A Finer End

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 watercolour. 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 watercolour, did you say?’
    ‘Yes, of the Abbey ruins, with cows in the foreground. Very nicely done too.’
    Jack stood. Til 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 watercolour. ‘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 watercolour.
    First, Fiona examined the front, and the frame, then she turned the painting over. The heavy paper neatly covering the back was discoloured, 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 pocket knife, 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.
    A sheet of paper covered in a graceful but old-fashioned hand lay beneath the watercolour’s backing.
    ‘Jack, I think this belongs to you,’ Fiona said, awe in her voice as she transferred the painting to him.
    He lifted the sheet, his heart thudding with excitement. Beneath it lay a flat, paper-wrapped package, tied with a faded silk ribbon. ‘This appears to be a letter,’ he said, struggling to decipher the handwriting. He read aloud haltingly:
    ‘These papers have been passed from father to son in my family for seven hundred years, and we have preserved them to... our ability. But sadly, the original wrappings have disintegrated beyond my power to restore. I have devised a