A Finer End (26 page)

But the Abbey’s expenditures had been recorded, too, and it was in such an account that Simon discovered something in the tiny, faded script. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and read it again.

In the summer of the year 1082, Abbot Thurstan had paid a mason named Hamlyn for repairs done on St. Dunstan’s Church.

There was no mistake. He had probably read that particular entry a dozen times these past few months without paying it any attention—but he had not possessed the knowledge to make a connection.

He was making a number of assumptions, of course; that Edmund would have still been in his teens when he succumbed to Alys’s charms, that only one mason was hired to do repair work during that period, that Hamlyn might have had a daughter called Alys.

Trying to keep his excitement in check, Simon began to search his sources for any mention of her. It was almost noon when he found it, and it amazed him that he had not seen it before when he had looked for references to Jack’s family. Herluin, who succeeded Thurstan as abbot in 1100, had been determined to regain lands lost to the Abbey during the Conquest and to increase the Abbey’s wealth. The Abbot had required an extensive accounting of the Abbey’s possessions, and in one such record it was noted that Alys Montfort, née Hamlyn, had given a gift of fine cloth to the church, with the stipulation that it be recorded in her name.

So Alys had married, and it looked to have been a good marriage at that. But what had happened to the child? If it had lived, contrary to Edmund’s expectation, Jack might be a direct descendant of Alys Montfort. Her husband’s Christian name wasn’t given, but surely there couldn’t have been many men called Montfort in that time period, especially with professions that would have allowed his wife to make such a generous gift to the church.

Edmund might provide the answers, but not only was Jack focused on Winifred’s recovery at the moment, Edmund’s information tended to be very capricious. And as it seemed Edmund was capable of intense emotions concerning past events, it was possible that the subject of his lover’s marriage might still be painful to him.

Was it guilt that drove Edmund to communicate across the centuries? The monk seemed to feel that his dalliance with Alys Hamlyn, and his help in her attempt to abort her baby, had in some way been responsible for the loss of the chant, and that only the music’s return would expiate his sins.

Simon perused the last communication from Edmund. What did he mean when he said he’d given Alys “what was most precious to him”? Suppose, just suppose, that when Alys left the Abbey, Edmund had given her a copy of the chant for safekeeping?

Edmund had been both musical and literate—a scholar, by his own admission. Was it unreasonable to think that the monk might have written down a version of his beloved chant?

And if that were the case, might Alys have given it to her child? For eight centuries, might it have been passed down through the family, unremarked?

Gemma and Kincaid had decided to walk the short distance from the B & B to Hillhead Lane. But by the time they neared the address Jack had given them for Andrew Catesby, halfway up the eastern slope of Wearyall Hill, Gemma was breathing hard. She gazed at the Tor rising behind them. “It doesn’t look so daunting from here, does it?”

“A trick of height and distance, my dear. This hill is a good climb, but nothing compared to that one.”

She hadn’t strictly meant the climb, but she continued her upwards progress without clarifying her words.

“This looks the place,” Kincaid said after a few more yards, nodding. The house just ahead was a pleasant, palepeach stucco, with an arched entrance that gave the building a vaguely Spanish air. “Ready?”

A dog barked loudly as Gemma knocked, and a moment later Andrew Catesby opened the door. Seeing his expression
of neutral query change swiftly to recognition, she smiled and said, “Mr. Catesby? We met yesterday at Garnet Todd’s house. My name’s Gemma James.” She flashed her identification at him. “We’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

Before Catesby could offer an objection, Kincaid introduced himself, and as they stepped forward, Catesby gave way.

“I suppose you’d better come in, then,” he said, and favored Gemma with the quick smile she’d seen yesterday.

The dog, a liver-and-white spaniel, was sniffing enthusiastically at Gemma’s ankles. Gemma knelt and fondled her silky ears. “She’s lovely. What sort of spaniel is she?”

“Springer,” Catesby replied. “Phoebe, leave off,” he scolded affectionately. The spaniel went resignedly over to a cushion near the front door and curled up with a sigh, head on her paws.

Gemma turned her attention to the house. The hall opened to a simple kitchen and, ahead, a living area with a glass wall that gave on to the southern view. Here Catesby led them, gesturing towards the leather sofa.

“Lovely view of the Levels,” Kincaid said as he took the proffered seat. “You must enjoy it.”

“Yes, of course,” Catesby answered pleasantly, but Gemma caught the scent of fear, and her pulse quickened.

“When I saw you yesterday at Ms. Todd’s farmhouse, you were hoping to commission some tiles. Yet you said you’d never met her. Did someone recommend her to you?”

Catesby hovered restlessly near an armchair, but couldn’t seem to bring himself to sit. “I’m an archaeologist—amateur, you know, summers and holidays—and everyone knows she’s the best there is at tile restoration. Was, I mean. She was.”

“You were interested in having her do some work on an archaeological project?”

“She took on personal commissions as well. It was my kitchen. It needs doing up. I thought some tile work …”

“Quite.” Kincaid nodded with such apparent sincerity that Gemma almost smiled. “So you went to her house. Did you by any chance happen to go inside?”

“No. No, of course I didn’t. There was no answer when I knocked. I was sorry to hear of the woman’s death, but I’m not sure I understand why you’re asking me all these questions.”

“You might have seen someone poking about,” offered Kincaid. “Murderers do sometimes come back to the scene.”

“Murder? Garnet Todd was murdered? But you said—you said she was
dead.”
Catesby’s shock seemed genuine. “And I thought—a heart attack. Or an accident.”

“Yes, we believe she was murdered,” Kincaid informed him evenly. “And that requires us to go through a process of elimination. If we know, for instance, that you didn’t touch anything, we don’t have to worry about your fingerprints.”

“But I’ve told you—I never met the woman, and I never went inside her house.”

“Then you won’t mind telling us where you were on Thursday evening,” said Gemma.

Catesby took a breath as if to protest again. Then, shrugging, he said, “I was at home all evening, marking exams. And, no, there’s no one that can verify that.”

“And the evening of your sister’s accident?”

“My sister? What the devil does my sister have to do with any of this?”

“An accident and a murder, on consecutive days and in the same area; the victims both women who knew one another … It only seems logical that there might be some connection.”

“But Winnie—” Catesby sat down for the first time. “But it
was
an accident. She was struck by a car, for God’s sake.”

“A car that didn’t stop and render aid; a location in which the car would have had to make an effort to get up enough speed to do any damage; and as I understand it, Mr.
Catesby, your sister is too sensible a woman to have walked out in front of a vehicle if she had heard it approaching.”

“But … it’s preposterous to think anyone would deliberately hurt Winnie, of all people!”

“Nevertheless,” said Gemma, “there may be a connection.”

Kincaid returned to his original question. “The evening of your sister’s accident, Mr. Catesby—where were you?”

“You can’t possibly think … You can’t actually think
I
had something to do with Winnie’s accident?” Catesby stared at them.

“No, of course not,” Gemma reassured him. “It’s just routine, really. We have to ask.”

“I had a parent conference at school. Then I was home—alone—for the rest of the evening.”

“What time did your conference finish, Mr. Catesby?”

“About half past six, I think—”

“Can the parents you met with confirm this?”

“You’re not serious? You can’t involve parents of my students in this! Do you realize what something like that would mean? When you teach at a public school, you can’t afford a breath of scandal. Something like that would go round the board of trustees like wildfire. I’d be finished!”

“No one’s accusing you of anything—”

“Even the possibility of involvement is enough. Please, you must understand.”

“Mr. Catesby—”

“I won’t tell you their names.”

“But—” Gemma stopped. There was no point pushing him. If they needed the information, they could easily get it from other sources. Instead she took another tack. “I understand your sister has regained consciousness, Mr. Catesby. That’s wonderful news.”

“I—Yes, isn’t it?”

“You’ve seen her, then?”

He gazed at her blankly. “No. No, I haven’t. I’d thought to go to hospital this afternoon.”

“Perhaps she’ll remember something that will help us trace the person responsible for her injuries.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a possibility.”

“Did you see your sister at all that day?”

“No, not after the dinner party she gave on the previous evening.”

“And you’ve no idea why she was in Bulwarks Lane?”

“Obviously, she must have meant to visit Fiona Allen, but I’ve no idea why.”

Kincaid stood and handed Catesby one of his cards. “You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, just ring my mobile number.” He started towards the door, then stopped and peered into the kitchen. “I’ve just refitted my kitchen recently. It was bloody hell, so you have my sympathy. What did you have in mind?”

Catesby looked from Kincaid to the kitchen as if trying to decipher a foreign language. “Oh—I—everything. Start over from scratch. I’d thought tile worktops, but now …”

Good recovery
, thought Gemma, stopping to give Phoebe a last pat as they said their good-byes.

When they reached the street, Kincaid took her arm. “Shall we climb to the top of the hill before we start back, since we’ve come this far?”

Gemma nodded and, when they had continued upwards for a few yards, said quietly, “What would you bet that Andrew Catesby had never given a thought to his kitchen before this morning?”

Kincaid grinned. “I’d need damned good odds. But if that’s the case, what did he want with Garnet Todd?”

They reached the stile that gave access to the Wearyall Hill footpath, and he gave her a hand over. The west wind tore at their hair and clothes, and sent ripples like waves through the long green grass on the slope.

“Is that the famous Thorn?” asked Gemma, spying a small, twisted tree enclosed by a circle of chicken wire. “It seems so forlorn.”

“So would you be, if you were stuck on this hillside and whipped by this bloody wind day in and day out.”

When they reached the summit, they found they could lean against the full force of the wind as if against a wall.

“Are you okay?” Kincaid asked, knowing how much she disliked heights.

“It’s all right as long as I don’t get too near the edge—lovely, in fact. I feel right on top of the world.”

Kincaid pointed to the west. “There—see where the land dips right at the horizon? That must be the Bristol Channel.”

Squinting into the wind, Gemma gazed into the gray-blue distance, but failed to make out anything that might be the sea. Then she rotated slowly and looked out across a low, flat landscape crisscrossed by a grid of straight, silvery lines. “What are those?”

“They’re called rhynes. Drainage ditches. That’s what keeps this area from reverting to marshland, but it still floods when the rains are heavy.”

Gemma turned once more, knowing what she would see. To the east, the southern edge of the town nestled in the valley between Wearyall and the Tor. The Tor seemed to float above the red tile rooftops, its humped shape and well-defined contours giving it the look of an alien leviathan. Kincaid followed her gaze.

“It is a very odd thing, isn’t it?”

“Surely those terraces are man-made—”

“If they are, it was so long ago that there’s not even an oral tradition to explain them. Although some people claim it’s a maze, or a labyrinth, used for ritual magic, I don’t know that there’s any historical evidence to support it.”

Gemma thought of Faith’s tale of being drawn to climb the Tor. As absurd as it sounded, she had been convinced that the girl was telling the truth—or at least what she believed was the truth. She shook off a chill of unease.

“Let’s go back,” she told Kincaid.

He gave her a concerned glance. “You’ve been working too hard, and not looking after yourself properly.”

Unwilling to pursue the topic, Gemma started downhill. “What’s next, then?”

Kincaid walked in silence for a few minutes, apparently mulling over their progress. “Have you noticed how everything seems to revolve round Winnie Catesby?” he said at last. “I think it’s time we paid a visit to hospital.”

Jack had protested the idea of their visit when Kincaid rang him on his mobile, saying, “I don’t want her upset. She’s still weak—”

“She’s going to have to know these things—that someone may have tried to kill her, and that Garnet Todd’s dead,” Kincaid had interrupted. “And for her own safety, you must tell her as soon as possible.”

At that, Jack had given in, albeit unhappily. When they reached the hospital and found the proper ward, Jack joined them in the corridor with an anxious expression. “She’s dozing again.”

“How is she today?” asked Gemma.

“She seems more clearheaded, but fragile.… You really think this is necessary?”

“I do, if we’re to get any further with this. I rang Inspector Greely again, by the way. They’ve had to release Nick Carlisle, but if they can turn up the least bit of concrete evidence, they’ll charge him in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t believe Nick had anything to do with this.” Jack said it so fiercely that Kincaid wondered if he were convincing himself.