A Finer End

She jogged until cramp seized her, but pressed on to the Tor’s north entrance. The path was undemanding at first, a fairly straight and gentle incline across a field, leading to a few stone steps and a narrow way through a copse of trees. Gemma breathed a sigh of relief as she came out the other side. Then she saw what lay ahead.

Jack prowled restlessly over the worn Aubusson carpet. “Why would she do such a thing? I just don’t understand it.” He stopped in front of the fire and warmed his hands automatically, not feeling the heat. “If anything happens to that girl … I got her into this whole bloody mess—”

“Jack,” Winnie interrupted from the sofa, “that’s not true. Faith had met Garnet before you came in contact with either of them, and Faith has always made her own decisions, whatever her reasons.”

He knew she was trying to calm him—and perhaps herself—but he could tell from the pallor of her face how worried she was. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re right. She’s managed well enough on her own until now. I’m sure she’ll show up any minute wanting to know what all the fuss was a—”

The doorbell cut him off. He and Winnie stared at one another, but before he could move they heard Nick Carlisle’s voice.

“In here!” Jack called, and Nick appeared in the doorway, disheveled, his dark hair beaded with raindrops.

“Has she come back?”

“No. No word.”

“They’ve got Wellhouse Lane blocked off. They wouldn’t let me through—”

“Who has it blocked off?”

“The bloody police. Something’s happened. I’m going to see if I can get round on foot—”

“Nick. Duncan will ring if there’s news. It might not have anything to do with—”

“That’s bullshit. It’s Faith, and you know it. I’m going up there. They can arrest me if they don’t bloody like it.” The front door slammed a moment later.

Jack started after him, but Winnie put a restraining hand on his arm. “Let him go. He’s got to do something.”

Sinking down on the ottoman, Jack felt as if his bones had dissolved. “Faith—” he began, but he couldn’t go on.

Winnie had paled, but took his hand in a strong grip. “She’s fine, I’m sure of—”

The bell rang again. This time Jack stood and left the room without speaking.

He had feared the police, bearing bad news, but he was wrong. “Jack?” There was a concerned expression on Fiona Allen’s freckled face. “Is everything all right? I just saw a man run away from your house like the hounds of hell were after him.”

Jack ushered her in, explaining what had happened.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Fiona murmured. “Listen, I can come back another—”

“No, don’t go,” Jack and Winnie said in unison.

“There was something I wanted to tell you both,” Fiona said urgently. “Last night, after I stopped painting, I had a dream.

“I heard the same music I heard the night of Winnie’s accident, and I saw a painting of the Abbey. Seventeenth or eighteenth century, I’d guess, a watercolor. And the oddest thing was that there was a man in the painting who looked remarkably like you, Jack. And then there were Garnet’s tiles—”

“A watercolor, did you say?”

“Yes, of the Abbey ruins, with cows in the foreground. Very nicely done too.”

Jack stood. “I’ll be back.”

But where the hell was the painting Duncan had found, he tried to remember as he took the stairs two at a time. He had only glanced at the thing, and had no recollection of what Duncan had done with it.…

It proved easy enough to find, however, set carefully off to one side with the portrait of the spaniel Duncan had wanted for Gemma. Breathing a sigh of relief, he carried both paintings back down the stairs.

“That’s it! That’s exactly what I saw in my dream!” Fiona exclaimed as he held out the view of the Abbey.

“That is remarkable.” Winnie examined the small figure in the foreground of the watercolor. “It could be you in farmer’s togs.”

“Look—there.” Fiona reached out to touch the bottom corner. “Is that a signature? Have you a magnifying glass?”

Jack fetched the old glass from his mother’s writing desk, and Winnie held it carefully over the small squiggle.

“It is a signature. Matthew—is that Matthew?” Jack heard the quick intake of her breath. “Matthew Montfort. It says Matthew Montfort!”

“But what does it mean?” Jack asked. “We’re looking for a manuscript, not a painting.”

“May I?” Fiona asked, and Winnie handed her the watercolor.

First, Fiona examined the front, and the frame, then she turned the painting over. The heavy paper neatly covering the back was discolored, and had a spattering of water or liquid stains, but otherwise it was intact. Fiona ran her fingertip round the edge, checking the seal, then she smoothed her palm across the paper.

Once more, she repeated the motion, stopping at the same point. “Have you a penknife? I think there might be something under the backing.”

Jack handed her his pocketknife, not trusting himself to speak.

Carefully, Fiona ran the tip of the knife under two of the edges. “Yes, there is something. I can see it.” She loosened the third side and lifted the flap of paper away.