A Finer End (6 page)

“Jack—” Winnie didn’t want to encourage his association with Simon Fitzstephen, but couldn’t think of a concrete objection that wouldn’t require her to expose her past dealings with the man.

Misinterpreting her hesitation, Jack said, “I can’t blame you for being skeptical. I don’t know what the explanation is—only that it’s not going away. If you feel you can’t go on seeing me—”

Winnie took his hand, holding it tightly in both of hers. “Now you
are
talking daft. Of course I’m not going to stop seeing you. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you. You know that.”

“Even if I’m crazy?”

“You’re not crazy.” She spoke vehemently. “You
will
find an explanation for these writings. May I read them?”

“Would you?” The thought seemed to please him. “You might see some clue I’ve missed.”

“Well,” she said slowly, wondering if she had completely taken leave of her senses, “have you tried simply
asking
Edmund what he wants?”

This, thought Bram Allen as he looked round his gallery, was what a church
should
be like. The plush carpeting muffled both voice and footfall, the illuminated paintings on the hessian-covered walls glowed as if they were stained-glass windows lit from within, and bells chimed musically with each swing of the door. It seemed an impenetrable sanctuary … and it was the only place he felt truly safe.

There were some, he knew, who were made uncomfortable
by the fierceness of the creatures in Fiona’s paintings, but he had always found them strangely reassuring, as if that very quality might hold evil at bay.

What did concern him was the fact that the number of Fiona’s paintings on the gallery walls was steadily decreasing. Although his other artists sold well, it was Fiona’s work that provided the backbone of the business, and it had been months since she’d produced anything she was willing to let him display. Not that he
wanted
to hang those recent paintings—God forbid! What on earth had possessed her to paint
that
face?

Fiona’s gift was not something that could be subjected to a rational analysis—or so he’d always assumed. But now he wondered if there was some external factor at work, something that had changed in their lives? Or in Fiona’s life?

As he gazed out the gallery window, the bell began to toll for Evensong at St. John’s, just across the street. That was his signal to close for the day. Automatically, Bram tidied and switched off lights. Then, as he locked the door to the last peal of the bells, it came to him. Something
had
changed in Fiona’s life this past year. She had become friends with Winnie Catesby, who had begun counseling Fiona to express the grief she felt over her childlessness. Was this what had triggered Fiona’s visions?

But that still didn’t explain why she should paint that particular child. Had Winnie somehow managed to loosen a fragment of memory lodged in Fiona’s subconscious? Or did Fiona know more than he had always believed?

Bram realized he was sweating and wiped a hand across his brow. One thing was certain—he must find a way to stop Winnie Catesby’s meddling before it destroyed them all.

The kitchen of the Dream Café smelled strongly of cabbage, but Faith didn’t mind. Her morning sickness seemed to
have improved at last—and the food odors did help disguise the ever-present smell of damp that permeated the place.

The café was built right into the base of the Tor, and condensation coated the limestone walls with a slick sheen. The front room held tables; the rear was divided into a small shop on the left and the kitchen on the right, separated from the eating area by a serving bar. Not that they served much—the menu consisted of hot soup, tea (herbal or otherwise), and a vegetarian special of the day. Faith, who had barely boiled water at home, had become quite adept at concocting the soups and hot dishes, and this morning she would have everything ready by opening time. Humming as she put the final dusting of paprika on the day’s cauliflower bake, she imagined what her mum would say if she could see her handiwork. But the thought brought a stab of homesickness and a prickle of tears behind her eyelids.

It had been almost three months since that day in early April when she’d run away from home. She would never have believed she could miss her beastly brother and sister so much—or her parents. So many times she’d been tempted to go back, to invent a story they would accept—she’d say it had been a boy in her class … but, no, that wouldn’t be fair … a stranger, then, passing through on a pilgrimage to Avalon.…

But she had known instinctively that lies wouldn’t wash, that they’d demand the one thing she couldn’t give them—the truth. So she’d managed as best she could; begging friends to let her climb in their bedroom windows for a dry night’s sleep, then, when their hospitality wore out, she’d slept rough wherever she could find a spot, taking handouts from the local charities.

School seemed a distant universe, and sometimes she missed that, too, with an ache so fierce it surprised her. But things were better now, since she’d met Buddy and got the job at the café. She’d been leery at first, but the offer had
turned out to be no more than the kindness it seemed. After a few weeks she’d begun volunteering to open and close the café. If her boss knew she spent the nights in the tiny upstairs room, he’d never let on. And if it spooked her sometimes—the must of damp oozing from the walls, the strange dreams that kept her restless and sweating … she’d known it was better than the alternative.

There was a toilet and washbasin at the top of the stairs, so she’d been able to keep herself clean, and to wash out her few items of clothing. But everything was getting tight now, stretching across her swelling belly.

She didn’t think about how she would manage when the baby came.

You just did one thing at a time, and right now the soup needed stirring. It was a rich mixture of cabbage, tomatoes, and caraway seed—
Schii
, Buddy said it was called, a recipe from his German grandmother who had emigrated to the Texas Hill Country. She tasted it, reached for the salt, then felt the oddest sensation in her abdomen. A flutter, almost a tickle—there it was again.

She was standing, spoon in one hand, salt in the other, mouth open in surprise, when the door opened and a woman came in. Dark, silver-streaked hair in a plait down her back, a worn face, dangly earrings, long Indian cotton skirt—Faith recognized her as a regular customer and a friend of Buddy’s, but she’d never really spoken to her.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked, coming up to the serving counter.

“I—I just felt something.… I think the baby moved.”

“First time?”

Faith nodded. Putting down salt and spoon, she pressed her palm carefully against her abdomen.

“Good. That’s normal, you know. Nothing to worry about. Before you know it she’ll be kicking you like a footballer.” The woman looked Faith over, assessing her with what seemed a professional eye. “Do you have a midwife?”

Faith shook her head.

“Have you been to a prenatal clinic?”

“No.” All those things meant registering with the social services, giving name, address, parents …

The woman studied her a moment longer. “Like that, is it? How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Old enough to be on my own.”

“Your parents know where you are?”

“Don’t want to know,” Faith replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “And I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“How about making me a cup of tea?” the woman said, apparently unfazed by Faith’s rudeness. “I’m Garnet, by the way, I live up the hill.”

Faith complied, glad of the opportunity to collect herself, while Garnet stayed at the counter, watching her.

When Garnet had her tea, she said as if continuing a casual conversation, “Not very comfortable, sleeping in that old boxroom upstairs, I shouldn’t think. Not the best thing for a girl in your condition, either—all that damp.”

Faith’s heart raced with panic. “But … how did you—”

“Buddy and I have been friends for a long time. He’s worried about you.”

Flushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity, Faith stammered, “But I thought he didn’t—”

“Don’t let the drawl fool you. He’s a sharp old bird, and more kindhearted than he’d like anyone to know. He thought I might have a spare room. It’s nothing fancy,” Garnet continued. “But it’s warm and dry, and there’s a real bed.”

“But I—”

“You could pay me a little rent, and help out with the groceries. Buddy says you’re turning into a pretty good cook.”

“But why would you do this for me? I don’t understand.”

Garnet gestured at her belly. “You’re going to need care, girl, and I can give it to you. I was a midwife, once, and those things you don’t forget.”

“That’s still not why,” Faith said stubbornly. “Are you in the habit of taking in strays?”

Garnet smiled. “Only cats.” Shrugging, she added, “I’m not sure I can give you a better reason. I hadn’t made up my mind until I saw you again. There’s something … I don’t know. Let’s just say I have some old accounts to settle.”

“I couldn’t pay much,” Faith said slowly.

“You’d better come and see the place before we talk about that,” Garnet said, businesslike again. “Go straight up Wellhouse Lane. It’s the old farmhouse on the right, just past the junction with Stonedown. If you come after work today, I’ll be there. And you’d better look to your soup.” Finishing her tea, she handed Faith her empty mug and turned away.

It was only when the door had jingled shut behind her that Faith realized the woman had referred to her baby as “she.”

Winnie had never quite learned to quell the depression engendered by Jack’s house. Although the detached, orange-brick Victorian was massive and respectable in the way of its kind, it seemed dwarfed by the shadow of the Tor looming above it. Adding to that unprepossessing beginning, the shrubbery was overgrown, last winter’s leaves still littered the walkway and covered porch, and even on this sultry July afternoon, the interior was bone-numbingly cold.

Rubbing at the goose bumps on her bare arms, she followed Jack through a dining room filled with massive and unrepentantly ugly Victorian furniture, and into the kitchen-sitting area. This was the snuggest room in the house, with a leather armchair drawn up to a television, an oak table bearing evidence of Jack’s hastily cleared tea, and warmth radiating from an Aga.

Jack switched on the red-shaded lamp over the table. “Like a cuppa while we wait?” he offered as Winnie took a seat. “Nick rang; he’s on his way.”

Refusing Jack’s offer of tea, Winnie asked, “However did Nick manage to get an invitation to Simon Fitzstephen’s for drinks?” The author was reputed to protect his privacy fiercely and did not often lend his presence to social events.

“Fitzstephen came into the bookshop for a signing. Nick took the opportunity to lay on some judicious flattery.”

Winnie was not looking forward to seeing Simon Fitzstephen, but she had no intention of letting Jack go without her. “It would take a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon to refuse Nick. He has such an irresistible air of earnestness,” she said lightly, while wondering how her former mentor would react to her unexpected appearance.

And what sort of reception would their story get from Simon? He had made his reputation by documenting the history of the Grail legends, but Winnie had always suspected that for Fitzstephen the Grail study was an exercise of pride rather than heart.

From Jack’s inability to sit still tonight, she gathered he was nervous about the meeting as well. “You don’t have to tell Fitzstephen anything, you know, if you don’t feel it’s right.”

“I know,” Jack said as he sank restlessly into a chair beside her. “But then I’ll feel an ass for having wasted his time.”

“Nonsense,” she reassured him. “It’s a friendly social occasion.”

“Right.” He acknowledged her effort with a grin, then pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “But I do have something more concrete to go on.”

“This came today?” Taking the sheet, Winnie added, “That makes it sound like it came in the post.” In truth, the communications were sporadic, the connection sometimes tenuous. Often the message would stop in midsentence,
then take up again a week or two later in exactly the same place, as if there had been no interruption.

It was a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle—a piece here, a piece there, trying to make sense of it as you went along.

Aethelnoth was abbot then, and made us the poorer for it. Tender as a willow shoot, I was, but sturdy. Sturdier than my father had foreseen. He did not count on the ministrations of Brother Ambrose, the infirmarian, who kept me in when the wind blew from the north and fed me with herbs and warming broths. There I grew into my calling, and my heart rejoiced. But all that was before … brought God’s wrath upon us.…

She looked up. “That’s all?”

“Yes. But the name of the abbot gives us a date. Aethelnoth was the last Saxon abbot, from 1053 to 1078. I hope Fitzstephen can tell us more.”

There was not going to be any way round telling Jack the truth about Simon; she could see that. And the longer she waited, the worse it would be. Winnie steeled herself for confession. “Jack, there’s something I ought—”

“There’s Nick.”

Rescued by the sound of a motorbike, Winnie thought as Jack stood, giving no evidence of having heard her faltering words. Breathing a sigh of relief as she followed him to the door, she promised herself she
would
tell him, at the very first opportunity.

Leaving Nick’s motorbike in the drive, they took Jack’s car for the short drive to the village of Pilton. The evening light slanted across the rolling landscape, and behind them the Tor rose in silhouette against the setting sun.

As the road made the sharp left-hand bend into the village, Nick navigated from directions scribbled on a scrap of paper. “It’s below the church. You take the turning signposted ‘The Old Vicarage.’ ”

Pilton had to be one of the most charming of the Somerset villages, running down steeply wooded hillsides into a meandering stream valley. It was also a maze of twisting
switchback and dead-end lanes. Their turning took them downhill, past the lovely church of St. John the Baptist, then another sharp turning to the left brought them into a steep lane barely wide enough for the Volvo. “Just on the right,” Nick called out, pointing. “Riverside Cottage.”