A Finer End

Her fingers closed on the handle of Garnet’s cast-iron frying pan. She lifted it, vaguely aware of a tearing in her wrist from its weight, then swung it with all her strength.

The blow caught Andrew in the temple.

She saw the flare of astonishment in his eyes, then his hold on her throat gave way and he crumpled, toppling back against the table. He grasped at it, pulling himself up; Faith swung the frying pan again.

Andrew slumped to the floor.

Faith stood over him, panting and trembling. There was no blood. If she moved, would he come at her again?

Then she gasped as pain gripped her, doubling her over, squeezing at her, and a gush of warm liquid ran down her legs. When she could stand upright again, she inched round Andrew’s still form, whimpering in terror.

She had to get out, away from the house. Away from him.

Stumbling out the door and down the steps, she ran through the downpour across the mud-slick yard to the back gate, and, once through it, onto the rocky slope of the Tor.

Up. She must go up. Blinded by the rain, sliding and falling, then picking herself up again, she began to climb straight up the side of the hill, towards the ancient contours cut into the rock, the maze that led to the summit of the Tor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

History may tell us that Christianity came to these islands from Ireland, but legend, which enshrines the spiritual heart of history, declares that the Light of the West came to us straight from the place of its rising, and that we were indebted to no intermediaries for its transmission.

—DION FORTUNE,

FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART

“HULLO, LOVE. GOOD journey?” Kincaid eased the car into the traffic exiting Bath station as rain began to spatter on the windscreen.

“Any luck with your search this morning?” Gemma asked.

“This has been a wild-goose chase if I ever saw one. We’ve not turned up anything remotely resembling a lost Gregorian chant. I’m beginning to think we’ve all gone a bit soft in the head.”

“You won’t be able to stay much longer.”

“No.” He concentrated on his driving for a few moments, then said, “DCI Greely is still sifting through the material from Garnet’s house, but there are no phone records, no computer, no Caller ID—there aren’t even any personal letters that he’s been able to find, just business records.”

“And no help from those?”

“Only in the negative sense. He’s checked with those customers who had tile-work commissions pending, but she made no deliveries on the night of Winnie’s hit-and-run.”

“What about forensics?”

“No evidence of an assault or an abduction in the house, and although they did find a few of Nick’s prints, they can all be accounted for by his story. The only other identifiable prints are Faith’s and Garnet’s, and there’s nothing to indicate that prints were wiped, as they were on Garnet’s van.”

“Not Jack’s?” Gemma asked.

“Not a smudge,” he said with relief.

“Garnet Todd led a remarkably isolated life,” Gemma mused. “Most of us have an accumulation of flotsam from our connections, our relationships. Faith told me that Garnet had been a midwife, so she gave up a job where she had regular, intimate contact with people for tile making, a solitary occupation.”

“She did have a few close friends. Buddy Barnes, for one.”

“Faith’s boss?”

“I had a chat with him yesterday. It occurred to me afterwards that he’s extremely fond of Faith, and that if there should be anything to Nick Carlisle’s theories about Garnet preparing Faith for some sort of bloody ritual on the Tor, and Buddy found out about it—”

“You think Buddy might have murdered Garnet?”

“I’ve asked DCI Greely to run a check on him, at least.”

“Then what about Winnie? What reason could Buddy have possibly had for hurting Winnie?”

“I haven’t got that far. Did you realize they all knew each other, years ago? Garnet and Buddy, Bram and Fiona Allen. Buddy and Fiona were an item, apparently.”

“Well, perhaps it would all make sense if Buddy had murdered Fiona—”

“A long-simmering unrequited love?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “At this point I’m open for anything.”

“What if”—Gemma gave him a sly glance—“what if Garnet found out something about Nick that would ruin his chances with Faith for good?”

“Do I see cream on your whiskers? You’ve found something. Out with it,” Kincaid demanded.

“I told you I discovered that Nick’s mum is the novelist Elizabeth Carlisle. This morning the constable in her Northumbrian village rang me back. It seems that our Nick left behind a baby he refused to acknowledge or support. His mum has done right by the girl, apparently, but Nick’s name is mud.”