A Finer End (23 page)

“But—she can’t be dead! Not Garnet! There must be some mistake.”

“Faith got worried when Garnet didn’t come home last night. She went to Jack, who called the police. They found her in her van this morning.”

“In her van? But … I don’t understand.” He seemed lost, the cheerful bonhomie extinguished. “Was there an accident? Was she ill?”

“No one knows for certain, yet. But Faith wanted me to tell you.”

“Faith …” Buddy seemed to focus on Gemma with difficulty. “Who’s going to look after Faith now? I promised—promised Garnet I’d keep her safe.… Look. I appreciate you doing this. But if you don’t mind …” He looked ill, and his eyes had filled with tears.

“Of course. There should be someone at Jack’s, if you want to ring up later.”

Buddy nodded, and Gemma left him to his solitary grief.

As she continued her climb, she wondered what other lives had intersected with Garnet Todd’s. The woman had certainly inspired strong emotion in those close to her—surely not a bad epitaph?

The muscles in the backs of Gemma’s calves began to ache as the lane grew steeper. She was paralleling the northward rise of the Tor, moving closer to the ruined church on
its summit. The climbers milling about the structure were clearly visible now, if disproportionately antlike.

At last she saw the landmark Nick had given her, the fork of Stonedown Lane to the left and, fifty yards beyond it, a solitary and dilapidated farmhouse. Much to her surprise, there were no police cars. Only a Volkswagen sedan stood before the closed farmyard gate.

As Gemma drew closer, she saw a man in the yard, and something in his movements struck her as furtive. He peered into the barn, then walked towards the back door of the house. A few feet from the stoop, he halted, as if unsure what to do next.

Reaching the gate, Gemma hailed him. “Hullo, there. Can I help you?”

The man spun round, and for an instant she had the impression he might bolt. But she stood between him and his car, and by the time she’d let herself through the gate and crossed the yard, he seemed to have thought better of it.

“I’m looking for Garnet Todd,” he replied, planting his feet firmly as if he had every right to be there. “I want to consult her about some tile work. This
is
the right place?” he added, smiling, and it occurred to Gemma that he was quite attractive.

“Yes, it’s the right place. But I’m afraid Miss Todd won’t be able to help you.”

“But I’ve heard she’s the best—”

“I’m sorry. I should have explained first off. Miss Todd won’t be helping anyone. She died sometime last night.”

“Died?” he echoed blankly. “But—Oh my God, but that’s dreadful! What was it, a sudden illness?”

“I don’t think so. The police are investigating.”

The man paled, and for an instant Gemma could have sworn she saw swift calculation in his eyes. Then his brows drew together in concern and he said, “I’m sorry. That’s even more horrible. Are you a relative of Miss Todd?”

“Not exactly,” Gemma equivocated. “Did you know her well?”

“Oh, no. I’d never actually met her.” The man glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. So sorry to have bothered you.” He flashed her an apologetic smile, then made his way swiftly across the yard and out the gate. Gemma watched him curiously, making a mental note of the car’s tag, until he had reversed and driven away.

How very odd
, she thought, then turned her attention to the farmhouse. First, a look in the barn—obviously Garnet Todd’s workshop. The tools and materials were all neatly organized, and there was no sign of any struggle or disturbance.

She crossed the yard again and, using her handkerchief, eased open the back door to the house. A chorus of pitiful mewling greeted her. The daylight coming in through the filmed windows was sufficient to illuminate three furry, protesting shapes on the kitchen table. It seemed no one had fed Garnet’s cats.

Although not wanting to incur DI Greely’s ire by contaminating what might prove a crime scene, Gemma carefully searched the primitive kitchen until she found a tin canister filled with dried kibble. Garnet’s disdain for modern conveniences had apparently not extended to cat food. Gemma filled a stoneware bowl and put out fresh water as well. She watched with satisfaction while the cats ate, but after a moment she shivered as the room’s chill began to penetrate. The wood-burning stove had long since gone out, and the room had the dank smell of cold ashes.

She tried to imagine choosing to live as Garnet Todd had, and failed. How difficult must it have been for a suburban child like Faith, weaned on television and instant gratification? The thought gave her a new respect for the girl’s perseverance.

Fastening her lightweight jacket, she looked round the kitchen with unabashed curiosity. There was a good supply of staples on the open shelves, but no perishables that she could see other than milk, cheese, butter, and eggs. Garnet
would have been a vegetarian, no doubt, and had probably done her shopping daily. The table held a casserole dish carefully covered with tinfoil. Using the handkerchief again, Gemma peeled back a corner, looked, and sniffed. A cheese and vegetable dish of some sort, still fresh.

There were no dirty dishes in the deep, old-fashioned farmhouse sink, and the washing up had been carefully left to dry on a tea towel. It looked as if Garnet had prepared their evening meal as usual, but then what? Had she gone out, expecting to come back and share the casserole with Faith?

The rumble of an approaching car startled her out of her ruminations. She nudged aside the faded curtains just in time to see Kincaid pull her Escort into the yard. As he got out, Gemma had the momentary pleasure of watching him unobserved. Relaxed in jeans and his old leather bomber jacket, the wind ruffling his chestnut hair, he moved with a grace unusual in a tall man.

Coming back across the yard after closing the gate, he stopped abruptly and peered at the ground. Curious, Gemma went out to join him.

Kincaid looked up at the sound of the door and flashed his quick grin. “So you are here. Good. But I see Greely’s men haven’t made it yet.”

“You must have been back to the house.”

“Um-hmm. And met Jack’s young friend Carlisle. Did you happen to notice his motorbike?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“I used to have a bike like that, before I came down to London. I was the terror of the countryside, and my parents were certain I was going to end up glued to a tree. The thing is”—he knelt and touched a finger to the rutted surface of the yard—“I’d recognize those tracks anywhere.”

Gemma looked more carefully at the ground. Of course he was right. The tread marks were too narrow for a car, much less a van, and they were recent. She shouldn’t have missed them. “Bloody hell. How fresh are they, do you think?”

“We’ll have to find out when it rained, but I’d say these tracks were probably made this morning or yesterday.”

Their eyes met. “When I spoke with Nick he said he had driven by this morning. He didn’t mention coming into the yard.”

“I’d say that puts him right in the frame for Garnet’s murder.”

Gemma picked up his thought. “In which case, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to leave Faith alone with him. We should go back—but I meant to pick up a few of Faith’s things, if I can do it without disturbing the scene.” She turned back to the house and Kincaid followed. She heard his snort of surprise when he stepped through the door.

“I don’t suppose Garnet had any Y-two-K worries. Talk about off the grid.”

The cats, sated now and prone to view Gemma as their savior, rubbed madly about her ankles, purring, until she let them out. “I’ll just see what I can turn up upstairs.”

Leaving him, she made her way through the dim corridor and up the staircase. She found Faith’s room first, as comfortless a retreat as she had ever seen. The sight of the folded nightdress and the plush bunny on the pillow moved her almost to tears.

Suddenly she wanted desperately to hold her son, to feel his small body warm against hers and rub her nose in his silky hair. Gathering a few meager things for Faith, she left the room quickly.

However, she couldn’t resist a peek in the bedroom across the hall. On the threshold, she stopped in surprise. The room was unexpectedly feminine, considering the rest of the house. The high four-poster bed was neatly made, and the room as undisturbed as the kitchen. There had been no struggle here.

When Kincaid pulled the Escort into Jack’s drive, Jack’s blue Volvo stood in its usual spot and there was no sign of
Nick Carlisle’s motorbike. “An unexpected changing of the guard?” Kincaid asked. “Let’s see what’s up, shall we?”

They found Jack in the kitchen, on the telephone, saying, “Right. I’ll ring you then. Cheerio.” Smiling widely, he motioned them in as he hung up the phone.

“Good news?” Kincaid asked.

“She’s awake. Winnie’s conscious! I’ve just rung the Archdeacon, and Fiona Allen.”

“That’s terrific, Jack.” Kincaid clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Did you see her?”

“I was there when she opened her eyes. She knew me right away.” Jack turned away and made rather a big fuss over filling the kettle and warming the teapot, and Kincaid suspected that he was fighting to keep his emotions under control.

“The bad news is that she doesn’t seem to remember anything past the evening before her accident. The nurses tell me she’ll probably regain the missing bits, but there’s no guarantee.”

“Did she say anything at all that might give us a clue as to what happened?”

“She seems to be worried about her brother. But that may be because her last clear recollection is Andrew’s abominable behavior at her dinner party.”

“How much longer will they keep her in the ICU?” Kincaid asked.

“As soon as they see she can handle liquids on her own, they’ll move her into a room.”

“At that point, you might want to make sure that someone you trust is with her at all times.”

Paling, Jack tended to the boiling kettle. He brought the tea things to the table and sat down heavily. “Somehow I’d managed to convince myself that we were over the worst.”

“It
is
wonderful news,” Gemma reassured him. “And cause for celebration. Let’s drink a toast.” She raised her cup.

“Wait.” Jack rose and fetched three glasses and a bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. He splashed a bit in each glass and pushed theirs across the table. “We’ll do it properly. Here’s to Winnie.”

They all raised their glasses, and although he and Jack downed theirs, Kincaid noticed that Gemma took the merest sip. Lately she’d been ordering orange juice in the pub, and leaving her after-work glass of wine almost untouched. Was she slimming and had not bothered to tell him?

Now she sipped demurely at her tea, asking, “How’s Faith?”

“Still sleeping,” Jack told her. “Nick said she never stirred.”

“Have you checked on her?” Kincaid heard the unintended sharpness in his voice, and Jack gave him a puzzled look.

“Yes, before Nick left. Sleeping like a baby. Why?”

“Has it rained recently?”

Jack stared at him. “Yesterday morning. A brief shower, but heavy. Duncan, what on earth are you getting at?”

“Would you say Nick is trustworthy?”

“Of course I would! What is this about?”

“Nick’s been to the farmhouse in the last day, something he very carefully neglected to mention.”

“I’m sure he was looking for Faith last night,” Jack protested. “He said he’d searched everywhere for her. The farmhouse would have been the obvious place to start.”

“Then why not say so?”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the implications sunk in, then Jack said, “Look. I’m sure it’s simply a matter of miscommunication. Nick’s a good kid, and he’d do anything for Faith—” Too late, he seemed to realize where that avenue was leading.

“We’ll have to tell Inspector Greely. You do see that.”

“Duncan, I can see the difficult position I’ve put you in by asking you to get involved in this. But I have obligations
as well, and Nick is my friend. Talk to him first, before you turn it over to Greely. Surely that can’t hurt.”

Kincaid weighed this, then glanced at Gemma, who nodded. “Fair enough. Where can we find him?”

“When he left here he said he was going home. I know he lives in a caravan in Compton Dundon, but I’ve never been there. You could ask at the bookshop where he works. On Magdalene Street, just across from the Abbey gates. But first you’ll want to get settled in at the B and B.”

“It would be nice to unpack and freshen up. With all that’s happened, it seems as if we’ve been here for days rather than a few hours.” Gemma gathered up her bag and carried her cup to the sink. “Oh, by the way, there was a man snooping round Garnet’s house when I got there. He said he wanted some tile work done, but it didn’t quite ring true.”

“What did he look like?” asked Jack.

“Tall, slender, glasses, dark hair. Mid-thirties. Nice-looking in a bookish sort of way. He was driving a silver Volkswagen sedan.”

Jack had paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “How very odd. That sounds like Andrew Catesby, but I can’t imagine what he’d be doing at Garnet Todd’s.”

“Poor Jack,” said Gemma as she slid behind the wheel of her car. “I don’t think he was prepared for the idea that someone he knew and liked might be involved in Winnie’s accident—or Garnet Todd’s murder.”

Kincaid buckled up and opened a guide to Glastonbury that Jack had provided. “Go west, then bear left at the first roundabout,” he instructed, then added, “And I don’t think he’s realized that Faith has no alibi after she left work yesterday afternoon. What did she tell you?”

“She said she couldn’t stop herself looking at the van’s fender, then she felt so ashamed of her suspicions that she
couldn’t face Garnet. She tried to climb the Tor, but when she started to have pains, she curled up in a hedge and went to sleep.”

Kincaid’s raised eyebrow shouted his skepticism. Irritated, Gemma said, “So what are you proposing? That this nine-month-pregnant girl went home, had an argument with Garnet, killed her somehow or other, then dragged her body to the van?”

“Asphyxiated, it looks like,” Kincaid said placidly. “Although the doctor was a bit cagey about the method.”