just you and Jack and your mothers, then?”

“And my pesky sister. And sometimes my dad, when he could get away.”

“It sounds lovely,” Winnie said a little wistfully, then looked back at the papers in her hand. “Do you think Jack’s father felt that family history and stories were frivolous?”

“A waste of valuable time, I’d guess. Uncle John read
The Times
from front to back every day of his life.” When Winnie laughed, he added, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. My uncle was a kind man, of good character, and I’m sure he was well respected—although I never thought about those things as a child. But he wasn’t the sort to build stage sets in the back garden and help put on productions of
Peter Pan.”

“And your dad was?”

“Always ready for an adventure, my dad. And speaking of adventures—I think it’s time I see what Jack’s got himself into in the attic. Can I get you anything else?”

Winnie demurred, and was already immersed in her papers as he left the room.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he thought about his family, so taken for granted in childhood. He had assumed that everyone’s parents were interested in their children’s doings, and that all fathers participated in their children’s lives.

The downside to possessing a creative and involved father, however, had been that his dad sometimes forgot to take care of mundane matters like the electricity bill, and he remembered more than one occasion when they had camped out in the house by candlelight until things could be put right. Fortunately, his mother had possessed a practical streak that he suspected his aunt Olivia had not shared, and she’d managed to keep things running smoothly most of the time.

It had been a while since he’d been home—he should take Kit to visit his grandparents, now that the boy had had a chance to get used to the idea. And he would ask Gemma and Toby too. They could make a proper holiday of it.

Jack had lowered the drop-down staircase at the end of the corridor. The creak of the springs as Kincaid climbed it brought back memories of childhood visits to the cavernous attic. As he emerged into the open space, he saw that Jack had rigged a work lamp on a flex cord, illuminating the space between the gray-filmed windows at either end.

Jack, on his knees in jeans and a very dirty sweatshirt, dug through a tin trunk. He looked up at Kincaid, wiping a hand across his forehead and leaving a large grimy smear. “This is a bloody nightmare. I can’t pass up anything, because I’ve no idea what might be important.”