A Finer End

Gemma thought for a bit. “Andrew’s affair with Faith must have started after Winnie met Jack, an act of emotional desperation, perhaps. When he discovered Faith was pregnant he cut her off, making her promise to tell no one. What a terrible irony that his rejection of Faith drove her to leave home, and led her to become friends with his sister.”

“If his motive in murdering Garnet was to keep her from telling Winnie, why would he kill Garnet the night after Winnie’s accident, when he didn’t know if Winnie would ever regain consciousness? Nor would it explain where Garnet drowned.”

“Bathtub? Kitchen sink?” Gemma offered.

“Then he cleaned up afterwards without leaving a trace? I suppose it’s possible. But something’s not right about this. Gemma, what happened up there on the Tor tonight? Was there something—” Kincaid broke off as the ICU door swung open.

Winnie came out and sat beside Gemma. Her face was bleak with exhaustion, and she closed her eyes briefly, seeming to gather strength.

“How is he?” Gemma asked.

“Resting comfortably, the doctor says. It’s too early to know if the swelling will return, but they think the prognosis is good.”

“He’s conscious? Did he—”

“No.” Winnie’s eyes filled with tears. “No, he didn’t tell me anything.”

They drove back to Glastonbury in silence. Glancing at Nick, Winnie wondered if it had been loyalty to Andrew that had made Faith impervious to Nick’s determined assault on her affections. Perhaps now she would be able to truly see this young man.

“Faith!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even ask. Is she all right? And the baby?”

“She’s doing fine,” Gemma answered. “And the baby’s lovely. Faith’s called her Bridget.”

“St. Bride,” Winnie said softly. It was a good name, and fitting. My niece, she realized for the first time, and that brought the tears she had held in abeyance. She let them slip unchecked down her cheeks, the salt on her lips tasting like blood. Something good had come of all this, and that thought comforted her.

But as they crossed over the River Brue, she said suddenly, “I want to go to the Abbey.”

“But it’s closed,” Nick protested.

“Take me to the Silver Street gate, then. Please. I can’t explain—”

Duncan glanced back at her. “It’s all right. Just tell me where to go.”

“Past the Assembly Rooms, on the High Street. There’s a turning to the right.”

The gate at the bottom of Silver Street was kept locked, but as it was made of wrought iron, it was the one place you could see easily into the Abbey grounds. Duncan pulled up next to the rubbish bins and Winnie was out of the car before it had come to a full stop.

She stood at the gate and looked through. The sky had cleared, and in the moonlight the ruined church cast a shadow on the greensward. Why had she come here? What had called to her so powerfully?

Closing her eyes, she saw a different vision. She’d stood there in the sunlight, beneath the great stone transepts, and she had heard the music rising round her. The chant … she had heard the chant, and she had known it for what it was. The elation and the certainty of her experience filled her once again.

Without turning, she said, “Out of all the Grail mythology entwined with Glastonbury over the centuries, there is one legend that says the Grail is not an object—not a cup or a chalice—but a transcendent state of being, brought about by ritual and prayer. This chant that the monks of the Abbey were willing to sacrifice their lives for, that Edmund devoted himself to saving for future generations, is a part of that complex of rituals.

“I was here.” She turned to the others. “On the day of the accident. I remember now. I saw everything, and I felt I would burst with the joy of it.”

“And afterwards?” Duncan asked.

She frowned. “I went—I think I went to the Galatea. Then I rode to Pilton to make a bereavement call—Suzanne told me that. And then”—the scene flashed before her … the green of shimmering leaves and the sparkle of water—“why, I stopped to visit Simon. We had tea in his cottage garden, by the river. But why didn’t he say, when I couldn’t remember?”

“Simon lives by a river, and no one bothered to mention it?” Aghast, Gemma exchanged a look with Duncan.

Nick said, “But Jack’s gone to see—”

Duncan quelled him with a glance. “Let’s get back in the car, shall we?”

He stepped away and made a call on his mobile phone. After a moment, he hung up with a mutter of frustration and climbed in with them. “There’s no answer at Jack’s. Winnie, give us directions to Simon Fitzstephen’s cottage.”

Kincaid caught a glimpse of the tower of the medieval church as they passed, then Nick instructed him to make a left into a steep lane that dead-ended after a hundred yards. Jack’s blue Volvo was pulled up on the verge just past the cottage Nick and Winnie identified as Simon Fitzstephen’s.